Nev smiled back. As inauspicious as this meeting had proven so far, he felt an immediate kinship with this surly half-pint lording it up in his junk grotto. He was reminded of a technician on his engineering course, a loveable curmudgeon named Jim who lived in a converted broom cupboard and was as leery of the students he was trusted to assist as he was eager to disparage them.
“They call me Tidbit,” said the dwarf, extending a miniscule hand.
“Neville,” replied the human, shaking it.
With that awkward introduction out of the way, the two began to talk shop. They soon became friendly. Tidbit explained his function among the dwarves, which consisted of looking after their mechanical inventory and building mining equipment, structural support, underground plumbing, you name it. In turn, Neville revealed that he was something of an engineer himself, and the two bonded over the dwarf’s impressive collection of parts and contraptions.
“You really build all this stuff in house?” asked Nev, curious to know if Tidbit had sourced some of the more exotic artefacts from above ground.
“It int t’ done thing f’ a dwarf t’ go up top,” he replied, then offered a wink. “Tha’ don’ always stop me though.”
Neville’s eyes landed on a work in progress. Rifling among the unassembled bits and pieces, he found a lever and a sign that read ‘TREASURE VAULT RELEASE.’ The lever was lacquered black and decorated with rings of iron banding. “What’s this?” he asked.
“Ahm glad ye asked, lad,” replied the beaming dwarf. “This ‘ere is ma real passion… dungeon traps.”
“Wait a minute,” said Nev, “I know this design. You’re the guy who made the treasure chest with the dart shooter, right?”
Tidbit grinned. “Ye recognise ma signature then, eh?”
“Love your work, dude. Big fan. So what have we got going on here?” he asked, pointing to the mysterious vault release sign.
“It’s a poetic ‘beware wha’ ye wish fer’ sort o’ deal. Yer dungeoneer pulls t’ lever ‘n’ ‘e gets a mountain o’ gold coins fer ‘is trouble… about two tonne o’ t’ stuff, straight on his noggin.”
Neville backed away. “Whoa, dude, that is dark.” He slapped a hand on the dwarf’s back. “I love it.”
Ashley arrived in his quarters to find Clive sat waiting for him, arms crossed.
“Wrong room, cuz,” Ash told him.
Clive eyed him soberly. “Lock the door and come in.”
Ash did as requested. “What up, my bredren?”
“We have to go,” replied Clive, getting straight to the point.
“What you chattin’ about?”
“You and me. Right now. Come on, grab your things.”
“You’re clownin’, bruv.”
Clive sprang to his feet, his face a gargoyle made flesh. “She lied to us! That tree could have sent us home but she lied to us! Now we’re going to die eating boiled lichen and rat meat because of some dumb bitch on a power trip. Screw her, and the unicorn she rode in on.”
“Easy,” Ashley urged. “Where you getting this shit?”
“It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the two of us getting gone.”
“Why just us? What about the others?”
Clive slumped his shoulders. “Even if they agreed, they’d only slow us down. We can get out of this though; you with the brawn and me with… well, everything else.”
Ashley regarded him incredulously. “You think I’d snake my fam like that?”
“Face it, you don’t belong here.”
“I'm a bruvver from Ongar, I don’t belong nowhere. I know who my friends are though.”
“They’re not your friends. Take a look at where you are. Friends don’t walk you into your own grave.” He made for the door.
Ashley called after him. “You're not gonna do nothin’ stupid are you?”
Clive turned, his hand on the doorknob. “Of course not,” he said.
“For real?”
“You can trust me, Ashley. I’m a man of my word.”
And he left.
Neville’s new wheelchair sat clamped upside down on the grotto’s workbench. He span the rear left wheel and watched as it turned smoothly on its bearings, no wobble, no sound. It really was a marvel of medieval engineering.
“You’re a genius,” he told Tidbit.
“Ye did t’ work,” the dwarf replied, modestly. “Ah mosty jest fetched t’ parts ‘n’ followed thy lead.”
But Nev had more praise to heap. “Seriously, the stuff you’re up to down here is years ahead of what’s going on up top.” He spun the wheel of his chair again and a thought occurred to him. “Hey, what do you say about the two of us putting our heads together and seeing what we can do about this army coming our way?”
