Goblin Quest (17 page)

“We must stop her,” said Skarper.

“Anchovies!” said Gutgust firmly, and although nobody knew what he meant, as usual, he seemed to speak for all of them. They took their swords and axes, Zeewa her spear and Breenge her bow, and swarmed to the ship's sides, dropping down into the streets of Elvensea.

 

 

 

 

Giants are like foals at first. They wobble on their long new legs like trainee stiltwalkers, teetering and stumbling. That was one reason why Fraddon had decided to take Bryn home. There was so much that the new giant didn't know. Safe within the Outer Wall, he would have a chance to practise things like walking, and there would be no danger of him sitting down on someone's house, or trampling their fields. People hated it when giants did that, and Fraddon still remembered the villages he had accidentally flattened when he was new, and the angry mobs which had chased him with pitchforks and burning torches – quite harmless to a giant, but awfully embarrassing. He did not want young Bryn to make the same mistakes. And so he led him back across the hills to Clovenstone.

The people of Oethford and Stag Headed Oak, who had spilled from their cottages to watch the giants go by, scattered in panic as Bryn veered towards them, throwing out his arms for balance, coming within a whisker of stomping their villages flat. But Fraddon guided him safely past, and by the time they reached Westerly Gate, Bryn was learning how to steer that towering body of his. Most of the soil and stones had fallen off him along the way, and the massive footprints he had made in the marshy meadows by the Oeth filled quickly with water, and became the best duck-hunting country in the Westlands.

Fraddon planted the mantrap tree in a shady place he knew among the ruins, and found some clothes for Bryn. They were old clothes of his own, much patched and rather mildewed, which he had set aside when he grew too small for them. Bryn was almost too big, but he squeezed into the patchwork breeches, and thought he looked splendid.

Then Fraddon set about teaching his new friend the ways of the world. Don't pick people up to get a closer look at them, Bryn; they don't like it. And that thing where you lift the roofs of their houses like lids? They really hate that! And do watch where you're putting your feet…

There were a few disasters, which was only to be expected, with someone as new and tall as Bryn about the place. He meant well, but he was clumsy. Quite a few of the old ruins of Clovenstone were knocked down once and for all as he blundered enthusiastically about the place. The boglins who lived in the marshes were horrified when he reached down into the mere beside their king's hall and pulled out the Meargh Dowr, the slimy dampdrake that they worshipped. It curled around Bryn's forearm like a snake and breathed its wet breath in his face and made him sneeze, while the boglins did fierce war dances around his feet and pincushioned his toes with spears and blowpipe darts which he didn't even notice.

Patiently, Fraddon persuaded him to put the Meargh Dowr back. He had forgotten what a handful young giants could be. But he was enjoying having Bryn there, all the same. It did him good to see that huge, inquisitive figure peering into the windows of Clovenstone's towers, or lying down to get a proper look into the shadows under the trees. He had been like that himself once, full of wonder at the wonders of the world. But he had grown used to them; he had stopped thinking of them as wonders and started to take them for granted. Having Bryn beside him made him see them all afresh and wonderful again.

The goblins were uneasy, of course. It wasn't that they didn't
like
Bryn, just that – well – he was so big. They had based their idea of giants on Fraddon, who was not much taller than a really tall tree. Bryn was as tall as a small mountain, and they were worried he would step on them. Also, there had been an unfortunate incident a few days after he arrived, when he opened the cheesery like a lunch box and ate all of the latest batch of Clovenstone Blue.

As for Fentongoose and Dr Prong, it was a wonder that they could concentrate on their studies at all with all the giant-wrangling going on. It was unnerving to be sitting reading in a tall tower, on top of a high crag, and suddenly look up to find that a colossal eye was peering in at you. But somehow they managed to keep working, and whole gangs of goblins were kept busy in the bumwipe heaps, searching for any scroll or document which might shed light on the mysterious history of Elvensea.

“It is almost,” said Dr Prong, “as if someone has deliberately removed all papers which contained a reference to the drowned land.”

On the morning that the travellers reached the whirlpool and Elvensea rose from the deeps, Fentongoose was working alone. Dr Prong had stayed with him until long after midnight, then given up and gone off to bed, but Fentongoose had kept going. He had strained his old eyes by candlelight to read the broken-spider alphabet of the old chroniclers until the candle was replaced by something brighter and he looked up to find that the sun had risen.

“Well bless my beard,” he muttered. “Is that the time?”

