Nemesis and the Troll King (8 page)

Gurt refused to look at Yarg. He nodded his head glumly.

“You do believe me, don't you?” he inquired, watching Gurt closely.

Again Gurt nodded his head, but the tension in his body still showed his suspicion.

Yarg sighed. “I promise I'll come back to get you,” he whispered. “The Market Manager knows that you are here. If you need anything, just go to her and she'll arrange it for you. And please, please, keep the Nuffins out of mischief,” he pleaded.

Yarg stood and stretched his legs. Turning to Folgoo, he nodded his head to indicate that they should be going. He glanced once at the Nuffins before he walked away towards the market's inner stalls.

It was growing dark by the time they were outside, and the market stalls were closing up. Witches were snapping their fingers and disappearing, goblins were scurrying out past the werewolves, the night lights of glow worms were starting to appear.

Yarg stopped to look around, but Folgoo continued on and within a few moments was in conversation with a goblin. As Yarg started toward them, the goblin doubled over with laughter. Irritation showing in his stance, Folgoo bowed briefly and came to join Yarg.

“C'mon, let's find somewhere to spend the night,” the centaur said.

Yarg nodded his agreement. It had been a long day and he was beginning to feel weary.

“I'll take us to the foot of George's Mountain, and we can start the search for the token first thing in the morning,” Folgoo continued.

“How do you know where to go?”

“I just asked that goblin. He told me where George's Mountain is, but as soon as he heard we were going there, he started laughing and I couldn't get any more information from him.”

Yarg laid his hand on Folgoo's back and once again they stepped into the silvery wave. They found themselves at the foot on an ominous-looking mountain. A heavy mist clung to the air, making it hard to see what was actually on the mountain.

Folgoo walked towards a huge tree just in front of them. He settled himself at the foot, shifting a few times in an effort to make himself comfortable.

“Don't you think we should start looking for Faith's Courage now, Folgoo?” Yarg asked. “We only have five days left.”

“No, we'll start at morning's first light. You need your rest, and we wouldn't be able to see much in that mist anyway,” Folgoo replied sensibly. Closing his eyes, he appeared to drift straight off to sleep.

Yarg sighed. He walked up to the other side of the tree and sat down, but he found sleep harder to embrace. So many questions filled his mind—where did he fit in now? Would he want to stay a troll, or would he go back to being a human? Thoughts drifted and swirled until he finally fell into a restless sleep.

7

George's Mountain

S
trange companions,
thought George, last of the dodo birds, as he watched the centaur and troll from the safety of a nearby cluster of trees. The centaur snored, and from the way he was lying slumped against the tree, the troll would wake up with a stiff neck.
George knew exactly why they were here. They wanted Faith's Courage.
Well, they can try,
he thought, well satisfied with himself. And in truth he had every right to be. Countless others had tried to prise it from him, but all had failed.

George glanced up to level his gaze with the horizon. The sun was starting to creep up. He took one last look at the two, then sprang from the tree. He landed with a thud on the ground and immediately started running up the mountain. Well concealed by vegetation growing on the side of the mountain, George knew they wouldn't spot him. But even without it, he knew he would not be easy to find. He had a secret weapon that he could call upon. A long time ago, before he'd come to the mountain, Nemesis had given him a magical gift, the gift of the chameleon, which enabled him to change colour according to his need or mood.

As he ran, he muttered, “Traps, traps … I have to set some traps,” and laughed in anticipation of what awaited his two unsuspecting visitors.

He was still laughing when he got to his hidey hole—a large cave, its narrow entrance hidden from prying eyes by plants that grew down from an overhead ledge.

In the centre of the cave was a huge nest. An odd assortment of things was piled in one of its corners, just for moments such as this. He reached past lengths of rope, two different sized nets, and an old rusted pot, its broken handle poking out from beneath a few big sticks, to grasp the cluster of feathers he'd carefully gathered over time.

“Squishy,” he called. “I have something I need you to do.”