“Sounds like a plan,” replied the dwarf, stroking his bald chin. “Ahl put on a brew.” He made for a teapot but Neville stopped him.
“I was thinking something a bit stronger,” he said, taking a pipe from his pocket and a baggie of something green.
The next few hours passed by in something of a blur, at least for Neville. Having blazed through several considerable pinches of potent skunk, he was finally in the flow, perceptions unshackled, kicking out fresh ideas left, right and centre. At least that was the picture in his own mind. To the casual observer—meaning Tidbit—Neville’s grand display of divergent thinking amounted to him lying on his back and repeating the word “Trebuchet” over and over, because apparently it was “Such a funny word.”
The dwarf snatched the baggie from Nev’s hand and scowled at what he saw. “Nay wonder yer brain’s curdled, lad, ye smoked tha’ whole sack o’ weed!”
Neville slumped his shoulders and looked back at him with a glassy stare. “Sorry, dude,” he mumbled, and meant it. “Man, I am baked.” Now he came to think of it, nothing terribly productive had ever come of all the smoking he did. He’d long operated under the romantic notion that getting high tweaked the creative centres of his brain—and there was a certain truth to that—but what Neville needed right now was a weapon of war, not a really inventive idea for a new pizza topping. He rubbed his bleary eyes. “I think we’re going to need to bring someone else in on this.”
“My folk aren’t t’ thinkin’ type,” sighed Tidbit. “Dwarves ten’ ta stop askin’ questions t’ moment they sprout their furst whiskas.”
Neville nodded solemnly, then his addled eyes suddenly widened.
“Wha is it?” asked the dwarf, excitedly. “Have ye got summat?”
“Yeah, I have.” said Nev, plucking a loose scrap of weed from the bottom of his pocket. “And here it is.”
Tidbit threw up his hands in dismay. “Go ahead then, lad. Don’t ye worry abaht t’ rest of thee. Ye just lay there gerrin’ high as a kite.”
Neville’s eyes widened again, even more so than the last time. “Kite!” he repeated, and propped himself up on his elbows, tossing the scrap of weed as he did so.
Tidbit raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Wha’ is it naw?”
“How long does a storm carry on for around here?” Nev asked.
“T’ throbbin’ beast rollin’ ower us reet naw is set t’ last anotha fortnight a’ least.”
“That’s very precise,” replied Neville, impressed. “How do you known that?”
The dwarf helped Neville into his new wheelchair and rolled him over to a complex set of hand-built apparatus. He tapped the various dials of the machine and checked numerous levels of mercury.
“Tis a weather instrument,” said Tidbit. “Sensor tunnels reet up thru tha’ rock ‘n’ reads t’ pressure on t’ surface.” He puffed out his chest. “Just ‘cos ma brethren don’t care wha’ goes on oop top, dun’t mean ah don’t.”
A broad grin spread across Neville’s face. “Get that brew on,” he told the dwarf, “You and me have got work to do.”
TWO DAYS WENT by. The dwarven high council spent the time formulating a defence plan for the trolls’ arrival, but with less than twenty-four hours remaini
ng until Drensila’s forces were set to arrive and a winning strategy still some way off, the visitors were invited to make their own contributions.
The meeting was hosted by a circle of dungeon dwellers and led by the hard-headed dwarf with the axe-beard. The elven community was represented by Eathon and Galanthre. The humans, fronted by Nat, were invited to attend in full.
The delegates filed into a large chamber—a mess hall hastily reconfigured into a war room—with seats arranged around a large well covered by a makeshift tabletop. The surface of the table was laid with placeholders bearing the names of the guests, which made the occasion feel like a bizarre, conversationally strained wedding reception. Nat noted that the placeholder bearing Clive’s name sat in front of an empty chair. “Again?” she thought, frustration mounting. “Am I going to have to tie a cowbell to that idiot?”
She leant over to Ashley, who was sat at her side. “Where the hell did he get to now?” she whispered.
Ashley shrugged. “Don’t ask me.”
“Can you have a look for him?”
