by Philip Reeve
He strode off down the gully towards the shadows of the wood. The other dwarves followed, moving swiftly for folk with such short legs.
“Wait!” Henwyn shouted after them. “Where do we find this Overseer Glunt?”
Only the girl Etty bothered to look back. “At the mine in the mountains!” she called, then went hurrying after her father.
“Well,” Henwyn shouted, “well, er, you shall certainly be hearing from Princess Ned about this!”
Skarper danced about with frustration at his side. “Don’t just stand there shouting!” he urged. “Use your bow and arrows!” He’d have grabbed the bow and shot the dwarves himself, except he wasn’t sure how to use it, and goblins were rubbish at shooting arrows. “You could get them all from here, if you’re quick!” he said.
“What, shoot them in the back?” said Henwyn, appalled.
“You could shout first, so they turn round, then shoot them.”
“It still wouldn’t be very heroic. And one of them is a girl!”
“Is he?” (Skarper was still a bit vague about the difference between girls and boys.)
“Anyway,” said Henwyn firmly, “it would make no difference. We saw scores of dwarves in that mine, and there were probably hundreds more that we didn’t see. If we killed these three, their friends would come, armed and armoured and ready to fight. No, we must take news of this meeting to Princess Ned. When she hears what the little villains are planning – mining beneath Clovenstone – draining the lava lake – oh, she will have something to say about it, all right!”
Princess Ned certainly did have something to say about it. She loved Clovenstone, and she thought the goblins were coming along very well. She was not going to let all her hard work be undermined. The next day, along with Skarper and Henwyn, Fentongoose, and a small group of the less stupid goblins, she set out for the dwarf mines.
The valley where Henwyn had fallen through the dwarves’ roof had undergone a startling change since he and Skarper had first seen it. Where one chimney had stood there were now dozens, dotted all over the valley floor and perched precariously on the steep scree slopes and crags on either side. Here and there metal pipes stuck out of the hillsides, and water gushed from these and went gurgling off down new stream beds to the river.
The chimneys were mostly for ventilation, Fentongoose said, but a thin haze of smoke still hung above most of them, and the mountain wind smelled faintly of burning diremole dung. Skarper put an ear to the ground and heard hammers beating faintly, far below.
Henwyn was planning to lead Ned to the chimney which he and Skarper had discovered, but Ned was tired after the long walk (there were no horses in Clovenstone, and she was not a young princess). She sat down on a stone, clutching her side and waving at everyone to be quiet until she had caught her breath. When she could speak again she said, “We shall meet the dwarf chief here. Come, Nurdle; blow your horn.”
The goblin called Nurdle stepped forward: a little bandy-legged Chilli Hat from Redcap Tower, who carried a huge brass trumpet. He raised it to his snout and blew as hard as he could. A deep, tuneless fart went echoing up and down the valley, startling jackdaws from the crags. At Nurdle’s side a goblin named Scratch unfurled the new banner of Clovenstone, a silver comet on a black field, stitched by Princess Ned herself. It flapped loudly in the wind, and Ned’s long ash-grey hair blew out sideways like a second banner as she called, “O Dwarves! I bring you greeting from all the peoples of Clovenstone!”
There was no answer. Skarper put an ear to the ground again. The thud and rumble of the dwarves’ work went on unchanging down below. “Perhaps they are too busy to talk to us,” he said.
“Too busy to talk to the Lady of Clovenstone?” tutted Fentongoose. “How rude!”
“Perhaps they simply cannot hear us,” said Princess Ned, who always liked to think the best of people.
But the dwarves had heard them. Their tunnels extended far beyond the mountains now, almost to the Outer Wall of Clovenstone itself. They were small trial tunnels, and the dwarves had not yet built tall chimneys to carry air down into them, but here and there, hidden among piles of stones and clumps of tussock grass, iron trumpets stuck up into the world above, and these trumpets served as both ventilation shafts and listening posts. The dwarves in the great burrow under the valley had known of the coming of the princess Ned and her friends for a long time.
