Goblin Quest (9 page)

“No!” said Skarper. “Don't listen to Flegg! He's up to something! He betrayed me and Zeewa even though we helped him out of the pooin holes. And as for Grumpling, who'd want him along on a quest?”

Henwyn was inclined to agree, but Zeewa said, “No. Let Grumpling come. Flegg is right, a Chilli Hat should come with us.”

“I'd rather he went with you on your quest than stopped here causing nuisance for the rest of us,” said Libnog.

Grumpling beckoned Flegg back to him and whispered loudly, “What's this thing I've got to go on?”

“A quest, O mighty Grumpling,” Flegg whispered back.

“What's that?”

“It's my way of getting back your scratchbackler.”

“Oh…” Grumpling looked dimly satisfied, but Flegg wasn't.

“I shall come too,” he announced.

Henwyn shook his head. “Sorry, Flegg. We need strong, brave goblins for this business, and you are neither.”

Flegg looked horrified. He liked being Grumpling's favourite. If he was left here alone, the other Chilli Hats would make his life a misery, and quite a short misery. Not only that, he was forming vague plans about getting this powerful Elvenhorn for himself. It sounded much too useful to be chucked into the sea by goody-goodies or used as a back scratcher by an idiot.

“Ah, but I am Grumpling's servant and advisor. And think how useful I will be if poets and people do write songs about us, and they need something to rhyme with ‘egg' or ‘leg'. Besides, I am clever and wily.”

“Cunning and slimy, more like,” said Skarper. “What if Flegg betrays us again?”

“Why would I do that?” asked Flegg, all innocence. “I'm a goblin, Skarper, same as you. I don't want this old elfy magic woken up any more than you do.”

“Well, I suppose…” said Skarper.

“Don't worry,” said Zeewa softly, and she fingered the blade of the spear which she had been repairing. “If he tries to double-cross us, my spear is thirsty.”

“So be it!” said Henwyn. “Let us make ready! We shall not take horses, because goblins go faster on foot, and I always fall off. But we shall need travelling garb, and provisions for a long journey. Some of those little cheesy biscuits would be nice. We shall leave before sundown!”

The room emptied, people and goblins swirling out through the small doorway like water down a drain. Soon only Dr Prong was left, still stooped over the ancient stone on the table.

“It is not ‘elves',” he muttered to himself, staring at the ancient scratches. “And it cannot really be ‘cushions'. So what
is
that word? What waits at Elvensea?”

Remember that horn blast that had woken the giant, Fraddon, startled the boglins, and upset the dragonets? Its echoes had faded now from Clovenstone. But, like a ripple spreading in a clear pool where a bird has brushed the water's surface, the sound kept travelling onwards and outwards. It was just a whisper now, faint beyond the hearing of any mortal thing. It had trembled the veins of ore in dwarf mines on the Nibbled Coast, and merged for a moment with the cry of the gulls where the white surf surged and splashed upon the beaches of the Autumn Isles. Far out across the Western Ocean it flew, over the sea's great silences and the slop and ripple of the big, slow waves.

And at last it came to the place where, all those long centuries before, the island of Elvensea had foundered like a vast stone ship.

There was no ear there to hear it. There was nothing but the empty sea and the empty sky and the silent music of the Elvenhorn. But the sea was listening. Slowly the waves began to change – not their shapes, but their motion and their direction. If you had been out there in a boat (and you are very lucky that you were
not
out there in a boat) you might not have noticed what was happening for a long time. But if you had been hanging high above the sea, perhaps as a guest aboard a handy cloud, you would have been able to watch as the waves rearranged themselves into a spiral, and began to turn; slowly at first, and then faster and faster, as if a gigantic, invisible spoon was stirring that part of the ocean. A whirlpool was forming, its centre dipping down and down through the fish-filled fathoms until right at the bottom of it, in the heart of a pit of rushing water, a domed roof appeared, and around it stone towers, and below it the shapes of other walls and turrets all blurred with barnacles and shining mounds of weed.

