‘I don’t undershtand,’ said Roger. ‘Where are all these ogres now? And how long did the humans get to prove themselves?’
Moss took another swallow before answering.
‘The ogres are under the Earth’s surface, their resting places marked by standing stones. They’ll sleep until the allotted time – or if the Doomstone Sword awakens them, if it should prove necessary, if we cannot afford to wait the time agreed, due to human behaviour. Humans have only one hundred and thirty-seven years left to prove worthy. The reports are not good. They – you and your kind – have forgotten their promise. Humans spoil the earth, the sea and the sky. They wage war and have come close to destroying the Earth ball.’
‘You’re doing it again,’ said Roger. ‘You’re answering questions with answers that I don’t undershtand. What’s... the Doomstone Sword?’
‘The Doomstone Sword,’ said Moss sternly, ‘was created by the greatest wizards from all the lands above and below earth and sea. Named as such, for only this sword can strike the stones and awaken the ogres early – and bring doom upon the human race. It was made from siderite fallen from the sky, mixed with ferromagnetic agate and infused with a most powerful magic spell. Then it was tempered by fire and beaten continually for seventeen days and eighteen nights. Finally it was hardened in dragon’s breath. All creatures of this world, except humans, can feel its power. Whomsoever holds the sword in his hand must be obeyed. No dwarf can resist. We cannot attack or harm the holder of the sword; its power over us is absolute. When it is encased in stone or beneath water, the spell is benevolent; our sense of it is peaceful. But if it is unleashed its power is great.’
‘Wow!’ said Roger, grinning madly. He gave a small hiccup.
‘And this...’ Moss rummaged in his satchel and pulled out a small black hammer with a gold band just below the head. ‘This is the only thing that can stop it. This was created at the same time as the Doomstone Sword and with the same materials. But in addition it has a small piece of obsidian and a destruction spell. It’s the only thing that can break the sword and drain its power.’
‘Wow, again!’ said Roger. ‘What’s it called?’
‘A hammer.’
‘That’s not fair,’ said Roger. ‘It should have a proper name, like the Doomstone Sword. It should be the Mighty Hammer of Smiting and Doom-Dealing Destruction.’
Moss sniffed. ‘I’d say it’s the hammer, but...’ He leaned closer and shook the hammer at Roger. With the fingers of his other hand he tapped the side of his nose, twice. Then he pushed his beard slightly to one side and gently patted the plain black hammer that was strapped to his chest. ‘Do you understand what I say when I give you the two-nose tap and tell you that this –’ he waggled the hammer with the gold band under Roger’s nose – ‘is a hammer? But this –’ he placed his other hand against the hammer on his chest – ‘is the truehammer? The one I’ll give to you when the time has come?’
‘Tee-hee-hee.’ Roger giggled, tapped the side of his own nose twice. ‘I do, I do too, so I do-do.’
‘Exactly!’ shouted Moss, giving a large wink. ‘Now you know!’
Roger giggled again and winked back. But he was having a little difficulty concentrating on what Moss was saying. And his head had started to move about by itself.
‘I do not lie to you,’ said Moss, still waggling the hammer in his hand. ‘You have the truth, but –’ the dwarf grinned and pointed at his chest, then held up two stubby fingers and again tapped them twice on the side of his nose – ‘only one is true.’ He nodded and gave a low rumbling laugh.
Roger hiccupped. He really had no idea what Moss was talking about. It was all just nonsense. But he was having fun for the first time since he had bumped into the dwarf, and he had just thought of an absolutely-brilliantly-funny reply. He giggled to himself, then pursed his lips and tried to look serious. ‘I unershtand!’ he said. This was going to be hilarious. Then he shouted, ‘You’ve got two noses!’
There was a pause, and both of them burst out laughing. Moss’s laugh was like cannonballs rolling down a tin roof.
‘Good jocularity,’ said Moss, wheezing a little and wiping his eyes. ‘Warriors enjoy joking with each other. It is a dwarvely thing to do.’
‘That was great,’ said Roger, grinning foolishly. ‘I enjoyed that. Now, where’s the Doomstone Sword? I like the sound of... this sword. Do you... hic... do you know where it ish?’