Squishy was a little blobworm about thirty centimetres long and fifteen centimetres wide. George had found it one day while he was out playing on the mountain. He'd been a little eager to pick it up and found that it leaked out a sticky slime. They'd had lots of fun together since, coating random ‘visitors' with the thick goo.

George grinned wickedly as he reached for the pot with the broken handle. “Come on Squishy, let's go set some traps.”

The sun shone down brightly as Yarg opened his eyes. He moved his head, and groaned at the stiffness in his neck.

“Morning,” Folgoo said.

Yarg groaned again. He stood up and stretched his arms above his head, rotating his body in an effort to loosen it up. His eyes wandered over to where Folgoo stood at the foot of the mountain. He moved across to join him.

“There's a path over there,” Folgoo said.

Yarg's eyes moved to follow the path that wound its way up the mountain. It seemed a straightforward enough climb, although a few parts here and there were obscured by plants. Yarg scanned towards the top of the mountain, hoping to spot something to show where they should go.

“I wonder who George is?” he murmured to Folgoo.

“I don't know,” he said, “but I'm sure we'll soon find out.”

“I don't like the feel of this,” he muttered to himself, but saying that, he started up the mountain.

They walked half the morning away before they decided to stop for a break. To Yarg's delight, there were lots of trees to rest under. He pulled out his water bottle and took a long drink before sharing with Folgoo. Frowning, he looked over the path in front of them. “Do those look like feathers to you?” he asked.

Folgoo lowered the bottle and looked to where Yarg was pointing. He took a step closer towards the feathers. Bending, he picked one up and looked at it carefully. “Whose feathers are they, though?”

“Maybe they're George's. Maybe George is a bird,” offered Yarg, stepping closer to Folgoo to get a better look. “Let's follow them and see where they lead us.”

Yarg started walking, picking up one small feather at a time. So intent was he on this task that he walked straight into a bush. About halfway in, he realised that the big leaves were sticking to him and stopped, only to be bumped forward again by Folgoo, who had been hot on his heels.

Yarg and Folgoo stared at the thick strands of yellowish-green globby goo that coated the leaves. Folgoo looked down at his fur—the goo was all over him. It was sticking his tail to his rump, so he reached behind him and tried to wipe it off, but was disgusted to find that all he accomplished was to get the goo all over his fingers.

“What
is
this?” hissed Yarg, looking in horrified fascination at the slime.

“Revolting,” said Folgoo.

Yarg raised his eyebrows. “Do ya think?” he asked sarcastically.

“I would say it's the goo from a blobworm, but that's not possible,” Folgoo continued thoughtfully. “Blobworms went extinct about five hundred years ago.” He began to pull the slimy strands from the fur on his arms, but ended up with goo all over his hands. Naturally, at this time his nose began to itch and he instinctively lifted a hand to scratch it.

The sight was too much for the centaur. He went into peals of laughter at the yellow-green globs now hanging from the troll's big blue nose.

Yarg shot him a ferocious look. “You wouldn't be laughing so much if you had a mirror, centaur!” he said ferociously.

Remembering his own slimy situation, Folgoo immediately sobered.

“Now, how do we get this stuff off?” asked Yarg.

“I think we might have bigger problems than that,” muttered Folgoo. “Do you feel a bit itchy by any chance?”

Yarg blinked when Folgoo mentioned it because the urge to scratch his nose had returned. At first it was a tingle, then a tickle, and then his whole body began to feel as if a million tiny legs were dancing across it. He started to scratch. His thick skin began to feel as if it was on fire, and he started to hop around on the spot.

Folgoo must have been experiencing the same sensations, because he also began to scratch madly with his hands and rear hooves. He groaned in torment.

Folgoo hissed, “It must be a poison itchy plant of some sort.”

Yarg was so busy scratching his knees, it took him a moment to ask, “Why the plant and not the goo?”

Folgoo glared as if Yarg were deliberately trying to annoy him.

“Because blobworm globs aren't known for their itching properties.”

