Nat looked to Eathon, but he stayed silent, as though he were waiting on a next line to arrive from the prompt corner. “Great,” she said. “You know, I thought I could at least count on you.”
Eathon looked to the ground.
“Someone has to be the voice of reason here, Nat,” Neville chipped in. “We lost our magic sword; the one thing we had to use against Drensila. What is it you want us to do exactly?”
“I don’t know, but it starts with rescuing Terry!”
Nev shifted in his seat. “Face it, Nat. We might be able to survive this, but... Terry’s not coming back.”
“That’s a shitty thing to say!” Nat seethed. “What are you, the new Clive?”
“No, just pragmatic. The same pragmatic that’s saved our arses on more than one occasion.”
“We’ve all done our bit!”
“Yes we have! And thanks to that, we all get to keep on living. Look at me, Nat,” he said, rattling the arms of his wheelchair. “I’m not made for the world out there.”
Nat went for the jugular. “Will you man up and stop being such a mother’s boy?”
It was a low blow, but Neville gave as good as he got. “Don’t take it out on me just because you don’t have anyone back home who gives a shit about you.”
Nat launched into him, Nev fought his corner, Ashley played umpire, and the rest could only watch in horror as what was meant to be a joyful celebration slid into chaos. This was no way for the survivors of a hard-won battle to revel in their victory, the onlookers lamented. Whatever happened to the medal ceremony? The fiddle music and the lusty wenches?
EATHON RETURNED TO his bed chamber, hung up his sword and slumped onto his stone slab of a bunk. He was suffering a crisis of conscience. He’d stuck by Nat’s bedside for the better part of two days while she was comatose, ending his stoic vigil only when her physician ordered him to, and in that time he’d come to realise something important.
He was in love with Nat Lawler and it was killing him.
Eathon thought of himself as an honourable man—principled and virtuous—and yet here he was, sniffing at another man’s rhubarb patch while he suffered at the hands of the enemy.
Still, he couldn’t help himself.
Nat was everything he’d ever asked for in a woman, warm, beguiling and beautiful; like fine wine in a gold chalice. He wondered if she might have feelings for him too, but it seemed just as she’d remained oblivious to his presence by her bedside, so was she blind to his devotion. It devilled him, but what could he do? Nat Lawler had fought bravely for his cause, and now the time had come for him to fight for hers.
Except what was that cause?
Was it to destroy Drensila the Black, or was it to rescue her lover? His rival. The man from whom she’d grown so far apart, but was willing to fight to the death for. It didn’t matter. The Chosen One had chosen Terry, and all Eathon could do was serve faithfully by her side.
DRENSILA THE BLACK sat beneath the velvet canopy of her throne, idly cycling through the search history of Nat Lawler’s phone. “Can you believe that pinhead Googled “Do men really like thigh gap” on no less than six occasions?”
“What’s a Google, dear?” Carnella replied, peering over her daughter’s shoulder. “A spell of some sort?”
Drensila was about to not bother explaining, when the doors to the throne room swung open. Four royal guards entered the chamber. Between them they escorted a pair of captives, one human, the other a troll. The human was bedraggled and half-starved. The troll was somewhat smaller than his captors and missing an arm.
Thrungle and Terry had arrived at the Citadel of Durkon.
The prisoners were marched to the foot of Drensila’s podium. The guard attending to Thrungle took great relish in kowtowing him with a boot to the back of the knee. Thrungle hit the ground hard, his necklaces of teeth rattling in discontent. He sneered at the guard. “You’ve made an enemy today,” he rasped.
Terry fought his captors but had neither the size nor strength to resist them. One of the trolls pushed him roughly to the ground. Terry felt the chill of black marble through the knees of his tights as two generations of Durkon’s eyed him over.
Drensila fixed her eyes on her former chief centurion, Thrungle. “And what do you have to say for yourself?” she demanded.
Thrungle bowed deeply. “I bring bad news, exalted one. It is my deepest regret to inform you that your army suffered a bloody defeat at Bludoch Dungeon.”
“Don’t you think I already know that?” spat Drensila. “Tell me how it happened.”
