Goblins Vs Dwarves by Philip Reeve Read Free Book Online

going by that time, quickly drew his own little sword and stabbed it into Cribba’s shin. The troll howled, dropped his cudgel and tumbled backwards into the water, throwing up a greenish splash full of old vegetable peelings.
    Henwyn whirled to confront Torridge. The troll bared yellow fangs at him and snarled. Swish, swish went his huge cudgel, flailing at Henwyn’s head, but he was too slow, and Henwyn avoided the blows with ease. When Henwyn raised his sword, Torridge squealed and retreated up one of the shadowy alleyways which opened off the riverside, flinging his cudgel away as he went.
    Most people would have given up at that point, decided they’d won, and hurried away to better bits of town. Not Henwyn. He still fancied himself as a bit of a hero. He ran after the troll. “Begone, foul troll!” he shouted importantly. “I shall drive you back into the wild hills whence you came, and the good people of Coriander shall sleep sounder knowing you are gone!” But as he advanced on the cowering troll his raised sword snagged a washing line, and a load of damp sheets came down on his head. Blinded, struggling to free himself, he backed out on to the riverside path. Kenn, who had recovered his courage, was just climbing out of the river again to lend his brother a hand, but when that thrashing, sheeted shape appeared he screeched, “A ghost!” and dived back in.
    Torridge wasn’t scared of ghosts. Following Henwyn out of the alley, he stuck out a stinking, trollish toe to trip him, and snatching up his fallen cudgel, he raised it high above the fallen hero’s head, shouting, “I’ll bash you flat, I will!”
    Skarper was just wondering if a desperate sword-thrust at the troll’s backside would save the day or only make things worse, when the day was saved for him. Something small and squarish went fluttering over his head like a bird with corners. It struck Torridge hard between his dim eyes and made them go dimmer still. The stunned troll staggered backwards, missed his footing at the embankment’s edge and plunged into the river. There was another mighty splash, spattering the path with water, algae and an old boot. Then silence.
    Henwyn finally fought his way out of the sheet. He ran, sword in hand, to peer down into the murky water, but the three trolls seemed to have had enough. Only a few bubbles marked their track as they slunk back beneath the rotting piles of the bridge to lick their wounds.
    Skarper, meanwhile, had picked up the missile that had struck Torridge down, and turned to look for the helpful person who had thrown it.
    The missile was a book, thick and heavy, with hundreds of printed pages bound between hand-tooled leather covers. The thrower was a gaunt, elderly man wearing robes which might have been costly once, but which now hung in grimy tatters. “Ridiculous creatures,” he said, looking at Skarper, but probably referring to the trolls.
    Skarper went over to him, holding out the book. Books like that were valuable objects in the Westlands, where printing presses had not long been invented. The man just shrugged and said, “Keep it. You are a goblin, I suppose?”
    Skarper agreed that he was.
    â€œThe streets of Coriander are filling with creatures out of children’s tales,” the man sighed, shaking his head grumpily. Henwyn ran over to shake his hand and thank him, which seemed to improve his mood a little, but he became gloomy again when Henwyn asked if he knew the way to the house of Carnglaze. “That fake sorcerer? That seller of trinkets from the Lych Lord’s tower? Friends of his, are you?” He looked them both up and down and muttered again, “Creatures out of children’s tales.”
    â€œBut do you know Carnglaze’s house?” asked Henwyn, a bit confused.
    â€œIt happens that I do,” the ragged stranger admitted. “A very fine house it is, too. It is in the southern