The Land of Darkly: Act Four

Listen.

When Harabladi disembarked from the gondola that evening, well staggered whilst Hacktar kept him upright by holding the scruff of his jacket, he felt nothing. Well not nothing, his body screamed at him all manner of abuse and his brain felt like a large bowl of pulsing cold porridge, but he felt not the beady red eyes of Grom, not even the merest twinge. For a moment, he wondered if perhaps that last heavy blow his skull endured from Hacktar was the one that finally shook something loose, permanently. Then he felt that familiar twinge, not like Grom, no that had its own unique suicidal butterfly's kind of twinge, but definitely someone with ill intent towards him. Unable to deal, as he could barely see blearily, with any one or thing right now he chose the safest course of action. Hacktar barely paused as he felt Harabladi go limp and quickly whipped him up onto his giant-tortoise large shoulder.

Stallay Mechudra watched Hacktar and Harabladi pass by from a dark alley, even unconscious with Harabladi's dirty flopping head gently nosing Hacktar's, back, he looked so, so, gorgeous. She felt a patter of little feet caroming vengefully around her heart, and could barely restrain herself from leaping out to kiss his grimy lips. Sweat beaded and rolled down her honeyed cheeks, hidden in deep shadow by the dark hood of her black robe, evidence of her internal torture. With a gasp, she turned and strode the opposite way deeper into the alley, and for a moment, she thought she smelt cigar smoke.

Stallay's fellow black robed sisters gathered in the great hall of the temple Okranu, gave way to her as she swept forward through the crowd. With her hood thrown back Stallay's beauty shone forth like an almost terrifying blinding light, it was as thought all the gods of beauty had scrimped on millions, saving it all for her. Stallay's passage from above looked like the effect of a dancing bee (talking about an approaching forest fire) on a swarming hive floor.

The truth was no matter your gender, age or even species, Stallay seemed to be the most beautiful creature you had ever seen, or ever would see. Even as a child, she had sent hordes of men, women, and a few brighter than normal dogs into PA, paedophiles anonymous. Until the day, she came to the attention of Mother Superior Tilwayh of the Okranu order. Her mother had more than willingly sequestered Stallay into the orders care. Not only for a generous sum but also frankly, Stallay's mum was simply exhausted from fending off the dazed and confused. Stallay never blamed her mother for leaving her, raised by the Okranu sub-order of blind virgin priestess assassins. She came to understand what she was and what she could do. Slowly introduced to the effect she had on sighted beings (they started with chickens). Stallay slowly and surely became the orders top-secret most deadly weapon.

“How DARE you come before us UNCOVERED!”

Stallay heard as she parted the sea of bodies before her. It was the soprano voice of Tilwayh, of that there could be no doubt; some said she rivalled the Queen herself in pure decibel output. Stallay could hear the slap of knees pressed together and little orgasmic gasps following behind her, and part of her quailed at her bold actions. Tilwayh was quite rightly not amused, few of their order had ever seen Stallay bare faced. Even the great Tilwayh, hardened by years of gradual exposure, still had to fight the temptation to bathe Tilwayh’s feet in milk and suck them clean (her number one fantasy). However, another part of Stallay rallied and firmly squashed the other wetly underfoot, driven by those damn little feet that rocked her world.

The last of the sisters dispersed before her, leaving Stallay marching alone up to the gilded dais upon which Tilwayh stood and glared down at her. They locked eyes with an almost audible clash, an infinite island sea blue matched with an unfathomable emerald green.

At one hundred and four Tilwayh had the pale umber skin of a forty-year old, and the most extraordinary bleached-bone-white dreadlocks, which hung to her ankles and contrasted vividly with the black robe. However, it was those large green eyes that demanded attention blazing outward belying her innocent small pixie face.

They both remained glaringly silent; Stallay was waiting for the quiet sighs, moans, and general commotion of the gathered sisters to subside. (And not even the Forgotten Mountain Gradzod Mind-melders, could know what Tilwayh was really thinking.) Eventually a strained silence ranged across the vast gloomy hall, a pregnant absence of normal sound, that screamed its opposite was just around the corner.

“If you think I am going to discuss anything with you here and now, think again pipsqueak,” Tilwayh said in a tight-lipped whispered that was certainly only audible to Stallay. From close by Stallay heard the faintest of cloth brushes, and knew that behind her now stood , at least five of her blind virgin priestess assassin compadre's. “So why don’t you put on your milk… hood and depart with your squad to my chambers and we will have a nice chat when I am done here”.

