Trolls and Tribulations

by Kevin Partner

  To make matters worse, Aligvok had come round and his/her protests at being bound hand and foot were contributing to a feeling, within the old witch, that if she didn’t get answers soon, she might very well combust.

  Truth to tell, though, she couldn’t see how this was all going to be played out. Gramma was the sort who liked a straight line in front of her to follow - point her in any direction, wind up the clockwork, and she’d see it through. She’d been at the limits of her resources in negotiating with the dwarfs, but here she had at least two wizards, a hobgoblin and an evil king imprisoned, for now, within a staff. One thing was certain, she couldn’t taken them all on at once - even on the surface she’d have been hard pressed in this arid landscape to command the living things of the earth to come to her aid. Down here she was left with little more than lichen and confidence, both of which were in short supply.

  And then she felt it. The others, with sharper hearing than her, turned to the door.

  “What’s that?” Brianna said, pulling on Bill’s arm. The lad was still in some kind of daze and he stood beside her, dreamily.

  Now even Gramma could hear it. Thump, thump, thump. Methodical, machine-like and perfectly regular.

  “It’s here!” Marcello cried.

  Gramma’s eyes narrowed. She squinted to be sure of what she was seeing. There, in the doorway, stood a mechanical man.

  #

  It was the stink that woke Chortley. He was gently rocking, as if being rowed in a boat towards rapids - at the bottom of which, presumably, was a festering swamp. The smell was rich in ammonia and he could feel his nostrils distending as they sought to get as far away from the pong as possible.

  Something wet fell on his face and Chortley opened one groggy eyelid. He risked a look upwards and saw Thun’s chiselled jaw, wet black hair plastered to his neck and running down his naked chest. He also saw the barbarian’s armpit which swung into view with each stride. Another drip of sweat and his nostrils gave up trying to contain the stink and forced him to sneeze.

  Thun looked down, without breaking his stride. “You awake?”

  He stopped, without waiting for an answer, and dropped Chortley’s legs to the floor, supporting his back with arms the size of respectable tree trunks.

  Chortley swayed, then another whiff of Thun’s BO sharpened his senses, regrettably. “What happened?”

  “Little bastard stab, then go. You faint.”

  Now he was awake. “I don’t faint at the sight of blood!” he bellowed. “What kind of man do you think I am?”

  “Bleeding man?”

  Chortley looked down. The arm of his shirt, which had once been white, had transformed from its travel stained, dusty brown, to a slick red. He felt woozy. “Where are we?”

  “Running away.”

  “From what?”

  “Whatever coming through door.”

  Chortley blinked, clearing purple clouds from his vision. “What do you mean, you shut the door didn’t you?”

  “Thun tried. Hit door so hard it made rockfall. Something buried there, maybe buried deep. Maybe coming after us.”

  “You’re frightened!” said Chortley, looking up into the barbarian’s face as he glanced back along the corridor.

  Thun’s face hardened. “Thun saw what coming,” he said, “Thun not that stupid.”

  #

  Torchlight bounced from wall to wall in the narrow tunnel as Mother Hemlock led the way. Clegg had protested, but she’d insisted he lead the cracked squad back to the cavern and get them ready to move out while the witches explored the new passageway. She could hear Velicity flitting along behind her, barely able to keep up. Something told the senior witch that time was of the essence.

  “Hold on!” Velicity said, stopping abruptly to lean against a wall, panting.

  Mother Hemlock came to a halt, wheezed in a few dusty lungfuls and, once she’d recovered slightly, sneered. “Can’t keep up with the old girl then? When I was your age, I could run for miles - no-one could keep up with me.”

  “Maybe they weren’t trying,” Velicity responded. “I haven’t stopped because I need to, I’ve stopped because of that.” She pointed at a door just in front of where Mother Hemlock stood.

  The older witch blinked. Then, recovering herself, she said: “Oh, yes, that. I wondered whether you’d notice it.”

