Rude Awakenings
Page 24
and a half shillings back in Marasmus with enough money for a kebab with all the trimmings on the way home!' Robin protested, who had never tasted a kebab in his life.
Mr Pants contrived to look affronted. 'It's designer, sir. We like to think of it as reassuringly expensive.'
'Well I like to think of it as bloody daylight robbery and I should know because I'm a flaming outlaw!'
Mr Pants showed no signs of having heard Robin's outburst. Instead he scribbled something into his ledger. 'And did sir have the morning paper?'
'No I bloody well did not!'
'So what did you wipe your-'
'You charge for that,' asked Robin in disbelief.
'As a matter of fact, yes. Well then that's 4 shillings for the room, a florin for the stabling, 2 and a half shillings for the, um, designer crystal clear water, and, of course, thruppence ha'penny apiece for breakfast-'
'Hang on, we didn't have breakfast.'
'But breakfast for 6 was prepared and served at the prescribed time sir, as laid down in your trek-lodge directory. We can hardly be held responsible if you and your party fail to wake.'
'But-'
'So that comes to 12 shillings and sixpence,' said Mr Pants, smiling.
'That's bloody extortionate!' said Robin. 'And what's more,' - he did a quick calculation on his fingers - 'it's bloody wrong. I make it 9 shillings and ninepence.'
'Ah, but Sir has forgotten about the single person's supplement, as a matter of fact-'
Robin leaned forward. 'But I haven't forgotten what I was going to do with that picture last night-'
Mr. Pants paled but stood his ground. 'Sir, failure to pay is an offence under the Taverns, Inns and Bordellos Act of 1237...'
Robin threw four shillings onto the desk. 'Four rooms, four shillings. Nothing more.'
Mr Pants looked at Robin's face, then looked at the money. It was obvious that there would be no further payment forthcoming. 'I suppose I could tell Mr. Hernia that I'd offered a group discount,' he reflected.
'Good idea,' said Robin as he turned to leave. Then, as he reached the door, a thought occurred to him. He turned back to face the little hotel manager. 'Just one thing, Mr Pants; I'm intrigued to know what the 'T' stands for.'
Mr Pants straightened. 'Totally,' he answered indignantly, 'as a matter of fact.'
Robin merely nodded, unsurprised.
Mr Pants watched Robin walk away, before he remembered something. 'Mr B'La Clava,' he shouted at the outlaw's retreating back. 'You've forgotten to fill in the comment card...'
85
Azif was a tall man, well over six feet tall, but the entity that now confronted the Moor was almost half his size again. Azif was armed with a curved sword, but the Ferryman didn't seem to be armed at all.
Anyx, A'Veil and Will emerged from the trees at the end of the track and halted, trying to remain as unobtrusive as possible whilst not taking their eyes off the two combatants. And there, a little way ahead of them, was the ferry, small and little more than a crude raft, tied up against a small jetty. It seemed such a normal everyday riverside scene; Anyx half expected there to be a sign somewhere stating 'Ferry crossings to the Realm of the Departed. Prices: The bad - one soul, the good - free'. He turned his attention back to Azif and the Ferryman, who were circling each other, and then looked over to Will and the Maid. They would have to cross some open ground in order to reach the small craft. 'When Azif is facing us,' he whispered, 'and the damned Ferryman has his back towards us, we run like hell!'
86
This, thankfully, was exactly what Azif was hoping they'd do.
He planned to launch his attack as soon as he saw his companions make their dash, and with as much ferocity as he could muster; he would just have to hope that the Ferryman wouldn't strike sooner. If he could just survive for a minute, it would give the others the opportunity to get to the ferry, untie it and get out into the river. He continued to circle to his right, his scimitar poised. Come on, he thought, just a few seconds more. And now, behind the huge shape of the Ferryman, he could make out his friends, preparing to make a run for it. Now was the moment and he screamed an ancient battle cry as he raised his sword and lunged forward...
At Azif's scream Anyx started to run. He could hear Will and A'Veil behind him but he didn't dare look over towards the fight, for fear of what he might witness. Instead he just concentrated on getting to the boat as quickly as he could. Azif's war-cry was a sound to make the blood run still, but the pragmatic, downright cold part of the dwarf thought 'at least it drowns the sound of our feet on this jetty'. And then he was in the boat, to be joined immediately by Will and the Maid. 'A'Veil,' he growled in a low voice, 'cut that bloody rope. Will, grab hold of that damned stick and do whatever it is you need to do with it to get us the hell out of here.' And now, safely ensconced within the ferry, he dared look over towards Azif, just at the moment the morning sun hit the horizon. The last image he saw before the sun blinded his vision was Azif on his knees, seemingly praying, and the Ferryman stood over him, ominously still.
87
As he ran, Grantt studied the ground ahead of him, swinging his gaze from side to side. Although he was no great tracker - the city was his area of expertise, after all - he possessed at least enough bush-craft to realise that the fugitives had neither split up nor doubled back and that he was gaining on the fugitives, but so intent on the chase he was totally oblivious to the fact that he had become separated from the rest of the Trifles.
Some way behind the troll captain, but equally as single-minded, More-Grim also ran, his concentration focused intently upon his quarry. He moved quickly and lithely, his muzzle lowered to the ground, using his acute sense of smell rather than his sight to keep on Grantt's trail.
