Neville cut in. “So, to recap, you’re telling us you sent your criminals to a remote prison which they colonised before mutating into something unrecognisable?”
“Correct,” replied Eathon.
Neville’s eyes widened. “My God,” he gasped. “Then they’re no better than our Australians...”
Nat sliced through a veil of cobwebs and stepped inside the entrance of Bludoch Dungeon.
Nat Lawler: Dungeoneer. That was going to look pretty sweet in the Special Interests box of her university application.
Clive called out. “Hold up, will you? You’re leaving behind a group of experienced adventurers.”
Nat doubted whether the Friday nights the boys spent rattling dice and drinking cheap cola would prove all that useful here, so she pressed on, the canary in the mineshaft. She soon found herself at the top of a stone staircase supported by beams of woodworm-infested timber that moaned ominously, as though the dungeon itself were groaning in torment. She gingerly descended the stairs, and after a plunge of at least a hundred feet, found herself in a huge hall that must once have functioned as the dungeon’s admissions block. Splashes of water drip-dropped from a towering, barrel vaulted ceiling. The hall was black save for sparse shafts of daylight that made it in from outside, piercing the gloom and glittering with motes of dust and dander.
“It looks clear,” Nat called, and as the message echoed back along the chain, the others began to file in, slowly filling the vast chamber.
Her companions entered the dungeon with great sufferance—the elves most of all—leery of a world with no sky.
“Pass me that light,” said Neville, who was still forced to rely on Galanthre for mobility, clinging to her like one of those monkey puppets with the velcro hands.
She pulled an old-fashioned torch from an iron sconce and passed it to him. Nev lit the rag-end with his Zippo, then lit his weed pipe for good measure. The torch caught fire, guttered for a spell, then blazed bright.
Clive recoiled as the light revealed a menacing skull hovering inches from his face. The yelp he made was an altogether female sound, forcing him to follow it with a corrective, manly cough.
Eathon leaned in for a closer look at the ancient skull, which was held at head-height by a wooden stake like some macabre department store display. “Human,” he reported.
Clive swatted the skull to the ground, establishing his dominance over the inanimate object.
Nat examined her surroundings. The hall they were stood in was about the size of a field hockey pitch. It was huge. So huge enough that it probably came with its own weather system. The ground was choked with rubble and debris, and the smell of wet chalk sat in her lungs like a couple of bricks.
“This place is a right old dog box,” noted Cleaver.
“We must tread carefully from here on in,” implored Eathon. “The dwarves are not known to receive visitors well.”
“I’m sure they’ll be fine,” remarked Terry. “They can’t be any worse than you lot, can they?”
While Nat’s companions wagged their jaws, she was busy looking for a way ahead.
“There’s a door leading left and another one going right,” she reported. “Which one should we take?”
“I reckon we chuck a Lenny,” said Cleaver.
“Pardon?”
“Go left,” the sword clarified, tugging her hand in a westerly direction.
“Alright then,” said Nat, and turned the handle on a black lacquered door wrapped with thick iron bands.
Terry grabbed her by the shoulder and yanked her back before she could take another step. A guillotine blade sheared past Nat’s nose and sliced the tip off one of her Ugg boots.
Terry held Nat wrapped in his arms. “Left is death,” he reminded her.
“My hero,” screamed Nat’s hormones as she clutched onto her saviour. God, he felt good. Adventuring really suited Terry. He just seemed so… sure of himself. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but the peach fuzz on his chin even seemed to be turning into something close to a beard. She leaned in for a kiss, but Terry remembered they were still fighting and shrugged her off.
“We’d better get going,” he said.
Eathon determined that the safety of his people would be best served if they remained in the entrance hall until contact with the dwarves was established. Consequently, instead of moving forward en masse, he and Galanthre broke away to join the humans and forge ahead as a scouting party. Together they pushed on into the dungeon, descending a second staircase made of black basalt veined with flecks of white. As they plunged deeper, the flame of Neville’s torch licked against cobwebs, causing them to glow orange for an instant before puffing from existence. At the bottom of the stairs, the party found themselves in a tight passageway that opened into a labyrinth blanketed by vast colonies of sour-smelling fungus.
