by Craig Zerf
They had visited over forty houses and had thus far managed to come up with a mere four volunteers. A selection of ex-soldiers ranging in age from merely ancient to positively gerontic. A collection of rusty, moth-eaten, mossbacked, fossilized old warriors.
And a dog. One of them had insisted on bringing his frosty furred, antiquated bloodhound who went by the name of Pups. Still - it could be worse, thought Bravad, but then, after a brief moment of contemplation, he decided that it couldn’t. But, if you only have one plan, even if it’s not a very good one and isn’t working all that well, it’s the only one you have so all you can do is stick to it. So stick to it the captain and the sergeant did.
By the evening of the third day they had no more addresses left to visit. Ninety-eight calls and a sum total of seven extremely venerable old dogfaces and one crusty old dog (with a face).
Berm ‘brick wall’ Odger, swordsman. Originally nicknamed after his massive masonry like build and prodigious strength.
Pactrus ‘pace man’ Petracis. Once a young man possessed of great speed and agility.
Dill ‘the demon’ Bacchus, renown as a berserker of note and a veteran of many a great battle.
Grunchy Fromson, Spectal Petreson, Wogler Manger, Partlee Nobee and Pups. All being in possession of various monikers such as Masher, Killer, Barbarian, Slasher, Dog (in the case of Mr Nobee) and Slobberer (in the case of Pups the dog).
There was no denying it. This was an old, old bunch of guys but, as the captain talked to them and explained fully what their mission would be, he began to see something. Although they were rusty they weren’t worn out. Moth-eaten but not threadbare. Mossbacked perhaps, but then so are boulders. Fossilized, definitely, but aren’t fossils merely old flesh become rocks? And that is what Captain Bravad had managed to collect – a bunch of stripped-down, no nonsense, hard as stone, old warriors.
He nodded to himself. They had set themselves a goal that was so impossible, so unfeasible and so obviously unattainable that maybe, just maybe, they had every chance of achieving it.
Chapter 22
Plob didn’t like Sloth. It was sinister and eerie and seemed to begrudge the very presence of the living. As they searched through the broken remnants of a society long gone, looking for a trace of Legles and the band of twenty, he felt like a tomb raider or grave robber of some sort, disturbing the spirits of the dead.
‘Over here,’ called Box (or was it Bag, Barrel, Basin, Basket or Bin - whatever). ‘A large group camped here not more than two nights ago.’ He pointed at the blackened evidence of three fires and various small depressions in the earth where people had lain for the night.
‘He’s right,’ confirmed Cabbie. ‘Fifteen, maybe twenty bodies. Probably the band that we’re looking for.’
‘Right, troops,’ said Smegly. ‘Let’s keep our wits about us. Eyes and ears open, there could be an element of danger about so stay vigilant.’
Biggest took up the trail and the rest, attentive and alert, followed him. Although the band that they were tracking weren’t specifically trying to avoid detection it was difficult to keep on their route as it meandered through the ruins and the rubble.
Later that day they came across a second campsite. Some of the coals in the remains of the central fire were still warm and Biggest concluded that the band had slept there the night before and left that morning after what was probably a fairly late breakfast. Smegly told the group to continue the search with weapons drawn, or at least close at hand, just in case.
Throughout the day they slowly gained on the band and the tracks grew fresher. Moist torn blades of grass, small branches broken in passing and still weeping sap and overturned rocks that had revealed damp spots not yet dried by the sun all told their tale.
The team slowed to a wary walk checking and rechecking their surroundings as they moved forward. By the time that the evening started to encroach upon them they had still not caught up with the band but knew that they were getting very close.
They ate a cold meal as Smegly did not allow fires lest they attract attention and Plob cast an ‘air, alarm’ spell around the camp. They fell asleep easily, tired from the long tense day that had just passed.
King Bil was ensconced in his favourite room in the castle - the throne room. It was everything that he had ever imagined, rich red drapes covering the wall behind the large gold and black throne. Tapestries and carpets, paintings and vases, cushions and ornaments. And a marvellous silver tasselled rope that you could pull and ring a bell somewhere in the depths of the castle, and a servant would appear. And you could order them to do anything you wanted, or just shout at them and watch them grovel, or not. Because you were the king and the king does what the king wants - yes, sire.