“Oh, izzit?” he replied, clucking his tongue. “Send a bruvva on your errands, yeah?”
“No, no, I only meant…” Nat’s head shook vigorously as her eyes bulged from their sockets and her hands came together in silent prayer. It was a veritable explosion of white guilt, and it made her look as though her human suit was malfunctioning.
Ashley snapped his fingers, Ali G style. “I’m just playin’, yo. Man, you looked less vexed when that guillotine nearly had your face off.” He made for the door, still chuckling, off in search of Clive.
Axe-beard banged a rock on the tabletop. “If yer all done flappin’ yer gums, I’d like t’ bring this meetin’ t’ order.”
A hush fell on the room. Satisfied, Axe-beard rolled a blueprint of Bludoch Dungeon onto the table and pinned the corners with four polished pebbles.
“We cannae allow t’ trolls ta gain a foothold in ahr dungeon,” he declared. “Ahr best strategy, when t’ enemy stomps dahn ahr gates, is ta face ‘em in t’ entrance hall.” He pointed to the proposed choke point with the tip of a dagger.
“I don’t get it,” said Nat, “wouldn’t we be better off letting the trolls all the way inside so your traps can pick them off?”
Axe-beard snorted. “By ‘eck, lass, ahr traps were built t’ turn away nosy beggars like ye lot, not t’ ‘old back an army.” He turned to Eathon, eyes rolling. “‘onestly. ‘ow did you lot come t’ follow this one, eh?”
“She is the Chosen One,” said Eathon. “I’d follow her through all hells.”
But for all his talk of ancient prophecies, Terry saw right through him. For the first time he snatched a glimpse of the elf for what he truly was: a lovesick puppy nursing a doomed crush on his girlfriend. Quite against his will, Terry actually managed to feel some sympathy for the handsome bastard.
“If anyone’s interested,” said Neville, putting up a hand, “me and your man here have come up with a pretty cool deterrent of our own.”
Tidbit took his cue and wheeled a trolley into the room. The occupants turned to get a look at it, but its contents were covered by a sheet.
“Well then,” said Axe-beard, “let us gerra a look a’ it then, eh?”
Tidbit was just about to whip off the sheet when Ashley blundered into the room.
“It’s Clive,” he gasped.
“What about him?” asked Nat.
“He’s gone.”
“Very funny,” said Terry.
“No, for real!”
Either Ashley was telling the truth, or he was due an Oscar. “What do you mean he’s gone?” urged Nat.
“Bounced. Done a runner. Pissed off without us.”
“No way,” said Terry. “He’s probably just gone for a wander, you know what he’s like.”
“Nah, cuz, not this time.”
“Ye seem pretty sure o’ tha’,” said Axe-beard, noting the suspicious look on Ashley’s face. “Is there summat yer no’ tellin’ us?”
Ashley slumped his shoulders. “He said something a couple of days ago about taking off. He tried to get me to roll with him, but I told him no way.”
“Why didn't you tell anyone?” begged Terry.
“I thought he was just having a wobble. I asked him flat out if he was gonna do one and he promised he wouldn’t. Told me he was a man of his word.”
“Yes,” said Nat, “and that word is lying.” She slammed a fist on the table, flattening his placeholder. “We should have known he was a rat from the start. You saw what happened when he tried to pick up Cleaver.”
“Right. He got burned,” remembered Neville.
“If that’s not a sign I don’t know what is,” said Nat.
Ashley’s face became increasingly pinched at the mention of Nat’s enchanted sword.
“What is it?” she asked, sensing he had more to say.
“About Cleaver...” Ashley sighed.
“What?”
“I checked your room when I was looking for Clive and…
“And?”
“I don’t how but… Cleaver’s gone.”
Chapter Twenty: Rogue
CLIVE WAS DONE taking orders. From the moment he’d arrived in this godforsaken place he’d felt like a leaf on a roaring river, powerless against the current, stolen by the flow. The time had come to take charge of his destiny. He wasn’t proud of himself for running out on his friends, but what else could he do? Stick around and wait for some troll to crack open his skull like a ripe pumpkin? No. He had to be pragmatic. Too bad if Terry and the rest didn’t see things for what they were. This was the one chance they had of surviving this hostile land, and he was damned if he wasn’t going to take it. So, while the others were busy rearranging deckchairs on the Titanic he’d taken his leave, but not before securing himself an insurance policy for the road ahead.