Nothing else happened. The whirlpool whirled, the drowned towers stood silent in its depths, and that was all. Elvensea was waiting for the second horn blast.

 

Henw
yn and Zeewa prepared carefully for the quest, loading their packs with the things they thought would be most useful: ropes, maps, tinder boxes, spare socks and drawers, bread, dried fruit, and a wheel of Clovenstone Blue. The goblins packed carelessly, slinging any old thing into their packs, forgetting things they'd need and weighing themselves down instead with trinkets
that would be too heavy to carry far, and which they would lose interest in and sling into the roadside
bushes before they'd gone five miles from Westerly Gate. They all made sure they had good weapons with them, though the short, sharp swords that goblins loved best, and, in Grumpling's case, two massive old battleaxes, which he strapped crosswise to his back.

Henwyn was still not happy about bringing Grumpling and Flegg on the quest. Who would be? They were horrible. He was glad to be taking them away from Clovenstone, but he wished he had a few larger goblins who could help him deal with Grumpling if Grumpling made trouble on the way. Gutgust was the only one big enough to fight Grumpling, and there was only one of Gutgust. He wished the trolls were around, but they had still not returned from their camping trip.

When everything was ready at last, and the goodbyes had been said, and the company was setting off along the road to Westerly Gate, he went on ahead of them and made his way to the place where Fraddon had stood all winter, in the clearing where Princess Ned's first garden had been. The garden was almost invisible now, and you had to look quite hard to make out the shapes of flower beds and beanpoles among the thick weeds and young trees. Fraddon was vanishing too; as tall and still as the trees around him, with ivy growing up his legs and moss hanging from his woody hair. Young twiglings peered down at Henwyn from his beard.

Henwyn sat down on a mossy stone beside the stream and looked up at the old giant. Fraddon was smaller than he had been two years before, when they'd first met. Giants grow down, not up; they dwindle as they age, like mountains. Once, long before Henwyn's time, Fraddon had been big enough to scoop the ship carrying Princess Ned out of the sea and carry it home under his arm. Now, his head did not reach higher than the highest trees. But he would still be able to pick up a goblin of Grumpling's size and stuff him in his pocket, if Grumpling misbehaved.

“Fraddon,” said Henwyn, “a new peril has arisen. Skarper and Zeewa and me and some of the goblins are going to try and stop it. Will you come with us on the quest? Your great long legs could catch up with Prince Rhind in no time. If you came, we wouldn't need a quest, probably.”

Fraddon's eyes were closed. There was no telling whether he had heard or not, or whether he was even awake. He swayed gently as the wind blew across the treetops. The twiglings skittered and giggled in his beard, peeking down at Henwyn with their black button eyes.

“Old Fraddon doesn't hear you, human being,” said one of the twiglings. “You talk too fast for him. Move too fast. Think too fast. Live too fast and die too soon. He listens to the trees now, not you humans and your little buzzing voices.”

“Is this peril you're talking about a peril to trees?” asked another.

Henwyn didn't think it was. Elves liked trees, didn't they? In the stories they were always wandering around in woods, tending the young saplings and punishing anyone who tried to cut them down. If Prince Rhind woke the elves' magic, the twiglings would probably be grateful. Fraddon would probably be glad. Maybe the peril that Fentongoose and Dr Prong believed was coming was only perilous for people, and goblins.

He missed Fraddon, though. He missed his big, rumbly voice, his giant kindness. He sat on the stone and watched him, and wished there was something he could say or do that would make Fraddon happy again. But he knew the old giant's heart was broken, and broken hearts take ages to heal, even normal-sized ones.

And then, through the trees, he heard Skarper and the others making their way towards the gate. Goblin voices raised in song echoed through the woods, making the twiglings hiss and quiver, then sending them scampering into hiding.

 

Goblin Quest!

Goblin Quest!

From Clovenstone into the west,

We'll show them goblins are the best.

From mighty Clovenstone we come,

We'll kick Prince Rhind up his woolly bum.

