Davidia and the Prince of Triplock

by Ken Spargo

  ‘Damn you,’ it protested. The transition was painless.

  ‘Who’s next?’ teased Ignatus. He was on a roll.

  Another tried trickery and deceit by gaining Ignatus’s attention, while three other Irrids tried to ambush him from behind and at the sides. The same fate befell the group. He was fleet of foot, far too strong and could jump three times his height while standing still. His outer casing had a special hardness none could crack. He twirled, danced and swung his lopper with such relish, he felt good about being in battle. His classy skills were too much for the slower moving lot. All were wrist-rubbed and each slowly changed and smelled sweet. They had finally awoken from the dark haze of evil that they had existed under for so long. Ignatus observed each transformed Irrid, looking for signs of continued evil. There were none.

  ‘Batbit, my powers work,’ he exclaimed, excitedly.

  The transformed, hateful Irrids had suddenly lost their purpose and focus and felt lost and emotionally abandoned. Ignatus realised that he must act immediately. Acting like a prophet he had to set the converted on the right path.

  ‘Go, my brothers, redeem the lost.’

  With these words, they scampered back to the main force looking for a friend. There were none there, so they had to create their own. Ignatus watched from a safe distance. The transformed, much to his surprise, repeated his identical actions on other Irrids. Practice loppers became a victim to goodness they also hadn’t experienced in a long time. His success began to grow like fungus spores, spreading throughout the forces. The Irrids began to lose their zombie-like antics and embrace change. However, the rate of change to goodness wouldn’t be enough to stop the attack on Triplock. As time went on, the odds of defence improved.

  ‘What’s that sickly smell?’ One of the leaders sniffed a change and questioned some of his forces. The transformed Irrids were having an effect.

  ‘There’s something not quite right, leader. A few of our fellow Irrids have stopped snorting and acting nastily. They have been affected by something unusual,’ commented a prospective nasty. ‘It wouldn’t have been anything intelligent you said, could it, that has caused such irrational behaviour?’

  The incensed leader swung his lopper and one headless, lifeless Irrid was left speechless.

  ‘Is there any more dissension or cleverness any one of you is endowed with?’

  Silence. No one dared cross this lunatic. They all wanted to continue with the chat.

  ‘Find out the cause of this irritating behaviour. You, yes, you, with the dribbling jowls. Go and tell Irridia that disharmony is occurring within our ranks. None of us can stand good behaviour. Go! If this sickly smells reduces our nastiness, it could hinder our ability to conquer. We don’t need any new friends because we didn’t have any to start with in the first place.’

  Dissension began to grow like a flea challenging an elephant. Goodness wasn’t acceptable in a nasty environment. Conflict broke out in small pockets. The once friendless Irrids now had amongst them a few who, surprisingly, tried to hug their fellow Irrids. It stunned them all. This wasn’t Irridion behaviour. They hadn’t experienced such warmth from another Irrid for so long. It was almost a forgotten emotion that their change had definitely hidden.

  When the Great Split occurred, Irridia fled, spouting revenge for her loss of title and opportunity to rule the Valley of Triplock. She set up the neighbouring Valley of Irridon. Unfortunately for her, the valley already had an evil inhabitant who was seeking growth for his evil ideas. It was during one dark that she sat alone in a cave where the induction to evil took place under his evil guidance. She was tutored and brain-washed by a mastermind manipulator. He possessed psychotic behaviour that, once transmitted to another, exhibited the same personality traits. Winds howled, murmuring words of revenge such as, ‘rightful place’ and ‘Igloods are the enemy’, and threats such as, ‘torture is therapy for the soul’ and ‘death of another is success for an Irrid’, were made. These were whispered all dark. Sleep deprivation was enforced by the cool, cold, circulating winds. These were mind games from which recovery was almost impossible. The Murmur knew his subject. Any goodness she possessed had been squeezed out of her like putting a lemon through a juicer. Once converted to evil, it was almost impossible to alter it. Irridia had succumbed because her revenge towards King Iglandus had overridden all her reasoning senses. She was easy game. The Murmur wanted to rule the valleys and watch evil flourish. Irridia believed that she was in control, but she wasn’t.