He closed his weary eyes for a moment, then opened them again and looked at all the scraps of ancient parchment scattered on his table, and at the slate book which was acting as a paperweight – and that was when it hit him.

“Prong?” he said, forgetting that Dr Prong had gone to bed.

“Prong!”

He ran out of the library, up the winding stairways, out along the battlements of the Inner Wall. “Dr Prong?”

Dr Prong's room was next to Henwyn's, in one of the cabins of Princess Ned's old ship, which was balanced on the top of Blackspike Tower. A porthole opened and Prong's grumpy, nightcap-crowned head poked out. “Well, Fentongoose, what is it?”

“That word, Prong! The one we couldn't translate? The one we thought meant ‘cushion'?”

“Yes, what of it?”

“It doesn't mean cushion!”

“Well, we both know that, but—”

“It was carved quite unusually, that word, by whoever scratched the tale of Elvensea's fall on that old slate. The downstrokes were too shallow, and the accents were in the wrong place.”

“So… ?”

“So we thought those two runes were ‘soft' and ‘chair', adding up to ‘cushion'. But we were wrong! The rune that we thought meant ‘soft' actually means ‘fire'. And the one that we thought meant ‘seating accessory' actually means ‘lizard'.”

“Fire lizard?” asked Dr Prong. “Well, what on earth is ‘fire lizard' supposed to mean? I have never heard of a ‘fire lizard'. Unless it means…”

“Exactly!”

“Oh no!”

“Precisely!”

“Oh, oh, oh… Bless my beard!” said Dr Prong. (And Dr Prong did not even
have
a beard, which gives you some idea of how worked up he was.) “Oh, Fentongoose! You really mean it?
Dragons?
”

“Dragons!” shouted Grumpling, before they had gone more than a few paces from the tower where the
Sea Cucumber
had come to rest. He snatched his axe down from his shoulder, and the others scattered in panic. But when the panic faded they could see no dragons, just an ornate sculpture on a pedestal: two dragons with their wings spread wide, carved from the same pale stone as the buildings around them.

“Grumpling,” said Henwyn, “that's a statue.”

“What's a statchoo then?” asked Grumpling, creeping towards the pedestal with axe raised, never taking his eyes off the stone reptiles. “Is it a sort of dragon?”

Henwyn shook his head. How could you explain the difference between statues and real things to someone who was still a bit vague about the difference between
drawings
and real things?

“They aren't real,” said Zeewa helpfully. “They're made from stone.”

“Like trolls?”

“No, like ornaments. Decorations.”

“That one's watching me.”

“No, it's just carved to look as if it's watching you.”

“Well, I'll wipe the smirk off its face!” shouted Grumpling. Agile as a monkey he somersaulted up on to the pedestal and smashed both dragons to pieces with a few blows from the iron-shod haft of his axe.

“There!” he said. “They won't be breathing fire on us an' stuff.”

“Right,” said Prince Rhind. “Now that your pet gorilla has made that statue safe, we should press on. Ninnis must be right at the top of the island by now.”

Henwyn nodded. “But someone should stay here to guard the ship. Just because Grumpling's dragons were stone doesn't mean there won't be dangers here.” He turned to Captain Kestle and Woon Gumpus. “Captains, will you wait here for us?”

“Oh, gladly!” said Woon Gumpus, who did not like these haunted, weed-strewn streets at all.

“A good plan,” agreed Kestle. “We'll stay near the ship, and pick you up should this strange old place decide to slide back down beneath the waves. And while we wait, perhaps we'll think of a way to get the old ship down again if the waters don't rise, eh, Gumpus?”

“Oh, oh, ah, yes!” said Woon Gumpus, rather startled to find that Captain Kestle thought he was the sort of person who could solve problems like that. “Perhaps we could find ropes and blocks and tackles and things like that in these old buildings.”

“A splendid idea, Cap'n Gumpus!”

“Oh, was it? Good!”

So the two sea captains turned back, and the rest of the company moved on, up the streets which curled around the flanks of the tall island. The only sounds were the trickling water and the crisp noises of the seaweed as it dried in the sun. Also, Grumpling's cries of “Dragon!” and the crashings and clatterings as he hammered another statue to pieces. But soon even he had to accept that these stone dragons were no threat to him. Even if they had been, he could not have smashed them all.

For they were everywhere. Carved above doorways and flying along the pediments of the lovely old buildings were dragons. Twining up the carved stone banisters of the elegant stairways, dragons. Crouching on pedestals, spreading their bat wings to shade the squares beneath them, stone dragons.

