Rumo: And His Miraculous Adventures

  Rumo did so. He drew the sword from his belt with his free hand, raised it above his head and severed the tentacle with a single blow. Blood spurted from the stump.

  ‘Ugh!’ said Dandelion.

  The bleeding stump was swiftly retracted, the tentacular hand fell to the ground. It stood up on its fingerlike excrescences and seemed to take its bearings for a moment. Then, nimble as a spider, it scuttled over to the nearest puddle and jumped in. Blood splashed in all directions, a few fat bubbles rose to the surface, and it was gone.

  Rumo straightened up.

  ‘I told you,’ cried Dandelion. ‘There are some very nasty things down here. Better get going.’

  Rumo replaced the sword in his belt and walked on along the tunnel, taking care to maintain a respectful distance from the puddles.

  At the next fork he paused to sniff the air again. He peered round the bend and jumped back in alarm.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Dandelion.

  ‘Nurns!’ he replied. ‘The passage is full of them. Half a dozen at least.’

  ‘Damn it! How did they get there?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Rumo. ‘They’re smaller than the ones in the forest, no bigger than I am. I think they’re asleep, though. They’re standing absolutely still.’

  ‘So let’s kill them!’ Krindle urged.

  ‘No, we must look for another route,’ said Dandelion.

  Rumo tiptoed on until they came to another fork. The tunnel was deserted, but there were a lot of red puddles.

  ‘Mind where you tread!’ Dandelion cried.

  Rumo stole between the puddles on tiptoe. A drip fell from the roof and landed on the back of his neck. Brushing it off with his paw, he found that it was warm, sticky blood. He heard a gurgling sound and halted.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Dandelion.

  ‘No idea.’

  A big bubble rose to the surface of the puddle at his feet and burst.

  He backed away, hugging the wall of the tunnel, and drew his sword.

  Now all the puddles came to life. More bubbles rose, the red liquid seethed as if brought to the boil, and plops and gurgles filled the air.

  ‘I once saw a minor volcanic eruption,’ said Krindle. ‘This was how it started.’

  The puddles overflowed, dispersing their heat and humidity. To Rumo’s astonishment some living creatures emerged from the seething blood. They clambered out, steeped in the red liquid from head to foot, and staggered around on eight spindly little legs.

  Rumo recognised the tiny creatures. They were Leafkins. He was witnessing the birth of some young Nurns.

  Within moments the floor of the tunnel was covered with toddling Leafkins. Rumo couldn’t have taken another step without treading on one and alerting its Nurn parents. He pressed still closer to the wall and kept quite still.

  ‘This place is a regular Nurn factory,’ said a high-pitched voice.

  He looked down. A furry little creature was sitting at his feet with Leafkins toddling all around it.

  ‘Hello, Rumo,’ it said, looking up at him pertly. ‘So we meet again.’

  Rumo gave a start. He couldn’t recall having introduced himself by name to any of the little creatures, nor had he noticed that they could speak.

  ‘It’s me, Yggdra Syl,’ it said in nasal tones. ‘Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Yggdra Syl?’ Rumo was puzzled. The Nurn Forest Oak? Down here?

  ‘Look, my friend!’ the little creature piped, indicating the aerial roots that dangled from the walls. ‘Geographically speaking, you’re immediately beneath Nurn Forest, only a few hundred feet below the place where we met. I told you: my roots go deep. Down here I prefer to communicate through Kronks.’

  ‘Kronks?’ Rumo repeated, bending down for a closer look.

  The creature drew itself up and spread its forepaws.

  ‘That’s right, I’m a Kronk. Kronks are burrowing animals equipped with beaks, distantly related to the marmot. They’re the original inhabitants of Netherworld. There aren’t that many other species down here, if you don’t count insects. What are you doing in this desolate place?’ The Kronk eyed Rumo curiously.

  ‘I, er … I’m looking for my sweetheart.’

  ‘What, still looking for Rala? Didn’t you give her our casket?’ The Kronk put its forepaws on its hips, looking reproachful.

  ‘She was kidnapped,’ Rumo explained. ‘It happened while I was in Nurn Forest.’