Not far from where the visitors stood waiting, a concealed hatch in the hillside suddenly creaked open. A bearded, scowling dwarf stuck his head out and blinked at them through his black glass goggles. “What do you lot want?” he asked rudely.
“We would like to talk with your chief,” Ned replied.
The dwarf stared at her for a moment. Then he grunted and drew his head back inside. The hatch shut with a bang, which sent loose rocks clattering and bounding down the screes above.
“They seem hostile!” said Fentongoose, in a worried voice. “I do wish we had brought Fraddon with us. They would not dare to harm us if we had a giant with us.”
“We are not here to fight them, nor to frighten them,” said Princess Ned. “We are here to talk.”
“Can we fight them when we’ve finished talking?” asked Nurdle, who was a goblin of the old school.
“No,” Ned told him firmly.
Just then the hatch opened again. This time three dwarves came out, one after the other. Their leader, Skarper noted with a sinking feeling, was the very one whose head he’d dropped on when he fell into the mine. The dwarf folded his arms and stared contemptuously at Ned and her followers through the black lenses of his goggles. “Well?” he asked. “I’m Glunt, overseer of this section. What do you mean by coming here, bigling?”
“Greetings, O Glunt,” said Ned, and bowed low. “I am Eluned of Clovenstone, and these are my friends. We have come to introduce ourselves and to ask you what brings you so far from your homelands, and how we can be good neighbours to you.”
Glunt snorted. “As for introductions, I’ve met that bigling beside you already, when he crashed through my roof, and I’ve no interest in meeting the other one, nor any of these maggot folk you call your friends. As for homelands, everything that lies beneath the earth is the homeland of the dwarves. And as for being good neighbours, the best way you can do that is by keeping out of our way and letting us work in peace. Now good day to you.”
He turned away and was about to go back into the hill when Ned called out, “Master Glunt, what is it that you are digging for? Is it true that you mean to drain the lake of slowsilver which lies beneath Clovenstone?”
Glunt glanced back at her. “Aye,” he said. “Slowsilver is no use to you biglings. Only we dwarves have the skill to process and to forge it, and work the smithy magic into things we make from it.”
“But that lake is the heart of Clovenstone,” said Ned. “It is where all goblins hatch from.”
“All the more reason then to drain it,” said Glunt. “Anyway, it ain’t up to me. I have my orders from the Head.”
“The Head? Is that your king?” asked Ned, but Glunt ignored her. Her polite smile was beginning to look strained. She said, “Master Glunt, the lake is within the walls of Clovenstone. It belongs to us.”
Glunt gave another snort. “‘Belongs’, does it? Dwarves don’t believe in things ‘belonging’. That’s a word that only greedy goblins and gold-hungry biglings use. Dwarves hold all things in common, and the Head distributes them where they are needed. It is our right to mine and use everything that lies under the earth, stone or metal, fire or water. You want to talk of ‘belonging’, do you? Well then, this world belongs to the dwarves, bigling. You and your type are just pests who creep about upon its crust.”
That was when Ned’s temper finally broke. Nobody had ever called her a pest before. She clenched her fists at her sides and her voice trembled as she called out, “We shall stop you! We shall fi
ght you if we have to!”
Glunt just shrugged. “You can try,” he agreed. “You’ll lose, though. And one way or another we shall drain that slowsilver and send it back to Delverdale for processing. Good day to you.” And he went back into the hill with his two lieutenants following, and the door banged shut behind them.
The wind blew, the chimneys smoked, the banner with the silver comet fluttered on its staff. A few rocks, dislodged by the slamming of the door, came bounding down the hillside. One hit Henwyn on the shin.
“Ow!” he said.
“What are we going to do?” asked Skarper.
“I don’t know,” said Princess Ned. “You heard what Glunt said, and I don’t believe he was bluffing or exaggerating. I don’t think he has enough imagination to bluff or to exaggerate. The dwarves of old had mighty armies and cunning engines of war. The Lych Lord’s armies could have held them off, but Clovenstone has no army now.”
