by Ronan Frost
Chapter Three
Gehmat ran from the weapon shop until his legs gave way in sheer exhaustion. He stumbled into a stack of empty kegs and fell to his knees, puffing and heaving. He ran a trembling hand over his brow. They’d killed Valgus! The thought was running frantic through his mind. The Crylock had underestimated the scroll-bearer’s skill and cunning.
His thoughts were broken as a coin tinkled at his feet as a passer-by took him for a beggar. He shot a dirty look at the receding back, but took the coin.
I have to get in touch with Ladanum, he thought. They must talk reason with the scroll-bearer, as he knew they should have from the beginning! But no, Valgus insisted force was the only way.
He stumbled again to his feet and staggered along until at last he cleared the town and made it into the outlying fields of low bushy crops surrounding Bullspit.
He had to get in touch with the Crylock, and the only way to reach Ladanum was a mind-link. Gehmat had come out into the fields to get away from the background static of minds in Bullspit – it would make his task somewhat easier. He sat, folded his legs, and prepared himself.
“Huarmmmm,” he moaned in a deep mediative voice, soothing his brain. Gehmat always had had trouble with the mind-link, and over such a large distance, he suddenly doubted his ability. He breathed low and his brows knit.
He tried, but nothing seemed to happen. He tried harder, but still, nothing.
Meanwhile back in Bullspit six of the seven tarot card readers leapt around their tents screaming an alien tongue and flailing their limbs, and one even had to be sedated with a brick to the head. The seventh was actually a charlatan, so went about her business unaffected.
Gehmat, however, was unaware his spell was doing anything at all. He pushed his mental power for another five long seconds, but still he could not make contact with Ladanum.
“Bah!” he spat, and opened his eyes, exhausted mentally now as well as physically. The Crylock was simply too far away.
He was interrupted from this gloomy line of thought by an intense whine high in the sky. It descended almost vertically from above, its Doppler scream drawing closer. It was the sort of noise that if it had to be put on paper would be written as a succession of the letter e’s. He watched as the meteorite flashed down, a narrow tail of fire behind it, smashing into the fields not fifty paces away, and as suddenly as it had appeared, the noise stopped. Birds, hesitatingly at first, once again took up their song.
Gehmat stood and took a curious step forwards towards the smoking crater. He took another, then another. Soon he was at the impact site, and what he saw sent his heart leaping up into his throat. He recoiled backwards.
He found himself lying on his back. He must have fainted, and he now awoke having no idea how much time had passed. He savoured the moment, looking up at the white clouds. Groaning, he propped himself up on one elbow. He must have been dreaming, he thought, too much exertion. It can’t be…
He peered through the tall grass. There, in the crater, was the broomstick.
He looked at it long and hard, half expecting it to disappear like a wavering mirage. After half an hour of staring nothing happened and Gehmat decided it must be real. He extended a shaking hand, shying his head and covering his eyes, and grasped it by the handle. He stood, the straw broom at arms length, innocuously devoid of life.
Now what? he wondered. One, he could throw away the broom, and try to reach the Crylock some other way, or two, he could ride it back.
His skin crawled.
What punishment would Ladanum deliver for not reporting back? His imagination ran riot. That decided it. He lifted a leg over the broom, the straw head lying on the ground. He drew a deep breath, his hands clenched and sweaty.
Well, here goes nothing, he thought, at the same time screwing his eyes, preparing for the launch.
Nothing happened.
Gehmat scowled, and pushed again with his mind.
Still nothing happened. He opened his eyes and let out a sigh, ripped into a wail as the broomstick exploded into the air, carrying him with it. Clinging on for dear life Gehmat saw the ground disappear. The sweat evaporated from his brow in the wind and his skin turned icy cold.
Gehmat managed to raise his head in the buffeting gale and look about. The land was far below and fleeting by rapidly. He leant in the direction he wished to go, very cautiously -
A shot of shock went through his brain, derailing such gentle thoughts, as he found he had lent too far. Slowly but surely he swivelled about. In a moment, he hung upside-down on the broomstick, held only by his hands and clamped knees. His hair and beard hung in his face, his cloak riding up revealing bony legs and white conjurer’s underpants.
At least I’m going in the right direction, he thought, somewhat giddily.
The logs settled as they burnt in the campfire, sparking and casting a homely flickering light. Archendorf was roasting a marshmallow impaled at the tip of a crooked stick. He proffered one to Thrum.
Thrum shook his head.
Long minutes of silence passed. Archendorf went through several more marshmallows until finally clearing his throat.
“So, big man. What's news? You seem to have clammed up on me.”
Thrum flicked his eyes up and met the other’s gaze for a split second.
With bowed head, he drew a deep breath.
“No, it’s nothing.” Inside his emotions were roiling.
“It’s about today, isn’t it? At the weapon shop, almost getting us both killed.”
Thrum shook his head in a determined negative. The words were on the verge of his lips, but he couldn’t bring himself to form them, and now the silence had stretched too long and built an intolerable tension.
It’s my fault, he wanted to say to his friend. I’m a coward. A damned, miserable coward.
What Archendorf did not know was the spell he had cast in the weapon shop was supposed to be a teleport spell - a teleport for one person. In that moment he had seen there was no way out; Archendorf's strength no match to the magician’s powers, and Thrum a laughable contest if it came to a spell for spell duel. His first instinct was to get the hell out of there, and sod Archendorf.
It made Thrum ashamed, after all Archendorf had done for him. If the spell had succeeded there would be no doubt of Archendorf's messy fate.
A damned coward, Thrum inwardly berated himself.
“It's getting late, I'm going to turn in,” Archendorf said. There was a note of chill civility there.
Thrum looked up. “Sure. Goodnight, Arc.”
Night was falling outside but the frosted windows of the shop glowed warmly from the light of burning torches within. Despite his race’s predilection for caves and mines, the dwarf didn’t like to work in the dark. It made for mistakes and sloppy workmanship, something he despised.
