by Craig Zerf
‘It’s your fault,’ shrieked Typhon as he pointed at Gobling. ‘You control the dragon corps. Their failure is your failure. You fat, baby-blue-clad, effete, loser.’
‘Really, Herr Typhon, I must …’
Typhon held up his right hand, middle digit extended. The four-inch razor sharp talon on the end twinkled in the overhead light as he waved it back and forth. ‘Would you like me to stick this in your eye?’
‘Umm - No?’
‘You’re darn rooty-tooty right. So, shut the bollocks up and listen. If they can increase their firepower, so can we. Put some people onto preparing a new fire-feed for the beasts. Also, I want to see more flight training. Much, much more. Understood? As well as that, we need to start preparing for a huge breakthrough into their dimension so I want Goblin capture and storage increased ten times. I aim to send five hundred dragons over so I’m going to need a proverbial lavatory-full of those little green skinned creatures.’
Gobling nodded, saluted and left the room.
Chapter 24
Some people hug trees.
Other people hug rocks…this is because they don’t have any trees.
But some other people, the ones that are called ‘The Rockriders of Rohan’, well…they do neither. What they do, in point of fact, is - they farm rocks.
And not just any old rock...oh no - the Rockriders of Rohan farm the semi-sapient rocks of the Rohan mountains. Rocks that start off as small boulders and grow, over time, into the mightiest rocks that ever trundled the paths of Rohan.
Fully trained Rohanian Rocks fetched a huge price on the open market and were used for any manual job that needed great strength. Pushing trees down, levelling ground for building on, rolling out roads and general demolition.
The Riders captured the rocks when they were still small foal-boulders and then kept them in fenced kraals, feeding them on a diet rich in quartz and granite until they were year old colt-rocks, large but clumsy, and, finally, fully grown Bulwarks.
It was at this stage that training started. Colts were introduced to the reins and the gimbal-saddle on which the rider sat. The gimbal-saddle was an ingenious combination of gimble-bearings and tracks that allowed the saddle to float freely on the top of the boulder no matter which way, or even how fast, it turned.
It needed immense skill to stay on the saddle of a fully-grown Bulwark as opposed to falling off and being crushed under twenty tons of rolling rock.
Master rockrider, Halcyon, stood on the edge of a cliff, looking over the Wibwok valley. Far below him the kraals of the Rohan were spread out. Round thatched huts and small fences. There was no point in putting up large fences as a full grown Bulwark could pretty much crush anything in its path. But the rocks were well trained and had been domesticated for many years so they stayed in their allotted boundaries.
High above him a flight of Vagoth dragons cut through the sky, Halcyon’s Bulwark trundled slightly as it sensed the flying creatures. The rockrider patted his rock and gentled it with soothing words.
The Rohanians were a peace-loving nation, interested only in the herding of rocks, tie-dyeing of clothes and the smoking of various mountain herbs. But, try as they might, it was hard to love the Vagoths, a warlike peoples that revelled in all that was wrong. Halcyon shuddered as he watched the dragons. It was unnatural to be bound to the sky in such a way as opposed to being one with mother earth and her rocks.
He shook the reins and his Bulwark rolled forward, down the almost vertical cliff face as Halcyon perched expertly on his gimbal-saddle.
As he rumbled down the pathway to his kraal, his wife, Harmony, came out of the hut to greet him. ‘Peace, husband mine.’
‘And peace on you, chick. How are the sproglings?’
‘They’re cool, like, you know, Amity’s catching some Z’s and Pacific is feeding the foal-boulders.’
Halcyon climbed down from his Bulwark. ‘Harmony, we’ve got, like mondo problems. I mean, not us as a couple, we’re copasetic, I mean like us as a people.’
‘Why, what’s up?’
‘Well, I went to visit old Gumfroh, you know him, that gnarly old goblin dude that lives up in the Keldon grottos. I was like, keen to score some mushrooms from him and, like, when I got there….empty, man. Like someone ripped off all the goblins and split.’
‘Wow,’ said Harmony. ‘That’s, like…sad.’