  “Sure you did,” Velicity said, striding past her to examine the door. It was the sort of door that had an air of impenetrability to it, an impervious portal to whom the very notion of granting access to those without the proper keys and opening words was an affront to its dignity. Mind you, it had been sitting here, firmly and irresolutely, closed for years uncounted and, frankly, it was bored.

  Velicity looked down at the brass door handle, which melded itself into the face of an old man with a brass ring in his mouth. “Well, hello,” it said, “I have rarely sheen shuch a nishe pair of knockersh.”

  “I’m up here,” Velicity said, and the brass knocker dragged its gaze upwards and met hers.

  “Oh, I’m sho shorry,” it said, sarcastically, “I haven’t sheen another knocker in sho very long.”

  Velicity dropped to eye level. “Now look here, mister, in case you haven’t noticed, mine aren’t made of brass!”

  “Some would say they’re pretty brazen,” sniggered Mother Hemlock, before she subsided under Velicity’s withering gaze.

  “Do you have a name?” Velicity asked, remaining eye to metallic eye.

  The brass door knocker contrived a shocked expression. “Of coursh, I wash human onshe,” it said. “I am, or wash, Shir Sheshil Shalashar.”

  “Shir Sheshil Shalashar? What sort of a name is that?”

  “No,” the knocker responding, going a bronzy shade of brass, “I shaid, Shir Sheshil Shalashar! Have you got cloth earsh?”

  Velicity turned to Mother Hemlock. “Any idea?”

  “Oh, you wants my ‘elp now do you?”

  The two witches regarded each other. But both knew that time was limited - stopping to talk to this lecherous ornament was wasting enough; feuding over who was going to give in first was a luxury they couldn’t afford.

  “He says his name is Sir Cecil Salasar,” muttered Mother Hemlock.

  “Thatsh what I shaid.”

  “I’ve had to decode for Gramma Tickle for long enough to get pretty good at decipherin’,” she concluded.

  Velicity nodded, then turned again to the knocker. “Sir Cecil, what is inside this room?”

  “Well, theresh no point asking me to open, cosh I can’t and, even if I could, I wouldn’t,” it said obstinately.

  “I didn’t ask you to open, just tell me what’s inside.”

  “Oh, you want to she my crown jewelsh, do you?” Sir Cecil responded, with lewdness aforethought. He hesitated for a moment. “I probably shouldn’t have shed that.”

  Velicity grabbed the brass ring and tugged on it viciously. “Now look here, Cecil, I don’t know what vile acts you committed to end up imprisoned in a door knocker, although I reckon I could take a pretty good guess, but if you don’t show me what’s inside, I’m going to rip this ring out of your mouth and hide it where it’ll never be found again. Are you ready for a circumcising?”

  “Oh, I do like a shtrong woman, eshpecially one with shuch exchellent knockersh,” replied Sir Cecil, as a small hatch opened above him and, within, shone the unmistakeable glint of gemstones.

  Which just goes to show that the most impregnable door can be opened by an act of lechery.

  #

  The thing lurched in through the laboratory door and then abruptly stopped. It stood perfectly still, as if waiting for a command.

  The living occupants of the room had retreated to the far wall where Marcello regarded the mechanical man with satisfaction and pride. Negstimeaboi and Ambler huddled together between two of the wall-coffins while Aligvok lay, still unconscious, at their feet. Brianna had dragged Bill away beyond the orb which sat in the centre of the room, pulsing
gently. Bently had cast himself on the floor with his claws over his ears when the thing had appeared in the doorway.

  One person hadn’t moved a muscle, however. “What the bloody ‘ell is that?”

  Some would describe Gramma Tickle as brave, and she had put herself in harm’s way on many occasions - more often than not because she meant to. Gramma herself, on the other hand, was self-aware enough to know that, in truth, she was generally too stupid to be frightened. She tended not to think far into the future - frankly she struggled enough with getting the present faggled out.

  And, right now, there was faggling to be done. “I said, what is it?”

  Marcello chuckled. “That, my dear witch, is my greatest invention, and it is, shortly, to be the home of our imprisoned friend.”

