Are vegetables really good for you?

It's been quite a nice and quiet day here in Zarfang. At least some of the dust has settled from the various events that have occured, and an element of peace and calm had gradually started to take tenuous hold once more. That was, of course, until the reappearance of that Brussels sprout. You know, I can't believe I've come to the point of having to type a sentence like that, but never mind, let's plough on regardless, beginning at the point where the "fun" started.

I was just cooking up something for lunch and wondering about the vague possibility of doing something productive, when there was a sudden snapping sound, like the branch breaking on the youtube video that inevitably precipitates the protagonist into the water, or face first into some concrete.

Sir Henry was standing on the work surface, dressed once again in his tiny boots and gloves, though once I'd recovered from the shock of his sudden appearance I noticed that this time he'd left his hat at home (wherever the hell that was) and instead appeared to have some sort of shapeless bag perched on the top of his head. On closer inspection, it looked as if it was an icepack. He looked, without beating about the bush, incredibly hungover. As I gazed at him, with the typical bemused thoughts trickling irreverently through my brain, I realised at least he didn't have the problem of turning green if he felt sick. Still, I had the problem of referring to a talking brassica as “Sir Henry”, which, you've got to admit, isn't the easiest thing in the world to do naturally.

Sir Henry peered about himself in a droopy kind of way, before finally latching on to me. He made a strange noise which must have been a combination of “err”, “ahh” and ughh”, and his voice sounded considerably less armour piercing than it had done yesterday.

“Oh, hello there, dear boy,” he said, vaguely. “I'm so sorry I'm late. I must admit it was so very nice to be called out of my unfortunate retirement, I felt the need to celebrate, and I do confess to being something of a devotee to Bacchus. ”

Conversation with the mysterious sprout creature was awkward to say the least, so I decided that this time, I'd try to be a bit more systematic in my questioning of the thing, if possible. The only problem was that it was actually quite hard to come out with the most obvious of enquiries when it was actually standing there in front of you. I mean, come on, actually picture yourself standing in front of it, what would you do? Also, I had the nasty feeling that if I did indeed ask this thing for too much detail it would actually confirm that it didn't exist and was in fact a full-blown hallucination, and I was gleefully skiing down the slippery slope that leads a padded room all of my very own. I wondered if calling Grott, who was upstairs folding the laundry, would be a good idea. I'd feel a bit more comfortable in general if someone else could actually be confirmed as being able to see the blasted thing.

"Umm, you know, I don't think I actually managed to really get to the bottom of who you were last night," I said, realising my lunch would have to wait for the time being. "I'm sure you can't blame me for asking where you came from, and, if you don't mind me saying this, why you do bear more than a passing resemblance to a certain densely packed leafy commodity traditionally consumed over the festive period?"

I don't think Sir Henry took too kindly to this, though of course it could just have been the sound of my voice aggravating his sore head. I noticed he had a substantial covering of stubble on his chin. Does a sprout have to shave? You know, I'd really give a lot to see that, and even more to have it on video.

"I, Sir," he said, in his usual melodramatic manner, "am what I am due to my own entirely personal circumstances, which I will not under any circumstances be drawn into divulging at this particular moment. I do not ask you why you are a human, do I?"

I've got to admit, he did have a point, though, actually, not a very good one when you looked at it with any degree of sensibility.

"Besides," he continued, passing one of his gloved hands across his forehead, "It is a very long tale, a tale of woe - woe, Sir, and I fear you would neither the time, nor the inclination to hear it in its entirety."

What was going on now? Surely he just said he didn't want to talk about it at all?

"Well, actually, I was just about to cook my lunch, and..."

"Very well," said the sprout, wearily, "I shall tell you, but brace yourself, dear boy, brace yourself, for it is a tale of sorrow, sorrow surpassed only by the great tragedies."

I suppose I had to listen. Realising I wasn't likely to be eating any lunch in the near future, I sat down on the kitchen stool and tried to make myself comfortable. A far-away look came into Sir Henry's eyes.

"I wasn't always as you see me now. There was a time, long ago, when my name was known in all four corners of every realm and every land that stands astride this great world of ours. I appeared in all the mighty capitals, I played the great palatial theatres in front of Kings, Emperors and commoners alike to rapturous applause, in short, I enjoyed the greatest fame an actor could imagine. My loyal band of fellow players and performers felt more like brothers and sisters to me, I felt those heady days would never come to an end. Ah! If only you could have seen us perform in front of the Grand Emperor of Alak-Bharan amidst the legendary metropolis of Semaziin (before it disappeared into the desert many years later, of course). I heard the Emperor signalled an end to two centuries of warfare with neighbouring Khemazan, and it was said to be due entirely to his witnessing our performance in his city. Glorious times, glorious times indeed."