Stallay considered her options quickly, she hadn't really thought this through enough, and of course, she would be seen as an open threat to the Mother Superior, indeed to all who were here now. It was this beast called love that ravished her senses and turned everything upside down; even now, it roared and stamped its little feet, even harder. She would bewitch them all she decided firmly, if it meant she could be with Harabladi.

Stallay smiled gloriously at Tilwayh (who suddenly felt her knees weaken and smelt milk on naked flesh), but then collapsed lifeless onto the slate floor, from an expert blow to her occipital skull bone.

Grom awoke and his first thought was, well I guess the dead do sleep, he could even remember brief dream fragments, and dream too. He sat up groggily and found himself eye to eye with the most ugly bloody slime ridden features he had ever seen. Not just one set of them either a whole pack of them, all staring hungrily at him. Startled he bolted backwards only to smack painfully into what felt like glass, the creatures made no move toward him, but continued to gaze at him fixedly.

Looking over the heads of the diminutive creatures it appeared to Grom, as if they were in a great round glass hall whose walls stretched upward beyond sight. It was empty of anything except the pack of creatures and he, with an impenetrable blackness all around. However, from high above, like the light from a lone far away comet in a starless night sky, a dim glow gave form to his surroundings. Feeling the smooth hardness with his hands behind him, he turned and hammered on the glass barrier in confusion. Was not he a ghost, and in his brief experience as a ghost nothing had been impenetrable, nothing, and gone was that waft and slight urge to be near Harabladi. Perplexed he turned back to face the creatures, and going on pure habit asked.

“Any of youse got a deck of cards?”

Harabladi woke up the next morning with a great big smile on his face. He leapt out of bed energised, and did not even give his painted younger-self corpse opposite, a first glance never mind a second. Nothing it seemed could remove the grin from his face. Not even discovering Hacktar comatose in the kitchen surrounded by the empty bottles of his entire vintage red wine collection. It was Juddday, which for many in Darkly, was the only day of rest in their thirteen-day week, and the streets of Desee were crammed with jostling people in a carnival mood.

In just four hours Harabladi well disguised as a black ops insurance accountant disguised as a tourist, exchanged the magic gold coin some fourteen times. He then disguised himself as a hands-on nobleman disguised as a trader, and promptly spent it all in a supremely delicious bout of retail therapy.

Grom thought he recognised the man when he popped out of thin air and landed in the middle of their card game. It was however only after much greatly agonising tip of the tonguing that he recalled the unconscious man's name. As he watched him propped up against a wall it came to him, he was Thilgrad the moneychanger's Ulag's brother.

By the time the fifteenth, ghostly, unconscious, moneychanger or related body, slammed into their card game (they had tried moving the game around the hall but it made no difference), Grom thought he glimpsed a pattern.

Just then, one of the horribly ugly creatures sitting in the card circle, coughed violently, shivered, wheezed, wiped the blood of its lips, and lit up a cigar stub (the only one who had so far beaten Grom in a game of Fingers Five). Once the cigar stub was drawing well, it looked up, eyed out Grom, and then said.

“Hello Grom… let me tell you something about what a good cigar, really is.”

The Prince returned from his swim in the river, clean and sparkly, carrying two large dead fish, looking very pleased with himself. Gelmernia thought smug might be the right word.

“My Lord,” said Gelmernia, “You do realize you are wearing nothing.”

“I am wearing fish” replied the Prince. “It's the latest fashion in…well, here”.

The fish were, Gelmernia saw, draped strategically – and somewhat optimistically – in front of the Princes groin.

Really, thought Gelmernia, Minnows would have done just as well…

“You killed them yourself, my Lord?”

“Yes!” shouted the Prince, proudly. “Well, no. In a way. My vomit seemed to have some sort of unpleasant effect on them. They left the river. Once they were on the bank and wriggling, it was fairly easy to order one of the guards to club them with a stone. Wow! Horse-urine shots, hey? They really do have a kick to them…get it?”

He laughed and his guards laughed with him.

Gelmernia could only chuckle weakly, and not just because of the awful pun, and the fact that he’d heard it exactly eighteen times before from the Prince.

He realized, sadly, and somewhat nervously, that the amount of pringleberry that had accumulated in the Prince's organs had reached a certain level of toxicity. It was this component in the bile of the Prince's reverse-swallowing act that had driven the fish out of water.

He couldn't let the Prince have any more for at least a week.

Damn. This was going to make The Library Scheme far more difficult than he had anticipated.