Our blades are bright,

Our songs are fine,

Though we do sometimes try to fit far too many syllables into one line.

Goblin Quest!

Goblin Quest!

 

Henwyn sighed.
If I were a proper hero
, he thought,
I could make a rousing speech and Fraddon would wake up and come with us and all would be well. But I'm not, and I can't, and he won't
.

So he slipped down off his rocky perch, and went to join the goblins.

 

 

Prawl had never been a very good sorcerer, and he had never been a very good rider, either. The mare on which he was mounted clearly thought he was a fool. As Prince Rhind's company made their way into the wild country north-west of Clovenstone she kept wearily trying to knock him off against each tree and boulder that they passed, as if he were an annoying burr that had got caught in her coat. Whenever they stopped to let the horses drink at a stream or river, she would lower her head with such suddenness that Prawl would go somersaulting over her neck and land with a splash in the water.

After the third time it happened, Prince Rhind made him ride in the wagon.

“Your clever brain must not be harmed, Prawl,” he said. “We shall have need of your wisdom when we reach Elvensea.”

But Prawl didn't feel very wise as he joggled along on the wagon's seat next to Mistress Ninnis. He would sooner have been riding ahead with Breenge and her brother, and he sighed wistfully as he watched her draw further and further ahead.

“She must think I'm an idiot,” he said.

“Who, Lady Breenge?” asked the cook, cheerful as ever. “Oh, she has always thought you are an idiot; she didn't need to see you falling off a horse to convince her of it.”

It was evening. Long shadows stretched across the heathland. The road they were following wound along the top of the steep, wooded valley of the River Oeth. On either side bare hills of heather and gorse stretched to the horizons. The smoke of a few distant farms rose straight up into the windless air. The bowl of the sky was deep blue, waiting for the first stars.

“They are following,” said Ninnis suddenly.

“Who are?” asked Prawl, who had been lost in thoughts of Breenge.

The cook turned her head and looked at Prawl with her twinkling, bird-bright eyes. “The boy and the girl and a bunch o' them goblin friends of yours from Clovenstone.”

“How can you possibly know that?” asked Prawl. He twisted round to look back, but there was no sign of anyone following the wagon, only the pale road unwinding behind it into the evening hills.

“I have the sight,” said Ninnis softly.

“The what?”

“The second sight. I should have thought a mighty sorcerer like you would know all about it. I see things that are happening far away, and sometimes things that haven't happened yet.”

“Oh,
that
sort of second sight.”

“Your friends are just setting out through Westerly Gate. They have not brought horses with them, but goblins are quick on their feet and won't mind travelling by night while we are resting. They'll catch us sometime tomorrow, I reckon.”

Prawl shook his head. “I cannot see any of that! You should be Rhind's sorcerer, not me!”

Ninnis chuckled. “Why, he'd not want an old biddy like me as his court sorcerer! Besides which, I prefer pies to potions.”

“But at least you have some magic about you. I have none at all.”

“Well, don't tell His Highness that, or he will fire you and I shall have no one to talk to on this journey but proud Lady Breenge.” She nudged him and winked. “I tell you what! If you want to impress the prince and that sister of his, you catch up with him and tell him what I just told you. Only make out it was you that had the vision, not me.”

 

Rhind and Breenge were about half a mile ahead of the lumbering wagon. They had reined in their horses at a place where the road dipped steeply down into a dark wood. Rhind had dismounted and gone down into the trees on foot, as if to spy out the way ahead. When Prawl ran up to where Breenge waited he saw why. Nailed to a birch which grew beside the road was a board, and painted on the board was a depressed-looking skull and the words RODE CLOSED and DANGER.

Many travellers had already taken heed of that sign; Prawl could see where horses and perhaps a wagon or two had struck off on a different route which led around the wood, through the rock-strewn heathland behind. But the detour looked difficult, and Rhind was an impatient sort of prince. He wanted to be sure that some danger really lurked among those trees before he took the trouble to go around them. That was why he had gone on ahead to check.