“We fought bravely, but the filthy curs employed low trickery and overwhelmed us with superior numbers.”
“Like bollocks we did,” noted Terry.
One of the guards knocked him out with a blow to the back of the skull.
“Go on,” Drensila ordered Thrungle.
There followed an uninterrupted litany of lies; a painstakingly-constructed legend that painted Thrungle as the brave survivor of a terrible massacre, not the craven traitor that ran from a fight using a human hostage as his meat shield. Drensila was taken in completely, quite unaware that her soldier’s tremendous tale of derring-do was actually a tale of derring-didn't-do-at-all.
“And what of your warlord?” Drensila asked.
“Skullcap?” replied Thrungle, setting his face into a grimace. “Dead,” he reported.
“How?”
“Like a coward. With his back to the enemy as he fled in terror and left his men to die.” It was an unnecessary deceit, but Thrungle couldn’t resist twisting the knife in his old adversary’s mouldering corpse.
Drensila cursed. She’d been so sure of Skullcap’s loyalty, yet he’d led her army to ruin. If ever a sign were needed that she’d done the right thing recruiting her mother as an advisor, this was it.
Drensila invited Thrungle to join her on the podium. The troll genuflected, and she tapped the Durkon rod of power on each of his shoulders, taking care to be gentle with the one missing its arm. “From this moment on, you will assume the mantle of warlord,” she told him.
“It is an honour, my Queen,” Thrungle replied, standing and saluting her with a fist to his chest. He turned to the royal guards—now his inferiors—and pointed to the human lying on the throne room floor. “Take the long-pig to a cell and ready him for questioning,” he told them.
The guards shovelled him up and began to drag him from the room.
“Not you,” said Thrungle, referring to the troll that had kicked him to the ground upon his arrival. “You come here.”
The troll sloped over, his head cowed. He was a strapping specimen, with good, thick limbs and plenty of meat on his bones.
“Hold out your arm,” Thrungle told him, and drew his sword.
CLIVE LIMPED ON. He’d been going for days, rationing the last dregs of water from his canteen as he lurched stubbornly towards the Citadel of Durkon. His food was exhausted and turning into brown potage in his bowels. Bugs sucked at his festering wounds. He was ready to drop.
Cleaver offered some unsolicited advice. “You’ve got the lurgy good and proper, mate. Do yourself a favour and turn it in.”
Clive ignored him. He’d come too far to go back now.
“Seriously,” the sword pleaded, “Nat’s a doctor, she’ll know what to do. Just tell her you made a mistake and let her forgive ya.”
But Clive had no intention of turning around. He kept going. On and on, until finally he reached a causeway bridging a great chasm. A thin crease of rock climbing towards a giant, reinforced door surmounted by a sigil. The sigil of a silver spider on a background of midnight blue.
Chapter Three: Player Vs Player
NAT AND HER COMPANIONS were invited to the dungeon’s war room for a hush-hush conclave. Rundal had set up the meeting by posting furtive invitations beneath the doors of their bed chambers, and when the group arrived, they found him presiding alone at the room’s circular table. The dwarf looked distinctly downcast, his axe-s
haped beard bedraggled and lacking its usual crisp outline. Though Neville was a no-show, Nat, Ashley, Eathon and Galanthre shuffled into the room to join their host.
The room war was lit by a single candle and guarded by a sentry who kept watch on the hall outside. The mood was a sombre one. The visitors took their seats at the round table and Rundal let out a deep sigh. This was no King Arthur’s court. The congregation felt less like knights of old than a gang of cowering mutineers.
The dwarf leaned forward in his chair. “I invited ye ‘ere t’ tell thee yer reet.” He aimed a stubby thumb in the direction of the king’s throne room. “That daft apeth may no’ see it, but we still ‘ave skin in this fight. Ahl no’ sit dahn ‘ere doin’ nowt while tha’ wicked hell-bitch grows ‘er reach oop top.”
His words were music to Nat’s ears, if a little rough around the edges. “Thank you,” she said. “But how do we convince your king that we need to fight back?”
“Ah don’t kna,” replied Rundal, “but we’d betta figure oot a way before ‘e seals us orl in ‘ere t’getha.”
