“Making a bong,” Neville replied.
“Out o’ a pitfruit?”
“I can make a bong out of pretty much anything,” Nev bragged. “One time I made one out of a Mr Potato Head.”
“Wha’ manner o’ creature is tha’?” asked Tidbit, taken aback.
Neville didn’t bother to put him straight. Instead he lit the weed and drank down a hefty slug of smoke. “Here, get a toke on that,” he told the dwarf, “it’ll make you feel... more inventive.”
Tidbit gingerly received the forbidden fruit, and after much prompting, took a puff. He immediately broke into a coughing fit. “It kicks like a troglodyte,” he spluttered.
“I don’t know about you,” said Neville, “but I’m feeling more creative already.” He spread a sheet of vellum on the table then handed Tidbit a stick of charcoal and kept one for himself. “Let’s get busy,” he told the dwarf.
The two of them sat there a while, musing, mulling, meditating. There was doodling too. For all their effort though, nothing much came of it.
“Ah don’ gerrit,” said Tidbit. “Ma mind’s more befuddled than it were befor’, an ahm so piggin’ ‘ungry.”
“The trick is to smoke through it,” advised Neville, pushing the bong back in the dwarf’s direction.
Tidbit batted it away. “Nay more, lad,” he protested.
Neville slouched back in his seat. It was barely eleven o’clock in the morning and his mind was already shot. It was time Neville admitted the truth to himself. Weed wasn’t his Popeye spinach, weed was his crutch. It wasn’t something he did to expand his mind, it was a tranquiliser for his nerves. Calpo for a mewling wean.
As he sat there feeling sorry for himself, he absent-mindedly plucked rolling papers from a pack of Rizla and put them to the flame of his Zippo. He watched the tissue-thin papers ignite, then right before they burned down to his fingers he let them go and watched their ashes float off into the air.
He suddenly sat up in his chair. “I’ve got it!” he blurted.
“Wha’ is it?” said Tidbit, intrigued. “Are ye ‘avin’ another of yer notions?”
Neville grinned, snatched up a stick of charcoal and began to sketch.
DRENSILA RETURNED TO the throne room.
“Well, what did you learn?” asked Carnella, who’d made herself comfortable in the Durkon throne in her daughter’s brief absence.
“Everything,” Drensila replied, bullying her mother from her seat. “My new apprentice was most… thorough.”
Clive offered a sweeping bow. “Thanks to the prisoner we now have a complete overview of the enemy’s defences: numbers, resources, weapons. The lot.”
Drensila chimed in. “We also learned the whereabouts of a secret escape hatch leading into the heart of the dwarf dungeon.”
“He even gave up the location of the bedchamber Nat sleeps in,” Clive sneered. “His own girlfriend.”
Carnella seemed particularly interested in that news. “I see,” she said. “And what do you plan on doing with this newfound knowledge?”
Nibbling at an idea, Drensila twirled her rod of power like a majorette’s baton. “My first thought is to send a detachment of elite trolls through the hatch,” she replied. “Murder that pesky interloper while she sleeps.”
“The march to Bludoch Dungeon would take days,” noted Carnella.
“Not if my soldiers rode in tanks,” she replied, holding up the purloined smart phone to remind Carnella of her technological dominance.
“I believe I know of a more elegant solution.”
“What do you propose, mother?” asked Drensila, black fingernails drumming the armrest of her throne.
Carnella explained the plan to her daugher.
Clive didn’t hear it.
Clive was too distracted by Drensila’s rod, which—to him at least—hummed with an unbridled power so loud and so insistent that it deafened him to all else.
THE ELVES WEREN’T the only one’s capable of sending assassins to do their dirty work. The Durkon’s had their ways too; sinister ways, spiteful and obscene.
All was still in Nat Lawler’s bed chamber until a pale hand appeared from the antique dress mirror stood by her bed. Nat wasn’t there to see it, nor did she see the arm that appeared after it, dragging a raven-haired woman into the sanctuary of her boudoir. The flame of the room’s brazier flickered and turned from orange to blue. The temperature of the chamber plunged and webs of frost etched across its walls. Startled cockroaches scattered and scurried back into their cracks. Carnella the Cruel stepped through the mirror fully and regarded her surroundings with contempt.
