The Heart of Glass (5 page)

Marlon gulped and headed for the top of the oak tree to do some serious thinking. He had acted as the crones’ messenger for many years, and he had never lost a message or a token before. He debated making a return visit to confess, but on consideration decided against it. “Marlon Batster, me,” he told himself aloud. “Bat of action. Hero to Gracie Gillypot. I can sort it out. No prob.” And ignoring any lingering doubts, he flew a victory roll before spiraling to join Marcus.

Marcus had long since given up hoping that Marlon would come back with the news that it was all a mistake and Gracie was happily at home with the Ancient Crones, and he was trying his hardest not to feel too gloomy. Yawning, he looked around to see where Alf had gone. “Alf!” he called. “Alf? Where are you?”

There was a twittering in the distance. “Here, Mr. Prince. I’m marking the tree, but it keeps moving . . .”

Hearing the underlying note of panic in Alf’s voice, Marcus got to his feet and went to find him. The small bat was clinging to the branches of a silver birch — but as Marcus strolled toward the tree, it shook itself, sidestepped, and vanished.

“I’m here!” Alf squeaked.

Swinging around, Marcus saw Alf immediately behind him. But no sooner had he spotted him than the tree was off again, and Alf’s squeak sounded even more plaintive. “I’m getting really dizzy, Mr. Prince. I don’t know how much longer I can hang on . . .”

“You can do it! Hang on in there!” Marcus shouted. He took a deep breath, charged around the clearing, and flung himself at the tree’s trunk. The tree remained perfectly still, and Marcus loosened his grip. With a twist and a slither, the birch was away, leaving Marcus with a badly scratched nose and empty arms. Scrambling to his feet, he looked wildly around. “Alf?”

There was no answer.

Marcus called again and stood still to listen. It was then that he became aware that the woods were very silent. Strangely silent. There was no birdsong, no rustling, not even the buzz of a bumblebee. It was as if time had stopped, and all Marcus could hear was his own breathing. Some sixth sense made him duck behind a thick clump of bracken, and his heart missed a beat as something landed on his shoulder.

“Kiddo,” said a voice in his ear, “
freeze
.”

Marcus did as he was told.

The silence continued, but Marcus gradually realized that the earth beneath his feet was trembling. The trembling increased and turned into a steady thudding:
thud-thud-thud-thud-thud
. The thudding was followed by a shaking, until a shower of earth flew out of the hole in the center of the clearing, and a huge head emerged.

“Back! Go back, Clod! Back!” An elderly and very angry-looking dwarf popped up beside the head and began thumping it on one ear.

Clod blinked twice, said, “Yug!” and vanished.

“Master Amplethumb!” A second dwarf heaved himself out of the diggings and onto the grass, and began to dust the earth off his old brown jacket. “Master Amplethumb, excuse me for saying so — but you mustn’t shout at the troll like that. It won’t make him work any slower, and you might upset him . . . and there’s an awful lot of him to get upset.”

Master Amplethumb folded his arms and glowered. “But he won’t stop, Bestius. He’s already dug an entire new passage and turned the lower workings into rubble. He’s knocked down half the roof supports, and I’ve had to send a team down to shore them up. And heaven knows where he’s off to now.”

Bestius pondered. “Why don’t you take him down to the old mine? The one under the road to Flailing? You always said you could smell gold behind the rock face at the end. And that rock is pretty solid — digging there is sure to slow him down for a while.”

Master Amplethumb’s face cleared. “That’s not a bad idea. And then, when he’s done that, you can take him back.”

“Ah.” Bestius considered how best to break the news. “Well. I haven’t really had time to explain it to you, but there might be a bit of difficulty. You see, King Thab wanted to make a deal.”

“Of course he did,” Master Amplethumb said impatiently. “What does he want? Gold? I told you he can have whatever he wants, as long as he doesn’t mind waiting for it. Got to fulfill the palace order first.”

“But he doesn’t want gold.” Bestius put his hands in his pockets. “He wants a princess.”

“Eh?” Master Amplethumb stared. “What do you mean, he wants a princess?”

Bestius looked more and more uncomfortable. “He wants a princess to keep him company. A pretty princess. I . . . I happened to mention there’d be a whole lot of them at the wedding.”

Master Amplethumb’s mouth opened and shut several times, but no words came out. Finally he said, “Don’t tell me . . .
please
don’t tell me you agreed.”

Bestius shrugged helplessly. “He’d never have sent the troll if I hadn’t.”

Master Amplethumb staggered backward, clutching his head. “Oh, my grandmother’s whiskers,” he said. “Oh, my granddaddy’s bones. Whatever are we going to do? If we don’t send Clod back, the trolls will be completely furious. It’ll be war, no doubt about it. If we send him back but we don’t send a princess with him, the trolls may not declare war, but it’ll still be very nasty. And if we dare even to
suggest
to a princess that she might like to spend time with a huge, hairy troll, we’ll have every single army from the entire Five Kingdoms after us.” He paused and gave Bestius a solemn stare. “You’ve really gone and done it now.”

Bestius bowed his head. “I thought you might be able to think of something. And there’s a Council meeting tonight; I was going to raise the matter then.”

