Chapter 27

Somewhere to the north of Hal and Clunk, Stonesmasher the dwarf and Slimbough the elf were making their own crossing of Bark lands. They were heading east to Slimbough's home in the elven kingdom, and despite being on the Bark side of the border, they were still carrying their extremely sharp and very metallic weapons.

Not for them the judicious application of mud, nor the wearing of overpriced cloaks. No, Stonesmasher carried his axe proudly over one shoulder, and he was dressed from head to toe in chainmail, which glittered like a disco ball in the sunlight.

They'd crossed the border some hours earlier, and when Stonesmasher saw the sign threatening death to anyone who dared bring metal into Bark lands… he chopped it down. Like most dwarves, he believed rules applied to other people, and that went double for stupid rules written by stupid humans.

The companions had been travelling uphill for some time now, and when they reached the summit they paused to survey the lands ahead. To their left were the beginnings of a forest. Straight ahead there were more hills, and beyond those, they knew, were the treacherous marshes which stretched to the very border of the elven kingdom. To their right were the plains which extended all the way south to Mollister lands.

Broad, sunny landscapes and alluring vistas weren't the only things they could see. On the plains below, a large party of armour-clad warriors was moving at the double, their boots thudding on the road in unison. They were dressed exactly like Stonesmasher, right down to the round helms on their bullet-like heads.

"Dwarves!" hissed Slimbough, and he performed a special elf manoeuvre called haidin, whereby he flitted behind a nearby tree… and, well that was it, really. He just hid behind a tree.

Since the marching army of dwarves weren't exactly alert to stray elves on the skyline, this fine example of outdoorsmanship sufficed to conceal him from view.

Meanwhile, Stonesmasher had just recognised the burly figure leading the army, and his eyes narrowed at the sight. "It is Rugbeard," he muttered in surprise. "That's my father!"

The last time he and Slim had seen the dwarven king had been at Stonesmasher's coming-of-age ceremony, and that had ended under something of a cloud.

"Are they looking for you?" whispered Slimbough, from his semi-concealed position.

"He wouldn't get out of bed to find me, let alone cross the Old Kingdom with one hundred and ninety-nine other dwarves." Stonesmasher noticed a second dust cloud far to the south, and he shielded his eyes and squinted as he tried to make out the source. "Friend Slimbough, will you lend me your elven eyes? I cannot see the cause of that dust storm."

"My eyes are no better than yours," said Slim. "However, my hearing tells me there are two hundred armed humans marching this way."

"Are you sure you're not hearing the dwarves?"

"I am certain, for they make a completely different sound. And… there's also the footfall of the metal man, Clunk. And, strangely, the light steps of a child." Slimbough cupped a hand to his pointy ear, then frowned. "No, not a child. It's a halfling."

Stonesmasher spat on the ground.

"What was that for?"

"Halflings. Can't stand 'em." Stonesmasher spat again. "Sneaky little creatures, they are. Sooner run you through from behind than stand up and fight properly."

"Hush, friend. There is another sound, and I cannot place it."

"Hopefully it's someone strangling the halfling," muttered Stonesmasher.

"No, it's a squeaking noise, like wood on wood." Slimbough pointed due east. "It comes from beyond yonder hills."

"Maybe it's a tree branch, scraping against another in the wind."

"There is no wind, and there are no trees in the marshes. And hark, another sound!"

Stonesmasher could only hear crickets, and he wondered if Slim was pulling his leg. Then again, the elf was a dour sort, and not one given to japes and fripperies.

"An army of one hundred and forty-nine souls approaches," said Slim. "And… oh, how my heart sings, Stonesmasher, for it is an elven host!"

Stonesmasher eyed the dwarves, and the dust cloud representing the pursuing humans, and the hills concealing the approaching elves, and he realised there was going to be the mother of all battles. He considered himself well out of it, and he was just about to offer Slim a wager on the outcome when he realised something. "Why are your people marching on Branche?"

"Why are yours?" countered Slim.

Neither of them wondered why the human army was marching on Branche, because the hot-tempered, short-lived creatures were always warring amongst themselves.

Meanwhile, the large party of dwarves was now vanishing into the forest at the northern end of the road, and Slimbough emerged from behind the tree and set off down the hill towards the road.

"Where are you going?"

"I must speak with my people before the humans cut us off."

Stonesmasher hesitated, then followed his friend. He hoped the elves would be more welcoming to him than his own people had been to Slimbough, but he wasn't going to bet on it.

