The Borribles - Larrabeiti Michael (книги онлайн без регистрации .txt) 📗

"I thought this had all been cleared by Spiff. I thought we had permission," said Knocker.

"No doubt we have," said Napoleon, turning his face to Knocker with some astonishment." If we didn't have permission we'd have been done over by now." "But you're a Wendle yourself . . ." "Don't matter. I've been out, away; they've got to be careful. Only right isn't it, when you think about it? I mean you jumped on the Rumbles quick enough when they came down to your patch."

"Where do Wendles get all their blessed Rumble-sticks?" asked Bingo, wide-eyed and amazed.

"We captures some and makes the others," said Napoleon, "but we've got catapults too, you know, and good with 'em we are. Tron can shoot round two corners and still knock a copper's hat off."

The tunnel widened out a little now. There was a path on either side and both of them were crowded with warriors who gazed without friendliness at their brother Borribles in the boat below. Adolf they prodded with their spears and the Adventurers sat quietly, hoping that he would not lose his temper and start another fight. They felt miserable and apprehensive. Borribles, although inclined to argue amongst themselves, were on the whole congenial people. The Adventurers had known that Wendles were the fiercest of all the tribes but hadn't realised that they were quite so military and suspicious. Napoleon tried to explain the situation to his companions as they went along.

The Wendles, he argued, lived in constant fear of the Rumbles; their territory was the nearest to Rumbledom and had a long frontier with it. Along that frontier the Rumbles outnumbered the Wendles by at least five to one and the Borribles of Wandsworth had only kept their freedom by maintaining a warlike stance. Over the years this had made them into warriors, mistrustful, cunning and hard.

"Still, they certainly look like a gross of top quality villains to me," said Vulge, "and I should know, we've got a few over in Stepney."

The conversation was brought to a halt by the loud voice of Tron shouting down at the exhausted Adolf.

"Stop there, you, mush!"

"I've got a name, you know, Wendle," said Adolf, looking up, his face covered in mud and sweat. "In fact, I've got three names, Adolf Wolfgang Amadeus, and I would never tell you the story of how I got them," and with that insult Adolf swore his favourite oath, "Verdammt."

"You probably got the names second-hand," said Tron sneering and beginning to bring out the first in a series of Borrible insults.

"Even that is better than finding your name in a dustbin," said Adolf with spirit. "Fingy is the name that would suit you well if it were not too flattering."

"Cut it out," yelled Knocker, "this can only lead to trouble. Remember we are after the Rumbles, not each other."

Adolf turned his muddy face to Knocker; even under the grime and weariness the blue eyes sparkled mischievously. "Yes, great leader," he said ironically. "Our adventure must come first," and then he whispered in a lower tone so that only Knocker could hear him, "but I hope I get a crack at this lot one day. I'll bash those tin helmets of theirs right down past their teeth."

The Adventurers were ordered to stand on the bank while the boat was made fast and Halfabar lifted out. He had recovered enough to stand now, although he looked a little groggy and his face was greener than usual because of the quantities of stinking water he had swallowed. He looked round until he saw Adolf, a wet and muddy figure who was being hauled ashore by Stonks and Torreycanyon. Halfabar staggered away from the two Wendles who held him upright and pushed roughly through the little knot of Adventurers who waited on the tow-path. He halted in front of Adolf and shoved his green face up to the slime– and sweat-covered one of the German.

"It is not over between you and me," he hissed, his angry and smelly breath enveloping Adolf's head and making him wince. "One day we'll meet again, where you can play no tricks, and I'll kill you."

"A Borrible who has no tricks is no Borrible," said Adolf pleasantly, reciting an old German proverb. "You'd better go and have a good rest; you need more strength, my little girl. Right now you could probably hit me a hundred times before I noticed you were there." And the German turned and followed his companions along a narrow but dry sewer tunnel that led upwards and away from the main river.

The Adventurers were escorted by an armed guard of Wendles and all around they heard the squelching tread of those who had captured them in the river. On their river patrols the Wendles always wear waders and when they walk the noise is strange and makes the hair creep, and when a hundred march together it sounds like a wet centipede on the move.

"Where's Napoleon?" Knocker asked Bingo who was beside him.

"They took him off ahead, on his own," answered Bingo. "I hope he sticks by us."

Knocker was worried but he comforted himself with the thought that however suspicious the Wendles might be of outsiders, it was in their interest that the Great Rumble Hunt should take place. The chances of it succeeding were small but if it did the Wendles would be safe for years to come. After all, they had sent one of their own men to be trained for the mission.