He was climbing back up out of the tree-shadows as Prawl arrived. His face was grim. “There are bones among the trees,” he said. “I reckon something lives down there. Troll, maybe, or something worse. There are probably all sorts of strange things in these hills since the Slowsilver Star came.”

“Well, blast!” said Breenge. “Then I suppose we must take the other path, and rejoin the river road further on.”

“T'would be best, sister,” said Rhind. “I fear no mortal enemy, but against these magical creatures I'd sooner not fight unless I have to. Not with night coming on.”

Breenge noticed Prawl waiting nearby. “What do you want?” she snapped.

Prawl blushed. Stammering, he told Breenge and her brother about the party that had left Clovenstone.

“There!” said Breenge, when he had finished. “We shall have mortal enemies to battle after all! We shall lie in wait for these goblins and their friends, and kill them all.”

“I say,” cried Prawl, “that's a bit extreme! (Though ever so brave and spirited of you, of course, Lady Breenge.)”

“No, sister,” said Rhind. “Why would we waste our time and risk our lives to ambush a parcel of goblins? They are fickle, feckless creatures who will probably lose interest in pursuing us after a few miles. And if they do make it this far…”

He leaned over and used the hilt of his sword to knock the warning sign free of the two rusty nails which held it to the tree. Then he tossed it away down the hillside where the thick bracken hid it from view.

“We shall ride as far as the edge of the trees down there, then turn uphill to join the new path. By the time those creatures get here it will be dark, and they will think our tracks lead into the trees. The thing in the woods will deal with them.”

“Trolls do eat goblins, I suppose?” asked Breenge.

“It might not be a troll,” said Rhind. “But from the look of all those bones down there I'd say it eats just about anybody.”

 

Night had fallen by the time the travellers from Clovenstone arrived at that place. Even the goblins, with their sharp, twilight-loving eyes, did not notice the warning sign that Rhind had cast into the bracken. Only Skarper sensed anything wrong. Looking ahead at the pale ribbon of road dipping into the trees he said, “Why don't we camp here tonight, and go through those woods tomorrow when the sun is up?”

The others wouldn't hear of it.

“It is only a little wood,” said Henwyn.

“Why don't we keep walking all night,” said Spurtle, “and sleep in some shady place when the sun comes up? Dark suits goblins better, and we might overtake them softlings that way; they'll be snoozin' an' snorin' by now, I 'spect.”

“Anchovies!” said Gutgust, and that seemed to settle it. They started down the sloping road into the trees with Henwyn saying, “Maybe we won't want to keep walking all night. But at least let's get this wood behind us before we make camp. Maybe we'll see the light of Rhind's campfire from the top of that next hill.”

“Here!” said Spurtle, who was scampering ahead. “This is weird. The softlings' tracks turns sideways here, off the road and up the hill.”

“Why would they do that?” asked Zeewa.

“Maybe there's something wrong with those trees,” said Skarper.

But by that time Henwyn had already strolled past them and into the wood.

The shadows of the trees closed over him, and with them came silence. The noises of the world outside – the evening wind, the chuckle of the river, and the bickering of the goblins – were muffled here. The trees overhanging the road were dark and solemn, and scraps of mist veiled those that stood deeper in the dell. And what was that strange noise?

“Aaaaah-aaaah-oooooooh-aaaahhhh-aahhh…”

“Someone's moaning,” said Zeewa, entering the woods behind him.

“Someone's got a bellyache,” said Flegg.

“No, someone's singing,” said Henwyn, holding up a hand for silence so that he could hear the weird song more clearly. “Goblins have no ear for music.”

“Aaaaaah-aaaaah-oooooooh-aaaaaahhhh-aaahhh,” went the lonely voice, drifting between the trees like mist.

“I like sumpfing wiv more of a tune to it,” said Grumpling.

“We have happier music in the Tall Grass Country,” said Zeewa. “Music that makes you want to dance.”

“It's beautiful!” said Henwyn.

