Hoppo's Pies Read online

  Now, it is said that certain kinds of goblin have an uncommonly good sense of direction. This is propounded by that kindly, though terribly misguided, school of thought that assumes everyone has to be good at something. Although there are sorts of goblin that can find their way out of a deep cave system or through the thickets of a spider-haunted forest, Diglit wasn’t one of them.

  Within a minute, give or take, Diglit was hopelessly lost.

  He stumbled on through the night, becoming colder and more miserable with every step. The few gas lamps that hadn’t been smashed hissed sinisterly. Luminous things flew overhead through the thin mist, making him dive for cover.

  It was while hiding from one of these spectres that the most delicious smell hit his sensitive nose. His nostrils twitched. His stomach grumbled. Before he knew it, he was limping towards the source. A dark alleyway opened between two dirty buildings. Squinting, he saw a small caravan lit by a single small lantern. A fat pony wearing a nosebag was yoked to the front. The caravan was brightly coloured, the red-trimmed blue panels decorated with pictures of pies.

  ‘A pie wagon!’ Diglit whispered. Seeing such a gaudily painted vehicle in a run down neighbourhood should have set off all Diglit’s well-tuned survival instincts, but his stomach was entirely in charge. His nose prickled. His mouth flooded with saliva. He crept nearer.

  Someone in the caravan was whistling loudly. Smoke fragrant with glorious pie scent poured from a crooked stovepipe poking out of the curved roof. The caravan rocked, and a door clicked shut on the far side. The baker was talking softly to the pony. Diglit crept around the caravan, his good left hand lightly trailing along the glossy paint. Reaching the end, he popped his head around, coming face to face with a fat halfling.

  ‘Good morning, my friend!’ said the halfling.

  Diglit jumped out of his skin. ‘Aiee!’ he shrieked, and fell over.

  The pony snorted. ‘Shh, shhh, Dennis,’ said the halfling. He walked around to where Diglit lay sprawled on the floor.

  ‘Well, well, and what happened to you?’

  ‘What? Me face, it’s always been like that. I’m not a halfling.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to say you were!’ said the baker cheerily. ‘It is plain as fried eggs that you’re a goblin. I meant you are all beat up.’ The baker held out a pudgy, floury hand. Diglit looked at it.

  ‘Ain’t you afraid of me?’

  ‘Should I be?’ said the halfling. ‘Always give people the benefit of the doubt, is what my old man said.’

  ‘Oh? Do him any good?’

  ‘Nope, he was eaten by the ogres he was cooking for when he forgot to order enough bacon, but it’s a good principle.’ The halfling held his hand out further.

  Diglit hesitantly took it. The halfling hauled him to his feet.

  ‘You look to be in need of a pie,’ said the halfling. ‘The name’s Hoppo Longfoot, and this is my Pies O’Mystery van.’

  He rapped on the caravan with fat knuckles.

  ‘I smelled ’em,’ said Diglit. ‘Thought I’d come and buy one.’

  ‘And not steal?’ chuckled the halfling.

  ‘Nah!’ said Diglit, though he would have stolen one if he could. ‘I got money.’

  ‘Well, you’re in luck – I have just finished baking today’s pies this very minute. I sell them at matches, you know. Everyone loves the pie van.’ He looked the goblin up and down. ‘Are you in the game?’

  ‘Coach,’ said Diglit. ‘Grotty Stealers. You won’t have heard of ’em. They’s rubbish.’

  ‘Oh, but I have heard of them!’ said Hoppo. ‘Go Stealers!’ He made a half-hearted attempt at the supporter’s jig. ‘Yes? If you’re all the way down here, you must have had a bad night.’

  ‘Bad life, more like.’ Diglit clacked the nippers on his claw together disconsolately. ‘Squig ball. From best greenskin catcher three years running to worst coach in one bite.’

  ‘Ah, a terrible tale.’ Hoppo made a moue of sympathy. ‘A pie will cheer you up. Come on!’

  Hoppo patted Dennis on the way past, and went back into his van. A second later, the serving flap opened up. Hanging from chains, it made a broad counter. Warm yellow light spilled into the alley and with it a flood of mouth-watering aromas. Hoppo looked down from on high benignly.

  ‘What can I get you, sir?’

