by Craig Zerf
‘Jesus,’ exclaimed Hugo. ‘They were killed with a…a…what the hell is that thing?’
‘This, my upper-class friend, is what we working-class stiffs call a tool. It’s a device used by tradesmen to fix things. This particular one is called an adjustable plumber’s wrench.’
Hugo nodded, even though he would never be so crass as to admit it, he was impressed.
Chapter 17
Clipitty cloppitty clip clop clip. They had been riding at a fairly brisk pace now since the morning. The last night had been relatively unpleasant, as far as nights spent outdoors go. A thin drizzle had started up yesterday afternoon and had definitely decided to take up long-term residence resulting in weather of the dull, wet and dreary school of thought.
Weather affects your moods and feelings, or so we’re told. Personally this isn’t a point of view that I give much truck to. Well, when the sun’s up and it’s hot, I feel warm. When it’s raining and chilly I feel cold and wet. However, I suspect that this isn’t what the touchy-feely brigade mean when they talk moods and feelings. They’re talking emotions, affections, sentiment and so on. So, when it’s sunny you are meant to feel excitement, titillation, exhilaration, stimulation and general all-round feelings of happiness and irritating bunny-huggedness.
When it’s dark and dingy then these same ‘I’m so happy-happy’ people seem to agree that this gives you the right to act like a total prat. It’s dull so I can be dissatisfied, wretched, bitter and twisted and, in the process, do half the amount of work that I could reasonably be expected to do as the bulk of my productive time will be taken up whingeing, whining and discussing SADS (I don’t know, something to do with lack of sunshine or something. Stupid Arseholes Demand Sun. Who knows?) as if it was an actual disease and, once contracted, gives you the right to ponce around acting like a malcontent nauseate.
Well get a life. What about people who live underground, or in maximum security prisons, or in a small cupboard under the stairs. They don’t see the sun and I’m sure that they’re all perfectly happy. Actually - come to think of it - they’re probably not, but anyway, I’m sure that you see what I’m getting at. What this country needs is the reintroduction of national service and the death penalty and corporal punishment. And stoning. And being turned into pillars of salt, and then being sold to a large beef farming syndicate and used as a salt lick. Unless it rained and you just melted away into a puddle of salty water. OK - so maybe these ‘rain makes me depressed’ dudes are onto something, but only if hugely extenuating circumstances are involved.
‘I hate this rain,’ said Horgy. ‘It’s making me feel dissatisfied, wretched, bitter and twisted and, in the process, I’ll probably do half the amount of work that I could reasonably be expected to do.’ (He didn’t mention SADS as no one had got bored enough to invent it yet).
‘Oh buck up,’ said Master Smegly. ‘Stop being such a whingeing whiner.’
So Horgy did. ‘Thanks, Master Smegly, I feel much better now.’ He sat up straighter and his demeanour definitely seemed brighter. (Which just goes to show, doesn’t it?)
‘It must be time for lunch,’ said Plob. ‘Do you think that there’s any chance of coming across an inn or some manner of eating establishment?’ There was a general shrugging as it was anyone’s guess.
‘I don’t know,’ said Cabbie. ‘It’s anyone’s guess isn’t it?’
As Cabbie finished speaking the irksome drizzle changed its character slightly to become an offensive patter. It obviously decided that this was a good career choice so it quickly stepped up the ante to an obnoxious rainfall and finally, after a little practice, a torturously vengeful downpour of almost biblical proportions.
Thoroughly impressed with itself by now it added an aural and visual assault of gargantuan explosions of thunder and an army of bright white oak-cleaving bolts of lightning. This was the life, it thought, and so it settled itself in for the long haul.
‘We’ve got to get out of this and find respite of some sort,’ shouted Smegly above the banshee howl of the wind. ‘Cabbie, let’s get off the road into the trees, we’re too exposed out here, much more of this and we could literally be drowned. Biggest, scout on ahead for some shelter, anything will do. Come on, people let’s go.’
