Plob Fights Back Read online

  In the distance Spice saw Jonno reach the extraction point and wink out of existence as he went over to the other side. Tempest was labouring badly now, every flap of her giant wings a terrible effort. Spice saw a clearing and guided the dragon towards it. They half landed, half crashed into the ground. Tempest gave a final bellow and then lay still. Spice climbed down and ran under the trees for cover.

  Smudger flared his dragon to a landing in the clearing, jumped down and smacked its rump. ‘Go!’ He shouted. The beast rose clumsily into the air and headed automatically to the extraction point, winking out as it got there.

  Smudger ran into the trees to join Spice. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘A bit burnt. Sod it, that was close. Mind you, not sure what we’re going to do now.’

  ‘I think that we should head towards the extraction point and then wait and hope for rescue. The only problem is, I have no idea where the extraction point is.’

  ‘Well, you could always ask us for directions,’ said a voice.

  ‘Is that a tree talking?’ Asked Smudger.

  ‘Don’t be silly. Trees don’t talk,’ retorted the voice.

  ‘They bloody well do.’

  ‘Um, Smudger,’ said Spice. ‘I don’t think that they actually do talk.’

  ‘They do here. Plob and I had a long chat with them. They were very helpful.’

  ‘Well they’re not talking to you now,’ said the voice.

  ‘Well who is then?’

  ‘Me,’ said a small green skinned creature stepping out from behind a bush. ‘Farticus, son of Flatuliticus, son of Bottomburpus at your service. I am a forest goblin from the noble line of the Intestinus family.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Farticus,’ said Smudger. ‘I am Smudger, son of Terry, son of Charles. I am from the decidedly middle class line of the Smith family.’

  ‘I’m Spice. I don’t know my parents and my grandparents are dead.’

  ‘Well, follow me, son of the middle class and daughter of the dead.’

  ‘What about the Vagoths?’ Asked Smudger. ‘Won’t they be trying to find us?’

  ‘They will fly over the forest, but they will not enter. And if they do then they will not leave. The forest dwellers do not take kindly to the despoilers.’

  They followed the goblin deeper into the forest and, as they walked, the light grew dimmer while night approached.

  ‘We will need help to find accurate directions to whence you wish to go,’ said the Goblin. ‘It is difficult in the extreme to pinpoint an area of this so very large forest merely from instructions as vague as…somewhere over there. When we get to the village there are others who can help.’

  ‘How large is your village, Farticus?’ Asked Spice.

  ‘Oh, large. Large enough.’

  Almost without warning the three walkers came to a clearing. The open space measured perhaps two hundred yards across and above it, over one hundred giant trees had been bent towards the centre and lashed together to form a natural roof of leaves and branches. The clearing itself was lit with countless flaming torches and stalls and chairs and tables were strewn without pattern around the space. Some of the stalls were serving hot food, others served ale and spirits. A group of musicians strolled around playing their lutes and mandolins and hand drums, the tune slightly discordant but jolly nevertheless. The bulk of the beings were goblins but there were also a variety of bipedal and quadrupedal revellers in various shades of skin and fur colour.

  ‘Welcome to the village of Fabianus, we are a collective group of like-minded beings living together in harmony. We have no leader, no social hierarchy and we are all equal. Come, before I introduce you around let us to my dwelling where you can refresh yourselves.’

  The two flyers followed Farticus through the clearing and beyond, to a wide wooden staircase that was so steep as to almost be a ladder. They climbed while holding on to a rope banister to steady themselves.

  Eventually they came to a landing near the top of the massive trees. From this landing spread a series of small walkways. Farticus led them along one of the walkways to a magnificent tree house. It was constructed from latticework reeds and bleached hardwoods so that it was light yet strong. The door opened into a general living area that sported a roof that could be opened via a pulley system. Large arched windows looked out across the treetops and a fire burned, small but bright, in a metal bowl in the centre of the room. At the far side of the room were three doors. Farticus showed them to the one and opened it. There was a small room with two feather mattresses on the floor and a pile of furs.

  ‘The two of you can sleep here. Now, I am sure that the lady will want to use the room next door.’