  Diglit’s wide eyes took in the illustrations of delicious pies covering a board over the rows of warming boxes behind Hoppo. A surprisingly large oven took up the front of the cart. There wasn’t much room for the halfling in there. What was within the pie van was mostly pies.

  ‘What’s the most bestest, special-est pie you got?’ whispered Diglit. His pains were forgotten. He wanted a pie more than anything else in the world.

  Hoppo smiled broadly and counted off his wares on his chubby fingers. ‘Well, I have squig and bacon, and chicken, beef, goat, vegetables too, for the elves. You know how they are.’

  Diglit didn’t like the idea of vegetables. ‘More special than that! What’s that one I can smell?’

  Hoppo frowned. ‘Oh, that’s the last sort of pie I cook at night. The oven needs cleaning after, you see. With sanctified scouring powder,’ he confided.

  ‘Want that one. Smells yummy.’

  ‘It does, it is true, but it’s not a good idea.’

  ‘Want it!’ whined Diglit.

  Hoppo sighed. ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘Please!’ said Diglit, and for the first time in his life really meant it. ‘I’s never smelled anything so delicious ever in my whole life.’

  ‘Well, well.’ Hoppo looked pained. ‘Oh, all right then. I don’t suppose one could hurt…’ He picked up a pair of flowery oven gloves and then, after a thought, laid them aside in favour of a pair shot through with metal thread. ‘Lead. Only way to be sure,’ he said with a wink. He opened the oven. There were eight racks, each with eight pies upon it.

  Diglit couldn’t see why Hoppo had made such a fuss. They didn’t look dangerous; they were golden-crusted, yummy smelling, lovely pies, but still just pies for all that. ‘These are ready for the warming boxes. You’re lucky to have it right out of the oven.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah! One of those!’ said Diglit jumping up and down. ‘How much?’

  ‘Fifty pfennigs.’

  ‘How much?’ squeaked Diglit. ‘I could buy ten mushroom patties from Burgher Kings for that!’

  Very carefully, Hoppo set the pie on the counter. ‘There are certain… ingredients in this here pie that cost a great deal. But I promise you will never taste its like again. And I mean it,’ he chortled awkwardly. ‘It’s not safe to have more than one.’

  ‘Gimme!’ said Diglit. He took out his purse and upended it. Forty pfennigs, three buttons, a centipede and a startled pocket squig fell onto the counter.

  ‘Got forty,’ said Diglit. He made his eyes as big as he could. ‘I’m only ten short.’

  ‘I’ll let you off – you look like you need it.’ With evident pride, Hoppo wrapped the pie in a little napkin embroidered with the legend ‘Hoppo’s Pies O’Mystery’.

  Diglit ripped off the napkin. Trembling in anticipation, he raised the pie to his mouth and took a good long sniff. Delicious steam tickled his nose. He took one tentative bite. The flavour was indescribable, like the tastiest squig pasty he had ever had, but with extra savour, and a whole bucket of added zing. It tingled in his mouth, and fizzled all the way down to his belly.

  The effect didn’t stop there. Little bursts of pleasure wriggled all the way to the ends of his fingers and down to the tips of his toes. His stump, which was always sore, was soothed. His headache lessened. Energy filled his every fibre. His eyesight became keener, his hearing sharper. He felt the need to run and shout. He felt strong.

  ‘Wow,’ he said with his mouth full. ‘Wow!’

  ‘Good, eh?’ said Hoppo, beaming with
pride.

  Diglit opened his mouth as wide as he could and stuffed more of the pie into his face. He wolfed it down. The sensation of wellbeing increased. He reached his hands to his mouth only to find them empty. Disappointed, he let them drop to his side. Hoppo pushed the buttons, pocket squig and centipede back towards Diglit.

  ‘A pleasure doing business with you,’ he said.

  ‘Want another,’ Diglit said. ‘Now.’

  ‘Apologies, my friend,’ said Hoppo. ‘Sorry. One is quite enough.’

  His voice grew quieter at the look on Diglit’s face.

  ‘More!’

  ‘You haven’t got enough money,’ said Hoppo.

  Diglit leapt onto the counter, making the caravan rock, and launched himself at the halfling. There followed a brief tussle, in which Hoppo found himself overpowered and tied up with his own apron strings, with a bunch of his own embroidered napkins shoved into his mouth.

  ‘Mmmph!’ he said, struggling.

