The Heart of Glass

by Vivian French

Beginning to appreciate how Clod functioned, Marcus ordered, “Sit down!”

  Clod sat, and the ground shook. Further instructions led to his standing up again and stomping to the front of the coach. It took several attempts to get him to pick up the shafts, as orders containing more than four or five words confused him, but once he had grasped the idea, he grinned, showing toothless gums.

  Marcus, hardly able to believe his luck, scrambled up onto the coachman’s seat. “Walk!” he commanded, and Clod walked, dragging the coach behind him as if it weighed nothing. Marcus punched the air in triumph. An idea was forming in his head; what had Fingle said? Troll tunnels . . . Could this be a troll tunnel? Or was it a dwarf mine? As Clod continued to stomp steadily onward into the darkness, Marcus felt a growing sense of excitement. Surely this must be a troll tunnel. And if it was, surely he could find Gracie.

  The small window at the front of the coach, designed to enable passengers to pass instructions to the coachman, snapped open, and Marigold’s furious face appeared. “Where are we going?” she demanded.

  “It’s OK,” Marcus told her. “Don’t worry. We’re going to find Gracie, and then —”

  Marigold began to scream. She screamed so loudly that Clod came to a sudden and horrified stop. “I want to go HOME!” she shrieked. “Home, do you hear? HOME!”

  “Yug.” Clod picked up the shafts and, in a maneuver that resulted in a great deal of damage to the corners of the coach and the walls of the tunnel, turned around. “Yug.” And he set off at a steady trot. No shouted commands from Marcus could stop him; he had recognized the one word he knew beyond any shadow of a doubt, and he was going home. Marcus could only hang on as they rattled their way back over the heaps of rocks and stones at the bottom of the chasm. Clod made no allowance for the comfort of coach travelers.

  “Speedy for a troll, isn’t he?” said a cheery voice, and Marcus saw Alf flit down and land on the coach roof. He was immediately jolted off and had to pretend he’d meant to land on Marcus’s shoulder all along.

  “Alf,” Marcus said urgently, “do you know where we’re going? And where we are? This is a troll tunnel, isn’t it?”

  Alf began to answer, but a particularly large boulder came within inches of tipping the coach right over, and Marcus had to lean perilously far out from his seat in order to bring the vehicle back onto four wheels. The noises from inside made it clear that Marigold had landed heavily on Vincent’s lap, together with a sponge cake.

  “You’ll have to shout,” he told Alf. “I can’t hear anything — Marigold’s got a horribly piercing scream.”

  “I don’t know where we are!” Alf was squeaking as loud as he could. “Shall I go and have a look-see?”

  Another boulder meant Marcus could only nod in reply, and the little bat waved a wing and disappeared into darkness.

  He was back within a couple of minutes.

  “It’s a dead end ahead,” he reported. “Nowhere to go. Solid rock!”

  “We’d better hang on tight, then,” Marcus warned. “He’ll have to turn around, and he doesn’t make any allowances for the coach. We’ll be lucky if there are any wheels left by the time we get wherever it is we’re going.” He took a firm grip on the rail beside him and waited for Clod to make a sudden swerve — but the troll kept thundering onward, his head lowered. Marcus paled. “He’s not going to try to go through, is he?”

  There was no time for Alf to answer. The force with which Clod’s head hit the rock jolted every bone in Marcus’s body, and he crouched down and put his arms over his head as thick dust swirled around him. The troll took a step back, then launched himself at the rock for a second time. There was a mighty crash and the thunder of falling stones; Clod gave a triumphant grunt and heaved himself and the coach through the gap.

  On the other side, dwarves yelled and shrieked and scattered in all directions. Master Amplethumb, balanced precariously on a ladder, was frozen into shocked immobility as the enormous troll appeared, brushing rubble off his shoulders as if he were merely emerging from a snowstorm. Behind him rocked a large traveling coach, and seated on the driving seat was a scruffy young man covered in dust. Master Amplethumb gulped. A moment later the troll was battering his way across to the other side of the mine; there was a second, less thunderous crash — and he and the coach were gone.

  Gradually the dwarves began to pick themselves up and view the damage. One by one they relit their fallen lamps, held them high, and studied the heaps of boulders and the wide, jagged opening in the rock. Master Amplethumb, whose one and only thought was to seize Bestius Bonnyrigg by the neck and hurl him into the deepest dungeon for at least a thousand years, was the last to notice the thick seams of gleaming gold . . . gold, gold, and yet more gold.