  To become a nasty, snorting Irrid, devoid of any warm emotions and full of negative traits, all captured life forms had to undergo a dark of Murmurfication – a terrifying, solitary ordeal in the Cave of Murm – and at the next light, a nasty Irrid emerged full of harm. Their senses were retrained and the transformation was complete. The capture of good life forms supplied the chaff upon which the army was built. The Irrids’ strength just grew and grew and a vicious, nasty, strong fighting force of loppers was born. The Murmur’s strength was harnessed by the evil mists he despatched from the Cave of Murm under the direction of Irridia, to wreak havoc, weaken resistance and finally take control of a valley. The Murmur and Irridia were driven by the same powerful aphrodisiac – power! The dull, grey atmosphere of cold, moisture-laden mists and constant darkness were all part of a plan that never allowed an Irrid a good time. Life was normally morose and boring.

  The scout reached the Cave of Murm. Irridia and her partner in evil, The Murmer, greeted it with suspicion.

  ‘There is trouble in paradise.’ A loose term if ever there was one. ‘A strange smell and non-Irridion behaviour is occurring,’ it said.

  ‘This had better not be a lie or an exaggeration or a time waster,’ answered Irridia, knowing exactly that the standard of Irrid explanation wasn’t always above par.

  ‘I don’t understand it.’

  ‘What are you telling me? Spit it out and not on me.’

  ‘Some Irridians are hugging and fighting each other. A sickly smell accompanies each altercation. I’ve never seen or smelt it before.’

  ‘Hugging each other? That’s not possible. That’s not a greeting used in Irridon,’ she scowled.

  ‘What is it? What does it mean?’

  Irridia had forgotten many of the good things that she had once practised. Evil had replaced any good thoughts. If she had a memory of times past, she would have realised what good a hug did.

  ‘A problem. Is the army ready to strike?’

  ‘They are raring to have a lop-off against Triplock.’

  ‘Have you seen any non-Irrid strange life forms?’

  ‘Should there be? I haven’t seen any at all.’

  ‘I am expecting an attack, but I don’t know in what form. It has been in the making for a long time.’ Her voice trailed off as if discovering a new thought. ‘King Iglandus can be very innovative. Let me deal with any intruder. I’ll lop and tail them.’ Irridia took a wild swoosh, which nearly lopped her scout. She enjoyed nothing more than a top class lopping or causing others to suffer pain at her hands. ‘Are you coming?’ She called to The Murmur.

  ‘In a moment.’ He dashed into the depths of the Cave of Murm to a special place.

  ‘Coward,’ Irridia yelled ferociously. She was ready for a serious stoush. Her evil eyes danced maddeningly. It was time to inflict pain.

  ‘Nothing will double cross me,’ The Murmur whispered to himself. ‘You three come with me,’ he ordered.

  There were three vacant winds known as the Murmettes who had not yet been assigned to perform an evil duty. They were first-timers and eager to please. The plan was to use them in a crosswind to cause instability and confusion against the Igloods. If Irridia was turned to good, he would destroy her. Nothing would stand in the way of his evil rule. With friends like The Murmur for support, who needed enemies?

  The conflict was escalating. It was impossible to assess the damage done by Ignatus’ intrusion effect because low visibility existed. The army was spread over a wide
area and had to be drawn in to gauge their strength and be advised of the new danger they now faced.

  Irridia arrived seething at the mayhem she saw. Spread out like locusts in a cornfield, her evil army seemed to be splitting apart. She was very powerful and, for an Irrid, had an air of beauty about her. Her finer exterior hid the deathly strength of her evil eyes. No one ever dared to outstare her. To try meant a shattered mind. In the case of an Irrid, that wasn’t difficult.

  The importance of the event was of an unimaginable scale of difficulty and stress level. Irridia stood out like a huge monolith on a flat, desert plain.

  An excruciating sound blasted from the end of a shell calling the army together. Its awful blast was so piercing that all combat stopped between the transformed and the non-transformed Irrids. The leaders of each group signalled for a gathering and congregated on the Plains of Wetness to listen to Irridia. She gazed over the substance of her revenge, Triplock.