“Well,” said the Prince, taking a Royal robe from one of his bodyguards, and in turn handing him the fish, “These will do nicely for lunch, will they not?”

“Uh, no,” said Gelmernia. “They may look – to the layman – like normal, uh, trout, but in fact these fish are very toxic.” He sounded more convincing than usual, because he was telling the truth. Most of it, anyway.

“Really?” said the Prince, looking at the fish suspiciously. “A pity. One was really looking forward to fish for lunch.”

“My Lord, I'm sure one of your many soldiers, along with two or three cooks, might find some more palatable examples in the river.” He pointed to a nearby guard. “You!”

“Yes, My Lord Intelligencer?” asked the guard.

“Fish. In the river. Retrieve several and we shall have them for lunch.”

“Very well, my Lord” said the guard, and turned to the river.

“Wait!” said Gelmernia.

The guard turned back.

“From the area downstream of where the Prince bathed, it appears the trout are of a particularly toxic and deadly species, probably due to, uh, proximity to the Forest. I did see some perfectly suitable food trout further upstream. About a mile or so.” He paused, doing some calculations in his head. “In fact, it was two miles.”

The guard sighed. "As you say, My Lord" He turned towards the river again, headed upstream, drawing his short-sword as he went.

On seeing this, Gelmernia sighed, and muttered, “When all you have is a hammer…” He raised his voice. “Lunch may be a while, My Lord”.

“No trouble” said Rolan. “In fact, I may have a pre-lunch power nap”.

“Excellent idea, sir. We shall await your return before cooking...whatever it is…that guard manages to catch with his…fishing implement”.

The Prince moved off with his bodyguard, leaving Gelmernia staring at the forest, lost in thought.

How was he going to get the Prince to follow his exact orders without pringleberry?

There was always Throatwood – he had sufficient supplies of that. But the effects on the voice of the victim were unpleasant and eventually irreversible. Eventually, all they could utter were barking noises – hence the name. And although he shuddered at the pun, Gelmernia understood that the inhabitants of the Forgotten Mountains would have their little jokes…he supposed it made up for their lack of offspring that could walk upright on two legs, and so frequently had three...or more tails.

Gelmernia had to admit to being slightly jealous that he, himself, did not have a tail. Preferably a forked one. Just for special occasions, of course.

There was an antidote to Throatwood - Catfer - but that in itself was horribly toxic and the thought of watching the Prince lick himself clean did not endear that particular substance to Gelmernia.

He was considering his store of compulsion-compounds when he suddenly became aware of a sharp, pressing pain in his bladder.

Not now!

But it would not leave him, and, attempting to hide his limp -the pain was severe indeed - he made his way to his large tent -only slightly smaller than the Royal Pavilion itself - walked in, and made sure the entrance was firmly sealed before collapsing onto the ground.

He’d had his steel-wood chest removed from the carriage. It was about half the size of a coffin. This chest of compounds, mixtures and substances was at the back of the tent, and it took him four painful minutes to crawl that far, cursing himself all the way for not putting it at the entrance, and the cursing himself for cursing himself -no-one could see the contents of the chest, and leaving it by the entrance was just asking for trouble, which was exactly why he’d put it at the back of the tent.

Additionally, how could he have foreseen this, of all things? He'd expected another month before any of them returned – and they had the strictest instructions not to return this way unless it was imperative.

It had better be imperative, or there would be more than just fish for lunch.

Unlocking the chest took a further five minutes, mostly because of the number of padlocks, straps, and magical wards. Crawling clear, he whispered “Cas razata”.

A black fog shot up from the chest to the roof of the tent. That fog was instant death for anyone else, and even Gelmernia, who took the antidote every morning, would have an unpleasant few moments of struggling to breathe should he be exposed to it directly.

After an excruciating further two minutes, holding his abdomen, lying on the ground, the fog returned to the reservoirs in the chest.

The manufacture of the chest was a mystery to Gelmernia himself. It had been his ticket to success, certainly; his predecessor had taught him the rituals and rites that accompanied it; but even that venerable gentleman (who had somehow choked to death on a simple cup of, um…tea…that Gelmernia had prepared for him) had not known the history of the chest.

It was really the only true expression of actual magic in the Kingdom of which Gelmernia was aware – even the Forgotten Mountains specialized in alchemy, rather than magic. Although they did edge toward that boundary sometimes, particularly when either the moon or the buckets of moonshine were full…then the banjos would play…

Unfortunately it seemed all of the chest's magic was malevolent and involved the infliction of pain, or painful death, or pain that made you made you want to die, but didn't let you, or variants thereof.