"But then, a note of discord began to creep into this happy existence, and, alas, it was all of my own doing. My young apprentice, Amfeld Stannisgrey, a young lad that we picked up as an orphan in Felingse many years before, began slowly but surely to eclipse my talents. Bit by bit I felt that the gaze of the public was passing gradually from me to him. Despite my occupying the lead roles, it soon became clear that all the discussions after performances were about him, rather than me. It had been so long that I'd felt nothing but absolute confidence in my abilities to capture the heart of an audience - had I become predictable, stale?"

I certainly couldn't feel any hate for young Stannisgrey, after all, I'd passed on everything I knew to him, and felt nothing but paternal pride for his accomplishments. I suppose it was, in truth, the fear of the feeling creeping in the back of my mind, the knowledge we all have; that nothing can last forever, that we all must eventually surrender everything we possess, whether willingly or not."

"I began to drink too much, and gamble, predictable vices, I know. Slowly my performances began to suffer, and soon I wasn't occupying any of the lead roles at all; I had been relegated to bit-parts and incidental characters. I know it was wrong of me to feel bitter. Matters soon came to a head during our tour of the island nations of the Malmandra. I started to turn up late for performances, or not at all. I don't really blame them for kicking me out, I felt it had been coming for a long while before then. Not long after that, I was surviving only on my savings and scraps of work, mostly as favours from old friends in the business. But I never fully lost the sense of pride at my past accomplishments, and truly believed that one day I could thrive once again. That pride, unfortunately, was my undoing."

"It was around that time that a man began to cast his vast shadow across this world. You know, of course, of whom I speak. It was in the city of Calgaran in the far north of this very land that his presence as a sorcerer of immense and growing power began to manifest itself, and it was the city I happened to be living in."

"Whoa, hold on there one moment," I interrupted, feeling I couldn't stay silent unless I could believe what I was hearing. "You can't mean Venedir Telvarin can you? He died over four hundred years ago, didn't he?"

Sir Henry paused for a moment, presumably for effect.

"That is indeed true," he said, "I am over four hundred years old."

Not for the first time in my short acquaintance with Sir Henry, I was lost for words. He continued his monologue.

"Venedir Telvarin, yes, the man himself. In those days he was still making a name for himself as the advisor to the King, Helron the third I believe his name was. Telvarin wasn't so popular in the city, as he was at that time known as a powerful new dark wizard, and dark wizards are rarely trusted, especially when they rise to influential positions."

"It was a dull, chilly and overcast day near the beginning of winter, and I sat huddled in the royal park, with my coat wrapped tightly around me, wondering where I'd find the money to pay for the fuel I'd need as the weather grew colder. I happened to look up, and watched with some interest as the Royal Advisor Telvarin's carriage glided silently past me, escorted by two ranks of footmen, in front and behind. The carriage itself was perfectly and absolutely black, slick and shiny, like polished obsidian, and like many wizard's carriages of the time, didn't have horses, or indeed wheels, but instead floated smoothly above the ground, the twin shafts where the harnesses would normally be ending in slender, tapering points. Even the windows were jet black, giving the unpleasant appearance of a giant, floating coffin."

"I watched the sombre procession passing slowly by, but was shocked when the floating carriage drew to a sudden halt, the footmen hurriedly stopping to avoid bumping into each other. A door opened seamlessly in the side of the vehicle, which remained motionless as a rock, and a slender, white haired man emerged. It was difficult to tell his age exactly, his snowy hair made him seem older, and his face bore something of the marks of age, but he moved as quickly and lightly as the youngest of men might. He was dressed entirely in black, though his tunic was richly decorated with delicate silver embroidery. With a few brisk strides, he was standing in front of me."

"'You are a famous actor, are you not?" he said in a calmly detached voice. He had strange, dark eyes that gave the disturbing impression of not matching his face.

I introduced myself, while he stared at me impassively.

"'My Lord Telvarin remembers you,' said the man abruptly, as soon as I had finished. 'He saw you perform in Calgaran, many years ago, and was greatly moved by your abilities. He wishes to see you perform for him one more time. You will come to the palace this evening at six o'clock; don't worry, we'll make it more than worth your while.'"

"There was no possibility of turning down his invitation, indeed I was delighted to have received such a prestigious, and hopefully lucrative commission."

"Unfortunately, the demon drink struck me down once more. I tried to drown in wine the feelings of anxiety I had about performing before such an unnerving audience, and by the time I strode out in front of the wizard himself, I was decidedly drunk."

"I was too intoxicated to feel fear as I looked into the eyes of the great wizard. He was an unimpressive figure on first glance, sitting on a gilded chair at the far end of the audience chamber. He was a slightly built, surprisingly youthful man, with a thin face, short, dark hair and a neatly trimmed black beard, but something about the way he sat there, utterly silent and emotionless made him seem oddly unearthly."

