by Craig Zerf
Kleebles’ mother, dressed all in black and her head still swaddled in bandages from the effects of Bil’s violence, sat at the front of the temple and sobbed. (Ha - bet that you’d all forgotten about poor little Kleebles, hadn’t you? Shame on you. A pitiable innocent child, so brutally and unnecessarily battered to death in the third chapter, merely to provide a small twist in the plot and already all but forgotten. My heart haemorrhages at your callous and insensitive attitudes).
‘Is there not a man amongst you?’ she wailed. ‘Evil walks the Earth unmolested and no-one, bar that brave captain and his dilapidated old men, seek to do aught about it.’
She slid off the bench onto her knees in front of the congregation. ‘Oh woe and despair, sadness and anguish, misery and wretchedness. A gnashing of teeth and a rending of hair. Breasts to be beaten and hopes to be dashed. Oh, if I were other than a middle-aged woman with a partly bashed-in head and a pathological fear of physical violence, I would stride forth and do vengeance upon the vile Bil and his minions for the savage and untimely death that he brought down upon my poor little Kleebles. If but for the cruel twist of fate that has…’
‘All right. All right,’ shouted the priest from behind the pulpit at the front of the temple. ‘We get the picture. Unlike some amongst us,’ he continued, glancing directly at Kleebles’ mother’s husband…no - not Kleebles’ father. It’s a little complicated but let us put it this way. Kleebles’ mother’s husband was a pale, tall, rangy red-headed man with watery blue eyes and size fourteen feet. Kleebles favoured him in absolutely none of his predominant physical properties but did, oddly enough, appear to be the splitting image of the king’s tax collector, small swarthy man, bad teeth, black hair and small of foot. The whole town knew this apart from Kleebles’ mother’s husband - no, I’m not going to tell you his name as it isn’t necessary to the plot and we really don’t have the time to be drawn into vague and unnecessary asides such as that - because Kleebles’ mother’s hus...all right. Kopy. His name was Kopy.
Anyway, to shorten this whole explanation, Kopy was not a man possessed of any overt sense of cleverness. In fact it was rumoured that when he was born his parents had come across a two-for-one special offer on Stupidity and, being the types that could never refuse a bargain, they had loaded up on an entire barrow load of Stupid for poor old Kopy.
‘Unlike some amongst us,’ the priest repeated. ‘We don’t have to have everything repeated twenty or thirty…thousand…times.’ The priest cleared his throat wetly, noisily and unpleasantly, in the manner of all teachers, minor government officials and men-of-the-cloth. ‘We feel for you in this, your time of need. Your pain is our pain but, in all fairness, what do you expect us to do? We are not soldiers. We have no military training. We are helpless.’
Kopy stood up and, as he did so, a shaft of light blazed through the stained glass window and backlit him with a bright blue glow. He turned to face the congregation, his simple slow features set in a look of calm resolve, his watery blue eyes showing a small hint of flint.
‘It seems to me,’ he said, in his dim halting way. ‘It seems to me that none of us have been trained to be cowards either but we’ve been making a damn good job of it. I’m going to avenge my son.’
Kopy strode from the temple, head high, shoulders back and oversized feet slapping loudly on the hard packed earth.
They arrived in ones and twos throughout the rest of the day, and that night, and the next day. Men, women and children. And not only to fight but also to cook food, draw water, roll bandages and fletch arrows.
And with them all came a huge assortment of weapons, longbows, horse bows, crossbows, broadswords, rapiers, daggers, axes, morning stars, cudgels, pitchforks, spades and sticks, and the desire to use them. The reason being that, for as long as they all lived, from that day forward, they would all have to live with the fact that they were shamed and humbled, in the temple, by a simple man. And they were all determined to do what they could in order to be able to stand proud once more.
The captain was pleased. And Mr Tipstaff set about organising the newcomers into teams of bowmen, swordsmen, armourers and carriers.
Fate galloped on and the forces of good and the forces of evil were once again neck and neck. And the elves breathed a sigh of relief – for Captain Bravad r Us was no longer living on their borrowed time.