“Then we shall start one!” Henwyn cried, hopping about with his hands clasped to his bruised shin. “There are plenty of swords and shields in the old armouries! We must learn to use them! The twiglings will help us, and Fraddon, who has the strength of a hundred dwarves.”
Fentongoose tugged thoughtfully at his beard. “I do not think the twiglings or Fraddon can fight under the earth,” he said. “And that is where the attack will come. The walls of Clovenstone will be little help against an enemy who can tunnel beneath them. And dwarf warriors are ruthless, skilled and disciplined. Can our goblins really stand against such a foe?”
Everybody turned to look at Nurdle, who was picking his nose and staring thoughtfully at the bogies.
“I fear that Clovenstone is doomed,” said Fentongoose sadly.
Henwyn turned away. “It’s so unfair!” he said, and kicked a boulder. “Ow!”
In the days which followed, Henwyn looked everywhere for an army. The goblins would fight – fighting was still what goblins did best – but Fentongoose was right; it was doubtful they could defend Clovenstone against the dwarves for long.
So Henwyn went into the woods to ask the twiglings for their help. They might look like the heads of ragged witches’ brooms with two beady eyes stuck on, but they could be fierce when they felt like it – he remembered how they’d captured him on his first day in Clovenstone, with their strange earth magic and sharp wooden spears.
But the twiglings just laughed at him and threw acorns down on his head before scampering off along their maze of mossy branches. They were creatures of the trees, and they mistrusted both men and goblins. Unless the dwarves threatened their woods they would not see any need to fight.
He walked down to Westerly Gate to ask Fraddon whether any of his relatives might be persuaded to help. But the old giant shook his head. “It is not the way of things, for giants to fight dwarves. Giants are stone-born, growing inside the mountains. Dwarves have always respected us. They leave young giants alone when they find them, and in return we split the hills open for them when we are born. If that were to change, if unfriendliness were to grow between giants and dwarves, that would be a very bad thing. And anyway, we giants are very few.”
Walking home afterwards, Henwyn said to Skarper, “Is there no one who will help us?”
“Pity there aren’t any heroes about, like in those old stories of yours,” said Skarper, plucking a nice juicy toadstool and nibbling it thoughtfully as they climbed the steep way towards the Inner Wall.
“What?” said Henwyn.
“Heroes. You know, big fellows, all in mail-coats, riding great horses and waving dirty big swords about. If we had a few of them to help us we could send the dwarves packing, probably.”
“Skarper!” shouted Henwyn. “You’re a wonder!”
Skarper finished the toadstool and burped. “Am I?”
“A treasure! A genius!”
“Oh. Good.”
“We shall bring heroes to Clovenstone! For there are still heroes in the world! The greatest warriors of all the Westlands are summoned to Coriander, where the High King lives. It is his job to keep peace between the different kingdoms, and stop them squabbling. The heroes dwell there in his castle of Boskennack. When any kingdom finds itself in peril, from brigands, say, or pirates, the High King sends his heroes forth to defeat wrongdoers and restore the peace. He has an army, too, to help them if need be. Of course! We shall go to Coriander, Skarper, and lay our case before the High King!”
“But he won’t help goblins, will he?” asked Skarper.
“He will have to! It is the law of the Westlands that the High King must send aid to any realm that asks for it. And is not Clovenstone one of the realms of the Westlands?”
“Well, I suppose. . .”
“And is not Ned its queen? Ned is not a goblin.”
“Yes. . .” said Skarper uncertainly. But he was remembering what Henwyn seemed to have forgotten: that things in real life were not always exactly as they were in old stories.
He had no better ideas, though, and Henwyn was already striding off towards Blackspike to find Princess Ned and tell her of his plan, so Skarper shrugged off his doubts and hurried after him. “Wait for me!” he called.
