Mirkin Topp and the Hair of the Dog

Introduction

2004-11-16T08:06:00.000-08:00

'Mirkin Topp and the Hair of the Dog' is a novel I wrote back in November 2004 as part of the National Novel Writing Month, an annual scheme which challenges people (or fools, depending on your point of view) to write a 50,000 word novel from scratch in just 30 days.

This is the result.

Or rather, the first ten chapters of the result. Even I have a limit to the amount of dodgy material I'm willing to inflict on the worldwide web.

It's the true story of Mirkin Topp's incredible journey south across the Aero Plains, over the Bear-Faced Mountains, and through the Viktoria Wood to the Lords Prairie, then onwards to The Implacable Maw to face The Hooded Donkey in a deadly game of Kerplunk for the right to take the hairy puppy Luv back to Roi Castle to make a wig for the balding King Pip the Fantabulous.

Well ok, maybe it's not actually true. But it does feature swashbuckling adventure at the hands (well, claws) of Giant Mountain Geese, clairvoyant bears, runaway yetis, and a plumber called Dave. Not to mention a ventriloquism act by the name of Lip Trembling Len & his Gabbling Gottle o' Geer. So it's quite profound. And it has a lot of hippo references.

Anyone wishing to offer me vast sums of money for the right to publish this masterpiece, or its sequel 'Mirkin Topp and the Bee in the Bonnet' (which doesn't actually exist, but could do, given 4 weeks notice), can e-mail me by clicking on the button to the left (the one that says 'E-mail Me', not the one that says 'I Power Blogger').

Alternatively you can visit my Home Page by clicking here, or read a day by day account of the writing of the novel by visiting the November archive of my blog, Mulled Whines, here.

Chapter One

2004-11-16T08:05:00.000-08:00

Mirkin Topp opened his eyes and lifted his head. The expensive duck feather pillow, rendered considerably less valuable now by the addition of an unidentified (yet surprisingly adhesive) gloop, came with it. So too did a pounding at the temples and a sourly textured taste in the mouth which told him the inevitable: he’d been drinking again. He carefully peeled the pillow from the side of his face and examined it with blurry eyes. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the particular bodily fluid which had stuck it fast to his left cheek, and neither was he sure its colour had a name which could be found in any dictionary. There was a chance, he thought, that he had produced something truly unique here. Feeling a certain inner satisfaction at this achievement, he belched, turned the pillow over and lay down again.

His aching body protesting at the effort of such extreme levels of activity so early in the day, he slowly rubbed his bloodshot eyes, looked up at the ceiling, and yawned. A spider dropped silently from the wooden beams above and slipped down his throat like a runaway oyster. Mirkin swallowed. It was the first protein he’d had all day.

As he lay there gently wheezing, the pounding in his head began to intensify. Thud-thud-thud. Louder and louder it came, bouncing around his skull with a rising volume and a growing urgency, reverberating around his brain and touching every nerve behind his eyes. Thud-thud-thud. Dull pain echoed through his whole body. It seemed to call to him: Mirkin... Mirkin... only to pound once again with an ever increasing fervour. It was the relentless soundtrack to the agonising hangover from hell. Either that, or there was someone at the door. Considering the situation for a moment, Mirkin plumped for the latter.

Rolling onto his side, he looked across his cluttered single-roomed home, past the carved oak table piled high with the unwashed dining debris of the past week, towards the front entrance: an arched wooden door with a small diamond of glass set at head height in its centre. Head fuzzy, vision still blurry, he could nonetheless make out a face peering through from the other side.

“Mirkin!” said the face.

“Go away,” said Mirkin.

“It’s me – Bray! I can see you’re in there.”

Mirkin paused for a moment to consider the possibility of suing the builder who had advised him against fitting frosted glass in the door, before remembering that he’d died in a freak accident the previous spring when the new Super-Storm 2000™ reinforced roof he’d just completed unexpectedly collapsed under the pressure of a mild breeze. There seemed little chance of a lawsuit now. “Humph.” said Mirkin.

The unseen fists belonging to the regrettably visible face continued to knock. “Come on Mirk, it’s important!”

Mirkin pulled the pillow from behind his head and covered his face, a decision he regretted moments later as realisation dawned that the mystery gunk with the unnamed colour was now being pressed into his features, and that it had an accompanying odour for which an adjective had not yet been invented. Fearing that it might also have a taste to match, but lacking the inclination to find out, Mirkin threw the pillow across the room, sat up, and wiped his face on the blanket which covered him. The knocking continued.

“This better be good, Bray…” called Mirkin.

“It is, it is!” came the reply.

Body aching, mouth dry, Mirkin hauled himself out of bed and trudged across the room towards the door. A pudgy face was pressed up against the window like a child outside a sweet shop, watching his every move. Mirkin paused at the oak table and scanned the selection of used mugs, plates and bowls for anything edible or drinkable. Finding nothing to dissolve the furry lining of his tongue, he took another step, trod on his pillow, and stumbled onwards, each pace a step of cushioned squelchiness. Reaching the door, he stood flamingo-like and peeled the pillow from his foot, before launching it back across the room where it landed with a thud on the grave of a recently departed spider. Mirkin opened the door and found himself eye to eye with the depressingly chirpy face of the enthusiastic knocker.

“What is it, Bray..?” he mumbled.

Bray looked down, distracted. “What’s that between your toes?”

“Nothing,” said Mirkin.

“It looks like cottage cheese.”

“Well this is a cottage, isn’t it?”

“It’s more of a hovel if you ask me. Honestly Mirkin, what’s going on? You shouldn’t be living like this. You’re descended from some of the most graceful and noble peoples this land has ever seen. You’re a skilled being, a talented creature, your people have done more than any other race to make this world great. And now look at you. You’re hung over, overweight, and lying in bed until noon with dairy products between your toes. Don’t you know what a waste that is of your birthright?”

