Plob

by Craig Zerf

  ‘Of course,’ affirmed Cabbie knowledgably. ‘When it comes to fetishes the weirder the better I always say. I knew a girl once, had a foot fetish.’

  ‘Well that’s pretty normal, isn’t it? As far as fetishes go at any rate,’ commented Dreenee.

  ‘Chicken’s feet,’ countered Cabbie.

  Dreenee shuddered.

  ‘Ah happy days.’ Cabbie clapped as the keeper returned with a large flagon of red wine and mugs enough for all.

  ‘Well, Plob,’ said Cabbie. ‘As I’ve always said,’ he continued as he picked up a brimful mug of red. ‘This is the answer. It’s the question that’s the bugger to find. Here you go.’ He passed the mug over and Plob quickly applied himself to some serious self-medication.

  The innkeeper trundled back in with another flagon of wine and a huge platter of sausages, onions and potatoes that he placed on a dumb waiter next to the table. Hobgoblinsson followed with a pile of mismatched cutlery and crockery.

  After they had suitably savaged the contents of the platter, Smegly called for some brandy and lit up a large dark cigar.

  ‘Tomorrow’s the day, gentlepeople,’ puffed he. ‘We should enter the valley sometime before midday. I wish that we could travel around it but with the “sea of tantrums” on the one side and the “chasm of Brad” on the other we have no choices open to us. It should take us no more than two days to pass through, perhaps three if we are held up a little, and I am hoping that we all make it relatively unscathed.’

  ‘Half a mo,’ interjected Cabbie. ‘I’m just the Cabbie. I don’t want to be relatively unscathed. I don’t want to be scathed at all. I want to be part of a scathe-free existence.’

  ‘You can’t be scathed, Cabbie,’ said Horgy. ‘It’s not a word.’

  Cabbie shook his head in disagreement. ‘If you can be unscathed then you can definitely be scathed. In fact I would be extremely gruntled if I remained completely free of all scathing type activity as from now on.’

  ‘You can’t be gruntled either,’ argued Horgy. (As it happens he was wrong, on both counts, so there).

  ‘Look, chaps,’ interrupted Smegly. ‘We’ve made our decisions. The time for turning back has gone. From now on we follow the quest, complete with scathing, gruntling and any other form of -ing that may or may not take place’

  ‘Like maiming,’ said Plob.

  ‘Or hurting,’ added Dreenee.

  ‘Or killing, torturing, dying, burning, screaming…’

  ‘Plob,’ shouted Smegly, interrupting our youthful apprentice in mid -ing. ‘That is enough. I suggest that we all retire, for tomorrow is sure to be a full day.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Cabbie. ‘Full of -ings. Goodnight.’

  And with that our team hit the hay.

  Bil couldn’t ride a horse. He’d never learned. Well how could he, being brought up in Milton Keynes and then moving to Islington and all where there’s not much call for equine assisted plumbers. So they had made him a litter on which he was dragged. Resplendent in his blue boiler suit and bedspread cloak, red wrench held aloft for his disciples to see. Not quite the golden coach of legend what with it being so close to the ground and all and being rather dusty, and silly looking. But this silliness of look was nought to King Bil. For he was beloved and obeyed. And him, and his now formidable group of societal flotsam and jetsam, were drawing ever nearer to the palace, for an impending showdown with King Mange the pretender.

  For Bil would be more than a king in name only. He would be a king in deed. With a castle. And a throne. And a bigger litter, drawn by four horses. And other stuff too. Lots of it.

  King Mange stood on the balcony surveying Bil’s personal rabble collection milling around below. His royal bodyguards kept a close eye on him least he forget that he couldn’t fly and stepped off for a quick float around, or death inducing crash to the cobblestones, as reality would have it.

  ‘Why, oh why are theeth nathty unwashed typth milling around below and offering up profanities and inthults to me?’ he asked his chief bodyguard. ‘Do they not know that I am their king?’

  ‘I am sure that they are aware of that, my liege,’ reassured the said guarder of the king. ‘I feel that is why, in all probability, they are chanting “death to King Mange the usurper” and hurling rocks in your general direction.’

  ‘Well get rid of them. They’re noisy and ugly and poor. And they’re upsetting Mucous.’

