Trolled (The Trolled Saga Book 1) Page 4

  “Naturally. And what about me?” asked Nat.

  “You’ll be the back part.”

  “So, what? I just stand around like a plum while you do the pincer thing?”

  “No, replied Clive, peevishly. “You’ll be playing the tail. That means you swing your arm about and see if you can hit anyone with that battleaxe you’re holding.”

  “This thing? Don’t you have one of those, you know, stinger wotsits?”

  “You think I have a giant scorpion tail just lying around?”

  “You’ve got a rubber battle axe. It doesn’t seem like much of a stretch.”

  Clive sighed. “Just do as you’re told and hold onto the back of my belt, please.”

  Nat relented and the two came together to form the world’s worst scorpion.

  “This is rubbish,” Nat complained. “It’s like being the bad part of a human centipede.”

  “Please stop talking.”

  “I mean, of all the monsters, why a scorpion? Why not a medusa or a cool dragon or something?”

  Clive sneered. “Because there are no dragons in this world, okay? Dragons are for black velvet paintings and pewter figurines. This is the real deal. Now pick up that rubber axe and start acting like a giant scorpion.”

  *****

  GILON TOOK HEED of the disembodied voice, clambering to his feet and propelling his fevered body onwards. Vision paling, he barrelled through bracken and brushwood, only slowing to check over his shoulder and see what it was the voice had been warning him of. There it was. Drensila’s fearsome pet, Stinger.

  The giant scorpion had landed at the foot of the chasm and hit the ground running, rapidly closing the distance to his prey. Gilon dug deep and found it in himself to pick up the pace, pinballing between saplings in his desperate flight from the monster. It was all for nought though. An old rockslide lay ahead, clogging the trench and cutting off his escape. Gilon was cornered. He collapsed to the ground, spent.

  *****

  “TIME IN,” YELLED Clive.

  The call to action was followed shortly by a scream of “Charge!” as Terry and his band of merry men came hoofing into the clearing, weapons raised and ready to strike. Plainly, they had not come to negotiate. Almost at once, arrows and swords rained down upon Nat. She’d imagined being hit with a foam weapon would feel about as lethal as being tagged in a pillow fight, but apparently not. The blows hurt like a bitch, particularly the shots delivered by Ashley, which stung no matter how keenly he interjected the word “Sorry.”

  Nat did what she could to retaliate, but being attached to Clive put too many limits on her movement. Terry kept out of range with his bow, and every time Nat managed to steer the “scorpion” in the direction of the close-quarters fighters, they’d skirt around the back to avoid its claws and poisoned stinger. Much as Nat would like to have lashed at them there, she’d been instructed by Clive to only employ the stinger in a forward-facing motion, as a real scorpion does. Ashley continued to deliver blows to the rear, racking up hit after hit. Even Neville managed to outmanoeuvre the lumbering beast and land a few shots, and he was confined to a wheelchair. In no time at all, the party had managed to zero the scorpion’s hit points, then Terry delivered the coup de grâce, loosing a padded arrow from Widowmaker that struck Nat square in the left tit.

  “Ow!” she yelped, rubbing the point of impact. That stupid bow of his might deal +3 damage, but it just scored -100 to his chance of having sex again.

  Clive raised a hand. “Time Out,” he cried, and the party lowered their weapons.

  “Sorry, Nat,” apologised Terry. “I got a bit carried away.”

  “She should be the one saying sorry,” Clive argued.

  “What are you talking about?” cried Nat.

  “You broke character. Scorpions don’t talk.”

  Terry came to her defence. “I thought you were a great scorpion, love.”

  “Oh, give it a rest. I’m as much of a scorpion as he is a knight in shining armour,” she exclaimed, referring to the ghetto cavalier dressed in silver wool and carpet tiles.

  Terry made a valiant attempt to sidebar his girlfriend and diffuse the situation. “Can I have a quick word, hon?”

  Nat threw up her arms. “Fine,” she seethed, and followed Terry to a secluded spot so they could talk in private.

  “I’m sorry, Nat. That wasn’t the start to the day I was hoping for.”

  “What is that guy’s problem?” she asked, face flushed and flipping Clive off with both middle fingers. “Seriously, why does he hate me?”