‘No, no…it gets worse. When I searched the caves for them I came across a couple…’
‘Oh, that’s good.’
‘Negatory, babe, they were, like, deceased. Like, blood and gore and brain boogers all over the place. A real slash fest.’
‘Major bummer, husbanamanund. So what do we do now?’
‘No, wait…it gets worser. I, like, took a ride to the Prendon grottos and - same thing. Just a few dead little green dudes and the rest of the place full of emptiness. I’m, like, wigging out.’
‘We need to tell the Honcho.’
Halcyon nodded. ‘You’re right, babe. The Honcho needs to know. This is, like… heavy.’
‘I think that I can send some of us over to their side,’ said master Smegly.
‘Sounds good,’ said king Bravad. ‘How many?’
‘Not sure. Probably only two. Maybe three.’
‘Why so few?’
‘Because I’m not prepared to use blood sacrifice and to gain enough power to shift more than that across the divide would need a lot of blood.’
‘I think that I should go take a look then,’ said Plob.
‘Count me in,’ added Smudger.
Smegly nodded. ‘Right. When will you go?’
‘Let’s get it over with,’ said Smudger. ‘As me old mum always said, He who hesitates is lost so always look before you leap because fools rush in where angels fear to tread.’
‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ said Plob.
‘Cause not. She also used to say that, wise men think alike and fools never differ. She knew all of the old proverbs, did mum, she just never really got the hang of using them.’
Together with master Smegly they wandered down to the dragon pens, saddled up, took off and then circled the field, waiting as instructed.
‘So how does this work?’ Asked Smudger.
‘Not that sure. I assume that the master is going to use a combination of professor Gombleberries internal advancer, doctor Dogrelpot’s massive launcher and, most probably, a thunderbolt to provide the energy.’
‘Will it hurt?’
‘It’ll be uncomfortable.’
‘Oh, that’s okay. Pain I’m not fond of, but discomfort I can live with.’
And the world around them went purple and sticky. And a huge thunderbolt smashed into them and blasted them from here to there whilst the two combined spells stopped their associated molecules from becoming disassociated.
It was like being rolled up in a carpet and then repeatedly kicked by a team of football hooligans while being force-fed a wet feather pillow covered in Tabasco.
‘Golly,’ said Smudger. ‘This is uncomfortable.’
Another dragon exploded.
Typhon turned to Gobling and shook his head. ‘Bang. Always they go bang. What are you doing with them?’
‘My Fuhrer, we have increased the volume of brimstone to charcoal in an attempt to get more firepower from the beasts. It works, apart from the minor explosion glitch.’
‘I see, and to a turkey, Christmas is a minor inconvenience.’
‘I don’t know what a turkey is, my leader. Or Christmas.’
‘Whatever. Right, for a start - why do we put a flyer on the dragon every time that we test the new feed?’
‘A dragon needs a flyer, sir.’
‘I’m sure that they can explode quite well without one. Carry on experimenting, but do so without the flyer.’
‘But, my leader…’
‘Do as I say, or you go and sit on the next dragon.’
‘I understand, great leader.’
And very, very high a
bove, at the limit of the dragon ceiling, flew two non-Vagoth Dragonriders.
‘Why are they blowing up their dragons?’ Asked Smudger.
‘Experimenting,’ answered Plob.
‘How do you know?’
‘Trust me. Look, let’s get out of here, head for that forest on the edge of the city, maybe hide the dragons and go in on foot, take a look around.’
‘Righty-ho.’
They both stood up in their saddles and dropped straight down, flaring out at treetop level and gliding to ground in a clearing in the forest.
They led the dragons under cover and strapped a feedbag full of peat to their snouts before starting off towards the city that they had seen.
After a few yards Plob stopped. ‘Wait, this is a pretty thick forest. I think that we should mark our trail so we can find our way back.’
‘Good idea, what do you recommend? A trail of bread crumbs?’
Plob laughed. ‘No, we’ll simply cut marks in the trees.’
‘No you won’t.’
‘Why not?’ Asked Plob.
‘Why not what?’