  “It looks a bit like sommat what came to our town once. It were part of a sideshow. All made of meckal and wood like this ‘ere. I think it’s name were Robert, or somethin’ similar.” The old woman paused for a moment before continuing. “Mind it turned out there were a lickle dwarf riding on a pushbike inside. Maybe it were ‘im what were called Robert. Mind, this one ‘ere is much bigger - big enough for a full-grown man to get inside, I wouldn’t be surprised. Is he called Robert too?”

  Marcello scowled at Gramma. “There is no man inside and it’s not called Robert. This is the crowning achievement in my long career as an inventor; it is my Autonomous Rover for Specialised Environments.”

  “Oh yes, I can see now. It says so in big leckers on its head. I still think Robert is better.”

  Ignoring her, Marcello returned to the control panel and began twiddling knobs irritably. The machine turned towards him and began stomping across the floor. It backed into a blank section of wall between the two groups of coffins, dropped its arms and went inert. After a little more twiddling, three brass bands emerged from the wall and wrapped themselves around the metallic figure, pinning it in place.

  Marcello pointed at Bill, his finger shaking. “Now, put the staff into the orb!”

  Bill began to move, but Brianna grabbed his arm. “What are you doing? Do you want that foul bastard’s soul in that, that, thing?”

  “I don’t know what I want,” Bill said, his words emerging slowly as if he was having to relearn how to use his lips, “but he doesn’t want me to do it, so I reckon I will.”

  “No!” Bently cried, leaping up from the floor before rebounding back from Negstimeabois’ fist.

  Bill pulled away from Brianna and, in one smooth movement, slid the staff back into the orb, pulling his fingers away as if it had burned him. “That’s better.”

  “In honour of your defeat of the Faerie King, William,” Marcello said, his amiable personality back in place, “I invite you to make the transfer. Pull that lever if you please.”

  Bill moved alongside the mechanical man and put his hand on the lever. “So, when I pull this, the Faerie King is going to be pumped into this, what do you call it?” he looked up at the letters stenciled into the face of the machine, “arse?”

  “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enema,” sniggered Brianna.

  “I still think you should call ‘im Robert.”

  Marcello exploded. “It’s not called arse, it is the A.R.S.E!”

  The wizard stalked over to the lever and pulled. The orb throbbed, sending the familiar pulsing flow along the tube in the floor. It reached the foot of the machine, there was a sucking, gurgling, noise and then silence.

  “It may take a moment or two,” Marcello said, having recomposed himself, “for the pneumatics to come online.”

  The machine shuddered for a moment, then lifted its left leg, bent it at the knee and emitted a long, rasping ululation, before straightening its leg again and, it seemed, relaxing slightly.

  “Better out than in, I always say,” Gramma said.

  Chapter 24

  Chortley ran along the tunnel, the thudding of Thun’s boots on the wet floor his only aural accompaniment. That and the chilling cries of the following host. On he ran, not daring to look back at the horror that chased them, waiting for a spear to shatter his spine, or an axe to fizz through the air.

  He reached the slab where the elf had slept. No wonder she hadn’t tried to escape that way, knowing that the entrance was guarded from the other side. They were getting closer, he could feel Thun’s hot breath on his back. They were nearly there.

  The door was shut.

  “Bastards!” Chortley yelled, banging desperately on the iron-hard wood.

  Thun stood behind him, his sword raised to face the enemy, gathered just beyond the light of Chortley’s torch. “Who be first? Thun tear new arse for him and stick his head up it.”

  Born the son of a clergyman who had a penchant for mistresses with giant in their ancestry, Thun had never needed to use verbal threats, his mere presence was, generally, enough to ensure his will was done. In the face of this horde, however, he felt that he needed every weapon in his armoury. Sadly, his repartee was more the battered old sword granddad brought back from his holidays to Varma - the one with “genuine replica” stamped on the side - when what Thun really needed at this point was a thermonuclear device.

  “Thun warn you! Any what touch him, he will trim toenails so they really hurt.”

