The Heart of Glass (16 page)

“That’s right, miss.” Bestius took a deep breath. “It was a swap, see — we dug you out, and your young man found us a princess. And I was to take the princess down to King Thab — he’s the troll king — but she wasn’t going to be there long, because the prince was going to come galloping in and rescue her. But we never did dig you out, did we?”

Bestius waited for Gracie to scream, or faint, or do whatever human girls did when they were badly shocked, but Gracie did none of those things. There was a thoughtful pause before she asked, “What’s the princess expected to do, exactly?”

“I’ve no idea.” Bestius’s surprise showed in his voice. “The king wants her. I think he’s lonely.”

“Poor thing,” Gracie said sympathetically. “But I don’t think any of the princesses from the Five Kingdoms would be very good at talking to a troll.”

The dwarf cleared his throat. “The prince said he’d find one somehow. He was desperate to make sure you were safe; gave us his royal word, he did.”

“Ah.” There was a world of meaning in Gracie’s voice. “You know what?” she went on. “I think we should try to get out now.” She bent down and shook Gubble. He woke with a grunt. “Dark,” he remarked. “Go home. Cake.”

Bestius stood up. “If the Flailing mines are that way, there must be a supply tunnel somewhere very near here. Probably a train track. If I can locate that, we can dig through to it, and then — there you have it! We’ll be popping out in the Unreliable Forest in no time at all.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Gracie said. “Which way do you think Marcus will come with the princess? If he’s found one, that is.”

“He’ll bring her to the diggings in the forest, I’d say.” Bestius, much cheered by having made his confession, sounded confident. “He won’t know where the troll tunnel is; he needs me to take him there.”

Gracie gave a small relieved sigh. “That’s OK, then. We might even be in time to meet him.” She pulled herself to her feet. “Come on, Gubble. What are you doing?”

Gubble didn’t answer at first; then he said, “Shh. Hear things.”

Gracie and Bestius froze, listening intently. Gracie’s human ears heard nothing, but Bestius gave a sharp whistle. “Yes! Clanking and rattling! The supply train! Mr. Troll, you’re a genius. Not too far away, either. Should be able to dig through from here in thirty minutes max. Hmm. Too many roots where we are just now. Let’s go back a few steps, and then I’ll start digging. Now, is that a stroke of luck, or a stroke of luck?”

As Gracie and Gubble followed a cheerily whistling Bestius, there was a stirring at the bottom of the deep pit. Oolie’s claw-like hand appeared first, followed by her head. Seeing the fallen ladder, she inspected it carefully before smiling a singularly unpleasant smile.

“So dwarfies is here,” she muttered, and with a heave she pulled herself out of her secret passageway. Like an evil, overlarge spider, she scrabbled her way up the sides and arrived at the top, where she stopped to catch her breath before making her way into the main tunnel. The heap of earth that had fallen on Mullius distracted her for a moment; she sniffed around it suspiciously. There was still the dank smell of Old Troll in the air, and she scratched herself as she considered what this could mean. “Is the Trueheart caught? Is caught already?”

She turned to peer into the darkness while she felt in her pocket for her tinderbox. Finding it was missing, she growled angrily before bending down and feeling the hard-packed earth floor with her bony fingers. A moment later she was crawling on her hands and knees, mumbling in surprise. “Mullius. Dwarf. Trueheart . . . and what’s this? Troll? More troll? What troll? But Mullius this side . . . Trueheart that . . . yes, yes, yes.”

Oolie’s eyes gleamed. It was clear that Mullius had been there, and Gracie too, but there was no clue to suggest they were together. She hurried farther into the tunnel and crouched down once more. This time she put her ear to the ground and lay very still for more than a minute.

Then she leaped to her feet, panting with excitement. “Yes, yes, yes, yes! Is footsteps! Trueheart footsteps! Is coming to Oolie . . . and Oolie will be ready. Oh, yes. Oolie won’t be caught again by sly little Trueheart’s tricks. Oolie will have her this time.” And the hunched and hideous creature licked her lips before she set off after Gracie.

M
arcus, guided by Alf, had ridden some ways ahead of the coach and come to a fork in the track. When Alf wheeled to the right, Marcus followed; it didn’t occur to him until a few moments later that this was a much narrower path and could easily be missed. He pulled his pony to a halt and considered the situation. It was beginning to get dark, and with nighttime coming it would be all too easy for the coachman to go the wrong way; he also saw, now that he had stopped, a turning circle for the coach not far ahead. “Oh, bother,” he said out loud. “What should I do? Do I let them go home? Or what? I can’t let them get lost in the forest. After all, it’s my fault they’re here.”

Alf came swinging back. “Is there a problem, Mr. Prince?”

Marcus rubbed at his head to try to clear his thoughts. As he did so he felt a twitching in his jacket pocket and remembered Flo. He looked down and saw her crawling out; a moment later she was in the air flying a woozy circle.

“Hello,” he said. “Are you feeling better?”

The little bat dipped in her flight and came to rest on Marcus’s sleeve. After a couple of sneezes, she said, “Excuse me — I know I’m only a bat, but Gracie Gillypot shouldn’t be in any tunnels.” She began to quiver. “There’s danger down there for a Trueheart.”