The work before him looked like it may stretch well into the night. He had cut new braces and propped up the mezzanine floor. Study brackets held the wooden beam vertical and he gave it a satisfied thump with the palm of his hand.
Dusting his hands against his tunic, he turned his attention to the pile of weapons that had fallen. Blowing into his beard, his eyes roamed over the stack and wondered where to begin. The dead magician’s stump of an arm was still visible, as was the hint of silver cloak. The dwarf lifted a battle-axe closest, sighting along its haft and eyeing the blade’s edge. It seemed undamaged.
The dwarf put it to one side, and lifted the next item.
Hours later, the dwarf working tirelessly and meticulously, three piles had formed – one with undamaged stock, one pile that required minor repairs, and another with those too damaged to be sale-worthy. It was high time he had gotten around to sorting out the mess that had been accumulating for years up there, and in his own way, the dwarf was enjoying himself.
The magician’s body slowly unearthed, piece-by-piece. The dwarf did not pay much attention, so focussed was he on the job at hand. It was only when the dwarf had to lever
with particular force to free a hatchet embedded itself into the magician’s heart did he notice something strange.
He had thought the magician’s foot twitched.
Grunting and huffing in his beard, he tossed the hatchet into the ‘undamaged’ pile after giving it a wipe on the sleeve of his arm, thinking no more of it. He grabbed the handle of a pike and gave it a pull. It seemed to be stuck on something-
He cried out as the magician’s hand grabbed his own. “God’s blood!” He snatched his hand away and watched in shocked awe, unable to avert his eyes or move his feet that seemingly had rooted themselves into the ground. The magician’s head snapped upright like a puppet brought to life. The arm that ended in a bloody stump flailed uselessly, almost comically. The other arm worked to free the body.
Renewed life coursed through Valgus like the first rains filling a summer-dried creek. His eyes lit and his face became animated with barely suppressed rage. It was obvious from awkward jerking movements that every movement caused great pain.
The icy shock of surprise cracked a little around the dwarf’s heart - he saw that if the apparition before him could feel pain, then it could be killed.
His paralysis broken he grabbed a battle-axe, a massive double-edged thing nearly twice his height, and brought it up high over his head to deliver the death strike.
Valgus reacted. His lower body still trapped he was still able to throw his remaining left arm forward and cast one the simplest spells there is, the fire spell. Simple, but in the hands of a level six magician, devastatingly powerful.
The blast struck the dwarf in the chest, throwing him backward. The battle-axe clattered to the stone. The dwarf never hit the ground. Every molecule that had made up his body now reduced to a random scatter of ashes and smoke dancing in the swirling eddy currents of the blast.
The only sounds emerging from the weapon shop were the steady the clink and clatter of tossed aside pieces of metal on flagstone.
A score of wiry camels beat a single-file path in the evening light. Quirk, the leader of the band, turned.
“Bullshhpit aheaf!” he cried.
There was a half-hearted cheer. All were exhausted and grubby, their camels beneath them undernourished after their long journey across the plains. Quirk had led his men across the lands since he was a youngster. In the old days, they were known for their cunning and fierceness, trekking the desert and raiding townships in search of booty, both inanimate and animate. Born from the desert they wore the traditional headdress and robe, mighty curved sabres at their waists.
Things were different now. Time had taken its toll on all of them, leaving them a bunch of knife-wielding seventy year olds. Their enemies were more likely to laugh than yell in terror as they had once done, and recently Quirk’s raids had all failed.
They had decided to leave their native homeland, making the journey across the vast plains and into the cradle of civilization near the Ivory Tower. There they hoped pickings would come easier, fattened civilians rather than the hardened desert landholders.
“We’ll stof here,” Quirk called to his toothless team. “Ready to show’sh them hell boysh?”
They pulled into the village unchallenged, for their reputation had obviously not spread this far south. From his high vantage atop the camel Quirk noticed a great deal of activity about the pub. Intrigued, he jabbed his left heel into the flank and angled his mount in that direction. The others followed, and soon they arrived.
The rest of his band dismounted, their camels lowering themselves like awkward marionettes to the ground. Quirk’s camel remained standing sullenly – he had been doing this a lot recently, either in some sort of rebellion or advancing senility, Quirk was unsure which. With some cussing, useless shoving and jerking about (the rest of the band politely pretending to be examining some object to one side) Quirk at last gave up and jumped to the ground.
“Lefph’s go men,” he said, dusting himself off and almost hiding his hitched breath owing to the splintering pain in his shins.
The gang moved towards the source of the commotion in the spill of light from the open door of the pub.
“Whosh going on shere?” Quirk asked, his lack of teeth and general enthusiasm resulting in a fine spray of saliva.
The man, arm about one of his fellows helping him stumble away from the pub, turned sharply.
“What do you want, gramps?”
Quirk whipped out his sabre and in a flash it was at the man’s throat. Quirk repeated his question.
“Yes,” the man said hastily. “I’ll tell you. Two warriors came through here – one sly and quick, the other a huge brute of a man, the size of an ox! They started trouble, started roughing up us poor farmers for the sheer joy of it. Hardly a fair match, them with their training and weapons and such. And they were rich - I saw their treasure myself, a jewel encrusted cross…I’ve never seen the like of it.”
“Treasure, yoush say? Tough buggersh too, from the sounds. Which way did theyth goth?”
“Down there. I saw them run off myself.”
Quirk pondered and after a moment’s deliberation turned to his fellows.
“Mount up ladsh! Theth bounty to be had!”
The riders hurried back to their mounts and rose into the air, Quirk requiring a somewhat more athletic run and jump. Quirk signalled with a forward slash of his sabre and the camels jerked into motion and sped off a quick clippity clop down the street in a picture of military discipline. It was not the promise of bounty that spurred the lanky desert men but the thrill of the chase, and a Quirk could not help but allow a grin to twitch at the corners of his mouth.
