Trolls and Tribulations

by Kevin Partner

  Chapter 29

  McGuff swung at the goblin, his notched sword glanced off its iron collar and, with a howl, it thrust upwards with its dagger. And fell back as an axe appeared in its chest.

  “Thanks,” McGuff said, looking down at the blood-stained, bruised, and very angry face of Minissun who nodded acknowledgement.

  The enemy fell back, but both sides knew that the Crapplecreekers were doomed. They’d finally been overwhelmed at the entrance to the bridge and only a murderous counterattack led, astonishingly, by Thun, had given them the breathing space to reform. But the bridge was lost and there had been no stopping the goblins as they swarmed across and onto the defended side. From outside came the thumping of the doors as the Stone Trolls renewed their vain, but frightening, assault. And inside, the cavern echoed to triumphal cries and the clang of metal on metal as the enemy formed up for the final assault.

  For the second time in four months, McGuff found himself filling with a desperate pride at the defiance and bravery of the men and women of the Crapplecreek garrison. On the face of it, the worst bunch of reprobates and wasters ever to don ill-fitting, second-hand leather armour and yet they had stood firm, fighting with the ferocity of a cornered cat even as any remaining hope of survival had ebbed away.

  Even the cracked squad’s most unpromising warriors had proven that there was more to them than its commanders had any right to hope for. Minissun and Thun were, each in their own way, fighters to the core, but McGuff had been astonished by the ferocity and delicate accuracy of Jonathan Clegg’s spear thrusts - it was as if he was writing and out serving death warrants for fun. Even Enoch Epocyrypha had shown himself to be, when left with no alternative, brave and effective, especially with a rock. He’d been even more deadly when he’d seen Angelini Ratbag singled out by an orc chieftain and skewered to the cavern wall.

  And so the end approached for the cracked squad, for all of them. A solid mass of black clad goblins, sharp swords flashing in the amber light, laughing as they formed up for the final assault. Saliva dripped from their fangs and their claws snapped open and closed in anticipation of the rending to come. A thump, thump, as of distant drums echoed in the deep.

  They charged.

  #

  Chortley fell back under the sweeping arc of a scimitar. He stumbled, lost his footing and was saved by Negstimeaboi’s athletic counterthrust which, by skill or luck, found the join in the armour protecting the cave troll’s shoulder joint. The creature’s roar of agony was cut short as Ambler brought his dagger across its neck.

  They were losing. There was no sign of the black tide slowing down, no indication at all that his half-brother had succeeded in blocking the tunnel. There was no hope left in defending and waiting.

  The enemy had drawn back, goblins crouching in the tunnel some way beyond the cave troll’s destructive range. It seemed these creatures made for powerful, but somewhat indiscriminate, weapons of war - just as likely to cleave the head of a goblin as to attack their enemies.

  Chortley scrambled to his feet and nodded at the others in appreciation. “I’m not waiting here any longer. That door needs closing and, since I have no-one else to send, I must try to do it myself.”

  Ambler nodded. “We will come with you.”

  “No, we can’t let the upper levels fall - there would be nothing between the goblins and the outside world.”

  “There would be three witches and two wizards,” Ambler responded. “And, forgive me, but I didn’t mark you as a hero out of old tales. A great warrior, certainly, but, it seems to me, a man who is his own master and concerned largely with his own destiny.”

  Chortley bristled momentarily and then, deciding that Ambler’s words had, in the arithmetic of ego, added up to a compliment, he smiled. “Yes, my friend, I have developed a worrying character flaw. I believe I am growing a conscience.”

  “You in love, also,” Negstimeaboi said.

  He was too exhausted to argue. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, “but, whatever the reason, I’m not staying here to be overwhelmed at the last.”

  “We come too, we know love. We also know hate and will fight it while we can.” Negstimeaboi drew Ambler into a brief embrace.

  The ranger took his sword and wiped it against his bloodied leggings. “Anduracel, you shall not be sheathed until it be seen who shall triumph, good or evil.”

