Ratastrophe Catastrophe (13 page)

Several tons of rock slid away, revealing a small portal and a set of dusty stairs leading down into darkness.

Far, far below, deep inside the heart of the Twelve, Diek Wustapha stood atop a rock in a draughty chasm. Below him, a sea of tiny faces stared upward, eyes glazed, captivated by the magic that swirled around him. It was visible now, a frenzied purple cloud sprinkled liberally with glittering, frozen stars.

Acceding to the wishes of The Voice, Diek Wustapha raised the flute to his lips and began to play.

A hum went up from his young audience, resonating around the chasm like the echo of a wind chime dropped down a deep and resonant well.

All the life we need is here, Diek,
said The Voice in its terrible tones.
On the power of these young minds, we can exist for centuries. We can…rise again, as powerful as once we were. You have done well, Diek. You have done well….

I
T HAD TAKEN FIFTEEN
orc warriors to drag Groan to the ground and another three to clap him in irons. Gordo had put up a fair fight himself, eventually overcome by four heavy greenskin scouts. Tambor came a little more easily, in fact, he’d surrendered even before the orcs had noticed him.

The tribal chieftain arrived to look over his prisoners. He was a grotty little orc, stout of gut and long of tooth, with enough souvenirs dangling from around his neck to intimate that he ran a very successful outfit.

He prodded Groan in the arm, spat at Tambor, and gave Gordo a sharp kick in the ribs. Then he snatched up the dwarf’s battle-axe and waved his arm in the direction of the wood. A succession of mumbles died away and the tribe began to move.

“Psst,” said Tambor. His arms were chained to a sort of log pulley-system without the log. “Psst!”

Groan continued to walk with his head down. The rest of his body was constricted by chains.

“Hey!”

The barbarian glanced over at Tambor. “Yeah?” he said.

“Do you think you could break your chains?”

“Dunno,” answered Groan.

“Why don’t you try, then?”

“Try what?”

Tambor rolled his eyes. He had a feeling he could spend the rest of his life having this conversation. “Why don’t you try to break your chains?” he whispered.

“With what?”

“Forget I mentioned it,” said Tambor, shaking his head.

The chains were beginning to grind on Tambor’s hands. He yelped and then hurried to catch up with his captor.

Gordo was having a slightly easier time of it. Apparently none of the orcs had been prepared to walk along bending over, so they’d made some kind of platform for him to stand on.

Tambor struggled against his chains and got a sharp slap in the face for his efforts. He waited until his head had stopped spinning, then turned and gave Gordo a half-smile.

“I expect you’ve been orc-napped a few times, eh?” he said. “Incidentally, do you know the one about the mongoose and—”

“Shut it, coward,” grumbled Groan.

“Well, that’s nice, isn’t it?” said Tambor. “Considering I’m about to save us all from certain death.”

Gordo turned a beady eye on the sorcerer. Even Groan listened in.

“I think,” said Tambor, twitching to relieve an itch in his beard, “that I may be able to remember a very good offensive spell.”

Groan sniffed. He hated magic.

“What’s that?” said Gordo suspiciously.

“It’s called Tower of Screaming Doom,” said Tambor. “If I can do it right, a spinning column twenty feet tall should appear in the air and wipe out anyone standing.”

“Well, can you do it or not?” asked Gordo, excitedly.

“I think so.”

Groan heard the sorcerer mumble something in a foreign tongue.

“When I say
now
,” Tambor whispered. “I want you both to dive for the ground.”

The mercenaries murmured in agreement.

“Now!”

Tambor muttered an incantation and dove theatrically to the ground as a spinning column of flame winked into existence above him. It soared high over the heads of the tallest orcs, but no one paid very much attention. The spinning column was approximately five inches high.

Groan used the momentary confusion to break his chains. Orcs flew in all directions.

Gordo leaped from his platform down onto Tambor’s captor. The Tower of Screaming Doom devastated a nearby beehive before fizzling out.

Jimmy Quickstint peered into the shadowy darkness lurking just beyond the first few steps. The way he saw it, there were two choices. He could either turn back, run home to Dullitch and face the wrath of Duke Modeset, or he could go ahead on the chance that the portal would stay open, in case he decided to run back after all. Simple, really.

He reached out a tentative foot and brought it down on the top step. Nothing happened. Then he stepped inside. A flock of birds erupted from the tree-tops behind, and he spun around, breathing heavily. Nothing happened.