"I began my recitation, but straight away, things began to go wrong. Under the wizard's glassy gaze, I stumbled my words, couldn't remember lines; I was truly appalling. However, instead of becoming embarrassed and ashamed at my terrible work, I gradually became more and more angry instead, angry at the man in front of me. It felt to me in my drunken state as if the wizard was somehow doing this to me on purpose, if not by magic but by the deplorable way he was just sitting there staring unblinkingly at me, not reacting in the slightest no matter what I did."

"After a while, the anger in me rose suddenly to the surface and then exploded violently. I shouted and swore at the wizard; I can't remember exactly what I said, but it couldn't have been very complementary. For the first time, Venedir Telvarin took his eyes from me, lowering them slightly, and a strange, subtle expression passed across his face, as if some melancholic recollection was passing unwanted through his mind. Then he looked back towards me again, and though his eyes hadn't changed one bit, the slight smile playing across his lips was terrible to behold, and I suddenly became mortally afraid."

"There was no time to beg forgiveness. He stretched out his hand smoothly towards me, as if he was casually picking a flower, and the next thing I knew, I had been transformed into the ridiculous form that you see before you. All I can say is that the great wizard Telvarin had a truly unusual sense of humour. I had been transformed into an entirely magical creature, and so naturally was at the mercy of summoning from wizards. It seemed that the only proviso of this arrangement was that I would only ever be summoned when my appearance would be unwanted, which presumably was part of the punishment."

"I must have read every book on magic ever written, trying to find a way to turn myself back to normal, but it's been no use at all. I suppose it could be worse; it's not such a bad life, once you get used to it. I think Telvarin must have completely forgotten about me, besides, as everyone knows, soon after he reached the height of his power, he simply disappeared. Now, enough of this, all this talk is making my head ache, I fear I will have to take my leave."

I had been listening to this peculiar tale in a kind of trance, I snapped out of it abruptly.

"Um, OK. That was quite a story you told there," I said awkwardly.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I do go on sometimes," said Sir Henry, "Now I really must go. I feel compelled to ask, however, if I might be permitted to return and converse with you at some point in the future?"

"Oh, yes, of course," I said, not really feeling able to deny him now that I'd heard his story. "Any time."

The sprout bowed solemnly, and then vanished, with the same sudden parping sound. I opened all the windows to let out the diabolical smell.

"Well," I thought, "and there was me thinking I was the one with problems...."

Brain has crashed

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Brainware Megasystems

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warning: morality module 43% corrupt


error#6621
*please reinstall sense of humor algorithm


aptitude module : file not found




Well, last time I left you, dear readers, in the unfortunate position of being suddenly and unexpectedly confronted by a sentient Brussels sprout. *Sigh* Now, I'm sure you remember me mentioning the unexpected final summoning that my great uncle's summoning rod performed, but I didn't think I'd have to deal with the consequences of a repeat performance. I suppose this all must seem very amusing to some people. Well you don't have to deal with it! Anyway, here's the next "exciting" installment.


I think it was one of those moments when you wonder if your sanity is slipping, or about to slip away, where any idea of how the situation will resolve itself is completely impossible to see. Now, just for your information, the world I live is probably more inclined to provide stuff generally along the lines of what I'm telling you about right now, as I'm sure you realise, but take it from me, talking sprouts are not normal wherever you live.


I sat on the floor and funnily enough, I couldn't think of a thing to say, when faced by the scene before me. Instead, I sat and watched as the Brussels sprout put its hat back on. It fussily adjusted its large, wide brimmed hat and dusted itself down, then cleared its throat dramatically. It had very bushy eyebrows and a slight reddening around the cheeks and its rather bulbous nose. I felt it was about time to say something.
"Er, Hello?" I said, tentatively. Sorry I couldn't think of anything else to say, but what one earth would you actually come out with in a situation like this? Come on! I'd like to hear.


"Good evening, good evening" said the sprout. Its voice was in directly inverse proportion to its size, sounding like a cross between an elocution lesson from ninteen thirty three and an elderly thespian who'd taken to the drink. "Good evening indeed, laddie. I trust you are ready for me to begin?"


I thought it was best to try and get some kind of hold on the situation.


"Um, you know, I might seem a bit slow here, but what exactly is going on?" I said tentatively.


The sprout looked affronted.


"My recitation, my young fellow! My performance! Why on earth else would you have summoned me here if not to practice my art? Did you think that dramatic entrance was for nothing? Where is my audience?"


Oh dear, things were heading towards official "sticky situation" status.


"Well, I'm sorry, I think there might have been a slight mistake...."


