Rude Awakenings

by Jonathan Eaves

dwarf 'little one' he would have taken offence, but from Azif it sounded more like an esteemed title.

  Anyx considered this. 'Well,' he said at last, 'we need to get to Old Horse Gorse to meet up with Robin and the rest. And from there we travel to Tri Via. All I know is that Tri Via is to the north.'

  'And so you travel south to throw the captain off the scent?' Azif mused.

  'I thought it may send them looking in the wrong direction, for a short while, at least. Grantt, I'm sure, suspects the Merrie Men's stronghold is somewhere in Elmswood Forest. He may just be angry enough to throw caution to the wind and head straight there.'

  'Maybe,' Azif agreed. 'But the captain is not foolish. We cannot rely on the fact that his rage may blind him to sense.' The Moor spoke with a low deep voice, little more than a whisper, but with it he conveyed great strength and authority. This is a man used to leadership, thought Anyx, and he felt himself reassured by the man's presence.

  'Also,' continued Azif, 'he will no doubt put his wolves to the trail. They will pick up the scent of the horses immediately. There is nothing we can do about that now, but we must reach the river with all speed.'

  Anyx and A'Veil nodded, both content to let Azif take the lead.

  The Moor closed his eyes in order to conjure up a map inside his head. 'There are three places where we can safely cross the river,' he stated after a moment.

  'Three?' asked Anyx. He knew for sure of only two and hoped that the third would be the fabled eastern route.

  'The first is over the Northgate Bridge in the city,' Azif explained, 'and therefore is not an option open to us. The second is to negotiate Sodden Marsh. It is possible, so I believe, but it is not easy and very much depends on the tide.'

  'That's the way Robin has gone,' Anyx informed the Moor.

  Azif contemplated this news. 'Of course, if we attempted to follow Robin we would lose the advantage of having the horses,' he reasoned.

  'Besides which,' A'Veil interjected, 'we had thought to head to Tri Via by a different route, to give us a better chance at eluding capture.'

  Azif offered the Maid a small bow. 'Then it seems our minds have been made up for us. We must take the only other route available to us.'

  'Which is?' asked Anyx.

  'We must cross the River Syx at Deadferry.'

  'Deadferry? Where the bloody hell is that?' demanded the dwarf. 'And more importantly,' he continued, 'what kind of a name is Deadferry?'

  Azif regarded the dwarf's outburst with a wry smile. 'I am unsurprised that you have never heard of Deadferry, little one. It is a place sacred to the people of my God. It is many leagues east of here, beyond the Eastern Forts.' The Moor pulled gently at his reins to halt his horse and, with an athletic vault, dismounted. He scratched a crude map in the dirt before looking up at his companions. 'We will have to ride like the wind,' he informed them. 'And, of course, we will have to negotiate a passage through the Forts themselves. Should my God will it, it may be fortunate for us that the sentries tend to be less vigilant than their compatriots in the city. If we encounter no great resistance and travel throughout the night, we may just reach Deadferry before dawn in time for the first crossing.'

  Anyx looked at A'Veil, who, in turn, looked across at Will. The minstrel merely shrugged.

  'It doesn't seem that we have any alternative,' the dwarf eventually conceded.

  Azif brushed away the crude map with his foot and leapt back upon his mount. 'Be warned, when we get to Deadferry you must all do exactly as I say. Otherwise it may not go well for us. Do you all agree to this?'

  One by one, A'Veil, Will and Anyx nodded their agreement.

  'Very well,' said Azif. 'Then let us ride.'

  'Just one question, before we go,' said Will.

  'Yes?'

  'What, exactly, does a pack of wolves sound like?'

  In the distance there was a low but rising cacophony of howling.

  Azif turned towards the sound. 'A little bit like that,' the Moor admitted. He paused. 'I think, therefore,' he continued as if unconcerned, 'as we have little chance of out-running a pack of wolves and thus gaining the river before they are upon us, we will instead have to find a different way of throwing them off the scent-'

  50

  'And this is your way of throwing them off the scent, is it?' asked the dwarf some time later.

  'Yes, little one,' replied Azif. 'Unless, of course, you can think of something else?'

  'But-'

  'Yes?'

  'You really expect us to smear ourselves in deer shit?'

  Azif laughed. 'Believe me, my diminutive friend, it will not make you smell any worse than you do now.'

  51

  The wolves of Terra Infirma were, in fact, not wolves at all. They were, to be more precise, werewolves - or, at least, descended from werewolves. It was just that their ancestors had decided that it was much more fun being four-legged than two-legged. Consequently they now retained their lupine form more or less permanently, resorting to their human guise only very occasionally.[24] However, despite their rejection of a predominantly upright lifestyle, they had maintained the ability to talk, a trait they had found to be most useful.

  The pack leader Grim, grey-haired and grey-eyed, ran swiftly yet almost silently southwards. Close upon his shoulder ran his brother, More-Grim. The remainder of the pack followed unthinkingly. But More-Grim was thinking; thinking hard. Already he knew that they were wasting their time - the fugitives had masked their scent well and now there simply wasn't a trail to follow. Yet his brother Grim continued onwards, ignoring the obvious, no doubt because of his blind devotion to the devious troll, Grantt...

  As he ran, More-Grim glared at his elder brother through silver-blue eyes, which matched the colour of his pelt, and considered this bizarre dedication to the troll. Yet perhaps it wasn't all that strange - wolves had been in the thrall of the trolls for litters and litters.[25] But for some time now More-Grim had found himself resenting being subject to a race who didn't even contain blood! Grim, it had become increasingly obvious, was more loyal to Grantt than to his own pack; in fact, it was if Grantt was pack-leader. And what was more, Grim was stupid.