Jimmy swallowed and offered a silent prayer to the god of ignorant thieves, hoping that there was one. Then he closed his eyes, clenched his fists and descended the first three steps. Nothing happened. Thank the lords for that, he thought, leaning against the inner wall. Perhaps there really was a god looking out for him, after all.

Something in the Stygian gloom below made a
crraaawwl
noise. Jimmy froze with fear, just as the stone slab behind him rolled back into place and locked with a decisive click.

“That was a close one,” said Tambor, staring around the clearing with a satisfied smile. “Good thing I know my business.”

The battle in the woods was over. It had drawn to a swift conclusion when Groan had happened upon the tactic of using one orc to hit another. He brushed a moldy leaf off his shoulder and flexed. “Good fight,” he said, grinning.

“Yep,” said Tambor. “Don’t mess with magic, that’s what I say.”

“Magic?” exclaimed Gordo, leaning on his battle-axe. “You didn’t
do
anything!”

Tambor looked amazed. “What about the Tower of Screaming Doom!” he shouted.

“What about it?” snapped Gordo.

“Didn’t you see it? It flew around for ages!”

“I saw it,” said Groan. “Smacked it over that way.”

He pointed over at a twisted oak tree, where half a beehive was smoldering.

“Idiots!” said Tambor, shaking his fists. “That was earth magic at work, that was! Will somebody get me out of these chains!”

“Croaaarrrrkk!”

Jimmy started at the sound, took half a step back, then slipped and tumbled head over heels down the staircase. He landed at the bottom in an awkward heap.

When a few seconds had passed without anything biting a chunk from his ankle, he forced himself up on to his elbows and began to look around.

Spent torches hung from ancient braziers on the walls. From what he could make out, he was on a landing of some kind. There was a cell in the far wall. It had one occupant.

“What a spot of luck,” the man said, stretching out a hand between the bars of his prison. “Thought we were goners, we did.”

Jimmy boggled at him. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m Stump, and this here is Mick. We’re prisoners, as you’ve probably guessed.”

Jimmy strained to look inside the cage. He couldn’t see anything. “Is there somebody else in there with you?” he asked.

Stump peered around behind him. “Nah,” he said. “It’s just me and Mick.” A flake of dust fell out of his beard. “Doubt if there’d be room in here for three of us,” he added.

“How long have you been in there?” asked Jimmy.

“Awhile, I reckon. Mick was here already.”

“Who locked you up?”

“Oh, nobody
locked
us up,” said Stump. “These caves are old, really old, and the tribes that used to lurk hereabouts had a habit of diggin’ out long tunnels and plungin’ pits all over the surface above. I fell through like a good’un. Serves me right for not lookin’ where I was goin’. Reckon you could get us out?”

Jimmy nodded. “No problem, there isn’t a lock in the land I can’t break.”

Gordo wiped some green slime from the head of his battle-axe. The temperature was dropping rapidly and a thin mist had begun to coil among the trees. The forest was becoming darker and gloomier by the minute.

“See all the crushed twigs?” said Gordo. “I reckon this place is crawling with orcs, and we certainly don’t want any more surprises.”

Groan suddenly snatched hold of Tambor and flung him into the lower branches of the nearest tree.

“What was
that
for?” snapped the sorcerer, dangling precariously from the branches. “Have you any idea how old I am?”

“Climb up, tell us what you see,” commanded Gordo.

“What, all the way to the top?”

“Yeah,” said Groan.

“We should be careful,” Gordo whispered, when Tambor was three-quarters of the way to the top. “He is getting on, you know.”

“I’ve bin’ thinkin’ ’bout that,” said Groan. “Did you see the way he jumped for that bush out on the road?”

“So?” Gordo said, brows furrowed. He didn’t like it when the barbarian started to think for himself.

“I reckon there’s somefin’ goin’ on there,” said Groan suspiciously. “I don’t reckon he’s as old as he makes out.”

“But he’s got to be!” said Gordo. “I mean, I remember he was quite famous when I first came to Dullitch, way back. Tambor Forestall! Everyone knew about Tambor Forestall back then. I’m sure of it. Tambor Forestall and the Seven Dragons, Tambor Forestall and the Trolls of Epsworth Creek, Tambor Forestall and, and…”

“And the Tower of Screamin’ Doom?” ventured Groan. He smiled; sarcasm was a new experience for him.

