What Lies Beneath The Clock Tower: Being An Adventure Of Your Own Choosing

by Margaret Killjoy

  “Wake up,” you hear, and you look up to see the face of a young woman.

  “I had the craziest dream,” you say, “and I must have sleepwalked down the steps…”

  “I don’t care about your dream. I have a message for you,” she speaks in clear English with a French accent.

  “A message?” you say, excited. You like messages. “Is it from some attractive person who wishes to make the acquaintance of a man of words such as I?”

  The woman’s boot finds your face, bloodying your nose. “Don’t fuck with the gnomes. The gnomes will fucking kill you, and they’ll find your brother and they’ll kill him too.”

  The woman leaves you, stalking away, and you rise to a sitting position.

  You don’t like being bullied, and you don’t like to be struck outside the bedroom.

  You sell your possessions and buy a pistol. The goblins know where to find you, and next time you’ll be ready to help them. With absinthe to steel your will, you’ll take on any foe of liberty. But first, to bust your brother out of prison in the colonies. No matter, you’ve a friend who can help you stow away. The future will be bright, bloody, and drunk, you determine. And full of freedom.

  The End

  Thirty-Eight

  “So you kabouters are slaves, when it comes down to it?”

  “Of course,” the kabouter says.

  “But they treat you well enough, most of the time.”

  “Indeed, as long as we don’t cause too much trouble, we don’t even really know we’re slaves.”

  “Exactly!” you say.

  “Exactly what?” the kabouter asks.

  “In order to free the kabouters, we need to bring down the wrath of the gnomes upon them.”

  “What you are saying is the opposite of sense. Perhaps you’ve had too much to drink? I can smell it on your breath.”

  “No, no… you have to understand my good… say, I didn’t catch your name?”

  “Sergei,” the kabouter says. Russian indeed. “And you?”

  “Gregory. You’ll have to trust me about this. It’ll work.”

  “Why would I trust you? I’ve just met you.” Sergei says.

  “You can trust him,” A’gog says, “because he thinks he’s hallucinating all of this.”

  “None of you make sense,” Sergei says.

  “Look, let’s just go build some barricades, throw some rocks at gnomes. You’ll see.”

  “Well, I do like to throw rocks at gnomes,” Sergei concedes.

  “It’s settled,” you say, as though anything were settled. You pass the lighter to A’gog and begin to descend the ladder. Soon, A’gog snuffs the flame and you climb down into a darkness filled with a silence punctuated by horrendous screeching.

  You count some two hundred rungs before a screech, closer than the others, shatters your nerve. You lose count—and almost your grip—but then realize that it came from Sergei, above, and not actually from a giant, human-eating bat swooping ever nearer to you in the dark. Unless, of course, there is more to kabouters than you’ve currently been told.

  You find the floor and set your feet down, quite excited to be on solid ground—until you remember that you’re leagues beneath the surface of the earth! At the last minute, you step out of the way, realizing that others are coming down the in the dark.

  “Let’s cause some ruckus,” A’gog says as he joins you.

  “Right then. Sergei, which way to the tunnel to the gnomish city?”

  “We call them hallways. And the city you speak of is called Hak’kal.” He expels a good bit of phlegm with this last word.

  “Something in your throat?”

  “That’s the city’s name. Hak’kal. It’s where the gnomes live. And the hall is this way. Follow me,” he says, and his voice trails off in the darkness.

  He leads you by talking constantly, and you learn about how the gnomes and the kabouters came to these caverns from elsewhere, hundreds of years ago, displacing the goblins into the lower depths where the mushrooms don’t grow as abundantly. You learn about how the goblins make an attempt to free themselves once a generation, and that the gnomes are currently on guard for the next attempt.

  “We’re far enough from the rest of Underburg that you could probably use that lighter to see,” Sergei says. “Actually, here.” Something is thrust into your hands that feels like a wet stick. “Light this.”

  The lighter flares, and you realize you’re holding a stick that looks like it’s made of a brittle wax. “This is snot, isn’t it?” you ask as A’gog sets the torch alight.