Cabbie turned off into the forest and Plob and Horgy jumped off the cab and helped guide it through the morass of muddy matter next to the track. Unbelievably, the storm managed to increase in intensity, hammering and screeching at them like a crowd of women at a rapist’s stoning.
Biggest came trotting back out of the soaking darkness. ‘There’s a cave up front,’ he pointed. ‘That side of the hill.’ He jogged off, leading the way. The cab lurched along behind him with Plob, Horgy and the horses snorting and spluttering damply as they heaved and pulled through the sodden night together.
‘All effort now, gentlemen, all effort,’ encouraged Smegly as he peered into the wringing wet gloom ahead. ‘There’s something eldritch about this squall and the sooner we can get to the cave and safely under cover the better.’
The eyeball etching flashes of lightning lit their way and, as they rounded the bottom of the hill, the smallish entrance to the cave was plainly in sight.
Together with Biggest’s help they manhandled the cab over the rock-strewn entrance and into the cavern itself. As they proceeded into the subterranean retreat the sound of the stridently violent storm outside subsided unnaturally quickly to a barely perceptible murmur. They carried on into the cavern which swiftly expanded into a cathedral-sized interior underground abode where the team stood silently staring in awe at the massive rock expanse.
It was Plob that noticed it first. ‘It’s bigger,’ he said waving his arm at the emptiness. ‘Bigger than the outside. There’s no way that the hill we entered could ever accommodate a cavern this size.’
‘Look.’ Biggest pointed to the end of the cave. ‘There seems to be a door. Over there at the back.’
And it was. A huge black wooden door, with studs in and a mammoth brass handle in the shape of a rampant unicorn and a three-hundred-pound steel knocker cast in the facsimile of a pod of whales (Yes, a pod. Look it up - I did). A proper door. The way large wooden doors at the back of mysteriously huge caverns discovered in the night at the height of eldritch storms should be.
A door of note.
‘Gentlemen, and Dreenee,’ quoth Master Smegly. ‘That is the reason we are here.’
‘What,’ asked Cabbie. ‘We’ve been brought here by a door?’ Cabbie wasn’t impressed. Even by a door as overwhelmingly impressive as this one obviously was.
‘Yes,’ replied Smegly. ‘Although that’s not exactly what I meant. That storm was not natural; it was created by otherworldly forces. Forces which I suspect lie beyond that door at the end of this so conveniently discovered, larger inside than outside, cavern that we have entered to shelter from the force of that supernatural tempest.’ He harrumphed, which Plob knew was not a good sign. ‘People, let us proceed to the door and enter, for we have been summoned.’
Dreenee, Smegly and Cabbie descended from the cab and, together with the rest of the quest members, they proceeded. As they approached the door it opened of its own volition, smoothly and silently, with no hint of squeak or groan to mar its eerie stealth. Yes, this door was definitely living up to all of the standard idiosyncrasies expected of a substratum otherworldly entrance.
They trooped inside, Biggest taking the point and Cabbie at the rear leading the horses and cab.
The door swung closed behind them with a horribly intimidating crash causing them all to start violently and, as they watched, it disappeared, merging into the surrounding foliage as if it had never been. Cabbie soothed the horses as everyone looked around at the newly entered environment.
It was obvious to all that the small hillock outside had absolutely no bearing on the size of the place they were now in. To say that it was huge would be meaningless. A town is big, a mountain is huge. But a land? A continent? It would be like
calling the ocean wet.
They had entered another world.
And then, approaching them from the middle distance, was a woman. Tall of stature, green and silver of garb and achingly graceful of bearing.
As she got nearer Plob could see that she was beyond any shard of doubt the most resplendently beautiful creature that he had ever had the privilege of seeing. Although not in the way that Dreenee was, there was no hint of sexuality, no touch of the seductress or coquet. Nothing so crass. Her pulchritude was beyond such base animal thoughts and instincts and, although she was very obviously a woman, her visual perfection was almost androgynous.
She stopped but a few paces away and cast her magnificent gaze upon them and, as she stood, her thick calf-length sable hair swirled around her like a cloak of nocturnal silk framing her exquisite countenance and exposing flashes of her perfectly pointed elvin ears.