‘Why can’t we cut the trees?’
‘You can if you want,’ said Smudger.
‘No you bloody well can’t. Cut yourself instead, you knife wielding nutcase.’
Plob and Smudger stared at each other. Plob spoke first.
‘Okay, who said that?’
‘I did.’
‘Well come out where we can see you.’
‘You can see me.’
The two men stared into the forest.
‘No, sorry. Can’t.’
‘I’m directly in front of you, you moron.’
Plob looked in front of him. Then he looked up. And down. ‘The tree?’
‘Yes the tree. The Oak tree that you wanted to cut because you were too lazy to simply ask for directions. I mean, really, how would you like it if I came to your house and started cutting up your friends just so that I knew where I was? Oh, look, the sitting room, slash, slash. Hmm, the kitchen, stab, cut. Bloody psychopath.’
‘You can walk?’ Asked Smudger.
‘No, of course not. I’m a bloody Oak tree.’
‘Well then how could you come around to my house?’
‘Look, you, it’s an example, obviously I won’t actually come to your house, but you are, in actual fact, here and you were, in reality, about to cut me up for no good reason.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ said Plob. ‘It’s just that, where we come from trees aren’t actually sentient beings. They don’t talk.’
‘Wow,’ said the tree. ‘So they’re all dead?’
‘No. Not dead. Sort of alive, I mean they grow and need water and stuff…’
‘I see, but they don’t talk so you amuse yourselves by cutting them up with your nasty sharp knives. Man, you guys are real psychos. Oh look, a mute, cut him up - ha ha ha. You make me sick.’
‘Oh give it a rest, Oak.’
Plob and Smudger looked around, trying to see who else had just joined the strange conversation.
‘Oh, excuse me, mister Beech, excuse me for talking, I’m sure.’
‘They’ve apologised, they’re obviously not from around here so why don’t you just give it a break?’
‘I’ll give you a break, you snot nosed bogey.’
‘Typical playground response. Grow up.’
The Oak tree shook furiously. ‘You’re lucky that I can’t move or I’d come over there and smash you face.’
‘Ha, please. I don’t have a face.’
‘Gentlemen…er…gentletrees,’ said Plob. ‘May you tell us the way to the city?’
‘Sure,’ said the Beech. ‘Go past me, downhill, until you get to the steam. Then follow the steam and that’ll take you there. Simple stuff. If you do get lost, ask any tree and they’ll put you right.’
‘Thank you,’ said Plob as they walked away.
‘Bah,’ said the Oak. ‘I hope that you get Beech bark disease.’
‘Now that’s just mean,’ replied the Beech.
‘Sorry…didn’t mean that.’
‘It’s alright.’
‘Thanks.’
The Honcho sat cross-legged next to the fire. He was dressed in a homespun tie-dyed tunic and shod with leather flip-flops. The only hint of his role of appointed leader was the simple wreath of daisies around his head.
‘So, Halcyon, it seems like you’re on a major bad trip, dude, like, what’s wrong?’
‘Well, Honcho, I was up at the grottos trying to score some mushrooms off the little green dudes and, like, they’re all gone.’
‘Wow, man…like, gone out of it or like, gone away?’
‘Like vamoosed, chief. And then I found some that were there but they were, like, no longer with us on account of having had their heads bashed in. Then I went to the other grotto and it was, like, the same thing. It was, like, super-intense, you know.’
‘Major downer, dude. Tell me, high priestess, what does the Goddess have to say?’
Wicconia, the high priestess of the Rohanians stood up, her grey hair tumbled to her waist and her web-thin tunic flowed about her as if driven by unseen winds. She raised her hands above her head and spoke. ‘By Earth, by fire, by wind and sea and sky, I call on you, great Earth Mother. By the three hares of the Silk Road and the three moons of our faith I entreat thee. By Yin and by Yang and P’tangyangkipperbang…I beg your guidance.’
The fire flared high and a voice, as sweet as plum sugar and as soft as moonlight, soared around the camp.
‘Death of a salesman. How green was my valley. Rock of ages. The avengers. People like us. Kill Bill. The flying Scotsman. War and Peace.’