Bil leant over, pulled the silver rope and waited, squirming in anticipation, pausing every now and then to gibber. And then howl like a loon.
It was good to see that Bil was still living up to all of our expectations.
To be fair it wasn’t Plob’s fault. As they woke the next morning he had stood up, yawned, stretched and released the ‘air, alarm’ spell as he did. It seemed that within the blink of an eye there was a crossbow toting, unknown dwarf standing next to, or above, every member of the team.
As they all attempted to take stock of their surprised situation a tall, green-garbed man with long curled locks of golden-red hair walked into their midst and bowed.
‘Top of the morning, good gentlemen and exquisite lady,’ he said in a voice that throbbed with such integrity and sincerity that his mere morning greeting made them all feel that they were worthy (worthy of what you ask – just worthy, generally inspiring a feeling of great worth). ‘I must apologise for the less than welcoming sight that I have caused you to awaken upon but these are dangerous times and, as you have been following us for the last few days, I felt that a little caution would definitely become us all.’ As he talked he walked over to Dreenee who was still seated on her blanket and offered his hand to her, helping her to rise. He gazed into her eyes and smiled. ‘Ah, such perfection, my lady. Never before have I had the pleasure of coming face to face with a visage of such elegant loveliness. Your sublimity makes all around seem inelegant and homely. Surely what I see before me is God’s handwriting.’ Dreenee blushed as he leant forward and kissed her hand. He stood back and faced them all. ‘Good people, pray let me introduce myself. I am the elf known as Legles, formally of the inner lands and now the leader, if you would, of this small group of dwarves that were previously the renowned “band of twenty” and are now, after a small misunderstanding with my own self, acknowledged as “the band of eighteen.” Now, mayhap you could explain your presence in this sad city of Sloth.’
Master Smegly stepped forward and slightly inclined his head to Legles in greeting. ‘First, my good elf, please kindly ask your men to safety-catch their weapons and put them aside. There is no need for such a show of force as we mean you and your companions no harm.’
As Smegly spoke Plob glanced around and noticed that Cabbie was nowhere to be seen. Biggest was still seated on the ground as was Horgy, Budget and the rest of the dwarves but no Cabbie.
‘I apologise profusely, my excellent friend,’ replied Legles with exquisite manners. ‘However, I am sure you can see my problem. Until I know exactly who you are and what you are all doing here I dare not drop my guard even for a moment.’
‘I’m afraid that I must insist,’ insisted Smegly (insistently). ‘You have my word that we will do you or your companions no injury.’
‘Ah, herein lies the rub,’ said Legles. ‘For, in as long as I maintain our guard, I too can guarantee that no hurt comes to us.’ The elf shrugged and smiled enchantingly. ‘I am certain that you can appreciate my dilemma. So, perhaps, you shall do as you are told and tell me why you are here,’ Legles finished off in a slightly harder tone than before.
Master Smegly addressed Legles in an irritated fashion. ‘Luckily I can help your quandary,’ he said sternly as he folded his arms
across his chest. ‘Cabbie,’ he commanded and, as he did so, Legles’ pointed green hat was plucked off his head and impaled to a stumpy twisted tree behind him. The split-second incident being accompanied by the fluted fluttering sound of the yard-long steel tipped arrow that had travelled through the air to accomplish the task. Cabbie stepped out from behind the large bush that had been concealing him, another arrow already notched in his yew bow.
Legles smiled at Cabbie. ‘Good shot, sir,’ he applauded.
‘Maybe,’ grunted Cabbie. ‘But then maybe not - perhaps I meant to shoot you in the eye and I missed. Maybe it was a crap shot and the next one will be better.’ Cabbie drew back on the bow. ‘You think - huh?’
Legles’ perfect poise shivered for a second and then the wagon loads of self-confidence came rushing back. ‘Bravo, sir. Your point is well taken, never assume, yes very good. I’m afraid what we have now is a standoff. If you harm me you shall all come to grief and, conversely, if we hurt any of you I will meet with an unfortunate end. What do you suggest we do?’