Gelmernia reached into the chest.

It was at this point that Gelmernia would have benefited from knowledge of the history of the magical chest.

The history of that chest was stored in the very library Gelmernia was, in general, attempting to loot. It is doubtful that he would have found that history, of course, because of everything else that will be going on at the same time that he gains access to the Library.

But the Guardians Of The Scrolls, and the intersection of their existences with that of the Prince, Gelmernia, Stranger-To-All, and The Little Girl In The Red Hood, have their story later in this narrative, in strict chronological order.

Had he found that history, it would have told the following story, in an ancient language written in an indecipherable alphabet:

Seven hundred years earlier, in the snow-capped peaks above the Forgotten Mountains, in a modest cave, had lived a sorcerer.

A depressed sorcerer.

Well, depression goes without saying. Who wouldn't be depressed, living in a cave?

Perhaps grieving might additionally convey his mood more appropriately.

A depressed, grieving and – since his coat had had been stolen and eaten by a snow-tiger during his once-a-month bathe the previous day – a cold sorcerer.

It was going to take a while for the snow-tiger pelt to cure, after all.

He woke up one morning, and went to the mouth of the cave, completely naked. Since he was cold, and very, very old, that is all the description that is really necessary.

A sudden flurry of snow directly in front of him puzzled him for a few moments until the blue flashes of lightning emanating from it allowed him to recognize an Arrival.

This made him very angry, but he restrained himself. If only, he thought, everyone else would restrain themselves.

The flying snow melted and turned into steam, and from the resulting cloud, stepped a tall man who wore something black that appeared to be melted into his skin.

The tall man beamed in greeting. “Lorchas! My old friend!” Then he grimaced. “Do put something on, my old, old friend.”

Lorchas – for such was his name – grunted. “Nothing to put on, Aven,” he said. “Besides, all this hair keeps me warm.”

“It's not the temperature that concerns me, old friend. It's my appetite.” Aven patted his ample stomach.

Lorchas grunted again. “No need for appetite. Nothing to eat. Well, snow-tiger stew, but it's not very good. And besides, I'm not sharing.”

Aven approached Lorchas, and gingerly patted him on the back. “Well, let's see this cave of yours, shall we?”

Lorchas sighed very deeply. “Very well”.

He turned and led Aven into the cave.

Aven couldn't repress a shiver of revulsion, as he took a quick opportunity to wipe the newly transferred carpet of Lorchas's old matted hair off his hand and onto the rock beside the entrance. All the while trying to remember a few simple disinfectant spells that didn't require vocalization.

The cave was, in the manner of caves, dark. Apart from the reflected sunlight from the snow, in fact, there was no other source of light.

Aven automatically raised his hand, and snapped his fingers.

A warm yellow light blossomed above his hand and rose to the ceiling.

Lorchas whipped around, and snapped his own fingers. A coiling black fog encircled the pretty light, and strangled it.

“Why,” said Lorchas, with some venom, “Do none of you listen to me?”

“It was just a light, Lorchas!” Aven said, frowning. “A simple little light. I can't see a damn thing in here.” He quickly added, “Old friend.”

Lorchas said, “I haven't adjusted the mirrors yet. Hold on. And do not move.”

Then came an annoyingly long as Lorchas hobbled around the cave, doing things that squeaked. At one point, he walked straight into Aven, scaring both of them into girlish screams.

“I told you not to move!” yelled Lorchas.

“I didn't move!”

“You did!”

“I did not.”

“You did so. And don't talk back, you'll get my dander up!”

Aven shut up, although he tried again to remember those simple unvoiced spells that might kill the things crawling up his arm from his hand, where it had come into contact – again – with Lorchas.

He really had to accomplish his purpose quickly, he thought if only for the sake of his hygiene.

After one final long protracted squeeeeeeeeak light from the outside bounced from one shiny silver mirror to another. It illuminated the interior of the cave very nicely, Aven had to admit, although, on seeing the interior, he sort of wished it didn't.

Several bloody animal skins – most with some of the animal still attached – hung, rotting, from a rope on the right.

Apart from that, there was a chair, a cold fireplace above which hung a pot that looked about as sanitary as the skins. That the pot was half-full did not reassure Aven in any way. He could well imagine that it was never quite empty, and thus probably held some sort of record for the longest-lasting stew in the world. Which would have been fine if it had still been cooking…

Eeeugh Aven thought, but managed to suppress the shiver this time.

