Fantasy Tales of Anglost : A Humorous Satire

A Humble Spinner

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A slightly unconventional wise man once bore the greatest gift of all, and you will find no mention in the big book. It was also as far removed from precious metal, scent, and balm, as chalk is from curdled dairy products. He didn’t need a camel, either. Revelation knowledge. He revealed that all libraries are interconnected* through time and space. This startling announcement stunned the astronomical community, and all revered him. Apart from a few disgruntled deities, who felt he had let the monkey out of the tree too early.

Libraries can be described in vastly different terms across the network of galaxies, considering the endless kaleidoscope of beings, the multiple stages of evolution, and the varying levels of technology. Prehistoric paintings decorating the walls of a cave could well be classed as such... a library.

Throughout the ages, dying with honour (horribly) has been a source of recurring subject matter for the writer or artist, and the act of ceasing to live has not altered. Although, where humans are concerned, the manner is either somewhat inefficient or terribly inconvenient. Usually both.

The way people deal with a mortal departing the earthly world is all that has changed.

The Ancient Triangulans would share their tombs with wild animals—leopards, crocodiles, even hippos and baboons—but to summon a wild creature back into existence from Yu-at, the underworld, required immense power, and, with a specific task in mind, the wisdom to choose wisely. The ability to climb was a relevant skill given the method of travel*, offering excellent observational benefits as a bonus. This information had been passed back to races of a learned, inventive persuasion and demonstrated before their understanding eyes.

Shajar-wah was one such creature, a baboon, reanimated in an ancient library using the sacred communication method known only to Triangulan sorcerers of pure blood.

Where Yu-at?

The small rock hurtled through the vast emptiness of space.

Being predominantly blue made it slightly tricky to walk across, meaning all but the magical, miraculous, or winged species found it best to stick to the green and brown bits. The bun (a big yellow ball in the sky providing light and heat) seemed to favour certain regions on the rock’s surface. Hence, thus far, the red and yellow bits had been considered way too much hard work* and were ignored by the less adventurous stay-at-home types. Most of whom seemed to be huddled together in a bustling hive of scum and villainy on a tiny island, which was bountiful with fruits of the mire, and invariably blanketed by rainclouds.

*Dangerous.

Albert Sonny wished for adventure, to explore the great unknown, but he worked as a cook’s assistant in Old Town, which narrowed his opportunities slightly. Despite the lack of physical, outdoor exploration, this minor setback could not dampen the fires burning in his mind, and he had at least discovered that throwing an egg into the air produced the messy, disappointingly opposite result of ‘floating gently upwards’. Unfortunately, though this shell-breaking discovery had been reasonably quick, ceasing to repeat the experiment—just in case—was not showing any signs of catching up. Consequently, he was sacked from many kitchens.

One day, Albert decided to try and figure the whole thing out on a piece of parchment, which he soon realised was a slight underestimation, so he purchased a single pristine sheet every week (costing a sizeable chunk of his earnings) just begging to be filled with the contents of his head as the woefully inadequate quill bore the brunt of much pent-up frustration. It was probably for the best. Some long-suffering recipients of his omelettes even offered to buy the paper.

This is not Albert’s story, though. At least, not yet...

Back Again

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It had been a long, bumpy journey from the farm to the city outskirts. Luckily, Svelt’s backside, which was made of rock, couldn’t really go numb. Technically, the same applies to wood, but the cart seat waved an imaginary white flag, anyway.

This is fine, Mr Reep, he said to the old farmer driving the cart.

Are you sure, Svelt? I can take you all the way in if you like. It’s no trouble.

I always walk from here, thank you, sir, insisted Svelt.

Okay, my boy, enjoy yourself.

Svelt was probably classed as middle-aged, but everybody felt compelled to call him ‘boy’ or ‘son’. He wondered if it was because of his youthful looks, but considering most trolls were at least seven feet tall, he settled for lack of height instead. He jumped from the cart, landing precariously close to a ditch, and watched it trundle away—the cart, that is, not the ditch. In the distance, he could make out the first rooftops marking the outer boundary of the city.

He was back again.

Despite the bright, uplifting weather, Svelt Hamfist couldn’t help feeling grey. It wasn’t just a feeling. Due to his unique ‘pigmentation’ genetics, he was in a minority of one. Yes, he knew a handful of people he liked to call friends (including a clumsy, daydreaming kitchen assistant) and many familiar faces who now acknowledged him from a distance, but he was still very much alone.

As a general rule, mortals fail quite spectacularly to get along. This is particularly evident in the case of trolls and dwarves. Most immortals struggle to get along too, but there’s nothing much they can do about it (smiting each other being no more than a piffling annoyance) other than taking it out on everyone else.

Nobody could fully explain how it happened, at least not without resorting to complex diagrams and advanced mathematics, but... it began thus:

Troll spoke to dwarf, which was severely frowned upon.

Dwarf and troll then dated, which was absolutely unthinkable.

The next piece of the illogical puzzle (the bit requiring diagrams) almost caused a battle of similarly mismatched proportions, where one side would have had a clear advantage over their poor, unsuspecting opponents. After all, dwarves could do stuff to ankles, knees, and essentials that would make a barbarian butcher grimace. 

The miracle outcome of their subterranean love, being... Svelt.

