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"
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