  ‘Kidnapped, eh? That’s bad. Who would have done such a thing?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. And now I’m afraid I’ve lost my way. Nurns are barring our route and the whole place is dotted with these pools of blood from which—’

  ‘I know, I know, it’s an unpleasant part of the world. The blood was shed in the Battle of Nurn Forest, as I told you. The confounded stuff simply won’t dry up down here – it contaminates the soil and breeds Nurns, as well as other nasty things. Tantacles, Bloodspiders, et cetera – it’s disgusting.’

  The Kronk elbowed an obtrusive Leafkin aside.

  ‘Come on,’ it piped. ‘You’d better get out of here before one of these brats starts bawling and alerts its parents.’

  ‘How can I, without treading on them?’

  ‘I’ll clear a path for you,’ said Yggdra Syl. ‘Kronks enjoy the freedom of Netherworld. The larger animals pay no attention to them. Just follow me.’

  The Kronk hurried on ahead, thrusting Leafkins aside and enabling Rumo to follow in its footsteps. The little creatures stumbled and tripped over their own legs, but they uttered no complaint.

  ‘Without Kronks there wouldn’t be any animals in Netherworld,’ Yggdra Syl explained, continuing to shove the Leafkins aside. ‘They loosen the soil, or other creatures wouldn’t be able to pass through it at all, and they also eat pathogenic organisms. If I told you what I had for breakfast today, my friend, you’d feel queasy. Everyone in Netherworld respects the Kronks.’

  They eventually came to a tunnel where there were no pools of blood, no Nurns or Leafkins. The Kronk came to a halt.

  ‘We’re safe here,’ it said.

  Rumo couldn’t smell any Nurns. He replaced the sword in his belt.

  The Kronk pecked away at his boots with its beak.

  ‘Now,’ it said, ‘you must tell me more about this Rala business.’

  Rumo sighed. ‘To cut a long story short, she and all my friends have been carted off to a city by the name of Hel.’

  The Kronk recoiled. ‘Hel? Oh dear!’ The little creature started to waddle round in a circle, looking agitated. ‘That’s very bad news. Hel, of all places! Oh dear, oh dear!’

  ‘What do you know about Hel?’ asked Rumo.

  The Kronk came to a stop and eyed him sympathetically.

  ‘Only rumours – my roots don’t extend that far. They’re nasty rumours, though. One big madhouse, that’s Hel. Crazy King Gornab rules it with an iron fist. Oh dear, oh dear!’ The Kronk started circling again, uttering plaintive little cries.

  ‘All the same,’ said Rumo, ‘I’ve got to get there. Do you know the way?’

  ‘The way to Hel? Oh dear, oh dear, my roots only extend so far. The way to Hel? Oh, my goodness!’

  ‘Will you show me the way?’

  The Kronk halted again.

  ‘Of course,’ it said. ‘Of course I will, my boy. But first …’

  ‘First what?’ asked Rumo.

  The Kronk hung its head and shuffled from foot to foot.

  ‘Well?’ Rumo insisted.

  ‘First,’ said the Kronk, clearing its throat, ‘I’ve a little favour to ask.’

  ‘What is it?’

  The Kronk gave Rumo a look of entreaty. ‘May I see the finished casket?’

  ‘Oh, so that’s it,’ said Rumo, sounding relieved. He took the casket from his pouch, removed the oil-paper wrapping and put it on the ground in front of the Kronk. Casket and Kronk were about the same size.

  ‘There,’ said Rumo. ‘What do you think of it?’ br />
  The Kronk inspected the casket warily and exhaustively, crawled round it, gave it a gentle tap with its beak.

  ‘Well?’ Rumo asked hesitantly.

  The Kronk was breathing heavily, at a loss for words. ‘It’s … it’s beautiful,’ it said at length in a tremulous voice. ‘A top-quality casket.’

  Rumo heaved a sigh of relief.

  The little creature circled the casket once more, admiring it from every angle. It flapped its arms helplessly and Rumo could see that its eyes were filled with tears.

  ‘This casket, it’s … Words fail me, I …’ It began to weep. ‘Boohoo,’ it went.

  ‘Why are you crying?’ asked Rumo.

  ‘Boohoo,’ sobbed the Kronk. ‘It’s because … because I’m so moved! It’s the first time anything good came of me. A genuine work of art! Until now, all my branches were good for was hanging people.’