  He showed Spice to the next room. In it was a copper bath. Farticus pulled a lever and water ran from a tank in the roof, through a hollow bamboo tube and into the bath.

  ‘You will find the water is pleasantly warm from the days sun, my lady. On the table there are various perfumes and unguents that you are free to use. Middle class Smudger and I will wait in the living room while you ablute.’

  As soon as the men left the room Spice stripped down and sank into the bath with a sigh.

  A while later the flyers and their new friend walked back down the stair ladder. This time Smudger noticed many more dwellings. He also noticed that the closer they got to the ground the less salubrious the dwellings became until, at almost ground level, they were little more than thatched platforms.

  ‘Farticus,’ said Smudger. ‘Why are the living quarters down here so beastly compared to the ones at the top?’

  ‘Oh, this is the prostratus level. I live in the dominatus level. In between we have both the upper and lower mesialus levels.’

  ‘But you said that everyone was equal.’

  ‘They are.’

  ‘I beg to differ, mine host. Some of these dwellings are little more than a few mean planks strung together with hope and sisal.’

  ‘Yes, and everyone on this level is equal to everybody else on this level.’

  ‘And the level above?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘No,’ said Smudger. ‘Is this level in any way equal to the level above?’

  Farticus laughed. ‘Of course not. That would be silly. And before you get too het up, middle class Smudger, I must tell you that all is decided on by voting and everybody gets a vote.’

  ‘Well that seems fair.’

  ‘Of course it is. As a member of the dominatus level I control ten votes. The middles control either three or four and the prostrarus levels get one vote per being.’

  Spice touched Smudger on the arm and shook her head. ‘We are guests,’ she whispered to him.

  Smudger nodded and stopped his line of questioning and they followed the forest goblin to the clearing where they were introduced all round.

  Chapter 28

  Halcyon stood in the mouth of the cave and stared out at the world beyond. In the distance he saw the Vagoth dragon scouts flying low. Searching.

  Since the riders last great victory at Bumsenfaust they had been running, trying to escape the Vagoth dragons. And it was proving to be very difficult. They had sent all of the women and children to caves deep in the mountains and then the rockery had gone on the move. Travelling at night and hiding in caves during the day.

  They had lost more than a dozen riders to dragon flame and many more had been injured. But neither Halcyon nor the Honcho had any idea how they were to combat the Vagoth air superiority.

  The Honcho walked over and put his hand on Halcyon’s shoulder.

  ‘Mega bummer to the max,’ he said.

  ‘Extreme bummer,’ agreed Halcyon.

  ‘But we must always remember, my son, to gain that which is worth having we must be prepared to lose everything else.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s, like, a very hip groove, Honcho, but sometimes the losing hurts, man.’

  ‘I dig what you’re saying, Halcyon, but we have to be strong, the strongest blades are forged in the furn
ace of despair. We shall overcome because we are righteous dudes and none shall gainsay us.’

  ‘Right on, brother. Right on.’

  Plob winked into being above the forest. He took a few seconds to get his bearings. Coincidently this was exactly the same amount of time it took the wing of six Vagoth fighters to spot him.

  Plob was flying a heavy as he needed a dragon that could carry three people and he had not let himself even contemplate that he may not find the other two alive. The Vagoths had every advantage; faster beasts, height and manoeuvrability. Plob turned to face them, swinging his beast’s heads from side to side and pumping out rounds as fast as the heavy could, spreading a wall of fire across the sky. Two of the Vagoths plummeted, burning, from the air, but the Heavy was out of fire.

  The young magician pulled hard left and drove his dragon down as low as possible jinking left and right in an attempt to throw the fighters off. But all he was really doing was buying a little time. Nothing more.

  The first ball hit his dragon on the tail causing it to screech in agony. The next two took out its left wing and they tumbled out of the sky, smashing into the trees of the forest.

  As soon as they hit the ground Plob jumped from the dragon and ran, narrowly avoiding the strafing run from the Vagoths who poured fire down at him. Trees on each side of him caught alight and the heavy dragon exploded as three rounds hit him.