Ashley ran a finger along a mildewed wall. “We’re a long way from Chislehurst caves,” he remarked.
The party entered the mouth of the maze and wound their way through its twisting corridors. Without meaning to, Nat found herself sandwiched between Terry and Eathon, a quandary that somehow made her even more uncomfortable than the journey itself
“Didn’t we already pass that patch of red ‘shrooms?” asked Neville, who in truth had been on the lookout for psychedelics.
They had indeed. Despite their best efforts, the gang had become hopelessly lost within the warren’s complex snarl. The dwarf dungeon was already proving to be as maddening as it was impenetrable, like a visit to IKEA on a bank holiday weekend. Plodding along blindly was doing them no good. To solve the maze, Nat would have to navigate the warren of her own grey matter. She thought on it a while and then, “I’ve got it,” she said, placing a hand on the wall of the corridor and taking the lead. “Follow me, guys.”
The party pursued Nat as she threaded her way through the maze. Not once did her hand stray from the right hand wall, even though again and again she found herself hitting a dead-end. Instead of giving up though, she simply doubled back, unflagging, never losing her sense of purpose.
Right.
Right.
Right.
About-face.
Right.
“Whatever you’re up to, it isn’t working,” groaned Clive. “Guys, why are we following her? She has no idea what she’s doing.”
This went on for the better part of a half-hour: Nat leading the party deeper into the rat’s maze, Clive pouring on scorn, until finally, rounding one last corner, there they were, exiting the other end.
Nat had solved the maze.
“Wicked,” said Ashley, thoroughly impressed.
“How did you suss it out?” asked Neville.
Nat grinned. “I remembered a thing I saw on the internet once. The trick is to keep following the right wall no matter what, and eventually you’ll get spat out the other end.”
“How did I not know that?” cursed Neville. “I’ve been dungeon-diving since I was eight-years-old.” He shook his head in dismay. “Man, my intelligence points must be way down.”
The party followed the corridor out of the maze and down yet another staircase, which eventually landed them in a new chamber. The room was ice cold and suffused with a peculiar bluish light that made it seem colder still. The adventurers crossed the room’s flagstone floor to find a chest in the middle of the chamber, thick with a layer of undisturbed dust. The chest was lacquered black and wrapped in thick iron bands.
“Same design as the guillotine trap,” noted Neville. “Must have been built by the same guy.” He stroked his chin. “Beautiful craftsmanship.”
“Can you please not give props to the nutjob trying to kill us?” Clive muttered from the side of his mouth.
“So, what’s the play?” asked Ashley.
“What do you mean?” asked Nat, already on her way to the nearest exit.
“The chest,” said Ashley. “How we gonna jack it?”
“Why would we do that? We all know it’s going to
be trapped.”
“Yeah, but what if there’s something good in there?” said Neville, rubbing his hands together. “It could be full of treasure, or magic weapons... or anything.”
“Who cares?” Nat screeched. “We didn’t come down here for treasure.”
“Oh I forgot,” spat Clive. “You already have your magic weapon, don’t you?”
“Wind it in,” Cleaver warned him.
“Or what?”
Things were getting out of hand. Nat tried to reason with her people to leave the chest be, but there was no getting through to them.
Finally, Clive brought it to a vote. “Anyone who wants to know what’s in the mystery box, say aye.”
Except for Nat, all arms shot up. Her boyfriend—if in fact his still was her boyfriend—had his hand held as high as the rest. Even the elves had to admit they were curious about the contents of the chest.
“Fine,” said Nat, throwing up her hands despairingly. “Knock yourself out.”
Ashley rubbed his paws together and knelt down in front of the chest. He placed his fingers on a pair of iron clasps, sucked some air through his teeth and—
“What are you doing?” cried Neville.
