Grimmbros’ eyes met those of the elbh once more. The little fellow maintained a quiet dignity despite the injustice he had suffered. But the injustice suffered by the elbh so far was nothing compared to what would await him if Grimm failed him now. He leapt from the bed past the elbh, who scurried behind an ornate ottoman to avoid being crushed by the motion, replaced flimsy, green pyjama bottoms with tattered, yellow suit trousers (now shrunk by the river and rather too snug for common decency) and looked about for his jacket and beret but couldn’t see them anywhere.There was no sign of his trusty boots either, someone would pay for that - they were genuine open-toad flouncers. Brimming with rage, he flung himself towards the window. He looked out, and targeted Egmord and Ignatious. With a small stinging shock of treachery, he noticed Ebore with them: the oafe had turned quisling! The three of them were conspiring, plotting, planning nothing but punic perfidy.
As he brooded on the scene, the urgh-bane gripped the windowsill with such fury that his fingers tore into the wood and ripped the sill from the wall. Flinging splinters across the room, the shrapnel of Grimmbros' furore filled the air as he headed for the door. He made no effort to open it. The poor elbh, who had just plucked up the courage to creep out from behind the furniture dived once more for cover.
In perfect congruence with his former feckless demeanour, Grimmbros did not care why they were out there, or what they wanted. It was a complete surprise to him, however, that he did care about the poor elbh. Well, perhaps not the ‘elbh’ per se, but more the treatment of the elbh. All kinds of thoughts were scurrying around in his head, chased by half-hearted attempts to make sense of it all. None of them, however, presented themselves for long in the forefront of his mind, for they - like the elbh - were predisposed toward ducking and evading all the emotional debris being hurled around by the rampant craze that was currently developing into one almighty tantrum in his heaving mind.
At the expense of a few more doors, and the odd piece of unfortunate furniture, Grimmbros stood outside, his face much bluish-reddened with a level of anger not often observed among civilised folk. With the bridge-house behind him and with the cowering elbh that had been compelled to follow the raging urgh-bane peering out from behind a splintered door-frame, there were just several feet of snow-bound no-man's land before him and his would-be assailants. Grimmbros assessed the opposition, weighed the options, calculated the possibilities.
The attention of the three had been arrested by the sound of the urgh-bane's tempestuous progress through the house, and they were taken aback at the sight of Grimmbros glowering at them once the dust of destruction settled: they had expected to see Norris. Uncertainty erupted all over Ignatious' face, like instant acne. Egmord's expression, as slow to respond as his thoughts, was still warped with surprise. Gradually, though, a look of wicked anticipation was forming, similar to that seen on the faces of small children abandoned in sweet shops without parental supervision. Ebore, on the other hand, just had the look of a husband faced with a solid month of DIY before him. He anxiously scanned the walls and surface of his prized yet ancient bridge looking for signs of damage.
Whatever was going on in the desperate battlefield of Grimm’s brain, all conflict was swept aside by the rank and file arrival of his disciplined reflexes. His mind centred on his training, his ability, his experience. With finely-honed systematic proficiency, the urgh-bane's championship instinct checked off the variables.
Multiple opponents = three-front attack potential. Multiple races = varied characteristics and preferences. Physical evaluation: bigh = size and weight; urgh-bane = strength and... well it was Ignatious, so just strength. The oafe likely had more speed than the other two, but was somewhat out of condition and scared of water. Psychological evaluation: Ebore - angry, but unlikely to suffer for another's cause = minor commitment/low risk. Ignatious - envy and resentment, unwilling to fight his own battles if he can persuade another to do it for him; recently exhibiting some talent in the sly and duplicitous department = uneven commitment/medium risk. Egmord - a whole cornucopia of bad-mindedness, instability and anger = highly committed/high risk. The equations flowed effortlessly through Grimmbros’ mind as he calculated the probability of success.
