by Craig Zerf
In short sharp précised form the group was treated to a thorough account of the captain’s recent past from the moment that the first boulder hit the castle door to the final moment that the captain’s body hit the castle floor. Then the pool went misty once more.
‘Well I’d say we’re in some serious strife here,’ said Cabbie. ‘Our erstwhile captain has ceased to be. Dead, deceased, departed, no more, he has been claimed by the old floorer and has paid that debt which cancels all others. So - we are definitely up the proverbial whiffy creek without a punting pole.’
Istar shook his curly gilded locks in denial. ‘Watch - then comment further.’
The ensemble of night had clothed the castle and the captain lay in the shadow of the turret from which he had been cast down and left for dead. He carefully raised his head to check if he was being observed and, noting to the contrary, he started leopard crawling towards a sally port at the side of the keep.
As he crawled he pondered as to what weird phenomenon was occurring. To be sure he had been stabbed before and lived to recount the saga; he was, after all, a professional soldier. He had also fallen from high places to low places, such as the time he had fallen from a tree whilst attempting to sight out the lay of the land before a minor scuffle with a renegade band of outlaws two years before. Apart from a dislocated shoulder he suffered no permanent injury so he knew that it was possible to be stabbed and descend vertically for some distance and not be everlastingly damaged.
But to be run through with a broad-bladed stabbing spear and cast from a hundred-foot-high tower onto a paving of cobbles and then still to live and, by the feel of it, to already be almost completely healed, apart from the pain caused by breathing, thinking, crawling and generally staying conscious and alert, well it was uncanny in the extreme.
He reached the sally port and, after a short rest, slipped through into the all encompassing murk.
‘Well I’ll be buggered,’ cursed Cabbie. ‘So that’s what you mean about living on borrowed time. Amazing.’
‘Dat is one seriously death defying, valiant sum-bitch,’ rumbled Biggest. ‘Who needs an army when you’ve got that stern faced mutha on your side. Whooee – don’t that dude know the meaning of defeat?’ He flicked his paw in the air and snapped his fingers together. ‘Respect.’
The group nodded in agreement, all except for Dreenee who was sitting there with such a look of yearning juvenile infatuation and hero worship that she brought all conversation to a halt. Noticing the combined gazes of the group she quickly snapped out of her lovelorn reverie. ‘What?’ she snapped.
Cabbie chuckled. ‘Dreenee’s got a boyfriend, nyah nyah nyah nyah nayh. Dreenee loves the captain, ya yonkee ya ya.’
‘Oh shut it, Cabbie,’ responded the sensual one. ‘That’s enough. I’m serious. Unless of course you want some extensive facial restructuring.’ Then she blushed, stood up and stormed out of the scrying room mumbling under her breath, ruining her dramatic exit only slightly by tripping over a small hummock of grass in the entrance and sprawling face first onto the spongy emerald turf.
‘All right,’ conceded Smegly. ‘We accept the scrying vision as proof and we acknowledge the fact that we will have to pay for the time that the elves are lending to Bravad r Us, the king’s captain. Now, how do we settle up this debt? I’m sure we’re not talking money here.’
Istar nodded his agreement. ‘That assumption is correct, oh Master Mage. We have but one request - that you take my son,’ he glanced at Sitar. ‘Our son - with you on your quest.’
‘No problem,’ assured Cabbie. ‘Tell him to pack his bags and let’s get going. After a petite fried morning repast and some small quantity of breakfast ale.’
Smegly agreed. ‘That all seems to be in order. By what name does your son go and where is he that we may speak to him ere we depart together.’
‘Ah, well, you see, um…’ mumbled Istar. ‘Therein lies the problem.’
‘What?’ interjected Cabbie. ‘You don’t know his name? Well that’s ridiculous, I mean, after all, he is your son.’
‘His name is Legles,’ whispered Sitar.
‘There you go,’ said Cabbie. ‘That wasn’t so difficult, was it? All it took was a little…Half a mo. You do know his name but you don’t know where he is.’