“Wait for me. . .” The wind took Skarper’s words and wafted them away between the ruins and the twisty thorn trees until they fell into the mouth of an iron trumpet that had been thrust up between two flagstones there. Down the trumpet’s long iron throat they went echoing, following the rest of Skarper and Henwyn’s conversation, until they reached the ear of the dwarf girl Etty.
The dwarves had been more cautious about being seen above ground in Clovenstone since Princess Ned had paid her call on Overseer Glunt, but they had dug a couple of experimental tunnels underneath, joining up with sections of the old city’s sewers and underground passages left over from the Lych Lord’s time. There were all sorts of forgotten cellars and dungeons in that part of Clovenstone, and it was in one of these that Etty’s father had stationed her, with orders to listen out for any activity among the biglings and their goblin friends up above.
It had been a dull job until now. Etty would much rather have been out surveying. But she was obedient, as a good dwarf should be, and she did not argue with her father. She had been whiling away the time embroidering a sampler with the motto of Dwarvendom: The Head Knows All & The Head Knows Best. She knew that she had to practise her needlework, for the days when she was married and expected to sew work clothes for her husband and children, but she was not a good needlewoman; she kept stabbing her fingers with the needle, she had lost her thimble, and the runic letters on the sampler looked distinctly wobbly. She was quite relieved when she heard the voices of Skarper and Henwyn come echoing tinnily down the listening pipe. Dropping her needlework, she snatched up a stylus and a fresh slate and began to copy down their words. It was hard to catch them all, for the long pipe distorted their voices, but she caught most of them, and her eyes widened as their meaning became clear.
“Oh dear!” she said, quickly reading back what she had written on the slate. She had been told to stay at her post until another dwarf was sent to relieve her, but this looked important. She dithered a moment, listened at the pipe again to check that Skarper and Henwyn had moved out of earshot, and then hurried away, finding her way as easily as a diremole through narrow passages, old oubliettes and new-dug dwarf-ways to the edge of Clovenstone, where her father was supervising the digging of broader tunnels.
She had been right to go. Durgar was as concerned as she had been when he saw what Skarper and Henwyn had been discussing. “Heroes, eh?” he said, frowning as he deciphered Etty’s hastily scratched runes.
A few minutes later they were mounted on a diremole, being carried swiftly into the heart of the new workings under the Bonehills.
Etty did not like diremoles; they were so big, and so savage-seeming. But she did not want to let Durgar or the mole’s driver see that
she was afraid, so she concentrated on looking about her as the creature went lumbering along the miles and miles of new tunnel.
It was astonishing what dwarves had accomplished here in the space of a few short months! Wherever she looked she saw new galleries opening, new burrows being hollowed, and mined ore being loaded into wagons for transport back to Delverdale. Even she was surprised. For most of her life things had been quiet in Dwarvendom; work had gone on steadily, but never at this frantic pace. Since the Lych Lord’s star returned, all that had changed. Diremoles, which had been rare when she was little, were breeding again in great numbers deep in the northern fells, allowing the dwarves to extend their mines into all sorts of new places. The smithy magic had begun to work again, too, just as it did in tales of olden times, and the spell-smiths cast their spells on picks and drill bits, which meant the miners could dig deeper and faster than they had before. The Head was sending out orders at a frantic rate, as if it, too, had been revived by all the new magic washing around the Westlands. How strange to think that a new star up there in the sky could affect the lives of dwarves here underground. . .
They came to a cavern where huge sections of pipe were being assembled. Overseer Glunt was looking on, striding up and down with a look of satisfaction on his usually angry face and his hands in the pockets of his moleskin coat. He greeted Etty and Durgar almost cheerfully when they scrambled down off their diremole and went over to join him. Even when Durgar showed him Etty’s record of the conversation she had overheard his good mood did not vanish entirely, although a frown appeared between his bushy eyebrows.
“Asking help from the bigling king, are they? They don’t realize what they’re up against, the fools. They think a bunch of overgrown biglings can help them stop us? And yet. . .” He paused and looked thoughtful, tapping the edge of Etty’s slate against his teeth. “We do not want any more biglings nosing around, not until our great work is complete.”