It is difficult to imagine what the result of a union between the two species would turn out like, but picture a flexible wall, slightly taller than average dwarf height, and you’ve nailed it. His parents were banished for their sins, which was the only acceptable option at the time, otherwise outbreaks of anti-species violence across the city—probably involving mobs and pitchforks—would almost certainly have followed. Svelt never saw them again. And were it not for a kindly farmer and his wife, that may well have been the end of him, too. The city officials, and society in general, agreed to the unusual adoption, but the outcast child was not permitted to take a name considered human. In addition, although he could work on the farm, his adoptive parents were warned to keep him away from the city.

That was back in the dark old days...

Now, in decidedly greyer times, dwarf and troll tolerated each other, and there was a reluctant wave of acceptance among the varied species of the city. Even pitchfork-wielding mobs were allowed to have their say in certain circumstances, but they had to be ruly—prong tips socially corked. This was encapsulated by the semi phrase: ‘We are what we are, so...’.

After several hundred isolated incidents, where ‘lack of clarity’ was cited in defence, this was considered open to interpretation by the committee, and they added: ‘...let’s try really hard to kill each other less frequently’. This proved even more difficult for most species to grasp, until the law enforcers began dishing out punishments—with a capital ‘P’—and everyone soon got the message.

And so, it came to pass. The council members, and the pry-minister, agreed that Svelt had suffered enough for merely existing and was permitted to walk freely in the city.

He ventured in every couple of months for a few well-earned days off, and with one round and fifty sense in his pocket (Rd1.50s or Sn150), he could do almost anything. With a satisfied yet, slightly resigned sigh, he headed towards The River Tame and the outskirts of Landos.

*****

Radlet Stent was one of two wizards sentenced to oversee the vast, complex network of metal pipes. This network—the busiest part of the old building—was known as ‘the plummin’ at The School of Miserable Tricksters and Decidedly Dodgy Arts. The imposing castle towered over the north river crossing in the farthest outskirts of Landos. Plummin wasn’t a punishment in the literal sense, but wizards are allergic to work and steadfastly believe occupations are one of those things that only happen to other people.

Headcaster, Fezlet Tantrum, headed straight for Radlet with a cup in his hand...

Ah, Stent, just the chap. The water’s looking a bit cloudy when it comes out of the tap, ol’ boy.

Yes, Head. It hasn’t rained for a while, so we’ve had to switch to the reserve tanks.

Oh, dear.

Yes, not ideal, but it’ll keep us going until it rains again. And let’s be honest, sir, living in Anglost, we won’t have to wait too long.

And where does the reserve water come from?

The river, sir.

"Hah, just for a moment there, I thought you said river."

Er... yes.

I see. May I ask where the wastewater goes then?

Ah, that’s not my department, sir. I’m in charge of inlets, you see... you’ll be wanting Jerk.

Jerk?

"Yes, sir, Sistern Jerk—Head of Outlets."

"Hmmm, Jerk... Jerk... oh yes! I remember him. Small chap, metal hands. Damn noisy little blighter."

"Noisy, sir?"

Yes, clanks when he walks. I assumed he must have metal legs too.

They are protective gloves, sir, and the clanking is probably due to his pockets being full of spanners... see. Radlet demonstrated by shaking his pockets.

Ahhh. Where is he anyway? Even if we can’t see him, you’d think we’d be able to hear him.

Couldn’t say, sir, haven’t seen him in months.

Excuse me, Stent... you boy! Go find Mr Sistern Jerk and send him here!

The student sped away from the dining hall and disappeared along the corridor, heading in the general direction of the main entrance.

Forgive me for asking, Head, but why didn’t you use the speaky-pipe to call him?

Well, it strikes me that somebody who deals with outlets probably has their hands full most of the time... so to speak.

That’s true. Good thinking, sir.

Besides, the last time I tried to use one, I got a faceful of water.

Really? Which one was it? I’ll go take a look for you.

That one... there!

That’s a drinking nozzle, sir.

"Is it? Don’t touch the stuff myself, hasn’t got the required oomph, if you know what I mean. Mind you, now that you’ve enlightened me, that does explain quite a lot. Hah! Early yesterday morning when nature called, and I needed to take a leak— er... oh, yes, yes... anyway, that explains quite a lot, Stent."

Happy to help, sir. Radlet filled an awkward ten-second silence with a spontaneously whistled tune.

"It wasn’t a night funnel, was it."

No, sir. He swiftly moved on. What makes you think that boy will know Jerk’s whereabouts?

"My dear chap, any worthwhile student is always aware of an adult’s exact location at any given time."

Really?

Yes.

But... why?

"I would have thought it was obvious. So that small, mischievous groups can occupy an exact location devoid of them."

Ah, I see.

Anyway, Stent, back to the water. I assumed that you chaps worked together on these matters. Y’know, inlets and outlets.

"Impossible, sir. You see, The School of Mis— this castle is a big place. If we worked together, we’d never get anything done."

Isn’t that a bit risky? Possibility of getting your pipework crossed?

You can talk.

What?

Nothing, sir. No, absolutely not. The inlet pipes are much smaller than the outlet pipes... ah, here’s Jerk now. Sistern! How are you, old boy?

Sistern nodded. Radlet... Head.

Hello, Jerk. Clanking away as ever, eh? Those spanners must drive you mad!

That would be my metal legs, sir. Sistern took a spanner from his pocket and rapped a knee, producing a resounding clang!

Fezlet looked at Radlet, who raised his eyebrows but couldn’t think of a spontaneous tune to whistle.

I...