  Diglit wasn’t listening. He held up his hand and flexed his fingers before his wondering face. ‘That was too easy. That pie’s done something to me.’ He looked at the halfling. ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘Mmmphthone!’ said Hoppo.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mmmphthone!’ said Hoppo urgently.

  ‘Not a clue what you is saying. Never mind,’ said Diglit. A cunning look passed over his face. ‘I’s got an idea.’ He went to the oven. ‘But first, one for the road.’

  He gobbled another pie before stealing the caravan: pies, pony, halfling and all.

  Diglit held the pre-match briefing in a dirty tent. It was cramped, and smelt like a small space crammed with goblins, which is to say, very bad indeed. So bad, it masked the smell of the delicious tray of pies hidden under a cloth in the corner.

  Diglit buzzed with energy. His entire being tingled. There was a pleasant, strange feeling in his stump. He hadn’t felt this good in years.

  He was speaking fast. He had to; he had a difficult match to sell.

  ‘They only has sixteen players to choose from, same as us,’ he soothed. ‘It’ll be fine.’

  ‘Sixteen minotaurs, you git!’ shouted Snirbad. ‘Sixteen ten-foot-high, bull-headed, muscle-bound cowmen! Against us!’ He held out his hand towards the rest of the team, smacking Gufberk in the face by accident. Ozbog waved cheerily through the tent flap. Everyone else looked terrified. Even Nork was unusually subdued.

  ‘Nork not happy,’ said Nork. He was still looking from his hands to his feet in bewilderment.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us we’d be facing the Bovine Brawlers?’ said Snirbad. ‘We’ll be massacred! I’m a zogging cobbler for Gork’s sake, not a black orc!’

  Fine time you took to come to that realisation, thought Diglit. Snirbad wasn’t particularly bright, but even he had begun to get suspicious when the stadium had filled with drunken beastmen. Now the stands heaved with goat-faced fans, and the rickety grounds echoed to a tuneless rendition of that traditional beastfolk classic ‘Baa-baa-ba-ram’.

  ‘Look, lads, I know things look hopeless, but I’s got something that will pep you all right up.’

  With a flourish, he whipped off the cloth from the pie tray.

  ‘Oooh, pies!’ said Nork.

  ‘We’re going to be stamped flat, and you offer us a snack?’ said Snirbad.

  ‘Not a snack,’ said Diglit.

  ‘A meal?’ said Fugwit.

  ‘That’s not a meal,’ said Zogbod. ‘A meal needs some chips.’

  ‘Neither snack nor meal!’ declaimed Diglit. ‘Better than that. They’s pies, they’s delicious.’ He leaned forward to whisper. ‘And they’s magic!’

  ‘Magic pies?’ said Gufberk in awe.

  ‘They’ll make you run faster, think better, fight harder and throw further. These pies,’ said Diglit, ‘will make you win!’

  And I’ll be able to pay off Boris, and Grobblehod will think twice before selling off the stadium, he added to himself.

  ‘Magic pies!’ said Gufberk.

  As one, the team surged forward. Diglit shoved them all back. They stared at him in amazement.

  ‘You’re stronger! Have you had one?’ asked Snirbad suspiciously.

  ‘I’s had two!’ said Diglit, holding up the requisite number of digits.

  This time, Diglit was floored as the entire team rushed at the pies, grasping hands out to grab them.

  Diglit crawled out from under the tent skirts as a brawl broke out inside. That was fine by him, just as long as everyone got a pie. The tent fell down, its fabric writhing with goblin shapes as they fought. Soon enough, the sounds of bickering subsided into eager chomping and coos of delight.

  Ten minutes later, Diglit was on the field surrounded by goblins with gleaming eyes. They looked upon their minotaur foes without a shred of fear.

  ‘This is better than fungus brew!’ said Snirbad.

  ‘I feel brilliant,’ said Gufberk, dancing from foot to foot. ‘I could run for miles!’

  ‘I had six,’ said Fugwit.

  ‘Well I had ten,’ said Snirbad smugly.

  ‘I didn’t get none,’ said someone sadly. Nobody cared.

  ‘See?’ said Diglit. ‘But don’t go getting crazy – this has to be a running, catching game. You’s all magicked up, but, well, they is still minotaurs and we is still goblins. Don’t try fighting. Run. Dodge. Catch! Just like we practised.’ He thought a moment. ‘Well, not just like we practised – better than we practised.’

