Rude Awakenings

by Jonathan Eaves

fact, decided to take the establishment upmarket. In the bar he had introduced drinks which were known, for some long forgotten reason, as roosterrumps, complete with little purple umbrellas and sparkly coloured straws, and in the latrines he had put up a sign which read 'The management of this establishment is committed to the highest standards of cleanliness. With this in mind these facilities are checked regularly every fortnight...'

  And with regards to the accommodation side of the business Cleat had employed a receptionist.

  'Single, double, family or twin?' asked the receptionist, who had worked at much classier establishments prior to the Trollian Conquest.

  'One single and stabling, please,' replied the doctor.

  'One single,' confirmed the receptionist, in the sing-song voice so beloved of people who are forced to work within a public service environment and who obviously hate it. 'And stabling also,' she continued. 'How long will you be staying with us, may I ask?'

  'One night, maybe two.'

  'Will you require breakfast?'

  'Yes please,' the doctor answered. 'I'll have scrambled egg on toast, bacon fried to within an inch of its life, freshly squeezed juice... oh, and seventeen tons of hay.'

  The receptionist's face took on a glassy look. To her credit there was only a momentary pause.

  'Very well sir,' she acknowledged, exhibiting a level of professionalism above and beyond that which was generally evident elsewhere in the establishment. 'May I take your name?'

  'Dosodall. Doctor Dosodall.'

  'And do you have any cases?' she asked.

  'Just the one trunk,' came the laconic reply.

  10

  Wacchus leaned over and topped up Zammael's glass with a generous amount of Ambrosia. He was close, so close. If he could only keep the warden's tongue loose for a few minutes more...

  'Well,' he said, 'this is fun, isn't it? I bet you rarely get the opportunity to relax and just... chat.'

  'S'fun, alright,' replied Zammael, nodding his head. 'Don' of'en get much chance to shat... shance to chat, I mean. Always, you know, working, that's why.'

  Wacchus nodded sympathetically. 'But it's very important work, Zammael,' he consoled the warden. 'I can see now why you need to keep all this stuff secret.'

  'Secret! Top-tip... tip-top! Can't tell anygod. Shouldn't be telling you,' the warden giggled.

  'Well, there's nothing I... I mean anygod... could do with what you've told me,' Wacchus reassured the drunken warden. 'At least not without-'

  'Without what?' asked Zammael, an inane grin on his face.

  'Well,' said Wacchus, 'firstly a god would have to discover what that particular god's word is... I don't suppose a god would just be able to remember, would he? I know I can't.'

  'Don' be silly. No-one can remember the first word they ever said!'

  'Of course not. How foolish of me. Then secondly, if I've got this right, and please correct me if I'm wrong, our curious former deity would need to know his own birthplace, is that right?'

  'S'right!'

  'It's a pity gods don't have birth certificates!' Wacchus muttered. 'Anyway, finally our intrepid friend would need to find this Awakener character, whoever he may be.' Wacchus shook his head. 'It's impossible,' he despaired.

  Zammael shook his head, and immediately regretted it. He kneaded his forehead. 'You've forgotten you'd also need to know the date thingy,' he reminded Wacchus.

  The god looked puzzled. 'But surely that would be the god's birth date, wouldn't it?'

  'Could be, could be. Needs t'be the god's praise day. Might be the same as his birth date. Might not. D'pends. Priests'd know, no doubt, if there were any left. Anyway, s'not impossible! I've already tol' you how to do it.'

  'You have?'

  'Yeah. S'all in the scripture's, like I said.'

  'Scriptures? I don't understand.'

  'Everygod has his own story. You know... 'In the beginning' and all that stuff. You find the scriptures and you've got your answers.'

  'Really?'

  'Only-'

  'Only what?' asked Wacchus warily.

  'Well, the scriptures aren't always ve'y clear. Sort of in a proph'cy type of thing, you know.' Zammael's words were becoming more slurred and all of a sudden he appeared to be having great trouble staying awake.

  'Okay-'

  'And these things are old. S'no telling if they still exist. Papyrus, you know. It rots.' The warden's eyes were beginning to close, all four of them.

  'So these scriptures could have simply rotted away?'

  'Uh-uh,' agreed Zammael. His head was beginning to nod forward.

  'Damn!'

  'Funny thing, at-cherly. Someone's looking for your scriptures, 's'a matter o' fact,' the Keeper mumbled. 'Not that I should be telling you. Name of Leo or Leon or something, 'parently. In M'rasmus. He's close, too. But he's looking in the wrong place.' He giggled. 'He just needs to think bigger, that's all...'

  11

  It was well after mid-day by the time Anyx awoke, or, rather, regained consciousness. Somehow he was in his own bed, which was not only surprising but also a bit disappointing since a) he had not enjoyed female companionship since Big Sally had moved away a couple of years ago, and b) he hadn't washed his sheets for the best part of three months.

  He slowly stirred, curiously immune to both the post-alcoholic agony that pumped through the frontal lobes of his brain, and the blatant split infinitive. Somehow he managed to untangle himself from the glutinous mass of fabric that was his bedspread.

  He tried to recall the previous evening or, more accurately, earlier that morning, and wondered how he had actually managed to achieve inebriation what with his finances being in their usual dire state. Then he remembered; after running out of paraffin he'd returned to the Griffin and sold his battle axe to Cleat, and for no more than the price of about a gallon of ale. And it was a genuine antique replica, to boot, passed down from generation to generation, or would have been at least, had he managed to hold on to it. Oh well, he thought. Never mind. He was pretty useless when it came to fighting in any case.

