3.4 Safe At Last!

The sun was like gaseous glass in his eyes. He groaned, rolled over, and weakly tried to brush the dried mud from his cheek. Beneath his armour, he was soaked with sweat. At least, he hoped it was sweat.

Someone was shaking his shoulder.

“Sorry to wake you so early in the afternoon,” said Olgred gently. “But that troll’s getting a bit close now.”

Silven sat up slowly, his head swimming. Then, he saw the gnarled fist of the troll shadowing the ground before him. He shrieked and scrambled backwards. The troll took another angry step.

“Come on, it’s all right,” Olgred reassured him. The top half of his head was obscured by a yellow bandage, so that his eyes only just squinted out from under the lower edge. “A few steps. Come on. There. You’ll be safe a while longer.”

Silven was not amused. He crawled on his hands and knees away from the shambling beast. The sweet aroma of turnip stew drifted down from the camp ahead. Then came the patchy memories, unwelcome and unbidden in his throbbing head. First were the unwanted advances of wanted maidens. Then his unwanted advances towards wanted serving girls. Finally, dark and bitter, his surrender to the desperately unwanted wenches of the deep groggy night. His stomach turned. He paused to retch in a bloodstained clump of grass.

Olgred chuckled, and put his hands in the pockets of his smart purple tunic. “Good night, eh? Drunk on victory more than the cider, I suspect.”

“Eurrrgh!” replied Silven as he emptied said cider onto the grass.

“I’ll reconsider my previous statement.” Olgred eased his swaying master to his feet and pushed him lightly into the camp by the lake. “Time to address the troops, I think.”

“Urgh. Now?” mumbled Silven, rubbing his temples. The helm of Yashurwil was nowhere to be seen.

“Four hundred men and monsters lost their lives against the king yesterday. You should be grateful.”

“The king?” Silven coughed between dry heaves.

“No sign. Perhaps he wasn’t present. But Treken’s been captured. Well, he leapt forward all green-like and asked a medic for her hand in debauchery, so I think he’s safe now.”

“Reports from the cities?”

Olgred took him by the shoulders, suddenly serious. “It’s all over, Silven. Don’t you see? Rockborough, Southcastle, Bluebay, Snailwick.... they’ve all lowered the royal standard. Carlax has turned himself in to a make-up salon ready for an apprenticeship. The other rebels have dissolved into the woodlands or fled across our borders. We’ve not just won the battle. We’ve won at life.”

Silven hadn’t realised the sword was gone until he saw it in the centre of the camp. It was swinging wildly from the hand of a random mercenary, yet it sensed him all the same. “Join in!” it cheered above the rhythm of clapping and stomping feet. “If you know the words. The captain thinks of nooooothing, the general thinks with his cock, their cowards think of nice warm beds, the king’s head thinks of the-”

“Bloooooock,” finished Silven with his men. The bubbling in his stomach had subsided, the sun warmed his matted hair, and the sweet taste of victory did its best to snuff out thoughts of those filthy after-midnight doings.

His men sprang back in surprise as puffs of rainbow smoke burst from the sword. A tuneful whistling began from some hair-pullingly infuriating plane of hell. Then, the small folk were emerging from the commotion, prodding away bottoms with knobbly cudgels, pointy hats drooping as they looked this way and that.

“Enemieeeees! Yooohooo?” squealed the first.

“Gnomes!” cried Olgred. “It can’t be....”

“Oh, but it can,” cackled the sword. “What have I been telling you, you ignorant pollypoppling sod? Sing with me! I’ve got ten thousand more tucked away in some dimension or other.”

Silven stepped back and eyed the waddlers as they helped themselves to the fresh breakfast. “Ten thousand? What? How? Why didn’t you tell me?”

The sword whirled, sliced at the mercenary’s poor fingers, and dropped to the grass. “Just do what you’re told in future! Not allowed to solve my own mystery, am I? Gnomeania was lost, not destroyed. The Gnomeslayer slew some, not all. Nothing’s ever truly gone in Oldeburgh. If only some bloody toerag would have opened his dainty turnip-hole a tinsy bit earlier, that battle was yours from the start.”