  “He doesn’t hate you. Well, not you specifically. He hates everyone really.” Terry took a seat on a log. “Clive’s always been a bit off since… the incident.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Nat, scooching him over.

  Terry double-checked that he was definitely out of earshot. “Back in school, not long after I met Clive, there was this thing that happened in P.E. We’d just finished a cross country run and we were in the showers and… well...”

  “Well what?”

  Terry gulped and fixed her in the eye. “He got a boner.” He paused for dramatic effect.

  “That’s it?” Nat squealed. “He got an erection one time so now he gets to be an arsehole to everyone?”

  “You don’t understand. You’re not allowed to get an erection in the boy’s shower room. It’s against the rules. Someone got the word out and the news went viral. You know, like an STD does. That was that. The guy was a pariah.”

  “I don’t get it. Why would anyone care if Clive was gay?”

  “Because this is real life, Nat, not Tumblr.”

  “Still though, all that from one tiny boner? I mean, I assume it’s tiny...”

  “Well, the story kind of grew wings as time went on. By Year Ten it had gone from an accidental stiffy to a full-blown Roman orgy. The other kids tore him apart. “Queer Clive,” they called him. The teachers just let it happen. The bullying got so bad he tried to change schools, but his parents wouldn’t have it. Then he got pneumonia and disappeared for a few months. Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t show up to assembly one day with a machine gun.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I know. So what do you reckon? Can you cut Clive some slack? Just for today?”

  Nat pursed her lips for a second then answered. “Okay.”

  “Thanks, love,” said Terry, and pecked her on the cheek.

  *****

  GILON LAY PANTING face-down on the ground. Behind him he could hear the clickety clack of Stinger’s carapace as he closed in for the kill. The elf was whispering a parting prayer when a patch of earth by his hand bubbled up into a hill, as though a mole were tunnelling to the surface. A hole appeared in the dirt and something emerged: a tree root, vivid purple and acrid smelling.

  “Chew,” boomed the disembodied voice, echoing off the chasm walls.

  Again, Gilon did as he was told, biting down on the root and grinding it between his teeth until it gave up its bitter juices. Immediately, he felt a terrific surge of energy, as though his blood had been set on fire, lighting up his veins like a delta of burning lava. Pulse galloping, he leapt to his feet and drew his faithful blade. He wasn’t done yet. Before the scorpion’s venom took him he would weave one last dance of death.

  *****

  THE GROUP HAD separated into two halves again. While the heroes hung back in preparation for the next stage of the game, Clive took his fellow monster ahead and prepped her for the coming encounter.

  “Okay, so we’re all clear?” he asked, having been over things once already. “This stage doesn’t have to end in a brawl. It all comes down to how the players choose to handle themselves.”

  Nat nodded, doing her utmost to look involved.

  “We’re playing bandits,” Clive went on, “but the party can avoid a melee and get by with charisma or coin if they choose. Remember, LARP isn’t just about fighting, it’s about wits and creative thinking. As the Game Master it’s my job to deli
ver a nuanced experien—”

  Nat had taken to thrashing the trunk of a tree with her foam axe. “Little bastard!” she shouted up into the boughs, then turned back to Clive. “A squirrel nicked the bacon buttie out of my handbag.”

  Clive rubbed an eye with the heel of his hand. “Okay then,” he said, moving swiftly on. “In this encounter I’m going to be playing a bandit captain and you’ll be my right hand man.”

  “Woman,” Nat corrected, in case he wasn’t clear. “So, aside from being on your team, what exactly is my job?”

  Clive surprised her. “You’ll be playing a powerful sorceress,” he explained, rummaging around in a sack for her outfit.

  “Cool,” she replied, imagining a lustrous silk robe and maybe a pair of those long opera gloves that flattered the arms. Instead, she got a bin bag with holes for her arms and head. “This is supposed to make me look like a sorceress, is it?”

  “No, this is to cover up what you’re wearing since you came dressed like you arrived in Middle Earth by way of Topshop.”

  “Hey, this is New Look.”

  “I don’t care. Just put on the bin bag, take this orange beanbag and say “fireball” when you throw it, okay?” He turned in the direction of the players, cupped a hand to his mouth and cried “Time in.”