  Chortley banged. The door opened. Chortley fell through. The horde charged.

  #

  Humunculus, King of the Faeries, awoke. He was no longer inside the staff, that much was obvious. His imagined room had disappeared, and he was now surrounded by blackness. And yet he could feel in a way he’d forgotten since the searing pain when that dratted boy had caused him to ignite. It seemed like years ago.

  Yes, he could feel, but in an odd way. Wooden, perhaps? Or possibly metallic. And then, as his mind sharpened after its passage from the staff, he remembered. The metal man. He was the ghost in the machine.

  He panicked, his soul rattling around the pathways of the thing’s mind, losing itself as it slowly expanded to fit its new home. He could feel arms that seemed to belong to him. Heavy, cumbersome, strong. And legs that bore little resemblance to the dainty, light limbs he’d danced on in his palace in the Darkworld. But these would do. They would carry him where he needed to go and his arms would exact his revenge.

  And now, to open his eyes.

  #

  The robert’s head moved slowly from side to side.47 It was made of wood and metal with flexible fluted leather covering the joints. It was somewhat taller than Ambler, but much heavier - it looked as though any gorilla that challenged it to an arm wrestle would find itself both humiliated and one limb lighter.

  Set into the bucket-shaped head were two eyes that glowed with a faint malevolence. The head scanned the room and then came to rest on Marcello. The robert screamed, straining at its restraints, as if it wanted to tear them from the wall so it could exact its revenge.

  Marcello took an involuntary step backwards. “You will not harm me, I have freed you from the staff.”

  The machine’s arm lifted with a sound like a dog chasing cats in its dreams. One wooden hand pointed at the wizard.

  “And remember,” Marcello said, “only I know how to release you from your prison. Once we have a suitable host, a faerie host, I will see it done. You have my word.”

  The hand dropped, the finger now pointing at the floor, and the machine sagged. The green light in its eyes dimmed.

  “Master! Is it really you?”

  The head looked down to see Bently grovelling at its feet. There were tears in the eyes of the old, faithful, servant. Humunculus the robert pulled back his foot and kicked, sending Bently sprawling.

  “It is you!” the hobgoblin cried with joy as he scrambled back to the feet of the machine. “I will make him fulfil his promise, oh master, as soon as we find a body fit to contain your magnificence.”

  Humunculus kicked him again.

  Marcello stepped across to the orb and went to seize the now inert staff. It had gone.

  “Really,
did you think I was that stupid,” Bill said, his eyes now clear.

  “That staff is mine, I created it!” bellowed the wizard. “Only I know how to unlock its true potential. You are not worthy! Give it to me!”

  “Listen, I may not be the brightest cangle in the shop, but even I’ve ‘eard of Minus and ‘e were alive hundreds of years ago,” Gramma said, channelling Sherlock Holmes48, “but this lad ‘ere, he looks younger than me and I ain’t made it to even one hundred yet.”

  Brianna pointed at the coffins lining the walls. “Oh, I think we know how he’s done it,” she said. “How many lives have you lived Marcello, or whatever you call yourself? And how many lives have you stolen? Who were these people?”

  It’s a universal fact that the average evil mastermind likes the sound of their own voice. Whether Marcello turns out to be evil or, indeed, a mastermind, remains to be seen, but there’s a fair bit of exposition coming so strap yourself in, make yourself comfortable, and pour yourself a warm beverage.

  But first…

  #

  The door wouldn’t hold for long. Thun had wedged himself against it, reinforcing its strained ironwood with his muscular back, but Chortley could see it beginning to buckle.

  “Thun, hold the door!” Chortley said. He looked into the barbarian’s eyes and saw that Thun, despite having fewer brain cells than a headless chicken, knew what was being asked of him.

  “Thun will hold for as long as he can,” he said, sweat running down his face and falling to the floor.

  Chortley nodded, slapped him on the shoulder and turned to go.

  “But when door about to break,” continued the barbarian, “Thun going to run like buggery.”