  “Yup,” A’gog says.

  “Huh.”

  You’re standing in a natural cavern, certainly the largest and most fantastic that you’ve ever seen. Everything glitters, and strange formations drip down the walls and dangle from the ceiling. The floor, however, has been leveled.

  At the edge of your torchlight, you see the beginning of a city that looks like it was made by mad, gigantic bees. It’s clearly more a hive than it is a distinct series of buildings, and it’s a hive made of the same waxy snot as your torch.

  In the other direction, there’s a hallway. Looks a bit like a service hallway you would find under a modern building, with steam-pipes and all.

  “Well, let’s do some damage,” you say.

  You start grabbing rubble from the cavern and piling it, and Sergei starts cementing it together with snot.

  A’gog, in the meantime, has pulled a monkey wrench out from somewhere and is going at the pipes with a single-minded determination.

  It doesn’t take long before you have a goblin-high wall across the corridor and the pipes and cables have been tangled into confusion.

  Nor does it take long for the guards to arrive.

  “Douse the light!” Sergei whispers. “I hear three gnomes coming.”

  You go to smother it against the rock wall, but you’ve forgotten that the mortar itself is combustible, and soon you stand before a burning barricade!

  Now you can hear the gnomes running towards you. The three of you gather up rocks and throw them through the flames, laughing with revolutionary joy when you hear one conk off of metal that you take to be a guard’s helmet. The flames are so high and thick that you cannot see, but at least the gnomes will not see you either. After several minutes of tossing rocks, you retreat.

  “This way,” Sergei says, and grabs you by the arm. You pick up A’gog and carry him as though he were a toddler, and run into the dark city ahead. You’re led through a screeching crowd and are told to crawl into a small corridor.

  “Thank you, my friends,” you say to your companions, your heart full of adrenaline—finer perhaps than any drug.

  “Sip of brandy, calm the nerves?” A’gog asks, uncorking a bottle and placing it into your hand.

  “No thanks,” you say, surprising yourself. You’ve no desire to dull the fervor you feel.

  “What now?” Sergei asks. A fine question.

  Go to Forty-Six.

  Thirty-Nine

  But several hours go by and the gates never open, the horde never storms forward to lay siege upon the gnomish city. The crowd around you begins to murmur.

  “The machine above must not have succeeded. Yi’ta must have failed.”

  “What does that mean?” you ask.

  “That we will have to wait another six months before we can try again. Another six months of work, but another six months of training. Come on, shall we?” Gu’dal places a warm hand on the back of your knee, and the crowd in the room is beginning to drift away, out through various tunnels.

  “I’m not sure,” you demur. You think about your warm, lumpy bed that waits for you in your tower.

  But Gu’dal gives you a look that might be what goblins use to smelt metal. “You were ready to give your life for our cause, but you aren’t willing to spend six months among us, preparing?”

  “When you put it that way, it does sound rather foolish,” you admit. But somehow it is different. You pref
er the thrill of adventure to the routine of labor, regardless of risk. But you suppose that life in a goblin work camp might be adventurous enough, and you steel your resolve. “Alright then, where you lead I shall follow.”

  You join the largest mass of goblins as they leave the large chamber, out into a new hallway. The ceiling remains a comfortably above your head by a foot or so, which you realize must seem cavernously high to the goblins.

  “Gu’dal,” you hear, “you simply must to introduce me to your British friend here.” A spiky, mismatched suit of full plate armor—presumably with a goblin inside—falls into step beside you. “You are British, are you not?”

  “Perhaps by birth,” you reply.

  “Ah! Of course. How rude of me. The name is Trevor.”

  “Tre’vortin,” Gu’dal corrects.

  “No, just Trevor will do.”

  This is clearly an argument that the two have had before.

  “Gregory, meet Trevor. Trevor here is an Anglophile.” The disdain in her voice is quite plain.

  The suit of plate mail thrusts a spiked gauntlet towards you, which you look at uncertainly.

