Ratastrophe Catastrophe (12 page)

“Eliumariss toomathane. Rastarinimpetus kadant!”

For a time, nothing happened. Diek just stood motionless before the rock face, his hands shaking from the sheer mental effort the spell required. He took a few tentative steps, then strode right through the barrier as though it had never existed. One by one, the children followed him beyond the wall and down, down into the darkness.

Far below, Gordo had decided to go around the base of the Twelve, but this had turned out to be a very unfortunate choice in terms of their progress. Their problems had begun with a chance meeting with a group of nomads who had set up camp in the gargantuan mountain’s lower foothills. The nomads mixed warm hospitality with a seemingly endless supply of ale. Consequently, the group had been in their company for the best part of a day. Now, thanks to some friendly nomad advice about the dangerous creatures lurking on the Twelve’s eastern base, they’d elected to go
over
the mountain instead. To do this successfully, Tambor had reasoned, they needed to start from the well-worn path that they had been on the day before, and that meant starting the whole journey over again from scratch. During these difficult hours, they spent much of their journey retracing their steps in hushed silence (or at least the sort of silence that’s regularly interrupted by muffled curses).

A glimmer on the horizon signaled that thunder was lurking and a bitter wind whistled down the path, making progress as difficult as possible.

“I don’t suppose either of you carries a readable map of the area?” Tambor said, his teeth chattering in the wind.

Groan and Gordo stared blankly at each other. Then they cast a glance in every direction, hoping to see some signs of a path that wouldn’t involve conquering the mountain.

“I take it that’s a no, then?” the old man continued.

“Oh, look at this,” Gordo replied. “It’s not enough that we’ve landed up with a sorcerer with no spell book, now he’s whining along the way!”

Tambor averted his eyes. He had a rolled-up carpet under one arm, which he’d collected from his lodgings in Laker Street. It was a magic carpet, he’d assured them, but one that definitely wouldn’t support a man of Groan’s size and stature. He had just been preparing to roll the carpet out, when he’d remembered his missing spell book and the not insubstantial conjuration that was required to start the thing.

Gordo spat at the grass and fiddled with a strap beneath his helmet. Eventually it became unhooked.

“We should go back,” said Gordo. “I saw something last night that I didn’t much like the look of. I think there was a magic—”

“Damn magic,” said Groan. “An’ damn the city. ’S never done us no favors.”

“I just thought maybe we could have a look—”

“You’re goin’ soft, Gordo Goldeaxe,” said Groan.

“I am not!” the dwarf protested, taking instant offence at the use of his full name. “But we don’t know where we’re going! You might walk the land, Groan Teethgrit, but some of us have homes and families that love and care for a dwarf…who brings home gold for the village.”

He dropped his battle-axe, slumped onto a rotting tree stump, and began beating himself over the head with the dangling chinstrap of his helmet. “I’m fed up with this traveling lark,” he said. “I wish I’d stayed in the village with the rest of my tribe. Uncle Grimson always said I was crazy to be a mercenary.”

“There might be a friendly village in the foothills,” said Tambor. Groan sniffed and peered up at the Twelve.

A flash of lightning lit up the sky.

“There’d better be,” said Gordo, snatching up his battle-axe.

A knowledge of geography is always useful when traveling on foot, but the odd trio carefully negotiating the Twelve weren’t too hot on geography (Groan suspected it had something to do with keeping fit). And, unlike Diek, they didn’t have the advantage of being aided by dark magic.

They were a quarter of the way up the mountain, when Groan suddenly stopped them dead in their tracks.

“Don’t like it ’ere,” said Groan. “It’s too quiet. I reckon they’re all waitin’ in the trees to jump out at us.”

“Who?” asked Tambor, looking blindly around.

“Them.” Groan sniffed. As far as he was concerned “us” was whoever he was with and “them” was anybody else. Gordo swung his battle-axe experimentally.

An arrow landed in the grass beside the path. Upright.

“’S an arrow,” announced Groan, in case anyone had missed it.

No one moved. A few seconds passed without incident. Somewhere off among the trees, a shadow shifted. Tambor took this as his cue to make a definite exit and dove into a convenient bush at the side of the path. Three more arrows rained down upon the group.

“I’d just like to point out,” whispered Tambor from his bush, “that I think you can take the bravery thing a bit too far.”

“I’ve got little to worry about,” said Gordo, out of the corner of his mouth. “Small target.”