Chapter 29
There had definitely been a change. Plob wouldn’t go as far as to say that things were idyllic, because they weren’t but, all things considered, the world seemed to be on a much more even keel than it had been before, at the beginning of the quest.
The days passed, if not without incident, then unquestionably without any serious upsets. The villages that they passed through seemed happy and untroubled by all but the most usual of rural complaints. No plagues of locusts, rains of frogs or even unusually dry, or wet, weather. Normal, normal, normal.
However, if they had been travelling back via the same route as Typhon the Dark, things may have appeared a little differently. But they weren’t, so they didn’t, so there.
When Plob brought up this sudden un-normal spate of normality with Smegly, the master simply smiled in a self-satisfied way, nodded and said something obtuse in reply, such as ‘it’s almost time’ or ‘the moment draws near’ or once, ‘who the hell rolled these buggers? They fall apart after the first decent puff.’
And so they continued their way back to the castle of King Bil the pretender, making good time, stopping at inns or barns along the way and, all in all, feeling relaxed and ready for the fast approaching final showdown.
The next day they came to the outskirts of New Grumply, the first large town on the route since they had left the frozen ex-swamps of the realm of Typhon. Smegly, unsure of the sort of reaction that they would receive if the entire detachment marched, fifty strong, into the town centre, ordered Cabbie, Plob and Horgy to go in for a quick recce of the local populous.
They rode into town in the cab, parked outside a local pub, the Meal and Bucket, and strolled in. Cabbie went straight to the counter of the almost empty but pleasant place and ordered a brace of ales for himself and one each for Plob and Horgy.
‘So,’ said Cabbie as he paid the keep for the refreshments. ‘We’ve been on the back roads for a good few days. Pray tell us, my good man, of all and any news that has reached your ears in this fine establishment of your’n and, so that your throat does not suffer from drought whilst you talk, please draw yourself an ale, on us, to carry on with.’
The barman acknowledged Cabbie with a smile and nod of the head, drew himself a brimful mug of the fine dark brew, blew the froth off the top and sank it in two long swallows, stopping halfway to snort lustily in appreciation. ‘Thank you muchly, governor,’ he said as he banged the empty mug back onto the counter top. ‘We don’t see much of that sort of generosity here in New Grumply. Now, how can I be of service?’
‘Firstly,’ started Cabbie. ‘Draw yourself another and a second brace for me, and tell us of the doings and going ons.’
‘Well now. Old Mister Numson on the other side of the stream, the farm near the watermill, with the ducks and that strange black pig - his wife left him to run off with a travelling snake oil salesman that comes around here every year about this time. And her not a day under seventy-five. Scandalous if you ask me, and you are so I’ll tell you, scandalous. If it weren’t for Mrs Scrompy who lives on Badgers Bum farm on the old side of town who’s keeping Mr Numsom company, if you know what I mean, and, being men of the world I’m sure that you do, well he would be distraught with shock and sadness. Mind, some say that if Mrs. Scrompy hadn’t been so friendly in the first place then Edwinda Numson wouldn’t have left old man Numson and run off with that homing pigeon salesman.’
‘Snake oil,’ corrected Plob. ‘You said snake oil salesman.’
The keep shook his head. ‘No, young sir. That was this time. I’m talking about last fall when she ran off with the pigeon salesman.’
&nb
sp; ‘A busy lass our Mrs Numson,’ interjected Cabbie.
‘Oh yes, every year for the past decade she runs off with some itinerant salesperson. Always comes back within a fortnight or two. She could never leave old Numson for good. Would break her heart it would. Now if we’re talking about heart breaking there’s the widow Mrs Clam, lives on Fuzz Street next to the peach cannery, beautiful woman. Can break your heart at twenty paces, fifty on a clear day if the wind is blowing in your direction. Why only last week…’
The barkeep rambled on and on pausing only to refill their mugs or deliver the odd ale to one of the other drinkers in the tavern from time to time. Plob lounged back in his chair savouring the relaxed comfort and hovering in that Zen-like state brought on by alcohol, warmth and the background drone of the keep’s monotone and he could see that Cabbie and Horgy were in a similar stress-free state. After almost half an hour of background hum, something scratched the surface of Plob’s relaxed ruminatory state bringing him out of his semi-trance and pricking his ears up.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘What was that? Sorry, repeat. I missed what you were saying there.’