“These old elves really had a thing for dragons,” Skarper said nervously.

“Maybe it was a sort of collection that got out of hand,” said Henwyn. “My auntie Gratna mentioned once that she liked badgers, so her husband gave her a carving of a badger next time her birthday came around, and then other people started giving her badgers too, wooden badgers, stone badgers, knitted badgers, sewn badgers, every birthday and every midwinter. She's got nearly two hundred now. They're a proper chore to dust, and she never really liked badgers
that
much to start with.”

“Who does?” panted Spurtle, climbing after him up Elvensea's steep streets. “Horrible black-and-white bandits. They's the ones that nick all your shiny stuff and fly away with it to line their nests.”

“That's magpies, not badgers,” said Flegg.

“Magpies, badgers, they're all in league together,” said Spurtle darkly.

“Anchovies,” said Gutgust, wisely.

“Well,” said Zeewa, “at least there aren't any
elves
around.”

Far below them, the lower levels of Elvensea reeked and crackled with drying weed. There was weed here on the heights as well, festooning the outer walls and stairways. But as they climbed higher, they reached streets and buildings which must have been protected by powerful magic when the island sank. There were no barnacles on these walls, only wonderful tapestries, which did not even seem wet, and painted scenes of wide landscapes through which elves strode or rode. There was beautiful furniture in the wide rooms, fine carpets upon the floors, and tables laid as if for elven banquets. But there were no actual elves. Skarper had half expected to find them sprawled about asleep on the fine tiled floors or plump, claw-footed furniture, but of course they had gone, slain by the Lych Lord, or fled away upon their ships into the west.

“Grumpling?” shouted Henwyn. “Oh, where's he gone?”

They looked for the big goblin, but could not find him, although when they shouted his name his voice could be heard, replying tetchily, “I'm over 'ere!” Elvensea was a maze, far more complicated than Clovenstone. Henwyn felt sure there was some pattern to the way the curving streets and ramps and stairways interwove, and he felt that if he could spend about six weeks mapping and exploring there was a chance he might work out what it was. But they didn't have six weeks, or even six minutes; they had to find Ninnis.

Soon after that, they found that they had lost Flegg too. But nobody really minded getting separated from Flegg, while Grumpling, with his shining axe, seemed like just the sort of person you needed to have with you when you were exploring mysterious magical islands.

It was no use, though. “Grumpling, if you can hear me, work your way back to the ship!” shouted Skarper. “We'll meet you there!” Then they hurried on: him and Henwyn, Rhind and Breenge, Zeewa and Spurtle and Gutgust, higher and higher.

They passed signs of war and destruction – charred buildings, and places where walls had collapsed across the streets. And everywhere were those carven dragons, every scale and prong of their fierce bodies perfectly shaped by the elven stonemasons.

“Were there really such creatures once?” asked Breenge, as they started up a stairway walled by the long, curving tail of a particularly huge dragon. Unlike the pale dragons below, this one was black, carved from some dark and shining stone.

“Oh yes,” said Henwyn. “The Lych Lord kept a few at Clovenstone. They could fly over a battlefield and breathe down fire upon his enemies.”

“They all died as he lost his power, though,” said Skarper. “Good riddance, too. Nasty, dangerous things.”

The black tail broadened, and met a black body shaded by the dragon's folded wings. They were approaching the top of Elvensea. Above them a wide doorway let into a building with a shining golden dome. The black dragon's long neck bordered the stairway; its vast face, carved in a crocodilian smirk, rested on the pavement outside the building.

As the companions hurried up the stairs, they could hear voices above them. One voice in particular.

“Give me back my scratchbackler!” it said.

“It's Grumpling!” said Henwyn. “He's beaten us to the top! He must have found a quicker way up.”

“Well, I wish he'd told us about it,” panted Skarper.

They ran up the final few steps and pushed open the huge golden doors of the domed building. It was dark inside, a darkness woven with sunbeams which slanted through small high windows far above. They stood blinking in the doorway, and as their eyes adjusted they saw before them a forest of slender pillars. In the centre of the hall a circular pool had been sunk into the floor. There was something in the pool that was not water, shining with pale light beneath a layer of mist. But the most noticeable feature of the place was Grumpling. He looked bigger and grimier and spikier than ever, there among the delicate pillars. He had his axe in his paws, and he was brandishing it at Ninnis, who stood with her back to one of the pillars, the Elvenhorn clasped in her hands.