‘We think that we do,’ declared Sitar. ‘You may, or may not know, but, in times most recent, we elves have strayed less and less from our inner land of sanctuary. We have become less knowledgeable of the customs and vagaries of the outside world and, as a result, our magiks and powers in the outside have waned to the point that all that we can control is the weather in a small area around the entrance to our world.
Some two weeks ago our son, Legles, decided that he wanted to take a look at the world outside for himself. Both Istar and I forbade him to do so as he has yet to come into adulthood, a mere seventy-five years of age, still a full twenty-five years before his centenarian celebration. But, like so many children, he disobeyed. He left and did not return.
After some while we sent scouts out to spy the land and two days ago we discovered that an elf of Legles’ description has been captured by a band of dwarven outlaws and wastrels that terrorise much of the surrounding area and has been taken to their base camp which lies in the ruined city of Sloth.
We beseech thee, oh noble questarians, to please rescue our boy, take him on your journey and, after, return him safely to us.’
‘Let’s have us some eats first,’ said Biggest. ‘Then we’ll be on our way to get your boy for you, my pretty elvin one. We was going dat direction any hows so it be no problemo for us.’
Sitar nodded her thanks, Istar beckoned to the servants and ordered them to prepare a morning fast breaking collation of monumental proportions and, in deference to Cabbie, he asked for extra helpings of double deep fried everything and a side order of breaded lard.
Whilst the other members of the quest were partaking of the massive pile of elven-supplied victuals, Plob, his mind obviously on other things, approached Istar who sat at the head of the table alongside Master Smegly. ‘I wonder, good elf, if I may ask of you a favour?’ The assistant enquired of the golden one.
Istar nodded. ‘Speak your request, my child and, if it be in my power, it shall be granted.’
‘I wish permission to view the scrying pool. To look at an incident some twelve years past at the time of the last of the winter Hobgoblin wars.’
‘Ah. I see. Your grandfather.’ Istar’s face grew sorrowful and, as he looked at Plob, his intelligent elvin eyes radiated both grief and concern. ‘You ask the one thing that I cannot give. Slight though the request might seem I am bound by both custom and promise not to reveal to you that very thing that you so desperately want to see.’
Plob, who in his own mind had obviously built up hope that this would help to finally clear his beloved grandfather’s name, was devastated and, unbidden, tears of disappointment glistened in his eyes. As he turned his face away in embarrassment at his overt show of emotion Sitar rose from her chair, walked over to him and clasped him in her arms, her luscious hair enveloping him like a silken cloak of deepest dark.
‘Grieve not, dear Plob,’ she whispered to him. ‘Your grandfather was a great and heroic mage. His sacrifice to the people of Maudlin was of a magnitude far in excess of what they know. Although we are bound by custom not to help you we may tell you this – continue to strenuously increase your knowledge of the arts and, in time, the answer to what you seek will come and then, and only then, might you be of sufficient maturity to deal with what you find. I perceive the apparent harshness of this answer but I assure you that it is for the best of all concerned.’ She gave Plob, who was now feeling much calmed by her physical presence, one last squeeze and then stood back. ‘Well, good questarians,’ she addressed all. ‘The day marches on and so should you. So without further ado we must bid you adieu.’ (Be doo be doo be doo).
As the questarians dwindled into the distance, flanked by two fle
et-footed elvin guides who were leading them back to the door, Istar turned to his dark and glorious wife, his face betraying an expression of world-weariness. ‘Should we not have told him the full story, my light?’ he questioned.
Sitar shook her head. ‘He is not yet ready for it. There is still a great deal that he must, indeed has to, learn and he is much driven by this pursuit for the truth regarding his grandfather. If he learns too much too soon it may take the edge off his desire for knowledge and, right now, the quest needs all the advantages that it can acquire.’
‘But still…’ interjected Istar.
‘What would you tell him, husband mine? That his grandfather is alive?’
Istar shrugged. ‘We know that to be a sham,’ he answered.
‘Then what?’ continued Sitar. ‘That his grandfather is dead and gone?’
Istar shook his head. ‘We know that also to be an utterance of falsehood.’ Sitar stared at her golden-headed husband for a long while, eyes slightly downcast, head to one side. Eventually Istar let out a rueful sigh. ‘As always, dear heart, thou art correct. Any attempt to elucidate would only cause the waters to muddy even more. But at times the understanding that we have to bear brings down the grey dawn of sadness on my immortal elven soul.’