Tambor muttered something under his breath and tried to dig a hole beneath the bush by scooping out mounds of dirt with his hands.

“Coward,” said Groan.

Gordo grimaced. Four arrows was fair indication of trouble. “What is it, d’you think?” asked Gordo, staring at the barbarian hopefully. “Trolls? Orcs?”

A fifth arrow landed just beyond Tambor’s bush, making the sorcerer yelp.

Groan shook his head. “Too ’igh for orcs,” he said. “Too low fer trolls.”

“Great,” whispered Tambor. “Now we know who’s definitely
not
attacking us. Any chance of a guess in the opposite direction? I’d just like to know who to curse when I’m picking an arrowhead out of my aaaarrhh…!”

The sorcerer leaped out of his bush, danced around in circles for a few seconds, and then dove back in.

“What was that?” asked Gordo.

Tambor coughed. “Hedgehog,” he snapped. “Can’t you two find somewhere to hide?”

“It’s okay,” said Gordo. “I think they might’ve gone.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” said Tambor. “You don’t fire five arrows at someone and then just walk away.”

Groan shrugged. “P’raps it’s a greetin’,” he said.

“Very friendly,” said Tambor. “I don’t fancy visiting
their
village.” He shivered at the thought.

“You know somethin’,” Gordo said, grinning. “You’re actually startin’ to think like us. Isn’t he, Groan?”

“Yeah,” the barbarian agreed. “We’re c’ruptin ’im.” Suddenly, the rain intensified, turning from thin drizzle into a heavy shower.

Tambor sneezed and flicked away some of the rainwater dripping from the brim of his hat. He was just about to start complaining, when the sixth arrow arrived.

Jimmy Quickstint galloped on down the road. It was nice of the duke to lend him this wonderful horse, he thought.

Mountains loomed ahead. Jimmy tried to think clearly. Presuming the two mercenaries were still with his granddad, they would probably have headed for Legrash. He looked up at the mountains and decided that no fool would attempt to climb something they could go around. After a lengthy struggle, he managed to point the horse toward a patch of forest around the base of the Twelve. Then he reached down and slapped it on the flank, which turned out to be a big mistake, as he fell off.

“Come back! “Jimmy shouted, waving his arms frantically as the horse galloped back toward Dullitch. “Please! I need….Oh no, somebody help!”

He stood and watched as the knight’s steed became a speck on the horizon. Then he looked round at the forest, sat down cross-legged, and began to sob.

“You said orcs wouldn’t be this far up!” Tambor screamed. He was sprinting up and down the path with remarkable speed for a man of more than eighty years. A short distance away Groan was slamming heads together, six at a time in some cases.

“Maybe these orcs are different!” shouted Gordo, swinging his battle-axe around a widening circle of greenskins. “You know, the ambitious type or something—”

“Ambitious orcs?” yelled Tambor. “Well that’s just terrific, isn’t it?” He ducked down as a saber whistled past.

A screech echoed from above and a garji-rider swooped low over the mountainside. Garjis were terrible creatures, half snake and half dragon, that were regularly harnessed and ridden by their orcish masters.

Groan took one look up at the treetops and dashed off into the woods at the side of the road.

“Where are you going?” screamed Tambor.

“Get a tree to fro’ at ’em!” the barbarian shouted back.

Gordo was doing what he always did in battle; silently promising the dwarf gods that, should he escape now, he would never leave his village again. Divine intervention came in the form of a large pebble, which he tripped on, narrowly avoiding a saber hurled by one of the greenskins. Lucky, Gordo thought, but I’d have preferred a lightning bolt or something.

Groan came thundering out of the woods, a small tree balanced on one shoulder. He stopped running, reached back, and pitched it at the winged monstrosity. It missed. Again, Groan turned to run.

“Where are you going now?” screamed Tambor, who was perched on the lowest branch of a nearby oak.

“Get annuva one!” shouted Groan.

“We haven’t got time!” yelled Gordo, above the fray. “Besides, you’d probably miss again.”

Groan scowled. “Never missed anyfin’ twice,” he said. Never hit anyfin’ twice, he thought.

Tambor had experienced a sudden flash of inspiration. Maybe he could get the carpet working if he remembered exactly the right words. He felt around beside him but his fingers just found bark. He thought, The carpet’s still in the bush. He peered over at Gordo, who was struggling against a greenskin waving what looked like a shovel.