It’s okay, sir. I’m not overly conscious anymore.

... er... so... how did you lose them?

Lose them, sir? I didn’t! I may have misplaced the odd wrench in my time, but only a complete imbecile can lose his limbs!

Right, right... of course. Stupid question. Anyway, perhaps you can clear something up for me, Jerk, wh—

"Not my department, sir, I’m outlets."

"I didn’t mean literally! Look, the question is where does the waste go?"

The river, sir.

The river that lets the water into the reserve tanks?

The very same.

Does that not worry you at all?

"No, no, sir. You see, the inlet pipe is upstream, while the outlet pipe is downstream."

Sistern winked at Radlet, and they ‘high-fived’. Fezlet stared at them.

Also, I have fitted an ingenious filter to the main inlet, explained Radlet.

"Ah, now that’s more like it. How does it work, ol’ chap?"

It allows water to flow in through tiny holes, sir.

Sistern and Radlet ‘high-fived’ again. Fezlet stared again... slightly harder.

"How tiny?"

Virtually minute, sir. I asked the chaps in Metalwork to use the smallest drill bit in the workshop.

Good, good. Well done, that man.

"Yes, even a tiny, harmless, insignificant... erm... river creature would have a job getting through one of those holes."

Yeah! (High-fives).

"Creature? How insignificant?"

"Very, sir."

"So... when the waste is deposited downstream, where does it go from there?"

"A-ha! This is the really clever bit, Sistern chipped in, I have constructed a larger filter—well, more of a diverter, really—much further downstream. It spans the river, stops the waste, and re-directs it."

(High-fives) — (Glare).

"Diverts it... where?"

Sistern and Radlet glanced at each other, struggling to suppress their laughter.

Central Landos, sir!

The plummers couldn’t contain it any longer and fell about laughing.

A little bit more won’t hurt ’em, Radlet squealed through tears of laughter.

Fezlet remained decidedly unamused.

Gentlemen, gentlemen. Please forgive my ignorance, but isn’t the River Tame circular?

Eh? said Sistern, wiping his eyes.

"When the river exits Landos in the west, after passing through the centre, that would appear to be upstream again."

The plummin wizards stopped laughing and stared at each other. Radlet flinched first.

"You’ll have to excuse me, Head... busy, busy! I’ve just remembered, I’m expecting some new, even smaller drill bits to arrive."

Oh, really? When?

About a month after I order them, sir.

Fezlet aimed visual daggers at the rapidly departing inlets plummer. Sistern tried to edge away slowly, but the Headcaster’s attention returned.

"Jerk... Jerk. I’ve got a small job for you, my good fellow. The speaky-pipe in my room has stopped working—I wonder if you could take a look."

"Not my department, sir... I’m plummin, not engineering. I’m not qualified for the technical stuff—I deal more in substance, keep things flowing smoothly, etc. Think you’d best speak to the chaps in... er... Comms."

Comms, eh? Fezlet put his arm around Sistern’s shoulders and led him gently towards the mountainous staircase. "I think, Jerk, this speaky-pipe will be right up your alley."

The Home of Buggers

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As Svelt approached the Eastern Bridge River Crossing, a massive troll stirred, then flickered slowly to life. He was trying to sit inside a wooden pay booth complete with its own little peer window. Currently, the only thing ‘peering’ was his elbow. The overall effect was of him wearing the booth rather than occupying it. He instinctively tried to stand as the dwarf troll neared, and the little structure was instantly reduced to tinder wood.

Stop, mister! You ’ave to p— he cut off mid-sentence and looked around. After a few agonising moments, it sank in. Oh no! I really for it dis time.

Svelt stared in amused disbelief as the bridge troll suddenly realised he was carrying the door frame towards his new customer. He stopped, opened the door, stooped through, and closed it behind him before letting it drop to the floor.

Hah! Er... it wasn’t your fault, friend. I mean, what idiot gave you a hut like that? It’s at least four sizes too small.

I made it meself.

Oh. Well, accidents happen, eh?

"Boss man say to me dat I am de akky-dent."

"Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself... because yourself is already hard!" Svelt rapped on a tree trunk-like forearm, grinned at the blank face above him, and waited for a reaction. He wondered whether he should come back next month.

The bridge troll stared at his arm until the first tiny nucleus of response crawled towards the centre of his granite thought-processing unit.

Hah, yeah! Dat true... look!

Svelt winced as the monstrous specimen punched himself in the head and just about managed to stop his reverberating bulk from toppling over. Although the troll was strong enough to carry the bridge around with him on it, Svelt felt just a tiny bit sorry for him.

What’s your name, friend?

Ton.

As a general rule, the bigger the troll, the less effective the brain, the shorter the name. After discounting cave fighting as an option due to Ton’s good-natured manner, his boss figured, given sheer size and appearance, the donations would probably be worth more than the charge.

Okay, Ton. How much is the toll?

Oh, I not for sale, mister. I already owned by Mr Marble.

No, I— owned? Don’t you mean employed?

I don’t fink so. Mr Marble say, ’til I paid back my gamble debt, him own my craggy bottom bumps.

Gamble? On what?

Come on, mister... wot else! Rock, Rock, Rock! All trolls play Rock, Ro—

"It’s called Rock, Parchment, Scythe."

"I don’t know ’bout dat. I only allowed to be Rock."

Svelt shook his head. Mr Marble, eh? So... Ton. How much do I have to pay to cross the bridge?