“Hey, just because I’m an elf, doesn’t mean I have to know anything about the culture. I have pointy ears. So what.”

Bray took a hold of Mirkin’s shoulders and looked him squarely in the eye. “So what???" He stopped suddenly. “Hang on, are you wearing a face-pack?”

“No,” said Mirkin nonchalantly. “It’s cottage cheese.”

“It smells like it’s gone off.”

“I didn’t have access to a fridge.”

“Oh. Interesting colour though.”

“I know. I’m thinking of redecorating.”

“Right.” Bray looked distracted. “Where were we?”

Mirkin scratched his armpit and yawned. “Well I was in bed, and you were out on a limb.”

“I’m only trying to help, Mirkin. You’re wasting your life here.”

“Well thanks for popping round with that breaking news, but really, I have things to do.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

“You’d be surprised. Spiders don’t just eat themselves you know.”

“What?”

Mirkin turned to leave, only to be halted by the thumb and forefinger of Bray, attached firmly to his ear, and pulling him back towards the doorway.

“Listen Mirk,” said Bray, “I know you’ve started drinking again, and I’m not standing by this time while you throw your life away. I’m a mild-mannered man, but I can be tough if I want to be.”

“You’re not a man, you’re a dwarf,” said Mirkin bluntly.

Bray jumped down from the large wooden barrel on which he’d been standing, and walked through Mirkin’s legs into the cottage. “PORG, actually.”

Mirkin turned and looked down. “Whatever. The bottom line is you can’t reach the bar at ‘The Bitch & Butt’, and that precludes you from having an opinion in this matter.”

“’The Bitch & Butt’? That dive? What on earth possessed you to go back there?”

“They do bar snacks.”

“Cottage cheese?” asked Bray.

“Amongst others,” replied Mirkin.

“Really Mirkin, you need to sort your life out. Look at this place.” Bray climbed up onto the table and picked his way through the detritus of eating utensils and discarded mugs. He looked down and shook his head. “I won’t ask for a cup of tea.”

Mirkin shut the front door and pulled up a chair. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s rude to walk around on other people’s furniture?”

“I don’t like to be looked down on.”

“Standing on the table won’t stop that happening.”

Bray looked his friend in the eye. “You should know.”

“The difference is that I don’t care what people think of me.”

“That much,” said Bray, “is obvious.”

Mirkin yawned. “So did you just come around here to point out my shortcomings, or is there a reason for your visit?”

Bray walked to the edge of the table and sat down, stumpy legs dangling over the side. “Oh yes! There is a reason. Sorry, I was distracted by the empty beer barrels outside, and the trail of distressed children stretching from the high street to your front door. I think they heard you singing on the way home.”

“Kids today. They wouldn’t know good music if they fell over it.”

“Yeah, well anyway, that’s not why I’m here.” Bray drew himself up to a sadly deficient height. “Brace yourself. I have big news.”

Mirkin was unmoved. “How big?”

Bray paused for dramatic effect. “The king’s guards are looking for you.”

“That’s not big news, that’s bad news.”

“Not necessarily. The word is that the king has personally requested to see you.”

“Does he still employ the big sweaty bloke with the axe?”

“Not sure. I think he’s on a job-share with the club-wielding ogre. But they’re underused these days. And frankly the king’s got better things to do than pay to have your blood removed from his ogre’s best club. I’ve got a good feeling about this one Mirkin – I think it’s going to be good news.”

“You would say that,” Mirkin muttered, “you’re not the one with a death warrant hanging over your head.”

“True,” replied the cheery dwarf. “That must be why I’m in such a good mood today. So come on, get dressed, shave your tongue, and we’ll go and hand you over to the authorities.”

NEXT

Chapter Two

2004-11-16T08:04:00.000-08:00

The kingdom of Phillysia was a predominantly peaceful land. Elves lived happily alongside dwarves, hobbits co-existed with orcs, and trolls mingled cheerfully with fat Elvis impersonators. Wars were almost non-existent, and King Pip the Fantabulous ruled with a velvet glove, having found the iron fist approach a little uncomfortable. It was a world of magic and mystery, with pretty young girls regularly being sawn in half on a Saturday night, doves appearing out of thin air, and the phrase “Pick a card” featuring in scrolled lettering on the king’s official coat of arms.

The small town of Melee lay to the north of this land, between the Benni Hills and the Bear-Faced Mountains. It was an inconsequential place, cruelly overlooked by guidebooks, and rarely found on people’s lists of must-see locations. But it was home to Mirkin Topp, and as such, it was a special place.

Well ok, not that special. But it had nice views of the River Feenix and a thriving line-dancing community, so the place wasn’t without redemption.

Mirkin was the last of the four ‘Topps of Ackapulko’, a travelling musical act which had made their way north from the banks of Rikky Lake via the bars and taverns of Phillysia, driven from town to town with a song in their hearts and an angry mob on their tail, whilst simultaneously popularising the phrase “For one night only”. Arriving in Melee many moons ago, Mirkin had chosen to embark on a solo career, citing musical differences and a love of contemporary jazz, and splitting from the remaining three members of his family, who continued on as a trio, garnering rave reviews from the features editor of The Daily Thompson, before meeting an abrupt and tragic end a week later when they were eaten by a giant hippo. Mirkin had never quite got over their demise. He’d always loved hippos.

Finding solace in drink, Mirkin’s solo career had peaked with an appearance at Fat Andy’s House of Soul in the cultural heartland of Melee, before troughing the following weekend with a two minute a cappella performance at Ken’s Kebabs, where Mirkin debuted the self-penned ‘Pitta Patter’, a jazz fusion number with elements of yodelling. Like the food being sold around him, it did not go down well, and Ken’s subsequent decision to pay Mirkin’s fee in cold cooked hippo meat proved a cause of some controversy.