  She paused and eyed her eager war fodder. Her mouth moved silently as if searching for a communication verb, vowel or sentence, and she sneezed.

  ‘I’ve been blessed,’ cried out a brainless Irrid, as splatter fell over the front of his torso. It writhed in wonderment at having received something from the honoured leader, even if it was just spittle.

  ‘Get it out of here,’ she commanded. ‘Are there any more bozos out there?’

  Nothing moved. They stood as still as a painting.

  ‘The last dark before the victory at next light is at hand. Sniff your final smells, lop an imaginary opponent or any who are causing difficulty and think of the task against the enemy. It will be exciting and real. Imagine the most delicious loppings one could ask for. At next light, breathe it in. This is what we have planned and waited for ages for. I’m choking on expectation.’

  Suddenly a gust of wind whistled through their legs. It was the Murmettes having a practice run at accessibility in a crowd. The Murmur wanted to ensure his trio of learners was up to the impending task set for them.

  ‘Something is hurting us. I feel it. Search it out and then lop it,’ said Irridia, as tense as a tennis racquet string.

  ‘How will we know who to lop or not to lop?’

  ‘Use your sniffers. Clean them out with a snort and use them. Find those that smell different and those that hug others. Be quick, otherwise you may fall under their spell. If you don’t wreak and stink badly you aren’t a true Irrid.’

  A sea of blank zombie-like looks grew on almost every face. In fact, they could almost pass for normal.

  ‘Hey, you, with the sweet, scented smell, come here,’ demanded a leader.

  ‘Do you like my new scented flavour? Would you like to share it?’

  ‘Rubbish! You don’t stink like me.’ With that last word spoken, the leader lopped the sweet-scented one.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ another Irrid asked Irridia.

  ‘It was an imposter Irrid. It smelt too nice. We’re nasty, filthy, smelling and stinky. Anyone who doesn’t smell that bad can’t be one of us. You there and you there, if anything smells that sweet, lop it. Go sort it out.’

  A wild group of insane, side-running Irrids whooped for joy. They could now actually use their lopping techniques. Practice was over.

  Irridia watched in irritation as a larger percentage of her army began engaging in behaviour unbecoming of an Irrid. Hugging! Ugh! It was deplorable. Small battles erupted like an attack of hives all over the plain. It was a ghastly sight as her army began to self-destruct. Whatever had infected it was clever and dangerous. However, the nasties soon gained the upper hand and the leaders proudly returned to Irridia, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  ‘Try and destroy me, would they? I’m too powerful,’ she said out loud.

  The sweet smellers weren’t all irridicated. A few were missed and survived because they weren’t fully scented. They would form the basis of a fresh wave of dissension.

  Ignatus surveyed the minimal success of his plan to turn the Irrids towards good. However, the remaining Irrid army was still far too strong. His plan had been detected early. Another approach of devious dimensions was required. He couldn’t defeat them all single-handedly, even with his immense powers. The sweet smell he possessed would be easily sniffed out. Batbit had sat silently on a stunted tree branch and was calculating plans of his own, when Ignatus approached.

  ‘Batbit. Fly around near their leader. That must be Irridia up there giving orders. She looks formidable.’

  Batbit struggled in the cold mist. Moisture kept wetting his wings, making them heavy. For a small bat, it was like flying with a friend. He swooped and dived like a flyspeck, assessing the enemy’s strength. He had the urge to shriek, but thought it better to be a “silent nothing” than a “known destroyed something”. He returned to Ignatus.

  ‘Over there, the leader is holed up. She can see everything. Her eyesight is far reaching, better than ours, I would suggest. The Irrids are snorting far louder. They sense a big event.’

  ‘Did any of my plans work?’

  ‘There seem to be a lot less Irrids now. The lopped ones suffered most. There wasn’t a happy face amongst them.’

  ‘What do you suggest we do?’

  Batbit dropped to the ground. He extended a bat wing and used his long fingers to draw a design on the ground. In the Rock of Yocklaw, he was a bat commander who planned the successful foray in the hunt for the juiciest insects each dark. He likened the Irrids to insects and devised a strategy of separation.