Smegly drew a deep breath and asked Cabbie to put the bow down. Cabbie raised an eyebrow, shrugged in an it’s-your-funeral-as-well kind of way, un-notched his arrow and lowered the longbow. Legles, looking slightly, ever so slightly, abashed ordered his band to stand down. A collective loud sigh of relief sounded from all concerned excepting Smegly who was lighting up a cigar, Legles who was far too cool to do something as crass as exhale noisily, and Cabbie who had already gone over to check the horses.
That night they all stayed at the main camp of the band of eighteen and were served up a large simple meal that, although not a feast, was wholesome and plentiful. As per usual Blutop was dispensed via Biggest’s never emptying flask and soon the atmosphere became rowdier and more convivial. Master Smegly explained the quest to all and, afterward, told Legles why they had had to track him down. The quest was right up Legles’ avenue.
‘This is a noble venture,’ he exclaimed. ‘To do good deeds and show people the true meaning of honour and nobility. To be a part of a group entrusted with the fate of the world, truly good folk this is the endeavour for which my life has always been destined for.’ He grasped Smegly by the shoulder. ‘Thank you, kind master, you and yours have given me a meaning and dedication for which to strive. I shall not disappoint you.’ And with that Legles retired to bed so as to better conserve his energy for the deed-filled days ahead.
‘Intense sort of bugger, isn’t he?’ commented Cabbie as Legles left.
‘And touchy too no doubt,’ added Smegly. ‘This sort often are. Try not to antagonise him too much, Cabbie, we need him on our side. That goes for all of you, watch the way you talk to Legles, he’ll take offence at the drop of a hat and that’ll just provide us with more hassles than we all need right now.’
The team grunted in acceptance except for Cabbie who shook his head. ‘He’s trying to be so noble he makes my teeth itch,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘But I’ll try to moderate my inveterate humour and razor-sharp wit for a while. Only for a while though,’ he finished.
The next morning Smegly took Cabbie, Budget, Legles, Biggest and Plob aside for what he ominously referred to as a council of war. ‘As our team has grown larger I feel that we need to formalise some sort of structure or things may start to unravel on us,’ he told them. ‘We need a chain of command, nothing rigid or militaristic but definitely an agreed set of responsibilities for each of us here.’
This was greeted with a general nodding of agreement from the five questers gathered round him. ‘Right,’ Smegly continued. ‘Firstly, Legles, I’d like you in charge of the dwarves with Budget here as your second in command, both of you must feel free to call on Biggest whenever you need help. Plob here will from now on carry the bulk of the responsibility for all magiks that we need performed, I will be in overall charge and Cabbie, as usual, will take care of any transportation that we need except, and this is important, gentlemen, when any military strategy or decision is needed Cabbie will have the full and final say on it. Any questions?’
‘Yes,’ said Cabbie. ‘How do I resign?’
‘You can’t,’ answered Smegly. ‘It’s a lifetime position. Live with it.’
‘Perhaps we should reconsider,’ interjected Legles. ‘It does seem passing strange to me to appoint a cab driver as absolute military strategist. Perhaps I could offer my services.’
‘No,’ barked Master Smegly. ‘I mean no offence but we need a professional.’
Legles was gobsmacked. ‘You would put the worth of a coachman, a mere carter and gharry-wallah above mine. I find that I must strenuously object to this course of action and, perhaps, even reconsider my gracious involvement in this enterprise.’ Legles folded his arms and glared haughtily at Smegly.
‘Give it a rest, elf-man,’ rumbled Biggest. ‘Get off your elevated-equine and come to live down here with us normal earth grubbin’ folks. Use your eyeballs, boy, the master don’t mean you no abuse, don’t you see who Cabbie actually is or is you too involved with your own exaltedness to notice anything but your sorry-assed self?’
Legles, who was now literally spluttering with rage, looked intently at Cabbie. Cabbie stared back at him mockingly with a slight grin on his unshaven face. Legles contemplated Cabbie puzzledly and then abruptly, as if Cabbie had taken a mask off to reveal his actual face, the farthing dropped.
‘Tarlek,’ he whispered his face glowing like a child who has just had irrefutable proof that, not only does Father Christmas exist, good old Pere Noel is actually his uncle who has just promised him an unlimited supply of pressies for the rest of his life. ‘You’re my hero,’ Legles gushed in a very un-elf like fashion. ‘I’ve studied all of your escapades - you’re the reason that I left the inner lands. I wanted to be just like you.’