As the bookings dried up, the cheap ale flowed, and Mirkin settled into a life of drinking, eating, and picking fluff from convenient orifices, whilst eking out a living playing the musical longbow on street corners. Passers-by would inevitably pay him to stop, and the loose change they flung at his head was sufficient to support his grubby, lowbrow lifestyle. The glamour, the fame, the bright lights and cheering crowds were long gone. Well, to be fair, they’d never really been there in the first place. But the point is, Mirkin Topp’s life was off the rails.

But things were about to change. He didn’t yet know it, but Dame Providence had smiled on Mirkin Topp, and his life stood on the verge of an extraordinary transformation. Which is just as well, or this story would end before chapter three.

In Phillysia it was lunchtime, but Mirkin’s day was only just beginning. Back at his small cottage in the fishmongering district of Melee, he pulled on his clumpiest shoes and hauled himself up from the sofa.

“Ok, I’m ready,” he said.

Bray looked at him disapprovingly. “Do you have to wear those shoes? Elves should have grace and poise. You’re meant to be lithe and light-footed. Those boots make you walk like an overweight elephant.”

“I’m making a fashion statement. And besides, I don’t do grace and poise. Grace and poise won’t save you from the giant hippos, my friend. Steel capped boots might. At the very least you can get in a swift toe poke to the nether regions before those jaws snap shut.”

“Mirkin,” said Bray, “how many times do I have to tell you, there are no giant hippos around here. The River Feenix has been certified hippo-free for six generations. I know you’ve been hurt, but you need to let this thing go.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“It’s easy for anyone to say. Anyone who isn’t stupid enough to accept a cabaret booking in Hippo Valley at a pub called ‘Hippo Hippo Hooray’.”

“That wasn’t their fault. They didn’t know what they were letting themselves in for.”

“Mirkin, your family were good people, talented people, and they could undoubtedly sing. But face it, they were also deeply, deeply stupid. And I mean that in a caring way.”

Mirkin shrugged. “Well whatever you say, these boots are made for walking, and that’s just what they’ll do. One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Bray.

“Let’s go,” replied Mirkin, opening the door.

Bray jumped down from the table, unaware of the stale beer stain now present on the rear of his trousers, and followed Mirkin out of the cottage.

It was a warm day in Melee, and the street outside was bathed in bright sunshine. The sky was blue, the birds were singing, and the constant stench of rotting fish hung in the air.

“I don’t know how you can live in this part of town,” said Bray, holding his nose.

“You get used to it,” replied Mirkin. “The first six months are the worst. After that you start to notice it less, and begin to appreciate the fact that you can get spicy kippers twenty-four hours a day.”

“If you say so,” muttered Bray, unconvinced.

They set off down the road, heading into town, and the sweeter air on the opposite bank of the River Feenix.

“So what’s the plan?” asked Mirkin, attempting to show some enthusiasm for his little chum’s news. “I say we make for the pub, have one for the road, then head on out of town and make a new life for ourselves as travelling gigolos. How about you?”

“Well,” said Bray thoughtfully, “I thought we’d just report to the king’s guards and hand you over.”

“And what’s in that for me?”

“Well, for a start you get to find out what the king wants. You’ve got to be curious?”

“I don’t do curious. Curiosity killed the fat.”

“Cat.”

“The fat cat. Whatever,” said Mirkin. “The point is that no matter how much you want to see what’s on the other side of the guillotine, you don’t stick your head through the hole beneath the blade.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we’re going to the pub.”

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Chapter Three

2004-11-16T08:02:00.000-08:00

‘The Bitch & Butt’ was a small pub at the end of a dingy alley on the western bank of the River Feenix. It had formerly been a golfing attraction aimed at tourists, before harsh reviews, the absence of more than three holidaymakers a year, and some cruel graffiti had rebranded it thus, and forced the management to diversify into the sale of alcohol to cover their losses. As a business, the place had gone from strength to strength. Its reputation, however, had plumbed new depths, and it now stood as proud recipient of the Melee Gourmet Dining Guide’s ‘Roughest Drinking Hole’ award for the tenth consecutive year. If it was any more of a dive, patrons would need a wetsuit to get in.

The landlord of ‘The Bitch & Butt’, Hairy Steve, was an uncompromising man with a passion for home improvements. He had left no stone unturned in his quest for the perfect living space, and could often be found sitting out on his state-of-the-art decking, nose in a book of wallpaper samples, feet resting gently on a stack of MDF, the sound of a home-made water feature tinkling quietly nearby. His home was never less than immaculate, a shrine to good taste, fusing modern chic with traditional style in a breathtakingly dynamic fashion, and old Hairy wouldn’t have it any other way. Never had Phillysia seen such a house-proud individual. Sadly though, Steve didn’t live at the pub, so down at ‘The Bitch & Butt’ it was flock wallpaper and dodgy carpets all the way.

Mirkin and Bray entered through the main door, Mirkin striding forward more keenly than his stunted friend, who showed the kind of reticence not seen since the arrival of the Gourmet Dining Guide judging panel. Showing his chum a similar level of consideration, Mirkin held the door open and repeated the advice he’d imparted to the food critics:

“Mind the jagged glass on the door, avoid breathing in too deeply, and don’t worry if your feet stick to the carpet – that’s normal.”

“Thanks,” muttered Bray, a little less than wholly grateful for his friend’s advice.

Mirkin marched up to the bar where Hairy Steve stood engrossed in a catalogue of bathroom fittings. He looked up.