On a more primal level of consciousness a low chant was building, “Hoo hoo wacka wacka, hoo hoo wacka wacka...” its rhythmic familiarity fuelling the rage. Then, as suddenly as they had started, the equations and chanting stopped: a strategy was complete; his plan was formed; the attack was ready.
“Deception – the key to the martial code... martial code... martial... martial...” echoed through his mind. “So!” Grimm called, “What is this taciturn trio of traitors and triflers troubling about?” As he spoke, he closed the gap between them. “Toting a tumult of timorous terminology as I trip tactfully across the toll-bridge?” Grimm felt mildly ashamed of this over-indulgence in alliteration but it seemed to be working. His would-be-assailants looked bemused, not seeming to notice that he was tripping along the bridge. Searching his mind for more ‘t’ words the scheming urgh-bane edged forward, trying to formulate a sentence with the words terrible, tussle and truttaceous, but nothing was quite coming together.
Nevertheless, the deception was holding. There were no rules in ‘scratching’; if something worked, then it was fair game. Grimm had stored that lesson long ago. There was another lesson though that was still fresh in his mind and soon he would have the opportunity to try for it himself. But first, complete the deception. Now less than twenty feet away, he had their undivided attention, so he proceeded to direct it from where he didn’t want it. “MY!” he gasped loudly, feigning panic. “What is that up there?!” Wishing to add as much conviction as he could, he threw in a cowering gesture and dramatically waved his arm in a direction of indeterminate location somewhere over Ebore’s right shoulder. Ignatious, Ebore and Egmord all turned, complete with their own involuntary flinches of alarm. Deception - the key is. Deception accomplished!
Next, adaptation. With all three successfully distracted, Grimm made his move. He launched himself in the direction of the one that posed the most legitimate threat: Egmord. Whilst they scanned the wintery sky for some impending doom, Grimm gathered his resources and then pounced. To the casual observer his trajectory seemed off: he would surely miss the bigh by a good five feet!
Of course, there were no casual observers, only the elbh, who had a perfect view of the showdown from behind - unfortunately, he also had a perfect view of the urgh-bane's outstretched behind in his shrunken trousers as he crouched pre-pounce. The little elbh shrank back in trepidation, but then slumped in disappointment. The urgh-bane's intention was, evidently, not to jump on the bigh at all, but instead - it occurred to the elbh - to avoid the lot of them and jump clean off the bridge in an anticlimactic act of self-preservation! However, instead of swan-diving to a watery salvation below, Grimmbros landed feet-first on the bridge wall, his impact causing a shock that shook the whole structure, sending blocks of stone tumbling down and crashing through the icy surface of the freezing river.
Contracted by his momentum into a tight crouch on top of the wall, he pushed off in a singular, fluid springing motion back in the direction of the bigh after all. Only now, he was behind the towering giant. To the elbh, it was like watching Norris’ basement rats, free-jump their way round the pantry after the really good stuff on the top shelves.
As Grimm launched himself upward, he reached out a huge hand and grasped the waistband of Egmord’s underwear that was just visible above his belt. Clutching the lank fabric, the urgh-bane swung upward, feet high in the air, his trajectory taking him in a great, curving somersault, swinging clean over the heads of the startled trio. All eyes followed the flying urgh-bane as he arced above them like a great yellow and green rainbow filling the sky, sweeping the falling snow before him, startling the nearby crows.
As Grimm reached the apex of his climb, skimming over Egmord’s chiselled head, he released his grip on the over-stretched underwear. It snapped back with a loud smack, slapping against Egmord’s forehead. The bigh recoiled with a startled jerk at the aggression of the sound.
Grimmbros landed with a further architecturally agonising thud on the bridge behind them, a deep grinding passing among the blocks and their yielding mortar, but all attention was on Egmord.
With one knee raised, the towering bigh froze for a split second, arms flung out, crooked at the elbows like the boughs of a great tree. Ignatious and Ebore could do nothing but stand and wince at the sight, each reflexively raising a knee whilst a perfectly timed, harmonious, “Oooooooohhh,” seeped between their gritted teeth.