The campfire burnt low, reduced to a dull red glow barely discernable in the night. From the rise of the moon, faintly seen in the patches between the clouds, Thrum guessed it to be just past midnight. He hadn’t slept a wink, but simply lay there, the prickly woollen blanket taken from the hobbit hole wrapped tight up to his chin.
Thoughts churned through his mind and he tried not to toss and turn for fear of waking his companion, who snored steadily on the other side of the fire. Then, before he could change his mind, Thrum drew a resigned breath and flung aside his blanket quietly. The cool night air washed over him, for he still only wore his nightgown and rabbit-shaped slippers from Hamontoast, now streaked with dust and stained. Coarsely folding his blanket, he slung it over one shoulder.
He paused, throat tightening, as he looked at Arc stretched out at ease and deeply asleep, suddenly unsure of what he was about to do was right.
Then Thrum remembered the teleport spell he had tried to cast; he did not deserve a friend like Archendorf. It was best to leave him now, in safety, before anything stupid happened again. From here on in, things could only get worse, and who was he kidding – there was no way they could take on the entire Crylock. It was foolish to even try. He reached into the pocket of his nightgown and with feeling of deep unease unrolled the scroll. He glanced up to make sure his friend was still sleeping before dropping his eyes. “I’m going to the King,” he whispered.
The scroll remained blank.
Thrum bit his lip. “I can’t go to the Crylock, as you asked,” he whispered to it. “Surely there is something you can tell me, some secret password that will gain me the trust of the King’s Archmages. They are your allies, they will take you to the Crylock and to bring you back to life, breathe the spirit from this scroll into your body, however that’s done. That’s a magician’s job, not a clown’s.”
The scroll was suddenly snaking with words. This is foolishness! I told you before, it must be you and you alone. There is nothing I can tell you that will convince them, and there are great forces at work that you cannot begin to understand. We are down to the last few grains of sand running through the hourglass, you must not delay!
More words were forming but Thrum shook his head and with a hitch in his heart rolled the scroll and jammed it back into his pocket. This time he was not going to listen. He looked onc
e more at Archendorf’s back as it rose and fell in deep peaceful sleep. He wished for a spare scrap of paper so he could write a note of farewell, but then he remembered Arc couldn’t read.
The first few heavy drops of rain fell from the sky and a chill breeze swept across their camp and he broke out in a rash of gooseflesh. Suddenly decided, he clutched his blanket tight around him and strode off into the darkness.
It did not take more than a score of footsteps away from his friend and the soft glow of the campfire for Thrum’s heart to ache painfully. He felt very alone. Before his resolve could crumble further he picked up his pace, heading towards the road, for they had camped off in the shelter of a grove of trees. The drumming of rain increased - it seemed things could not get any more miserable as Thrum hit the road and turned left. Back the way they had come, away from the Crylock and towards the Ivory Tower.
Thrum drunk in his misery as he trudged. He deserved his loneliness, coward such as he was. He kept telling himself this as the minutes turned into hours. The Mosswood forest lay to his right now, the wide trade road quiet of traffic in the depths of the night. What little there was to be seen of the moon disappeared, the storm gathering, the air growing heavy with humidity. It seemed Thrum walked in a world of his own, had other people ever existed other than as a dream? The life of Hamontoast all seemed so remote to him now.
Thunder rolled across the sky, distant yet but still threatening. Thrum saw a few flashes of forked lightning puncture the sky when he occasionally lifted his gaze from his feet. The intervals between the flashes and the thunder grew shorter.
Looking up at the next rise Thrum was startled to see a figure suddenly illuminated in the lightning. Thrum stopped and squeezed his eyes shut tightly, rain beading down his face, in an effort to clear them. All was dark again, and he doubted what he had seen. Perhaps a log merely in the shape of a ma-
Another flash, and this time there could be no doubt. The man on the road before him had sensed Thrum’s presence too and stopped, separated by shouting distance, no more. Thrum tried to swallow but could not, his legs jelly and weakness coursing through his body. He wanted to turn and flee but as if in a dream, he seemed encased in a thick molasses that he must swim against with leaden limbs.
Thunder crashed in the darkness. The rain continued to fall. Thrum still did not move, his brain processing the image. There could be no doubt – one arm severed just above the elbow, the shimmering silver cloak, close enough that Thrum could see the magician’s eyes.
Mouth gaping like a fish, he did not curse; no words would come.
His body saved him. Acting instinctively his legs went into action and before he knew what he was doing he was fleeing into the boughs of Mosswood forest. The chill embrace enveloped him immediately, the smell of evil things in the air. Although only a few paces into the forest it seemed as if he might as well be at the very heart. Insects chattered in his ears, the earth underfoot muddy.
“Mosswood?” Thrum muttered deliriously. “This is stupid. Stupid!”
One look over his shoulder and he fancied he saw the shadowy outline of the magician flicker hot on his heels. It was all the encouragement he needed. With great bounding leaps Thrum fled ever deeper in the forest, feet sometimes tangling in exposed roots, cold vines slapping him across the face in the darkness.
He ran wildly for long minutes hardly sure he was even heading in the same direction. Eventually he had to stop, panting, with one hand up against the trunk of a huge tree. Now that he stopped he cocked an ear trying to hear for sounds of pursuit through the gaps of his ragged breathing and the drumming of his pulse. The storm seemed to have moved on, for now he heard only the odd, distant rumble. In the new silence there was only the steady patter of dripping leaves and the calls of insects.
Thrum’s nape tingled as he had the distinct impression of being watched. Feeling uncomfortable, he started walking again, eyes wide open, movement haunting the periphery of his vision, but seeing nothing but black. He found himself wishing fervently for his cottage back in Hamontoast. He could well imagine his soft bed there, but of course someone else would be sleeping in it right now. He cursed under his breath.