There were also several wooden shelves mounted at angles other than perfectly horizontal to the back wall of the cave. They held an overflowing pile of books.

There it is. His library.

Pretending little interest in the books, he turned and found Lorchas a few inches from his nose.

He let out another girlish scream, not least because, in the very act of drawing breath for the scream, he had breathed of Lorchas's breath.

“You want the books,” said Lorchas.

“No, I don't.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I do not.”

“Stop arguing, you little twit. You always thought you had the world fooled with your lies, but I always saw through them, didn't I?”

After a resentful pause, Aven nodded.

“Well, I'll give them to you. There's not much purpose to them anymore, is there?” said Lorchas, turning away.

“I wouldn't say that,” said Aven.

“I would,” said Lorchas, turning back, and Aven was embarrassed to see a tear or two trickling down into the long white beard…where, he reflected, the liquid would probably be feeding an entire ecology of…things.

“The magic,” said Lorcha. “Is dying”.

“You know,” said Aven “There are some of us who disagree with that analysis”,

“You mean you”.

“Yes. Although I have managed to convince the Council of my views”.

“And so the waste goes on.” Lorchas grabbed Aven by the collars of his skin-suit – the only parts that protruded. “What happens when it's all gone? Hmm?”

“We really doubt that will happen.”

“And if you're wrong?”

“Well, then, you win.”

Lorchas sat on his stool and put his head in hands. “I dont want to win, you little toilet-stick. I want people – well, sorcerers, anyway – to listen. Just to listen.”

“Look, I don't disagree that it’s getting weaker,” said Aven. “No-one does.”

“And every time you use it for a little light, or for rearranging the furniture in that country house of yours, the one with the pretty scullery boys, it gets less. It gets used up.”

“Um, I think you mean scullery girls” said Aven.

Lorchas lifted his face, and then one eyebrow.

Aven hurriedly changed the topic “We’ve identified something. Something new”.

Lorchas lifted the other eyebrow.

“Don't think we haven't listened, you old snow loon. We have. And obviously, since all our power in the affairs of simple men lies in our manipulation of magic, we are equally concerned. So we've been looking.”

“For what?” asked Lorchas. He almost looked interested, thought Aven.

“We've done some very carefully controlled experiments. And it appears that – although our little tricks do use up some of the magic – the source itself is being drained. By someone else.”

“Who?”

“We don't know,” said Aven. He nodded to the library. “We were hoping to find the answer in there somewhere. Those books don't actually belong to you, you realize that.”

“Well, the college refused to pay my annual bonus. It only seemed fair.”

“To take all of the most ancient and precious manuscripts?” Aven waved a hand. “Never mind. You were always the most learned of us, if not the most powerful.”

“Oh, yeah?” snarled Lorchas. “I remember dunking you in the pool with nothing more than a quill in my hand.”

“I've been trying to forget that all of my life,” said Aven. “Even saw a therapist – it helped a bit. You should try it. I'll give you his card – hah, silly me. He'd be very dead by now, of course. But I was an initiate. I'm stronger than you now. We both recognize that, I trust?”

“No” said Lorchas.

“Yes” said Aven.

“No, you're not” said Lorchas.

“Yes, I am” said Aven.

“Power,” said Lorchas, “Is not a simple measure. It's not who can channel the most magic without hurting themselves. It's really those who can use the least to accomplish that which needs to be done.”

Aven digested that. “Lorchas,” he said. “It's precisely thoughts like that that we miss, on the Council. Please come back. Help us find out who this person – or this thing is – that is removing magic from our world.”

“You're sure about this?” asked Lorchas. “I'd be happy to be wrong about my theory.”

“We're very sure.”

“Well, I can't join you,” said Lorchas. “I’m dying. And that's something I'd prefer to do alone, frankly.”

There was a moment of silence. Which, all things considered, thought Aven, was somewhat…premature.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” said Aven. “If you would just take a little – a trickle – from the Source, it would be unnecessary. You know now it won't make much difference.”

“No,” said Lorchas. “On the contrary. If you identify this thing that is…eating our magic, you'll have to do battle with it. It is inimical to our very existence”.

“I see,” said Aven, making a mental note to look up the word inimical when he got back to the College.

“And you'll need everything you have…including, possibly, what I might take from the Source in order to heal myself, or prolong my life any further.”

“Well,” said Aven. “If that's your decision. We on the Council do have one favour to ask.”

“Yes?”

“We need an Artefact. And you were always the best Fashioner”.