Oh, I know dis one, replied Ton, bringing a hand up to his face that would have taken two men and a block and tackle arrangement to lift. "One, two... two sense!" he announced triumphantly.

Two sense!* That’s a bit steep!

I don’t make de rules, mister, dat de boss man.

Svelt handed the coins over. I’ll be on my way then. Good luck, my friend.

Bye, mister.

The city-bound troll edged past the wreckage and noticed a sign partially buried by timber planks. Hey, Ton! It says One Quart on here!

Oh, sorry, mister, I always get it wrong.

Hmmm. Keep the money. It will help pay for the damage... and maybe a little for yourself?

How I pay meself?

Svelt grinned and strode towards the other side.

Tanks, mister.

Had he done so, a quick look back would have treated the dwarf troll to the unique spectacle of a lumbering Ton reassembling the hut—with uncharacteristic skill and surprising speed.

*Trolls are quick on the uptake when it involves food, beer, and money, but what they generally lack is common pence. There are some things money just can’t buy.

As Svelt strode along the dusty roadway, a faint rumbling noise ahead alerted him to a rapidly approaching horse-drawn cart. The driver was urging the beast along at pace because the vehicle was empty, having already delivered the various goods taken into the city. Svelt politely moved over to one side, but polite or not, the driver would probably try to run over him anyway. The farmers of the surrounding counties were not the friendliest people, and they made their deliveries to the ‘smokers’—city dwellers—out of pure necessity and somewhat begrudgingly. They also frowned upon carriageway pedestrians. This particular farmer had no idea that Svelt not only lived in the country but was of farming stock too. Country folk are well known for their love of old sayings, but the farmers around Landos didn’t have much time for words, leaving that to their busy wives instead. Honest, hard graft and grim reality tended to sway their beliefs more towards physics. Explaining why the driver swerved at the last minute after realising Svelt wasn’t a human, ensuring the road remained free of splintered wood and chunky bits of horse.

He watched the cart speed away towards the bridge and pressed on.

On the outskirts, the buildings were made of timber and spaced apart. Some had small plots of land around them or even neat garden areas. Svelt had always considered the people living in these places most fortunate, as they enjoyed many of the natural luxuries he did on the farm but were also close enough to the unparalleled ‘atmosphere’ of the city.

The market village of Bo lay ahead. It skirted a notorious area known as ‘The Edges’, which now shaded a fair part of East Landos... and seemed to be growing. Svelt always avoided potential trouble, and, to a thief or mugger, he wasn’t the easiest prey anyway. He had the best possible reason for passing through, far outweighing the risk—the deadly-serious matter of regional sustenance. The cuisine in question not being native to the edgy area he was about to enter. As much as he loved rustic farmhouse food and sometimes even caustic city food, he looked forward to a rare treat with each visit. The Banal Spice was the only Garamanian eating house in this particular quarter. In fact, it was one of only two to be found in the whole of Landos.

Not far now.

Svelt’s pace quickened as he noticed the first tell-tale signs, feeling the difference underfoot as the loose stones and dust lessened, making the surface much easier to walk on. It may not have had the finesse of the cobbled streets in central Landos, but his sedimentary ankles groaned their relief. He rounded the bend, knowing The Banal Spice would soon come into view, but, to his horror, something was wrong. His beloved Spice was still there, but a new building stood on the opposite corner, completely overshadowing the quaint Garamanian eatery. Svelt’s initial reaction was pure anger, and he stomped toward the new eyesore with menace. As he neared, sheer curiosity took over, recalling a time in the murky, rodent stew-filled past before even The Banal Spice existed. He gave a little shiver at the thought and changed his stance to an inquisitive saunter.

Standing before him was a plain building, mainly comprising of large stone blocks, and bearing an impressive window beside the entrance. Its sheer size enabled Svelt to see everything inside. Small tables and chairs were neatly arranged to the front, just like The Banal Spice, but a long table spanned the back of the building, resembling the bars he struggled to see over in the taverns. The sign above read:

Don McCons

and just below that, a hastily crafted effort had been added as an afterthought:

The Home of Buggers

Svelt was so intrigued he almost forgot about The Spice. Opening the door triggered a horrible wailing sound, alerting the owner, who sprang forth from the rear. The startled troll entered cautiously, looked back to the door and spotted a tiny multicoloured bag with three protruding tubes sitting above it.

Och, friend! Come in, come in! The owner was a dwarf, about a foot shorter than Svelt. He had a fantastic ginger beard, and his accent was unmistakable—he came from the Heightlands. Don. Don McCon’s, ma name.

Svelt. Pleased to meet you.

So, Svelt, ye’ve come tae try tha taste a’ tha future, have ye norrrt? They’re gowan tae be big ye know, laddie, he beamed.

What are?

Buggers, a’ course!

Buggers, repeated Svelt, as if in a trance. "What exactly is a bugger?"

Don put his arm around Svelt’s shoulders... almost. Ye take tha finest meat, grind it up, shape it intae wee circles, coook it, and put it batween two bits a’ breed... bugger!

Meat? Great! Svelt’s eyes then narrowed. "Hold on, hold on... what kind of meat?"

"‘Wat kind a’ meat,’ he asks. Only Aberdon Angry, tha finest meat in tha land!"

The naming of this particular breed of cattle was a mystery. It is assumed, somewhere along the line, ghostly warnings passed on through genetic evolution have made the animal aware of why it had been born in the first place.

