Plob Fights Back Read online

  ‘Here,’ said Gurted. ‘The dragons on this side have been fed and watered and have already been saddled in preparation for their morning exercise. None have been fired up yet. We only do that after breakfast and the attack has seen that breakfast has been postponed.’

  ‘So what’s that you’re eating?’ Asked Eeeek!

  ‘Preprandial snack, your goblin-ness. Stave off the hunger until the boiled pigs head and dumplings.’ Gurted opened up a pen door. ‘This one is called Grossenfuer, good for you, I think,’ he said, pointing at Plob. He moved to the next pen. ‘This little girl is named Winzigerfuer, good for the pretty lady.’ He bowed in Spice’s direction. ‘This, Grosshandle, for you,’ he handed the reins to Smudger. ‘Now…I suppose that you are going to kill us?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Plob.

  ‘I might,’ mumbled Eeeek!

  ‘Well then, kind sirs, may I ask a boon? May you please tie us up so that it does not appear that we have been complicit in this…umm…expropriation of Vagoth military property.’

  ‘I can do better than that,’ said Eeeek! ‘I can make it look as though you got into a vicious fight trying to stop us.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Albret. ‘How?’

  Eeeek! Cocked his arm and punched Albret on the nose. The stout man went down in a welter of snot and blood. Eeeek! Spun around and slammed his elbow into Gurted’s temple knocking him to the floor, a black eye already starting to form.

  ‘What?’ Said Eeeek! Taking in Plob’s disapproving expression. ‘I did it for their own good.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Promise,’ continued Eeeek! ‘I’m all heart I am. I’m telling you, my good nature will be the death of me someday.’

  The three led the dragons out of the pen and into the exercise ring.

  ‘Plob grasped Eeeek! by the hand. ‘Many thanks, friend. We’ll be off now.’

  The three dragon riders mounted up. Eeeek! threw them a quick salute and then stalked away.

  Plob thumped his heels into his dragon’s flanks and the beast gaited forward and lumbered into the air with the other two close behind. As they gained height Plob could see that the goblins were already retreating back to the safety of the forest. They weren’t being harried as the Vagoths were currently more interested in putting out the fires than chasing their foe.

  As they approached the extraction point above the forest Plob felt almost anticlimactic. He had achieved what he had set out to do, but now he was spent and it was all that he could do to simply keep himself awake as the adrenalin that had been keeping him going for the last few days simply ran out.

  Then he felt the welcomed tug of transference and was gone.

  Chapter 31

  A gloopy sound. Unpleasant. Biological.

  Long frayed strings of mucilaginous mucus oozing from a throbbing amniotic sac suspended by webs from a tree. A being drops from the sac and lies curled on the forest floor. Moonlight reflects off its slime-shiny skin. An ethereal blue glow covers the being in a nimbus of light.

  Slowly it rises to its feet. An enlarged head with two big black eyes. Naked, sexless, with smooth grey skin. Child like in stature.

  And a voice said, ‘I am Nyx; the god of night.

  And a second voice said, ‘I am Nerus; the god of light.

  And yea, a third voice said, ‘I am Norgam; the god of all the other bits, including social faux pas, bodily functions, words that rhyme with orange, the infinite universe and fresh milk for the tea.’

  And then did the first voice say. ‘Hey, hold on. What the hell…we’re all in one body!’

  ‘Oh man, that’s gross,’ said the second voice.

  ‘Sod this for a lark,’ said the third voice. ‘I’m going to sleep. Wake me up when you guys have made some sort of plan.’

  Typhon paraded down the central walkway of the sacrificial camp cells. All of the cells were packed tight with goblins of various age and sex.

  At the front of the cages was a row of stocks with enough space for all of the captives to be lined up, heads secured by the hinged upper block. Then a cunning system of tracks and pulleys could run a heavy blade down the row decapitating all of the goblins in one fell swoop. Detached heads would fall into boxes and sacrificial blood would flow down gutters to the central worshipful-offerings area.