  “Right,” the helmet says, then two steel fists rise up and the helmet is lifted free of the armor. Underneath is a goblin fellow that you dare say is dashing, with a cute pug nose and rather kind eyes.

  For the rest of your walk, Trevor regales you with tales of travel throughout the caverns of Undereurope, and Gu’dal walks silently. You’re not certain, but you think she might be sulking.

  Just as Trevor is explaining the nature of Scandinavian ghasts, you step out of a tunnel into a cavern the size of, well, the size of a gigantic cavern. It’s lit intermittently by gaslight, and you realize that there is an entire town enclosed within.

  And what a town! It is built vertically as well as horizontally, the air strung across with ropes and nets, some ropes so dense together that they form what look like nothing more than hives. Goblins of all sorts clamber along lines, swing through the air, crawl across the walls and ceiling. On the ground, the wargoblins are stripping their armor and hiding it amongst stray machinery and kitchen supplies. Many trade their armor for pickaxes and walk, no spring in their step, out into side tunnels. Back to work, you presume.

  “Welcome to Haddlelint,” Gu’dal says.

  “Haddlelint,” you repeat.

  “It means ‘primary goblin camp’ in Gnomish,” Trevor explains, then places a hand affectionately on your knee.

  “Oh.”

  To spend the next six months studying and training under Gu’dal, go to Forty-Four.

  To pass most of your time having fun and drinking with Trevor, go toForty-Nine.

  Forty

  You leave Gu’dal behind as you walk around the corner, uncertain what fate might hold in store for you. The corridor opens up into a large natural cavern, reinforced with stone-block pillars. Stalactites grin down at you, some of them held together with steel bracing. The unmistakable smell of opium smoke lingers in the air.

  Before you stand two gnomes. What else could they be? They are nearly twice as tall as the goblins—their eyes reaching to your waist. You’re curious to see their faces, but these two guards wear elaborate helmets that remind you of nothing so much as diver’s helmets, only with dark tinted glass over their faces. Each holds a rifle of the most bizarre model you’ve ever seen, gleaming bright copper and brass with crystals mounted along the bore in strange configurations.

  The guards are placed on either side of a set of impressive steel doors, inlaid with ornamentation in floral patterns. For a moment you are taken with the fierce desire to wake up, to return to your bedroom and your vices.

  Upon seeing you, the guards aim their weapons directly at you. “Qui êtes-vous?” one of them, the slightly pudgy one, asks.

  “I’m sorry?” you say.

  “Who is there?” he—for you presume it to be a he, although you don’t feel totally confident in your gender assumptions—asks.

  “My name is Gregory, and I’ve come from above. I, uh, I’d like to speak with your leader.”

  The skinnier gnome nods, and turns to a voice-horn embedded into the wall beside the doors. The guard speaks in a language you don’t recognize, one both guttural and rolling. It’s a bit like Finnish, but with shorter words.

  The guard turns his or her ear to the voice-horn, awaiting a reply, then turns back towards you. In a heavy accent, the gnome announces: “Someone will be with you shortly. If you try anything, I will shoot you with this lightrifle.”

  You spend a most stressful five minutes staring intently at the doors of Hak’kal. But eventually, they open. Beyond, you can see a beautiful, gaslit city. It reminds you a bit of Prague, if Prague were inhabited solely by five-year-old children. The roof of it is beyond your vision, and the chamber is so massive that you nearly believe you have returned, somehow, to the surface of the world.

  Through the portal walks a self-important guard, walking like a precocious boy-soldier, his rifle swinging in one hand. You identify him as the leader with ease; a remarkable number of badges and medals (is that a political pin from Paris?) adorn the entirety of his uniform, from lapel to trouser-cuff, his bucket-helmet reveals his face and bears a two-hand-high bronze sculpture of himself.

  “Yes?” His voice is gruff, and he walks up to you without fear as he speaks. He looks you over, and you can tell when he meets your eyes that he doesn’t see you as much of a threat to him. Despite being twice his height, you tend to agree with this assessment.