  Nat begrudgingly suited up and took her position, ducking behind a fallen tree to prepare for the bandit ambush. After a short while, the party arrived to find Clive on his lonesome, propped casually against a tree.

  “Hand over your purses lest you taste my blade,” he demanded, pointing the tip of his sword in Terry’s direction.

  Ashley went to draw his foam weapon but Terry stopped him. “Still thy blade, good sir,” he cautioned, and approached the bandit captain, bow slung across his back.

  “By what right do you seek to extract monies from us, sir?” Terry asked.

  Clive fake laughed. “By right of might,” he thundered, and sliced the air soundlessly with his sword.

  Terry also faked a laugh. “Verily thou jests?” said he, “you are but one man against three.”

  “I do not jest, sir. Why, the very earth you stand upon is enriched by the blood of foolhardy adventurers who refused to pay my toll.”

  “Are they going to talk like that the whole time?” Nat wandered from her hiding place, cringing to the size of a raisin.

  She looked back to find the action hotting up. Despite Terry’s best efforts, his fellow companions felt they had exercised due diligence, and that the time had come to get twatting. Ashley drew his blade and Neville prepared to charge Clive with his war chariot. The brawl was afoot.

  “That’s my cue,” Nat sighed to herself.

  She was preparing to spring from her hiding place, enchanted beanbag at the ready, when a pair of figures stumbled onto the scene.

  At first, Nat mistook them for a couple of ramblers, but on closer inspection they didn’t fit the profile. Though they were dressed top-to-toe in North Face, it was clear they weren’t there for the walking. They were there to drink cans of cheap Polish lager and smoke Dunhill Lights.

  “Check it out, it’s a nerd herd,” jeered the larger of the teenagers, launching an empty can over his shoulder.

  “Ugh, muggles,” muttered Neville, as reality poked in its unwelcome nose. He recognised the boys from an encounter on campus that had led to him being taken on an unsolicited wheelchair ride and ploughed, bowling ball-like, into a rubbish bin.

  “What are you lot up to?” the smaller bully demanded, swaggering into the middle of the action.

  Terry planted his bow in the ground. “It’s called fantasy roleplay,” he replied, unashamed.

  “Is that like fantasy football?”

  “Not unless there's a unicorn on the pitch,” Terry quipped, though the witticism went entirely unappreciated.

  Ashley closed the visor of his carpet tile helmet and turned his back on the exchange. LARPing was his guilty secret, and he intended to keep it that way. It’s not that he didn’t love swinging a sword and laying waste to goblins, but he loved tossing a ball about too, and teenage politics only allowed for one or the other. So far, Ashley had managed to covertly straddle both sides of the nerd divide, but getting caught dressed like something a dog might drag its arse across would scupper his carefully cultivated social chameleon status altogether.

  The larger bully proved unusually perceptive though, or at least caught a glimpse of Ashley’s skin under his armour. “Ashley? Is that you, Ash?”

  Ashley turned and acted as though he’d just this moment noticed them. “Yo, what up, cuz?” he asked, flipping his visor and playing it casual.

  “What up, cuz?” the bully screeched. “Is this why you’ve been missing rugby practice, so you can nonce about in the woods with this bunch of numpties?”

  “Come on, guys,” said Neville. “Why don’t you just move along?”

  That got the bullies hackles up right away, and Nev regretted getting involved just as quickly. It was hard enough getting permission from his parents to trundle around the woods playing tickle sticks with rubber swords, but if he came home with actual bruises he’d never see daylight again.

  “Mind your own, Stephen Hawkings,” the alpha bully shouted back, and scored himself a one-man ovation from his sidekick.

  “Time out,” moaned the Game Master, halting the encounter woefully late in the proceedings.