Sitar smiled knowingly and held out her hand. ‘Come, my liege, let us to the central dell for to gather the other elves together and make song and merriment, for that always lifts the pall of melancholy from thy soul.’
Istar’s face lit up immediately. ‘Oh great. A sing-song. Can we do that one about the big fat ogre who becomes a stripper?’
‘If you like,’ agreed his wife, laughing.
‘Oh goody.’
They had been riding for some hours now since they had left the inner sanctum of the elves and Cabbie was holding his chest and grimacing from a severe attack of post oily fry up heartburn. As they had not slept the night before. Master Smegly had suggested that they stop at the first good site that they came across so they could set up camp in a leisurely fashion and get some badly needed shut eye.
As usual Biggest had been running on ahead, scouting out the land and using the opportunity to cull the odd head of game that he ventured upon. Cabbie slowed the cab down as he saw Biggest come jogging around the corner, a brace of small antelope hanging from a rope on his belt.
‘There’s a good spot up ahead,’ Biggest told them. ‘Nice shady glade with running water and all. A real den from home. Follow me.’
True to his word Biggest had found a perfect overnight spot. They built a goodly sized fire, knocked up a rotisserie and spitted the dressed deer over the flames.
Plob and Smegly hauled out the travelling oven and proceeded to forge a fresh batch of spells. After some discussion regarding energy content and vectors of force, Plob added a few twists to the forgings that they both agreed should get an added degree of impact on the ‘earth, attack’ spells without effecting their controllability too badly.
Smegly could see that Plob’s skills were jumping ahead in leaps and bounds and it wouldn’t be long, months as opposed to years, when Plob would be entitled to forever remove the codicil of Assistant from his name and title. After quenching the spells they transferred them to Plob’s magic miniaturising carry pouch and packed away the equipment.
Cabbie and Biggest were seated next to the campfire discussing the merits of ale verses Blutop.
‘I see where you’re coming from,’ said Cabbie as he pulled on one of the many bottles of ale that they had been gifted upon leaving the land of the elves. ‘It’s definitely more transportable than ale and, as you’ve already shown, it’s great for starting fires, cleaning wounds and polishing the riding tackle. But it’s not ale is it?’
‘Also good for preserving fruit and getting blood stains out of battle gear,’ added Biggest.
‘Yeah, but it’s just not ale is it?’ argued Cabbie.
‘Can’t refute dat,’ agreed Biggest. ‘Cause it’s definitely not of the malt liquor flavoured with hops variety of alcoholic beverage. I reckon if it was ale it would be called ale, or sumptin similar. But as it’s most decidedly named Blutop I suspect it’s an intoxicating potion of the cane spirit variety called Blutop.’ Biggest took a swig from his never ending magical flask of cane spirit.
‘But it’s still not ale,’ insisted Cabbie.
‘It’s not ale, applejack, armagnac, arrack, beer, bitters, brandy, cognac, gin, kirshwasser, lager, metheglin, pilsner, pombe, porter, pulque, rum, schnapps, sloe gin, stout, vodka or whisky either.’
‘Or absinthe or anisette,’ added Plob.
‘Benedictine, cassis, chartreuse or crème de mocha,’ contributed Horgy.
‘Curacao, kummel and maraschino,’ supplemented Dreenee.
‘Or Pernod,’ finished Smegly.
Cabbie looked dubious. ‘Or ale.’
Biggest playfully chucked a burning log at him forcing Cabbie to duck smartly out of the way. ‘Shut it regarding dis alcoholic argument you unbeliever. Dere ain’t no way youse is gonna convince me dat ale is better than Blutop. As far as I is concerned Blutop is like water – cause without it all life would cease to exist. So dat would make the adoration of dat particular cane spirit pretty much a religion to me and if there’s one thing dat I’m not gonna take from you, Cabbie, is religious persecution. Cease your discriminatory harassment of me or suffer the consequences as I get seriously pious on your ass.’
