by Robin Jarvis
“Right,” the captain sniggered. “I’m going to carve my name across those furrowed brows of his. ‘Ruffnap’—that should fit along there nicely.”
Lifting his sword, Captain Ruffnap waved it purposefully over the Tower Lubber’s forehead.
SUDDENLY, GAMALIEL TUMPIN CAME CLAMBERING out of the well, hurriedly followed by Finnen. Leaping down, they went scooting through the grass.
Immediately, five sluglungs came bellowing up into the sunlight behind them, then another and another. Gargling and cursing in the dazzling glare of day, they spilled out onto the ground and gave chase.
Just as Ruffnap prepared to cut his name in the Tower Lubber’s forehead, he and the other spriggans heard the feverish gabbling of the sluglungs. They whirled around to see a horde of slimy, translucent creatures come leaping from the well, and all thoughts of tormenting their victim were utterly forgotten.
They had never seen anything like them before. The sunshine was gleaming and sparkling over their saggy wet flesh. It was actually flickering right through it, revealing dark, blurred shapes of soft bones and organs within.
“What, in the name of my dead mother’s beard, are they?” Captain Ruffnap spluttered.
“Snot monsters!” one of his soldiers gasped. “Every bogey I ever flicked has come back to get me! I should’ve etten them when I had the chance.”
The barn owl stared at the sluglungs in disbelief. Too many strange things were happening that day. Where was the Lady Rhiannon? She should have been here by now.
The sluglungs paid the spriggans no heed. Their only goal was to capture the werlings, and for the moment the hillmen were too astonished and amazed to challenge them.
Finnen and Gamaliel dodged away from the surprised hillmen, sprinting for the trees, but their slimy pursuers were hot on their heels.
“Ragabaah!” they gibbered. “Ugkak kikgoo-kalkakkum!”
Gamaliel’s heart was pounding against his ribs. Not only was he a poor swimmer and a slow climber, he was not a good runner, either. Finnen could have outdistanced him easily, but the Lufkin boy purposely kept level with his friend.
“If we can only make it to the forest!” he shouted. “We might lose them in there. Hurry, Gamaliel!”
The words were hardly out of his mouth when they both felt cold breath blasting upon the backs of their necks and saw sickly green hands come reaching over their heads.
The sluglungs yelled with triumph. The two werlings were wrenched off the ground, and long arms stretched up into the air to hold them aloft for the others to see.
“Us have the they!” they jabbered, frothing and cackling at their success. “Megboo like, the Big She will be pleased.”
“But where other?” one of them gibbered. “Wassum three, thattum only two.”
The sluglungs holding Finnen and Gamaliel lowered the werlings and scowled at them crossly.
“Where other shobbler?” they demanded. “She must not escape. Megboo be angry. Kakklak mugjug.”
“She’s where you’ll never find her!” Finnen yelled back at him fiercely, while hoping with all his heart that Kernella had indeed managed to get away.
The sluglungs stared at one another unhappily. Peg-tooth Meg’s orders were to catch and kill all the werlings. They had never seen her so angry before, and they dared not return without the third little shobbler.
“Mustum search,” one said. “Search and search and not—”
His words were suddenly silenced by the sound of a voice calling out from across the clearing.
“Finnen! Gamaliel! I’m over here! Help me!”
The sluglungs slowly turned their froglike heads and stared.
Gamaliel Tumpin closed his eyes and groaned. Sometimes he believed his sister really was the most stupid being he knew.
“Kernella,” Finnen breathed. “The hillmen have got her!”
And so the sluglungs finally became aware of the gawking spriggans.
Their round eyes bulged even more as they beheld the legion of soldiers gathered around the Tower Lubber’s prostrate form. They stared at their shining armor and glowered at their glinting weapons. Then they saw the four werlings that they held captive and immediately recognized the plump, freckle-faced one.
“Is her!” they exclaimed. “Us must get for Megboo.”
“For Megboo!” they cried, and, raising their rusted swords and spears, they rushed forward—fearless and determined.