‘Why, I was only talking about the frightening rumours flying around the country about this terrible man, Bil the something-or-other…’
‘Plummer,’ said Plob. ‘Bil de Plummer.’
‘Yes,’ the keep nodded. ‘That’s the one. Apparently he’s deposed the king and set himself and his followers up in the castle at Maudlin. Not only that but he also has allegedly hired the services of the evil Typhon the Dark who is, as we speak, travelling around the country side collecting up an army of mounted men of such wickedness and depravity that no one will be able to stand in his way.’
‘How big is this army?’ asked Cabbie as he lent forward, a worried look on his face.
The keep shook his head. ‘I can’t be sure of that, good sir. Why, after all, this only rumour not substantive fact that I base my ramblings on.’
‘Guess,’ urged Cabbie. ‘Approximate, estimate. Apply a little conjecture to the subject.’
‘Really. I couldn’t…’
Cabbie lent over the counter, grabbed the keep by the collar and twisted it until the man’s face started to go an unpleasant shade of puce. ‘Approximate or asphyxiate, my good man. Your choice. Do you understand?’
The keep nodded almost imperceptibly. Cabbie let go and, as the keep drew breath once again and his face returned slowly back to its normal colour, he started to talk once more. ‘I’ve heard tell that he rides already with over two hundred men and, by the time he gets to the castle, he may have as many as four or five hundred with him now could you please go you are not welcome here anymore.’ And with that the keep shrank to the back of the bar as far away from the counter as possible and chewed nervously on his greasy dust-laden cleaning cloth.
Cabbie threw a handful of coins on the counter. ‘For your trouble,’ he said to the keep as the three of them left the tavern at a fast walk, got into the cab and hastened back to Master Smegly and the rest of the questarians.
Typhon the Dark rode at the head of the host, seated on Incitatus who pranced and snorted mightily in true demonic style and, it must be said, the Dark One and his allies made for some seriously troublesome viewing. The innkeeper of the tavern at New Grumply had been pretty much spot on with his estimations.
Spread out behind Typhon was well over two hundred assorted miscellaneous motley members of the race that we loosely consider to be human. Short ones, skinny ones, fat ones and tall ones. A malicious myriad of foul individuals with nought but one thing in common. The will, nay - the need, to do evil upon their fellow man. And they were drawing closer, ever closer to Bil and his minions in the castle of Maudlin.
‘Well I’d say that pretty much screws things up big time,’ said Cabbie in a depressed sounding voice as he got to the end of the telling of the current Typhon situation to Smegly.
‘No. Not necessarily,’ disagreed the master.
‘So you think that there’s hope?’ asked Plob.
‘No. Not necessarily,’ answered Smegly. ‘However, one thing’s for sure. We have to get to the castle before Typhon or things will be screwed up big time.’
‘No. Not necessarily,’ rejoined Plob.
Smegly stared at him. ‘Yes. Necessarily. Necessarily and definitely. A host of mounted men will ride roughshod over whatever small resistance that the captain has managed to raise in next to no time at all and then Typhon’s troops and Bil’s minions will gather together to form the biggest baddest army that this poor peaceful world of ours has ever had the misfortune of witnessing. Necessarily and definitely. So, gentlemen and others, time is of the utmost importance to us now. From this moment on we shall all have to endure forced marches and thin rations. Get all of the rest that you can tonight, for tomorrow, and the days after, we rise early, begin our march at first light and keep going until dark. We will eat twice a day, before dawn and after twilight, no other stops will be allowed and, the gods willing, we will arrive at the castle of Maudlin long before the Dark One.’
The next few days were the hardest that Plob could recall in all of his relatively short life. The first day of forced march was not too bad. True to Smegly’s orders they arose and ate before sunup and, when they finally ate for the second time, it was well into the night.