  ‘Of course, my king. What do you suggest? Perhaps a good shouting should make them go away. One hopes that this will be sufficient as most of the royal guard are still out scouring the countryside for a small blonde girl that seems to have offended the royal family in some way.’

  King Mange made a pretence at thought. Not a very good pretence, mind you, as he didn’t have anything to actually base his performance on. ‘Yeth. Go ahead then. I believe a good thouting would be in order. Wait until I’m inside though as all thith noith ith upthetting me awfully. Oh yeth, and while I’m inside boil up thome oil and pour it all over them.’ Not so stupid after all, our Mangy King.

  The chief bodyguard shook his head. ‘Let them eat deep fried cake,’ he said to himself as he discounted the Kings suggestion almost immediately. Not through any thoughts of humanity but merely because he knew that the castle lamp oil deliveries arrived every second Thursday of the month, or tomorrow, and present stocks were almost non existent. Oh well perhaps we can try boiling water. At least it’ll give the buggers a much-needed wash.

  Down below him things were heating up. Bill had gathered his people around him and commanded that they cut down a tree for use as a battering ram and, once inside, that they tie King Mange to a stake and burn him. Unfortunately, due to the generally low IQ of his cohorts, some had cut a tree down but others had already set fire to it.

  It was promising to be a pretty protracted siege.

  Chapter 9

  ‘Behold,’ said Master Smegly as he gestured flamboyantly. ‘The valley of Strange.’

  A less than pleasant vista lay before them. Unfriendly, stumpily treed, craggy and blasted. If it were at all possible for a rural setting to suffer from urban decay then this was it. A housing project of a forest. A veritable ghetto of a valley.

  ‘It is here,’ he continued, ‘that the Trogres live. A shunned tribe of the progeny that have sprung forth from the interbreeding of Troll and Ogre. A simple, warlike species that have developed their own set of rules for their own unique environment. If we are lucky then we might pass through their neighbourhood unmolested. If unlucky we be, well, we have the spells. Right, troops, let’s go.’

  Cabbie urged the horses forward. As they got deeper into the valley the stunted trees started to loom larger and the road shrunk to a path that became narrower and more treacherous underfoot. The general feeling amongst the quest members was one of wariness and distraction. Each large boulder or tall tree next to the path looked a perfect place for an ambush. It seemed as every copse contained an army, every turn in the path concealed a pitfall. Nerves were drawn tendon tight. At this rate they would be knackered by nightfall.

  And they were. As the day drew to a close, Smegly ordered camp in a small clearing surrounded by boulders. Plob and Horgy collected a huge pile of wood and started a goodly sized fire. The wood was warped and knotted, but it was hard, so it burnt well. They prepared a dinner of bread and bacon and, although Plob knew that he must be hungry, the tension of the day had cramped his stomach and he didn’t much feel like eating.

  ‘Only another couple of days of this,’ said Horgy, ‘if all continues to go well. We’ll need to keep watch. I suggest four watches of two hours each. I’ll take first shift. Plob you next, then Master Smegly and lastly Cabbie.’

  Dreenee looked up. ‘What about me?’ she questioned.

  ‘I’ve given that some thought and, well, there’s the question of danger.’

  Dreenee bristled.

  ‘No, no. Hear me out,’ continued Horgy. ‘From what I’ve heard about the Trogres not every me
eting ends in fighting. There are times, few though they may be, that bloodshed has been averted by the simple actions of proffering a small bribe together with some first-class pleading and whining. You, my dear, whilst being imminently qualified for stunning people with beauty and, or, smashing the blobby bits out of their cranium through their ears with your bare hands, you are not huge on either subtlety or pleading.’

  ‘He’s right, Dreenee,’ said Plob. ‘You’re too dangerous to have on guard.’

  ‘What about me?’ asked Cabbie. ‘I’m beautiful and dangerous. Can I also be excused from duty?’

  ‘OK,’ said Horgy. ‘Go on over and give Dreenee a salacious kiss coupled with an inappropriate comment or two. If she lets you get away with it I’ll admit that you are definitely both beautiful and dangerous.’

  ‘Last shift for me it is then,’ confirmed Cabbie as he rolled himself up in his blanket.

  Plob threw another log on the fire before he followed Cabbie’s example. Dreenee poured Master Smegly a cup of tea before she, and then finally Horgy, went to their separate bedrolls.

  ‘Plob.’