After all, why go to war with the most powerful woman in the land when you can befriend her, and what better way of doing that than to give her the one weapon capable of her downfall? Standing in Drensila’s way was lunacy—Clive had seen that from the start—but only now was he in a position to ingratiate himself with the enemy. All he had to do was transport the sword to the Citadel of Durkon so Drensila could melt it into slag and welcome him onto her side. It wasn’t easy getting his hands on the enchanted blade, in fact it was literally impossible. He was able to manoeuvre it using a levitation spell though, floating it into the air like a table at a séance and depositing it into a burlap sack. The same sack he now carried over his shoulder as he made haste to the citadel.
Clive was becoming quite adept at spellcasting; it was getting to be second nature in fact. He’d begun to see magic in everything: the trees, the earth, the very air around him. Casting a spell was just a means of freeing what was already there. To think, magic had once seemed so special. Not that long ago, when he only knew the “sorcery” of David Copperfield and the like, it was a thing of wonder. And he supposed it still was in a way. At least a TV illusionist has to develop sleight of hand. Stage presence. Showmanship. In this world, all a man needed to perform miracles was a certain sensitivity and a bit of imagination. Real magic, to the right mind, was ordinary. Commonplace. No more impressive than flicking on a light switch.
A muffled voice emerged from the knotted burlap sack. “You’re going the wrong way, ya dirty tea leaf,” Cleaver noted glibly.
Clive ignored him, pushing through thickets and keeping to a brisk pace. He knew for a fact that he was on the right bearing. It was as though the Citadel of Durkon were a magnet and his blood was filled with iron filings, so unmistakable was the pull. That’s not to say the path ahead made for easy travelling. Far from it. The earth underfoot became increasingly boggy as the rain continued to beat down, slowing his progress considerably. That was okay though. He had a long walk ahead of him but he would endure. He was well-rested and he’d come with ample provisions, having purloined drinking water, meat and all the boiled lichen he could re
asonably eat.
And so Clive walked for half a day, his inner compass aimed squarely at Drensila’s stronghold as the rhythmic schlep schlep of mud sucked at his boots. The sword he carried continued to antagonise him every step of the way, cursing his name and threatening to find his way into every conceivable cavity of his body. Clive didn’t mind. He was used to being bullied. “Keep it up,” he thought. “This is my fuel. This is my power.”
He ploughed on for another couple of miles before he found himself walking across a bridge. He recognised it at once. He’d already crossed it going the other way, when he and the others had ridden to the dwarves’ deathtrap dungeon. It was a crude, wooden platform that spanned a swamp for a good mile further. He crossed the bridge to what he estimated to be the halfway point and stopped to take in some rations. By this point, Cleaver had shouted himself hoarse and gone quiet. Clive snuffed the air and sighed. The whiff from the swamp was hardly pleasant, but it smelled like perfume compared to the musty, claustrophobic stench of the dwarf dungeon.
A brief break in the storm presented itself, leaving the sky silent and grey. The woods were almost shy of sound save for the pitter patter of raindrops on lily pads and a distant knocking noise. What was that noise? At first Clive took it for a woodpecker, but its rhythm was too slow for that. Besides, it was getting closer. And closer still. It dawned on him then that he knew that sound. He’d heard it once before at the elven village. It was the sound of drumming. Of weapons being beaten on shields.
A troll army was headed his way.
Clive felt sharp pinpricks of terror, like a vole pierced by the talons of a swooping falcon. His bones seemed to calcify and he found himself quite unable to move. What was he going to do? He had faith that he could reason with Drensila, but if the trolls found him first they’d tear him apart like a cat toy. He had to run. Now. But where to? Drensila’s army ants would soon be in view, and when they spotted him they’d hound him down long before he could double back and lose himself in the woods. The only other directions available offered no means of escape, blanketed as they were by impermeable swampland.
Trolled: The Complete Saga (The Trolled Saga) Page 17