The bigh’s eyes rolled inward and upward, great tears forming, threatening to spill over the behemoth’s craggy cheeks. Slowly his colossal form began to sway like a mighty oak caught in a gale. Then with a deep groan he toppled over, crashing down like so much felled timber, thundering onto the strained paving slabs, sending flurries of snow high into the air. In exquisite agony, his hands scrabbled feebly at his severely restricted mid-regions, his quivering lips emitting peculiar little whimpering noises.
More splashes echoing up from below the arches indicated a struggle of structural integrity that might soon be reaching a climax.
As Egmord rolled around, knees now up to his chin, underpants tightly hooked over his head, the taut linen stretching all the way down to his waist gave the appearance of an enormous, fallen acorn lolling on the ground. His scrabbling gradually lost its urgency, his whimpering faded. It wasn’t long before he passed out. It was the king of all wedgies; perfectly executed.
Deception, adaptation and execution! “It is all in the execution,” thought Grimmbros, allowing himself a second to assess his handiwork. “And, a fine touch of flair too, I might add.” He stored the procedure away for further analysis at an appropriate time. Although the basic premise of the move had been inspired by the hairy, horned beest that had recently stolen the device, he had crafted, tweaked, and indeed, ‘adapted’ the trick to his own unique style, placing the manoeuvre in his repertoire for future use.
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Ebore stared at the bigh, and then raised his attention to the figure of Grimmbros impending behind the comatose hulk. He cast a quick glance at the other urgh-bane, standing beside him, and tried to calculate where this situation would now go. He had no intention of re-ploughing old fields, and decided that another scrap with Grimmbros would probably not end as mercifully as the first encounter, besides he was developing serious concerns for the future of his beloved bridge, so he flung the Torturer's Emporium catalogue, which he still held, at Ignatious, turned, and fled for the house.
The elbh, up to this point, had been nothing more than a casual, cautious observer. Inspired by the heroics he had witnessed, however, he felt the need to perform his own act of heroic endeavour, to contribute to this epic tale of victory. He thrust out a leg toward the thundering oafe in an attempt to trip him; the excitement of watching Grimmbros in action filled his mind with an intoxicating vision of triumph. He saw himself jumping up and down on the back of the oafe’s head, whacking him into unconsciousness with a piece of door-frame; he too would stand, all-conquering, over the body of his enemy, chin held high in pride, hair unfurling behind him as the dust of conquest settled at his feet.
Had he thought the plan out more fully, however, he might have reconsidered the simple physics of sticking his little elbh-leg out in hope of stopping a panicked oafe with a good run-up. The pain that shot up his leg felt like he had impaled his foot on a skewer. The snap was clearly audible and he let out a sharp, wailing yelp that belied his diminutive stature, fuelled as much by the disappointment of a crushed dream as the pain of a broken bone. Ebore was more concerned about the mess that met him as he entered the house, and the inevitable confrontation with his wife that loomed before him, causing a brief
reconsideration of heading back to face the anger of Grimmbros instead of the wrath of Norris.
Back on the bridge, with the unconscious bulk of Egmord between them, Ignatious was left on his own to deal with Grimmbros. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he muttered to himself. He looked at Grimmbros; looked down to Egmord; then to the catalogue that he had caught from Ebore - the big promotional underwear deal looked less and less hopeful. “Oh well!” he said, “Plan B.” He tossed the book over the wall into the river, flung his right arm wide in an exaggerated handshake fashion and threw a huge grin at the lowering figure of his fellow urgh-bane. “Grimmbros Darktale Woeweaver!” he gleefully called, with a perfected veneer of sincerity, “How have you been buddy?”