“That’s what I thought,” Marcus agreed. “And I’m on my way; I really am.” He rubbed at his head again. “But what about the dwarves? I said I’d get them a princess if they dug Gracie out . . . but it sounds as if they haven’t done anything of the kind.” This thought made him sit up straighter on his pony. “And if that’s the case, I don’t need to drag Marigold through the forest to have tea with a troll, do I? So I’ll tell her and Vincent to go home.” He picked up Glee’s reins — then hesitated. “It’d be nice if I could get a message to Gracie — so she knows I’m on the way . . .”

“I’ll go,” Flo said at once. “I’ll tell Gracie Gillypot you’re coming.” And before Marcus could stop her, she was flitting up into the twilight.

Alf flew after her but was back within seconds, looking peevish. “She says I should stay with you,” he reported. “Says I’d slow her down. Me! Uncle Marlon says I’m the speediest —”

“Shh!” Marcus held up his hand. “Can you hear something? Some kind of thumping — OH!” His eyes widened. “Do you know what I think it is? I think it’s that troll — the one we saw in the clearing. It’s exactly the same
thud-thud-thud
noise. . . . Oops! It’s making the path shake!”

Marcus was right. Glee was moving restlessly, his ears flicking to and fro.

Alf put his head on one side. “Quite deep down, I’d say. Don’t think he’ll pop up under our noses.” He sounded regretful.

“I should hope not,” Marcus said with feeling. “Come on. Let’s send Marigold on her way.” He turned the weary Glee around and rode back down the track, Alf flying high above his head.

The coach came into sight sooner than Marcus had expected. The lamps were lit, and the four white horses were trotting steadily along in the twilight.

“Well done,” he said as the coachman pulled the horses to a halt. “If you take the right fork ahead, you’ll find a place where you can turn.”

The coachman nodded. “Flailing road.”

Vincent’s head popped out of the window. “Marigold wants to know if there are any bats out there. And when are we going to go home?”

“I was just telling Fingle,” Marcus explained. “You’ll be heading home in no time at all.”

Vincent vanished, to be replaced by Marigold. “You were gone
ages,
” she complained.

“No, I wasn’t,” Marcus said indignantly.

Marigold sniffed. “I want you to ride with us until we turn around. I think you’re up to something.”

Marcus was about to protest, but changed his mind. It wasn’t far to the Flailing road, and he still felt a certain responsibility for Marigold. “OK,” he said, and he did his best to be patient as the coach lumbered onward.

Ten minutes later it reached the right-hand fork, and there were loud protesting squeals from Marigold as the track grew more and more stony and rutted; Marcus grinned to himself as he heard Vincent shrieking in unison. His grin disappeared, however, as they got nearer the turning circle. Glee kept shying at shadows and dancing sideways, and it was all Marcus could do to keep him from galloping off between the tall and gloomy trees that overhung the narrow pathway.

“Hush, boy,” Marcus said soothingly. “Hush. . . . It’s OK. We’ll be on our way soon.” He patted the pony and talked him past the trees and into the open space, but once there, Glee threw up his head and whinnied loudly. The horses pulling the coach caught the note of panic and began to buck in their harness; the coachman pulled them to the side of the clearing, where they calmed down a little, but their eyes were still wild, and there was foam on their bridles.

Vincent and Marigold wrenched open the window. “What’s happening?” Vincent gasped. “Is it monsters?”

“Or murderers?” Marigold was clutching at his arm. “Fingle! Save us!”

The coachman didn’t answer. He was staring at the center of the clearing, and as he stared the clouds floated away from the slow-rising moon and silver light shone down. The deep scar that split the clearing in two was clear to see and steadily widening. A second crack zigzagged suddenly toward the coach, making Marigold and Vincent scream so loudly that Glee shivered and stamped his feet. Fingle, galvanized into action, leaped off his driving seat and began frantically trying to unbuckle the harness and release the horses.

“Oops!” Alf was on Marcus’s shoulder. “That troll sure is causing a commotion!”

Marcus, shocked into silence, merely pointed.

The crack was widening into a chasm, a chasm filled with darkness. Darkness — until an eye appeared, far down, but still clear in the moonlight. It looked puzzled as it gazed wonderingly up. “Yug,” rumbled a voice. “Yug.”

Marigold slammed the window shut, pulled down the blind, and buried her head under a cushion. Vincent crouched beside her and promised that if he was saved, he’d be good forever and ever and ever and EVER.

And the coach began to lurch toward the chasm.

I
f Queen Bluebell of Wadingburn had seen Professor Scallio’s somewhat unorthodox method of traveling, she might have had doubts as to his suitability as tutor to her grandchildren. On the other hand, she was a broad-minded woman and might simply have regarded it as another of his interesting eccentricities. After all, his sister was one of the Ancient Crones, so allowances had to be made.

Once outside the palace, the professor had looked to the left and right to make sure he was unobserved before slipping into a small but extremely dense thicket of exotic shrubs and bushes, grown with much pride by Bluebell’s head gardener and strictly out-of-bounds to everyone — including Bluebell herself. After checking carefully that he really was alone, Professor Scallio had taken off his scholar’s robe, turned it inside out, and given a sharp series of high-pitched whistles. He had then sat down to wait.