“Ah Mirkin! Ocean blue or spring flowers, what do you think?”

“Are we talking cocktails?” asked Mirkin.

“No, colour schemes. I’m re-tiling the bathroom,” replied Steve.

“Oh. Well I say flowers then. I feel nauseous enough when I enter my bathroom, without being reminded of the sea everywhere I look.”

“Spring flowers it is then,” said Steve, closing the catalogue. “You on your own today?”

“Nope,” said Mirkin, “I have this little fella with me.” He reached down and lifted Bray so that his head popped up over the edge of the bar. “Now you see him…” said Mirkin cheerfully, before dropping Bray from view, “… now you don’t!”

Bray swore violently in a dwarven tongue with which Mirkin was thankfully unfamiliar.

“I wish I had a dwarf of my own,” said Steve wistfully.

“They’re hours of fun for all the family, there’s no doubt about it,” agreed Mirkin.

Bray made a mental note to wreak a bloody and terrible revenge on his elven companion at the earliest opportunity. For now he merely called Mirkin the illegitimate son of a loose-moralled canine, in a rare and liltingly beautiful dialect of old dwarf-speak which had been all but forgotten in the northern reaches of Phillysia.

“So what can I get you?” asked Steve, putting down the bathroom fittings catalogue.

“I’ll have a flagon of your finest foaming ale, my good man,” said Mirkin confidently, as he reached down, scooped up Bray, and sat him on the bar between them. “And a glass of milk for the little chap.”

Ignoring his taller associate, Bray turned to Steve. “I’ll stick with the ale, thank you,” he said.

Mirkin ruffled Bray’s hair. “Do you want a packet of crisps?” he asked.

Bray ignored him once more, and turned back to the hairy publican. “Have you heard,” he said, “there’s a royal death warrant out on Topp’s life.”

“Funny you should mention that,” said Steve, “we did have a couple of guards in here earlier, asking after you. I wondered what it was all about. I told them you’d drowned in the River Feenix, diving for kippers.”

“Thanks mate,” said Mirkin, “you’re a rock.”

Bray looked incredulous. “Diving for kippers? You don’t get kippers swimming about in the river.”

“Don’t listen to him, Steve,” Mirkin interrupted, “he claims there are no hippos in there either.”

Steve shook his head. “That’s what happens when you can’t wade in more than two feet from the shore without getting out of your depth. He has no idea what might be lurking in those waters.”

Bray looked indignant, but chose not to pursue the matter. He stroked his beard thoughtfully and tried to remember how he and Mirkin had ever become friends.

Hairy Steve fetched the drinks and set them on the bar. “On the house, boys,” he said, “as a token of my commiseration and sympathy on your upcoming deaths.”

“Mirkin’s the one about to die, not me,” said Bray.

“That’ll be two-fifty then,” said Steve.

Bray handed over the money, momentarily jealous of his friend’s imminent execution, before realising that he’d made it up, and getting excited about the mystery all over again.

“Let’s go and sit on that table over there,” Bray said to his pointy-eared companion.

“You can sit on the table,” replied Mirkin, “I’ll sit on the chair.”

Drinks in hand, they made their way over to the least grubby table on the far side of the saloon bar and sat down. Placing his drink to one side in an attempt to minimise the destabilising effect of the missing table leg, Mirkin noticed an unpleasant pool of drying gunk nearby. Its colour appeared unique, yet strangely familiar.

“Hey!” he cried, “So this is where I was sitting last night! It’s all coming back to me now!”

Bray examined the chunky puddle on the table. “Don’t tell me – cottage cheese?” he asked dubiously.

“I’m not sure,” replied Mirkin, “but whatever it is, I think I have sole rights to its manufacture.”

The pair sipped their drinks. Well, Bray sipped his drink. Mirkin downed his in one. But the fact that he’d made it last the entire journey from the bar to the seating area, constituted sipping in his book.

“You have to say,” said Mirkin, saying something he felt he had to say, “it’s lucky my house doesn’t appear on any maps, isn’t it. Otherwise those guards would’ve caught up with me hours ago.”

“I know,” agreed Bray, savouring his ale like a vegan would savour a veal sandwich, “but on the downside, you haven’t had any mail delivered for three years now. That mapmaker has a lot to answer for.”

“True. But it wasn’t his fault really. The haddock fumes were particularly strong that day. You can’t blame him for deciding to go home and do the street from memory. And let’s not forget, property prices soared after he drew in that wooded glade where the fish-boiling factory should be.”

“I know,” said Bray knowingly, “though I’ve heard the ramblers can cause a bit of an obstruction down by the factory gates in mid-summer.”

“Hey, anyone who can get as far as the factory gates in mid-summer without passing out, is alright in my book.”

“Which book is that?”

“The Ramblers’ Guide to Fish-Boiling Factories,” replied Mirkin. “It’s a work in progress. I’m going for the Christmas stocking filler market.”

“Oh right,” replied Bray, taking another mouthful of ale.

As the pair continued to discuss the finer points of self-publishing, the main door of ‘The Bitch & Butt’ opened, and two figures quietly entered. Their striking attire of helmets, swords, and sparkly tunics emblazoned with the words “That’s Magic!” marked them out clearly as royal emissaries of King Pip the Fantabulous. They slowly surveyed the interior of the pub, before their gaze settled ominously on a certain elf and his dwarven drinking companion in the far corner.

Hairy Steve saw the men, and promptly feigned a dizzy spell, seeking sanctuary behind a box of pork-related bar snacks, and attempting a surreptitious coughing fit to alert Mirkin to the approaching guards.

It didn’t work. Engrossed in a diatribe on the literary world’s deep seated prejudice towards fish-based tourist guides, Mirkin was blissfully unaware of the burly figures making their way towards him.