  If the prison guards gave it a bit of welly and deigned to work up an actual sweat, then Typhon could see no reason why they shouldn’t be able to sacrifice over one thousand goblins an hour. With that rate of immolation the demon lord could hope to transport up to six hundred dragons across the divide in one go. And that would surely tear the bum hole out of Plob and his do-gooder minions.

  However, they still needed to collect more goblins before they could go ahead.

  ‘Tell me, Herr Gooballs,’ said the big T. ‘Those goblins that attacked us this morning. What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean, Your Bigness.’

  ‘I mean - how are you going to punish them?’

  ‘It’s a difficult one, Your Evilness. You see, the loam lord protects the forest. Even flying over it can be dangerous. He has the ability to shoot vast geysers of water to great heights and with deadly accuracy. And if our troops actually venture into the forest they never come back. Ever.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Not sure. Some say that the very trees themselves waylay them. Others mention sirens or Dryads. Probably though, they simply get their throats cut by the forest goblins.’

  ‘That won’t do. Am I not the Fuhrer of all that I behold?’

  ‘Yes, my leader.’

  ‘And can I behold the forest?’

  ‘Yes again, my leader.’

  ‘Well then, send General Quintus Cerealbox and the ninth legion. They should be able to sort the goblins out, Dryads or no Dryads.’

  Gooballs threw one of the new Vagoth salutes, right arm high and palm down. ‘I shall tell him at once, my Fuhrer.’

  The loam lord stood in the centre of the clearing. He had assumed the humanoid guise that he had established with Plob, judging it to be similar enough to all so as not to create unease. Around him were arrayed the majority of the dominatus level forest goblins. Next to the loam lord stood the holy trinity of goblin gods, three in one.

  The forest goblins looked less than impressed.

  ‘So,’ said Farticus. ‘These are our gods?’

  The loam lord nodded.

  ‘Why’s there only one of them?’

  ‘There are three,’ answered the loam lord. ‘But only one body.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There is not yet enough belief to sustain three separate bodily entities.’

  ‘And why’s it so gloopy? And small?’

  ‘Hey,’ said the voice of Nyx. ‘Watch your tone. Show some respect or I might smite you.’

  ‘Oh yeah? How?’

  The little grey-skinned godly ménage a trios raised its hands and pointed towards Farticus. ‘I bring down the wrath of darkness on you and all that you stand for.’

  There was a tiny flash of lightening and a burp of thunder. A small rain cloud appeared above Farticus’ head, dribbled a little water on him, and disappeared.

  ‘Well,’ said Farticus. ‘That was scary.’

  ‘Man that was embarrassing,’ said the voice of Nerus, god of light. ‘I mean, really, could you have been more pathetic if you tried?’

  ‘Hey,’ answered Nyx. ‘It’s not easy, not like the old days. A few hundred years ago that cheeky little gobshite would have been torn to shreds.’

  ‘As opposed to becoming ever so slightly damp?’

  ‘Yeah. As opposed to that.’

  A new voice yawned widely. ‘Good sleep. Hey, hey, hey, who are all these dudes?’

  ‘They’re our worshippers, apparently.’ Answered Nerus. ‘Nyx has just been busy striking the fear of god into them with an impressive display of damp.’

  ‘Not my fault. We’re weak. Not enough faith,’ mumbled
Nyx.

  ‘Hmm, let me sort this out,’ said Norgam.

  ‘It won’t work.’

  ‘Trust me. You, the goblin with a smirk on your face. You the leader?’

  ‘We have no leaders,’ answered Farticus.

  ‘Yeah, sure, whatever. You guys like fresh milk?’

  Farticus looked puzzled. ‘Umm…yes.’

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I am Norgam; the god of all the other bits, including social faux pas, bodily functions, words that rhyme with orange, the infinite universe and fresh milk for the tea. And I may be weak but some magiks take little power…so. There you go. All your milk is sour. And until I say otherwise it always will be.’

  Farticus flicked a finger at one of the younger goblins that scurried off to the communal kitchens. He was back in under a minute. He came over to Farticus and whispered in his ear.