  Judging from the amount of light outside it was early afternoon. And it felt hot. There was no breeze coming in through his tiny window and the heat only served to increase the dwarf's de-hydration. In that case, Anyx thought, it's time for the pelt of an otter... or was it the hide of a rhino? Whatever the bloody stupid expression was, he desperately needed a drink.

  Ten minutes later the dwarf ducked into the dank interior of the Golden Griffin which, despite Cleat's best efforts at creating 'atmosphere', remained gloomy. Greasy grey candles upon the tables spluttered and, in defiance of all known laws of thermo-dynamics, seemed to make the place even darker. Thick black smoke from the candles mingled with the smoke of multitudinous pipes and cheroots, giving the impression of dry ice on a foggy day.

  Outside, in direct contrast, pale smoky ribbons of cumuli-nimbus hung jauntily in the impossibly blue sky. The sun, who by now was really into its stride, was throwing out heat with a relentless intensity. Consequently, in order to slake the thirst of his customers, Cleat generously watered down his ale even further.

  Anyx considered himself to be one of Cleat's most regular regulars. Cleat didn't necessarily agree.

  'A flagon of ale, please landlord!'

  Cleat looked up from polishing a tankard and sighed. The dwarf was, he had to admit, a repeat customer who provided a steady income. On the rare occasions that he actually had some money.

  'Let's see your cash first, dwarf. Or do you have some other tacky heirloom to sell?'

  'Ah-'

  'Don't tell me, you're a little bit... short?'

  Anyx feigned a smile. 'Good one, Cleat. But as a matter of fact, I am a slightly embarrassed, financially speaking-'

  'Really?'

  'Unfortunately, yes.'

  'In that case... bugger off!'

  Anyx did his best to look affronted. 'I beg your pardon. I'm one of your best customers. Well, most regular, at least.'
/>   'If I wanted regular, I'd eat more bran. What I want is paying.'

  Anyx sighed. He needed a drink badly, and, although he itched to tell the landlord what he really thought of him, he realized that antagonizing the old skinflint would probably only serve to get him barred, and there were few taverns left in Marasmus where he would be welcomed. So, with an effort he suppressed his natural sarcasm and decided that there was only one thing for it.

  'Okay, how about I did a little bit of work for you? Maybe I could test your ale for you?'

  'Well,' Cleat considered, 'the cellar could do with a good clean.'

  'Or, and here's a thought, perhaps I could test your ale for you. You know, check it's not gone off, that sort of thing.'

  Cleat nodded towards a shadowy corner. 'There's a mop and bucket over there.'

  Anyx resigned himself. 'Okay. Where's the cellar?'

  Cleat pointed. 'Down that hole.'

  'Right.'

  And unbeknownst to our hero, for the time being at any rate, in the dark, damp and downright dirty cellar of the Griffin, a gathering had... well, gathered; an underground movement in a literal sense...

  12

  Zammael was sliding into unconsciousness, slowly, but with all the inexorability of a glacier. Wacchus suspected he wouldn't get another opportunity again, so he grabbed the warden's shoulder and shook him awake.

  'Zammael, Zammy old mate, listen to me. It's important. Then you can go to sleep. I need to talk to the other side... you know what I mean?' He struggled to hold the warden upright.

  'Can't,' mumbled Zammael. ''S'not possible. Need a medium. And the interdim, o' course. In my office. But can't tell you that.'

  'What in all of the bloody hells is an interdim?'

  ''S'jus' like an intercom,' Zammael muttered with an inane smile on his face, 'but across dimensions. Dim, you get, instead of com. 'Cos of the dimensions, you see.' His head swayed. 'Dim.'

  Wacchus sat back in exasperation.

  'Against the Lore, you know,' Zammael mumbled before slumping forward. He was asleep before his head hit the coffee table. Fortunately Wacchus had put a cushion in the way only moments before. The ex-god cursed, fearing he had missed his chance, but then he spotted Zammaels's keys hanging loosely in the warden's hand. Seeing them Wacchus realized it was now or never and so he reached forward to pry the bunch of keys from Zammael's loose fist. He gently removed them without disturbing the sleeping form of the warden but suddenly he was gripped by a sense of doubt. He hesitated. He wasn't by nature a bad god, and what he was about to do would be, as Zammael constantly reminded him, breaking the Lore. Wacchus wasn't sure what the punishment would be, not that he feared the consequences for himself for he certainly wasn't a coward but, well, he had a conscience (which was, admittedly, unusual in a god, particularly those gods of the smiting persuasion) and he was concerned that he would get Zammael into trouble. Getting the warden drunk was one thing, but getting him fired, or worse, was quite another.

  The thing was he quite liked Zammael, despite all the warden's officiousness and melancholy, especially when he looked at you with those puppy dog eyes, especially the ones around the back...

  Wacchus shook his head and strengthened his resolve. He'd started this thing and now he had to go through with it. The desire to regain his omniscience was just too great to overcome and, besides, if this worked, and he once again acquired his godhead, he'd be in a position to make it up to Zammael. Everything will be alright, he consoled himself. After all, what's the worst that could happen?

  He left the warden snoring loudly and approached the office door, which squeaked gently as he pushed it open, but not sufficiently enough to rouse Zammael, a few feet away.

  The interdim sat in the middle of the warden's desk, amidst strewn invoices, memos, rosters and a slightly foxed copy of 'Nymphs and Nymphettes' magazine. Interesting reading material, Wacchus thought, slightly surprised. He wouldn't have had Zammael down for that type. He was sure that Zammael's superiors would frown upon such literature, and he filed