He very nearly filled his pants when a cold arm wrapped about his mouth with a sibilant slither. He made a “mpppph” noise as long moist fingers pressed into his flesh. As was to be expected Thrum fainted…
When he awoke, he sensed some time had passed. He was in a clearing surrounded by a wall of thick tree trunks. It was still dark (did the light of day ever pierce those leaning trees?) but the surrounds were illuminated by a score of flaming torches about the perimeter. A tangle of vines trampled flattish bedded the clearing, large shadows close by indistinct in his blurred and still recovering vision. He tried to clear his head with rapid forceful blinking and attempted to rub his eyes only to find his limbs bound with vines behind his back. He became jittery with terror.
The elves had caught him!
Now that his vision was clearing he saw the creatures scuttling about. They were as bad as legend had made them out to be. Green, their skin slimy and glistening the torchlight with elongated bodies taut with thin muscles, long arms out of proportion with squat torsos. Gorillas with the skins of frogs. Thrum noticed when they walked their huge paddles of hands dragged furrows in the ground and they flopped their feet like flippers.
Thrum gasped as an elf suddenly appeared from one side, stuck an inquisitive head into his face, and prodded an explorative finger. Unable to pull away Thrum watched the elf grin, exposing a glistening array of shark-like teeth.
“Urrrrmmm… Hi?” Thrum tried.
Treeater climbed down the branches from his hut, swinging casually from limb to limb. As chief of the clan it was his responsibility to greet the returning hunting party. He dropped to the spongy ground and shuffled along towards the group. On the edges of the clearing elves lit torches, the village waking from their sleep as elves came to greet their fellows.
Treeater made a gurgle in the back of his throat, the traditional elf greeting, as he met Screaming-Frog, leader of the hunting party. In return, Screaming-Frog tilted back his head in the same fashion and gurgled back at him.
“You have been gone many nights,” said Treeater, formalities now aside. “It is good to see you again.”
“It has been a long hunt, and it is good to be home,” said Screaming-Frog. “Our efforts have been rewarded.” He gestured to the wagons now emerging from the forest track and into the clearing. They were narrow and high wheeled for travel in the forest, with a harness in the front for the unlucky elves chosen as cart bearers. The wagons were laden with slain beasts of all sizes and descriptions.
“What have you?” Treeater asked.
“Much food – enough to last the entire clan the winter. We found a large growing of dome mushrooms and collected many sacks worth.”
“Dome mushrooms? Excellent! We shall party well tonight!”
“Indeed. Come closer, let me show you what else we have. Plenty of monkey hides, look here. And a score of giant swamp rats, have you ever seen any this size before?”
“But what is this?” Treeater exclaimed. He indicated to Thrum’s limp body.
“Ah, yes! A human,” said Screaming-Frog. “We came across him just now, on the outskirts of the village.”
“I haven’t seen an outsider for a long time. They are excellent eating.”
Screaming-Frog beamed, as much as an elf is able to beam. “He’ll do nicely for dessert.”
Treeater leant over and poked the human, who seemed to be recovering consciousness. The human opened his eyes and flinched and Treeater laughed.
“You have done well!”
Screaming-Frog waved a demurring hand.
“A feast!” Treeater cried, turning to address his tribe. “Stoke the fires, we celebrate tonight!”
There was a returned cheer and elves scurried into action. A sprogling came to Treeater’s side.
“What do
you want?” hissed Screaming-Frog, almost walking on the small elf.
“I found this on the human.” The sprogling held out the rolled scroll in one hand and the cruciform in the other.
Treeater carefully took the cruciform. “You have done well.”.
“And this, my master?”
Treeater took the scroll and flicked it open with one hand. “Worthless,” he said after inspection, tossing it aside. “But this jewel… Magnificent indeed!” After a moment’s more delighted examination, he stuffed the cruciform into the front of his loincloth for safekeeping. “Now, let us attend to the feast.”
The hunters returned to awaiting wives, hugging sproglings that leapt and stuck to them affectionately. The minutes soon lengthened into hours, and slowly dim light took the edge off the darkness. By mid-morning things that had been shades of grey took on faint colour.
The elves were an ingenious lot, and they had fashioned the many luxuries granted by having opposable thumbs and a generous streak of wit. A massive bonfire was set and two great swamp rats were prepared upon spits. Kegs of potent forest brew were unearthed from their ripening pits and set upon trestle tables. The tribe was a hive of merry activity as all manners of delicacies were presented.
Treeater ceremoniously cracked the top off the first keg. There was a cheer and the festivities began. Soon all the elves relaxed, lounging back in hammock-like chairs and telling uncouth jokes and laughing. There was the regular clang on wood on wood as goblets were raised in as many toasts the elves could think of.
Waxeye turned to his companion who hid, like him, in the undergrowth.
“Drunk and totally off guard,” he hissed, grinning.
The other, his elvish face streaked with warpaint, returned the grin. “It is just as well we passed by, now is the perfect time for attack. We will be able to slit their miserable throats while they slumber, and we will have our revenge! Quickly, we must tell master Pinworm.”
Waxeye nodded eagerly and they both backed away silently, remaining in the shadows. Only when sure they were a safe distance away did they turn and run.
Seeing an elf run is a peculiar sight, resembling a clown with long shoes tumbling down a hill trying to outrun something unpleasant. Somehow it worked and they travelled swiftly, more often than not grabbing a low hanging branch and swinging from it to cover extra ground.
Half and hour later they fell panting to the door of Pinworm’s hut, chief of the Lizard Clan.
“My master, we have news!”
Pinworm, his lidless orbs of eyes bleary with sleep, shrugged into a dressing gown and was tying the furry belt about his waist when he emerged.
“Make it good,” he hissed.
“My master, we come from Leaf Tribe, they are feasting and celebrating, all intoxicated, leaving themselves open to an attack.”
Pinworm’s lidless eyes flickered back into his skull (the elvish equivalent of a long thoughtful blink) before speaking again.
“Their guards?”
“All at the feast. From what we observed, their winter hunting party has returned.”
“Could it be a trap?” mused Pinworm, turning on his heel. “Waxeye, call the war-councillor.”