  ‘Tease an Irrid group on the fringe of the army with the promise of an easy lopping. The operation would work like tugging the tale of a dog, then running. Whisper that the cause of the disruption is this sweet-smelling Irrid, who is hiding amongst that rocky outcrop. Imagine the kudos for Irridia and her fellow Irrids if they secured victory over the dissenter – they are all ego heads wanting personal gain – then jump them with your spirited hugathon and wrist-rubbing technique – they wouldn’t know what hit them – then send them back to continue the transformations. What do you think? Ingenious, uh!’ explained Batbit.

  ‘Won’t it be discovered? I tried something similar before.’

  ‘Nah! Have faith. It’s so dark here, their innate curiosity is to sniff smells and they are experts at it. They know where life forms hide just by taking a huge whiff; however, they are easily led. They don’t have a lot of brains to affect their stupidity. A commander senses these things from observations. I can fly low and be used as bait. Chase me, and wham! Ambush! I can also pester them from above if necessary.’

  ‘There aren’t many of us here, so I suppose I’ll shoulder the heavy workload.’

  Ignatus felt empowered. As Grunt, he was given certain abilities, but now as Ignatus, his raft of possibilities had enlarged to almost limitless powers. They crept nearer to the force. Batbit selected a small group for harassment.

  ‘Psst. Psst.’

  A keen set of ears, probably not cleaned for a while, heard the sound.

  ‘If you want to do that on my foot, I suggest you move. I don’t need to smell worse.’

  ‘Psst. Psst.’

  ‘Turn off your moisture valve, you’ll dehydrate.’

  ‘Don’t snarl at me. I thought it was you.’

  ‘Me too. Who’s the culprit?’

  ‘Over here,’ whispered a tiny voice, so small its vibrations almost couldn’t be heard. ‘I know who’s causing the troubled loppings.’

  ‘Who?’ said a snorting snarler.

  ‘It’s over near those rocks. It’s waving to you thinking you are friendlies. Go and stick it to them, tiger.’

  ‘Tiger? Never heard of it.’

  They couldn’t see Batbit because of his size in the dark, but Ignatus stood tall, waving to them exactly as Batbit had explained. Six nasties leapt at the chance of a prized lopping.

  ‘Where did it go?’

  ‘Who’s hiding it?’

  ‘Let me lop something.’

  Suddenly, a whirlwind
materialised.

  ‘It’s not you, is it, Murmur, playing one of your tricks on us?’

  It encompassed all of them. Ignatus materialised to hug and wrist-rub each of the hapless Irrids. After the quick encounter, the Irrids stood dazed.

  ‘Whoa! Was that a trip and a half,’ said one.

  ‘Do I look normal to you?’ asked another.

  ‘Yes, but you smell different.’

  ‘Thanks, I didn’t think you’d notice.’

  The trap had worked perfectly. The “hit and run” technique was put into place. That dark, they worked the perimeter carefully as the “cloak and dagger” thrill seekers. The Irrid army began to grow restless again. Its stomach for action was becoming hungry. Their sniffers were kept active all dark. By next light, a sickly-sweet smell, not evident the previous dark, wafted on the breeze. The effect had unsettled them.

  Irridia awoke from a bad dream and flew out of her lodgings – a rock cave – to experience the same sickly smell that her army had spoken of. She scanned the valley below and could see tinted spiralling mists filter upwards. They were the wrong colour. Something was bothering her and it wasn’t her lack of clothing or colour coordination. She watched intently for any unusual behaviour patterns. On the fringes of the army, small groups were again hugging each other. She detested any expression of emotionality. What was undermining her? From her vantage point, she strode boldly into the midst of her army. Being an ex Iglood, she towered over her force.

  ‘I dare any of you to challenge me?’

  No one rushed forward. The Irrids might be fools at times, but never stupid enough to answer this challenge. Lopping would only have one consequence, them.

  ‘It’s time.’

  It was the beginning of the next light, the moment for attack. She instructed her leaders to organise their groups for the final push; however, there didn’t seem to be as many as she had thought. Had some deserted their quest?