“Enemy! Enemy!” squealed the gnomes, pointing in the direction of the lumbering troll. One behind the other, they bobbed off over the field.

“Get back here!” demanded Silven. They stopped and chattered away in their horrid little squawky language.

The Shortsword of Lost Gnomeania laughed. “Only for a time, mind you. They’re just a little bit unstoppable, so they’re only allowed out of that dimension they exiled themselves to until they’ve engaged an enemy. Then they’ve got fifteen secs. I’ve even been giving you the timings.”

Silven covered his ears as a horrendous squeaking chant arose from the bickering mob. “You leave that poor thing alone,” he called. “Somehow, I don’t think it came to battle willingly. Now go wait over there.”

Sullenly, the little gremlins obeyed. Silven picked up his shortsword and faced his astonished men. “Cheers, everyone. Enjoy your new life.”

“Freedom!” they roared as one, raising machine-bows and spears. Silven turned to go.

“A little short for such a momentous occasion...” began Olgred sternly. “If you want them to be the guardians of your new utopia-”

“Then they’ll do whatever I say,” finished Silven confidently. “Here at Silverlink, the pay never runs out.” He thought suddenly of Arule the wizard. His smile faded.

He found the gnomes a lovely little cavern network in the high mountains of Ardour. It took them a while to get the fifty or so that had been released far enough away from the troll to fast-travel, but by sunset, they were all there. The icy wind howled outside, but it was cosy enough within. “A flowery little canopy across the mouth, a potted plant in every corner, and you’ll feel right at home,” he told the sword as he propped it in a shadowy niche in a side-tunnel.”Here, it’s isolated enough so you won’t get into any bother. No enemies, no disappearing time.” And conveniently overlooking a certain cathedral just across the valley. “You have pledged fealty to... whatever we decided on in the interim. The people of Oldeburgh shall not disturb you, and I shall be back to sing with you every week should you feel the need for more workers.” The sword had no eyes, yet it winked all the same. He turned to the bustle of gnomes about him. Some were already cheerfully carving little bed alcoves into the rock with their garden trowels. Conservation was a fun little distraction, he supposed. He raised a fist. “I declare this mountain..... Found Gnomeania!”

* * *

From somewhere, Lord Eleganto had found the inspiration to summon him to a private audience in the council chambers. Silven answered with ten armed veterans and the keys to a spare dungeon. That was the last pressing matter in the aftermath of the war. Confirmed reports were even coming in of the assassins’ demise in the earthquake alongside the Terrorknights. He had always got those mixed up, but he needn’t remember either any more. Plotslide, he thought, and went back to Overwall for a snifter of cider.

The sun was like gaseous glass in his eyes. He groaned, rolled over, and weakly tried to brush the dust from his cheek. Beneath his robes, he was soaked with sweat. At least, he hoped it was sweat.

Someone was shaking his shoulder.

“Sorry to bother you this early in the afternoon,” said Olgred gently. “But there’s some visitors waiting in the atrium.”

Silven sat up slowly, his head swimming. “Plotslide,” he groaned. “Our enemies thwarted by mere puzzlement. Where are we, Olgy? What are we?”

Olgred shrugged. The bandage had disappeared, but the merchant seemed quieter than his usual self. “Who knows? Perhaps it is not ours to reason why.” He perched on a nearby stool and poured himself an apple juice. “On the other hand, when I think about it, our journey to this point has been riddled with inconsistencies. Riddled! Like when we went-“

“Let’s not get over-analytical,” cautioned Silven, watching the floorboards anxiously. “But I’m more sure than ever that our reality is not as it seems. If only I could get Grennel to open up. I’m the Dean, for Fugg’s sake!” He took a moment to compose himself. “Anyway, who are these visitors?”

“Soldiers of the palace guard.”

“Aha!” said Silven. “So the king schemes on. Well, don’t just sit there – assemble the city watch! I’ll show them what for!” He staggered groggily to his feet, grabbed a vase from the nearest table, and thumped downstairs.