“What a horrible thought,” said Galanthre. “I don’t care what fairy tale ideas your king has, elves and dwarves were never meant to live together.”
“Sister,” cautioned Eathon, but she was already up and running.
“I trust you all heard what happened last night at the Hammer & Anvil,” she continued.
She was referring to a fight that had broken out in one of Bludoch Dungeon’s rowdier drinking establishments. Purportedly an elf and a dwarf had gotten a little too deep into their cups and an argument between the two had turned into a brawl. It was fast becoming clear that the two races being cooped up together was leading towards a pressure cooker situation.
Galanthre barrelled on. “The last of our dead were only lain to rest a few days ago and apparently your people are determined to see the rest of us join them.”
Rundal blew his top. “‘Ow dare, ye?” he roared. “We’ve showed ye nowt but hospitality! Ah ‘eard t’ onny reason tha’ bar fight started wor because one o’ ye snooty, ‘igher than thou beggars could nae ‘andle his grog and took a swing a’ t’ wrong feller.”
He raged some more. Ashley jumped to Galanthre’s defence. Galanthre told Ashley she didn’t need a man to fight her battles. Eathon, ever the diplomat, tried to restore some dignity to the proceedings. Nat just stayed quiet as the bickering devolved into a full-scale bunfight. She hung her head in her hands. She had a rescue to mount and an evil queen to overthrow, and all these idiots wanted was to start a race war.
CLIVE’S BOOTS SQUELCHED as he was escorted across Drensila the Black’s throne room, leaving a trail of swampy footprints upon the polished black marble
“We found this wretch at the citadel gate, my Queen,” said his escort, the guard that had made the mistake of disrespecting Thrungle. The guard now missing an arm.
“My, my, another visitor,” trilled Drensila. “And what can I do for you, my lad?”
This latest prisoner looked absolutely pitiful. His muddied clothes hung off of him like rags, and the emaciated frame beneath was sallow and mutilated. Drensila looked him up and down, half disgusted, the other half also disgusted.
“It’s not what you can do for me,” Clive croaked. “It’s what I can do for you.”
Drensila laughed. “You silly oik. The only thing you can do for me is to stop stinking up my throne room.”
Carnella agreed. Having her physical body back was a wonderful thing, but the prisoner’s odour made having a nose seem like a steep price to pay.
Drensila raised her rod of power and a pair of lackeys appeared with buckets and brushes. Between them they tore off Clive’s damp rags and stripped him naked before working him over with the brushes. The sharp bristles made it into every nook and cranny, ensuring the ordeal was as painful as it was humiliating. Only when the filth was removed did Drensila and her mother recognise Clive for who he was.
“Well, if it isn’t the guttersnipe that disrupted our scrying spell!” said Carnella.
She regarded him, nude and shivering. She had to admire his balls. Not the ones nestled between his legs—those were certainly nothing to write home about—but the chutzpah he’d shown in combating her magic. Clearly, the boy was something of a prodigy.
Drensila failed to share her mother’s admiration. “Take him away and cut his throat,” she ordered one of her guards. This intruder was of no use to her. She already had one plaything to torture in Terry.”
“There’s something else,” said the amputee troll. He clicked his fingers and one of his fellow soldiers dragged forth a burlap sack.
“Well, what’s inside?” asked Drensila.
“A sword, m’lady.”
“Then show it to me,” barked his queen.
The troll mumbled something under his breath and traced a horseshoe on the floor with his toe.
“He can’t,” said Clive. “He already tried and got burned for it. Literally?”
“What are you babbling about?”
“I’m saying he’s more scared of what’s inside of that bag than he is of you.”
“Why, you mangy dog,” roared the troll, and went to cuff the human with the back of his gauntlet.
Before the blow could land, Clive made a fist and the troll froze stock-still. Panic lit his eyes. “Take out your sword and kneel,” Clive commanded.
The guard’s hand instinctively went for the hilt of his sword, his body and mind locked in a losing battle as Clive operated him like a puppet at a seaside fete. With a horrible scraping noise, the troll drew his sword from its scabbard and took a knee. His fellow soldiers looked to their queen for guidance, but instead of intervening, she watched the scene play out with perplexed amusement.