Really? Svelt was impressed because he knew a thing or two about livestock—at least, up until the part where it ceased to be. So, you transport it all the way from the north?

"Emm, well... nae, nat as such, laddie. I gets it fram Dave at the market. But he swearrrs it’s Angry, sure enough."

Svelt was not convinced, but he loved food and was intrigued by the prospect of trying a bugger. Okay, do your worst, Mr McCon.

Right ye are, laddie. Sit doon over there, an’ I’ll brang it tae ye. Hamish! One bugger in tha hoose, he shouted, in the general direction of what presumably was a bugger kitchen.

Svelt looked around the dining area, inwardly admitting it was neat and clean but didn’t seem to have any character. Not like The Banal Spice. Ten minutes passed, and Don appeared with the food.

There ye goo, laddie.

Svelt was handed a small loaf of bread, cut in half, with a tiny, ragged disc of meat in the middle. He shrugged, put it in his mouth and swallowed it whole.

Weeel? Wat d’ye thank, laddie?

May I make a suggestion, Mr McCon?

Sure. It’s Don, by tha way.

Don. I can’t help thinking something’s missing.

Massin’?

Yes. Have you thought about putting potatoes on the side? Meat needs potato, suggested Svelt. "Also, it was a bit small."

Ah, that’s nae problem, we also make a ‘Big Bugger’. But potato, eh? Ye may be on tae somethang there, laddie. I’ll be right back.

Svelt waited patiently. He ‘tapped’ his rocky digits on the table and stared at the ceiling, trying to remember what had been there before Don’s place popped up, but at that moment, it eluded him.

A short while later, a triumphant cry came from the kitchen. "Big Bugger and side in tha hoose, coming up!"

Don appeared. He was carrying a slightly bigger loaf, cut in half, with two tiny, ragged meat discs in the middle.

And here’s yer side.

He placed a tiny raw potato on the plate next to the bugger, garnished with a trimmed carrot top. Svelt frowned at the sprig of greenery, picked the potato up, looked it over, and swallowed it in one. He then picked up the Big Bugger, threw it in his mouth, and it disappeared in two gulps.

Weeeel? asked Don in excited anticipation.

It’s definitely got something, Mr McCon, but I’m still hungry. Anyway, thank you so much for letting me try your... recipe. How much do I owe you? asked Svelt, reaching for his pouch.

Nae, nae... it’s on tha hoose, laddie. Ye’ve been a great halp!

Thank you, Mr McCon. I wish you great success with your new venture, but honestly? I cannot see the point of food that makes you want to eat more.

Svelt jumped when he discovered the tiny, piped bag of wind also announced an exit. Don McCon watched him leave the building, stood at the window, and gave the troll a friendly little wave.

That’s funny, laddie... I was thankin’ just the opporsat.

New Avenues

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The Committee of Council Servants had reached the questionable state of ‘full session’, which almost suggested it involved actual work. The group consisted of ten members, each considered top of their particular field, which usually meant they were wealthier than their closest rivals. The well-earned positions entitled them to put forward intelligent proposals and solutions on behalf of the public. Accumulating impressive personal fortunes qualified them, it seems, in the field of spending the money of those that hadn’t.

Communal voting had been disregarded as a selection method long ago. It was expensive to organise and, on occasion, extremely violent. There seemed little point in wasting vast sums of the money collected from the public on a voting system—for those same taxpayers—when the process worked more efficiently in-house. In one fell swoop, the violence fizzled out, too, as the public had no ‘candidates’ to fight over, and although he retained royal status, the ‘ruler’ became more disconnected and simply wanted to reign (much waving of the hand) without the nasty, boring, day-to-day stuff. As a result, an earlier committee decided that a small group of the richest, most influential people would be better off running the city. And it was working perfectly... for them.

The Wizards insisted on having a representative member, too—pointing to their tireless efforts teaching at the notorious school, which fell under the education sector. The counter-argument suggesting that it not so much fell, more, sort of... staggered about a bit. It never came to pass, although the committee soon realised The School of Miserable Tricksters was a vital component of the city, after all, and worthy of funding instead. It was far more effective than the law at keeping the streets partially clear of unwanted types. Deviousness and dishonesty qualified as two-fifths of prime wizarding material—at entry-level. Greed, gluttony and sloth were part of the ongoing curriculum.

Of the current committee, there was one other member. Ronald Pagan was the last surviving relative of a founder. They allowed him to stay on out of respect, but he was secretly considered a political dinosaur. It wasn’t just allowing trolls on the committee that he couldn’t get his head around, but women, huh! To keep him out of trouble, they usually sat him down in a corner with some coloured chalks—where he seemed happy enough.

Good afternoon, members, began the tired-looking chairwoman, I’m pleased to see we could all make it today. Apart from Chief Lopez, that is. He is, unfortunately, tied up with a serious investigation, ahem... again. The first topic today concerns our main carriageway, Avenue One. As our main route in and out of the city, does it not deserve a more fitting title?

Such as? rumbled Cedric Pumice.

Cedric Pumice was the spokesperson for the trolls. Contrary to expectation, he was a well-educated, hugely successful business-troll—a rare breed. The somewhat shady, possibly ‘edgy’ nature of his affairs was never openly discussed, as people tended to disappear. It had nothing whatsoever to do with magic. Mr Pumice’s conscience was a closed book, but his hands were always immaculately clean.