The sprout raised its eyebrows. I continued as tactfully as I could. Angering it at this stage seemed like an unwise move.


"I don't think there's actually going to be much of an audience for you here, I'm afraid. I kind of called you up by mistake actually. I'm trying to figure out how it happened."


The sprout didn't seem to take the news all that well, in fact, it looked pretty temperamental.


"Uhh!" it said, rolling its eyes dramatically, evidently disgruntled. "This is the first gig I have had in over seventy years, seventy years I tell you, SEVENTY YEARS!"


At this point, I was almost on the verge of putting my fingers in my ears, so loud was the bizarre creature's voice. It seemed to be able to deafen you without even breaking into a shout and was swishing its arms about dramatically.

"
Seventy years, and this is the scene that greets my eyes? Complete amateurs! Calling me up without the slightest concern.... what is the world coming to, when an artist, an artist, Sir, such as my good self is so abominably abused!"


It pinched the bridge of its nose, closed its eyes and assumed a pained expression. I suppose there are a thousand and one questions I could have asked it at this point, but I thought it was best to try and calm it down a bit. After all, I had no idea what the thing actually was, and what it could do; for all I knew it could be some new and particularly odd kind of demon. Still, demons usually weren't very subtle and would typically be tempting you with some kind of deal that usually included the prospect of naked women and piles of gold by now, not having a big tantrum. I suppose it could have been a whole new line in demonic evolution, but I doubted it, somehow.


"Sorry about that. By the way, if you don't mind me asking, who exactly are you?"


OK, I should really have followed the question with, "and why are you a Brussels sprout?" but never mind. The sprout's countenance changed completely, it drew itself up pompously and assumed a magnanimous expression.


"Sir, it is I who have been rude. Of course, it is indeed a shame that my fame does not proceed me, but I do admit that my absence on the stage has indeed been somewhat protracted. I am known, the length and breadth of this fine land, as Sir Harold Henry Arlingworth-Crumborne-Barningsford-Trumblewake-Digsbottom the Third. But of course, you may call me Sir Henry Barnisford-Trumblewake, or just Sir Henry if you like."


"Yes," I thought to myself, "I suppose I actually have gone mad." Well, it had been a long time coming - it was almost a relief to get it out of the way.


"Well," I said brightly, "My name is Ivan the Limpet, very nice to meet you, Sir Henry."


The sprout assumed a rather ridiculous expression, as if it was mulling over some vintage wine.


"Hmm," it said, "The name seems to ring a bell. You're not related to that tall chap who summoned me up last, are you, by chance?"


"Yes, I suppose that must have been my great uncle!" I stood up in excitement. "Did you know him?"


"Yes, yes, terribly nice chap. He called me up by mistake as well, as a matter of fact, right in the middle of his fight with Lord Khaltastrom of Durngëwald. He wasn't too happy to see me at that moment, I can tell you! He was after one of those big, black wassernames to use in the battle. Still, we had a good old laugh about it afterwards."


"Nice?", I said, a bit confused. "I thought he was supposed to be a famous black mage?"


"Oh no," said Sir Henry the sprout jovially, his earlier anger seemingly forgotten. "He was a famous, or at least reasonable famous white wizard. Never really got the respect he deserved, I though. Not really headline grabbing at all, but then again he wasn't much of a self-publicist."


I don't mind saying, this surprised me somewhat, but for the time being I'll keep my own back story private. After all, I only started this thing as a general purpose chronicle of my deeds, in the hope of aquiring a minion or two, though the way things have been going this past week or so, I'm not certain it's going to work as I expected. The sprout continued.


"I'm sure he'd have been quite surprised that you're a black mage," he peered at me critically, then said, sceptically "You're not really a black wizard, are you now?"


"I think you'll find I am," I said, hurriedly. "A definite fully paid up member of the black wizard club, with the badge and everything."


Sir Henry didn't look entirely convinced.


"You know," I said, changing the subject, "you're the first person I've met that hasn't taken up some kind of issue with my name?"


"Oh, a fine name, fine indeed, Sir, very fine. Grafts a sense of the semi-permanent contemplative tempemoral elasticity to a nuance of majestic containment of the primal collapse. Did you know I'm also a noted art critic?"


"Err, no, I didn't," I said, feeling the conversation was once again slipping away from me. What on earth does "tempemoral" mean, anyway?


"You know, I'm really sorry about this, "I continued, trying to sound dipomatic, "But I was actually about to go to bed right now. If it's OK with you, maybe we could continue this conversation in the morning?"


The sprout looked slightly suprised, as if he thought that nobody on earth could possibly want to cut short a conversation with him.


"Oh, very well, very well. You don't feel like a short soliloquy first, do you?"