  Gracie’s ribs were aching unbearably by the time Mullius reached the candlelit corridor leading to King Thab’s royal apartments. Bestius was wheezing badly, and she could see that his face had turned a worrying shade of purple; his eyes were shut tight, and he looked as if he were in acute pain. Ahead of them were huge doors covered in unpleasantly sharp spikes; one was half open, and Gracie had a quick glimpse of a massive room hung with oppressive red velvet drapes. Mullius thrust his way inside, Gracie and Bestius were dropped onto a stone floor covered with animal skins, and the doors were slammed shut. There was the sound of a heavy wooden bar falling into place; Gracie’s heart sank, and a cold, clammy hand clutched at her stomach. Be brave, she thought. Think of Marlon. Think of Marcus. They’re bound to be looking for you. All you need is time for them to get here. Come on, Gracie Gillypot! Make a plan! She resolutely ignored the question: But will Marcus know where to look?

  “Trueheart,” said a gruff voice. “Trueheart . . . Is you real Trueheart?”

  Gracie stood up and looked King Thab in the eye. She was surprised to see that he was considerably smaller than Mullius, but no hint of this crossed her face. She took in his mean little eyes and heavy head, and noticed the weakness of his chin and his flabby lower lip. He was staring at her greedily, rubbing his hands together; a goblin was crouched on the back of the throne, and he too was staring at Gracie. Gracie, very conscious of her mud-stained clothes and face and her tousled hair, took a deep breath. Here goes, she said to herself, and took a decisive step forward. “My name is Princess Gracie. I understand you wanted a princess to keep you company. Well, here I am.”

  King Thab gave an astonished grunt. “Princess? Not Trueheart?”

  Gracie nodded. “That’s right. My friend here”— she turned and pointed at the bruised and bedraggled Bestius —“my friend here was bringing me to visit you, so I suggest you thank him and let him go. I understand that was the arrangement?”

  Spittle, his eyes gleaming, leaped forward. “May I ask the dwarf — on His Majesty’s behalf, of course — if that is true?”

  Before Bestius could open his mouth, Gracie said, “I told you. I’m Princess Gracie, and I’m here of my own free will to pay my respects to the king of the trolls.”

  The king’s eyes flicked from Gracie to Bestius and back again. “Princess? Pretty princess?” There was doubt in his voice.

  The dwarf struggled to his feet and bowed. “Just as you requested, Your Majesty.”

  “But . . .” King Thab shook his head as if he were trying to clear a fog from his brain. “But where Trueheart?”

  Mullius began to rumble, and Gracie quickly stepped closer to the king. “I think your servant was confused. . . . Was he looking for somebody else?” She did her best to sound affronted. “He was really quite rough when he brought me here, you know. I didn’t have any opportunity to explain who I was, or what I was doing. But please don’t bother to tell him off — it doesn’t matter, because I’m here now. Would you like me to talk to you? I heard you were lonely, and that’s why you wanted someone to visit you. Or we could play cards? Do you like playing cards?”

  King Thab shook his head again, then gave a half smile. “Yes. Am lonely.”

  “That’s so sad.” Gr
acie leaned forward and patted his rough, scale-covered hand. “Why don’t you tell me —” She was interrupted by a growl from Mullius and jumped around to see him staring at the iron box. There was a curious glow surrounding it; with a loud roar, Mullius flung open the lid.

  Inside was the heart of glass, now glowing a fierce blood-red; deep in its center beat a steady scarlet pulse. King Thab leaped up and strode toward it, his face alight with excitement.

  “Trueheart!” Mullius bellowed, pointing at Gracie. “TRUEHEART!”

  “King of Kings!” Thab stretched his arms wide in triumph. “Thab will be King of Kings!”

  “NO!” The roar echoed around the cave. “NO!” Mullius Gowk towered over his master. “Mullius! MULLIUS be King of Kings!” With one giant hand, he seized the heart. “End Trueheart’s life!” With the other he seized the trembling Gracie by the arm and dragged her toward him. “End Trueheart’s life NOW!” As Gracie twisted and squirmed and beat at him with her fists, he lifted the heart of glass high above his head . . . and a small black bat hurled itself across the cavern, straight into his face. Mullius staggered, and his hand that held the heart sliced down, missing Gracie by a hair’s breadth. The Old Troll snarled savagely and caught her by her braids to try again; as the silver thread burned deep into his hand, he gave a shriek of agony and threw her from him.

