Goblins by Philip Reeve Page B

Clovenstone; one of our number shall sit upon the Stone Throne, and the power that was the Lych Lord’s shall be ours .
    But they couldn’t live only for that far-off day. While they were waiting they had to have jobs, and families, and homes to live in. So, although they claimed to be dark sorcerers and the servants of the Lych Lord, the dark sorcery thing was really more like a hobby for most of them. They would creep off to their secret meetings to practise magic (which never worked) and pore over old books of spells (which they only pretended to understand) while their wives sighed wearily, told them not to stay out too late, and reminded them about the shelves they’d promised to put up in the pantry. Over the years the darkness had been bred out of them. Few people in the lands of man believed in magic any more. Lately a philosopher named Quesney Prong had proved that there was no such thing, in a series of popular lectures called Why Magick Doth Not Exist . Many former members of the Conclave had been convinced by this intelligent Prong, and had drifted away to take up other hobbies, such as basket-weaving, or re-enacting the Battle of Dor Koth with little model soldiers. Now only three were left.
    In their pleasant little homes in Coriander, Fentongoose, Carnglaze, and Prawl had felt very daring and dangerous when they greeted each other in the Lych Lord’s name and lit black candles before the image of his winged head. Here, among the gaunt ruins of his kingdom, they were starting to feel distinctly nervous.
    “It is a solemn thought indeed that after so many lifetimes of waiting it should fall to us to come here,” Fentongoose said, as they went deeper and deeper into the woods. Although he was trying to sound brave he could not stop his voice from trembling a little.
    “When the Lych Lord’s power is ours and we have great goblin armies and things at our disposal,” Prawl grumbled, “the first person I shall wreak my terrible revenge on is the cobbler who sold me these boots. They pinch like anything.”
    Carnglaze said nothing. In his youth he had been a soldier for a few months in the service of the king of Zandegar, and he felt that made him responsible for the safety of the expedition. Certainly he could not rely on Fentongoose and Prawl to look after themselves; they were clever men, and very learned, but in his opinion they should not be allowed out alone. So he kept one hand on the hilt of his old army-issue sword, and when they reached the bridge over the Oeth he stopped, and jerked on Skarper’s rope so that Skarper stopped too.
    “What’s wrong?” asked Fentongoose.
    Carnglaze nodded towards the bridge and its tumbled parapet. “That damage is recent. See how no moss or ivy has overgrown it?” He gave Skarper’s halter another yank. “What happened here, goblin?”
    “I dunno, do I?” Skarper protested. “Nothin’. Bridges fall down, don’t they? Specially in Clovenstone.”
    “That sounds quite reasonable,” admitted Fentongoose. “Everything else here is in ruins, Carnglaze. Why should this bridge be any different?”
    “Very well,” said Carnglaze grumpily. “But you go first, goblin.”
    This was exactly what Skarper had been hoping for, for as they descended into the valley a plan had come to him. It wasn’t a very good plan, but it was the best he had, and it involved leading the softlings on to this bridge and escaping when the troll emerged to eat them. Of course, there were many things that might go wrong, of which the most likely was that the falling stones of earlier might have killed the troll, or at least hurt it so badly that it had slunk back down into its hole beneath the water to lick its wounds. Still, it was better than no plan at all. Skarper went cautiously out on to the bridge and stopped in the middle.
    “What’s wrong?” called Fentongoose again, stepping quickly behind Carnglaze and Prawl in case danger threatened.
    “I’m just being careful,”