Razzles, at that same time, continued his journey homeward. His head hung low, his various bells muted and glum. After a while, he came in sight of Tullgotha - home. The city looked big and dark, its towers and walls stark, despite the enormous stone hands held out in welcome over the great gates. He shivered with the cold that had come along with him. Each step toward a fairer weather horizon had somehow extended his frozen surroundings in pace with his doleful return. With his next faltering steps toward the sprawling metropolis though, something happened that he hadn’t expected: the frozen atmosphere that had become so familiar abruptly swirled violently about him in a rising spiral, and with a final upward flick of frost, was gone. Gone with such rapidity that it seemed impossible it was ever there. The sun after so long finally penetrated the air and warmth touched Razzles’ skin.
The melancholy knohm paused for a few moments, watching the disappearance of the artificial winter and then proceeded. Through the huge gates, down familiar streets, through narrow alleys and finally there it was: his own little cottage. Once inside, Razzles flopped into a chair with a knohm-shaped hollow in its cushion, before the empty fireplace. The old place seemed quiet without Hob. He wondered where he was and what he was doing now.
How could he get back to work without his nibblin associate? His whole business depended on the little fellow. The work of translating common language documents into nibblin language had done more than earn him a living, it had got him noticed. His shiny eye was evidence of that, recognition of his contribution to improved Nibblo-Tullgothan relations.* Razzes’ hand strayed up to finger the little moveable lenses arrayed above his artificial eye. Think things through, work it all out. Maybe have a short, well-earned nap.
* It passed through a lower level of Razzles’ consciousness as he sank into slumber, that his was the only eye like this in the whole of Tullgotha - pride welled briefly at his special gift - they had told him at school when he was still a mere knohmlet that he was special - he was. But then doubt filtered in - what did this eye actually do? He didn’t really know whether it did anything at all... maybe it didn’t work.
With the wind swirling around his muscular bulk, Grimmbros stared at the hand outstretched before him. The cold was beginning to bite again as the heat of melee drained away. He was taken aback by the change in approach taken by his one-time Chicken Scratching associate. Ignatious' offer of an urgh-banely handshake was unexpected and Grimmbros found himself unconsciously extending his own hand in reciprocation.
Images of their rise to glory in the stadia of the UnKnown World filled his thoughts. They had been good together, they had been an unstoppable team, they had outscratched everyone from ihmps to bighs. Ignatious had been the fuel to Grimmbros’ mighty war engine; he had led the way into higher social circles where good food and plentiful port had... had what? Had made him put on weight. What was it he used to say? What doesn‘t kill you makes you...? Makes you fatter? Had Ignatious actually set Grimm on a slide into decadence? Was that why ‘she’ had such a strong impact upon him? He recalled the vision caused by his use of the device. He’d seen other worlds when he’d seen ‘her’. The introspective urgh-bane’s hand still moved forward, however, before any clasping of leathery palms could occur, there came a sound. It was an unearthly sound, a noise once heard, never forgotten.
It began like the sound of someone wrestling an unwilling owl into a mangle: a rampant hooting that made Grimm cringe deep into his shoulders. The racket then grew into something akin to a clowder of cats trapped in a set of bagpipes or a passing whale on a roundabout. Finally, as the symphony of dissonance built to an ear-crumpling crescendo of aural awfulness, it unexpectedly degenerated into a wet, sibilant noise, not unlike that of a small monkey passing wind into a bucket of water. The intrusion was like a poke in the mind’s eye - Grimm’s reverie was abruptly broken.
"Grimmbros!" came a small, distant cry from the source of the racket. But then the voice of Fürgůïn was lost to the weather, the roar of the river and distance as he waved his arms and called some other message from across the water. The bewildered urgh-bane, however, never found time to react to this distraction either, since the renling's aural assault had been the final straw that broke the bridge’s back. With a gut-wrenchingly deep crack the structure beneath his feet began to crumble.