  ‘You do not lie, Norgam.’

  ‘Wait. Not finished. Let’s try a few social faux pas.’ Norgam gestured.

  Farticus turned to the goblin next to him. ‘Your mother is so ugly, when she tries to take a bath the water jumps out. Oops, sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I know that your mother never baths. What the hell is wrong with me?’

  ‘Do you want me to stop?’ Asked Norgam.

  ‘Please!’

  ‘Right, bodily functions. What are your personal views on uncontrollable incontinence?’

  ‘Stop. I believe.’ Said Farticus.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, I believe.’

  ‘Louder and with feeling.’

  ‘I believe!’

  ‘Louder.’

  ‘I BELIEVE!!’

  And he did, for the body housing the transcendental trio grew a foot taller.

  ‘And the rest of you?’ Asked Norgam.

  ‘We believe.’

  And the body grew again. And then there was a sound liken unto the tearing of the very fabric of the universe.

  Then there were three.

  Plob was mightily impressed by the amount of work that had been achieved in the last few days.

  The artisans, armourers and blacksmiths had all pulled together and had built over two hundred ballistae capable of firing six foot arrows over three thousand feet into the air. These had been grouped around the city in batches of twenty so as to be able to provide a withering quantity of fire at any attacking dragon force.

  Biggest had been put in charge of the air defence system.

  ‘When do you tink deys gonna come,’ the trogre asked Plob.

  ‘Soon,’ replied the young magician.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘It all depends on how many sacrifices Typhon can make. Worse case scenario…five, maybe six hundred dragons.’

  ‘Dat’s a lot. Too many, maybe.’

  ‘King Bravad has sent word to all of the four kingdoms. They won’t help but at least they’ll be ready after we’re overwhelmed.’

  Biggest gave a chuckle. ‘Listen to us. Like a bunch of babies, carrying on like we definitely gonna lose. Maybe we wins…huh? Maybe.’

  Plob laughed as well. ‘You’re right, Big my man, I never thought of that.’

  ‘Though…probably not,’ said Biggest.

  ‘Probably not,’ agreed Plob.

  Chapter 32

  General Quintus Cerealbox surveyed his troops. The mighty ninth legion. Four hundred crack troops, battle hardened and fanatically patriotic.

  ‘Ninth legion. Atten…shun!’

  Four hundred feet stamped in unison.

  ‘By the left…quick…march.’

  Stamp - stamp - stamp. The legion marched from the parade ground, spears held high and sun glittering off their polished shields.

  ‘Ninth legion…regimental song. Sergeant Major, sound off.’

  ‘Yes, sah! Let’s hear it boys, loud and proud.’

  Our beloved general, he sat on a rock

  Shouting and waving his big hairy…

  Fist at the ladies who walked on the shore.

  Along came a woman who looked like a…

  Decent young lady that walked like a duck,

  Said she's invented a new way to…

  Educate young troopers to sew and to knit.

  The soldiers in the barracks were shovelling…

  Coal from the cellar and on to the fire

  While old adjutant was pulling his…

  Horse from the stable and out for a hunt

  And his lovely young daughter was powdering her…

  Nose and eyelashes while singing this song,

  And if you thought it was dirty you're effing well wrong!

  ‘Left, left, left, right, left.’

  The Glorious Ninth marched to the edge of the forest with automaton precision…and then stopped.

  Because, the problem with the ninth is that they were used to proper warfare. Open plains with thousands of men in squares and phalanxes and lines. With generals surveying the scene from a nearby high vantage point and relaying orders via runners and buglers and dragon riders. And when these criteria were met then the ninth were, without doubt, the dog’s bollocks on the battlefield.

  But forests really screwed with their brains. One couldn’t form a column, nor a square, nor a tortoise. Not even a straight line on account of all the trees getting in the way.

  General Cerealbox called a halt and thought for a while. And then, for the first time in the history of the ninth an order was given. Not the usual - ‘By the left, quick, advance’ no, this order was…

  ‘Ninth,’ bellowed general Cerealbox. ‘By the left, at your own pace, walk into the forest, watch out for fallen branches and roots and whatnot and try to keep your fellow legionnaires in sight and shout out if you see something.’