Two neat and tidy lines of the palace guard awaited him. They wore their finest gold plate, but their weapons were sheathed. “Come on then!” called Silven from the landing. “Out with it! What does His Royal Highness command?”

The leader of the left column coughed. “The king gives no commands. And there’s no heir or other claimants. We think you may as well take the role.”

Silven hid his vase. “On what grounds?”

“The people await your coronation,” he replied courteously. “In Rockborough Cathedral, to maximise thy royal blessings. At noon.”

“Today?”

“Today.”

Silven blinked. No-one else? There again, who was left? A sudden queer notion struck him. “Who was the king, exactly? I’ve never even seen him.”

The guard paled. “I think you were always supposed to be king, sir.”

The procession from the city gates was like a dream. There were flowers and cheers and rich carpets beneath his feet, but he barely took it in. He knew he wasn’t really paying attention when he became aware of a curious squelching and looked up to behold the semicircle brickwork of a subterranean tunnel. Then, he looked down and beheld the stinking brown sludge they were struggling through. “What’s this?”

The nearest not-so-gleaming-now guard bowed as he walked. “The sewers, my lord. Just a precaution, you understand. No true defender of the realm could claim the throne without such a visitation at some point in his career. We meant no offence; it’s a tradition. I’m sure you’ve done this before.”

“I have now,” came the distant reply. Suddenly, panic was eating at his mind. He called for his generals and Ulf to walk with him once they emerged back into the pleasant streets. As soon as they appeared, he let loose his fears. “I’m going to be king,” he hissed quietly, waving to the blushing maidens lining the cobbles.

“So?”

“So, maybe, just maybe, I’ve been putting off these hopes and dreams of mine too long.” Olgred opened his mouth. “And don’t dare say I told you so!” Olgred shut his mouth.

Ulf grunted in agreement. “And yet, in a way, this unexpected coronation will give you more time. You don’t need to join the clamour to be heard. You’ll be king. No questioning your judgements, or your pace.”

“Still,” Simitest piped in with a cheeky grin. “Might be good to get something in early. To set the tone.”

Silven breathed out a shuddering sigh. He’d been stalling for so long. And now here he was, one quick war and epic battle later, marching to his embarrassment with bugger all to say. Yet, nothing really seemed to matter. It didn’t feel... real. Always supposed to be king. Just another inconsistency. He tried to clear his mind. “Errr... well, we could start with the abolishment of coin. It’s going to be useless in the new world. Instead: a system of tokens, rewarding compliance with the peace and enlightenment at hand, which can be traded for resources.”

“Otherwise known as...coin,” said Ulf sternly.

Silven’s hands curled into fists. “Damn. Not sure I’m cut out for this.”

The procession finally took a sharp left onto the plaza before the towering cathedral. “You can issue your first directives from here, Your Majesty,” whispered an official-looking official in his ear, “but we can soon depart for the palace in Solmond if you prefer.”

“I prefer,” said Silven, nodding enthusiastically. As the shadow of the holy centre of Oldeburgh fell upon him, he hung back slightly. With the darkness came the ghostly shadow of his past. One way or another, he had reached a turning point in his existence. Things were suddenly moving so fast, yet if it was to turn sour...well, he would be prepared. He motioned for his retinue to edge closer. “Listen carefully,” he said in low tones, beneath the babbling chants of priest and hermit and monk. “I don’t like this. This is the best chance to take hold of this blasted place once and for all, to actually do something about those pests and that tavern and everything I’ve avoided. And still.... if I was always supposed to be here, then who decided?”

“Beats me,” scoffed Olgred, rolling up his sleeves in the stuffy hall. “Who’d want you in charge...master?”

Silven ignored him. “I can’t shake the feeling that I’m playing into the hands of unseen powers once more. Perhaps this is the road that they always wanted me to take, and I’ve just rejoined further up the path. This could be a trap.”

