Trolls and Tribulations
Trolls and Tribulations: A Humorous Fantasy
Book 2 of the Fairie King Trilogy
Kevin Partner
Trolls and Tribulations
Copyright ©2018 Kevin Partner
All rights reserved
The characters, organisations, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious (obvs). Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, are coincidental and not intended by the author. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.
First Edition
Published by Trantor Press
www.kevpartner.co.uk
IMPORTANT: An earlier version of this book was published under the title: “Strike Back”
Table of Contents
Title
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Free Book!
Endnotes
Prologue
At first, the disembodied spirit of Humunculus, King of the Faeries, was pleased to discover that he wasn’t alone. When the wretched child had fooled him into taking the staff, he’d felt himself implode and, yes, die. But, moment’s later (or so it seemed), he’d awoken here.
Of course, he hadn’t at first known where here was, but he had found barely the time to sit up and look around before someone called to him. Here, it turned out, was inside the staff.
That had been the first thing Lazul had told him, and how pleased he was to meet such a distinguished spirit. Humunculus, who’d surrounded himself with sycophants and idiots all his life, felt comforted. There was clearly some order in the universe if his magnificence was recognised even after disembodiment.
To begin with, he’d been happy that there were others here. But then he’d met them. Lazul was bad enough; the former attendant of some knight or other who happened to be in the wrong place at an unfortunate time, he was the sort of cowardly subservient wretch that Humunculus liked to employ, but whose company he didn’t enjoy. Indeed, Lazul made Bently look assertive.
Which reminded him.
“Bently? Can you hear me?”
#
Out in the world of the living, Bently wished he was dead. He yearned for the gloomy warmth of the Darkworld and yet he felt as far away from returning home as he’d been since the portal had been destroyed.
He’d fled from the battlefield, heading south and had been hiding in a hedge when someone had spoken. He’d almost jumped out of the undergrowth in surprise at hearing his master’s voice and then, to his horror, he’d realised it was coming from inside his head. Bently was a faithful, though certainly damaged, soul but the prospect of sharing his mind with the Faerie King was too much to contemplate. He’d dropped the staff, which he’d been using as walking stick and weapon, and the voice had gone away. There was a moment, just a moment, when Bently considered simply walking away and leaving the staff in that bush. But, if anyone was going to be driven mad by Humunculus, King of the Faeries, it was going to be him, Bently, his faithful and cruelly abused servant.
“Bently?” the voice said again, pulling the old servant back into the present.
“I’m here, master.” he said. He was sitting in the trees beside a well made road heading south. A refreshing rain was cutting through the muggy atmosphere as Bently peered along the road before, seeing no-one, he settled back to address the staff.
“Where are we?” Humunculus’s voice said in Bently’s head.
Bently bowed and scraped out of habit and tugged an abstract forelock. “Heading south along the Wong Way, master. Progress is slow. As the road becomes busier, I am forced to leave it and hide many times a day. And the brightness, it hurts so much.”
“I’m not interested in excuses, Bently. Your only task is to find somewhere safe and secluded to hole up until I have formulated a plan to get us out of this predicament. It was your choice to head south after all.”
“I thought it was the safest path, master, away from the Fitzmichaels and their army.”
There was a sigh from inside his mind. “Oh Bently, what an unimaginative crud you are.”
“Thank you master.” Bently said, relieved at some version of normality reasserting itself.
“For myself, I continue to suffer, Bently. The company is simply dreadful. Most of the residents have been here so long they’ve entirely lost any wits they might once have possessed, and those that I can converse with are little better. This idiot, Lazul, is no substitute for you, my faithful servant,” the voice inside his head continued.
Bently almost fell over in his hurry to scrape his thanks at such lavish praise. Lazul must, indeed, be a total incompetent and that was a relief. Bently had experienced considerable anxiety at the thought that his master had found an aide on the other side.
“Believe it or not, he insists that we attend a meeting of the Cognitive Club, whatever that is. I mean, if the other members are as excruciating as he is, I’m not sure I can stand it much longer. I feel as though I’ve been in here weeks already.”
Bently shifted uncomfortably. “Actually, master, it’s been five months.”
“What?” the voice in his mind shrieked, “but it can’t have been!”
There was silence in the halls of Bently’s brain as he felt the connection fall away. The servant leaned back against a tree and waited for the befuddled feeling to dissipate. Now he was truly worried. The King had sounded uncertain and even frightened, and that gave Bently the shivers.
In his own way, he worshipped his master and he could cope with the King’s anger, peevishness and cruelty. What he couldn’t cope with was a master who was afraid.
Chapter 1
Bill Strike pointed at the hearth, focused for a moment, and smiled as the fire burst into life. “There’s no doubt about it,” he said, hugging himself as his breath steamed upwards, before vanishing in the wind, “today is a good day to fry.”