Oh, you mean like... Avenue One Hundred? Something like that? Yes, very grand. I like where you’re coming from, said a second member.

No, you’re missing the point! snapped the chairwoman. "It is called Avenue One because it is our first, and indeed only, major carriageway."

Oh yes, I see, said a third, "so I’m thinking, more like... First Avenue!" she announced proudly.

Various approvals followed.

Oooh.

Yes.

Wonderful!

No, no— began the chairwoman, becoming slightly irate.

Various retractions instantly replaced them.

First Avenue? No.

Not really.

Piffle!

"Well, it’s not exactly an avenue anyway, is it? interrupted Olaf, it’s a carriageway. So, why not call it... The C-ONE!"

Everybody cheered, and a few of the committee members started clapping. Olaf Ironbender took a bow... and promptly disappeared from sight—he was a dwarf. He owned a number of metalwork shops across the city selling pots, pans and cutlery, all under the iron-clad umbrella of the Everspoons chain. If you asked correctly, weapons of mass destruction were available too. His triple-headed skull cleaver was a bestseller—unofficial, slightly illegal, but extremely popular.

Amidst the squabbling and heckling, Ronald—whose artistic efforts were at least in keeping with his present surroundings—was colouring a particularly difficult flower petal. He concentrated with so much effort that his tongue was poking out. This involuntary act is only prevalent in infants and elders, mysteriously skipping middle age.

Look! shouted the chairwoman, showing the first signs of facial redness, What I’m getting at is naming it after a famous monarch or historical event, like... oh, I don’t know... The King George Carriageway, for example.

The room quietened.

Sets a dangerous precedent, does that, warned one member.

Yes, what if the people in Brummagam City don’t like the name? The carriageway runs almost to the northern regions, argued Olaf.

Cue a sarcastic, synchronised reply of ‘Yes, what then?’

"Then we use the new name up to the outskirts of our city," suggested the chairwoman, trying very hard to keep calm.

"What if, in the future, we have so many avenues there ends up being two King George Carriageways... or even three? Cedric chipped in. Could get very confusing," he added.

Responses of ‘Oooh, didn’t think of that’ and ‘Good point’ ensued.

Then we shall introduce a number, or regional code system of some kind, to sit alongside the name, fumed the chairwoman. Right! I think we have spent enough time on this debate. I propose... The Lord Victor Carriageway! Named after the first ruler of the city, of course. All those in agreement?

Chorus of: ‘Aye, Aye, Aye.’

Okay, said the chairwoman, starting to calm down slightly. Second item on the agenda. The naming of the street that runs from the main square, past our council building. Any suggestions?

Er... well, where does it lead to?

"Another bloody street! With no name!!"

Okay. I suggest: Street From Main Square – past council – To Nowhere... Street.

Give me strength! Anyone else?

A lengthy, embarrassing silence followed as the committee looked blankly at one another.

Eventually, one member timidly held his finger aloft. I think I’ve got it. How about... The Lord Victor Carriageway...

The others groaned with much rolling of eyes and shaking of heads.

We’ve already used th—

... Two?

Singe and Spice

––––––––

Svelt arrived at The Banal Spice to find the door locked, with no sign of movement inside. He tapped the small inset pane with his finger, and it broke... again. After a short while, a coloured light appeared inside, and the lock clicked. The door opened inwards, and Mr Singe stood there beaming at him. Mr Svelt! Apologies, sir, I am just opening. Please be sitting down, he cried.

So sorry about the gla—

Please, Mr Svelt, do not be worrying, sir. The sound of tinkling glass is music to my ears. Now, how many plates shall I be warming up?

It’s just me, Mr Singe.

Yes, sir, dat is why I am asking, haha.

Mr Singe ushered Svelt to his usual stone seat. Nothing had changed in the quaint eating house since he’d nervously entered the building for the first time, including the familiar purple and white cloths covering the tables. Svelt always savoured this little extravagance as rough, bare wooden tables were the preference of other eating houses he frequented. The snug little bar only offered one type of Garamanian beer, adding to the overall experience. He especially loved the pretty candle lanterns dotted around the place, knowing his clumsy hands could never create anything so fragile. Delicately crafted, each had multi-coloured glass mosaics set within the faceted framework. He thought they lent an authentic air to the cosy surroundings—merely an assumption, as he didn’t know if they even had them in Garamania.

A slightly strained melody drifted through the restaurant from a corner of the room, the source of which was a strange-looking stringed instrument that somehow played away under its own steam. Svelt couldn’t distinguish between the erratic twanging arrangement or the nerve-grating blasts from the tiny bag of wind he had endured above the entrance at Don McCon’s place, as music doesn’t resonate with trolls. But he reasoned it had to be beautiful and exotic because it was Garamanian.

How are you, Mr Singe? What do you think about that new place next door?

"It is a sore for the eyes! Bloody buggers! I liked tings more when it was being Hamish’s Horns ‘n’ Harris."

"That’s it! I couldn’t remember earlier. What actually is a harris, anyway?"

It is being the innards of animals stuffed into the outards of some other animals.

"And people eat that?"

No! Haha. Well, not around dis neck of the hoods. Dat’s why I liked the place! Nobody wants bloody buggers, either—they wants a good Angless dish!

Angless? But you’re not from Anglost, Mr Singe. You’re from Garamania, laughed Svelt.

I am knowing dis, but they don’t bloody like my food back home in Banal, haha. So, Mr Svelt, what can I get you to drink?

