Chapter 125

Troll For Initiative

It makes complete sense. The Whisperer’s realm is as dark as the underbelly of night itself, and even the sand itself is made of the dead. I have not spent much time there, disliking it for exactly that reason. Death does not bother me, but I prefer it as a cycle, death and rebirth. Flowers need to grow from the muck of past lives, beauty rising from gore. The Whisperer’s realm has its own beauty, I suppose, if you like lifeless deserts.

But why would someone choose the Whisperer’s own home as a location to plot against him? I suppose it has the element of…stupidity? Surprise? Unexpectedness, if I am feeling charitable. If it is some kind of trap or hoax my wrath will topple empires. I do not think the clerics have the means to travel there, however, and the mysterious candle shop merchant aided me substantially. No, whoever this is, they are on the side of life. Because of me, because of that gift, Fairhaven is a thriving, vibrant city of the living people once more. Or she will thrive once I have organised some trade.

With these thoughts rolling around my brain I make my way back above ground.

Jenkins, satisfied with our adventure, disappears, back to whatever business lich cats have to attend to. He has taken to his new life with an enthusiasm that fills me with happiness. That is something, I suppose.

As I sit with one leg awkwardly slung over the attic window sill I am accosted by a flurry of black feathers.

“Elding!” I say. “Do you bring news?”

The crow does indeed, in the form of a large envelope clutched firmly in his beak. Tucking my broomstick under one arm I tear the envelope open, eager for good news. I scan the letter swiftly. It is not signed, but bears a seal from the Guild of Goblin Artificers, in the form of a crest neatly stamped in wax bearing a cog, a lamp, a diamond and a pair of goggles.

There is one solitary sentence:

“Underbridge Tavern, Lowcroft Gorge, tomorrow midnight.”

I read it three times with great excitement, my mind barely able to focus on the letters. A tavern? A secret tavern under the Lowcroft Bridge? I had no idea there was such a thing. But then, I have never looked!

“Thank you,” I say to Elding, and lightning crackles across his shoulder blades as he ruffles them. Hastily, I scrawl a hasty note to Roland, hand it to Elding, and then watch the crow flap off towards the castle. Then I hop on my broom, and leap out into nothing.

Such is my thoughtless enthusiasm that I come close to smearing myself across the Fairhaven cobbles below. My heels scrape the street, and I get the broom under control with a few hastily whispered words. Muttering under my breath comes naturally, but not in such exciting moments. With a whoop I am airbourne, scattering startled shoppers and on my way to find the beastie for the longer trip south.

Flying high over the skyline of my growing city I am momentarily distracted by the sight of someone standing on the corner of Custard and Pudding. A man, flamboyantly dressed, loud, and waving his arms. Prince Salazar? What is he doing? Curious, I wheel closer. It would seem he and the rest of the Quellac Island delegation have commandeered a space of their own. They are preparing some sort of platform, and some of them are wearing a most curious selection of clothing.

The prince is handing out flyers. Is it a stage? Do I have theatre in my future? We shall see. I can’t make up my mind if I’m pleased or appalled, but no doubt my subjects will enjoy the experience. If not the Prince will have to apply for a job as court jester.

It is late evening when the beastie drops me off at the edge of Downing forest.

A hare moon rises silver above the treetops to the east, drenching the Lowcroft bridge in pooling light. The sky is clear and the air sharp, with a touch of late frost, and the wind is up. I can hear it wailing through the treetops. No. Not the wind.

Someone is singing but I use that term generously.

Making sure my cat’s eye is firmly in place I walk out to the edge of the ravine. A woman is the source of the song. She sits crossed legged in the middle of the bridge, balancing precariously on the mossy stone wall. On second glance I realise she is not a woman, although in moonlight, she shares a similar shape. A troll maiden. Hair like straw sprouts from either side of a rugged face, reaching down to her hips. Closer to, her features are too wide set to be mistaken for human: large eyes, round cheeks, round… other parts. Naked, she appears to have stripes like a dark blue bumblebee crossing the grey, rock coloured folds of her skin. Leafy twigs sprout from between her shoulder blades. Like wings, almost, or like she went to sleep for a very long time, and things grew on her.

The troll-maiden holds a grass-green bottle in one hand. She sings and swigs in turn.

Spotting me as I approach, she lets out a mighty belch.

“Ho lich! ‘Ware the lurker!”

“The what?”

She points down.