“Savages,” she muttered.
She saw the rock bed in the centre of the room, and lying upon it, a familiar set of clothes. She recognised the outfit at once; she’d seen it modelled through the window of her scrying pool. The livery went with the pair of Ugg boots that sat at the foot of the bed. The one’s belonging to Nat Lawler. The prisoner hadn’t lied. Carnella had come to the right place.
She scanned the room until her eyes landed on a dresser, upon which lay a vanity mirror and various personal effects: a hair comb, a handful of loose change and various items of makeup. Among the cosmetics were a jar of rouge, and next to that a makeup brush. Carnella picked it up and ran a finger over its soft bristles. An idea formed in her mind. An idea, spiteful and obscene.
NAT STOOD OUTSIDE her bedchamber dressed in a thick flannel robe. She’d just returned from a visit to the dungeon’s bath house, having enjoyed her first proper wash since she arrived in The Broken Lands. Well, “enjoyed” might be a bit of a stretch. Though she did feel a hundred percent better for the visit, her experience of the shared bath had not been without its flaws. Soaking in warm, crystal clear mineral water from a centuries-old marble basin was wonderfully relaxing, but the sight of a dozen female dwarves’ stray whiskers floating about the place was certainly not. Nat was all for girl power—she once went a whole winter without shaving her armpits—but her principles went out the window the moment a stranger’s curly brown hair came perilously close to finding its way into her mouth. Brrrrr. No thank you.
Nat opened the door to her chamber and stepped inside. The room seemed chillier than before, but then she was still wet from the bath. She took a seat by the dresser and started to towel off her hair. The antique mirror in the corner caught her reflection and she grimaced at what she saw. Her skin looked puffy and sallow, and her eyebrows were turning into a single, giant caterpillar. Thank God she’d had the foresight to bring along some tweezers and a bit of slap when Terry dragged her into this whole mess. Oh, Terry, what was she going to do about him? The last time she’d seen him he’d told her “I love you”, and his words hung in the air, unanswered still. She shook her head. One thing at a time. She’d figure out a way to storm Drensila’s fortress and rescue her man, but not before taking care of that monobrow.
She picked up her pocket mirror and went to work, using a pair of tweezers to pluck a trench down the centre of the unruly range. It made her feel better right away. She put on some foundation and carefully blended it into her jawline. Nat wasn’t usually all that big on cosmetics, but she’d take all the creature comforts she could in this pit. She went for her makeup brush and found the blush wasn’t where she’d left it. Somehow, it had ended up at the opposite end of the dresser. Whatever. In a world of evil sorceresses and troll armies, wandering makeup was the least of her worries. She slid the rouge over and loaded up the makeup brush. She was just about to lay a stroke on her cheekbone when—
—”It hurts! Oh, it hurts!” came a shriek from outside. The voice belonged to a dwarf, and though it had the timbre of a rolling boulder, Nat had spent enough time among the subterraneans to recognise it as female.
She bolted for door, still dressed in a bathrobe, and went to see what the commotion was. Outside, one room along from her chamber, she found a dwarf maid clutching her cheek and yowling like a cat in a tumble dryer.
“What’s the mat
ter?” Nat asked, consoling the poor woman.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am, but I was cleanin’ yer room when ah saw yer pretty things and—”
She doubled up in agony, unable to finish.
“Just tell me what happened,” urged Nat, putting an arm around the dwarf’s shoulder and leading her into her room, where she took a seat on the edge of the bed.
The dwarf struggled on. “Ah saw yer brush lyin’ there on t’ dresser an’ thought ahd doll meself oop a bit.”
Nat eyed the pot of rouge and remembered how she’d found it displaced. “It’s probably just an allergic reaction,” she assured the maid.
The dwarf screamed again and buried her face in her hands.
Eathon appeared at the chamber door, and a moment later, Rundal.
“Wha’s all t’ hubbub?” said the axe-bearded dwarf.
“I don’t know,” pleaded Nat. “She says she was doing her rounds when she had a try of my blusher.”