  Then there was a sound like an enormous sneeze and a vast geyser of muddy water leapt into the sky knocking two Vagoths off their mounts and sending them to an abrupt and messy death. The last two Vagoths peeled off and bugged out. Plob fell to the sod and gasped for air as the geyser of water fell back to earth and extinguished the fires.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Asked a voice.

  ‘Hello,’ said Plob. ‘Is that a tree?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Trees don’t talk.’

  Plob, who had absolutely no intention of becoming part of a running gag, said nothing.

  ‘Why were the despoilers trying to kill you?’ Asked the voice.

  ‘Specifically because I’m at war with them,’ said Plob. ‘But generally speaking, I’m not sure. They simply pitched up one day and started burning the poo out of us.’

  ‘Ah, that sounds like them all right. People call me Terrane, I am the lord of the loam. Whom might you be?’

  ‘I might be Plob. Are you an invisible being?’

  ‘Why would you say that?’

  ‘Because I can’t see you.’

  ‘Yes you can.’

  Plob scanned around, eyes searching the shadows. ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘Hold on, mayhap this will help.’ The ground in front of Plob started to bulge, the grass peeled back and water flowed up from the earth. Plob stepped back in shock as the soil reared up and formed the shape of a man made from mud. ‘Is this better?’

  ‘You look like me.’

  ‘Yes, I have modelled myself on you so as not to cause alarm.’

  ‘Well it’s a bit freaky, I can tell you that.’

  The loam lord frowned. ‘I’m sorry but I do not understand the concept – “Freaky”.’

  ‘You know, weird, strange.’

  ‘Ah, unusual, unsettling. Here, let me…’ the mud mans face shimmered and changed. Now he looked more generic. A face that was neither attractive nor unattractive. A completely unnoticeable face. Perfect for a spy, or perhaps a serial killer. Except, of course, for the undeniable fact that it was composed of mud.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Plob. ‘That is better.’

  ‘So, young human, how can I be of assistance to an enemy of the Vagoths?’

  ‘I’m actually in a bit of a pickle, to put it mildly. What you have just witnessed is the very short and unsuccessful attempt to rescue two of my fellow flyers that were burnt down yesterday. Talk about a cock up, I don’t have a dragon anymore, I don’t know where I am and, if truth be told, I’m not even sure if my friends made it or not. In fact I didn’t actually have much of a plan, I simply reckoned that if they had made it then they would hopefully try to get to our extraction point. So, there you have it.’

  ‘Very succinctly put, young sir. If you could just wait a while I shall find out if your friends have entered the forest.’

  The loam lord deconstructed and became a mere muddy plashe on the turf. Plob sat down on a boulder and waited. After about five minutes the pool of mud reconstructed and once again became a facsimile of a human.

  ‘Your friends are here. They arrived last night and are currently the guests of the forest goblins.’

  Plob punched the air with relief. Spice was safe. ‘My lord, I thank you, that is very good news. Pray tell, how did you find out?’

  ‘I merely communed with the forest floor. The earth and I are one and what it knows so do I, within the limits of this forest. Now, come with me, I shall guide you.’

  The lord started to move and Plob followed. Watching the loam lord walk was decidedly disconcerting in that he did not take actual steps. Instead he morphed from one position to the next so that his feet never actually lost contact with the ground. A life sized claymation figure.

  They had been walking in silence for a little over an hour when the loam lord stopped in a small clearing. He held up a hand to halt Plob. ‘Don’t move,’ he whispered. ‘Be still. Be quiet.’

  The two stood for a while and then the lord dropped his hand. ‘No, I was mistaken, it’s not them.’

  ‘Not who?’ Asked Plob.

  ‘The Arguementors. A feral group of rogue philosophers. They’re extremely dangerous.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They drag you into a deeply unsolvable argument and don’t let you go until you have answered the question to their satisfaction. Most of their victims die of thirst or exposure long before the termination of the argument. Of course they cannot harm me but you would be in terrible danger. Oops.’

  ‘What do you mean, oops?’

  ‘I made a mistake,’ said the loam lord as he disintegrated back into a pool of mud.