  Chortley rolled his eyes, slapped Ambler on the shoulder and ran, screaming, down the tunnel, his notched blade singing.

  The goblins fell back as the three warriors pelted towards them. Chortley stopped to draw breath at the door to the treasury which had, thus far, resisted all attempts at forcing an entry. Gold twinkled through the watch-door at the top. The door-knob had gone.

  In the distance, Chortley could hear a thump-thumping sound, like the beating of goblin drums. He reached the main tunnel and turned his head left and right. The drumming was coming from the direction of the main entrance, where the Crapplecreekers waited. He hoped McGuff had made it back and got them into order, not that it would matter in the long-run.

  There was nothing else for it, he couldn’t help anyone until the outer door was blocked. From left and right now came the sounds of muttering cries and the clanging of metal as unseen hordes gathered their courage for an attack.

  Chortley turned to the others. “Let’s go. Hopefully we can block the inner door. If not, we’ll have to use our initiative.”

  They darted to the left, shouted a challenge and ran into the darkness. Had they turned to look back, they’d have seen goblins emerge from the direction of the drumming noise and hurtle up the side tunnel. The upper levels were lost.

  #

  Bill drew in a deep breath and punched the button on his dashboard - the one with the icon that looked like an exploding head above it. Sure enough, his head, or at least, the helmet, snapped open like a Venus Fly Trap in reverse. Bill gripped the staff as he pushed on the stirrups and rolled onto the grey sand, stifling a cry as a particularly sharp pebble scraped his back.

  The goblins had sprung away as the suit dismantled, but, as the Humunculus robert bellowed, they turned and faced Bill, fangs exposed and swords drawn.

  Humunculus bellowed as Bill scampered for the doorway, still holding his breath. But then he tripped, fell onto his front and involuntarily exhaled. He drew in a lungful of Darkworld air and sprang to his feet again. The air of the Darkworld seared his lungs, but he didn’t feel as though it was going to bring him down just yet. He darted past Humunculus, giving the back of the machine’s knees a whack with the staff. Jets of steam escaped from a hidden valve and the machine fell.

  Exhilarated, Bill reached the door and leapt over the rubble. His joy was brief, however. Ahead he could see the black shapes of goblins jogging through the tunnel to meet him and behind he could hear others following him out of the Darkworld.

  His pursuers were the quicker, so he turned to face them. Automatically, he tried to pull heat from around him. He dragged every ounce of warmth from the air, rocks and himself and, just as the first goblin reached the threshold, he pointed at the roof. The blast of flame was so furious that the recoil blew him ten feet backwards. Which was just as well - the roof collapsed, overwhelming his ears with a roaring like a primeval wave, rocks rolling down the tunnel to become still at his feet. The glow from his hands faded and night fell.

  There was silence ahead of him and silence behind. But he knew there were more goblins on his side of the rockfall - hundreds, possibly thousands, more. So he dragged himself to his feet and stood, swaying in the darkness, his staff held in front of him as, with the last of his strength, he summoned a final, terrible, fireball. He drew his hand back.

  A cry echoed along the tunnel. “Stop, brother!”

  #

  The breath of the goblin smelled like rotting vermin but Jonathan Clegg didn’t flinch. He’d worked for a succession of garrison commanders as adjutant of Crapplecreek, and, low-grade position that it was, it didn’t tend t
o attract the best of the officer corps - though none had been quite as disgusting as the creature he was fighting off. The survivors of the Crapplecreek Expeditionary Force stood with their backs to the rock-face, desperately keeping the enemy at bay. They knew it was only a matter of moments before their line would be broken and the goblins would be among them.

  Clegg slashed with his blunt sword and his opponent flinched backwards. The creature had a weeping gash across its face and one of its eyes was missing. But even in its weakened state, its mad fury gave it an energy Clegg could barely fight off.

  BOOM. BOOM.

  And, above the clamour of the fight, there rose that dreadful beat. Louder and louder it became, as if heralding the arrival of the final doom.

  BOOM. BOOM.