"Well, how about one in the morning if possible, it's been a very busy day..."


"Yes, yes," said the sprout, looking slightly put out. "I wouldn't like my audience unable to give its uttermost attention, after all. So then, I shall bit you adieu until the 'morrow."


With that, he doffed his hat once more, bowed and then disappeared suddenly in a puff of green smoke, accompanied by a soft but decidedly flatulent sound. The smell that followed, though, was truly eye-wateringly bad. It was a shame I couldn't open the windows, as the rain by this time was lashing against the panes, so I opened and closed the door repeatedly until it was bearable. It took me a good while to get to sleep, what with the unexpected excitement, plus the sound of the storm battering the tower didn't help at all. Just before I dropped off, the thought occurred to me that I hadn't ask Sir Henry why he was, in fact, a sprout. It was probably for the best, though.


In the morning, there was no sign of Sir Henry's reappearance, and were it not for the lingering after-effects of the smell, I would have put it down to a dream caused by Grott's cauliflower cheese of the evening before. After a quick breakfast, I fired up the laptop and wrote this account of yesterday's outlandish events. You know, that inter-dimensional modem wasn't a bad investment after all. So, as of twelve-thirty, there's no sign of anything much happening. I'm sure something will, though.


The weather outside looks cold and damp. The whole landscape looks washed out by the storm of the night before, and it's so overcast as to be practically perpetual twilight. Oh yes, one last thing before I go and decide what to do with the remainder of the day - I saw Eldrigar again! About quarter of an hour ago, I happened to be looking out of the bedroom window, when I saw movement from the top of his tower. I could just make out the figure of Eldrigar himself, rising imperiously, his feel wreathed in billowing purple clouds. I watched as he rapidly floated away into the grey skies. So, he can fly as well, can he? That is not a good sign at all. I wonder where he was going?


Still, I've got other problems to worry about for the time being. I wonder if something sane will happen in the near future? Stay tuned for the answer to that.... and some other stuff.

A busy day ends with vegetable problems

Well, it was a lovely sunny morning when I woke up, here in the Howling Waste. I just couldn't help but feel cheerful. I bounced out of bed at half past seven, went downstairs and helped Grott make a nice fried breakfast, which I don't normally have as I usually don't get up until half past eleven. Ah, it's good to be alive on a morning like that, even with the minor inconveniences I've been suffering recently. So long as I didn't look out of the window, I felt certain that things would work out well in the end. After all, I had a crack questing contractor out there working for me, who knows, that other wizard might only be planning to stay for a few weeks, after which he'd leave me alone for good. Anyway, I had stuff to do to take my mind off it.


The weather couldn't have been more different to the previous day as I set out from Zarfang, the sun blazing brightly in the sky high above, though the air was still a little crisp. Now, the errand I'm about to recount (as I would like to state clearly to any prospective minions that may be reading this) is one I do when I am actually entirely off duty as a dark wizard, and has absolutely nothing to do with my eventual and inevitable victory and elevation to supreme ruler of the whole world, which will unquestionably occur one day. Yes it will.



Despite what I might have said before, the Howling Waste isn't entirely unpopulated. There is the very occasional isolated house or stonemason's cottage around its edge, probably only a handful in total. After a lengthy walk over the craggy and broken landscape, I came to just one such lonely cottage, though lonely probably wasn't really the right word for it, as it's pretty much about as cheerful as cottages get. White picket fence, honeysuckle growing up the front, you know the kind of place I'm talking about. I went up and knocked on the front door, then, remembering the occupant's level of hearing, knocked again loudly.


"Just coming!" came the familiar good natured screech that old women everywhere use when they've forgotten to put their hearing aid in. After a while, the door opened to reveal the stooped figure and prune like countenance of Mrs Fengleworth, the sole human inhabitant of the cottage.


"Oh, it's you, dear," she said, peering amiably, "I'll put the kettle on and we'll have a nice cup of tea presently."



Now, once again, I would like to remind the reader that I am in fact (as should be self-evident) an entirely black-hearted and Machiavellian dark wizard, and the fact that I'm occasionally helping out old ladies with bad backs who live out in the middle of nowhere has nothing at all to do with my chosen profession. As I said before, I'm off duty when doing this sort of thing, and besides it should be obvious that this sort of behaviour is merely a cover for my sinister machinations. Honestly, I wish I'd left this bit out now.


I followed her inside, keeping a careful eye out for her small, black, slightly geriatric dog with the nauseating but unfortunately apt name of Mr Nibbles, which had a habit of biting at my ankles as I came in.



"Saw you go past the other day," said the old woman as she hobbled off in the direction of the kitchen. The odd thing is she seems to see anyone that goes past her cottage, despite the fact that someone must only pass by about once a fortnight. "Saw you go past with your lady friend," she said, turning and giving a theatrical wink.