"It'll be all right," said Knocker, loud enough for all his companions to hear, "they've probably just taken Napoleon off to check that we're not trouble-makers. He'll be back."

They marched on and the tunnel rose and twisted and they shone their torches at the floor which was uneven and broken.

"Keep close together," said Knocker. "If there's any trouble we'll form two lines, back to back."

A few minutes later they came into a vast underground cavern with a floor that sloped steeply away from them. It must once have been the central chamber for the Wandsworth sewage system back in the nineteenth century. Now it was dry and its elegant brick arches were beginning to crumble.

Scores of Wendles were present, standing around the side of the cavern, with late-comers emerging from the many corridors that led there from all parts of the huge borough. Each Wendle held a torch and together they spread an eerie light over the scene. Tron's voice sounded from behind. "Keep going, straight in front of you, over there, where you see that platform. You're going to see Flinthead."

On the far side of the hall stood a small podium and on it was one chair and in that chair sat Flinthead himself; by his side stood Napoleon Boot, talking rapidly to his chief, who appeared to be ignoring him.

Flinthead gazed down at the Adventurers as they lined up. His eyes didn't move and though Knocker watched very carefully the Chief Wendle didn't seem to blink. Knocker surmised that this was because he always lived in the dark and never saw the sun, though it was said that he knew exactly what happened everywhere. Flinthead was the most cunning, the most merciless and the most unpredictable of all the Wendles. Every Wendle went in deadly fear of him, yet he commanded a strange loyalty, a loyalty born out of the threat that surrounded the whole community.

Knocker looked across at Napoleon for some hint of what was going to happen but Napoleon could only raise and lower his eyebrows quickly to indicate that they would all have to wait and see what Flinthead would do. Still the Chief of the Wendles said nothing. Everything that had been in the boat was now brought forward and exhibited in front of the line of captives and while they waited Knocker continued his scrutiny of the Chief Wendle. His eyes were frosted over like lavatory windows, impenetrable; they didn't gleam or glint and still they didn't move; it was uncanny. His face was rubbery and, in the light of the hundreds of battery torches, seemed streaked with grey and dark green. His nose was like a false plastic one that had been too near the fire and had melted. It was an evil nose, a dangerous nose, a nose that could smell out treachery and deceit even when there was none. On his head he wore a helmet of copper riveted together in sections and it had an extra piece that came between his eyes and attempted to protect, or hide, the nose, but the nose was too big for concealment. His body was small and wiry, like that of other Borribles, and he was clothed in warm wool-lined waders and a plastic jacket painted with bright golden paint.

His head moved at last and his eyes shifted with it as if they had no independent movement. He looked along the line of Adventurers and at their belongings, then his head became immobile again. Napoleon continued to pour his story into Flinthead's ear, pointing out his companions in turn, giving their names and telling what equipment they had brought. Flinthead began to nod as the tale went on.

"What power he has," thought Knocker, looking round the great hall. There must have been hundreds of Wandsworth Borribles in the cavern now and although they talked amongst themselves there was none of that cheerful anarchy that one normally associated with the general meetings of any of the Borrible tribes he knew.

"Is your lot like this?" he asked Chalotte, who was standing next to him.

"No, they certainly aren't," she replied. "Creepy, isn't it?"

It was amazing to Knocker how Flinthead had acquired this power. A Borrible community as a rule has little organisation above that of the Borrible house, or at the most, and in emergencies only, the street.

Knocker's thoughts were interrupted when Flinthead slowly raised his left hand, stopping all conversation in the great hall immediately. Every Borrible there must have had at least one eye on Flinthead, every Borrible that is except Bingo and Adolf who had been deeply engrossed in cheering each other with tales of what they were going to do to the Wendles when they got half a chance.

"Ja," Adolf's voice boomed over the silent hall. "Starting with Halfabar, I'll obliterate them."

"And I'll see to Flintbonce there, just for starters," yelled Bingo, and then stopped as he realised that maybe two hundred ears had heard him, that one hundred torches now beamed on him and two hundred eyes had seen him and would remember his face. Worst of all, the blank eyes of Flinthead himself now came to rest upon Bingo like the heavy hand of death.

Flinthead waited and the hall became quieter and quieter, every increase in the silence making the atmosphere more difficult to breathe. Then he spoke and when his voice came it came as a shock. It was a friendly voice, warm and solicitous, like a kind uncle asking after a favourite nephew's health. His mouth smiled, but no other part of his face shared in that smile; his mind was elsewhere, wondering perhaps how to injure the health that had been the very point of his question. He addressed the line of Adventurers.