Still screaming, the maid removed her face from her cupped hands. She wore a welt on her cheek, swollen and livid.
“What in all hells?” said Eathon.
The welt bloomed, growing fast, as though something were pushing on it from inside of her head. Nat fought her disgust and leaned in to examine the strange bulge while Eathon held the thrashing dwarf down. There was something inside for sure. Something wriggling, fighting to get out.
“What the hell is going on?” Nat screamed.
“‘elp me!” begged the maid, but it was too late for that.
The welt erupted.
Split open in a jagged tear and disgorged a stream of tiny creatures.
Spiders.
Hundreds upon hundreds of them.
Spiders everywhere.
Pouring from the wound like some impossible geyser.
Nat instinctively leapt backwards, as did Eathon and Rundal. The spiders kept coming, crawling all over the maid’s body and coating her like a writhing black skin as she tossed about the bed trying to shake them free.
“We have to help her,” yelled Nat, but Eathon held her back.
It was futile. The spiders began to consume the dwarf’s tiny body, feasting on her flesh until there was nothing left of her but clean, white bones. The whole thing played out in moments. One second there was a living, breathing person lying upon the bed, the next a pile of lifeless matter.
The spiders scurried off the remains and disappeared into the room’s many cracks and crevices.
Nothing was said at first. The three horrified spectators simply stood there, hearts racing as they contemplated the scene they’d just borne witness to.
Nat looked to the makeup brush and felt a cold prickle. “That was meant for me,” she croaked.
Eathon picked up the pot of blusher and examined it with his elf eyes. “Cursed,” he announced, and turned the container over to show the Durkon sigil carved into its underside. He followed a trail of magical residue from murder weapon to the antique mirror in the corner in the corner of the chamber. “The assassin came through here,” he said. Drawing his sword, he jabbed the mirror with its pommel and shattered it to pieces. “Get the word out to your people,” he told Rundal. Destroy every reflective surface in this dungeon.”
The word went out at once. Panic spread through the stronghold as the dwarves came to realise they weren't safe in their foxhole, nor would they ever be; not so long as Drensila the Black reigned. Hearkening to the will of his people, the dwarf king decreed that the dark queen’s transgressions would not be allowed to stand. She would be dealt with. The only question was how.
“CONGRATULATIONS, MOTHER,” SAID Drensila. “I don’t know how you managed it, but somehow you found a way to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.”
She offered a clap so slow that it felt as though entire universes could live and die between each slap of her hands. Carnella could only stand there, head hung low, as her daughter went on to unleash a veritable cascade of vitriol upon her. Meanwhile, Clive watched the dressing down with some amusement, happy to see someone else squirm for a change.
Drensila deliberated on her mother’s penance. “I gave you a chance and you failed me,” she told Carnella. “For that you must be punished.”
“But I did everything right,” beseeched Carnella. “How was I to know some stunted lackwit would stumble into my web in that wretched girl’s place?”
“I grow weary of your excuses, mother,” said Drensila, dismissing the apology with a wave of her jewelled hand. While the concept of Carnella’s plan might have been fine, the execution lacked… well, an execution.
“I’m beginning to think you weren’t fit to return to this world after all,” said Drensila. “Perhaps it’s time you departed this plane and returned to The Nether.”
Carnella fell to her knees and clasped her hands together in supplication. “Please, daughter, I entreat you. Do not send me back to that cursed limbo.”
Drensila regarded her mother contemptuously, and with no small amount of satisfaction. She turned to her royal guards and issued an order. “Take her to a cell while I decide what to do with her,” she told them, and they did as commanded.
Carnella went slack and allowed herself to be carried from the throne room. Though she managed to arrange her face into a mask of piety, inside she burned with enmity. This insult would not be allowed to stand. The blood that ran in her daughter’s veins, the same as ran in hers, would be spilled. Every last drop of it.
Chapter Six: Dungeons & Drequons
INSIDE THE DUNGEON’S war room, spread upon its round table, lay a piece of vellum bearing a complex diagram. This, Neville and Tidbit assured Nat, was the answer to all of their problems.
