Sparks spun like tiny fireworks from the ends of Wesley’s fingertips. The ogre watched them, mesmerised, as Wesley began to chant. “Hokum carsiccus … er … jimnus … or something.”
“This ain’t really filling me with confidence,” said Scumbo, but the ogre was transfixed, both glass and real eye focused on Wesley’s sparkly fingers.
Wesley raised his hands higher as he brought the spell to a shaky conclusion. “Millinarus … or millinarum, maybe? Poppakus ashtoomb!”
There was a bright flash and a bang and a puff of wispy white smoke. The sparks vanished and their hold over the ogre was broken. It blinked, as if awakening from a deep sleep.
“WHERE LIGHTS GO?”
Wesley stepped back. He had been hoping to turn the ogre into a duck. He had been trying to turn the ogre into a duck. And yet…
“I … I don’t understand,” he whimpered. “It’s still the same. Nothing happened!”
“Here,” said Scumbo. “Where’d this hat come from?”
The troll was now wearing what looked like a jester’s cap, complete with bells swinging from the three pointed corners. It was a little on the large side, and had slipped down so it half-covered his yellow eyes.
Wesley sighed. First custard, and now a jingly hat. He really was the worst wizard ever. “No idea,” he lied. “Nothing to do with me.”
The ogre’s robotic leg hissed and clanked as it took a step in Wesley’s direction. Wesley raised his hands again, but they were shaking too much for him to try any more magic. Instead, he held them up either side of his head in a gesture of surrender, and hoped the ogre might go easy on him.
“Step aside, Wes.”
Ben marched back on to the bridge. His clothes were wet and blood trickled from a scrape that ran all the way down one of his bare legs. He gazed up at the ogre and flexed his fingers inside the gauntlet. That tickle of energy tingled along his arm, and there was that feeling again, like there was nothing he could not do.
“Put down the troll, and tell us what you’ve done with the others,” Ben said. “And I promise not to hurt you.”
The ogre cocked its head quizzically to one side, then it hurled its head back and let out a deep, rumbling laugh that rolled all the way to Mount Nochance before bouncing back again. Ben didn’t flinch. He just kept staring up at the monster, his fingers flexing. In, out, in, out.
“So,” he asked, when the ogre’s laughter had died away. “What’s your answer?”
“ANSWER IS NO, BUG!” the monster replied, and he brought his free hand smashing down.
Ben skipped back, then as the ogre’s fist smashed through the wood of the bridge he shot forwards, using the brute’s bulging muscles like steps. The power of the glove surged through not just his arm, but through the rest of him, too. It was the most magical item his Uncle Tavish had ever encountered, and Ben could feel that magic flowing through him now, every last drop of it.
He bounded up the ogre’s bicep and swung with the gauntlet hand. There was a spark of metal on metal as his fist clanged against the ogre’s mechanical jaw. The monster’s head snapped sharply back. Before its face could even register surprise Ben hit it again, across the leathery skin of its cheek this time. The blow twisted the ogre around, throwing Ben off balance. He tumbled backwards, but was already preparing himself for another attack on—
WHUMPF!
The ogre had spun in a complete circle. It swatted Ben out of the air, sending him skidding across the slippery wood of the bridge. Before he could clamber back to his feet the monster’s finger and thumb clamped around the gauntlet. With the slightest of tugs it was pulled free, and all the energy Ben had felt buzzing through him fizzled away into nothing.
“Give that back!” Ben cried. “That’s mine.”
The ogre held the glove up to the lens in his eye socket. The outer ring of the lens spun as he brought the gauntlet into focus.
“NOT YOURS NOW,” the ogre said. “MASTER’S NOW. THIS WHAT MASTER LOOKING FOR.”
“Master? Is that your name?” asked Paradise.
The ogre grunted. “I IS NOT MASTER. MASTER IS MASTER. I IS DADSBUTT!”
Despite everything, Scumbo let out a snort of laughter. It made his new hat jingle merrily. “Dadsbutt. That’s unfortunate.”
“SHUT UP, TROLL!”
“Shutting up now,” Scumbo squeaked.
“YOU IS COMING WITH ME!”
“No!” yelped Ben. “Let him go!”
Dadsbutt ignored him. Liquid burbled through the pipework in the ogre’s mechanical leg as he squatted down low. Then, with a sudden kick, he leapt into the air and bounded off into the darkness.
Several seconds later, somewhere far away, they heard the muffled thud of him landing. They heard him land once more after that, further away still. And then they heard nothing but the babbling of the stream below.
“Well,” breathed Wesley. “I think that went really rather well.”
“Well?” said Paradise. “You thought that went well?”
“We’re still alive, aren’t we?” said Wesley. “And now we have information.”
“What, that you’re rubbish at magic? We already knew that.”
“Dadsbutt,” said Wesley. He rummaged up his sleeve, then pulled out his copy of Who’s Who, What’s What and Why They Do Such Horrible Things to One Another by Lunt Bingwood. He sat on the edge of the bridge and opened the cover. “I’m pretty sure he’s in here somewhere.”
As Wesley flicked through the pages, Ben looked down at his now bare right hand. “My glove,” he said. “He took my glove.”
“If it’s any consolation, I doubt it’ll fit him,” Paradise said.
Wesley stood up sharply. “Aha! Yes, here he is. Dadsbutt the Ogre.”
He turned the book around so the others could see the hand-drawn illustration of the monster they’d just fought. It had the same bone armour, the same mechanical leg.
The version in the book had two eyes, though, and nowhere near as many scars as the one in real life had.
“Looks a bit different,” Paradise pointed out.
“Yes, well Lunt Bingwood did write the book over ten years ago,” Wesley said. “Ogres don’t age well.”
“What does it say?” Ben asked.
Wesley angled the book so he could make out the scratchy writing in the torchlight, then began to read.
“As is traditional for ogres, the then baby Dadsbutt was named after the first thing he saw in the moments following his birth. Even by ogre standards, where names such as ‘Table’, ‘Somerocks’, and ‘Mumsfeet’ are not uncommon, ‘Dadsbutt’ was a particularly unfortunate title to be saddled with.”
“I thought it quite suited him, actually,” said Paradise.
“As a result,” continued Wesley, “Dadsbutt grew up to be an angry young ogreling, quickly learning to rely on his brute strength and explosive temper to put an end to any childhood name-calling before it could even begin.
“In the years since then, Dadsbutt has developed a reputation as a near-unstoppable warrior. Despite sustaining numerous injuries in battle – including the loss of his leg and a good few too many blows to the head – the ogre continues to make his uniquely violent range of services available to the highest bidder.”
“Master,” Ben realised. “That’s what he meant when he said it was Master’s glove now.”
“He must be bringing it to whoever’s paying him,” Paradise said.
“And I bet that’s where the trolls are, too,” said Ben.
Paradise gestured to the book. “Does he have any weaknesses?”
Wesley scanned the page. “Yes!” he said. “A shocking disregard for the welfare of others.”
“I think we figured that one out by ourselves.”
“Anything else?” asked Ben. “Anything we can use against him?”
Wesley flipped to the next page, then flipped back. “No. Nothing. Sorry.”
Ben smiled grimly. “Oh well. It was worth a try.” He turned to Paradise. “Can you find them?”
She nodded. “I think so, yes.”
“Then get to it,” said Ben. “We’re going after them.”
“Oh goody,” said Wesley, trying his best to sound positive, but failing completely. “And then what?”
Ben rolled up the sleeves of his tunic and squared his shoulders. “And then,” he said, “I’m going to get my glove back.”