Ashley froze. “What?” he replied, heart thumping against his ribcage.
“You know better than that,” Nev scolded. “Open it from the back. There’s bound to be a poison dart come flying out the front.”
Ashley slapped his forehead. Of course! He walked around to the other side of the chest and reached across to open it from behind. He was about to pop the clasps when he suddenly froze. “Hold up. What if they knew I’d go round back and set a dart to brap me from there?”
Clive stroked his chin. “I’ve got it,” he said, bringing to bear the vast knowledge of a qualified Game Master. “Open it up from the side.”
Ashley nodded and skirted around the chest. His companions stood to one side also, so as not to be caught in the firing line. Ashley flipped the clasps and lifted the lid with a lusty creak and—
—immediately darts flew in every direction, shooting from the chest like a porcupine shaking off its quills. Everyone took a hit, all except for Neville, who was shielded by his faithful steed, Galanthre.
“Told you—” said Nat, but before she could get out her first expletive, the poison kicked in and she crumbled to the floor.
The others quickly followed suit, Galanthre too, depositing her passenger on the ground like a hot potato.
As Neville lay on the flagstones, he had only one thing to say.
“Now that is clever...”
Chapter Eighteen: Disarmed
NAT SAW DOTS of flickering light swimming in the darkness. At first she thought she was outside again, watching glow bugs dance about the campfire, but as the world came into focus she saw it wasn’t the lights that were swimming, but her head. The dots came from braziers mounted on stone walls, which cast a dim blush of light on her surroundings. Nat opened her eyes fully to find herself lying upon a stone slab. She was surrounded by a number of small, bearded people, who peered at her with some curiosity.
“Well hellooo,” she said cheerily, still high from the effects of the knock-out drug. She reached out a hand and stroked the beard of the closest dwarf. “You must be bashful,” she chirped, “and let me guess…” she added, aiming a wobbly finger at another dwarf, “...you’re Dopey.”
The dwarf swatted her finger away with his calloused hand. “Why, ye wee beggar!” he roared.
“My mistake,” said Nat, exaggeratingly jutting out her bottom lip, “You must be Grumpy.”
“Snap out of it, Nat,” spoke another voice.
The voice belonged to Neville, who was in the room also, manacled to a wall with the rest of the scouting party. By the looks of things, they were all in a large cell of some kind. That or a Fifty Shades sex dojo. Nat’s head began to clear some more and she remembered being darted, then nothing. She went to get up but couldn’t for the heavy chains wrapped around her waist and chest.
“Why am I tied to a slab?” she demanded.
“Ye cracked ye noggin when ye fell o’er,” replied the dwarf Nat had regretfully dubbed Dopey.
She could see now that he looked nothing at all like a Disney character. His rugged features weren’t in the least bit cartoonish, they were leathery and built from wrinkles and scars. He wore a beard cut into the shape of double-headed axe, a vertical braid in the middle forming a shaft and whiskers parted either side to resemble twin axe heads.
“Ahr physician put ye dahn so 'e could gerra look at thee,” he explained. “Now sit still ‘n’ shurrup, by ‘eck.”
The aforementioned physician approached the slab and checked a dressing on Nat’s head. His beard was plaited together to look like the twisting snakes of a caduceus, which she recognised as the symbol for medicine.
“You’re the physician?” she asked the dwarf. “I’m a physician too. Well, a physician in training.” She was thoroughly overusing the word “physician,” the result of a particularly powerful strain of nerve toxin, plus some lingering concussion. Suddenly her eyes lit up. “Wait a minute,” she squealed. “You’re a physician and a dwarf... so, is your name Doc?” She laughed like an absolute twat.
As the dwarves shook their heads in dismay, Galanthre burst into action. “Release us from our bonds, muck delvers!” she ordered, rattling her chains like an angry phantom.