In the pit of his stomach his hatred of the trolls was like a blazing coal burning away fiercely, sending spurts of white hot acid into his throat. But in his mind it was like a block of ice - cold, sharp, implacable. And at the core of his hatred was Grantt. To More-Grim the troll captain was the epitome of all things trollish, and nothing else mattered to the wolf other than to wreak vengeance for the generations of wolves who had suffered, in his opinion, under the trolls' thrall.
88
The Trifles had struggled in vain to maintain Grantt's exhausting pace and now a significant group of stragglers had suddenly found themselves without a commanding officer. 'Bugger this for a lark,' said one of them, breathing heavily and slowing to a walk. A few of his mates followed his example and soon they came across more of their companions, sitting on their packs and, despite the fact that trolls don't have lungs, taking turns to lustily drag on a soggy, ill-made roll-up. This is because it is a universal law that when a soldier suddenly finds himself with nothing to do, a rare occurrence indeed, he immediately gets out his baccy tin and rolls himself (usually one-handed) a damp cigarette. It's the first thing most soldiers learn in basic training.
89
More-Grim continued to run, heedless of everything around him other than the need to catch up with Grantt. Despite the fact that he was unable to pick out Grantt's tracks, trampled as they were by the remainder of the Trifles' tracks, and that the troll captain's scent - a sharp, acrid, mineral tang - had, along with his troops' scents, mingled into an unrecognisable spider's web of smell, More-Grim remained confident that Grantt would be at the forefront of his guards, and was no doubt pushing them onwards without pause. It was therefore a surprise when the pack came across a dozen or so trolls in various states of repose.
More-Grim didn't miss a step. Without a break in his stride he launched himself at the nearest soldier, and troll and wolf tumbled backwards in a melee of teeth, claws and stone-clad fists. Usually a wolf would be unable to inflict more than a scratch on a troll, but his all-consuming hatred had lent More-Grim immense strength and, in his mindless fury, he clamped his jaws around the troll's throat in a vice-like grip. The troll struggled to throw the wolf off but More-Grim bit down as if the combined power of the pack was suddenly
coursing through him. The wolf had been told that trolls don't bleed and was therefore surprised when a metallic-tasting silvery liquid spilled into his throat. The troll screamed and writhed in his death throes but then suddenly went still. More-Grim held on for a few more moments before releasing his grip, dropping the troll limp and lifeless to the ground.
Panting heavily, he looked around. The pack had instinctively followed his example and had launched themselves at the trolls, but the Trifles weren't the elite of the Trollian Army for nothing. Although they had been beaten back at first, they were now quickly re-grouping and falling upon the wolves.
Without the element of surprise the wolves found themselves being driven backwards. The pack had attacked the trolls only because their leader had; not one of them was driven by the same intensity and sense of outrage and injustice as More-Grim was, and soon they realised that they were fighting a losing battle. They looked to their pack leader for guidance. But suddenly he was nowhere to be seen.
90
After killing the troll More-Grim had immediately realised two things; his pack were in danger of being over-run, and that Grantt was nowhere to be seen.
He was momentarily torn between loyalty to the pack and his relentless rage and anger towards the troll captain, but in the end there simply was no choice. He had to find Grantt, even more so now that he realised that trolls could, indeed, be killed by wolves. For so long the myth that trolls were invulnerable had been put about that it had, in due course, become established fact. But now More-Grim knew that trolls were susceptible to at least a good hard bite...
He had watched his pack getting beaten back but, if he was to succeed in catching the troll captain, there was not the time to assist them. They would have to fend for themselves. Of course it would mean that he would no longer be pack leader - worse, in fact, because even if he defeated Grantt he would be an outcast. The pack would never accept him back. They would think he had fled the battle and that he was a coward. Not one wolf had batted an eyelid when he had killed his brother and that was because they respected strength and ruthlessness. But, of course, that also meant they abhorred weakness and cowardice.
He sighed a lupine sigh of regret. Yes, he had only become pack leader to pursue his own aim of gaining revenge on Grantt, but, to his surprise, he had felt pride in being the pack leader - he had enjoyed the power and the status, albeit fleetingly. Now he would have to relinquish that, but he knew he had no choice. After all he had killed his own brother to get to this stage. He could hardly fail to through with it now.
In his rage-induced madness he even thought that it would be a betrayal to his brother's memory if he quit now; that his brother's death would have been in vain, even though his brother's death was by his own hands. Or paws, rather. He shook his head; it was obvious that he had no choice. He set off once again in pursuit of the troll captain, but this time on his own.
91
Grantt now found himself in a part of Terra Infirma through which he had never travelled and, as he had only just realised, he was alone. He silently cursed the supposedly elite Trifles for their obvious weakness but also berated himself for his own single-mindedness. He had been so intent on tracking the fugitives that he had not once glanced behind him to ensure the Trifles were with him. He considered turning around, or at least resting for a while to allow the Trifles to catch up. However he immediately dismissed the thought. He could not allow the outlaws to open up a gap between them.
Although he knew little of the lands around here he suspected that the River Syx lay somewhere to the north-east, and he had convinced himself that that was