They made it to safety, crossing the stone road and toiling up the hill on the other side. When they reached the top, a curious sight met their eyes. Below, the marshlands were spread out as far as the eye could see. Two deep ruts wound their way across the landscape, and about four hundred yards away there was a big wooden device on wheels. From this distance, it looked like a wooden spoon balanced across a cotton reel, with both sitting on a wheeled sandal. However, the tiny, ant-like figures surrounding it gave some measure of its true scale.

"What in Zephyr's name is that?" breathed Stonesmasher.

At the sound of his voice, the figures stopped moving, and one hundred and forty-nine elves turned to look at him. There were two humans as well, but Stonesmasher didn't pay them much attention, because two thirds of the elven host had just drawn their bows and nocked deadly arrows.

"Hold," said Slimbough quietly. "Do not fire. It is I, Slimbough."

"Fire what?" demanded Stonesmasher, but then he realised the elf's words were meant for his brethren, four hundred yards away. And they'd heard him, too, because they hadn't loosed a hail of arrows.

Yet.

There was a pause as Slimbough listened to a reply, and then he spoke again. "Yes, he's with me. This is Stonesmasher, son of Rugbeard, heir to the dwarven throne."

"Hi!" said Stonesmasher, and he waved with his left hand. The right was still gripping the leather-bound haft of his axe, even though he was outnumbered by over a hundred-to-one, and they had bows.

"They reply to your greeting with salutations of their own," murmured Slimbough. Then his face turned paler. "No, it cannot be!" he said softly.

"What?"

"My mother… the queen. She is no longer with us!"

Stonesmasher looked around. As far as he knew, there hadn't been any other elves with them at all. Not even queens with a combination of magic use and the elven skill of haidin. Then he realised what Slim meant. "Is she dead?"

"She has breathed her last and passed to the great beyond. In our tongue, she has cistobee."

"We call it pushing up the crazies," said Stonesmasher conversationally. "But that's because we chuck our dead into the nearest gorblin lair, and they always come pouring out looking for more."

Slim frowned at him. "This is the queen you refer to. Please show some decorum."

"That's all right. You know I'm just kidding."

Slim pointed to the heavily-armed elven hoard, who were now roughly three hundred and ninety-five yards away. "Maybe so, but they don't."

Stonesmasher couldn't help noticing the archers were still ready to fire. "Just kidding!" he shouted, and at his unexpected roar Slimbough clapped both hands over his pointed ears.

"Ask them what that contraption's for," said Stonesmasher. He had a dwarf's love of engineering and machinery, even though he was incapable of hitting the head of a nail twice in a row.

"It is a destroyer of cities. A catapult, in the human tongue. And, apparently, the killer of queens."

"Yes, but what does it do?"

"Let us approach, and find out."

"If it's all right with you, I'll wait here." Stonesmasher gestured at the marshlands. "I'll sink up to my neck in that filth, and cleaning dried mud out of chainmail is like trying to pick your nose with a spear."

Despite his desire to join his fellow elves, Slimbough saw the wisdom in this. Also, he was wearing fancy leather boots and his best leggings, and the marsh did look particularly foul. So, they sat down on a nice clean patch of grass, and the two of them told elf and dwarf jokes while the elven host struggled, and hauled, and inched their way towards them.

By now, the human army had drawn level with the base of the hill, on the opposite side to the elves. Slim and Stonesmasher kept their heads down and watched them with interest, noting their unusual clothing and weapons. "That is a curious army indeed," muttered Stonesmasher. "They don't wear Mollister uniform, and those aren't Mollister weapons."

At the head of the column they could see their companion, Clunk, striding beside a human who appeared to be wearing a muddy, sweat-stained onesie. Originally white, the garment looked like it had been dragged through a field full of cows before serving as a pig-cleaning rag. Stonesmasher spat again, and Slimbough realised he'd seen the halfling too.

"Should we attract Clunk's attention?" asked Slim. "Perhaps he might tell us who these people are."

Stonesmasher shook his head. "Let them go."

"But they pursue your brethren!"

"My dwarves could take that lot with one arm tied behind their backs," scoffed Stonesmasher. "I mean, just look at those two in their fancy dress," he said, pointing at Berry and Borosin, although of course he had no idea of the men's names. "You call that a hat?"

He fell silent as the humans marched past, because he'd just realised there were a great many tough-looking warriors. Some sported golden earrings, home-made tattoos and long tallowed ponytails, and their arms had muscles so corded they looked like thick, twisted ropes. As for the men, some of those were quite fierce-looking too.