Before they slept they readied what they could in preparation for the morning and then fell into an exhausted, dreamless slumber.
The next day was far worse and, by the third day, every step was another yard more into each person’s own internal valley of pain and fatigue.
Strangely enough, by the fourth day things seemed to get a little better and, by the sixth day, as they crested Maudlin’s western hills and got their first look at the city spread out below them, they had run off all excess fat and toxins that had formerly taken up residence in their bodies and they looked exactly like what they were. A well-honed team of lean, mean fighting machines. Legles spotted the smoke from the camp fires around the castle and, proudly, with their heads held high, they marched, in tight formation, into the captain’s camp.
Chapter 30
Captain Bravad r Us had just finished the detailed telling of his story on what had thus far transpired in his battles with King Bil de Plummer and, to put it mildly, the questarians were hugely impressed. It was not often that one came across such leadership, bravery, fortitude and general common-or-garden good sense wrapped up in a single package.
Smegly harrumphed, not out of any disrespect for the captain but merely because the situation in which they found themselves looked to be, if not impossible, then at least damned difficult to get out of.
‘The way that I see it,’ started Master Smegly. ‘Is that our first priority is getting rid of Bil and his minions before Typhon gets here with his host and we become even more totally outnumbered. Any suggestions, anyone?’
‘The trouble is that we’re in a bit of a stalemate situation,’ said the captain. ‘We have no siege equipment capable of battering down the walls and, according to my reckoning, the bad ones have unlimited water and enough rations to last them another ten days or so, as long as they live a little frugally.’
‘That’s no good,’ said Cabbie. ‘We can expect Typhon to be here within the next three to four days, five at the outside. We’ve got to find a way of either all of us getting into the castle or, somehow, getting all of them out here onto the plains.’
‘I’ve got an idea,’ contributed Horgy. ‘And it’s a bloody good one too,’ he added with uncharacteristic intensity.
King Bil stood on the battlements of the highest tower and contemplated the scene below. His new number two, three and four stood in a row behind him. No one with big ears or funny nose was there as Bil had not yet found a replacement for Tolley (or But Sire as the king thought him to be called) in fact, if the truth be known, Bil missed all of the Sire brothers that he had dismissed in a fit of pique during his last meeting. These new advisors were simply not up t
o it. And to top it all, with no one to use as a foil for his razor-sharp wit, he was starting to become downright unfunny and more than a little depressed. ‘What do you think it is?’ he asked as he turned to his second in command.
‘I can’t be sure, Lord King (nobody called Bil sire anymore after the news of the last debacle had reached the ears of his followers - and anyway, Bil preferred Lord King as it smacked more than a little of godliness). ‘It looks a bit like some sort of mobile bridge.’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ agreed Bil who had actually thought that it may have been some sort of Trojan Horse but, on reflection and taking his second’s opinion on the matter, it probably was some sort of bridge. ‘Right. Put double guards on the gate. Lots of archers, people with javelins, rocks, fire - that sort of thing. Let them put the bridge in place and, as soon as they attempt to cross it, let loose a rain of death on their blasphemous heads. Then, when we’ve routed them, we charge across the bridge and massacre them all.’
Yep. He would show them. King Bil. Lord King Bil. Lord. God. Bil the Lord King God. He pulled his bedspread a little tighter around his shoulders, straightened the seams on his blue boiler suit, shouldered his bright red drop-forged wrench and strode, insanely, from the battlements.
Budget hammered the last nail into the wheeled bridge-like structure that he and the rest of the dwarves had been building through the night by the light of fires and torches and stood back to admire his work. ‘That’ll do,’ he commented as he turned to Box. ‘Go and call the master. Tell him that we’ve finished.’
Box jogged off to inform Smegly who returned with Horgy, Legles, Cabbie, Biggest and Plob who all inspected the structure. ‘Excellent job,’ admired Legles. ‘Well done.’
Budget and the rest of the dwarves beamed in pleasure.