  The Kronk gave a sniff.

  ‘And now I’m a casket for your sweetheart! Boohoo!’

  ‘There, there,’ said Rumo, gently patting the Kronk on the back with one finger. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

  The Kronk wiped away its tears and gazed at him with wide, bloodshot eyes. ‘If you don’t win her heart with that,’ it cried dramatically, ‘you never will. It’s the most beautiful casket in the world!’

  ‘Your opinion means a lot to me, truly it does,’ said Rumo. ‘Many thanks, but I must find her before I can give it to her. Will you show me the way?’

  ‘Will I!’ cried Yggdra Syl, alias the Kronk. ‘I’ll show you the way to your beloved’s heart! Follow me! Follow me through the darkness to the light!’

  And it bounded off along the tunnel with Rumo struggling to keep up.

  The symphony of death

  General Ticktock had taken three days to get the Metal Maiden perfectly adjusted. Every vein, nerve and sinew had to be run in. Were the extracts flowing in the correct quantities? Was the liver functioning properly? The heart, the kidneys? Were the valves in order, the tubes unobstructed?

  He began by injecting only the simplest substances as a means of checking Rala’s vital organs: saline, glucose solution, caffeine, vegetable extracts, nutrients, harmless stimulants. In accordance with his instructions, the physicians had fitted the Metal Maiden with instruments for measuring its occupant’s heartbeat, body temperature and respiration, but Ticktock’s favourite toy was a calibrated dial that combined all these readings and showed, as a percentage, how much life still remained in his victims. If the needle registered a hundred they were very much alive and in the best of health; if zero, they were dead. The general had christened this instrument his thanatometer, or death meter.

  He turned a little wheel, caffeine started flowing, and Rala’s heart beat a trifle faster. He opened a valve, releasing some pepper extract, and she became warmer. He closed the valve again and her temperature sank. And so it went on throughout the first day. Ticktock played with his controls, pressing buttons, turning wheels and opening valves. Rala’s heart beat faster or slower, she became hotter or colder, calmer or more agitated, livelier or more lethargic. He inflicted no pain and injected no drugs, nor did he make her ill. The Metal Maiden functioned like a well-oiled machine. That evening General Ticktock flooded Rala’s bloodstream with valerian and she slept soundly for hours.

  The second day began with a hearty breakfast: plenty of caffeine and glucose solution. General Ticktock’s bride had to be physically and mentally alert, because her ordeal would now begin in earnest. Today he proposed to try out various poisons on her and administer small doses of drugs to test their effect for subsequent use in larger quantities. He infused Rala with arsenic, belladonna and extract of fly agaric, though only in tiny doses, and carefully cleansed her blood with medicaments between each. These infusions caused slight nausea and mild hallucinations, but nothing serious, for Ticktock only wanted to observe Rala’s reactions to such substances. And she reacted perfectly. Previous candidates had flown into a panic well before this stage, but Rala’s heartbeat and breathing remained regular and the thanatometer steadfastly registered a hundred. Finally, General Ticktock sent her into a deep sleep with a generous dose of spirit of melissa.

  The third day also began with some stimulating extracts and plenty of glucose. Then General Ticktock made Rala ill. Whatever it was he infused her with, her tongue swelled up and tasted acetic, her eyes began to smart and her throat closed up as if she had a heavy cold. After that he cured her in a trice with some concentrated herbal extracts and an alchemical drug developed for the purpose.

  Ticktock repeated the same trick several times that day. He made Rala ill and then cured her. Nausea, dizziness, headache, fever, breathlessness – the symptoms disappeared as quickly as they had manifested themselves. The general had prepared remedies that would, within seconds, cure any infection he caused. To end Rala’s sufferings he had only to open a stopcock, turn a wheel, or adjust a valve.

  He was beginning to master his instrument. The limits of Rala’s endurance were still unknown to him, but he already guessed how much pain he could inflict and how much it would be better to leave in abeyance. Wasn’t that how love, too, worked? Wasn’t it a question of discovering the other person’s boundaries and respecting them?

  General Ticktock cast another glance at the thanatometer. It was registering ninety-nine. The procedures had weakened Rala, but only a little. He put her to sleep again, this time with a mixture of valerian and spirit of melissa. He stood in front of the Metal Maiden for a long time that night, gazing at her fondly.