An elf, a full head taller than the average, stepped forward. “I am already here, sir.”
“Ahh, excellent. How are our forces? How is morale?”
“As to be expected, sir. We sustained major losses, as you know, but all are ready to fight.”
Pinworm nodded to himself. Their enemy, the Leaf Tribe, had attacked a month ago and had brought his own clan almost to ruin. The Leaf Tribe had killed the old elves and children of Pinworm’s tribe in a despicable sneak attack. Pinworm remembered leading his army, all the young men and women of fighting age, on what was supposed to be an attack. He’d been deceived, however, and the camp they’d fallen upon was a decoy, and by the time they’d returned home the damage had been done. Without the children and the wisdom of the elders, his clan was but a shadow of its former self.
“And the other tribes, will they join us in this battle?” asked Pinworm.
“The Marsh people will aid us, but they fear the Hollow Log Clan.”
“Send out our fastest elf to the Marsh Clan,” said Pinworm. “Tell them we shall join them in their battle if they join our attack today. Organise our forces, everyone will fight, leave nobody behind.”
The war-councillor bowed low at the waist. “All will fight willingly.”
“Then, to war!” Pinworm cried.
Thrum turned as far as his bonds would allow, trying to get some blood flow, for he had been tied to a wagon wheel for hours now. The elves, it seemed, knew their business, no amount of squirming and twisting would loosen the knots at his wrists.
Thrum’s hopes sank lower and lower. He watched as the elves drunk themselves into stupidity, his only hope that perhaps they may forget about him. He doubted that, for every now and again one of them would point in his direction, say something, and those in earshot would lick their lips. So far they restrained themselves, always glancing towards what seemed to be their leader. Over time, however, the looks his direction grew bolder and the licking of lips more salacious.
His only hope, it seemed, was Archendorf. Archendorf could follow a trail, couldn’t he? Of course he could, Thrum reassured himself. Any minute now, he would come slipping up in the shadows, a sharp knife to sever the bonds at his wrists, and they would both disappear silently into the trees.
Any moment now…
Archendorf’s eyes shot wide open at the touch of a cold blade against his throat. After the initial shock he carefully turned his head, careful not to make any sudden movements. He saw from his prone position he was surrounded by what looked like the local lawn bowls team on their way to a themed fancy dress party. They all wore light grey gowns and scarves, and all held wicked sabres, all pointed in his direction.
Archendorf cleared his throat.
“Ahem. Er, can I help you?”
He noticed Thrum was gone, perhaps to attend his toilet. He hoped his friend had the sense to hang back until he sorted out this mess.
What seemed to be the leader stepped from the ranks of dirty and seemingly frail old warriors. He was grinning, exposing his solitary front tooth jutting from a vast expanse of pink gum.
“No doubtsh you have heard of ush. I am Quirk!”
“Really! Gosh,” said Archendorf, putting on a tone of admiration. He had never heard the name, but as long as they held the knife, he was willing to agree. “Great to meet you, but if you don’t mind, I really do have to go-”
“Filence, foul fiend!” Quirk shouted, really getting into the swing of things now. “We are the deffert kings - raiders, conquerors, fearless warriors!”
“Saviour of small children!” cried a voice from someone at the back.
Someone elbowed him into silence. “Shuddup Hodfast, we've told you before, that was no infant.”
Quirk raised the flat of his hand to his mouth and stage-whispered down to Archendorf, “It turned out to be a burrito.”
“Ahhh,” said Archendorf carefully. “Look, I think you’ve got the wrong guy. If you’d kindly-”
“I fed filence! We know shoe are rich, so hand over the loot!”
Archendorf was puzzled and shook his head, wiping the spray of saliva from his face.
“You will learn our true strenghf! We will teach you a leffon you will never forgetsh!” Quirk coiled his sabre arm back.
“Wait, no, look, I’m not rich,” Arc cried frantically. “See for yourself.” He pulled his pockets inside-out, revealing nothing but fluff. His mind worked overtime; it was obvious these fellows were a few sausages short of a barbeque - he had to distract them. He lowered his voice conspiringly. “Look guys, me and my mate are off to kill some evil magicians. A quest to save the world no less, plenty of loot and action to be had.”
There followed several long seconds as the
old men put this through their rusty minds. Quirk’s tiny beadlike eyes glinted.
“Why didn’t you’sh say so before!” he said, leaping in the air and clacking his heels. “Release this man, we have a quest!”
There was an almighty toothless cheer and several hands helped a rather dazed Archendorf to his feet.
“So you’ll help us?” he asked.
“We haven’t had’sh a quest for a long time! Count ush in, my friend!”
Archendorf grinned in genuine happiness and heartily shook Quirk’s offered hand. He hadn’t expected such a rapid turnaround of his fortune, but gladly accepted it. He sensed no duplicity or trickery, and despite their senility at the very least this crew had beasts of burden that would speed up their march considerably. He cast about and called Thrum’s name, telling him it was safe to come out.
“Who’sh do you call?” asked Quirk.
“My friend, he’s the one with the magic scroll. He should be around here somewhere.”
Quirk ordered his men to begin searching. While they waited, Archendorf looked closely at the mutated beasts the nomads now led closer to the campsite, lanky creatures with big teeth and knees, long lashed eyes, folded over nostrils, a shaggy hump raised on their back.
“Ahh, I s’hee you are interested in our camel’sh.”
Archendorf reached out and touched the beast’s hide. “I’ve never seen the like before.”
“We come’sh from the desert of the far north’sh. We could not live with’sh-out them.”
“They’ve got quite a smell,” said Archendorf, his eyes watering.
“You think’sh? I hadn’t noticed.”
One of Quirk’s men returned from his search for Thrum and saluted. “We could find’sh no sign, sh’ir.”
“Where can he have gone?” said Archendorf, rubbing the stubble on his jaw. “We have to find him.”