Bray spotted them first. Excitedly, he raised his hand to attract their attention. Mirkin turned and saw the guards, gasped in shock and attempted to steady himself on the table, which promptly collapsed under the influence of its low leg count.

The guards kept coming. Mirkin sat transfixed and open-mouthed. Attracted by the pungent aroma within, a bluebottle flew past his lips and down his throat. It was the second solid meal he’d had that day. His nutritional levels were soaring, but it did little to calm his nerves. Attempting to appear nonchalant whilst surrounded by bits of broken table, Mirkin began whistling out of tune. Bray meanwhile, was busy waving cheerfully to the oncoming hit men, and considering whether royal etiquette precluded him from buying them a drink.

Wishing he still had a table to hide beneath, and wondering why Hairy Steve didn’t go to a doctor about his cough, Mirkin began to cower nervously, as the two fearsome guards approached his position. Towering over him (and towering over Bray considerably more), the guards made their way to within a foot of where the two friends sat…

… before walking straight past, and on to the neighbouring table where Elfy Alfie and his mate, Pint-Sized Pete, were enjoying a quiet drink.

“Mirkin Topp,” said the first guard with considerable gravitas, “we’ve been looking for you...”

Elfy Alfie looked quizzical.

“Quick!” said Mirkin in a hushed voice, “Let’s get out of here!”. He stood up and took a step towards the door. Nearby, the guards were struggling to believe the story being offered to them by a couple of innocent drinkers.

“Elfy Alfie?” said the second guard, “Do you really expect us to believe that? I’ve heard some made up names in my time, but that one takes the biscuit.”

Deciding it was perhaps best to refrain from mentioning his own name, Pint-Sized Pete chose instead to politely suggest to the guards that they might have better luck shifting their enquiries to the next table. Or what was left of it. The beefy royal aides turned just in time to see an overweight elf attempting to creep out quietly in a pair of steel-capped bovver boots, while a bemused dwarf sat amongst the rubble of a three legged piece of furniture.

“Stop right there!” cried the first guard.

“Mirkin, you’re alive!” shouted Hairy Steve, in a convincing piece of dramatic acting, the like of which had not been seen since his tearful acceptance speech at the Gourmet Dining Guide’s annual awards ceremony. “It’s a miracle! The wanton kippers of capricious fortune shall not have you! Praise be to the benevolence of King Pip the Fantabulous!”

Mirkin stopped and turned to face the guards. “Are you talking to me?” he said, looking around innocently.

The second guard spoke sternly. “You are Mirkin Topp, last of the four ‘Topps of Ackapulko’, professional street entertainer and one-time kebab shop cabaret act?”

“If this is about child support,” replied Mirkin, “I’d just like to state for the record that the kid doesn’t have my ears.”

“And I think you’re on shaky ground using the word ‘entertainer’,” chipped in Bray.

“And ‘professional’,” added Steve.

“The king wishes to see you, Mr Topp,” the second guard continued.

“I think I’m free next Wednesday,” said Mirkin helpfully.

“Now,” said the guard.

Realising there was little point arguing with a couple of giants in spangly jumpsuits, Mirkin gave in. Clambering over a jagged table leg, his progress hampered by the tacky carpet beneath his feet, Bray hurried over to stand shoulder to shoulder with his condemned friend. Well, shoulder to knee. But it was an act of unswerving solidarity nonetheless.

“Can I come along too?” asked Bray. “I’ve always wanted to see the royal dungeons. I hear they have rats the size of dogs.”

“That’s an urban myth,” replied the first guard, “but we do have dogs the size of rats. The king breeds Chihuahuas in his spare time.”

“Oh cool,” said Bray, easily impressed.

“But you can’t come, I’m afraid,” added the guard. “We have another fugitive to round up. We’ve been knocking on his door all morning, but there’s no sign of him. He probably headed for the hills and a new life as a travelling gigolo the moment he heard we were after him. At least I hope so. We accidentally burnt down his house searching his loft with a flaming torch.”

“I’ve told you, that wasn’t our fault,” said the second guard to his colleague, “these thatched rooves are a fire hazard. He should’ve gone for the Super-Storm 2000. My builder swears by them. Well, he used to.”

“Oh,” said Bray. “So who is this chap?”

The first guard pulled a small piece of parchment from a pocket in the side of his tunic, and examined it. “A dwarf by the name of Bray,” he said. “Do you know him?”

The colour drained from Bray’s usually ruddy face. “The name rings a bell,” he said, and promptly fainted.

Mirkin scooped up his squat friend and gently rocked him like a baby. “He’s so easily overcome. It’s the soft-hearted dwarfish temperament. And the fact that he doesn’t have home insurance.” He looked up at the guards. “But I think you have your second fugitive, gentlemen.”

Pleased with a job well done, the two royal guards happily ticked off the second name from their list and escorted Mirkin, still cradling the unconscious Bray in his arms, to the door.

“In the name of sweet charity, don’t go near that river!” cried Steve, refusing to let an arrest get in the way of some poignant amateur dramatics, “The kippers aren’t worth it!”

The guards ignored him, and led Mirkin through the door, snagging their tunics on the broken glass as they left.

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Chapter Four

2004-11-16T07:55:00.000-08:00

Roi Castle, the grand and palatial home of King Pip the Fantabulous, lay to the west of Melee across the Aero Plains, a journey of some two hours from the smouldering ashes which Bray had once called home. Like the wine which flowed freely within its walls, the castle was heavily fortified, and sat atop a small hill, surrounded by a deep moat, where it commanded magnificent views of any passing poor people.