"They are definitely not Mollisters," said Stonesmasher, as the last of the horde marched by.

"Five shillings the humans beat nine shades of spit out of your dwarves," said Slim.

"Ten shillings the mighty dwarven army crushes your lanky elves."

"Twenty shillings my elves pound those ugly humans into the dust."

"Fifty shillings the dwarves beat both armies without breaking a sweat."

"Now you're just getting silly," muttered Slim.

"Chicken." Stonesmasher looked round to see how the elves were faring with their catapult, and was pleased to see they'd almost reached the foot of the hill. Another ten minutes of heavy effort and they'd finally have made it across the marshes. "Come on, let's go and meet them," he said, getting up.

After a last look at the departing humans, Slimbough followed him down the back side of the hill. By the time they reached the bottom, the elves had managed to get their catapult onto firm ground, and Stonesmasher went to inspect the device while Slimbough greeted his older brother, Longroot.

"Well met," said Slim, with a nod.

"Well met indeed."

"You attack Branche?"

"That is the plan. We intend to get there before the filthy dwarves claim the Bark kingdom for themselves. It was our mother's plan, and one I intend to carry out."

"You'll have to get a move on, then," said Slim. He jerked his thumb at the hill. "The dwarves have a twenty minute lead on you."

"It matters not," said Longroot calmly. "They will be held up by the city defences, and we will rain death on them from afar. It shall be a slaughter for the ages."

"Yes, about that," said Slim. "Are you aware there's another army marching on Branche?"

"Indeed. I just heard two hundred Mollister troops, a metal man and a child passing by on the other side of the hill."

"Your hearing was never that good, was it?" said Slim. "For they were not Mollisters. They are a fierce-looking bunch of humans, the like of which I've never seen before."

"Even better!" exclaimed Longroot. "The dwarves and these humans will decimate each other, and we will only have to face the weary survivors."

"Speaking of weary, your elves look all-in." Slim had been eying his brother's proud army, and he couldn't help noticing their intricate armour was covered in mud right up to their armpits. Many were swaying where they stood, exhausted from hauling the catapult and the ammunition across the marshes. "There's not much fight left in them, is there?"

"They will not have to fight, for we have a secret weapon." Longroot slapped a hand on the catapult's nearest wheel, which was almost as tall as he was. Then he looked around for somewhere to wipe off the sticky, cloying mud. "With this catapult, our victory is assured."

"It looks like a big wooden spoon bent over a pair of cotton reels," remarked Slim. "But tell me, where did you get the idea for such a thing?"

A shadow crossed Longroot's face, and he turned to point out a balding human, who was inspecting the catapult with the aid of a man at least two feet taller than he was. "The smaller one is Wiltred, an inventor. The giant next to him is Queen Therstie's half-brother, Tyniwon Mollister."

He almost spat the name, and Slim realised there was bad blood between them. "I see he troubles you. Come, tell me why."

"It was he who ended the queen's life."

"On purpose?" said Slim, astonished.

"No, of course not. The man would not yet draw breath, if such were the case." Longroot sighed. "It was an accident, I assure you."

"Then why the hatred?"

"I have fallen for a girl… the most beautiful, intelligent and wise elf maiden."

"I can see why you'd be piffed off," remarked Slim. "What a burden."

"Nay, brother, that is not the reason. My Allyance… she has eyes only for Tyniwon."

"Let her go, Root."

"I cannot. She is to be my queen."

"She will be unhappy, and I guarantee she will make you unhappy also. Your days will be long… and the nights even longer." Slim clasped his brother's shoulder. "Let her go."

"Do not tell me what to do," snapped Longroot, shaking Slim's hand off. "I am king now, and you would do well to remember it."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Oh, shut up." Longroot eyed his younger brother. "Sorry to tell you this, but you wasted your time seeking building materials from the dwarves. From this day hence, elves will live in the trees, as we're supposed to."

"You're not keeping up with all mother's progressive ideas, then?"

Longroot shuddered. "Those cottages of ours… they are foul abominations. Once the Bark lands are annexed, we shall burn them down and plant saplings amongst the ashes." He looked up at the catapult, which towered over them. "But first, we must take Branche and secure these lands for the elves. Only then can we keep the dwarves and the humans from our homeland."

And with that, the family reunion was over. Longroot gave a signal and the least-weary elves took up their traces and hauled the catapult forward once more, sensibly going around the hill rather than over it.