The spriggans watched the phlegmy creatures charge toward them with a mixture of amusement and revulsion. What did those freakish globs hope to accomplish? How could those ridiculous gooey grotesques come running at the High Lady’s finest soldiers and expect to live?
Some of them sniggered and elbowed one another.
“Ragaabaah!” the sluglungs shrieked as they bolted nearer.
“This’ll be the shortest scrap we’ve ever had,” one of the spriggans laughed, leaning on the hilt of his sword.
“Mebbe,” barked Captain Ruffnap, stepping off the Tower Lubber’s chest. “But they’re bearing arms all the same, so I wants no sloppiness or accidents. Slay ’em quick.”
“What we need’s a big hanky,” someone suggested glibly.
“Show ’em yer steel!” the captain ordered. “We can try and guess what they were when they’re dead.”
The spriggans raised their swords and gripped their knives, wondering how long it would take to clean the slimy gunk off them afterward and if it was at all edible.
The barn owl flew up to the safety of the nearest tree and pulled its head to his shoulders. The sluglungs were almost upon them, and the owl blinked in shock and confusion. Whatever those peculiar beings were, it recognized the rusted armor they were wearing as hailing from the Hollow Hill. Most of it belonged to spriggans who had disappeared long ago, and here and there the owl thought it saw the faded crests of goblin knights painted upon battered helmets.
“Beware!” it hooted. “This foe may prove greater than thou deem!”
No one heard the warning. The sluglungs charged at the spriggans, and the mocking sneers were wiped from their faces. The battle began.
The clashing din of war rang out in the clearing. Rusted blades met gleaming steel, and though corroded flakes flew in all directions, the ancient weapons did not buckle or break.
Surprised at the ferocity of the assault, the spriggans stumbled back, but they rallied almost instantly as their captains bawled at them.
Screaming, they struck out with their weapons yet quickly discovered that their adversaries were not easy to kill. Spear and sword went plunging into blubbery bodies and were swiftly torn out with vile squelches, but the wounds oozed shut before their eyes, and the repugnant enemy merely shrieked in their faces and brought their own weapons hammering and slicing down.
Captain Ruffnap swung his sword around and cut clean through one of the clammy horrors’ thick necks and the wide head went rolling into the grass.
“One for the Hill!” Ruffnap whooped.
But the headless body before him did not topple to the ground as it should. Instead it picked up the fallen head and returned it to the empty shoulders. With a gurgling roar, it was ready to fight again.
“That’s not fair!” the captain cried. “You’re supposed to stay dead when I slaughter you!”
The sluglung grinned.
Incensed, Ruffnap snarled and barged forward. Instead of shoving the creature to the ground as he expected, he simply ran straight through it. The shivering, jelly flesh gave way and parted around him like an oily curtain, and before he knew what was happening he was on the other side, covered in goo, and the sluglung was cackling behind.
“By my grandma’s rattling bones!” Ruffnap exclaimed as he spun around. “I’ll deal you a death blow if it’s the last thing this old soldier ever does.”
He lunged at the sluglung once more, but it crouched down, tensed itself, then sprang into the air, impossibly high, leaving the captain to stagger to a standstill and stare upward.
Then down it plummeted, landing heavily upon the spriggan’s head, where it immediately began drumming a loud tattoo on his helmet with its fists. This maddened the captain more than ever, and he whirled around and around until he tripped and fell over.
From its vantage point in the tree, the barn owl saw it all. The other sluglungs were hopping high into the air and landing on the heads of his Lady’s soldiers and slapping them incessantly across the face with their cold rubbery hands. They were enjoying themselves immensely. They delighted in maddening their enemies before skewering them with their rusty weapons.
The owl clenched its beak and tapped the branch with its talons, its displeasure mounting with every bungling blow from the spriggans that missed its mark or failed to inflict any harm. Never had it witnessed such a shamefully inept display.
“They don’t fight proper!” the spriggans were bawling. “Get off my bonce! Stand still! Stop bouncing about! Die, why don’t you?”