Svelt tried his best to feign indecision. Er... ooh, let’s see. Would you happen to have a mug of Borebay Tiger?

You certainly know your beer, Mr Svelt, and you are being in luck, sir. Coming up!

Mr Singe rounded the immaculate little bar and poured the beer from a small, dusty barrel perched on its polished top. The cask of rough bark was bound with expertly intertwined leaves and bore a stamp of foreign writing, which flowed with artistic mysticism.

Are you on your own today, Mr Singe? asked Svelt, slightly mesmerised by the barrel.

Yes, but Mr Petal will be in later to help. We are not being too busy at dis time of day, sir. Mr Singe placed the beer on the table.

Thank you. Please forgive my ignorance, but what does that writing say?

Writing, sir?

There... on the barrel.

Oh, dat! It simply says: ‘May the divine gift of many helping hands lift the spirit of he who drinks from dis vessel’.

Really? It says all that!

Garamanian is being a very compact language, Mr Svelt. So, what’s it to be, sir?

The usual, please, a beef Mad-rash.

"Of course, sir. Your dish is my command, haha."

Ah, but, Mr Singe...?

Yes, sir?

"Extra, extra, hot, please?" Svelt gave his best attempt at ‘puppy eyes’, which wasn’t easy for a troll.

Tut, tut, Mr Svelt. You know how expensive chillies are in Landos, sir! I can’t afford to be just throwing dem in, chilli-nilly!

I will gladly pay double, Mr Singe.

"Then you are being a very lucky chappie again, sir. Because, dis morning, I was at Karn’s Kosh ‘n’ Kurry* and I managed to pick up some extra. I tell you, old Mr Karn is getting more miserly with age—I had to beat the old codger penceless to get a deal on dat bunch. Haha, what fun! He still can’t figure out why the rest of us wear turbans." The grinning restaurateur shuffled away, walked through a doorway of hanging beads, and disappeared into the kitchen.

*A traditional Garamanian Dondeal marketplace, practising an ancient bartering system that has stood the test of time. The general idea was to hit each other with large sticks until someone eventually folded, and the remaining traders (assuming they still had control of motor functions) got what they wanted.

Svelt was certain Aberdon Angry played no part in a ‘Banal Spice Beef Mad-rash’. It didn’t matter which cut of meat was introduced to this particular dish, as everything had a habit of instantly tenderising.

Mr Singe pottered around as Svelt tucked into his seriously over-spiced meal.

What’s it like in Garamania, Mr Singe?

Please be calling me Sinder, Mr Svelt. It is being beautiful, exotic places, sir. Hot weather, warm oceans and friendly peoples.

While he’d paused to listen, Svelt noticed his fork had started to warp slightly. He removed it from the sauce and placed it carefully on a napkin, allowing it to reform.

Why did you want to leave then?

"Because the bloody Paprikans came over and started to take our jobs! Bloody foreigners!"

Unknown to Svelt, the evening had crept up on them while he’d been eating, drinking, and chatting happily with Mr Singe. As he reluctantly grabbed the door handle to leave, somebody pushed it from the other side.

Hello, Mr Svelt.

Mr Petal, how are you? Sorry, I’m just on my way. Catch you next time, yes? he called, heading down the street.

Goodbye, sir, Mr Petal called after him. Please, do come again.

As Mr Petal entered the restaurant, Mr Singe hastily crafted a handwritten notice among a pile of plates. Mr Petal stared at it.

"Tonight’s Special. Karrot kurry and a tankard of water? Half price?"

Mr Singe shrugged his shoulders. He removed the barrel from the bar and put a line through two sections of the menu.

Dat beer is vell past its date, Mr Petal warned, looking at the stamp of foreign markings on the rough vessel, which suddenly seemed not-so-mystical.

Don’t be worrying, Patta... empty, see?

Mr Svelt?

Sinder nodded in a manner suggesting almost, but not quite, remorse.

Oh, dear.

They both looked over to the miniature stringed instrument, now making a strange noise that would have most cats diving for cover—even Garamanian ones. It stopped, toppled over and fell from the shelf, having run out of... whatever it had been running on.

The Wizard’s Bane

––––––––

Svelt didn’t like to venture into the city centre on the first night. Being approximately five miles from Bo, it was definitely out of reach after numerous portions of Mr Singe’s beef Mad-rash with extra chillies. Instead, he looked forward to seeing Mrs Brown again and staying at her wonderful inn. It had become a second home, conveniently situated between the outskirts and the busier inner areas. Old Mother Brown’s Inn was a conspicuous three-storey timber building on the edge of a little woodland area. The most striking feature was its uncanny ability to remain upright, considering the relentless efforts of the uninvited wood-munching ‘guests’ slowly turning it into a divine relic. Even a wizard would swear there was magic involved. It ‘stood’ in Hacknee, a borough some might describe as charming in its quaintly unique way. Mainly because of the irresistible lure to cold-blooded, venomous types who would happily squeeze the last sen from you... or the last breath.

Spare a quart for an ’omeless man, sir.

Requesters of charitable donations in Landos had about as much chance of success as a pigeon searching the cobblestones and gutters for an unsmoked cigarette. He sat on the corner of a side street, back against the wall, holding a small tin.

Svelt reached into his pouch and pulled out a sen.

Gord bless yeh, sir! You’ll go to Evan alright... no doubt about it.

"Did you say Gord?"

"I did, sir."