“But you said it couldn't be a blobworm,” protested Yarg, struggling to reach the itch in his skin through the bits of feather, sand and leaves matted firmly in his blue fur. “You said they were extinct.”

Just then his big toe got an awful itch. He bent forward in an effort to scratch it and promptly fell over. “We'll never get this goo off us and we'll never find the feather,” he said, sitting in the dirt, his head hanging despondently.

“
Enough
!”
yelled Folgoo.
“
Stop Whining
!”

The centaur took a deep breath, scratched his chest furiously for a moment, then continued in a firm tone. “We have to keep moving, and we have to find your token.”

Angered by the way Folgoo had spoken to him, Yarg sent Folgoo a single withering look. But the centaur's words had served their purpose, Yarg was again focused on his quest. He struggled to his feet, then turned and continued on up the little path.

The mountain wasn't very steep overall, so for the most part Folgoo and Yarg walked side by side. No words were exchanged, but every now and then one of them would scratch vigorously away at this or that part of their body.

The sun was past the midday point and the travellers were feeling the heat when Yarg spotted the first big tree.

They walked up to it with the intention of relaxing in its shade for a short time, but as Folgoo reached it, a drop of something fell on his arm. Then cold, thick and gooey, it began to pour down in a stream.

Both swung their heads up. Folgoo dropped his straight away when he realised what was happening, but Yarg stood looking up, his mouth slightly open. A great globlet plopped into his mouth. Yarg immediately tried to spit it out, but the slime slithered its way down his throat. He swallowed instinctively. Gagging, he raised his eyes to Folgoo in a silent call for help, but before Folgoo could act, feathers—big feathers, small feathers, brown feathers, white feathers—began to rain down on them. The cascade of feathers clung to the goo that coated them. Folgoo's desire to laugh at the feathery blue troll disappeared instantly as he imagined the equally ridiculous picture he must make.

Folgoo and Yarg looked up into the tree. Sitting there, grinning maliciously down at them, was the strangest bird they had ever seen.

“What in troll's tarnation did you do that for?” Yarg growled menacingly.

The bird laughed cheerfully at them. “You'd better leave now,” was all he said. He lifted his big body and half-jumped, half-flew to the ground opposite them, then began running further up the mountain path.

“Hey, is your name George?” Folgoo yelled after him in frustration.

The bird didn't stop or even slow down, it just kept running.

Looking at the back of the strange bird as it ran, Yarg became aware of Folgoo sniggering behind him. He turned and glowered at him and Folgoo's laughter erupted into full-throated laughter. “We look like some kind of freaky feather monsters, absolutely ridiculous,” he wheezed out between guffaws.

Yarg looked down at himself, then across at Folgoo, and realised that the centaur was right. They did make a ridiculous pair. His laughter joined Folgoo's.

George heard laughter ringing across the mountain. Tilting his head to one side, he wondered for a moment if he could have been wrong about these two. He shook his head and started running again.

Two traps down,
he thought,
and one to go.

If this last one didn't get rid of them, then his name wasn't George.

Yarg and Folgoo tried their best to pick off the feathers and wipe away the goo, but they soon realised that it was going to be a long, hard process.

“We'll have to find a river or something before we leave,” he said to Folgoo.

Folgoo nodded, too weary to answer; the morning's adventure had been tiring. They began to move in the direction the bird had run, picking off bits of feathers as they went. They had walked for some time when Yarg spotted something a bit unusual in the shadow of a grouping of trees. He nudged Folgoo, lifted his finger to his lips to indicate the need for silence, then pointed to it.

Folgoo nodded his head to Yarg, telling him that he understood. They crept closer, as quietly as they could. From their new vantage, they could see a large nest made of bits of twigs and grass and twine loosely woven together.

Yarg stepped up to the nest and looked around, as if half-expecting the bird to jump out at them. When nothing happened, he lifted one big foot and slowly stepped inside. He had just lowered his other foot and Folgoo reached the edge of the nest when two nets dropped down, covering them completely. They yelped in surprise. They struggled to get out from under the nets, but only succeeded in tangling themselves in the sturdy rope.