Chapter 33. Schmoozeglutton Ponders the Fickle Finger of Fate
Schmoozeglutton stood on the grass outside the school. He watched his cave mates follow their new leader into his aboveground cave. Just a few minutes ago, they had been his subjects, and now they were merely his cave mates. Worse, they were cave mates without an actual cave to be mates within.
How could things have slipped away from him so quickly? How had he lost his leadership position? He had been fated for leadership, hadn’t he? He had easily bested Brumvack in the challenge. He had shown leadership ability through the troll’s foray into town. He had gotten them all something to eat, albeit something that none of them truly wanted to eat. Only this few hours later, however, the world had conspired against him and taken his leadership position from him. It wasn’t fair. How could such a thing have happened?
What had happened, of course, was Brumvack. He had blocked the entrance to the troll caves.
It was Schmoozeglutton himself that had discovered that fact. He had been leading the trolls as they returned from their night of exploration. The Rabid Band had followed him as he swam down to the depths of the lake. They had followed him through the small passage that opened up to the underground cavern of Dark Water. Then, they had piled into him when he came to the end of that passage…the end that was supposed to be Dark Water, and instead was something much more solid. Painfully solid.
“What happened?” Schmoozeglutton had thought as his head hit the rock. He didn’t have time to think through that problem, though, because immediately Obeast ran into him, banging his head into the rock again. He had only barely recovered his wits from that before Biledumper piled into the both of them. With every hit, pain exploded in Schmoozeglutton’s head, and a small burst of bubbles erupted from his mouth.
Finally, though, things calmed enough that Schmoozeglutton could stop to think through his situation. What was this rock doing here? What had happened?
But he didn’t have to think for long before the answer came in rush of certainty: Brumvack had happened. Schmatzenbladder was right: Brumvack had sealed off the entrance to the troll caves.
“I’ll kill ‘im,” Schmoozeglutton swore to himself. He pushed at the rock to clear it away, to find Brumvack and pummel him into the ground. He would pummel him by himself for a bit, then he would let the other trolls at him for some more pummeling. Then, if the job weren’t done, he’d pummel him on his own for a while longer.
Only the rock that blocked his path wouldn’t move.
The trolls had worked at the rock through the early part of the morning. Because the entrance itself was so small, only three at a time could push at the boulder that Brumvack had rolled into the entrance. Those three would push and heave and pry at the boulder with their newly-formed clubs, then they would give way to the next group of three. The first group would return to the surface, gasp out a few breaths of stale air, then return for another go. The rock, however, was adamant: it wasn’t going to move.
That rock, unbudged, left the trolls without a home.
Schmoozeglutton knew that the trolls couldn’t exist out in the open world. They would have to find a new troll cave. That, however, they couldn’t do without first getting some food. The exertions of the night, then especially of the futile operations on the boulder, had left the Rabid Band exhausted and hungry. Even that wimpy mammoth creature in the park was starting to look good.
Also, they’d need a protected space in which to grab some sleep. The trolls weren’t used to the many exertions that had been necessary since they had awoken in this new world. Perhaps, he thought, they could find an abandoned above-ground cave, or one without too many land trolls to vanquish. It was a scary business, though, vanquishing land trolls. Surely, in their beleaguered state, they couldn’t take on the whole town.
The whole town, however, had been exactly what they had seen when they gave up on the rock. The whole town, it seemed, was standing on the hill overlooking the lake.
Treading water, the entire Rabid Band had looked upon the land trolls with dismay. How could they return to the wimpy mammoth creature, their only hope of dinner, with all these landtrolls patrolling the area?
They’d have to fight, Schmoozeglutton considered.
Schmoozeglutton frowned at the thought. Were his troops in better order, they could no doubt take on even this huge bunch of land trolls. But his troops were far from tiptop shape. They were tired and hungry and grumpy, in no mood to follow the orders that he could give them as their war-leader.
Schmoozeglutton shook his head. Woe to any troll, he thought, to whom befell the decisions of leadership.
Schmoozeglutton, looking out over his subjects, each in a pathetic state of hunger and hopelessness, braced himself for his chosen course. He felt a sinking in his belly as he did so. He knew that when the trolls stormed the beach, the Rabid Band would probably lose a member or two. Or, maybe, they’d all die this day. But he didn’t see any choice.
Schmoozeglutton, standing on the grass, pondered his fate. He had lost none of his troops in the fight. In fact, there had been no fight. He remembered raising his club to the sky. He remembered saying, “Let’s get ‘em.” He even remembered the feelings that welled from his heart as he and the rest of the Rabid Band swam toward their destiny, whatever it might be: stoicism and hope and a remembrance of the good old days when mayhem was the rule.
But of course their attack had never manifested. The trolls had just begun to get their clubs swinging when one of the land trolls had challenged him! Challenged Schmoozeglutton! And without even announcing the challenge, as of course any civilized troll would be honor-bound to do.
This land troll, Schmoozeglutton now thought, was a wily player, a sly opponent, a cheat! And there Schmoozeglutton had stood, dumbly, while he had done it! The land troll had won the challenge before Schmoozeglutton had even known what was happening!
Schmoozeglutton smoldered over that one. He had been the leader of the Rabid Band for what…a day? And already his loyal subjects had deserted him for a single cheap shot from a land troll?
Schmoozeglutton had to admit that the land troll had belched quite grandly. The volume! He had heard the belch with his ears, of course, but he had also felt it deep in his chest. But that was no excuse. It was a trick! A cheap trick! With a little preparation, surely he would be able to outbelch a land troll.
But no. Instead of action—instead of drawing one of his belches from deep in his gut—he had just stood there, flabbergasted. Surely no troll leader in memory had been caught off guard in such a fashion.
For a brief moment, a sliver of doubt entered Schmoozeglutton’s mind: what if he wasn’t the leader he thought he was?
Schmoozeglutton burned. How had things gone so badly wrong? And so quickly? Had a troll leader ever met such a precipitous end? Did the trolls have no honor? He was the mightiest of the trolls, and had been bested by a mere land troll. Further, the trolls that had known him all his life had followed that land troll without a second thought into his above-ground cave.
For a long moment, Schmoozeglutton stood alone on the grass. Finally, though, he took a deep breath. There was no going back to the troll caves, now that Brumvack had locked them up tight. Also, there was no surviving this strange new world without his fellow trolls. He wouldn’t be able to hunt alone; he wouldn’t be able to secure a new cave without help.
Schmoozeglutton knew that he couldn’t make it on his own. It was a lesson that Brumvack had failed to learn: he needed the company of his kind. Through a throat thick with hatred and longing and grief, Schmoozeglutton swallowed his pride. He followed his one-time Band of trolls into this new cave.