Really? I— Svelt glanced along the side street and spotted two figures in the distance. He could barely make out their outlines, but the way they squared up to each other troubled him. Excuse me, my friend. Something’s happening down there.

Oh, I wouldn’t bovver wiv ’em, sir, just wizards. Bloody wizards! Always arguing, eh?

Svelt wasn’t listening and started along the street.

"Jus’ leave ’em to it, sir... really, I would if I were... he watched Svelt head towards the men and shook his head. Such a nice bloke, too," he said, looking ruefully at the coin in his tin.

Svelt edged closer. The opponents were very similar in appearance, with several subtle differences. He doubted they were peasants or street folk as their attire was typical of learned men. The disagreement reached boiling point, and they began wrestling. As the diminutive troll advanced, a small flash dazzled him, caused by the diminishing light glinting on a metallic object. Svelt gasped in horror as one of the men fell to the ground.

The aggressor looked up and was startled by the sight of the troll running at him. He fled, seemingly without his spoils. Svelt was breathless as he came to a halt—more out of apprehension than exertion—and now he realised the stricken figure was indeed a wizard, as the beggar had warned. The old trickster was seriously wounded, and Svelt tried instinctively to stem the blood flowing from a nasty gash in his side.

He tried to rob you? In daylight?

The wizard spluttered. He was no r-robber.

The desperate troll was struggling to halt the flow. Help! Help! he shouted to nobody in particular.

Forget it. I could fix this if I had a mind to.

What do you mean?

He will return. And if not him, then another. The wizard gasped for breath. I cannot keep this safe any longer.

Keep what safe? Who was that man?

An assassin? A messenger, perhaps? Depends on your point of view.

Svelt didn’t understand. The wizard’s face began to drain of all colour and turn a nasty shade of pale. He gripped the troll’s arm as if it were his lifeline.

I have upon my person a marker. It p-points to the resting place of a great artefact, the like of which this age has never seen. It is n-not... ugh... not of this dimension.

The grip began to ease.

Svelt grabbed his robes and tried to keep him upright, but he was confused by the ominous words and began to panic.

T-take this. The wizard pulled a thin square of paper from his robes that appeared to be a map, albeit without much detail. Can’t t-take it to the t-tinker man now. He will follow.

Tinker man? Who will—

Follow the... ugh... m-markers... but beware the faithful. Please leave me.

Before he could hand the paper over, the resigned man slumped silently. Despite his better instincts, Svelt took it from his relaxed fingers and fled.

He had trodden the paths to the city many times before and knew them like the tiny cracks on the back of his hands, but in his dazed, fearful state, he’d turned blindly into several unfamiliar side streets and taken off in a random direction. Now lost, Svelt desperately wanted to run to the sanctuary of Mrs Brown’s Inn, but at that moment, he didn’t even know where it was. Something told him to hold back and take stock of the unexpected events, so he slowed to a quick walk and tried to gather his thoughts.

*****

Grindle Wimp stood slowly and deliberately... he felt great! So alive and full of energy, the long years simply rolled away. Being a wizard takes its toll—mainly on the liver—and as a senior wizard, he’d performed his duties without fail. Some might say ‘schooling’ would-be wizards didn’t really count as duties, and, in truth, failure featured quite heavily. But he had at least tried to help the unlawful souls that found their way into the ever-open palms of the wizards and also done right by the local everyday folk, where possible. There were always the pleas of the less fortunate, non-devious variety to contend with. Can you make this water pure? or Can you make this loaf of bread stretch a bit further? He had duly obliged. On the odd occasion, even tackling the more challenging problems, such as a lame horse or splintered carriage wheel, wasn’t beyond his generosity. Regardless of the rules, he’d always had time for the magless, being the rare outgoing wizard that he was. Though, his time, it seems, had just got a lot shorter—or infinitely longer, were he to look at the bigger picture. In retrospect, simply ‘full of energy’ was how he felt. Forget the other bit.

Grindle looked around. The currently smaller picture involved a grey mist curling, not just around his limbs, but drifting as far as the eye could see. He tried to speak to a passer-by, but she seemed not to notice him, staring at the ground in horror and disbelief instead. Somewhat bemused, he tried to sit, but even that simple act was not as easy as it had once been. The disorientated wizard turned around very slowly, hoping but knowing beyond doubt what he would see. Even accepting the inevitability of the situation, it was still a shock to gaze upon his own lifeless body. The leisurely clip-clop of hooves on the periphery of his hearing did little to ease it. Then seemingly out of nowhere—if indeed his present location was somewhere—a black-caped figure approached, sitting astride a magnificent horse, forcing the awestruck wizard to lift his gaze from the ground. The rider’s features were barely visible, but Grindle could see enough to know that his face was almost skeletal.

Ah-ha, he said to himself, this is it! He looked away, waiting for the inevitable, but the rider ignored him and trotted past. Hey, Death! I’m over here! he shouted.

The horse stopped. Without turning around, the horseman replied in harsh tones, his voice sounding like an old iron gate struggling to swing on rusty hinges. I am not Death, sir. Judging by your current form, I would suggest Death has already descended upon you.

But, wh—

If you’ll please excuse me... the rider interrupted, "a very important— nay, essential war is about to break out some two thousand miles from here."

Grindle was dumbstruck at first, followed by intrigue. "Eh? And how could you possibly know that, Mr Death-in-denial?"

"I believe death and denial are two words you would do