"Ah, she's not my 'lady friend', Mrs Fengleworth," I said loudly and hurriedly, "Just a business acquaintance."


At this moment, as if sensing my guard was down, Mr Nibbles sunk his tiny sharp teeth into my ankle. Honestly, I don't know why people keep these little yappy dogs, at least half of them have the mind of a psychopath. I managed to shake him off.


"Aww," she said, "Whatever you say, dear. It's not healthy hanging around on your own all the time at your age. Now where did I put the sugar bowl..."


I won't bore you with the details of the stereotypical old person conversation I had with her. They can be quite enjoyable, really, as you don't usually have to engage your brain in the slightest, which is kind of restful, and often involve listening to lengthy monologues on random subjects such as the weather being a bit nippy or the general attitude and disposition of the new postman and how he compares unfavourably to the old one. Also, it was nice to have a conversation that could be classed as resolutely not insane. Little did I know what fate had in store for me later in the day...


It turned out she didn't need anything done, so I headed off, next stop being the Ebon Tower of Unyielding Gloom to sort out that ridiculous giant spider debacle.


Thankfully, the Giant Spider (who for some unknown reason was referred to as Mister Perkins despite the fact the blasted thing obviously didn't speak anything remotely like words, only strange, clicky spider noises) hadn't been seriously injured by my unfortunate booting of its head. Apparently, there would now be a change of policy in that the spider would be forced to wear a large name tag with "how may I help you?" on it, in case of any further confusions. Still, I didn't like the way the gnome that was reporting on the hearing was grimacing at me, I think he thought I was prejudiced towards other species, though it's pretty hard to feel intimidated by someone two foot tall with a penchant for pointy hats. Come to think of it, I've never actually met a gnome I've liked very much, maybe he was right about me (only joking of course). It was a bit suspicious that the list of job vacancies he gave me were all businesses owned by gnomes - as if I, The Great Limpet, would go and work in somewhere as un-magical as Barry the Gnome's Sandwich Factory. Still, having said that, the pay wasn't that bad. Oh well, onwards and upwards, at least I got my dole money back.


Dusk was falling as I arrived back at Zarfang, the air was still and silent. Looking past the tower I could see a huge, anvil-like cloud blotting out the sunset; there would be a storm coming later. A brief whisper of wind eddied across the landscape, as if in anticipation. I looked up at Eldrigar's tower, a vast shadow against the blackening sky, and felt the uneasy feeling that he was watching me from somewhere up there, in the darkness.


I entered hurriedly and locked the door behind me. Grott appeared to be nowhere to be found for a few minutes, then he unexpectedly turned up in the kitchen, cutting up some vegetables for dinner that night, despite the fact that he blatantly wasn't there when I'd arrived. Honestly, I think he's got some sneaky little pass time that he doesn't want me finding out about, but maybe it's best I leave him to it, whatever it is. I felt a bit gloomy heading up to bed, maybe it was the the scene outside that had stuck in my mind. I laid down on the bed, and wondered what I could do if Eldrigar attacked suddenly without warning. Maybe it was best not to think about it. The only decisively magical item in the building was currently lying on the floor in readiness to prop the door open in the morning, the summoning rod that once belonged to my great uncle.




"Hah," I thought, bitterly, "In many ways it's his fault I'm in this mess in the first place."

I went over to the door and picked up the rod. It was about a foot long, wooden and had an intricate pattern of swirls and diamonds running across it, it seemed almost a pity to use it the way I had been, even if it was totally useless. I could hear the wind outside starting to gust, along with the first faint rumbles of thunder. The air felt weirdly charged, as it often does before a storm. I must have been in a strange mood at the time, maybe my mind was wandering, I don't know, but I had the sudden impulse to speak the words of summoning. Then, all hell broke loose.

The lights went out and the room was plunged into total darkness. There was a loud snapping sound and the wind roared, bursting the windows open and sending papers and random rubbish surging around the room in a cyclone. I fell backwards, dropping the rod in shock. Suddenly the room was brilliantly lit by an enormous flash of lightning, and my blood ran cold. Something had run across the window sill, I had seen it silhouetted by the wildly flickering light, like a tiny figure but oddly and grotesquely shaped, like a human, but all body and spindly legs, it moved too fast, unnaturally fast. Before I had time to react, the wind suddenly eddied wildly and the windows were slammed shut again. The next second, the lights came back on. I was too surprised to think, and remained frozen on the floor, casting my eyes slowly around the room, searching for the horrible thing.


It was standing on the desk.