“Ninnis!” shouted Henwyn. “Give us the Elvenhorn!”

“Never!” shouted the cook, in a voice that was all cracked pride and scratchy anger, nothing at all like her usual one. “Do you know how long I have waited to undo the spells and wake the power of this place, Henwyn of Clovenstone?”

“Grumpling will start chopping bits off you if you don't,” warned Skarper.

“He will never reach me,” said Ninnis proudly, and she lifted the horn, making ready to blow it. “When the third blast is sounded the last of the curses which your Lych Lord wove around this place will be snapped. The sleeper will wake, and the power of Elvensea shall be mine.”

“Oh no it won't!” shouted Flegg, leaping so suddenly out of the shadows behind Ninnis that Henwyn gave a yelp of surprise, and Breenge nearly dropped her rabbit. Flegg's knife flashed in the sunbeams.

“No!” shouted Henwyn. “You mustn't stab a woman!”

“You can't attack people from behind, it isn't sporting!” yelled Rhind.

But they were too late to stop Flegg. Ninnis gave one terrible cry as the knife sank into her back. Then she fell forward, dropping the Elvenhorn. Flegg caught it before it hit the floor.

“My scratchbackler!” growled Grumpling. “Nice work, Flegg.”

Flegg chuckled to himself. “You don't think I'll let you scratch your nasty old back with this after the trouble I went to gettin' it back, do you, Grumpling?” he asked. “Use your tail like the rest of us.”

And he raised the Elvenhorn to his mouth.

“No!” shouted everyone else – all except Gutgust (who shouted “anchovies” but probably meant “no”) and Grumpling, who was experimentally scratching his back with the tip of his tail.

“Flegg, did you not hear her?” demanded Henwyn, running towards the little goblin. “At the third blast…”

“‘The power of Elvensea will be mine,'” said Flegg, darting round to the far side of that eerie-looking pool. A chilly light seemed to gather in his eyes. “That's what Ninnis said. I fancy a bit of power, me. Flegg, King of Elvensea, master of all that elvish magic and whatnot. Why do you fink I tagged along on your stupid quest, except to get my paws on this hooter? Once I've tooted it you won't think again about droppin' me down pooin holes or orderin me about. None of you will dare! Oh no! You'll go down on your stupid knees an' beg me for mercy. Flegg the Conqueror! Flegg the Magnificent! Flegg, the Master of the World!”

Grumpling stopped scratching his back, lifted his axe, and leaped clear across the pool, ready to slice Flegg in half. But Flegg was too fast. He nipped nimbly out of the way and, while still in mid-nip, blew upon the horn.

The third blast filled the pillared hall like a thunderclap. Everyone covered their ears, except for Breenge, who covered her rabbit's ears and winced as the deafening brassy note rolled around and around the building, and spilled out through the doors and windows into the heavy, waiting air of Elvensea. The mist in the strange pool writhed and whispered. Some of the pillars trembled, vibrating with the sound. Cracks spread across the ceiling, and huge pieces of stonework came crashing down. One landed squarely on top of Grumpling, smashing him flat in a cloud of dust and swearing.

And then the sound faded, and the stones stopped falling, and all was quiet again.

“Well,” said Skarper, “I don't see any sleeper waking up.”

Flegg sneered at him. “He won't be up here, will he? He'll be in one of them fancy palaces down below. He's probably puttin' his socks on now and coming up to see who's woke him, so he can thank me in person.” He went out through the doorway on to the sunlit pavement, looking down at the thousand towers of Elvensea, the glitter of the blue sea far below. “Well, come on sleeper!” he shouted. “Old elf king or whatever you be! Let's be having you! Wakey wakey!”

The stairways below remained deserted. No elven army issued from the weed-wigged buildings. Looking down, Skarper could see the faces of the sea captains looking up at him from the stranded
Sea Cucumber
, but nothing else moved.

And then something did.

That carved black dragon's head, resting on the pavement, very slowly opened one eyelid. A red-gold iris like a ring of fire twitched to focus upon Flegg. A pupil narrowed to a black slit in the sunlight.

Skarper pointed a helpless paw.

“Dra-Dra— It's a dra—”

Lizard-fast, the huge head lunged. Flegg turned just in time to see it coming. “Eeek!” he said – and vanished into a huge red mouth which slammed shut on him with a squelchy crunch.

“—gon!” said Skarper.