Dreenee curtsied and Master Smegly bowed deeply. Both Horgy and Cabbie fell to their knees as they gawped at the ravishing elvish vision before them. Plob fought the compulsion to prostrate himself before the terribly beautiful elf women and, remembering that magicians kneel before nought, he gathered his wits and bowed long and sincerely.
‘Welcome, good travellers,’ she greeted, her voice as a shimmering of glass and a fluttering of feathers, at once both entreating and commanding. ‘My name is Sitar. Follow me and I shall lead you to shelter and sustenance.’
They followed without thought or question.
As they walked, Master Smegly came up alongside Plob. ‘Beware,’ he whispered. ‘Elves are not always what they are thought to be. Although exquisite of countenance and bearing they are oft vain, self-serving and cruel. Keep your wits about you and remember to show at all times the utmost of respect. We have been brought here for reasons of their own. Warn the others when you get the chance.’
Plob spread Smegly’s caution amongst the group.
After an hour’s or so walk through the emerald landscape they came to a forest of tall straight trees, awe inspiring in their height and girth. Their exquisite companion showed them to a broad path that led into the ancient forest and through the trees they followed. Shortly they came to a large shaded glade surrounded by the vastest of trees atop and within which were countless wooden elvish dwellings.
She turned to them. ‘Behold,’ she gestured. ‘And welcome to the city of Ideldanglydilldohwillnothavahapydeyfahlatidosowat, or Danglydill-Doh as it is called in the common tongue.’
Oohs and aahs resounded amongst the quest members as they surveyed the legendary city of Danglydill-Doh. Post oohing they were greeted by a male of the species, golden of hair and eye and comely of character. He was Sitar’s mate and went by the name of Istar.
‘Come, good friends,’ he said after hands were shaken and introductions were done. ‘We have been expecting you and have prepared a banquet of quite stupendous proportions in your honour.’
He led them out of the central glade to an adjoining dell filled with trestles and foods, chairs and bunting, ale and elves, and the scene smacked of such beauty and munificence as to bring tears to the eyes of mere mortals.
There was much clapping and huzzahs as the team were shown to their seats at the head of the gathering in between Sitar and Istar. And Istar did command and the feast was begun.
Food was eaten in abundance and drink was imbibed in copious quantities and dancing was done and singing was sung and fun was had by all.
Afterwards Istar and Sitar explained why they had climatically commanded the quest to their land.
Chapter 18
At first the doomed detachment had taken turns holding back the enemy on the stairway at the entrance to the turret, two on two off, but slowly, as their numbers got whittled down it was left to the captain and two other survivors to battle constantly and without rest.
And then the captain and one other.
And then the captain - alone.
He was exhausted. Tired beyond all caring and belief. The only thing that kept him going was training and the stubborn refusal to fall to an enemy that was not worthy of him.
Finally, coming up the stairs three at a time, a huge man, moustached, armoured in black, carrying a short, wide-bladed stabbing spear and a small round shield with a heavy brass boss on the front. He came up alone, shouldering the smaller lesser men aside in his eagerness to get to the captain.
At last, a worthy opponent. One would never be able to say that it was a fight of legends. The combatants didn’t rage back and forth hurling insults and clashing like titans roaring in bloodlust and anger.
What did happen was the huge man in black broached the turret entrance and ran full tilt into the smaller, severely wounded captain. The captain staggered back swinging his chipped and blunted sword overhand and lopping an ear off the howling spear carrier whilst screaming. ‘What took you so long? I nearly died of boredom waiting for someone who could fight.’
And the man had at him, and Bravad r Us, the king’s captain, parrying in clumsy exhaustion, drained from lack of sleep, loss of blood and constant pain, fell back. And the man in black ran him through, and picked him up and threw him off the tower to come crashing down onto the flagstones far below.
And that was the end of that.
It had been a long night. Beyond long. The sun had risen on a slumberless party of questers and still they were not completely up to speed with the elvish narrative that had been put forward.