The fact that the paper it was drawn upon stank like a Grateful Dead concert did not fill Nat with hope. “What is it?” she asked, rotating the page in case she was looking at it the wrong way up.
“What it is,” explained Neville, setting the paper right, “is a hot air balloon.”
Nat nodded thoughtfully. In truth she was only treading water until she could think of something insightful to say that masked her complete perplexity.
Tidbit picked up the slack. “We use t’ balloon ta send a small team ta t’ citadel, then we fly ova its wall ‘n’ infiltrate t’ place from within.”
Nat considered the proposal. “And you can make this?” she asked, jabbing a finger at the picture.
“Sure,” said Neville. “I did something similar in science class one time.”
“You made a hot air balloon?”
“Well, technically it was a scale model made of tissue paper and a tea light,” he said, “and it did kind of catch fire. Still, the principle’s the same.”
“We already ‘ave ahr best seamstresses stitching t’ balloon,” said Tidbit, “an’ t’ basket’s comin’ along nicely. There’s only one thing missin’...”
Nat looked to the two of them. “Well, what is it?”
Nev answered. “The thing is, even though the dwarves are dab hands with fire—what with all the smithing and that—they don’t have anything capable of carrying a whole landing party. What we need is something relatively lightweight that burns very hot and for a good, long time.”
“So what’s the solution?”
Neville sighed. “We need to capture a drequon.”
“You want us to capture a dragon?” asked Nat, alarmed.
“Nay, lass, tha’ would be ridiculous. We’re lookin’ t’ capture a drequon.”
“There are no dragons, Nat. Dragons are like the Nessie of this world, only idiots believe in them.”
“Honestly, it’s like ye’re tryin’ t’ be ignorant.”
“Okay, I get it,” said Nat, exasperated. “So if we’re not talking about a dragon, what’s a drequon?”
Tidbit fielded the question. “A drequon’s a four-legged, razor-fanged, monsta tha’ eats people ‘n’ spits fire.”
“Oh come on!” cried Nat, throwing up her hands.
&nbs
p; “SO, WHAT ARE we doing again?” asked Ashley, puzzled.
For the sake of the assembled—which consisted of Ash, Rundal, Eathon and Galanthre—Nat went over the plan one more time.
“The idea is to visit the deepest part of the dungeon so we can catch a fire-breathing monster and use it to power a hot air balloon.”
“Gotcha,” said Ashley. “Just wanted to make sure I heard right.”
And that was that. The elves nodded, the dwarf nodded, and without any further ado, the game was afoot. The party strapped on their weapons and buckled into their armour, making ready to descend to the deepest, dankest corner of the dwarf dungeon, where legend had it the drequon dwelled.
Nat wore her new suit of dwarf-made armour, and across her shoulders, a mantle of Goldie’s pelt. She wore it to honour the fallen unicorn, and trusted her companions to recognise the gesture for the tribute it was. She’d think twice about wearing it out in public though. The last thing she needed was some animal rights sort mistaking it for a fashion statement and drenching her in red paint.
Eathon slid a sword into his back scabbard and firmed his jaw. He seemed quieter than usual, Nat thought. Fragile even. She asked him if everything was okay, but he looked away as he insisted nothing was the matter.
In stark contrast, Ashley and Galanthre seemed invigorated by the prospect of doing battle with the denizens of the underworld. The two of them had really fallen in step it seemed. Ever since the Battle of Bludoch they’d been thick as thieves.
And Rundal… well, Rundal was just Rundal: gruff, bullish and spoiling for a fight.
“Foller me,” he said, propping an axe on his shoulder and leading them from the city hub.
The axe-bearded dwarf lit the way with a gleaming crystal affixed to a gnarled length of tree root. Torches were forbidden in the deepest parts of the dungeon, as a single spark could ignite the gasses that built up there and bury them under a mile of rock. To light their path without the use of fire, each member of the party had been equipped with their own crystal-mounted staff. The gems shone with an eerie, blue luminescence that lit the dungeon’s grey walls like a public toilet after dark. All except for Nat’s that is, which offered only a vague, sputtering glow.
Trolled: The Complete Saga (The Trolled Saga) Page 24