Bill pulled up the crate he’d been using as a seat and occasional table and sat down to await his bacon bap. He looked around at the ruins and sighed; this was a bigger job than he’d imagined, a testament to the power of fire followed by rain.
He’d been left what remained of the cottage and the land it sat on by Nomenclature Vokes, his grandfather and the source of his magical inheritance. So, here he was, in the ruins of a cottage that was now his, with a father he hardly recognised.
“Thanks, dad,” he said, as a bulging bap appeared under his nose.
Blackjack grunted and sat opposite him, picking at his own roll with little enthusiasm.
“How long do you think it’ll take to make this place fit for living in?” Bill asked for the umpteenth time.
Blackjack shrugged. “Hard to say. We thought, maybe, two or three months when we started but I reckon you’ll be lucky to be in before next winter.”
Bill groaned inwardly. He
’d hoped that getting stuck into a project like this would help his father recover from his humiliation at the hands of the Faerie King - Blackjack was, after all, much more suited than Bill to this sort of work and could take the lead. Except that he wouldn’t. He would work diligently and would give his opinion if asked but Bill had to do all the pushing and it was beginning to exhaust him.
It had been a source of huge frustration to Bill that, since his part in the defeat of the Faerie King, he’d had neither the adulation he felt he deserved nor an opportunity to use his magical talent. Being able to shoot flames from your hands was, it turned out, only so useful. Now, if he’d had Gramma Tickle’s talent, he could have ordered some trees to temporarily cover the ruins, so they’d have a chance to dry out. Velicity de Veer’s wind could have chased the clouds away. And, as for Mother Hemlock, her talent with water would have sent the rain straight back up into the clouds.
Still, at least they had a fire going. Bill was able to keep it lit against the drizzle with the occasional burst of flame which, though not exactly fulfilling, hadn’t entirely lost its charm. He was on the floor of what had been the wizard’s study. They’d finally swept away the burnt and soaked papers, rugs and furniture, except for the corner under the window which retained traces of its original covering.
With a heave, he pulled the corner of an old rug away and gasped at what he saw underneath.
“Dad!” he said, waving at his father, who’d been building a bonfire in the front garden. “Come and have a look at this.”
Blackjack stamped his way into the house and knelt down beside his son. “What is it, lad?”
Taking a rag, Bill wiped at the stone flag in the corner, smearing off the mud and revealing a hint of metal beneath. “It’s a safe, by the looks of it,” he said, scrubbing around the edges to define a shining silver plate about the length and breadth of two hands put together.
“Where’s the key hole?” asked Blackjack.
Bill shrugged. It looked like a safe box but, since he couldn’t see beneath the level of the floor, it could just as easily be a flat sheet of metal. If it was a safe, there was no obvious way in.
“Here, let’s see if we can dig it out,” said Blackjack, handing a chisel to Bill and grabbing a thin-bladed spade for himself.
Ten minutes later, they’d levered out a shallow box that seemed to be sealed on all sides.
“I reckon there’s magic involved here,” Blackjack said, handing it over. “Be careful, lad. It don’t seem natural to me. It’s so undamaged it could have been set there yesterday, though I know it’s probably been under that old rug for years.
“It was also under a bookshelf,” Bill said, nodding at the wreckage out on the lawn. “Whatever’s in here must have been very important to Vokes. He must have wanted to bury it, know it was there, but never open it again.”
Bill was aware that he was beginning to sound paranoid: experience, and his increasing cynicism, warned him that this slim silver box, in all likelihood, contained a whole heap of trouble.
Talking of trouble.
“What have you got there?”
Bill was so startled, he lost his balance and fell backward into the wet mud and junk on the cottage floor.
Blackjack, on the other hand, was a picture of composure and assurance as he stood and walked into an embrace. “Hello love,” he said, as they hugged for a moment before pulling apart.
“There’s really no need to grovel,” said Brianna, smiling at the rapidly rising Bill, “I mean, I know you worship the ground I walk on but I thought we agreed we’d give the impression of being equals in this relationship, at least in front of grown-ups.”
Bill brushed himself off and grinned. He was too pleased to see her to remain angry, so he went in for a hug himself and was rewarded with a warm squeeze. The sun, so rare a visitor in these woods during the winter months, made a metaphorical appearance from behind a cloud and, for a moment, all was well. Just for a moment.
“Who the hell’s that?” Bill said, pulling away.
Behind Brianna stood a small, dark, figure that Bill could see quietly shaking, as if in terror.
“It’s a goblin!”
Brianna went to stand in front of the creature and put out her hand to keep him away. “Don’t shout like that,” she said, with a look that had edges to it, “he’s just a child.”
“Little bastard, more like it,” Blackjack said, raising his spade with clear menace.