‘Right,’ said Plob. ‘Let’s see if I’ve got this right. You, as in the Elves, are losing time. Yeah?’ Istar shook his fair-haired locks in denial. ‘I’m sorry,’ apologised Plob. ‘Run this scenario by us again. Please.’
‘Dear Plob,’ started the golden elf. ‘As we have explained, time cannot be lost. It exists in an exterritorial fashion, flowing from one place to another outside of all rules but never getting lost. It can only be used. One uses time and we, the Elves, are using up extra increments of our time on an alternative existence, a hereto unrecognised branch of the future that may be. Unfortunately time is not ours to give away like a pair of stockings on a birthday, it is a precious commodity that can only be lent, never given. So - we are lending time.’
‘OK,’ ventured Plob. ‘I think I’m getting it. You are lending time?’ Istar nodded in agreement. ‘Thus, if I’m getting this right, someone must be borrowing this time.’ The bullion-hued elf showed the affirmative with a nod of his perfectly contoured head. ‘Fine,’ continued Plob. ‘So - who is borrowing this time? Is it us?’
Istar voiced his denial. ‘No, my dear friends. It is not you. It is, as I have alleged numerous times before on this good night,’ continued the noble Elf with Herculean patience, ‘the captain of the guard of King Mange the partially inept. He is living on our time or, to put it bluntly, the captain of the guards is living on borrowed time, time borrowed from us and, like all debts, this will have to be paid back.’
Smegly leant forward in his chair, his now almost ever-present cigar smoking in his hand. ‘This is the same captain of the guards that you and your Elvish folk have claimed to be essential to the continuation of our world as we know it?’ he asked.
‘The self same one,’ agreed Istar. ‘Our auguries have shown - no captain, no time. As in the cessation of time. Nada, nil, null, nought, kaput, void, the end, zero, cipher, non-existent, devoid, non-subsistent, napoo, phut, gone to leave not a rack behind. The last in the series of etcetera - finished. If he dies we all go down the long drop of fate. The End.’
Smegly stared. ‘This is not good,’ he said, showing his hereto undisclosed gift for complete understatement.
‘You mentioned debt and repayment thereof,’ said Horgy, his accountant’s mindset coming to the fore. ‘Tell us a little regarding this liability and all and any reimbursement structures, strictures and codicils contained therein. Pray, good elf, be brief but to the point as I have a feeling that our group is destined to be very tightly bound to this debt-ridden contract of which we now speak.’
>
‘Your perception is correct,’ confirmed Istar. ‘As you are now the official questarians all debts, dues, duties, obligations and responsibilities both moral and physical fall to the said official quest party, or parties, and such obligations and or debts must be met on demand by any other involved party, or parties, upon presentation of proof of debt, either natural or supernatural, by…er…by…well, I’ve forgotten the rest but I’m sure that you get the picture.’
‘Yes,’ confirmed Smegly. ‘I’m sure that we do. However, there does seem to remain the small matter of proof...’
‘Either natural or supernatural,’ interjected Istar.
‘Whatever,’ said Smegly. ‘Proof seems to be both necessary and demanded.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Istar as he stood up. ‘Please, allow me to lead the way,’ he gestured to the group who stood and followed.
The elf led the way to a low-roofed, leaf-covered wooden structure. They trooped inside to see what appeared to be a small rock pool that was fed by four tiny trickling springs of water, two of them clear, crystal and sparkling, one as black as bereavement and the fourth deep red and viscous as cold blood.
Istar told them to gather round the pool and look into the surface. ‘This is an elven scrying pool,’ he told them. ‘It can be used to look into the past, to show us the present and, if the scryer is particularly gifted, to obtain brief glimpses of the future.’ Istar linked his fingers together and stretched his arms above his head, cracking his knuckles as he did so. ‘First, a brief synopsis of what our courageous captain has been up to thus far.’
The elf leaned forward and spread his hands out over the pool. The ripples on the surface shimmered and then slowly smoothed out until, finally, the pool grew cloudy and then hardened over like a sheet of frosted glass. ‘Behold,’ intoned Istar as he stood back from the scrying pool.