“Dulog!” Quirk bawled. A hunched over man shuffled forward.
“Dulog,” continued Quirk. “Which’sh way did our friend’sh friend go?”
Dulog dropped to the ground and crawled a few revolutions of the campsite. Archendorf remained dutifully silent, awkwardly aware that he stood like a mountain in a sea of pygmies.
At least Dulog stood and dusted dirt from the front of his robe. He cast an arm back in the direction of Bullspit.
“No, that can’t be right,” said Archendorf. “We were heading to the Cragtops… What is the little bugger playing at?”
Pinworm held up his hand, palm outward, waiting for the moment. His forces, a good fifty elves strong, had positioned themselves carefully about the Leaf Tribe’s clearing. They were outnumbered three-to-one, for the Leaf Tribe was one of the larger in the forest. Pinworm, however, had the advantage of surprise.
He chopped his hand down and a wave of arrows launched into the air from compact hunting bows. The lazy silence broke as several dozen elves of the Leaf Tribe cried out in sudden pain as the metal tipped arrows speared their flesh.
He had to keep the momentum of his strike. With a cry Pinworm brandished his flail and rushed forward, the rest of the Lizard Clan following close behind. They covered the distance quickly and within moments were hacking and chopping at their enemy. It was an ugly butchering and Pinworm felt for a moment a surge of elation; they might just pull this off!
Treeater, leader of the Leaf Tribe, groggily awoke to cries of pain and screaming. He raised his head, taking precious seconds to figure out what was happening. They were under attack!
He struggled for long moments to free himself of his deckchair, the darned contraption folding beneath him in his haste and partially trapping him until he kicked it free. Glancing up he saw the tide of battle sweeping rapidly closer. He grabbed his hatchet just in time to parry what would have been a decapitating blow. The wily old elf danced aside, planting his hatchet into the back of his attacker’s head with a solid thunk and spray of green blood.
Noting with mounting dismay that already half of his warriors lay slain he shouted a rousing war cry. The two factions met like swirling water, confusion reigning as the element of surprise was lost and defensive action began. Treeater retreated up into the boughs of his treehouse, gathering his bodyguards. They assembled, hastily fitting thick leather body armour and cinching tight weapon belts. They moved with deliberation to fight off the effects of the forest wine and were soon lusting for revenge.
“Who is it? Who attacks?” Treeater demanded of his captain.
“It’s Pinworm,” replied an elf. One of his eyes was milky white with cataract, a fold of long-healed scar running across his cheek.
“How did they get past the sentries?” demanded Treeater, shaking his bloody hatchet.
“They… I…” It was clear the captain had no defence.
Treeater raised his hatchet, and the close gathering of elves in the treehouse held their collective breath.
“You fool!” Treeater slammed his hatchet down, diverting at the last moment so it took a chunk out of the wall. “You will die today one way or another, but I will give you the chance to do so nobly in battle.”
The captain bowed low.
Treeater turned to another elf. “Hillfern, I want you to take your fighters and defend the sproglings, take them to the High Treehouse. Wormheart, are you here? No, dead? Then you, yes, you, take three others and sweep the forest for Pinworm’s archers. Screaming-Frog, ah, good, you are here, stay close to me, same for the rest of you. If we can kill Pinworm himself, perhaps the others will lose heart. Now, go!”
With a roar the small band leapt from the treehouse, keeping a tight formation as they ran full speed into the bulk of the attacking army. Treeater’s deadly efficient unit swathed through their enemy, outmatching them in both weaponry and technique.
A cluster of bodyguards tight about him, Pinworm looked across the battleground to see Treeater’s charge eating into his forces. With a toss of his head, he instructed his companions to the attack, coming at Treeeater’s blindside. As Pinworm ran, he raised his nasty looking spiked ball and swung it on its chain, leaping into the fray, bringing his weapon down with a devastating crunch.
Treeater, his oblong head made concave, fell to the ground.
Screaming-Frog saw his leader fall and gave a cry of dismay. He roared and swung his mace in a wide arc, taking Pinworm’s jaw clean from his face in a shower of gore.
The battle raged on, a now desperate blurring confusion of strike and counter-strike, where friend could barely be distinguished from foe.
Thrum blinked in disbelief, watching in mute horror as the massacre began. Rather than getting better, he feared his prospects were suddenly worse.
There was a gasping rattle from overhead, and a body dropped almost into Thrum’s lap. The dying elf tried to raise a dagger in defence, but another elf had leapt down from the cart, feet splayed and knife striking bone. Having dispatched his foe, the elf danced off to find further action.
Thrum stayed very still for a moment, just looking at the fallen knife by his feet, hardly believing his luck. Slowly, trying not to attract any attention, he pawed with one foot at the knife just out of reach.
Dammit! he thought, stretching to his full extent. His slipper brushed again the blade and pushed it away slightly. Dammit to hell!
Wriggling deeper into the earth he pointed his toe out again, willing his limbs to pop from their sockets in his effort to stretch further. He touched the hilt and moved it a fraction closer. Sweat beading from his brow Thrum refused to pay any attention to the tumult surrounding him, focussed entirely on the knife. It moved closer again, and this time he was able to hook his ankle around it.
Then he had it! There followed some awkward movements of pushing and twisting as he manoeuvred the knife under his buttocks, but soon the hilt was in his hands and the blade working against his bonds.
The rope severed after long moments of furious sawing and at last a rush of blood flowed into hands suddenly aching with pins and needle
s. He wasted no time in ducking away under the high cart and into deep shadow.
He stopped short and snapped his fingers in frustration. “Those elves still have the scroll.”
He huddled low and scanned the campsite. The golden gleam of the cruciform was not hard to miss, and there, right next to it, lay the scroll. He knew he had to escape while he could, and damn the rest.
On sudden impulse that surprised even himself he leapt forwards into the mass of fighting elves. Nobody seemed to notice, which suited Thrum just fine. He scuttled on all fours keeping his head low and clambering over fallen elves, wincing as he touched their repulsive flesh. He ducked, narrowly avoiding a war-axe as it came to rest in the earth in his path. He leapt over it and continued.