Brianna stepped back, pushing the creature further away whilst facing the Strikes, pointing accusingly. “That’s enough! He is a child, and he’s under my protection. Now, you can either accept that, or we’ll be moving on.”
“But you only just got here!” Bill protested. “And he’s the enemy - three of his kind trapped you at Hemlock’s Farm and nearly killed you.”
“His kind did, that’s true, but are all humans to be blamed for the evil actions of a few?”
“But they’re goblins,” Blackjack said, “it’s in their nature. You can’t trust ‘em.”
“And since when were you an expert on the matter, Blackjack Strike? I saw enough death to last a lifetime and goblins were there, but this child killed no-one. But I can see we’re not wanted. Come, Rasha, we’re leaving.” And, with that, she grabbed the shaking creature by the arm and dragged him towards the door.
“Brianna!” shouted Bill.
She turned back, her face twisted with wrath.
“Don’t go.”
And the desperation in his voice cut through her anger.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “please come back and we’ll make something to eat. For both of you.”
Bill looked from the little creature, still shivering with fear, to Brianna. “Bacon sandwich?” he suggested.
Brianna sighed and all the tension went out of her body.
She smiled and nodded before stepping back into the ruins of the study, her hand still clasped around the arm of the goblin. Blackjack’s eyes followed the creature, but he said nothing and Brianna didn’t seem to notice. “Thank you,” she said, “we’re both starving.”
In a corner of what had once been the cottage parlour, Bill watched Brianna and the goblin eating. By luck, one fragment of the roof had survived here, providing shelter over what had become a temporary living space and bedroom for the Strikes when they couldn’t be bothered to traipse back through the forest to their own little cottage.
Bill watched the goblin as it delicately devoured its bacon roll. No, not its, his. Bill gave himself a mental kick in the shins. He desperately wanted Brianna to stay for as long as possible and giving the goblin the benefit of the doubt would certainly help with that.
“His name’s Rasha,” Brianna said, “and it’s not polite to stare.”
Bill snapped out of it and looked guiltily up. “Sorry. It’s just, I’ve never been this close to a goblin before. Unless you count the thousands that were trying to kill me a few months ago.”
Brianna smiled. “I know it’s hard to see them as anything other than spear-wielding demons but they’d say the same about us and we’re all different, aren’t we? Some people are really quite nice once you get to know them.”
She held out her hand and Bill took it. He felt suddenly warm and, for a moment, wondered if he was about to go off, but realised it was just being near her that did it. Somehow that scared him even more.
“Would you like another rasher, Rasha?” Bill asked.
“He doesn’t understand much of the common tongue yet,” Brianna said. “I’ve taught him some basic words and gestures but that’s all.”
Bill held up a piece of crispy bacon on the end of his knife and pointed from it to his mouth before shrugging. He felt like some really cheap mime artist1 but Rasha nodded enthusiastically and tucked in with relish once Bill had dropped the fried pork on his plate.
“That’s interesting, you seem to have a knack for communicating with him - it took me hours just to ask him if he was hungry when I first fo
und him,” Brianna said.
“Where did you find him?”
Brianna sighed. “Well, it’s a long story which I’ll tell you in full the next time I feel the need to bore you to death.”
“You’d gone off to find that servant of the Faerie King, and the staff,” Bill said, aware that he was tip-toeing over a minefield, “but I guess you didn’t find them.”
Brianna’s face dropped. “No, there’s no trace of the staff or the hunchback. I can only guess that he headed out of the area quickly. I found Rasha on my way back to the farm.”
“Rasha,” said Rasha.
“Yes, he was hiding in a little wood when I found him. I nearly killed him without thinking,” she said, “which just goes to show how times like these bring out the worst in all of us if we’re not very careful.”
Bill took her hand. “But you didn’t kill him, and that’s what matters.”
She smiled. “True. He’s just a child, you see. Taken to war as a sort of mascot, like the Tambourine Boys.2 I guess he was kept behind the lines and then ran away and hid when Chortley’s father turned up and started lopping heads left, right and centre.”
“Was the whole faerie army destroyed?” Bill asked, horrified.
Brianna shook her head. “No, luckily most of the survivors had already submitted and even that half-brother of yours wasn’t quite inhuman enough to cut them down after surrendering. They’re in the Crapplecreek dungeons now, though what’ll happen to them, I don’t know.”
“And you didn’t want Rasha ending up there?”
“No, once I’d got over my prejudice and saw him for what he was, a child, I couldn’t take him there. So here I am. With nothing to show for a couple of months roughing it but a failed mission and a goblin child.”
Bill sat down on the floor beside her. “Well, I’m glad you came here.”
“I didn’t know where else to go. I couldn’t imagine Rasha being welcome at Hemlock’s Farm, but I knew I could trust you, in the end.”