Grimmbros lost his balance just as Ignatious dropped his extended right arm and instead lunged forward swinging his left hand out toward him. A ragged opening under his heel sent Grimmbros reeling backward causing the ill-timed swipe to miss its mark. Feeling his footing begin to give way, Grimmbros staggered further back seeking to regain his balance. His eyes for a moment caught the injured elbh rolling about clutching his ankle and then he was on the move, dashing back across the wildly shifting paving stones to hoist up the whimpering elbh before leaping, bounding, tripping, lumbering and fumbling his way over a structure that seemed intent on falling away beneath each stride that he took.
With one final desperate leap, Grimm heaved onto the far shore to arrive at the feet of the waiting renling. The pair watched as the arches of the toll bridge fully collapsed and spilt inelegantly into the torrent below. Simultaneously, as if triggered by the clumsy wreckage before them a whirling wind spun into a heady ascent above them. Flakes of snow flicked out from a rising spiral of wintery concentration. The whiteness of the environment seemed to rush inward from every direction and was gone. Winter was gone. Spring unexpectedly sprang.
Attention once more descended to the ruined bridge. Once the destruction was complete, all that remained was the central column and the now isolated dwelling perched precariously at its top. The heads of Norris and Ebore emerged from a dark hole in the masonry, blinking in the sunlight, with shocked disbelief written all over their features. The only bridge for miles was gone. Grimmbros turned his attention downward to Fürgůïn who looked back up at him.
"I said ‘He’s got a knife’," the renling said simply.
As they looked back at the far bank, Ignatious was using something sharp and pointy to cut through the straining undergarments still stretched to the limit over the prone form of the bigh Egmord.
Had that blade been in his hand as he had swung for Grimmbros ? He had imagined that his old friend had been reaching out to offer support as he fell - but now he wasn't sure.
Epilogue
In the nearby woods, where hanging caverns of trees followed the winding course of the river, where hart's-tongue ferns and curling fiddle-heads carefully unfurled, where hemlock crept and a twisted, ancient cherry stretched gnarled roots over a rock, the Kapucha sat and thought. Snow had not moved the quest forward, the knohm had gone home and the device was not in the proper hands. Maybe the urgh-bane and the renling could complete what was necessary, but that wasn't what had been seen. He watched as delicate, gossamer blossoms swept and fell all around him, turning in the air, drifting and spiralling down to a dense carpet of deep pink, as out of place as himself in this woodland of shadows.
He wondered if there were other ways that might achieve the goal more quickly, but then time is relative and his time spent here was crucial to the success of his plan. He had come such a long way to get here and could not risk expulsion over some ill-thought-out act of intervention that stretched the limits of the place or caused conflicts with some arcane local prophecy.*
* The Brethren were certainly ones for prophecy; they would see significance in what others saw merely as ungrammatical scrawl; they would pore for hours over long strings of repeated letters; they would peer at chicken-scratch scribbles on walls.
The Brethren would keep him informed and could probably be called upon if drastic action was required. The remaining members of the party could likely be nudged in the direction necessary. Perhaps Tullgothan lore could be bent to his purpose. He wondered if the Seer had foreseen a murder. A sound in the branches overhead broke his contemplation. He grimaced at the sight of a squirrel, a juvenile at that. Where there was one, there would be others.
Soon they would be dive-bombing, base-jumping and tele-porting everywhere, leaving a trail of chaos, clutter and carnage in their wake. He had little patience with rodents, squirrels, rats, moles and even rodent-like things - rabbits. Why did no-one seem to see rabbits for the hooligans they clearly were? He sprang to his feet as a scurry of fuzziness chased in dizzy spirals about the bole of his shelter. Fighting the urge to spear one of the little furry fiends, he instead drew two dark, stick-like implements from beneath his cloak at the back and held them out before him. At his touch, a tracery of glowing blue symbolage flared within the sticks and his nimble fingers dialled them into precise formations. He thrust the devices back into their concealed holsters and vanished. Doing so, he might have accidentally whacked one of the squirrels, who could say for sure?