King Pip conducted the affairs of Phillysia from an ornate throne room within the castle’s central tower, ruling his kingdom efficiently and conscientiously, whilst still finding time to compose sonnets and play easy-listening music on the mouth organ. Rising late each morning, he would take breakfast on the shaded balcony overlooking his stables, before bathing in the warm natural springs which had bubbled up unexpectedly through the granite stones of the castle rockery since the day the royal plumber had severed the water main whilst attempting to fit a garden sprinkler system. Each afternoon the king would attend to his royal business from the comfort of a reclining sofa, his feet on a leather-clad pouffe, whilst two footmen fanned him with large ostrich feathers. Which could be a bit chilly in the winter, but looked good for the foreign tourists. It was a privileged existence, yes, but not one without occasional hardship. Pip still remembered with unsettling anguish the day his teatime champagne had arrived ever so slightly under-chilled.

Waiting nervously for word from his envoys, King Pip had spent this particular day pacing back and forth across the main courtyard just inside the southern gates of Roi Castle, mouth organ lying sadly dormant in the back pocket of his silk boxer shorts, the ground around him strewn with crumpled sheets of paper – evidence of more than a dozen self-rejected efforts at sonnet composition. He could not eat, he could not drink nor think, and even the lure of easy-listening music had failed to tempt him on this day. Fourteen lines of poetry seemed fourteen lines too many. King Pip the Fantabulous was a worried man.

He should, perhaps, have been significantly more worried to know that his fate now lay in the hands of one Mirkin Topp and a homeless dwarf they called Bray, but ironically it was the arrival of precisely this news which finally succeeded in settling the king’s nerves that day. As a breathless messenger ran through the castle gates at speed and collapsed with exhaustion on the ground before the king, blurting out news of the pair’s impending arrival between copious gulps of air, Pip let out a whoop of joy which could be heard for miles around, before referring the messenger to the royal doctor with suspected asthma. He’d only run twenty yards from reception.

The king quickly made his way inside to prepare to receive his much anticipated guests. He was a proud man, and preferred his subjects not to see him in his rainbow striped boxer shorts and Scooby Doo t-shirt.

Looking east from the ramparts of Roi Castle, a speck could be now be seen on the horizon. Anyone with access to a telescope would have known the speck to be made up of two royal guards in torn tunics, a hung over elf, and a groggy dwarf with nowhere to lay his hat. Not that he had a hat. Well, not any more. His straw boaters had been among the first of his possessions to catch fire that morning, burning with remarkable speed and a certain spectacular beauty which would have induced gasps of astonishment had anyone been there to witness it. Anyone other than the two sparkly suited guards that is, who were, at the time, somewhat occupied trying to smother the flames with a flammable cushion cover.

The four had made their way across the Aero Plains on horseback, Mirkin riding pillion behind one guard, whilst the other took care of Bray by tucking him into the saddle bag, his head poking out, beard flowing in the wind. It had been a mostly uneventful journey, saved from total mundanity by the moment they realised that Bray had popped out of the saddle bag during a particularly jaunty gallop, and bounced down a nearby hill into a cabbage field. Oh how they’d laughed. Well, three of them had laughed. Fortunately though, the bouncing had revived Bray, who, whilst still somewhat miffed at the wanton destruction of all his worldly goods, was by now coming to terms with being homeless and destitute, and beginning to make the most of the fresh air.

Their pace slowing to a canter, the four approached the gates of the castle. Coming to a halt, the first guard put his hands to his mouth and made the call of the wild elephant to signal the gatekeeper to their presence. A lone arrow was fired from the ramparts above by a young sentry on his first day in the job, unaware of the signalling system employed at Roi Castle, and keen to bag himself an elephant for the dining room wall. Fortunately the arrow missed by a good three feet, instead hitting a grumpy, mean and surprisingly ferocious giant hamster who had leapt from behind a nearby rock with the aim of ambushing the party in search of sunflower seeds. The threat was quickly negated by an arrow to the furry nether regions, and the day was inadvertently saved. As was the sentry’s job.

Back at the gatehouse, the drawbridge was lowered, and as the Roi Castle trumpeters hailed the group’s arrival with a fanfare entitled simply ‘Dedication’, Mirkin and Bray were escorted across the moat, through the gates, and into the magisterial courtyard beyond.

“What are all these bits of paper on the ground?” asked Mirkin, but no one responded.

The pair were led directly to the central tower where they climbed the shiny marble staircase and found themselves ushered into the throne room of King Pip the Fantabulous. The king sat regally on the bejewelled throne before them. Mirkin thought he could make out a small embroidered Scooby Doo logo poking through from beneath Pip’s royal robes, but he chose not to mention it. Instead he bowed nervously and stood in silence on the red carpet alongside Bray, whose thoughts were occupied with the memory of Bob, his pet goldfish. He winced at the fate which must have befallen his aquatic chum, and vowed never to eat boiled fish again, before noticing the king and duly bowing.

“Mirkin Topp,” said the king, “I have called you here for a very special reason. I have an important job for you, and I need you to carry out my instructions to the letter.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “Bray!”

“Hee-haw,” said Mirkin.

“That wasn’t an instruction,” said the king, “I was addressing your colleague.”

“Oh right,” said Mirkin, “sorry, carry on.”

“Bray,” continued Pip, “you too have an important role to play in this venture. You have both been personally selected from a list of all my subjects.”

“Have we already won a major prize?” interrupted Mirkin.

“No,” said the king, “but if you succeed in the quest I am about to bestow upon you, you will receive riches beyond your wildest dreams.”

“Really?” replied Mirkin, “Well I have some pretty wild dreams, so I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Don’t question me, Topp,” the king boomed, mildly irritated, “I am Pip the Fantabulous, my powers know no bounds, and my orders will be carried out unquestioningly.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” muttered Mirkin, “Who died and made you king?”

“My father.”