Following the course of her finger, I lean out and over the bridge. The ravine it crosses is deep, the sides almost sheer. Far below I can see the water, a frothy, crystalline tumble far below. The steep arches of sandstone that keep the bridge up are built into the sides of the gorge, tapering away into the river below. With my cat’s eye I can see a short platform jutting out from the underbelly. The tavern entrance? It would be impossible to reach without flight, even if you knew it was there.

I don’t see the lurker, whatever that is, and I open my mouth to ask more, when a hunched shadow detaches itself from the dank stones. A fat bellied, rock encrusted giant scratches itself lazily under one armpit, before resuming its stillness. In the dark it looks part of the foundation of the bridge itself. An ambush predator then.

“Thank you,” I call to the troll maiden. She lifts her bottle in salute.

Tucking in my petticoats, I settle once more onto my broom, leaping out into empty air. This time I descend gracefully. My ideas of a dignified arrival are shattered, however, as I misjudge the tight space under the arch of the bridge and fall face first onto the slats. I whip out one hand to catch my broom as it threatens to spin into the void below.

The lurkers' oozing, moss encrusted toes fill my vision. Each one is the size of a decomposing pinecone. The lurker’s gleaming, inky-black eyes open, and it makes a low, rumbling sound of excitement, swiping at me with one slow furry arm. Ducking I scramble to my knees, narrowly avoiding the rock coated mass of twigs and moss. Its fist slams into the slates, smashing them and sending the splinters spiralling into thin air.

The lurker is nearly three times my size, but fortunately it seems to be ten times as stupid. The space beneath the bridge is cramped and wet, and there is nowhere for me to retreat that it cannot reach. Its limbs are so long the knuckles drag naturally on the ground.

Somewhat hesitantly, I kick it off the ledge with one well placed foot to the stomach. It is so endearingly stupid it feels more like a potential pet than a threat. But alas, I do not have time to make friends with dim-witted ambulating rocks.

The lurker makes a rumbling cry of distress as it falls through the air, disappearing into the darkness below. A moment later there is a distant splash, followed by the sound of rasping giggles from atop the bridge.

Dusting off my hands, I straighten my skirts. Where is the tavern? Ah yes.

The door is low and almost, but not quite round, set back into the stone of the archway. ‘Underbridge Tavern’ is carved into the stone above the frame in an uncivilised hand. A cheeky horseshoe made of blossoms dangles from the knocker, and from within, faint strains of music wash out into the night. Ethereal harp chords, fluting tin whistles, and the more raucous pound of a bodhrán, vigorously played.

The music is here one moment, gone the next, like a memory of sound. Tantalising. Beckoning me. How many travellers hear that music beneath the full moon and wander to the edge of the deep ravine? But then, most sensible folk have long since sought their beds. The only people abroad are the fools, the witches and the desperate.

I put aside the thought that I am all three, and push open the door.

A wall of sound and sensation rushes over me. The tavern within is a boisterous magical cavern, walls threaded with silver veins and tree roots, the room round and hunched in shape. The tavern is not large, and appears to be built into the bedrock of the ravine. The place looks like it grew, instead of being laid by hands. Perhaps it did.

As is traditional, in taverns fae and human, there is an instant, awkward moment of stillness, as every occupant turns to look at the newcomer. Strings vibrate, drums pause as I stand there, framed in the doorway, staring in. I take courage from the knowledge that I am wearing a particularly fine blouse embroidered around the arms with opulent daisy knotwork, and a selection of tiny human skeletons dancing in ivory silk. No one can truly be anxious with such a blouse.

I step inside and the spell breaks. The buzz of conversation and wingbeats resumes. The fae musicians strike up again, a pulsating slip jig accompanied by whoops and merry dancing. Unlike a human establishment the air smells fresh and faintly floral, although there is an underbite of metal that sets my teeth on edge. Like everything with the fae, the appearance of the place is pleasing, but I have no doubt this tavern has seen its fair share of blood, and deals and death.

Fire spirits dance energetically in the hearth emitting ever changing colours of light and warmth. Sparkling, bobbing lights twinkle like mist-shrouded stars, and hover everywhere illuminating the occupants who are decidedly non-human. There are no elves, and most of the fairy folk are small - pixies, imps, and spirits. The larger occupants are another troll behind the bar, a slime covered hag, and a table of goblins who are waving at me from a corner.

I work my way towards the goblins, nodding at the troll behind the knotwood counter, and doing my best not to step on anyone.