  More-Grim looked over at his brother and suddenly realised that now was the time. 'Grim,' he panted.

  'Uh-huh?'

  'Did you know that you've got an enormous great tick sat on your inner right-hand hind leg?'

  Grim hated ticks the way that cats hate water. He dipped his head to take a look through his legs at the offending insect. Unfortunately he still happened to be running at about 25 miles per hour, and as he peered somewhat myopically at his hind-quarters he didn't see the exposed skeletal roots of a long-dead elm tree. He somersaulted arse over ti... rump over muzzle, and ended up spread-eagled, white belly exposed to the blue sky. He slowly moved his head from side to side and discovered that, at least, he hadn't broken his neck. Above the sound of his thumping heart he could hear one of the pack approaching. He looked up into the mercury pools of More-Grim's eyes and he suddenly realised that it wasn't only his belly that was exposed. His throat was also unprotected and vulnerable...

  52

  Captain Grantt turned to review his troops. He had selected a small group of trolls, as speed was of the essence.

  He approached the officer in charge. 'What's your name, son?' he growled.

  'Lieutenant Shard, sir. 2nd Trifles,' the young troll officer replied stiffly, slightly awestruck at the renowned Captain Grantt's presence.

  '2dd Trifles?' asked Grantt, bemused.

  'A nickname, sir,' Shard answered. 'In reality we are a regiment of the Blue John Battalion.'

  Grantt nodded. 'So why the Trifles?' he asked.

  'The regiment took part in the battle of Dork's Rift, sir,' Shard answered.

  'Ah, a valiant rearguard action, I recall.' Grantt was no military historian but the battle of Dork's Rift was as famous a troll victory as any.

  'Indeed, sir,' confirmed the lieutenant. 'The battalion was vastly o
ut-numbered and suffered hundreds of casualties, but we managed to rout the enemy,'

  Grantt nodded for the young lieutenant to continue. Although he was itching to set forth a tale of courage and bravery against the odds was just the thing to motivate the other guards.

  'When our commanding officer was later congratulated upon the victory he replied, ''twas a mere trifle.' Hence the Trifles,' Shard explained.

  'So, nothing to do with sherry, then?' This was Grantt's idea of a joke and his way of puttingthemenatease.

  'No, sir.'

  'Very good, Lieutenant. Well, gather your... Trifles and follow me.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Grantt set off at an astonishing pace but the Trifles, who were the elite, kept up easily. Suddenly the captain slowed and turned. 'Hang on, Shard. You said you were the 2nd Trifles. What about the 1st?'

  'Ah... well, there was a 1st Trifles, but they no longer exist.'

  'Why?'

  'Well, their commanding officer was slightly eccentric sir, and had them armed with nothing more than custard and cream. As trolls we may be impervious to arrows, sir, but bloody great axes can hurt. The dwarves forced the regiment out over the edge of the rift.' The lieutenant shook his head. 'Totally wiped out, they were, sir. Totally wiped out.'

  53

  Sergeant Lias and Private Feldspar took no rest and consequently reached the southern edge of Sodden Marsh only a matter of hours behind Robin and the rest of the band, although the trolls were unaware of this fact. Indeed, if he were to admit it to himself, Lias would have acknowledged that, when it came to chasing after a bunch of fugitives whose whereabouts were little better than guesswork, they were no more than chasing shadows. In reality the sergeant was now only really interested in capturing the rumoured boggart.

  'Looks like we can go no further, Sarge,' Feldspar suggested, looking out over the tidal waters of the bog.

  'Don't be so defeatist, son,' Lias admonished. He scanned the marsh. 'Anyway, we have to carry on. We have orders and, besides, he's out there somewhere, I'm sure of it.'

  'He?' asked Feldspar, puzzled. 'Don't you mean they?'

  Lias turned to the private and decided to come clean, or at least partially clean. 'The thing is, Private Feldspar, that whole tale of a bunch of outlaws on the run is, well, a bit of subterfuge. We are actually on an entirely different mission, a totally secret mission, in fact, the details of which only now can I share with you.'

  Feldspar felt himself stiffen to attention. I've been entrusted with a secret mission, he thought, his chest swelling with pride. Mum will be so proud.

  'We are instructed,' the sergeant continued, 'to apprehend what can only be described as a monster.' He looked at the private, whose eyes were now shining with wonder. The sergeant decided to lay it on a bit thicker for the young troll. 'This creature is a menace, and nothing less than a threat to the security of our nation.'

  Wow, thought Feldspar. 'What kind of beast is it, Sarge?' he asked.

  'Have you ever heard of a boggart?'

  'No,' replied the private.

  'Be thankful for that,' advised Lias. 'Suffice it to say, son, that should we succeed in this mission, your part in it will be duly noted.'

  'So how are we going to find it, Sarge?' asked the now enthusiastic Feldspar.

  Lias eyed the marsh once again. 'With a little help,' he replied enigmatically.

  'From who?'

  'From whom, son!' Lias corrected. 'Anyway, watch!' He bent down and picked up a fist-sized rock and then launched it out into the bog. Viscous rings rippled lazily out from where the rock landed, then the water became, eerily and seemingly unnaturally, absolutely still.'

  'Sarge-?'

  'Quiet, Feldspar! Just watch.'

  Moments later the water erupted and Feldspar opened his mouth to let out a cry but no sound came. Wake's head was a large as a horse's, and his body was as wide as a hefty human's waist. The private couldn't tell how long the eel was as most of its body was still submerged, but it must have been at