“Oh right. My commiserations on your loss.”

“Well, you know, life goes on,” said Pip magnanimously.

“Not if your house is a smouldering pile of rubble!” burst out Bray, getting slightly emotional all of a sudden.

“How dare you!” said Mirkin indignantly. “Just because I don’t tidy up, doesn’t mean my home is a pile of rubble.” He paused for a moment. “Oh, you mean your home. Ok, fair point.”

“Bray,” said the king, “the warm ashy state of your belongings will matter not once you have completed the task I have for you. Your life will be transformed. I will build you a new home. I hear there’s a lovely wooded glade in Melee – I’ve seen it on the town map. With royal planning permission, and a state-of-the-art Super-Storm 2000 roof, you can start a peaceful new life there amongst the birds and flowers.”

“And fish,” added Mirkin.

“Oh, is there a stream there too?” asked the king.

“Only below the eyes on a warm day,” replied Mirkin.

“But anyhow Bray,” Pip continued, “the point is that your singed lifestyle will be but a distant memory if you survive this quest.”

“And besides,” chipped in Mirkin, “think of the fire sale you can have when we get back.”

Mirkin paused for contemplation, before turning back to the king. “Hang on. What do you mean “if we survive this quest”?”

“Well, you know,” said the king, “a quest wouldn’t be a quest without some element of danger. It’s par for the course.”

Bray looked morose. “I don’t have anything to live for anyway,” he stammered.

“Honestly Bray,” scolded Mirkin, “you’re such a wet blanket. A couple of hours ago you were only too happy to contemplate my demise. Show a bit of fighting spirit, will you?”

Bray reached up and punched Mirkin in the family jewels.

“That’s more like it,” said the king, “life’s too short to be apathetic. Well, it is for you two. Now come and sit before my throne, we need to talk.”

His eyes watering, Mirkin staggered forward and collapsed at the foot of the royal throne, an air of disinterest sweeping over him. Feeling a little more positive now, Bray followed his elven companion and settled down on a satin cushion at the king’s feet.

“Nice slippers,” commented Bray, examining the feet in front of him.

“Thanks,” said Pip, “I have one foot bigger than the other, so it can be a nightmare finding a pair which fit. But on the plus side I can steal shoes from outside Dolcis.”

King Pip the Fantabulous settled himself in his throne, before leaning forward conspiratorially and continuing in a hushed tone.

“Ok chaps, let’s begin,” he said, reaching into his back pocket and producing an all-too familiar sight. “Pick a card.”

Mirkin sighed and reluctantly chose a playing card from the fanned selection being offered to him. The king placed a melodramatic hand to his forehead, screwed up his face, and continued. “The three of clubs?”

“Nope,” said Mirkin, looking at his card.

“Oh,” said the king. “Well never mind. It’s not an exact science. Would you like to see my cut and restored rope trick?”

“Does it involve a noose?” enquired Mirkin.

“No,” said Pip.

“In that case I’ll pass,” said the elf.

“And you?” asked the king, looking at Bray hopefully.

“Can you do the burnt and restored house trick?” the dwarf asked.

“You know damn well that one doesn’t exist,” replied Pip, indignantly.

“Well keep trying, you’ve mastered the first half of the trick,” said Mirkin.

“Ok, ok,” the king muttered, putting away his deck of cards, “let’s get on to business. Gentlemen, I have a problem.”

“You’re not the only one,” said Bray, remembering the box of fireworks he’d left in his loft.

“What I am about to tell you,” continued the king, “I tell you in the utmost confidence, and on the condition that you breathe not a word of it to another living soul.”

“Cool!” said Bray, his curiosity piqued sufficiently to blow away his moroseness with a wafting breeze of excitement. He was so easily pleased.

“Gentlemen,” the king said gravely, “I am going bald.”

“I wondered why you were wearing that top hat,” Mirkin commented.

“Oh, that’s incidental,” said the king, “I need somewhere to keep my rabbit.”

Pip removed the large top hat and looked inside. It was empty. “Oh bugger,” he said, “the damn thing’s done a runner.”

“Can rabbits run? I thought they could only hop?” pointed out Bray.

“I believe there’s musical evidence to suggest that they can in fact run, run, run when faced with a heavily armed farm worker,” explained Mirkin helpfully.

“Well,” said Bray sympathetically to the king, “at least you’ve mastered the vanishing bunny trick.”

“True,” said Pip, “but returning to the point, I am losing my hair.”

“I thought it was a rabbit?” remarked Bray, puzzled.

“Not hare,” said the king, “hair.”

“Oh right,” said Bray.

“But on the plus side, your highness,” added Mirkin, showing a bit of respect for the first time that day, “you look damn good in that bandana. Not everyone can carry off a stars and stripes design.”

“Why thank you, Mirkin,” Pip replied gratefully, “one does one’s best. But let me explain the situation.” The king took a deep breath before continuing. “Gentlemen, I have reached a crossroads in my life. The relentless tide of hair loss cannot be stemmed, yet neither can it be allowed to leak out.”

“I’m sorry?” said Bray.

“The news, I mean,” clarified the king.

“Oh right,” nodded the dwarf.

Pip continued: “To my subjects I am a virile and much loved figure.”

Mirkin looked dubious. The king went on:

“If the rumours about my hair are allowed to spread unchecked throughout Phillysia, it will undermine my authority irrevocably. Women will doubt my potency, men will no longer feel inferior to my masculinity, and small children will be dazzled by my bald spot. Gentlemen, this cannot be allowed to happen. It could spark civil war.”

Mirkin looked even more dubious. The king refused to be put off:

“Entire nations have been brought to their knees by less. Without a full head of hair, my position as undisputed ruler of this great land could be in jeopardy. Man will turn against woman, elf against dwarf, orc against hobbit and, heaven forbid, maybe even troll against fat Elvis impersonator. The consequences, my friends, could be dire. It may very well spell the end of Phillysia as we know it.”