  “I will have an audience with your city’s ruling body, be it monarch or parliament. I am here as ambassador from the goblins.”

  “Tricked you into that, did they? Well, alright. I’ll ask for you. Would you like some tea, or some opium, while you wait?”

  To ask for some tea, go to Forty-Three.

  To ask for opium, go to Forty-Eight.

  To politely decline the offer of refreshments, go to Fifty-Two.

  Forty-One

  “What sort of vapors?” you ask, curious.

  “Ether,” the taller goblin says.

  “Where you lead, I shall follow,” you say.

  And what a feat of following! You are on their spry heels for nearly two hours, navigating twisting natural caverns, at one point crawling, before you reach your destination.

  Your destination is an open cave room that forms an amphitheater of sorts, bedecked in a mind-altering display of flashing color, flame, and scintillating crystals. Your mind tries in vain to form patterns in the noise, yet you seem to be unable to resist the attempt, hoping to find constellations where there just might be none.

  Suddenly your attention is arrested by a booming voice quite inhuman, even quite ingoblin. “Greetings, wayfarer. Your journey has only begun.” You look to the bottom of the theatre and see what might be the gauntest giant you have ever laid eyes upon. Well, you’ve never actually laid eyes on a giant, but you had always pictured them to be, you know, thick as well as tall. This man—and indeed his manhood is quite clearly displayed—is seven feet tall while seated (and likely, of course, twice that standing!) but as thin, if not thinner, than you.

  “How’d you get in here?” you ask, annoyed for some reason. “I had to crawl, and I’m only like five foot nine. I got my clothes all muddy.”

  Your question seems to catch the giant off guard. “I grew up here,” he says.

  “You’ve never left this room?”

  “Perhaps not in body,” he says, and you try not to scoff. “But with the use of the holy thak’narra fungus, one can travel anywhere, for days or years at a time.”

  This gets your attention. Drugs you understand, even if sitting cross-legged and emaciated doesn’t seem like the indulgent life you’d hoped for.

  “Your journey to find peace begins in this room,” he says, and a tiny goblin—perhaps a child?—comes to your foot and offers up a murky black tincture in a crystal vial.

  You uncap it and swallow, excited. You sit, and for
fifteen minutes you return to your attempt at tracing constellations in the lights that encircle the room. The drug kicks in, and suddenly everything makes sense. The lights merge in your consciousness, and you realize that they are not separate lights, not really. That they’re all together, forming a skull. “A skull,” you say, to the giant and the goblins. “A skull symbolizes life itself, a skull contains our brains and keeps our head in its proper shape! How lovely, how peaceful!”

  “You saw a skull?” a voice asks, though you are no longer certain who is talking. It might be you. Or the giant. Or, of course, someone else, like God.

  “Of course!” you say.

  “Crap,” the voice says. Would God curse? You suppose It might. You also aren’t used to believing in God.

  “Wait, he was British, wasn’t he?” It says. You would have thought God would have known the answer to that.

  “Why can’t you give the British thak’narra?” says the voice, although It doesn’t appear to be talking to you.

  “The British are human, you realize,” God says to Itself.

  “Really? Oh. Oh crap,” God replies.

  Then you die.

  The End

  Forty-Two

  You’ll never know if it was cowardice or reason that drove you to do it, but you throw your hands into the air and take a step back. “I’ve no idea what I’ve gotten myself into,” you announce.

  Gu’dal turns and looks at you, a vile, malicious look that might well keep you awake at night the rest of your days. But as her back is turned, the gnome steps forward and brings a blackjack down on the back of her skull, knocking her top hat onto the pavement. Gu’dal crumbles in its wake.

  “You’ve done the right thing,” the gnome tells you. “Now go get drunk, you louse.”

  With something like guilt and something like the relief of oblivion, you journey into an all-night bar to take the gnome’s sarcastic advice.

  When you return home the next noon, you stumble upon a tripwire set across your threshold. As your face hits the floor, you hear a sad laugh and your life comes to an immediate end.