  #

  Bollocks, thought Brianna, they’ve taken the bridge. She’d cut a bloody swathe through the rear ranks of the goblins and had emerged into the cavern where they’d left the Crapplecreek garrison and its prisoners. She’d hoped that they’d have contained the enemy, but she could see that, by sheer weight of numbers, the goblins had overcome them.

  Her visor was splattered with bodily fluids and dust and the ingenious wipers built into the exterior of the helmet had been ripped off when she fought a particularly vicious cave troll. Mind you, it had been somewhat surprised by where she’d inserted the blades once she had it on the floor.

  Brianna scraped a bloodied gauntlet across the visor, succeeding, in the main, in doing little more than turning the view into one long smudge. Another swipe and her vision cleared a little.

  There. Against the far wall, she could see a mass gathered. Judging by the torches, there were hundreds of them. Too many for her but, despite her exhaustion, she was still driven by incandescent rage and fear for Bill. She looked down. At her feet was the beginning of the bridge and, to either side of the narrow way, a fall into unguessable depths. She felt her stomach drop and, for a moment, dizziness threatened to topple her, but there was no time for such weakness. She stepped onto the bridge.

  BOOM.

  #

  Clegg stabbed desperately forward with his stiletto and felt it connect with bone and flesh as it evaded the goblin’s desperately flailing arm. The hot breath exploded onto his face and then fell away. For a moment, despite the noise and stench of battle, his fatigue and the hopelessness of the situation, Clegg felt satisfied. After all those years of precision calligraphy he had, with the aid of his thin, sharp, dagger turned it into a deadly art. A career as an assassin flashed into his imagination before it was obliterated by the roaring face of another enemy.

  And then the goblin turned. Clegg went to stab its neck, but hesitated. Something was happening, there in the dim distance, away by the bridge. The goblin army, so certain of victory only moments ago, was suddenly unsure. He stabbed down, and the goblin fell screaming away, clutching its neck.

  It looked for all the worlds as though goblins were being tossed in the air, scattering like seed in the breeze. The front rank of the enemy turned as one to see what new danger had befallen them. Clegg looked to his right and caught the gaze of a bloodied, battered, but still very much alive Sergeant McGuff.

  The sergeant gestured disbelief as if silently asking Clegg if they were both seeing the same thing. Clegg nodded and McGuff raised his battered sword high and cried “Charge!”

  #

  Thank the gods, they were charging! Brianna had plunged into the rear ranks of the goblin army as it attempted to deal the coup de grâce to the Crapplecreekers. She’d scattered the enemy, flailing left and right like some manic reaper in a blighted crop. But she knew she couldn’t beat them all. Her suit was powerful, but it could be overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers and she had begun to be forced back by the desperate ranks of goblins, hemmed between the doughty Crapplecreekers and her. Slowly, she’d felt the tide turn and she stepped back once, then again, still striking out at any enemy that came within range of her razor-tipped arms. She was being pushed back towards the bridge, towards the Chasm of Doom.

  Then she’d heard the cry of “Charge!” and, in an instant, the pressure relented as the goblins furthest from her turned in panic. Brianna stopped, stepped forward and began swinging.

  #

  “I can ‘ear somethin’ on the steps,” Gramma said, cocking her ear in the direction of the stairs.

  Despite the peril, Mother Hemlock found time to roll her eyes. “Yes, we can all hear ‘em.”

  In fact, it had been the elf, Floatslikeabutterfly, who had heard the first rumblings from down below. She had seemed to fall into an exhausted sleep, but had, somehow, been awakened by the approaching danger and had called out. Gramma had been snoozing, oblivious either to the sounds or the livid glare of Marcello, still immobilised by her magic.

  “Well, whatever comes up them steps is goin’ to regret it,” Mother Hemlock said, her face grim. “We’ll bury them deep if they threatens to overwhelm us.”

  “But if we do that, we also bury our family and friends with them,” Velicity said.

  Mother Hemlock looked directly into the eyes of Marcello. “Yes, I knows that well enough. And I’ll make sure them’s who is responsible pays the price.”