He left the road and started downhill towards the source of the sound. Tree roots tripped him, and pale bones snapped like dry twigs underfoot, but he did not notice them. Something was shining faintly in the trees ahead, where the shadows pooled the deepest, and it seemed suddenly very important that he should reach it. A slender figure, it seemed to him to be, glowing with its own soft light there in the wood's gloom. At home in Adherak when he was growing up he'd heard the tales of wood nymphs who wandered at dusk, singing for their lost loves. He had never thought to see one with his own eyes. Perhaps the sounding of the Elvenhorn had woken this one.

“Henwyn!” shouted Skarper, left behind with the others. He wanted to run after his friend, but he felt wary of leaving the road, which seemed the last solid thing in this shifting world of mist and shadows.

“There's something white down there between the trees,” said Zeewa.

“Prob'ly a bone,” said Spurtle. “There's loads of them here. They're crunchy.” He had picked up a long white bone from the leaf litter beside the road and he was cheerfully sucking out the marrow.

“Lots of softlings died here,” said Grumpling, booting a skull downhill like a bony football. “Not long ago, neither.”

Zeewa said, “There is magic here. I can feel it in the air and the ground.”

“Henwyn!” shouted Skarper again, but there came no answer, only that unearthly, tuneless singing from the heart of the wood.

Typical
, thought Skarper.
We haven't been away from Clovenstone for even one day yet, and already Henwyn's got himself in Mortal Peril. Well, if he thinks I'm going to go and help him he's got another think coming
.

But of course he was going to help. He always did. He drew his short sword and started down through the trees, and the others came after him – some, likeZeewa, because they wanted to help him, some, like Grumpling, because they were hoping for a good fight, and the rest because they did not want to be left behind in that eerie place.

At the bottom of the hill stood Henwyn. He had his back to them and he was so still that Skarper was afraid he'd been enchanted or something until he turned at the sound of their footsteps crunching through the dead leaves and said, “Shhh!”

“What is it?” whispered Skarper.

“Look!” Henwyn pointed through the twilight to a place where a ring of black trees grew. They were not gnarled old yews like the rest of the wood – too slender, too thorny. Through the narrow gaps between their trunks there flickered a ghostly, faintly glowing figure. It seemed to be swaying from side to side, and as it swayed, it sang.

“Aaaaah-ooooh-aaaahhh-oooohhh-aaaahhhh…”

“A wood nymph!” whispered Henwyn.

“A g-g-ghost!” whispered Spurtle.

“Anchovies!” whispered Gutgust.

“It's a flower,” said Zeewa.

“A what?” the goblins chorused.

“Some sort of strange flower…” Zeewa went forward, crunching over the litter of bones, and Henwyn went with her, afraid she might scare away the beautiful singer. “A flower?” he said peevishly. “Who ever heard of singing flowers?”

But Zeewa had been right. As soon as they stepped into that circle of slender trunks he could see that his wood nymph was nothing of the sort. What he had taken for her gown was just a tightly folded bud of massive, waxy petals; what he had thought was her face were just a few darker patches near the top. In the dark it had looked like eyes, a mouth, and a nose. As for the singing, he could tell now that it was just the night breeze keening through the trees. This flower must give off some natural magic the same way that others gave off scent, and it had tricked him into hearing singing.

“Aha!” he said, trying to make it sound as if he had suspected something of this sort all along. “A tree that mimics the appearance and song of a wood nymph. Fascinating.”

“Why would it do that?” asked Zeewa.

“Who knows?” said Henwyn. “It's not very good, though. Didn't fool me for a moment.”

He reached out and prodded the fleshy petals of the flower. Instantly, creaking like a ship in high seas, the ring of trees folded inwards, closing on him and Zeewa like a trap.

It was a trap, of course. A natural trap, like those plants in tropical forests that give off a smell like rotting meat and then snap shut on all the flies that arrive expecting a tasty snack. What Henwyn and Zeewa had taken for a ring of trees was really just the many limbs of one, and when Henwyn prodded the bloom at the centre of them he had released some vegetable spring which caused them all to jerk inwards, trapping them both.