  There was a slightly confused murmuring amongst the troops and then, in dribs and drabs, they shuffled into the forest. Within a few hundred yards they were no longer the glorious ninth - they were simply four hundred individuals lost in a very thick, dark forest.

  Time passed.

  Trooper Posterior Rearbutt stopped walking and listened. He hated forests. They were gloomy, and damp, and they had…things that lived in them. And he was sure that he could hear talking, or maybe whispering, right on the edge of his hearing, all the time. He heard a scurrying in the bushes. ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Posterior, is that you?’

  ‘Gods, it’s Glandular Butoks, have you seen anyone else?’

  ‘No, it’s impossible, the woods are too thick. I’m lost.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Who said that?’ Asked Butoks.

  ‘Me. I said that I’m not lost. Mind you, I haven’t actually moved from this spot for over sixty years now, so perhaps I am lost but I’m lost in a place that I know very well. Wow, that’s pretty deep that is.’

  ‘Butoks,’

  ‘Yes, Posterior.’

  ‘Have you just developed a talent for ventriloquism?’

  ‘No.’

  Well, then I think that this tree is talking to us.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, trees don’t talk.’

  And just like that, Posterior became part of the running gag.

  Butoks stared at the evergreen for a while. ‘Do you think that it’s a spy for the goblins?’ He asked Posterior.

  ‘I’m not sure. But we can’t take the risk. I think that we should kill it.’ Posterior grabbed his battleaxe that was slung over his back and took a swing at the evergreen.

  The axe bit deep and the tree cried out in agony. Butoks swung again.

  ‘Oak!’ Screamed the evergreen. ‘Help me.’

  There was a creaking sound, like a thousand squeaky floorboards being stepped on by a thousand assassins deep in the night. And two massive oaken boughs grabbed hold of Butoks and tore him…slowly…in half.

  Posterior turned and ran.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Rumbled the oak.

  ‘It hurts.’
<
br />   ‘You’ll heal up, don’t worry.’

  ‘Thank you, oak.’

  ‘It’s Arthur, remember?’

  Thanks, Arthur.’

  Halcyon was impressed. So he said so.

  ‘Dude, I’m like, you know, impressed.’

  Up close the camouflage sheeting had seemed wrong. Childlike in its rawness. Slashes of brown and grey, thick hanks of rope threaded it through like giant dreadlocks, small pebbles and sand glued to the rest. But when they had taken it down into the valley, and thrown it over a full sized Bulwark and rider, it had rendered them pretty much invisible. Halcyon could see that, without doubt, there was no chance that the dragon riders would be able to see them from the air.

  ‘Right, dudes and dudesses,’ said Halcyon. ‘I need you to make, like, a thousand of those sheets. Comprehende?’

  ‘Right on, Halcyon. Right on.’

  General Cerealbox was in a waking nightmare. The sun had long since gone down and he had not seen any of his men for over three hours.

  But he had heard them. Awful sounds. Terrible sounds that started with screams and always seemed to end in several variations of choked off gurgling interspersed with frantic pleas for mercy. But he hadn’t even heard any of those for the last hour. In fact, the general suspected that he was the very last of the glorious ninth to still be upright and breathing.

  On top of that - the trees were talking. And he was sure that, at some point earlier on, he had seen a bunch of old men with long grey beards and an assortment of weapons, kill three of his troopers whilst sprouting odd passages of philosophical arguments. What more could go wrong?

  The ground in front of the general reared up, formed into a humanoid being made out of mud, grasped the general firmly by throat and began to squeeze.

  Quintus Cerealbox soiled himself. Then he died.

  Chapter 33

  The three gods stood in the clearing. They glowed. No longer were they a three-in-one deal. And no longer were they titchy in size, now measuring six feet each in height. But they were still grey skinned and large eyed with bulbous triangular shaped heads. And they were still as sexless as Ken dolls.