At last he reached the cruciform and scroll and grabbed both in the one hand, drawing them close. He about-faced and hurried out again.
He emerged very suddenly.
“That was stupid,” he said to himself, laughing like a lunatic, shaking from adrenalin and hardly believing his own bravery. “Time to get out of here!”
He fled, not following any particular path or direction, but trying to maintain a direct bearing. He skipped through broad-leaved plants heavy with dew, his feet sinking deep into mud, clawing over slippery roots. The rain started again, thick heavy drops that fell from leaf to leaf, sagging the foliage, the air misty with moisture.
He stopped to listen as a crashing of hurrying feet reached his ears. He had only time to drop low and roll into a hollow as a horde of elves swung by. Intent on their destination they did not notice him. Peeping between leaves Thrum saw all were armed with hatchets or bows and streaked in war paint, and surmised that word of the conflict had spread and other tribes converged in who knew what alliances.
He waited long minutes until all sounds of their passing receded and insect chirps and croaks resumed. He had scratches on his forearm from thorny ivy and already ugly welts were rising. At least, he reflected, the thickness of his dressing gown saved him from the worst.
A gloomy light filtered down to the understorey, but Thrum could only guess at the time of day. He had no idea which way was which and knew the possibility of becoming lost forever in these woods was very real indeed. He started in one direction, only to pause, reconsider, and strike off in another. A wall of greenery confronted him and, seeing no other way, plunged through the tangle of branches shoulder first, arms shielding his averted face. Blindly stumbling forward the ground dropped away beneath his feet, the leaf litter causing him to stumble over a concealed stump and flailing wildly for footing.
He fell flat on his face with a crash, landing nose-to-nose with a huge toad. The creature lifted itself upon hind legs, revealing a bright yellow underside in some sort of warning. Thrum backed away, not keen to witness what sort of bizarre and no doubt effective defensive mechanism it had evolved to survive in Mosswood forest.
He wasn’t quite fast enough for the toad’s liking as its yellow belly pulsated and produced a thunderous belch and spray of saliva, the volume of which would have been the envy of any beer-swilling drunkard full of cheap ale and chips. The blast of fetid air made Thrum’s eyeballs roll back in his skull, only the whites showing, the reflex gagging a physical blow invading every pore in his lungs. Using his hands and feet he literally propelled himself backwards as if swimming into clear air where he could breathe once more.
Wiping the wet clinging leaves from his front he stood and resumed his course. He stumbled across a path of sorts, nothing more than a half-overgrown animal track. It seemed to be going in the direction he wanted to go. It ran a twisting path through the looming trees and he felt exposed on it, but progress was much quicker than hacking through the undergrowth, where every step was hard fought.
The forest opened into a clearing and before he knew it he’d stumbled into an elvish village. He stood rooted to the ground in terror for a moment, his eyes darting left and right, feeling naked. The trees, as menacing and pressing as they were, had at least provided cover. The clearing was not particularly large, maybe ten or twenty tree houses bordering. There were no buildings at ground level, only a low haphazardly constructed wall about a small well complete with bucket and winch and a bonfire pit.
Nothing moved. The village, it seemed, was empty. There was no sound but rain pattering with a steady drumming on leaves. Although the smouldering fire pit indicated the elves were not far away everything was funereally still and obviously deserted.
Thrum relaxed a little, his shoulders dropping from where they had hunched up somewhere near his ears, and back straightened from a protective hunch. With quiet steps, he edged around the clearing and picked up the trail on the far side.
He continued onward. Although endeavouring to stay headed in the same direction every now and again he would encounter a massive half-decayed fallen tree or deep ravine necessitating a detour. At one point he heard distant battle cries echoing through the forest. It was difficult to tell exactly how far away the fighting was, for with a cocked ear he could only discern the faint sound of metal on metal and the hollow shrieks of elves. After a few minutes the sounds died away with a slight shift in wind direction, so Thrum continued onwards.
After what he could only guess as a period of one or two long hours of determined and strength-sapping walking he stumbled through a tangle of branches and into a clearing, a small oddly-familiar well and bucket before him. At first he couldn’t believe it, but when he finally accepted the truth, the surroundings clicked into place.
He realised he had been travelling in circles.
The thought circled in his brain like his path through the woods had done. Panic rose and he started to hyperventilate. He doubted he would survive a night in the forest. He dove back into the forest and away from the elvish village, no longer following the trail but blinding crashing through the undergrowth and cursing at every snag and catch.
Finally, out of breath and a stitch in his side, he stopped and forced himself to think. He needed to locate himself, to fix a direction. To do that he’d need to be able to see a landmark, if he could climb high enough he’d be able to see the road, perhaps, or at the very least, the Cragtop Mountains to the west. He paced in a breathless circle, head craned back, to find a suitable tree. Nothing presented itself, those gnarled trunks nearby over five arm spans in diameter and totally lacking in lower branches. There was no way he'd be able to get any purchase on the smooth vertical towers, and prospects didn't look promising if he did manage in any case; his eyes travelled up and up, the upper canopy a distant shadow in the sky. There was no way he had the nerve or skill to get up that high, and climbing a smaller tree would serve no point as far as gaining a vantage went.
The other option was to cast a spell of finding. He licked his lips in nervous anticipation, the words to the spell in his mind’s eye. He could do it.
He exhaled.
Flicking back the heavy sodden sleeves of his gown he thrust up his arms and began the incantation. It was not a long spell, only a score of words, and once done he looked about, alert for a signs something had happened. Rain continued to mist down, his feet slowly sinking in mud, the chorus of insects forming a monotonous background he no longer consciously heard. The forest remained impassive and, if anything, the trees seemed to lean over a little further as if angered.