  Plob slammed awake to Smegly’s call and, as he did, he became aware of the music. A savage drum-like thumping with a bass line of vocal accompaniment. He looked up and saw that they were surrounded by the shimmering veil of an ‘earth, protect, shield wall’ spell that had been cast by his master.

  ‘Come on over here, my boy,’ Smegly called. ‘I need you to construct a scrying spell whilst I maintain the structure of the protection wall. We need to know how many of them there are out there.’

  Plob wove the intricate designs of the air spell with his fingers as he recited the formulas. He spun round once, releasing and spreading the spell out in circle around him. It echoed off the surroundings and bounced back to him.

  ‘It feels as if there are seven of them. I can’t be sure because they’re not human. I don’t know how to adjust the spell for Trogres,’ Plob shouted.

  Horgy and Dreenee ran up. ‘What’s going on?’ Dreenee asked. ‘Are we under attack?’

  ‘Not yet,’ answered Smegly. ‘I’ve warded us just in case but with seven possibles out there I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to hold the spell in place. Horgy and Dreenee, arm yourselves and wake up Cabbie. We may need to make a speedy strategic withdrawal. Plob, ready yourself with an ‘earth, attack, thunderbolt’ and keep the other spells close to hand.’

  Plob ran to the cab and brought back the vellum-wrapped enchantments. He unwrapped an ‘earth, attack’ spell and held it at the ready. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dreenee pour the cold pot of tea over Cabbie in a desperate attempt to wake him. He jerked upright, spluttering and sneezing.

  ‘Mom?’ he asked, looking around. He took in the scene and came instantly awake. ‘The horses.’ He jumped up and started hitching the horses to the cab.

  At the perimeter of the wall Plob could make out the vast shadowy shapes of the Trogres lumbering around. The music was louder now and he could see that it was issuing from a set of drums on a small platform that one vast individual was carrying on his one shoulder. On top of these drums was a goblin that was frantically playing a thumping solo whilst vocalising a throbbing bass back beat to the whole thing. Every now and then the Trogre would shout out something and punch his arm in the air.

  ‘One time…Respect…For da people…Westside.’ He shambled off to one side and stared at the shimmering perimeter. Then suddenly and without warning he leant forward and struck the wall a tremendous blow with a wheelbarrow-sized fist.

  Smegly staggered back, a light sweat forming on his forehead. ‘Right, Plob,’ he grunted. ‘On three I’m going to drop the wall for a second and I want you to hurl an ‘earth, attack, thunderbolt’ at the big one with the portable music goblin. Two, three.’

  Plob released the spell and hurled it forth. A massive crack rent the air combined with the reek of sulphur and singed hair. The huge Trogre was rocked backwards as the thunderbolt exploded on his upper chest, blackening his skin and decimating his goblin system.

  ‘Hey,’ he roared. ‘You guys has broked my goblin blaster. Dats unfair. I only buyed it yesterday. Got it cheap too ’cause it fell off the back of a wagon.’

  ‘He picked it up for a song,’ interjected Cabbie with a skull-like grin on his tense visage.

  The Trogre rubbed his chest. ‘That hurts. Hey you guys is good. This is gonna be fun.’ He rushed at the wall again, unleashing another titanic blow causing Smegly to grunt painfully. The other Trogres had all gathered around the huge one and were egging him on as Plob prepared another earth attack spell. This time an ‘earth, attack, hailstorm.’

  ‘Ready, Plob,’ shouted Smegly. ‘Two, three.’

  Plob released a storm of fist-sized hailstones at the group of Trogres, knocking all but the big one to the ground, as Smegly hastily restructured the wall. The big one ran around picking the others up and encouraging them by smacking them on the tops of their heads with a huge flat hand.

  ‘Gets up, you muthas. You gots no cohones. You’s is some kind of fragile if you can gets knocked over by some bits of flying ice. Come on let’s all hit this wall at once,’ he shouted, clenched fist raised up.

  Smegly groaned in anticipation. ‘Quickly, Dreenee, Cabbie and Horgy. Fetch the suit of armour and bring it over here. No questions, just do it. Plob, go and get the white wrapped spell from my trunk.’ As he finished, all seven of the Trogres struck the wall in unison. Smegly doubled over in pain. Master magician or not, he could not take another one of those.