The preposterous battle raged on, and the werlings were swept right into the middle of it. Still clenched in steadfast fists, they were carried into the heart of the violence. Murderous blades, sharp and notched, slashed the air around them.
Tollychook felt certain he was going to be butchered. The spriggan clutching him was locked in fearful combat with three sluglungs. They were goading him with their spears and hissing at his futile attempts to injure them. The spriggan became more and more angry and began striking out blindly with all his strength. His long knife thrust harmlessly into their squashy bodies, and they howled with taunting laughter at his frantic efforts.
“Shimmil dunge!” one of them yelled.
To the spriggan’s disgust and alarm, they leaped at one another—merging into one great blob with six eyes and arms. Then, with all three mouths yammering at him, the hideous shape bounded forward and wrapped itself around the spriggan’s entire body, enveloping him completely.
Engulfed within the bubbling mass, the spriggan kicked and writhed, but there was nothing he could do to escape that syrupy prison. He tried to cut his way free, but the rents healed as fast as they were made.
Trapped in the soldier’s left hand, Tollychook was just as startled as he was, but far more terrified. Sluglung goo filled his ears, and he dared not try to breathe for he would surely drown. Holding his breath, he saw the battle continue to rampage around them, rippling through the curdling jelly of their mingled flesh.
Then, just when he could not hold his breath any longer and his cheeks were about to explode, he found himself thrust out into the open air, and the hand that held him threw him to the ground.
Sticky from head to toe, he wiped the slime from his eyes and realized he was far from being out of danger.
The battle was thundering around him. A great iron-heeled boot could come crunching down at any moment, and the huge wobbling apparition he had just escaped from was still perilously close.
With a final glance at the spriggan who was still stuck inside, and now struggling against his cloying confinement with both hands, Tollychook darted between the legs of the other fighters and raced for cover.
His foot still pained him and he winced when he put his weight on it, but he was too afraid to cry out or make any sound. Yet, as he dodged and ducked, avoiding death at every turn, he soon found himself wailing and yowling louder than ever.
Finnen and Gamaliel tried as hard as they could to escape the sluglungs who held them, but their captors would not loosen their treacly grip. Any attempt was useless, and they found themselves surrounded by the battle.
The spriggans were losing. The ancient weapons of the under country bit deep and sure: chain mail was pierced and armor dented by berserking blows. Helmets were split apart and terrible wounds inflicted.
Gamaliel saw many gruesome sights, and Finnen almost felt sorry for the hillmen. They didn’t stand a chance against this strange, unstoppable force.
And then Gamaliel had an absurd yet inspired idea.
Hastily he took Harkul the silver fire devil from inside his jerkin and pushed it in against his sluglung captor’s chest.
“Let’s see how powerful this thing really is!” he called to Finnen, before shouting, “I am Gamaliel Tumpin and I command you to change. Become something harmless, be a … a …”
“A fat rabbit!” Finnen prompted.
“Be a fat rabbit!” Gamaliel repeated.
To his delight but the sluglung’s horror, the magical white fire burst forth, and in moments Gamaliel was free and rolling upon the ground with a large and very startled round rabbit beside him.
“It worked!” the boy cheered, dancing up and down before running over to the sluglung who held Finnen.
Soon there were two fat and stupefied rabbits sitting in the battlefield.
Though free, Finnen and Gamaliel were not yet out of danger. The fighting continued to storm around them, but they were determined to release the other werlings in the same way. Finding them, however, was a different matter.
The spriggan carrying Bufus Doolan let out a ghastly yell as a rusted spear was rammed between his shoulders. His knees gave way and he fell on his face, with his hands and Bufus beneath him.
“Get off!” the boy’s muffled voice shouted. “Someone get this great heavy lump off me!”
But no one could hear him.
Kernella was faring no better. She had been thrust into a leather satchel tied to a spriggan’s belt to stop her biting him and could not see anything that was happening.