‘Well – if you put it like that,’ Cabbie shrugged and held out his now empty ale bottle. ‘Give us a top up of your fine faith inducing fire water my sanctimonious friend and let us drink together in celebration of your new found self-righteousness.’
Biggest laughed loudly and dispensed generous quantities of the good liquor freely to both Cabbie and the rest of team.
Chapter 19
Captain Bravad had painfully crawled away into the forest adjacent to the castle, found himself a safe dry spot and passed out into an exhausted dreamless slumber which lasted until midmorning of the next day. He awoke feeling surprisingly revived and healthy considering that he had pretty much opened death’s door the day before and taken a good long look inside the grim reaper’s inner sanctum. Curiouser and curiouser, he thought as he sat quietly and planned his next move.
Meanwhile, Bil was having the time of his life.
King. King, King. Kingkingkingkingking. King Bil. The man. The head cheese. The honcho. Potentate. Caesar, Kaiser, tsar and pharaoh. The fuehrer of all he surveyed. Man he felt good. Oh well, he thought, time to get amongst my subjects and spread a bit of patricianly largess.
Bil walked into the keep, bedspread billowing in the breeze, wrench swinging by his side. Regal, aloof, functionally disintegrated and crazier than a bedbug. There was a roar of welcome from his large group of cohorts as he entered the central courtyard and waved his wrench aloft in greeting.
On the right hand side of the courtyard, tied to a sticking post was ex-king Mange (and his alleged twin brother Mucous). By order of King Bil he had already suffered numerous abuses including whipping, stoning and general bashing and, although he didn’t know it, his suffering was about to be brought to an abrupt end.
Bil strode (yes - strode) across to the bound ex-king and quoth (quothing as well, two higher mortal words in as many sentences. Definitely growing in power and stature this Bil de Plummer lad).
‘Behold - the pretender to the throne. The thief of King Bil’s birthright. The defiler of the rightful regent’s throne. The despoiler. The violator. Begone, foul burglar of de Plummer’s pukka place.’
And with that the wrench rose high yet again and, with one dementedly driven blow, the mangy one was dispatched. And now Bil could proudly add regicide (mangycide?) to his growing list of reprehensible acts.
And Evil stood up out of his armchair and cheered hugely, for he was greatly impressed as not a lot had been going right lately, what with that goody-goody group of questarians poncing about doing beneficial deeds the day long. Well – can’t w
in them all, still the regicide scene was damn good and deserved some solid applause, so Evil got to clapping big time.
‘We’re in luck,’ said Terry as he covered the mouthpiece of the telephone (or ‘dog-and-bone’ as he would have said). ‘They only started manufacturing this particular style of wrench in red four months ago.’
Hugo gave him a thumbs up. ‘Splendid, old chap. So how many have they sold?’
Terry relayed the question down the line and then looked up, his face a newly turned greyish and pasty look. ‘Three thousand two hundred and ninety-seven. As of yesterday.’
‘That many?’
‘Yes – that many.’
‘Oh. Shit.’
Captain Bravad had got lost once or twice as he searched through the maze of streets in the less fashionable areas of the city of Maudlin but had, eventually, found the address he was wanting.
Number twenty-seven Thundermug street, the Shuddery, Maudlin. The address of the erstwhile Mr Tipstaff, Sergeant-at-arms.
The self-same Mr Tipstaff who had just recovered from two badly banged-up knees, courtesy of our Dreenee during the abortive arrest attempt at ‘The complete and utter…,’ and had thus been bedridden during the last few weeks’ events, totally and blissfully unaware of the living hell that his captain and the doomed detachment had been through.
After the captain had filled him in Mr Tipstaff was, to say the least, outraged, enraged and just plain raged. Something, he said, had to be done about this ’orrible little Bil person.
So Bravad r Us, Captain-of-the-guard and Mr Tipstaff, Sergeant-at-arms, poured themselves some ale, sat down in front the fire and put together a plan to exact a little well-needed retribution from the newly declared malevolent simpleton of a Regent and his scummy band of cohorts.
Chapter 20
The last two days of travel had been less than pleasant. The cab had cracked a wheel on a small round boulder that had lain in the track concealed by a tuft of grass and it had taken five hours of back wrenching work to splint it and rebind the metal rim back on.