  Although Rala had now spent a considerable time inside the Metal Maiden, she could not have said how long her imprisonment had lasted. A day? Two days? Three? A week? The only certainty was that she now knew her own body better than ever before.

  Despair had overwhelmed her when the effects of the anaesthetic wore off. Never had she been in such a hopeless predicament. She succumbed to despair and rage by turns, but not to fear. Fear would have paralysed her mind as well, and beyond mental paralysis lurked death. Rala was determined to think. It was the only form of activity still open to her. She rejected fear as she had hitherto rejected death.

  After all, what was so unendurable about her situation? Once she had come to terms with the utter helplessness imposed by her form of imprisonment, all else was bearable. She felt sick, cold, hot, dizzy, nervous or tired, but those were familiar sensations that passed as quickly as they had come. Less agreeable sensations occurred later on. Strange and inexplicable visions appeared to her mind’s eye, ghostly voices whispered in her ear and insects seemed to be crawling over her skin, but these mild hallucinations, too, soon subsided. For a while she imagined she was several persons at once, but this puzzling sensation also subsided in the end. At some stage, overcome with profound fatigue and relaxation, she had gone to sleep.

  Rala had grasped that someone outside was doing all these things to her for reasons as mysterious as the methods he used to torment her. She had spent these days as if in constant motion. Never had she felt as active as she did now, when unable to move so much as a millimetre. Only now did she realise how much life there was inside her, even when asleep, or how the blood sped through her veins and her heart kept pumping away. Her body housed as much hectic activity as a big city, and it was even more hectic now that the enemy was at the gates and laying siege to her. No, there were no grounds for fear and despair. No more, at least, than in any besieged city whose inhabitants were ready to defend themselves.

  Urs changes his mind

  Urs entered the Theatre of Death prepared to die. To die without a fight, what was more, because he would offer no resistance. He intended to cast his sword at his opponent’s feet.

  For several days now, Urs had been watching the contests in the arena from the prisoners’ gallery, chained and powerless to intervene. Although he still didn’t know how the Wolpertings had wound up in this sick world or what its inhabitants’ motives were, he had fathomed the theatre’s iniqu
itous function and grasped that it was inescapable.

  There was no hope of breaking out. Each Wolperting was escorted into the arena by a whole squad of heavily armed soldiers supervised by Copper Killers with their crossbows at the ready. No outside help could be expected, so one’s only recourse was to conform to the system and become one of the theatre’s gladiators. Until now the Wolpertings had been exclusively matched with mercenaries and other hired killers, but Urs knew it would be only a matter of time before a Wolperting was forced to take up arms against one of his own kind. This, Urs realised, would be the beginning of the end of his breed, and he couldn’t endure the thought. He would rather die than be compelled to watch one Wolperting kill another.

  All the fights had ended in the Wolpertings’ favour. Whether matched with one or several opponents, wild beasts or experienced killers, every Wolperting had left the arena alive except for Ornt El Okro, who had been executed in such a cowardly manner.

  Ushan DeLucca’s fight had set the pattern. Not long afterwards Balla of Betaville had scored an impressive victory over a pair of mercenaries. Olek of the Dunes, armed only with a sling, had defeated a whole gang of them, and none of the Wolpertings compelled to follow him into the arena had sustained a single serious wound. But Urs’s mind was made up. He had never killed anyone in his life and he wasn’t going to start now. Today was the day he would bid farewell to this nightmare world, and he wanted to combine that farewell with a profession of faith – by refusing to draw blood.

  A small army of Bluddums and Copper Killers escorted him from his cell to the northern gate. Only there were the Wolpertings permitted to select a weapon from an assortment lying on a table. Urs picked up a short sword at random and strode out into the arena.

  Scattered applause greeted him. Although the spectators had learnt to respect the Wolpertings, they were far from inclined to cheer them on. Urs’s opponent was a tall, muscular Hoggling covered with bristly black hair. His mane was braided into plaits with countless coloured beads, teeth and small bones in them. He wore a huge gold nose-ring between his tusks and a loincloth consisting of a dozen swords in leather scabbards.