  ‘Yeah!’ said his team. Even Ozbog was paying attention.

  The ref, a tired looking Tilean with a red nose, blew his whistle to signal the start of the match.

  The minotaurs’ huddle broke apart, revealing the diminutive figure of their ungor coach. Diglit stuck his tongue out at him. The ungor responded with a two-fingered salute.

  As his team went to the centreline for the coin-toss, Diglit drew out his last pie from inside his jacket and munched thoughtfully on it. His stump tingled as he ate. His claw felt oddly uncomfortable, and he had to pull it out from his sleeve a good inch before it started to feel comfortable again.

  The coin was tossed. The Stealers got to pick, and wisely chose to receive. Diglit went to his bench to watch. With the peep of a whistle, the match began.

  The minotaurs’ star player booted the ball hard enough to flatten a giant, but Diglit’s team were operating far beyond normal capacity. Gufberk smoothly caught the ball. Without looking to see where it was going, he lofted it backwards to Ozbog. And, amazement beyond amazement, Ozbog caught it!

  Minotaurs came thundering down the pitch, mooing loudly, heads down, in a bid to simply trample the goblins dead. The Stealers could not be caught: they capered, switching direction rapidly, leading the minotaurs on a merry dance. The goblins in the stand laughed. The beastmen bleated angrily. The ungor coach was jumping up and down like a goat on a mountain, shouting to his players, but they paid no heed. They were so intent on flattening the maddening gobbos that they didn’t notice Ozbog fish out a snotling from a bag and press the ball into its scrawny arms. With poise Diglit thought impossible, Ozbog drew back his arm and hurled the snotling down the length of the pitch.

  A tear came to Diglit’s eye. It was beautiful. Ozbog’s throw arced perfectly. The snotling and ball bounced across the bald turf. The little greenskin got to its feet, shook out its ears and looked around. The entirety of the Bovine Brawlers were charging around the greenskin half of the pitch, the goblins leading them on like so many Estalian matadors.

  ‘Go on! Go on!’ bawled Diglit, spraying pie everywhere. ‘Go on!’

  With great effort, the snotling hefted the ball, tottered forward, and fell over the touchline.

  Wheeeeeeep! went the ref’s whistle. ‘Touchdown!’ he bellowed.

  The crowd went wild. There were nowhere near as
many goblins in the stadium as there used to be in the old days, but they made more than enough noise to make up for it. Squig pipes blared. For the first time in years, cheers rang in Diglit’s ears. A minotaur had caught one of the goblin linemen and was pawing it angrily into the ground with its hooves, but that was a price worth paying.

  Play was set up again. This time, the goblins kicked. The ball went hurtling towards the Bovine Brawlers blitzer, a massive, jet-black bull of a thing. He held out sure hands to receive the ball, but incredibly, it was snatched from the air by Gufberk at the apex of a twenty foot leap. He hit the ground running, a green blur whizzing down the outside field. The minotaurs were so surprised they could only swipe at the runner as he rushed past.

  ‘Touchdown!’ yelled the ref.

  Diglit got up and did a little cackling dance. He stopped. He burped. He was feeling funny. He shook his head. His players were also behaving strangely. Gufberk was running a victory lap when, quite unexpectedly, his left leg fell off. His right foot ballooned in size; his remaining leg thickened. He shrieked in terror, but couldn’t stop. His sprint became a bounding hop.

  He wasn’t the only one to suffer unscheduled mutation. Nork stood still, shivering, as long green hair sprouted from all over his body. Fugwit had split into two half-sized versions of himself, which were engaged in a violent argument with each other. Snirbad appeared to be melting into the grass, while Ozbog had grown a second head.

  Diglit watched in horror as half of his players spontaneously mutated.

  He looked at the pie in his hand. It wasn’t going to happen to him, was it? He’d only had two and a half – well, two and three-quarters. That three-quarters couldn’t matter, could it? Snirbad had eaten ten!

  No such luck. The writhing feeling in Diglit’s stump intensified. His claw dropped to the ground. Before his eyes, a pair of new-formed, taloned hands sprouted from underneath his jersey, worming their way towards the light on the growing stump of his arm. All a deeply violent pink.

  ‘Aieee!’ shrieked Diglit.

  The minotaurs bellowed their anger. The ungor ran to and fro along the pitch boundary shouting, ‘It’s a fix! It’s a fix!’