  The heart slipped from his fingers and fell, shattering into a thousand tiny fragments.

  For a moment there was a stunned silence . . . until King Thab began to scream in frustrated rage. “No prophecy now! Thab not be King of Kings! No bowing to Thab — never, EVER!” Spittle, Bestius, and Gracie clapped their hands to their ears, but the scream bounced off the walls and went on and on and on. Mullius stood sullenly among the shards of glass, his head drooping . . . and the wooden door splintered into matchwood as Clod came staggering through, still dragging the coach behind him.

  King Thab stopped screaming, but the sound continued. Gracie, certain now that she was in the middle of a hideous nightmare, saw a figure that looked like the ghost of Marcus climb stiffly off the snow-white coach. He shook himself and was enshrouded in a cloud of dust. Then, with a sharp rat-a-tat-tat, he knocked on the coach door. “Marigold! Could you please SHUT UP!” Only then did he look around to see where he was, and his eyes and his mouth opened wider and wider until he had the appearance of a startled fish.

  “If I were you, kiddo,” said a well-known voice, “I’d close your mouth. Moths, remember. Moths.”

  “MARCUS! I knew you’d come!” Gracie flew across the cavern and flung herself into the prince’s arms.

  For a second, Marcus’s eyebrows rose even higher, but then he grinned happily and enveloped her in a protective bear hug.

  “Excuse me!” The coach door opened, and Marigold appeared. Her pale blue dress was crumpled and stained, her hair was disheveled, and her face was purple with anger. Completely ignoring Mullius, King Thab, and Spittle, she glared at Marcus. “How DARE you speak to me like that! I’ve been rattled and jolted and bumped and I’m bruised all over and I think you’re completely and utterly horrible, and I’m never, ever, ever going to speak to you again because I HATE you! So THERE!” With a stamp of her foot and a toss of her head, she slammed the door shut again so hard that even Clod jumped.

  “I guess that means I don’t have to walk with her in the wedding procession,” Marcus said. He sounded jubilant.

  King Thab, who had sunk onto his throne in despair, looked up. “Who that?” he asked, pointing at the coach.

  “That,” Marcus told him, “is Princess Marigold of Dreghorn. How do you do, by the way? I’m Prince Marcus from the kingdom of Gorebreath.” He bowed as politely as if they had been introduced in Queen Bluebell’s reception room and held out his hand.

  King Thab stared at him, disbelief written all over his face. “You? You prince? And cross-face girl is princess?”

  Marcus bowed again.

  King Thab turned to Spittle. “Write!” he instructed urgently. “Write! Tell dwarves. No princess for troll. NEVER!”

  Spittle did as he was told.

  King Thab grunted approval, then considered for a moment, frowning heavily. Mullius stirred, and the king glowered at him. “Banished,” he pronounced. “Go. Go FOREVER!” He raised an imperious hand. “Clod! Take Gowk to caves. Deep, deep down. Take Gowk NOW!”

  Even if he had tried to protest, Mullius Gowk would have been no match for Clod and his four arms. As it was he went meekly, rumbling deep inside but making no attempt to resist. Clod stomped steadily behind him.

  “What’ll happen to him?” Marcus asked, but the king simply shrugged.

  “Gone,” he said. “Gone. Gone like heart of glass. All gone.” He put his head in his hands and began to sigh.

  Gracie looked at the scattered fragments of glass and then at the dejected figure of the king. The goblin was leaning on the arm of the throne, and she moved nearer. “Isn’t there anything we can do?” she said. “He seems so lonely. . . .”

  It was Bestius who answered. The disappearance of Mullius and Clod had cheered him immensely, and he was beginning to think he might have a future as Master Amplethumb’s assistant after all. “The goblin said something about trouble with a lady . . .”

  “Is that true?” Gracie asked.

  Spittle nodded. “The king had a wife,” he said in a low voice. “Queen Thulka. She wasn’t bad, but she asked too many questions, and Mullius marched her home to her mother.”