  Aligvok, who’d been staring down the long, dark, staircase, shouted. “I can see torches lighting down below, they are coming.”

  “Well it seems to me Mr Wizard,” Gramma said, looking at Aligvok, “that if you have any magic about you, now would be a good time to use it.”

  The wizard’s pretty face dropped. “I never had any magic of my own. It was all just cleverness and,” he paused, as if unsure whether to say more, “exploiting the magic of other places.”

  “She means the magic of our world,” Floatslikeabutterfly said. “That is the source of her power and of his,” she concluded, pointing at Marcello who had become, if it were possible, even more rigidly fixed to the spot.

  “So you’re not going to be much bloody help to us then,” Gramma said. She reached down and picked up a rusty sword from amongst the bundle of weapons they’d grabbed from the armoury. “‘Ere, make yourself useful. You may look like a lickle girl, but there’s no need to act like one.”

  Aligvok took the sword and, surprised at its weight (or the weakness of his new arms), he almost dropped it before steadying himself and staring nervously as the torches down below lit one after the other. The jingle of metallic boots and armour floated up the stairs.

  And behind them, the scraping noise of the door to the outside being opened.

  Floatslikeabutterfly screamed as the hairy arms of a goblin appeared around the door as it opened.

  “They’re coming at us from behind as well,” Aligvok cried, “we’re trapped!”

  The elf sprang back and Mother Hemlock stood between her and the ever opening door. She blinked as light poured in, making a hideous silhouette of the pointy headed, big-eared goblins as they crowded in the doorway.

  Mother Hemlock began whispering words as Gramma, giving a small curse, stood alongside her. “Of all the bloody sneaky things to do. ‘Ow did you get out there, that’s what I’d like to know, you lickle buggers,” the old woman said, grimly. Then, as the first goblin stepped inside, she said “Oh, it’s you Joker. Where the bloody ‘ell ‘ave you been?”

  The goblin made room for the others behind him. “It’s Jispa, missus. I am sorry I tried to escape, but I did not like him,” he said, pointing at Marcello. “His soul is black and where he leads, his followers fall.”

  “Well, you’re not a bad judge there.”

  “But when I gets out, I is lonely and lost and so I finds my way to caves at the mountain foot,” the little goblin said, “and there I meets Rasha, and he puts me straight.”

  Another, shorter, goblin appeared from behind Jispa. “I is Rasha and, though I has been bad, I has turned over a new loaf and I has come to help friend Bill and friend Brianna. We has all been tricked by him, but time has come for the killing to stop.”

  Gramma nodd
ed. “Good lad. And the killin’ will stop, but not just yet. There’s a load of your kind runnin’ up them stairs and they ain’t lookin’ for a cup of tea and a slice of cake.”

  Rasha moved inside and, stopping to bow to the elf reverently, he looked down the stairwell. “Rasha will go and speak to them.”

  “Are you mad?” Mother Hemlock snapped. “They’re fighters, they’ll kill you out of hand.”

  “Maybe, missus, but Rasha must try.”

  The goblin started down the stairs. Before anyone could stop her, Gramma followed him.

  Chapter 30

  “Stop!” Brianna screamed as she stood between the cowering goblins and the Crapplecreekers. Thun, his shirt in tatters and his torso a welter of narrow misses, stepped forward, his huge blade held ready the sweep down on the remnant of the goblin army.

  Brianna raised an arm. “I said stop!”

  The barbarian turned on her, enraged. Steam hissed from the suit and it groaned as if it were approximately a million miles late for its 10,000 mile service. He peered into the crystal visor at the young woman within and caught her eye. There was a battle of wills55 before, after a few milliseconds, Thun dropped his gaze and stood, unsure of what to do next.

  Minissun appeared at knee level and tugged, carefully, on his belt. “Come, Thun.”

  Brianna could hear the goblins behind her, each scrabbling to occupy as little space as possible and, for preference, to also be behind as many of their comrades as they could manage.