His options were running out. He fixed his gaze determinately upon the nearest oak, whose lower branches seemed perhaps a little lower than the others. Before fear had time to take hold he leapt at it, fingernails clawing, feet scratching, embracing the trunk in a spreadeagled hug and scrambling blindly upwards.
Slowly, inexorably, his flailing limbs slipped on the wet surface, and when he opened his eyes instead of finding himself high above the ground as he expected, he was where he had begun. He stepped back to the ground resignedly. It was just not going to work. It was getting darker. He was lost. He was alone.
Fighting back tears Thrum launched a wild kick at some long stem
med mushrooms, the bunch of them exploding in a satisfying powder of spores and fragments.
Then he had a thought.
Of course, the scroll!
He pulled it from his pocket and read;
Calm down, we’re lucky, the elves are distracted for the moment. I know the way. Follow my lead.
Thrum’s loneliness vanished as he read Taukin’s almost paternal words; he’d forgotten he’d had a travelling companion all along, once one of the King's Four Archmages no less.
The words on the scroll faded to be replaced by an arrow pointing straight ahead and left. As he pivoted, the arrow remained in a fixed direction like that of a compass. He followed the arrow carefully, holding the scroll like a divining stick as he paced along. Taukin seemed to know the lay of the land, too, for his directions led him around the major obstacles and followed rudimentary paths for much of the time.
Finally, after a long stretch of walking, the forest above started to thin, blessed sunlight shafting onto the humus.
Thrum broke out from the folds and was suddenly out in the open. He gazed about in wonder, feeling that he had been in the forest a lifetime.
Here the sun was shining brightly in a bluebird clear day, the air clear and fresh. He allowed himself a manic laugh and stood head tilted back to the sky for some time. He had just broken the law of Mosswood; what goes in must not come out.
He had no idea where he had emerged, but he had not forgotten the one-armed magician of last night. With this thought in his mind he wasted no time in crossing the road and into the lush grass of the far side. He read the scroll, still in his hand.
Changed your mind yet?
Thrum set his chin.
“No, I must try the Archmages of the Ivory Tower.”
Did I just not save your life? Do you not listen? You must not go there! Time is of the essence, you do not know the dangers afoot. The Crylock has plans unfolding as we speak, and only I can stop them. The course to the Ivory Tower is fruitless.
Thrum shook his head.
“No, you have mistaken me. I am not your hero.”
He rolled the scroll back into a cylinder, feeling it twitch like an angry captured bug as he stuffed it back into this pocket. With a heavy sigh he steeled himself and set off northeast towards the coastline and the Ivory Tower.
He strode through the tall grass swelling like an ocean on all sides. The noise of crickets and the swish-swish of his footsteps blended into monotony as the day wore on, but Thrum relished the openness and freedom. Since his time in Mosswood he doubted he would ever feel comfortable in an enclosed space again. The load on his mind grew lighter with every step and before long he became convinced he did the right thing. The King’s Archmages would be able to sort this mess out; as long as he kept his head low and his pace steady he doubted the one-armed magician would find him. There was the thought of the nights to come, which would surely be cold and miserable, for he dared not start a fire (or possess the means) and he had lost his hobbit blanket when captured by the elves. Nevertheless, the day was mild and the rain had stopped, and that brought a little consolation.
He thought about Archendorf, and wondered what his big friend was up to right now.
“Ho there! Thrum, at last!”
Thrum almost fainted, sure he imagined Archendorf’s barrel of a voice, but sure enough as he turned there he was, riding high over the chest deep grass. As he drew closer, he saw Arc mounted upon a strange knock-kneed creature with a scraggly beard and lofty head. It paced towards him rapidly, the beast seemingly so urgent in its stride that its head stuck out on an impossibly long neck far ahead of its body.
“Archendorf? What the!? Is that really you?”
“It’s me all right, mate!” Archendorf drew to an awkward stop and leapt from the tall saddle in delight, not waiting for the camel to lower itself and rushing over and grabbing Thrum in a massive bear hug. “I thought I’d lost you!”
“How did you find me?”
“You’ll see, wait, ah, here they come now.”
The heads of several of the desert nomads came into view, Dulog the master tracker was in the lead and Quirk a close second. Archendorf waved them in.
“You led us on a merry chase, we lost you for a bit when your trail disappeared into Mosswood - I guess you ducked in there to try hide your trail, eh? But old Dulog the master tracker can’t be matched, he picked it up again not far away! Quirk, this is my friend, Thrum, and Thrum, this is Quirk and his team of ruthless and hot blooded desert raiders!”
“I sh’am honoured,” Quirk said.
“Why is he talking like that?” said Thrum to Archendorf blinking away a spray of spit.
“Don’t mind that, tell me what you’re doing here!” Arc said, his hand grasping Thrum’s shoulder. “Where are you off to, what plans are afoot?”
Trying to put his arm back in joint Thrum backed away and waved a hand in deprecation.
“No, no, look, you don’t understand. The quest, it’s over.”
Abrupt silence fell, even the camels stopped their snorting.
In the strained atmosphere Archendorf took Thrum aside and whispered, “What are you talking about?”
“I’m quitting, I’m going to the Ivory Tower.”
“The Tower? But they won’t believe you.”
“I know. But what chance do we have against the Crylock, it’s stupidity to even try.”
“But this was our story, it will work out, you just watch.”
“No, I’m a coward. I can’t go. I’d rather live to an old age than die young for some stupid quest.”
“Thrum, please, reconsider.”
Archendorf’s words were cut short as Thrum ripped the scroll from his pocket and thrust it away from his body. “You want a quest, well take it. Go on. Now leave me alone, and don’t follow me.”
Archendorf unwillingly took the scroll, his eyes wide. Thrum knew he turned his back on a solid friend, but emotions were in control, and not logic.
Archendorf called after him. For the first time Thrum heard contempt in the big man’s tone. “Live well, Thrum. I hope you enjoy your long life.”
Thrum could only lift a hand in silent goodbye as he continuing walking, taking deep shaky breaths.