  The bullies were well known to Clive. Back in secondary school they’d been the ringleaders of his terrorising, whipping up his fellow students and giving them license to perform all manner of evils upon him. Clive had begged his parents to move him to a different catchment area but they wouldn’t hear of it, telling him to grow a spine and stand up for himself. Things only got worse from there. Three, long years of harassment followed, driving Clive to the depths of despair. The only way he was able to survive his time was to focus on the future, to further education, a warded door through which the troglodytes could not follow. Sadly, the promised land was not to be. Despite their poor grades, the bullies—the same bullies stood before him now—managed to find their way onto sports diplomas and enrol at his chosen institution. Thanks to their unwelcome intervention, Clive’s reputation preceded him, denying him the opportunity to reinvent himself. All the roles endured. Clive stayed the victim, while his oppressors remained as spiteful as they were dressed in blazers and ties.

  “What did you come as?” the weaselly bully asked Clive, eyeballing his cloak.

  “I’m the Game Master,” he replied, with all the dignity he could muster.

  “Pardon?” asked the weasel, theatrically cupping a hand to his ear. Did you say you’re “The gay master?””

  Clive fumed silently. Terry leant over and whispered in his ear. “Don’t let them troll you, dude.”

  “What’s the matter, Queer Clive?” chimed the bigger bully. “Did you go so far in the closet you found Narnia?”

  Nat had heard enough. Hopping the log she was stood behind, she strode over and struck the biggest bully in the back of the head with a beanbag, explicitly ignoring the instruction to say “fireball.”

  “Get out of here, you chav wankers!” she hollered, setting into them like a banshee.

  “Whoah,” whooped the stricken bully, widening his arms in the classic “Come at me, bro,” stance employed by cowards too scared to fight.

  Terry stepped in and cut Nat off. “Let it go, hon,” he said, holding her back.

  “You need to get your bird in line, bruv,” taunted the weasel, acting as though he wasn’t rattled by Nat’s fierce entrance.

  “Yeah, get your woman under control,” agreed the big one.

  Nat strained against Terry, who only managed to hold her back with Ashley’s help.

  “Come on, we’re out of here,” the larger bully muttered to his crony, and the pair made off, cracking a fresh couple of beers.

  “See you nerds on Monday,” the big one called over his shoulder as he swanned off.

  *
****

  GILON LAUNCHED HIMSELF at the scorpion in a terrific swooping arc, his blade gouging through the beast’s bony carapace and drawing a swathe of meat from his hindquarters. The scorpion emitted a high-pitched shriek and went to retaliate by puncturing the attacker with his giant stinger, but the elf was too swift, cartwheeling out of range, his acrobatic fighting style a thing of grace and perfection. Gilon capitalised on the scorpion’s confusion, gripping the hilt of his sword in both hands and swinging the blade in a powerful half-moon. The weapon sang as it cut the air and cleaved through the scorpion’s right claw, separating it from his body and depositing it in the dirt. The suffering creature became a mad dervish, and Gilon only narrowly managed to throw himself clear as it pinwheeled about in agony. Once the initial flash of agony had abated, the wounded scorpion swivelled and clambered over the rockslide, making his escape.

  All at once the effects of the magical root expired and Gilon collapsed to the ground, utterly depleted. Though he’d fought well, he’d only succeeded in staving off his imminent demise. He clutched his sword tight but it was for nought. Soon he would be dead, and the scorpion would return to prise it from his lifeless hand. The only sword in this world capable of slaying the Drensila the Black was about to become an item in her trophy cabinet.

  “I failed,” whispered Gilon.

  Any moment now the poison coursing through his veins would paralyse him and turn his bones to mush.

  The booming voice echoed through the chasm once more. “Look yonder,” it said.

  The ground began to rumble and Gilon lifted his aching head to see a fissure crack open the dirt. From the crevice erupted a web of tree roots that snaked into the air before interlacing and forming a door-sized archway. The centre of the arch shimmered like a mirage until reality came apart at the seams and revealed an opening to another place. Looking through the portal was like looking through a pane of dirty glass. Beyond it was a forest, greyer and less bucolic than his own, with pollarded oaks standing in for the grand redbarks of the Whispering Woods. The world beyond the rift was a drab, lacklustre place, and yet it offered opportunity. It offered redemption. Gilon knew what the voice was asking of him. Though his crusade had come to an end, the weapon he carried needn’t fall into enemy hands. With his last ounce of life, Gilon dragged himself towards the shimmering doorway by broken fingernails, inch by agonising inch.