Moss nodded. ‘Long ago the Doomstone Sword was set in stone and left for the human race as a remembrance that they were on trial. But a powerful magician freed the sword. In the wrong hands it caused death and destruction until a human threw the sword into a lake.’ Moss slipped the hammer into his satchel. ‘The sword remained in the water realm throughout the centuries, mostly forgotten. Leatherhead Barnstorm has been searching for it for years, and now he has found it, in a lake in the country of England. The human race now faces extinction, before their allotted time. Perhaps no time is left.’
‘Wait-wait-wait,’ spluttered Roger. ‘Whassa Leatherfred Bumstrom?’ He waved a hand at the dwarf, then stopped and yawned. ‘Sorry, I’m getting... very sleepy. Explain, please.’
‘Your body needs rest,’ said Moss. ‘Combined with the merry-go-down, you are fatigued and will shortly be asleep. After you have slept you will be refreshed and ready to continue.’
‘No,’ said Roger, chuckling. ‘I don’t mean explain why I’m getting sleepy, you dafty. I meant about Leatherfred what’s-his-name.’
Moss smiled. ‘My joke, Roger. I know your meaning.’ His smile slowly faded as he continued. ‘Leatherhead Barnstorm is a waghalter, a whiteliver, a windsucker. He is a malignant dwarf who has gone to the bad, consumed by evil.’ He smiled again. ‘He is the one you stabbed in the leg and then threw from the wall of stone before he could split my head asunder.’
‘Oh, that’s who that was.’ Roger yawned again before continuing. ‘He had awfully red eyes. Why’s he doing this? What’s he trying to do?’
‘Because my Queen and I support the humans, he wishes to destroy them. He knows that with the Doomstone Sword and the destruction of the human race, he will become ruler of the dwarves. He will kill me and claim Queen Gwri’s hand in marriage. To this end, he has created gorefiend followers and during the years of searching for the sword, he has murdered many of the Watchers. We must put an end to him.’
‘But why is he so bad?’ Roger flapped a hand over his mouth as he yawned. ‘What made him like that?’ He sank down on to one elbow and tried to focus on the dwarf.
Moss sat silently for a few moments before answering. ‘There was a thing in the past, between the two of us. A trivial thing. But it has festered and grown like a merry-gall on a buttockrump. His greatest wish is for me to die by his hand. He has sworn an oath on the Twisted Toenail of the Wicked Princess – and an oath is a considerable undertaking for a dwarf. It must be fulfilled. The moon has taken his mind. He has nothing there but hatred for me. He must be stopped.’
‘Right,’ said Roger, his head lolling to the side. ‘That’s quite a lot of things we’ve to do. Not today, though. We’ll stop him tomorrow. I’m going to have a little sleepy now. See you in the morning, Mossy.’ He stretched out and laid his head on the inside of his upper left arm.
‘Sleep well, Roger,’ said Moss, covering him with the tartan blanket and then pulling the roof branches over the rest of the barricade. ‘I’ll guard your dream time.’
‘Mossy?’ mumbled Roger, stifling another yawn.
‘Yes.’
‘You... you really meant mushroom pie? Didn’t you?’
‘No, earthworms and mushrooms and herbs in pastry pie. Mushworm.’
‘Oh...’ said Roger, but before he could think about this, he drifted off.
CHAPTER
Ten
Roger awoke. He could hear birds tweeting and someone humming softly. He yawned, stretched, sat up and pushed back the tartan blanket. There was a clear
blue sky above him.
‘Rise, idle Roger,’ said a voice as the humming stopped.
Roger looked around. The memories of yesterday came flooding back. He was still in the middle of a forest inside a small barricade. Mossbelly MacFearsome was breaking up the roof cover and scattering the wood.
‘I go and empty body,’ said the dwarf, throwing the last bit of wood away. ‘Wait here until I return. Do not leave. This is for you – protection.’ Moss unsheathed his dagger and dropped it inside the barricade.
Roger picked up the dagger and looked at it. It was small and felt extremely light in his hand. He sliced it through the air a couple of times and then chopped at a small branch in the barricade. The dagger cut the branch in two. Roger sat down and stared at the dagger in his hand. His head felt a little fuzzy and he was thirsty.