  Before Plob could register his surprise the forest all around him was filled with the sound of voices. It sounded like some sort of insane question and answer routine, a single voice shouting out a question and then a multitude of voices murmuring back the answer in unison.

  ‘Question - Why did the chicken cross the road?’ Asked the leading voice.

  ‘Answer - The confluence of events in the cultural gestalt necessitated that individual chickens cross roads at this historical juncture, and therefore synchronicity brought such occurrences into being,’ Mumbled the others.

  ‘Question - What is the sound of one hand clapping?’

  ‘Answer - Cl…’

  ‘Oho, what have we here?’ Said the leader as he walked into the small clearing and saw Plob.

  ‘Umm…we don’t know that one.’ Said someone.

  ‘I wasn’t asking you. I didn’t say, question, did I? No, so obviously it was a rhetorical question about something that I have just seen.’

  ‘Well how are we supposed to know if we haven’t seen what you’ve just seen? That would make it an aporetic question to us because how could we possibly answer it? It’s an insoluble contradiction or paradox, I mean, “what have we here,” could be referring to anything, anywhere.’

  ‘Well come and have a look then.’

  The rest of the philosophers wandered into the clearing. There were about twenty of them, bearded and unkempt, dressed in long grubby robes and carrying a variety of weapons.

  ‘It’s a man,’ said the someone.

  ‘Ah, but is it?’ Asked the leader. ‘Or is it merely a mass hallucination brought on by the inability to answer an aporetic paradox?’

  Plob had decided that he had had enough.’ Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I think…’

  ‘Aha!’ Shouted the leader and the other one in unison. ‘He exists. Cogito Ergo Sum. He thinks…therefore he is.’

  The leader stepped forward. ‘Welcome, young man who definitely exists. I am
Plako, the philosopher. Perhaps you have come across my thesis, “I am real but is cheese also a god”?’

  Plob shook his head. ‘No sorry.’

  ‘Really? It’s quite famous, you know.’

  ‘Well, I’m not actually from around here.’

  ‘Ah, that would explain it.’

  ‘Yeah, that and the fact that it’s crap,’ said one of the other argumentors.

  ‘Who said that?’ Shouted Plako. ‘Come on, own up you crowd of insipid, pedantic, leather-tongued oracles of bourgeois intelligence. I bet it was you, Desmarties. How dare you, considering your doctorial farce; “If blind people wear dark glasses, why don't deaf people wear earmuffs?”.’

  ‘Your bum, Plako.’

  Plob smiled to himself. He had no idea why the loam lord had called this bunch of eccentric middle-aged men dangerous. High spirited maybe. Argumentative, definitely…but dangerous?

  ‘What do mean, my bum?’ Asked Plako. ‘You go to far, Desmarties.’

  ‘No, sir. I do not go far enough.’

  Plako pulled a throwing knife from his belt and whipped it overhand at the arguing argumentor. The blade struck him in the chest with a sickening crunch and he fell to his knees.

  ‘The hour of my departure has arrived and we go our ways; I to die, and you to live. Which is better? Only God knows.’ Said Desmarties as he fell to the ground.

  The rest of the argumentors started clapping and hooting.

  ‘Fantastic last words, old man.’

  ‘Well said.’

  Plako wiped a tear from his eye. ‘What a great man he was. Brilliant last words. I hope that I can go as well as him.’

  Plob’s knees felt weak. Violent death was nothing new to him, but such casual brutal behaviour over mere semantics was new.

  Plako walked over to the corpse and tugged the dagger from his chest. It made a sucking sound that made Plob’s wobbly knees pass their feelings of unsteadiness onto his stomach.

  ‘Now, young man who definitely exists,’ said Plako. ‘It is time for us all to discuss some philosophy. Tell…if the universe ceased to exist - would the rules of chess still apply?’

  Plob said nothing for a while. This was no mere argument…this was cutting edge debating - literally. One mistake and blood would flow. The first thing that the young magician did was relax and then attempt to draw magical power from his surrounds. But it was to no avail. This world had a different magical resonance to his home and was thus unusable by him.