I looked at it, at first in pure horror, then in confused horror, then just pure confusion. It was round, green and obviously vegetable in origin, it had a face and tiny green arms and legs. I noticed, with an indescribable feeling, that it was wearing little leather boots and gloves, and had a black, wide-brimmed hat with a feather in it. Its face bore an expression of haughty pride, like a magician who has just performed his greatest illusion to a startled crowd of country bumpkins, and it stood with one arm raised, as if waiting for applause. Gradually, the power of speech returned to me. An unpleasant idea was slowly forming in my mind.


"Are," I began, hoarsely "Are you by any chance the Brussels sprout that can quote Shakespeare?"


The tiny figure doffed its hat, revealing a bald, leafy green head, and replied in a voice impossibly strident, rich and totally out of proportion with its tiny body:


"Sir, I am the very same"

Negotiations

Well, on the whole it hasn't been too bad a day. I say that in the hope that some random optimism will actually make it have been a better day, if that makes sense. Actually, joking apart, things haven't gone that badly. Sorry, I think I'm rambling a bit, I've been drinking some of this mysterious spirit that Grott distills up. I don't really know what he puts into it, in fact, I can't actually work out what you could physically put into a drink to make it taste the way it does. Yes, I'm probably brave to the point of foolhardiness to actually try it in the first place, but once you get used to the way it makes your tongue go totally numb and your face feel like it's made of sponge cake, it's really not that bad at all. Grott certainly seems to enjoy it, and I kind of felt left out. I just hope the consumption of this stuff isn't the cause of his complexion, but it certainly steadies the nerves.


Anyway, I suppose I'd better faithfully recount the rest of the day's events. Maevrin and I made our way back home, I maintaining a discreet silence in case the dreaded stamp torrent was unleashed once again. We entered the familiar terrain of the blasted wastes, the gloomy chill mist still lurking over it just the same as when I'd left. Coming over a rise in the ground, Zarfang came into view, along with the misty silhouette of Eldrigar's over sized spire in the distant background. Maevrin seemed to snap out of some kind of trance.


"So which one do you live in?" she asked. I sighed.


"The small one", I said with undue tetchiness.


"OK, OK, calm down," she replied, "I don't know, you wizards and your towers, it's almost as if you're trying to compensate for.."


"Oh no," I said, with a peculiar combination of haste and weariness, "Don't tell me you're starting that as well. Why is it that everyone comes out with that stuff? Everyone's an amateur psychologist these days."


She muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like "touched a nerve" and smirked to herself. I pretended not to notice.


At length, we arrived at the front door and went in.


"Grott, I'm home!" I called. There was no reply, which, come to think of it was a bloody stupid thing to write as he can't speak. What I meant to say was that Grott didn't appear.


"Who's Grott? Maevrin asked, putting her bag down just inside the door.


"Oh, he's just my manservant," I said, hoping that it would kind of impress her that I had one, and that maybe she'd change her mind about my general wizardly prowess.


"Oh," she said, disappointingly unimpressed looking.


You know, one of these days I'll let off a big massive purple fireball, then she'll change her tune. One of these days.


I was momentarily distracted by a strange grating sound, like stone on stone, very faint and coming from somewhere in the tower. Maevrin didn't appear to notice it.


"I'll just change into my questing stuff, then we can talk business", she said briskly. "If I just go into... WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?" she screamed. I nearly jumped out of my skin and whirled around.


"You nearly scared the life out of me!" I replied in disbelief. "What on earth did you do that for, it's only Grott!"


Grott had appeared at the door and was grinning, his tiny, beady black eyes fixed on Maevrin. "Honestly, he's not THAT weird looking. Well, OK, maybe he actually is pretty weird looking, but there's no need to scream. You're supposed to be going out doing a quest in a minute, are you sure your nerves can stand it?"


Maevrin was still transfixed by the sight of Grott.


"Can... Can it speak?", she said, in an over-dramatic half-whisper.


"Err, no actually, but he's very good at charades."


"How can you live with this THING lurking around the house?"


She still looked a bit stunned. Actually, though, I've got to admit I lock the bedroom door at night, not of course because I've got any problem with Grott in general, of course, but I can't help but remember the time I woke up in the middle of the night and rolled over, only to find him standing right beside the bed, staring at me, moonlight casting ghastly shadows across his gnarled and knobbly features. Of course, it turned out he was only waiting there perfectly innocently in case I wanted anything during the night, you've certainly got to admire his dedication. I did have to change the sheets after that one, though.


"Hey," I responded, slightly stung by this slight on my loyal minion. "Grott's my good and faithful companion. I think you should apologise to him - I can tell he likes you as well; he's making that bubbling noise; he always makes that when he likes people."


Grott approached, gurgling quietly. Maevrin shrank back.


"Where the hell did you get it from?", she quavered.