‘You go now, empty body,’ said Moss’s voice.
Roger turned round and looked into the leathery face of Mossbelly MacFearsome peering over the barricade. Moss reached out and took the dagger from Roger.
‘I’m thirsty,’ said Roger.
‘Good,’ said Moss, pointing. ‘Go that way, straight ahead, small water stream where you can drink.’
Roger looked at his watch; it was twenty minutes to six in the morning.
When Roger returned, the entire barricade had disappeared. Moss was sitting on the ground sharpening his weapons, the tartan blanket folded across his shoulders. The dwarf finished what he was doing, stood up and replaced his weapons around his body.
‘How’s your leg?’ asked Roger.
‘Better, thank you. Not as good as the other one but it is improving. Now, we go. Are you ready?’
‘I think so,’ said Roger. But Moss was already disappearing into the trees.
They walked for several minutes until they reached a grassy bank leading down to a dual carriageway. On the other side of the carriageway was a field. Roger and Moss stood behind a tree watching the occasional car passing.
When the road was clear, they hurried across it and climbed up a small bank to a wire fence. Some cows in the field began moving towards them. Moss let out a deep roar and the cows turned and fled.
‘This way,’ said Moss, pulling up the wire and ducking into the field.
‘You didn’t need to do that,’ said Roger, following.
‘Keep up,’ said Moss, without stopping or looking back. ‘And do not be placing feet in cowsplats.’
Roger shook his head and followed the dwarf.
The sun was climbing into the clear sky as Roger and Moss began their journey to find the Witchwatcher of Auchterbolton. They avoided the dual carriageway, walking instead through the fields running along the side of the road, keeping out of sight of the passing traffic and anyone who might be on the lookout for a dwarf and a boy.
‘How are you feeling this day?’ asked Moss, as he climbed over a crumbling dry-stone wall into another field. ‘You slept like an ogre in the earth.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Roger. ‘My head feels a little bit funny, but I’m OK.’ Roger ran a few steps to catch up with the dwarf. ‘Last night you said that this Leatherhead Barnstorm had the Doomstone Sword. How do you know?’
‘We know. We can feel the Doomstone Sword. Its power works on all dwarves. Already my people are preparing for war against humans. If the sword is used to awaken the ogres...’ Moss shook his head angrily. ‘The sword is here and you must break it to stop its influence. I cannot destroy it. The magic contained in the sword is powerful. No dwarf can resist it! No dwarf can destroy it! I have told you this already! Do you have a daggle-tail’s drawers stuffed in your ears? Do you not understand what I say?’
Roger did not reply. He walked in silence. He also noticed that Moss was beginning to limp again.
‘You said last night that the main reason Leatherhead Barnstorm turned bad was because of something that happened with you,’ said Roger, slowing his pace to match Moss. ‘And why are his eyes so red? Why does he hate you so much?’
‘Jealousy,’ said Moss. ‘Began one hundred and forty-three years ago, when we were both younghede dwarves. I bettered him in the Great Frog Gobbing Contest. He never got above it. I was crowned champion and he was mocked as a fopdoodle. Red eyes are a sign of a malignant dwarf. One who has turned to the bad.’
‘One hundred and—’ Roger closed his mouth and walked along in silence, thinking about two young dwarves falling out one hundred and forty-three years ago.
‘What is Frog... Gobbing?’ he asked after a while.
Moss stopped walking and looked at Roger. ‘Frog Gobbing is one of our greatest sports.’ He puffed out his cheeks and made a spitting sound. ‘Like that. The competition is held every four years. The Amphibian Games.’
Roger laughed. ‘Like the Olympic Games?’
‘Exactly,’ said Moss. ‘But completely different. Ours is open to all dwarves from anywhere in the Innerland. No ugly humans.’
‘What happens?’ asked Roger. ‘How do you win?’
‘What do you think happens?’ Moss raised his arms, held his hands palms upwards and looked at Roger in disbelief. ‘I’ve just told you! You put a frog in your mouth, and then... gob it as far as you can.’
‘A live frog?’ Roger screwed up his face.
‘Of course it is alive,’ Moss snorted. ‘Only a fopdoodle would put a dead frog in their mouth.’
‘Is that not a bit...’ Roger hesitated, ‘cruel?’