  Dreenee, Cabbie and Horgy came stumbling over with Horgy’s massive metal suit and dumped it at Smegly’s feet. At the same time Plob arrived with the spell.

  ‘OK, Plob,’ grunted Smegly. ‘You take over this protection wall. Hold hard and concentrate; these bastards are seriously strong.’

  Plob opened his mind and felt the control structure slide into him. He tensed up and concentrated on keeping it firmly in place. Meanwhile Smegly unwrapped the spell and laid it on the chest of the suit of armour. Then he turned to Horgy, Cabbie and Dreenee.

  ‘Right. Cabbie, I need your help. This is an animation spell, I am going to use it to animate the iron and command the suit to attack the Trogres. Unfortunately I cannot impart the knowledge of combat to it. For that I need you, I am going to harness your fighting skills and transfer them, temporarily, to the suit. Are you ready?’

  ‘No wait,’ begged Cabbie. ‘You’ve got the wrong guy. I’m no knight. Ask Horgy. Leave me out of this.’ Horgy nodded and stepped forward drawing his sword.

  ‘No, Horgy. Cabbie, we haven’t time for this. Horgy, I’m sorry. I’ll explain later.’

  Smegly beckoned to Cabbie who knelt beside the supine suit. Smegly took Cabbie’s hand in his, muttered an incantation and banged the spell into the suit with his free hand. Instantly the suit sprang up, grabbed up a large corded log of wood and ran at the wall.

  ‘Plob, drop the wall,’ commanded Master Smegly.

  Plob released the spell, and the suit, powered by Smegly’s spell and driven by Cabbie’s alleged knowledge of battle tactics, piled into the group of Trogres. Four of them were down and out before they had even reacted. The suit spun and ducked, bobbed and weaved, the log blurred like a hummingbird’s wings such was the speed at which it was being wielded. Two more Trogres went down and then only the biggest one was left.

  Brute strength against skill. And what skill. The quest members were stunned into silence, mouths hanging open like feeding chicks. The Trogre rumbled forward, swinging wildly and catching the suit a glancing blow, knocking it to the ground. But the suit rolled forward, spun around and caught the Trogre a massive blow on the back of his head. The Trogre reacted by picking up a large boulder and hurling it at the suit, the suit deflected it with its corded log, dropped down on one knee and swiped mightily at the Trogre’s shins. The Trogre yelped in pain and hobbled backwards tripping over a small bush and falling over, cracking his head on a rock and lyin
g still. The suit’s job completed, it collapsed to the ground.

  ‘Quickly,’ commanded Smegly. ‘Get some rope and let’s tie these buggers up before they recover.’

  Plob stoked up the fire and threw a few more logs on. The Trogres lay in a big pile, firmly trussed, snorting, grunting and twitching in their sleep like a mountain of massive dreaming dogs.

  ‘It looks like some sort of explanation is in order,’ said Horgy gesturing at Cabbie. ‘If that suit was running on Cabbie’s expertise then someone has been keeping something from us.’

  Cabbie sat on a log staring intently into the flames of the now roaring fire.

  ‘He’s a knight…or was, I think,’ blurted out Plob.

  Cabbie glared at him, causing Plob to look down uncomfortably and shuffle his feet from side to side, building up a small hummock of blasted sand between them.

  Smegly stood up and walked over to Cabbie, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘We’re all friends here, Cabbie. I don’t think it would be right to keep secrets from each other. Of course I’ve known who you are from when first we met, secrets and master magicians don’t mix. It’s not for me to tell the others - but I do feel that you should.’

  Cabbie cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘I’ve got a name,’ he started. ‘I mean, well obviously, everybody has. It’s just that I prefer to be known as Cabbie. It’s less complicated, easier with nothing to live up to. When people know who I am…was…it’s…well, harder. I don’t do it anymore.’ He picked up a stick and poked at the fire.

  Dreenee came over to him, sat down and put her arm around his shoulders. ‘Go on,’ she encouraged.

  Cabbie stood up and threw his shoulders back. All were suddenly struck by his heroic stature. Head held high, broad of shoulder and lean of flank, firelight flickering across his unshaven jaw. ‘My name is Tarlek Honourusson son of Glimburble Honourus son of Swain Honour. Tarlek Honourusson “the Dragonslayer”, knight at arms and keeper of the sword of the nation.’