The dwarf with the axe beard laughed. “Not piggin’ likely,” he scoffed.
“What have you done with the rest of our people?” Galanthre asked through gritted teeth.
“We rounded up ye stragglers and put ‘em in t’ cells below,” the dwarf told her. “It’s about time ye lot gorra taste o' the prison ye built.”
Galanthre strained at her bonds, thrashing her feet at the dwarf, who kept just out of reach.
“It were a cruel torture bein’ locked dahn ‘ere, but we endured,” he said. “We learned t’ make this dungeon ar ‘ome. Learned t’ love it. And all t’ spite thee.”
“You’re nothing but filthy moles,” Galanthre mocked. “Living in darkness among the mud and the sludge.”
“And where d’ ye think t' roots o' thy precious holy tree grow from if not fer mud?”
“There is no holy tree,” said Eathon, cutting into the conversation before it could spiral any lower. “It burned down when Drensila’s army set fire to it. The same army marching on your gates while we waste time arguing.”
The dwarf made a face like a clenched fist. “Army?” he growled.
Nat and her companions were fitted with prison shackles and marched from their cell at sword-point. By now, Nat had managed to regain her senses. She’d also regained her memories, flashbacks of which came back to her like scenes from a TV clip show, only instead of a Best Of it was an absolute Worst Of.
The prisoners were led into a large rectangular room. A gallery of dwarven crossbowmen with limbs shaped like drumsticks pinned them in their sights. The far side of the room was covered by a thick pane of glass, which showed through to the earth behind it like the transparent wall of an ant farm. Beyond the glass were various tunnels and cavities, which teemed with bugs the size of a man’s skull and worms as big as boa constrictors. The ceiling of the room was low, causing the taller of the prisoners to have to stoop uncomfortably. In the centre of it all was a large, cobalt throne, upon which sat an elderly dwarf with a great, distended belly. He wore a beard that would put even the most dedicated hipster to shame.
The axe-bearded dwarf that had grilled the gang back in the cell shoved Nat forward.
The dwarf king was stout and bear-like, and spoke with a voice like a bassoon that has been left out in the rain. “Wha' is it tha’ brings ye t’ ar realm, trespasser?” he asked.
Nat cleared her throat and attempted a curtsy. “We’ve come to seek your help, your majesty. There’s a war coming and the only way we’ll survive it is if you join forces with us.”
Axe-beard snickered. “Why would
we 'elp you lot afta what ye did t’ us?”
Another of the dwarf guards agreed. “Ahd soona shave me whiskers than 'elp an elf.”
“You stunted lackwits!” raged Galanthre, straining at her bonds.
“You shurrup or ahl round off thy ears wi' a pair o' pinkin’ shears,” Axe-beard shouted back.
He went to cudgel the elf with the pommel of his hatchet but stayed his hand when he saw the dwarf king shake his weary head.
“Wha’ is this war o' which ye speak?” the king asked.
Eathon answered. “We speak of the war between Drensila the Black and all of elvenkind,” he explained, “of which we are the last survivors.”
The king raised a bushy eyebrow. “Ye mean t’ say ye buried us inna pit, onny ta come beggin’ for ahr 'elp t' moment t’ surface world prov’d inhospitable?”
“You make it sound as though we’ve suffered an inconvenience,” replied Eathon. The House of Durkon has dedicated decades to annihilating us. They’ve razed our lands. Destroyed our holy tree—”
“—I know somethin’ o’ trees,” the king interrupted. “No’ trees o’ leaf ‘n’ bark, but family trees. Ah can trace mine back thousands o’ years t’ the first of ma ancestors t’ ‘ave set foot in this dungeon. Sent ‘ere t’ die for t’ crime o’ petty larceny. Sent ‘ere by thy kin. An naw ye come afore us, disturbin’ ahr sanctuary ‘n’ bringin’ an army t’ ahr doorstep?”
Trolled: The Complete Saga (The Trolled Saga) Page 15