"Well, it's a funny story really. One night, soon after I moved in... I mean, after I wrought this place with mighty magics, he knocked on the door and gave me a piece of paper that said he'd work for free as long as he got fed regularly. Actually, I don't mind admitting that I was a bit drunk at the time, so I let him in. Come to think of it, it was a good thing I was a bit the worse for wear at the time, otherwise the whole thing might have been a bit unnerving. Still, he's a godsend with the housework, and I'm sure you'll be amazed to discover he has an almost completely neutral smell."


Maevrin didn't look terribly impressed, but at least she seemed to have calmed down.


"Sorry," she said. "I think I've been hanging around my house too long, the way he was just... standing there, it caught me by surprise."


"Yeah, I kind of know what you mean," I said, thinking of the bed incident again. "OK, I'll send him away, just go and change and we'll get this over with."


I ushered her into a small room just off the corridor, pushing her bag in after her and shutting the door behind her. I told Grott he'd better go back to whatever it was that he was up to before we arrived, and he trotted off happily. You know, maybe she did have a point, I suppose you get so used to something that after a while you don't really notice it anymore, like people who keep bizarre and nasty pets and act suprised when people spontaniously dive out of the window on seeing them.


"Fancy a cup of tea?" I yelled through the door.


"Yes please!" came the faint answer.


After a while we were sitting around the kitchen table, Maevrin wearing her slightly random assortment of armour. I got the impression that the armour was rather more to create the right business-like effect than for practicality, and it wasn't entirely flattering in all respects, but I suppose that was really none of my business.


"Right," I said, "I'm sure you couldn't help but notice that huge great tower out there? What I want you to do is break in there, and.."


"Whoa, whoa there," Maevrin interjected. "There's no way you're getting me to do that for 56 Waldroons. Stuff that's liable to get me liquidated is no-go. I'm more in the line of looking for lost keys, or stuff like that."


"Lost keys?" I replied, incredulously. "That's not much of a quest is it? Oh no, I've lost my car keys, now I'm going to be late for work, whatever will I do? I know, my saviour is at hand:- Maevrin, Mistress of quests! Oh, under the sofa, I would never have thought of that..."


"OK, OK, bad example," she said, blushing grumpily. "What I mean is finding lost items, people, that sort of thing. Finding the farmer's six wandering goats and getting seven gold coins in return. Not tangling with legitimate dark mages."


I didn't like the way she put all the stress on the word "legitimate", but I let it slide.


"Well, the situation is, there's this guy that calls himself Eldrigar the dark something-or-other of Mandrigon, he built that tower and I want to know what he's up to. Can you find out for me?"


"Hmm," she said, rubbing her chin thoughtfully, "I suppose that's different. I wouldn't have to do anything to anger him, just keep an eye on him from a distance, maybe try to strike up a conversation in some neutral location. So why are you so interested in what he's up to, anyway? And why don't you just do this stuff yourself?"


"Don't you think it's a bit strange - some dark sorcerer coming here of all places, the middle of nowhere and setting up a tower like that, right in my back garden?"


"Well, you did," she answered, smirking again "So it can't be that strange"


"I just happen to like the peace and quiet," I replied, refusing to rise to the bait, "I'll be getting on with the whole 'spreading evil and doom' dark wizard thing when I'm ready for it. As for why I'm sending you, well, you can take the offer or leave it."


"Alright, alright, calm down," she said. Actually, thinking back to her Grott related hysterics earlier she wasn't really justified in telling ME to calm down, but never mind. "I'll accept your quest. Give me a few days, and I'll report back on what I've found. I'll take the payment then. Do we have a deal?"


"Well, OK, it's a deal. But I'll only pay you the full amount if you can find something useful."


"OK, then, deal."


We shook hands. Whether this was going to work or not was another matter. I suppose if you're facing an impossible problem, you might as well sidle up to it, whistling through your teeth innocently and try to chip away at it with a few random futile efforts that you know full well will probably have no absolutely no effect at all - it's a lot better than trying to tackle things head on and getting squished in four seconds flat, plus you get the added bonus that the problem doesn't even know you're trying to tackle it. I had a nasty feeling that hiring her would probably come under the heading of random futile effort, but, well, at least I was doing something. You never know.


So we come back to me, upstairs in my bedroom, sipping that abnormal concoction of Grott's. I wonder what Maevrin's up to right now? It's dark outside, and while this provides the comfort of not being able to see Eldrigar's tower, I've noted with dismay this evening the occasional deep purple flashes and flickers near the tapering point of the spire. What could he be up to in there? I still have the nasty feeling that one of these days he'll come knocking on the door, and that'll be the end of my peaceful existence here. Then I suppose I'll have to leave, or become his lackey or something. Alas, how the mighty have fallen! Well, it's not over just yet....