Skarper and the sorcerers.
But before he reached them there came a great crashing and tearing from the trees beside the stairs. A shape big enough to be a tree itself strode out of the green shadows; huge hands swung an uprooted oak stump like a bat, and there was a meaty crunch as it hit the hurtling goblin king and sent him flying back over the heads of the other goblins to crash down among the boulders near the top of the stairs: a clatter of armour, the dropped flail jangling, a long slither of metal on stone and then stillness.
The goblins reeled backwards. Some shrieked, “Giant! Giant!” But even as they cowered before that massive figure, even as Knobbler prepared to swing Mr Chop-U-Up at its mighty knees, another terror came upon them from out of the trees. Knobbler heard whisking sounds, and yowls of pain from the lads behind him, and suddenly a rain of little sharp sticks was falling all around.
The goblins were masters of all weapons which hacked and hewed and stabbed, but they had never got the knack of archery. Their paws and claws were much too clumsy to fiddle about with bows. They thought archery was cheating , and one of the few bits of history all goblins knew was how the softlings had defeated the goblin army on Bad Wednesday by firing cheaty storms of arrows at them. They cowered under this terrifying new attack, squealing, “Arrers! Arrers!”
Knobbler caught one of the missiles as it ricocheted off his breastplate. “These en’t arrows,” he shouted, trying to calm the goblins’ panic. “They’re just pointy sticks.”
“Pointy sticks! Pointy sticks!” the goblins wailed, not calmed at all.
Knobbler looked up, and saw twig-things swarming through the trees, hurling the sticks down at his boys. Curse ’em , he thought. He’d heard tell of these woodlings, who’d infested Clovenstone along with the foul trees that bred them. He’d never heard of them attacking goblins openly before. Still, they were flimsy things, just sticks themselves really, and he didn’t see what harm they hoped to do. One or two of the boys, looking up to see who was pelting them, had been hit in the eye and were reeling about howling and cursing, but the willow spears weren’t heavy or hard-thrown enough to pierce through goblin hide, let alone armour. “Ignore ’em, lads!” he shouted. “Get the softlings. . .”
But when he turned towards the bridge again, there were more softlings than before. A young warrior with a long, rusty sword was running at him, yelling something that sounded like, “Adherak!”
Knobbler had just time to wonder where he’d sprung from and think what a nice plume his curly golden hair would make before the sword came crashing against his helmet. There was a flash of sparks, the blade rebounded, Henwyn said, “Yowch!”, and Knobbler tottered backwards and was caught up in a scrambling, panicking mass of goblins, convinced that they were under attack by a whole army of softlings now.
The giant Fraddon brandished his oak-tree club and bellowed at the fleeing goblins to speed them on their way, then turned. Two strides took him to the river’s edge, and a swipe of his club batted the unlucky troll backwards into the river. “Back to your pond, old toad,” he growled.
Skarper and the sorcerers looked on in wonder. At first they had been as frightened of these newcomers as they were of the goblins and the troll. Was there no end to the monstrous shapes that Clovenstone was sending to attack them? But when the troll went tumbling, they finally understood that their luck had changed. The giant looked again towards the goblins on the stairs, but they were scattering northward, dropped shields and cleavers clanging on the flagstones as they fled. Then he turned and noticed Skarper standing near the softlings by the bridge. He bellowed again and swung his club up ready to flatten him, but the young warrior who had appeared out of the trees with him called, “Fraddon, no!
But before he reached them there came a great crashing and tearing from the trees beside the stairs. A shape big enough to be a tree itself strode out of the green shadows; huge hands swung an uprooted oak stump like a bat, and there was a meaty crunch as it hit the hurtling goblin king and sent him flying back over the heads of the other goblins to crash down among the boulders near the top of the stairs: a clatter of armour, the dropped flail jangling, a long slither of metal on stone and then stillness.
The goblins reeled backwards. Some shrieked, “Giant! Giant!” But even as they cowered before that massive figure, even as Knobbler prepared to swing Mr Chop-U-Up at its mighty knees, another terror came upon them from out of the trees. Knobbler heard whisking sounds, and yowls of pain from the lads behind him, and suddenly a rain of little sharp sticks was falling all around.
The goblins were masters of all weapons which hacked and hewed and stabbed, but they had never got the knack of archery. Their paws and claws were much too clumsy to fiddle about with bows. They thought archery was cheating , and one of the few bits of history all goblins knew was how the softlings had defeated the goblin army on Bad Wednesday by firing cheaty storms of arrows at them. They cowered under this terrifying new attack, squealing, “Arrers! Arrers!”
Knobbler caught one of the missiles as it ricocheted off his breastplate. “These en’t arrows,” he shouted, trying to calm the goblins’ panic. “They’re just pointy sticks.”
“Pointy sticks! Pointy sticks!” the goblins wailed, not calmed at all.
Knobbler looked up, and saw twig-things swarming through the trees, hurling the sticks down at his boys. Curse ’em , he thought. He’d heard tell of these woodlings, who’d infested Clovenstone along with the foul trees that bred them. He’d never heard of them attacking goblins openly before. Still, they were flimsy things, just sticks themselves really, and he didn’t see what harm they hoped to do. One or two of the boys, looking up to see who was pelting them, had been hit in the eye and were reeling about howling and cursing, but the willow spears weren’t heavy or hard-thrown enough to pierce through goblin hide, let alone armour. “Ignore ’em, lads!” he shouted. “Get the softlings. . .”
But when he turned towards the bridge again, there were more softlings than before. A young warrior with a long, rusty sword was running at him, yelling something that sounded like, “Adherak!”
Knobbler had just time to wonder where he’d sprung from and think what a nice plume his curly golden hair would make before the sword came crashing against his helmet. There was a flash of sparks, the blade rebounded, Henwyn said, “Yowch!”, and Knobbler tottered backwards and was caught up in a scrambling, panicking mass of goblins, convinced that they were under attack by a whole army of softlings now.
The giant Fraddon brandished his oak-tree club and bellowed at the fleeing goblins to speed them on their way, then turned. Two strides took him to the river’s edge, and a swipe of his club batted the unlucky troll backwards into the river. “Back to your pond, old toad,” he growled.
Skarper and the sorcerers looked on in wonder. At first they had been as frightened of these newcomers as they were of the goblins and the troll. Was there no end to the monstrous shapes that Clovenstone was sending to attack them? But when the troll went tumbling, they finally understood that their luck had changed. The giant looked again towards the goblins on the stairs, but they were scattering northward, dropped shields and cleavers clanging on the flagstones as they fled. Then he turned and noticed Skarper standing near the softlings by the bridge. He bellowed again and swung his club up ready to flatten him, but the young warrior who had appeared out of the trees with him called, “Fraddon, no!
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