Clive instructed the guard to turn the point of the weapon on himself. “Fall on it,” he told the terrified troll.
The creature’s eyes bulged wide as he plunged the weapon beneath his ribcage and up into his black heart.
He slid down the length of the blade ever so slowly, only coming to a halt only when his belly met the sword’s crossguard. He coughed a great spray of spores onto the chamber’s floor, then his muscles went slack and he rolled onto his side, bereft of life.
“Bravo!” cheered Drensila, clapping Clive’s handiwork. Then she sighed. “Of course I’m going to have to kill you now.”
Before she could act, Clive performed one final spell, levitating Cleaver from the confines of his sack.
Drensila saw the weapon—the one forged especially to destroy her—and sprang from her throne with a spell of immolation upon her lips.
“I didn’t bring this here as a weapon,” Clive assured her, holding his hands up in surrender. “I brought it as an olive branch.” He set Cleaver down gently on the arm of Drensila’s throne and made a respectful bow. “All I want is to go home. Send me back and the sword’s yours.”
The queen observed the peace token. “Why, you wretched lickspittle,” she declared. “You’d betray your friends so easily?”
He cast his eyes to the floor, his silence speaking volumes.
“You’re out of luck, boy,” said Carnella, stepping in, “we don’t possess the magic necessary to return you to your world.”
Clive swallowed. “Then spare my life,” he begged. “Let me live and I’ll do everything I can to serve you.”
Drensila turned to her mother. “What do you say? I already have his gift; should I open his throat and have done with him?”
Carnella mulled over the boy’s proposition. “While we can’t be sure of his loyalty, we can say with certainty that he’s a quick study. If he’s telling the truth and working against the interlopers, he could make for a useful ally. I think it would be prudent of us to allow him to prove his worth.”
“And how do you propose we do that, mother?” asked Drensila, idly twirling her rod of power.
Carnella smiled. It was a cruel smile.
A SATISFYING BREEZE caressed Nat’s skin.
It felt good to escape the confines of the dungeon. After all, even the most sun-shy of redheads needs a dose of Vitamin D every once in a while. It was a hot day though—the great storm having finally passed by—and Nat knew she wouldn’t last long out of the shade. Her pale skin was so sensitive she could get catch a tan from a drawing of the sun.
She hiked across the grove surrounding the dungeon’s entrance and scrambled up a rocky outcrop for higher ground. Once she’d reached the topmost point, she removed a device from her pocket, a telescope built by Tidbit, loaned to her in secret. She surveyed the horizon left to right until her eyes landed on the distant outline of the Citadel of Durkon. Aiming the telescope at it, she adjusted its lens to bring it into focus.
The Citadel was a forbidding structure indeed, removed from the mainland by a chasm and surrounded by great towering walls and menacing battlements. Nat despaired. Even if she were to find a way to reach the place, she’d never make it inside.
As she continued to peer, a hand came from nowhere and closed about her shoulder. Startled, she leapt a foot in the air and landed in a hokey karate pose.
“It’s alright,” said Eathon, calmingly. “It’s just me.”
Nat placed a quivering hand on her chest. “Holy shit!” she told the elf. “Do you have to move so quietly?”
“I’m sorry,” he replied, “You didn’t tell anyone you were coming out here, we thought we’d lost you.”
Now Nat felt bad. He sounded legitimately concerned. “It’s okay,” she replied. “I was just out here sizing up the enemy.”
“And what did you learn?”
“That we’d need a dragon to attack that place and win.”
Eathon shrugged. “There are no dragons.”
“I know,” said Nat, ruefully. She collapsed the telescope and replaced it in her pocket. It was hopeless. Her mission was at an end before it had even started. She suddenly found herself overwhelmed. “I’m so full of shit,” she told Eathon, her eyes turning wet. “I keep trying to convince myself that I want to beat Drensila for the good of the people, but it’s not for the people, it’s for a person. I just want Terry back,” she sobbed, tears streaking her face.
Trolled: The Complete Saga (The Trolled Saga) Page 22