Simitest reluctantly parted from the arms of a voluptuous admirer and tutted. “Nonsense! I don’t know what you’re going on about, but if this was your main thing, then there’d have been clues all over the place about some unknown father, a secret marriage, a crib swept away to distant lands in the bloody night. Nah, this is just your side thing.” The others nodded. “That solves that, then,” said Olgred gladly.

Silven was not convinced. “But if there’s been no king, then why me now?”

“To give you a range of tantalising options,” murmured Ulf by his side. “If you really are special, like your friends here think you are, then you must be crowned. You’ve seen the palace, haven’t you? Well, we couldn’t be having disappointment. That is the first rule of the Special One, even before destiny.”

Silven felt the weight lift slightly from his shoulders, just for a moment. But he couldn’t be distracted. For all he knew, Ulf and Simitest might be part of it. “Well, it won’t hurt to have a royal elite guard, would it?”

“It would be our honour,” said Dasat at once as he swung his sword hilt towards the soon-to-be king. “Who are we fighting?”

“Me. If anything spooky should happen – you know, green light, gutted candles, manifestation of wicked spirits, that sort of thing – when I’m crowned, you must end it at once. Maybe my guide would just say ‘bugger it’ after that and leave you be. Be prepared.”

“Gladly, Your Majesty,” offered Olgred. He seemed all too keen.

“And by the beard of Bilsutha, get Sir Meow-a-lot here at once!”

The upper conference chamber of the cathedral was far too small for the entire congregation, so naturally, half of them started babbling the same cursed line about a new king and sauntered off to their chores. Silven sat in a chair. Dasat, Simitest, Ulf and Olgred took up positions by the royal throat, blades at the ready. Queer looks flashed about the hall, but no green light, and no gutting of candles. Sir Meow-a-lot, Mousecatcher, scrabbled eagerly at the timber walls and mewled bravely in the face of gathering rodents. Priests and monks and one angry healer came to bestow the blessings of the cathedral upon their leader. The king, lost in his own head, was much pleased. But finally, it came to the royal decrees. Olgred’s knife accidently slipped and alerted his liege with a prick of blood. “Owww! No need for....ah, yes,” he wittered, all afluster.

“Your decision, Your Majesty?” a pale, gaunt priest was saying from his knees by the chair.

“I’ve never been more blessed. That’s enough.”

The priest gulped. “I mean no offence, Your Majesty, but I was referring to the grim situation arising in Doomwood. The one I’ve just been telling you of.”

Silven adjusted the golden circlet on his head and peered surreptitiously at his Silverview 4. “Hmmm, I see. So it says here – I mean, it seems as if your ancient dispute with Oakroof has finally come to a head. The enchanted grotto lying upon your border currently heals your neighbours, yes? A tricky situation, but not beyond the powers of your new ruler. I propose a team of scientists from Silicarco be offered the crown’s immunity and granted leave to study its waters, with delegates from both villages, for science. And to solve your problem, well, the treasury will nationalise the Greenknight’s hospital on the western bank of the Chucklestone. While this wretched outbreak of boils persists, you’re free to take advantage of whichever potions you need. We’ll compensate the Greenknights by taking them into the service of the crown and anointing them the Order of the Forest Watchers, to keep woodland travellers safe from beasts and bandits wherever they roam in the kingdom. In situations like this, we need to get to the root of the problem. Since the closure of the sawmill, half of the inhabitants of Oakroof are unemployed. It’s clear to see that that’s why they so jealously guard that grotto. The Order of the Forest Watchers will be given ample coin to recruit the old carpenters there for their watchtowers, and bring economic rejuvenation to the area. To avoid gentrification, however, we’ll also construct a few new villas round the area to keep long-term locals in their homes, and incorporate both villages into the demesne of Duke Pinefellow to foster a sense of peace and co-operation. How about that?”

The priest looked icy. “Option not available. Adventurer’s armoursmith or adventurer’s weaponsmith? The alderman can’t decide.”

“Both. And all of the above.”

“Option not available.”

“I’m the king.”

“Option not available.”

Silven stood. He pointed a lordly finger at his almost-murderers. “Back to the palace! We’re safe. So wretchedly, terribly safe.”