“Hey, Gordo! Could you pass me my carpet?”

The dwarf’s reply was lost on the wind, which was probably for the best.

Gordo’s battle-axe flew through the air and buried itself in the stomach of the garji, whose rider screamed and dove off. Tambor shrieked, Gordo smiled and ran to retrieve his weapon, and even Groan looked momentarily taken aback. The elation didn’t last for long. A cold scream echoed round the mountain as a second group of greenskins poured into the clearing, scrambling over one another in an attempt to draw first blood.

Gordo’s battle-axe danced in a complicated arc around him, opening gashes and lopping off limbs, while Groan was employing half a branch to swat away the brave few who dared approach him. However, their numbers were increasing, and Tambor fancied that he could make out a second line of orcs in the shadows around the clearing. Even with Groan as a deterrent, he had to admit the situation didn’t look good.

W
HAT JIMMY HAD TAKEN
to be a forest was unexpectedly turning out to be more of a jungle.

Incredible, he thought. Outside it’s freezing cold and in here it’s like the oven of the gods. It would be fair to say that he was not enjoying the beauty of the wild. He didn’t know which was worse, losing the royal horse or losing all the money intended to lure the mercenaries back. Time was probably running out for the children of Dullitch and here he was, stranded in some dense wilderness, without any hope of ever finding the mercenaries, and no money to pay them even if he did! The whole day had been one big disaster. Come to think about it, his whole
life
was one big disaster.

He coughed and swatted away a few mosquitoes.

There were trees in every direction. He imagined a pair of eyes beneath every twig, hissing and biting at anything that didn’t qualify as a member of the same species which, in a jungle of this size, amounted to just about everything. A crescendo of unpleasant sounds was building in the distance, as a pack of unknown terrors hunted down some poor primate. He expected an explosion of jagged claws and needle-sharp teeth at any moment. Instead, a small, featherless monstrosity of nameless origin squawked a hideous cacophony from a nearby tree. I’m lost, he thought. That’s the second time I’ve been past that tree with the red arrow scrawled on it.

He tripped over a tree root, then gave it a vengeful kick. A branch that lay horizontally across the path opened half an eye and slithered away behind a tree stump. Jimmy shivered; he’d had a dreadful fear of snakes ever since his grandfather had told him that his favorite uncle had been strangled by a feather boa.

The recollection didn’t do much to calm his nerves. The quicker he got out of this place, he thought, the better.

Jimmy was, in fact, struggling through the Carafat Jungle, north of Dullitch, which played host to some of the oldest (and indeed most terrible) tribes in Illmoor. The Carif Backslashers, Gib’s Minions, the winged hordes of Yud the Acolyte, Trumnf Caew’s Marauders—they all had a stake here. Wander into this territory by accident, and you were lucky to last five minutes.

These jungles housed spear traps triggered by a spit in the wrong direction, death mazes where twisted minds painted misleading arrows on the walls using their own blood, and freak log slides that could roll you flatter than a pancake. In Carafat, the only thing more dangerous than standing still was moving.

Jimmy had heard mention of a handful of notorious expeditions, the most successful of which had been one led by a man called Passion. After months of torture at the hands of a mysterious heathen death squad, Passion had returned with some insightful advice to all would-be travelers. Unfortunately, it was stapled to his head and written in hieroglyphs, so no one ever found out what it meant.

Something large with no shortage of feathers flew in Jimmy’s face, and he reached up and smacked it aside. It hit a sweating palm tree and spent the next few seconds hobbling around on the floor. Jimmy stepped away from the creature and took a good look. It wasn’t surprising Dullitch didn’t have an aviary. There really wasn’t much to like about birds, he decided. Especially birds of prey. Where was the connection, for goodness’ sake? He tried to think of a sacred psalm with the word
vulture
in it, but came up empty-handed.

A vine swung loose from a nearby tree and dangled provocatively in front of him. I’m not falling for
that
one, he thought.

The path he was following ended rather abruptly at a rock face. It looked false. Jimmy cocked his head and closed one eye, a habit of his that kicked in whenever he had to size up a situation. There was definitely the outline of a door there, a sort of rectangle etched into the stone. He pushed gently, then put all his weight against it to give him proper leverage. There was a tiny creak, screech, and an unrelated rumble in the distance; apart from that, nothing happened. He swore under his breath, stepped back and gave the slab an experimental kick. To his surprise, this worked wonders….