Wicconia fell to her knees and wept.
The Honcho went over to her a comforted her. ‘Like, hey, priestess dude. Chillax. No need to cry.’
‘Oh there is, my Honcho, for we, the rockriders of the Rohan, have been called to war.’
‘Like, wow. This I do not, you know, like at all. War is counterproductive. I mean, all this eye for an eye stuff, it’s heavy to the max and eventually, like, it just leaves the world full of blind people. Anyhow, how do you know that we have to do war on someone?’
‘The Earth Mother has spoken and I have seen the hidden words in her speech. Death, green, avengers, rock, people, kill, flying, peace. Death has befallen the green people and must be avenged by the rock people who must kill the flying people, or Vagoths, to bring peace.’
‘Woah, this is, like, crap-o-mundo. Those Vagoth dudes are, like, super-paranoid war mongering buttheads. This me no like.’
‘Like or not, Honcho,’ said the High Priestess. ‘This is your destiny. To lead the rockriders of Rohan to war.’
Chapter 25
Plob had to admit, the Vagoth city was very impressive. Buildings as high as five stories and constructed of grey stone towered above them. The roads were paved with tight fitting black cobbles and wherever you looked the Vagoth flag fluttered proudly, its red mailed fist on black background standing erect for all to see.
Smudger, however, had gone white with rage.
‘What’s wrong, Smudger?’ Asked Plob.
‘Goddamn Nazis.’
‘What?’
These Vagoths, they’re Nazis. The flags, the architecture the uniforms.’
‘Settle, Smudger. We’re here to recce, not to rush around killing random people.’
The pilot reined his emotions in and they continued their walk through the capital.
After three hours they had pinpointed what looked like the palace, the barracks and, on their way out of the city, the dragon pens. Neither of them said anything, but the size of the dragon pens was more than disturbing. It stretched for acres and acres. Hundreds and hundreds of pens as well as huts for workers, multiple feed stores and tackle rooms beyond imagining.
‘How many do you reckon?’ Asked Smudger.
‘Not sure. Seven, maybe eight hundred. Maybe more.’
‘I think more.’
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‘Good,’ said Plob. ‘Enough for all of us then.’
Smudger smiled and patted him on the back.
They meandered out of the city, walking slowly and aimlessly so as not to attract attention. After following the river for a while, looking for the tributary that their stream joined at, they eventually had to admit to each other that they were lost.
‘Not a problem,’ said Smudger. ‘We simply walk into the forest, ask a tree and Robert’s your mother’s brother.’
‘Okay,’ said Plob. ‘Let’s go here.’
The two of them cut into the forest next to a tributary that may, or may not, have been the one that they had followed into the city. After they had gone a fair way into the forest they stopped.
‘Hello, trees,’ said Plob. There was no answer. ‘Um…trees? Can you hear me?’
‘We’d like some directions,’ added Smudger. ‘Could one of you please talk to us?’
‘Don’t be stupid, we’re trees. Trees don’t talk.’
‘Well who said that?’ Asked Plob.
The two dragon flyers waited while there was a chorus of whispering and a shaking of leaves.
‘I’m a bush.’
‘Don’t be silly, we know that you trees can talk.’
More whispering.
‘Not necessarily…maybe it’s someone throwing their voice. Some sort of arboreal ventriloquism.’
‘Well then, who’s throwing their voice?’ Asked Plob.
Whisper, whisper.
‘You?’
‘Oh come on, that’s just stupid.’
‘Yeah, well…how do we know that you’re not a pair of woodcutters come to murder us unsuspecting evergreens?’
‘We don’t have axes.’
Whisper.
‘Alright, where do you want to go?’
‘Well,’ said Plob. ‘I’m not entirely sure. We followed a stream to get to the city. We got directions from a Beech. He said that if we get lost then all we needed to do was ask how to get back and a tree would tell us.’
‘Well, yes, theoretically. But one would have to know where you wanted to end up or else one could simply be giving directions to a totally random place. Tell you what, give us a hint.’