Tambor was slowly descending from the top of the tree. He slipped on one of the lower branches and landed on the forest floor with a crash.

“Well,” he said eventually, “there’s good news and there’s bad news. Which do you want first?”

Gordo shrugged. “Either.”

“Right,” Tambor continued, getting to his feet. “The good news is, we’ve lost the orcs. The bad news is, we have to go back the way we came.”

“Why would we want to do that?” exclaimed Gordo.

“Because there happens to be a giant chopping wood about two clearings ahead of us.”

“A giant?” said Gordo.

“Yes. G-i-a-n-t. Giant. He’s twice the size of Groan.” The old sorcerer shook his head. “I suppose he might be friendly, but I doubt it. Either way, we can’t take the risk.”

“We won’t then,” Groan muttered. “I’ll just knock ’im out.

“What?” Tambor gasped, looking down at Gordo. “Did you hear that? He’s out of his stupid mind. That’s a giant, for crying out loud. He’ll get us all killed.”

The dwarf shrugged. “Stay here if you like,” he said, unclasping his battle-axe. “I doubt this’ll take long.

“Hey!” Tambor called after them. “Is there any chance of dashing back to fetch my carpet?”

Deep inside the Twelve there was a barely audible
clink
and the prison door swung open.

“That’s incredible!” said Stump. “We’re impressed.”

Jimmy was about to point out that he couldn’t actually see anybody else in the cell, when another question came to mind. “You haven’t seen anything unusual since you’ve been in here, have you?” Jimmy asked.

Stump squinted back at the cage. “Like what?” said Stump.

“Well, like an eight-foot-tall barbarian, an old sorcerer, and a dwarf,” answered Jimmy, hopefully.

“Nope, sorry,” said Stump, smiling. “Haven’t seen anyone like that. Don’t know about Mick; he was already down here when I arrived. He might’ve seen somethin’. You can ask him yourself.”

Jimmy smiled at Stump sympathetically. “Insanity’s a terrible thing,” he muttered.

“What’s that?”

“Er…I said it must’ve been horrible to be locked up down here all that time.”

“Oh, not really,” said Stump, shaking his head. “We kept ourselves busy, you know how it is.” He scratched a stubbly upper lip. “The first few days were the worst, gettin’ to know each other, like. We had a couple of cross words
then
. Mick’s not much of a talker,” he added, sighing heavily.

“Really,” said Jimmy.

“Plus,” Stump continued, unabashed, “you wouldn’t believe how many people just walk right by, don’t even lift a finger when they hear a bloke in distress; ain’t that right, Mick? Bloody scoutmasters.”

Jimmy frowned. “Scoutmasters?”

“Yeah,” said Stump reasonably. “At any rate, he looked like a scoutmaster. He had a lot of kids with him, didn’t he, Mick?”

Back in Dullitch, the city’s fragile morale was beginning to crack.

“I’m sorry, the
what
?” Duke Modeset asked, leaning across his desk and cupping a hand to his ear.

“The, er, the Dullitch Society for the Successful Location and Safe Return of Missing Children, milord,” said Pegrand.

“And they’re demanding my abdication?”

“Yes, milord.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Modeset. “I’ve never even heard of them. In fact, I’d be surprised if they existed before lunch.”

Pegrand smiled nervously. “They say they’ve been going twenty years, milord. You know, on the off-chance.”

“Ah yes, like the Association for Making Friends with the People of Phlegm Before They Invade Us Next Tuesday? Or even, what was it, the Long-Established League Against the Early Closing of the Rotting Ferret on a Friday Night? Ha! They must think I was born upside down in a haystack. Tell them to drop dead.”

“Yes, milord,” said Pegrand.

“But not in those words, of course.”

“Course not, milord.” Pegrand shuffled some documents and, holding them out to the duke, he continued, “They did have this, though.”

Modeset sighed and rubbed his eyelids. “What is it?”

“Er, well, it’s a petition demanding answers, milord.”

“Is it signed?” asked Modeset.

“Yes, milord.”

“Just the one page?”

“Er, yes, milord. Oh, no, tell a lie, there’re two. Unless this one’s part…oh right, three. Oh, no, four…and the two I’ve just dropped.”

“Give it to me!”

Modeset reached up, snatched the sheaf of documents and threw them straight into the bin.

“Now, go and find Quaris Sands!” he snapped. “We need a workable speech by the morning and I’m damn sure I’m not going to be the one writing it.”