Deathstalker 03 - Deathstalker War

face had all the usual features, in all the correct places. His wife was a large fat woman called Diana, with red cheeks, freckles, and hair so red it all but glowed. She was positively bursting with life and hospitality, and cheered Toby despite himself with promises of as much good country cooking as he could eat.
    When Toby and Flynn were finally able to stand up straight without wincing, the Dakers led them into the farmhouse kitchen and sat them down at the table.
    Adrian and Diana then bustled around, getting a hot meal ready. Adrian covered the heavy wooden table with a blindingly white tablecloth, and shyly set out what was obviously the best plates and cutlery, only used for guests. Diana hovered over her black-iron oven like a mother hen, lifting saucepan lids to check the contents, and assuring Toby and Flynn that she'd have had a hot meal ready and waiting for them, but the underground had been very vague as to when they'd be arriving. Toby could understand that. The rebel council had never impressed him with their efficiency.
    He sat back and looked happily around him. The kitchen was small without seeming cramped, and comfortably warm and cosy. Shelves on the walls were packed to bursting with a lifetime's collection of knick-knacks, obviously hand-made, some of them astonishingly cute and vulgar. Adrian produced a stone jar of thick dark cider and poured generous doses into porcelain mugs shaped like fat old men.
    Adrian explained that these were known as Toby jugs, and they all laughed, though Toby didn't see the point of the joke at all.
    Several animals shared the kitchen with the humans, apparently through long right and custom. There were three dogs with grey-and-silver muzzles, too old now to guard or control sheep, half a dozen cats of various snootiness, and a
    couple of daft chickens who wandered round bumping into things. These latter took an inordinate interest in Toby and Flynn's ankles, pecking at them in a curious way, until Diana stopped what she was doing to put the chickens' heads under their wings. They promptly assumed that because it was now dark it must be night, and went to sleep where they stood. The dogs sniffed hopefully at the smells of cooking in the air, but were too well trained to make nuisances of themselves. One of them came up to Toby, sat down before him, pawed at his leg, then put his head on Toby's knee to have his head scratched. Toby did so, cautiously. He didn't have much experience with animals at close quarters. But the dog's tail thumped heavily against the stone floor, so he assumed he must be doing it right. In fact, he rather liked it. Flynn had won over the cats, and two snuggled in his lap while a third perched on his shoulder. Flynn talked cheerful nonsense to them, and they purred back happily. What worried Toby was that the damn things appeared to be listening.
    The meal finally arrived, simple food, lots of it, piping hot. Toby thought it was the best he'd ever had, and said so loudly, which earned him another large helping. He demolished that in record time, too, and was seriously considering the possibility of a third, when the dessert arrived. Heavy chocolate sponge pudding, with thick white chocolate sauce. Toby thought he'd died and gone to Heaven. Eventually he reached the point where even he couldn't eat any more. He sat back, undid his belt another notch, and sighed happily. This was looking to be a great assignment. Adrian Daker grinned at him.
    "Soon as I saw you, I knew you were a man who liked his food. Don't you worry, son; the wife'll feed you up good and proper while you're here. She loves to see her cooking being properly appreciated."

    "Quite excellent," said Flynn, from under his cats. He'd eaten one helping of everything, and was quietly content.
    "And this is just part of what we stand to lose, if mechanization continues,"
    said Adrian seriously. "This kind of life. Simple food and simple pleasures, no less important for that. Our whole way of life is under threat, if the rumors are true. I hope you'll make that clear in your report."
    "Delighted to," said Toby. "I think we'll start with some footage of you and your family working the farm. How many of you are there?"
    "Seven sons, three daughters," Diana said cheerfully. "Good strapping lads and bonny lasses. The boys are still out working the land; you'll meet them later.
    Liz and Megs work in town, but they'll drop by tomorrow to say hello.
    Good-looking girls, if I do say so