Master Amplethumb snorted loudly. “Were you, indeed? Well, I’d say that’d be much too late. He’ll have dug up half our best mines by then. No. I’m sorry, but there’s only one thing to do. You, Bestius, will have to take that . . . that monster back and explain to King Thab that you didn’t have the authority to make any such agreement, and the deal’s off. We dwarves don’t swap trolls for princesses. You’ll have to persuade him to settle for a new crown, or a gold belt, or something sensible. Now come on. Your earth-moving machine’s probably halfway underneath the Five Kingdoms by now.” And Master Amplethumb climbed back into the hole and disappeared.

Bestius opened and shut his mouth, rubbed his nose, and pulled at his beard. “Oh, no, oh, no,” he moaned. He sat down on the heap of freshly turned earth and put his head in his hands. “
What
am I going to do?”

Behind the bracken, Marlon and Marcus were in a state of shock. Marcus was reeling from the size of the troll; the wonder of seeing the dwarves paled beside the sight of Clod’s enormous head, with its bulbous nose, massive ears, and tiny, blinking eyes. Wishing desperately that Gracie were there to share the experience, he had missed much of the conversation between Bestius and Master Amplethumb; Marlon, on the other hand, had heard every word. He too was reeling, but from the realization that his problems could be solved with astonishing ease. He coughed loudly, and the dwarf looked up.

“Who’s that?”

“Got a plan,” Marlon said as he flew out from behind the bracken, and Marcus was surprised to hear the jubilation in his voice. “Got a
GOOD
plan. Bit of a bargain. You help us, and we’ll help you.”

“We?” Bestius stared at Marlon. “Who’s
we
?”

Marlon coughed again. “Allow me to present my friend Prince Marcus, second in line to the Kingdom of Gorebreath.” He swooped back behind the bracken and hissed, “Come out, kiddo! Want to rescue Gracie? Now’s our chance!”

P
rincess Marigold was feeling exceptionally pleased with her achievements so far. She had tiptoed to the music-room door to check that Fedora was still busy trilling scales (with much enthusiasm but little accuracy), and then sped along the corridor to her sister’s suite of rooms. There she had helped herself to Fedora’s sky-blue dress covered in pink rosebuds. The dress was on the tight side — Marigold could never have been described as dainty — but determination and a certain amount of breath-holding achieved what had at first seemed impossible.

Flushed with excitement, Marigold had then hurried to the royal stables, where she was helped on her way by a stroke of good fortune. The head coachman had slipped off for half an hour to smoke an early-morning pipe with the head gardener, leaving the youngest stable boy in charge. He was a small boy, easily intimidated, and when Marigold looked down her nose and informed him that she needed Fedora’s pony and cart prepared as soon as possible because it was a matter of life and death and his job was on the line, he was only too happy to do as he was told. Ten minutes later she was bowling down the palace drive with a triumphant wave of her whip.

The stable boy hurried back into the yard, where he was met by an angry head coachman.

“Did I see Princess Marigold trundling off in the pony cart?” the coachman demanded.

The stable boy nodded. “Said it was urgent.”

The coachman, who had known all the princesses since they were babies, snorted. “And I don’t suppose you thought to ask where she was going? That’s her sister’s cart, that is, and I’d stake my best boots young Marigold never asked if she could take it. There’ll be trouble; you mark my words.”

Marigold was far from worrying about any trouble to come. She was humming happily as the pony trotted steadily onward, and from time to time she broke into cheerful and tuneless song. Queen Kesta had a leaden ear when it came to music, and her daughters were, if anything, even less gifted. Marigold had a repertoire of three notes, and it was sheer chance as to which she sang; this did not, however, stop her from enjoying herself hugely. “I’m the most beautiful princess in the whole wide world,” she sang, “and I’m going to meet a handsome prince who will love me forever and ever. . . .”

A couple of local inhabitants heard her and rolled their eyes at each other.

“Let’s hope he’s deaf as a post,” said one.

“Deaf as two posts,” the other agreed.

Fortunately Marigold was out of earshot. The pony was going faster and faster in an effort to put as much distance as possible between himself and the wailing noise behind him; Marigold made several attempts to slow him down, but it was not until he broke into a gallop and she was scared into silence that he finally obeyed the frantic tugs on his reins. By that time they were all but at the border of the Five Kingdoms, and the pony was only too glad to walk at a more sedate pace as the well-made road gradually declined into a rough track.

The border itself was marked only by a couple of tall stone pillars, and Marigold looked around in wonder as she drove through. She had been expecting armed guards and high gates, or at the very least some kind of challenge, and was almost disappointed she had not had to talk her way into the land of unknown adventures. “Hmm,” she said to herself. “I must remember to tell Mother. Anyone could get in! Horrible trolls and wicked witches and all sorts of nasty people . . . they could just march in any old time. There really should be at least a few soldiers.”

Thinking about these unpleasant possibilities made Marigold feel less brave; it didn’t help that the pony began to fling his head this way and that, as if he could sense something lurking behind the tangled bushes and tall, ivy-clad trees.