  “Then you should go and ask her to come back,” Gracie told him. “After all, Mullius isn’t here anymore. King Thab and Queen Thulka . . . sounds like a good combination to me.”

  Thab raised his head and stared at Gracie. “Thulka?”

  “You’d like to see her again, wouldn’t you?” Gracie spoke to the troll king as gently as if he were a troubled child. “And do you know what? Being a King of Kings wouldn’t be that special. People bow to good kings, not horrible, scary ones.”

  A slow smile spread across King Thab’s face. “GOOD king,” he said. “GOOD!”

  The goblin hesitated, then shook Gracie’s hand. “Thank you, Trueheart. I’ll bring Thulka back as soon as I can.”

  “Hang on a minute.” Bestius fished in his pocket and brought out the gold necklace he had offered the king at the beginning of the day. He laid it on the stone table near Thab’s knee. “For your lady wife,” he said. “With the compliments of the dwarves.”

  “Well done, kiddo!” Marlon flew in a celebratory circle around the king’s apartments. “Trueheart effect and all that stuff. Gets ’em every time.”

  Flo, hanging from a roof beam, sighed approvingly.

  Marcus grinned at Gracie. “Clever old thing, aren’t you?” Gracie smiled back at him, and the coach window opened with a bang.

  “Excuse me! When EXACTLY are you thinking of taking us home? And don’t you even dream of telling us we have to walk. We’re going to stay in this coach, aren’t we, Vincent darling? So you’ll just have to find someone or something to pull it.”

  There was a muffled agreement from inside, and Marcus looked at Gracie and Bestius in perplexity. “Whatever can we do?” he asked.

  “Ug,” said a voice from the doorway. “Ug.”

  It was late the following morning before Gubble finally hauled the coach containing Marigold and Vincent up onto the Flailing road, while Marcus and Gracie scrambled alongside. They had spent an uncomfortable night dozing in the coach outside King Thab’s royal apartments; Marigold and Vincent had made a fuss about sharing space with a troll and a dwarf, and eventually Gubble and Bestius had settled themselves underneath the coach wrapped up in an old horse blanket. They had had by far the most peaceful night, for Marigold had seen Marlon, Alf, and Flo having a merry reunion party by candlelight and, convinced that the bats were about to take up residence in her corner of the coach, had twitched and squealed at every tiny sound. It was a weary party that set out to follow Alf as he led the way back down the windings of the tr
oll tunnel and through the dwarves’ shattered gold mine to the sunlit ravine where Clod had changed the landscape forever.

  Marcus had expected that they would be forced to abandon the coach at this point, but Master Amplethumb, giddy with delight at the rich new seams of gold that had been revealed, insisted on organizing a team of sturdy dwarves to heave the coach up the fallen rocks to the grassy plateau above. “Least I can do for you, Your Highness,” he said. “Thanks to you, we’ll be on time with all the orders — so no reason for you to worry about the royal wedding. All the crowns’ll be there, and if you should ever be wanting a couple for you and your young lady friend, just you let me know. It’ll be no trouble, no trouble at all.”

  Marcus, who had never had any intention of worrying about the wedding, thanked the dwarf as politely as he could. As the coach bumped and rattled upward, he gave Gracie a sideways look to see if she had heard Master Amplethumb’s remarks about lady friends — but she was gazing up at a small bat flying circles above.

  “Isn’t that Millie?” she asked. “I’m sure it is. Millie! Millie! Is that you?”

  Millie came down in one smooth swoop and ­greeted Gracie with enthusiasm. “Oh! Miss Gracie! I’m so pleased to see you, you can’t imagine! Are you all right? I’ve been thinking of all the dreadful things that could have happened to you, and I’ve been so worried! So’s Miss Edna — and it’s all Dad’s fault!” The little bat paused and frowned. “He’s gone too far this time, you mark my words. I never thought you’d hear me say this, but I’m ashamed of what he’s been up to; I really am.”

  “But Millie!” Gracie stared at the bat in astonishment. “Haven’t you heard? It was Marlon who saved me! He was so brave. He flew at the Old Troll and made him drop the heart of glass! If he hadn’t been there, I’d have been killed!”

  “What?” Millie’s eyes brightened. “My dad did that?”

  Gracie nodded. “He was wonderful. Marcus is going to see about getting him a medal. Aren’t you, Marcus?”