Fatigued from her efforts to punch her way out, she sat down in the noisy dark and folded her arms, wondering what to do. Soon she was groping in her wergle pouch, becoming a succession of small animals because she couldn’t find the right token of fur. Eventually she became a mouse once more and quickly began gnawing her way through the satchel’s tough leather.
Meanwhile, Captain Ruffnap charged with one final, frustrated attack against his tormentor and thrust his sword deep into its breast. The blade punctured one of the darker jelly shapes within, and Ruffnap feverishly whisked the weapon left and right in desperation.
The sluglung screeched. It was a new bone-juddering sound. Kernella heard it in the satchel, and Bufus heard it under the body of the spriggan that pinned him to the ground.
Captain Ruffnap watched his enemy’s round eyes roll backward and, with a feeble groan, it fell down—dead.
The captain crowed with delight and drew out the blade, now dripping with dark green blood. He shouted to his soldiers, “Mince up their innards! It’s the only way to do ’em in!”
The despair of the legion was dispelled. Now they had a chance, and the ferocity of the battle intensified.
Liffidia felt faint. She abhorred violence, yet here she was in the thick of the worst conflict Hagwood had seen for many long years. The spriggan who held her was stout and strong and had waded into the battle behind the captains, keeping her tight against his chest while his other arm swung his heavy mace. Hate-filled faces were everywhere she looked. The air shivered with the jarring clamor of crashing metal, and death screams pierced her gentle soul.
Many sluglungs had their heads squished as the spiked club went barreling into them and were forced to stagger about for several minutes before their soft skulls popped back into position.
In this way the spriggan had smashed and bashed his way deep into their ranks and was now cut off from his comrades. Whirling the mace around, he shouted terrible oaths, and the sluglungs shied away from him until one of them stretched out an elastic arm, wrapped it around the barbaric weapon, and wrenched it from his grasp.
The spriggan yelped in astonishment, then looked about him fearfully. He was completely surrounded by the enemy and too far from the others for aid to reach him in time. He saw his own mace being raised in vengeful hands, and then darkness slammed into him.
The ground rushed up to Liffidia as he toppled like a great tree. When his body hit the earth, she was jolted and jarred, but his dead fingers loosened thei
r grip and she quickly escaped them. Above her the sluglungs were so busy laughing and frothing, congratulating themselves on the kill that they did not see her race away. Liffidia knew precisely where she was going.
A little distance from the ferocious battle, the Tower Lubber was sitting up in the grass, his face turned in the direction of the clamorous din. Listening to those terrible sounds of death and war, he shook his head and uttered, “Merely the beginning. How many more must perish ere the end?”
Running faster than she had ever done in her young life, Liffidia burst from the battle and came rushing toward him.
“Are you unhurt?” she asked anxiously.
The Tower Lubber smiled to hear her.
“The hillmen did no more than scratch and dent my dignity,” he answered stoically. “But we must put a stop this. I may despise the spriggans for what they have done to my children, but they, and those strange new creatures, are still Clarisant’s subjects. She would not want them to kill one another. Her heart encompasses all. Civil war is the very thing she tried to avoid those many years ago. We have not waited so long for it to end this way now. Too many have already been slain this day.”
“Stop this?” the girl said. “How?”
“Come,” he said. “Climb on to my hand and guide me back to the well. Therein lies our only hope of ending this madness.”
Liffidia obeyed and was soon directing the Tower Lubber safely past the rear lines of the battle.
“How strange!” she exclaimed. “There’s a lot of big rabbits over there, and—oh, there’s Gamaliel and Finnen!”
The two boys heard her and came running.
“Don’t you worry!” Gamaliel called. “I’ll soon get you out of that big brute’s clutches.” And he bounded closer, brandishing the fire devil before him.
“What are you doing?” Liffidia cried down, before he could command the Tower Lubber to change. “He’s a friend.”
“Oh,” the boy replied, feeling very silly and hastily putting the magic talisman behind his back. “Sorry, I thought he was kidnapping you.”
“We’re going back to the well,” she said. “The Tower Lubber says we have to stop the battle and the bloodshed. I think he has a plan.”