“Yes, I know” said Lorchas “What is it you require?”

“We too have foreseen the possibility of actual combat. And, as you yourself said, long ago, war is about information.”

“It is,” said Lorchas, “In this case, the identity of your assailant would be the primary piece to obtain”.

Aven nodded, somewhat impatiently. “We are doing that. But we would deny him – or it – the most secret of our secrets. We need, in a word, a safe. In the form of a secure chest.”

“Ironwood?” asked Lorchas “It's difficult to come by, these days”.

Aven flicked his fingers and a large sack appeared next to him.

“This is what remains,” he said. “Be conservative. We’re growing more, but I don't think we’ll have the two hundred years that it takes before the need for the chest becomes…necessary.” He frowned, mostly at the redundancy in that sentence. “We may not even have a year. We need to attack before the Source is exhausted.”

“Two weeks” said Lorchas “I can guess the size”.

“Two weeks, then” said Aven “I’ll be back. If I may take the books, though? We do need to begin researching…well, stuff”.

Lorchas laid a hand upon Aven's shoulder, much to the latter's silent revulsion. “It will be my masterwork,” he said.

And it was.

So when Gelmernia reached into the chest and found the scroll tucked away in the corner, he didn't realise what he'd just done – despite having done it many times before without any ill effect.

The magical ward he'd triggered, by reaching into that corner of the box just so, at this particular time of day – something he'd never done before -- started building. It had only the smallest fragments of magic to draw on, and it would take days to reach its full power, but once set in motion, it was unstoppable.

Lorchas had called it The Ultimate Vortex Of Summoning And Destruction And Blood. Which, once his subtle use of language was analysed and penetrated, did not, it could not be denied, really bode very well.

The pain in Gelmernia's bladder was extreme. He now felt as though he was trying to pass a stone the size of a decapitated head. He had an idea of what was happening – or rather, who – but he needed to make sure.

In his own excellent penmanship, on the scroll, was marked a list of organs of the body, and, next to each, the code names of his agents.

Yes. It was indeed Troublemaker. Which meant something serious was up with the Varangians.

He replaced the scroll and carefully selected a vial from a carefully marked section of the chest. It was filled with glowing green liquid.

Fortunately, unlike the agent in question, Gelmernia did not need to drink the liquid.

This is going to be awkward to explain to the Prince, Gelmernia thought. But he had no choice, really. And it was in service to his Kingdom, after all. Which would one day be his!

Enough! cried his bladder.

He dropped the vial on the grass over which his tent had been erected, extracted a small hammer from the chest, and smashed the vial. “Ah,” he said, as the pain in his bladder vanished. A sudden swirling gust filled the tent, sucking at the canvas and picking at Gelmernia’s clothes.

It was much stronger than he expected

Much, much stronger...

The roaring gust built up in seconds to nearly hurricane force inside the tent, and then…

”Oh, shit” Gelmernia had time to say, before it, all went to the hells…

The Royal Bodyguards, surrounding the Royal Pavilion, and the snoring Prince, heard the sound of a screaming wind…very strange in this clear, still, blue air…

…and then were quite surprised to see The Royal Intelligencer's tent crumple oddly, turn around, and then charge at them, neighing wildly, as crossbow bolts hissed passed their heads.

In perfect formation, they turned and ran screaming towards the river.

The tent came to a fairly abrupt halt, and started grazing on the tall grass.

“You stupid sod!” came Gelmernia's voice. “Get that thing out of here, before I kill you. Stop whining! That's just a crossbow bolt --- you think that is painful, well, you'll have a chance to reconsider that fairly shortly!”

There followed a series of threats and words which, for the sake of sensitive readers, will not be set down here. Mostly, these threats involved tender parts of the male anatomy.

Then, a completely different voice, “Oh shut up, you stupid Quill-Pusher!”.

Followed by a meaty thud.

And the Ultimate Vortex – which had played no part in what was, when all was said and done, the Return of Stranger-To-All To The Kingdom—well, it continued building, silently, in the place where the tent had been. Feeding on the remnants of magic used by Gelmernia's little spells.

So, whether what happened later was Gelmernia’s fault, or that of Stranger-To-All, for using the green vial and invoking an automatic Spell Of Return, could be debated.

But at the moment it seemed quite doubtful either of them would have the chance to have that debate.

Because, unnoticed by anyone, while all of this was going on, from the Forest, had emerged a little girl with a red hood. And she Was Not Happy.

Act Four was written by Colin Meier and Ivor W. Hartmann

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