‘Cruel?’ Moss looked astonished. ‘No, no, no. We love it. The skin of a frog tastes as sweet as tipsycake. The slimy secretions are delicious.’
‘No, I meant...’ said Roger, trying not to imagine the frogs splattering on the ground. ‘What happened in the competition?’
‘The contest lasted until only two were left for the final gobbing.’
‘You and Leatherhead?’ asked Roger, nodding. ‘What then?’
‘I wished him good gobbing and gave him a pat on the back for fortune.’ Moss dropped his eyes to the ground. ‘But he could not continue, so my mighty gob was declared a worthy winner. He has hated me since that time.’
‘Why couldn’t he continue?’ asked Roger, trying to look Moss in the face.
Moss mumbled something, then cackled and turned it into a cough.
‘Sorry,’ said Roger. ‘I couldn’t hear what you said.’
Moss spoke up. ‘He swallowed his frog!’
‘What?’ Roger stopped walking.
‘He was about to gob... when I patted his back,’ shouted Moss.
‘Must have been some pat,’ said Roger quietly.
‘He claimed it was a blow. But it was just a comradely, good-natured, light tap – to wish him well.’
Roger bit his lip. ‘That’s why he hates you?’
‘Yes,’ said Moss. ‘We have always been rivals. Various things have festered in his mind. I beat him easily in all competitive actions: tug o’ war, mouse juggling, bushy beard tugging.’ He shrugged and gave a little chuckle. ‘Perhaps the frog still lives in his belly. I called him by the extremely amusing nickname of Natterjack for a long period of time.’
Roger looked blank. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Pah!’ Moss waved a hand at Roger. ‘Natterjack! He was using a toad that day when he gulped it down. Showing off. Everyone knows that a slimy frog gobs further than a dry warty toad.’ He chuckled again. ‘Natterjack! My humorous bantering is loved by all.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Roger, before he could stop himself.
‘What?’ growled Moss. ‘Sure about what?’
‘Um, nothing, it’s just an expression,’ said Roger quickly. ‘You know, like, sure, amazing. Sure thing! Go on.’
‘After King Golmar died,’ said Moss, nodding his beard, ‘Gwri became Queen. She had the choice between us for consort when she finished her father-mourning years, and she chose me for marriage. My wooing of her had been intense and she quickly realised I was vastly superior to that hoddyp
eak, Leatherhead.’ He sighed deeply. ‘We became betrothed after our first lip clap. And for our thirty years of betrothal Leatherhead has had a burrowing bug of jealousy eating his brain and poisoning his thinking thoughts. He is now completely mad.’
‘Why did she choose... you?’ Roger asked, desperately trying to keep his face straight.
Moss turned to look closely at Roger. ‘You serious with that question?’
‘I, um, just wondered.’ Roger shrugged and smiled.
Moss drew himself up to his full height and glowered at Roger. ‘I am a very handsome looker. My singing voice is better than most. My spitting distance is famed throughout the underground. All seek my cake-baking secrets. I am the finest warrior in the kingdom and the best poet for over two centuries. I am leader of the tug-o’-war team and I am Captain of the Royal Guard. I have more.’
‘No, no,’ said Roger, thinking how to change the subject. ‘That’s fine. I thought that it must be something like that. But why have you been engaged for thirty years?’
‘It has always been thirty years,’ said Moss. ‘You cannot run into marriage quickly. There are too many roots and stones waiting to trip you. You must find out if you are truly compatible.’
‘It’s an awfully long time,’ said Roger.
Moss stared hard at Roger before answering. ‘No.’ He shook his head, and then grunted. ‘The seating arrangements usually take about ten years to plan.’
‘What?’ Roger looked disbelieving. ‘Why?’
‘Well,’ said Moss, gesturing with both hands, ‘obviously you must ensure that outbreaks of fighting are kept to a minimum. It’s a nuisance if brawling breaks out during the wedding service.’ He thought for a moment, before adding: ‘Of course, once the speech-making has begun, that’s a different matter. You are usually ready for some conflict.’
‘That’s completely—’ Roger stopped talking, and put a hand over his mouth.
Mossbelly MacFearsome and the Dwarves of Doom Page 4