‘What?’ responded Cabbie ‘A mere carter and a gharry-wallah?’
Legles hung his head in overt shame. ‘I apologise, it was an unworthy comment. I had no idea that it was you.’
‘It would have been unworthy even if it wasn’t me,’ responded Cabbie. ‘But, in a way, you’re right. That is what I am - a driver, a reinsman, a hackman if you would. I am no longer a knight and I except this duty ordered me with the disinclination and reluctance that I feel it deserves.’
‘That’s fine by me,’ said Smegly. ‘I didn’t tell you to like it, I just told you to do it. Let’s go, gentlemen - once again upward and onward.’ Smegly rose and the rest of the group followed.
The questers packed up camp and started the first steps of their long route to Bil de Plummer and the capital city of Maudlin. Budget took point followed closely by the other twenty four pack carrying dwarves running three abreast and backed up with the cab containing Smegly, Dreenee, Plob, Cabbie and Legles. Biggest loped behind in the position of rearguard.
As they ran the dwarves started to sing.
‘With a lop diddle diddle
and a lum tiddle too
we will run to the middle
of the…’
‘Stop that!’ shouted Cabbie. ‘We’ll have none of that. I’m serious, I can’t stand it. I’ve never had singing on a quest before and I bloody well won’t start now.’
‘But it’s traditional,’ argued Legles. ‘Elves and dwarves always sing when questing. It’s a long-established time-honoured custom and, personally, I think that it should be allowed.’
‘Listen,’ said Cabbie. ‘I get full and final say on all matters tactical and military – right?’ Legles nodded in agreement. ‘So,’ continued Cabbie, ‘I say that they can’t sing. There, argument closed.’
Legles shook his head in disagreement. ‘It’s not a tactical issue this, it’s a morale issue and, as the leader of the troops, I feel that it falls under my auspices and I say they can sing.’
Cabbie pointed his finger at Legles. ‘Full and final say, Legles, full and bloody final. That’s what I get and I deem that this singing issue is of tactical im-bloody-portance and it irritates the bezonkers out of
me and we won’t hear it anymore and that is that.’
‘Yes but…’ continued Legles.
‘Do you want to walk?’ interrupted Cabbie. ‘’Cause I’m also in charge of transport and I can feel a transportation crises looming so just shut it. There’s a good fellow.’ Cabbie turned to face the front and Legles, who could have run all day if it was required but really didn’t feel like it, kept it shut.
They kept up a good pace throughout that day, stopping only briefly for lunch and setting up camp as the light was beginning to fade that evening. Their course was going to take them through the small town of Blange the next day, probably around the late afternoon sometime, so Master Smegly had called everyone together and was explaining the necessity for adhering a thin layer of civilization veneer to the dwarves who, due to their banditeering, had not been in urbane company for a while.
‘So please remember,’ repeated Smegly. ‘Just because there are over thirty of us, and we are armed, we can’t merely do anything that we feel like doing. Simply because we can do it doesn’t automatically give us the right to do it so remember, don’t do it.’
There was a general puzzlement amongst the dwarven ones who obviously thought that this was exactly the time to do whatever one felt like - when you were armed and dangerous and you could. It stood to reason that if you couldn’t then you wouldn’t and now they could but they weren’t because Smegly said they couldn’t and they thought that they should. They were all becoming very confused.
‘Huh?’ asked Budget.
‘Just behave,’ snapped Smegly.
A general nodding of heads and why-didn’t-you-say-so-in-the-first-place type comments followed.
They entered the town late that afternoon and immediately looked for some sort of suitable accommodation for the new enlarged team. With access to funds obviously not posing any problem to Master Smegly, he sorted their dilemma out by the simple expediency of hiring the whole of the first decent, large enough inn that they came across. A three-storey, sprawling affair that went by the name of ‘The Kneeling Nun.’ Smegly settled the bill for all thirty-one of them up front, to the landlord’s patent relief, and told everyone to see themselves to their rooms and meet in one hour’s time in the central common room. Before they went up to their chambers Plob enquired whether the innkeeper could organise a bath to be brought up to his room.