Realising that King Pip was undoubtedly barking, but choosing to humour his monarch for the time being, Mirkin spoke sympathetically. “So how can we help, Mr Fantabulous, sir?”

The King looked from left to right before leaning in closer and speaking in little more than a whisper. “In the deep south of Phillysia, beyond the Bear-Faced Mountains, in a remote and almost inaccessible corner of my kingdom known as Chadd Valley, lies The Implacable Maw, a dark and forbidding cavern the size of countless cathedrals. It is a place of untold evil, of eternal damnation, of all that is base and ungodly. Gentlemen, this festering blot on the landscape of Phillysia is home to…”

Mirkin and Bray braced themselves.

“… The Hooded Donkey,” finished the king.

“The what?” said Mirkin.

“The Hooded Donkey,” confirmed Pip. “He’s a good donkey gone bad.”

“Oh,” said Bray, underwhelmed.

“Don’t underestimate The Hooded Donkey, my friends,” said the king. “He is no mere silly ass. I have it on good authority that he is an evil genius of the highest order, with an array of demonic underlings at his constant beck and call, and a fearsome army of darkness to do his bidding. And what’s more, he plays a mean game of Kerplunk.”

“I’m more of a Buckaroo man myself,” said Mirkin.

“Mr Topp,” King Pip said grimly, “if you cross The Hooded Donkey, you may find yourself playing an all too real game of Buckaroo. And your very life could be at stake.”

“You’re not really selling me on this quest yet y’know,” replied Mirkin.

“Maybe I’m missing something here,” butted in Bray, clearly missing something here, “but what’s this got to do with your hair loss?”

“Let me fill you in,” said the king, filling Bray in. “The Hooded Donkey owns a puppy by the name of Luv.”

“Puppy Luv?” asked Mirkin.

“Indeed,” said the king. “Luv is the only remaining example of his breed known to exist in all of Phillysia. Yes gentlemen, that’s right: Puppy Luv is an Ozmond.”

Mirkin and Bray looked decidedly blank as the name flew over their heads at speed. Undeterred, Pip continued:

“Ozmonds are blessed with an excessively long coat, made of the softest and downiest fur that Mother Nature has to offer, yet imbued with an incredible tone and strength which make it unique amongst naturally occurring fibres. In the world of cosmetology, this hair is the stuff of legend. For generations men have tried – and failed – to obtain a living, breathing Ozmond from which to harvest sufficient hair to make the ultimate in toupees. Gentlemen, open your minds and imagine for a moment what I could do with such a beast!”

“Take it for walks?” suggested Mirkin.

“I have the finest wig-makers in the kingdom at my disposal,” Pip continued. “With these legendary fibres to work with, they could fashion for me the finest hairpiece Phillysia has ever seen, and the future of the kingdom would be safe once more! All I require to make this dream come true is an individual willing to travel to The Implacable Maw on a noble quest to bring Luv to Roi Castle.”

“So you want us to fetch you a shaggy dog?” asked Mirkin.

“It’s not a shaggy dog, it’s a hairy puppy,” replied Pip.

“Whatever,” said Mirkin.

“I’m confused,” piped up Bray. “Why do you want us for this mission? We’re not brave adventurers, we’re humble folk with a stay-at-home mentality.”

“You don’t have a home, Bray,” Mirkin reminded him.

“Oh yeah,” said Bray absent-mindedly.

“The answer is simple, my friends,” stated the king. “I believe in fate. Meaningful coincidences carry more weight with me than adventuring qualifications. For this quest I wanted two individuals innately suited to the task, a pair of subjects whose very names spoke of the mission for which they had been born. I therefore instructed my guards to scour Phillysia for the most aptly named of my subjects. To tackle The Hooded Donkey, they selected a dwarf called Bray.”

“Oh, I see,” said Bray, easily impressed with the flimsy logic of it all.

“And to bring me the hairpiece of Luv, an elf named Mirkin,” the king announced proudly.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Mirkin.

“No matter,” replied Pip. “The only point to understand here is that I have chosen you as the pair I wish to venture south to Chadd Valley on my behalf, to enter The Implacable Maw, face The Hooded Donkey within, and return triumphant with Puppy Luv for me.”

“So you’d rather send an overweight elf and a homeless dwarf, than an army of brave knights?” questioned Bray.

“Absolutely,” the king replied confidently. “Will you accept the quest?”

Mirkin exchanged a glance with his short friend before turning to the king.

“Can we think about it?” he said.

King Pip the Fantabulous drew himself up to a vertical position and looked down benevolently on his loyal subjects.

“No, your bus leaves at three.”

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Chapter Five

2004-11-16T07:53:00.000-08:00

Minutes later, as they made their way across the main courtyard of Roi Castle, heading in the direction of the royal stables, Bray turned to Mirkin with a thoughtful expression on his face.

“I wonder,” said the dwarf, “why the king mentioned a bus when he intended us to travel by horse and cart all along.”

“He said it was key to the rhythm of the piece.” replied Mirkin. “It wouldn’t have worked otherwise.”

“Oh right.” said Bray, not fully understanding.

“But on the bright side,” added Mirkin, “we get the pick of the king’s horses for our quest, and the use of a state-of-the-art royal wagon. It beats public transport any day.”

The two friends continued across the courtyard. King Pip the Fantabulous had instructed them to report to his chief stable lad, Simon the Groom, a fine horseman with a love of Golden Retrievers. Simon’s ancestry could be traced back to the legendary Valkyries, themselves known for their superior riding skills and passion for German oompah music, and Simon had duly inherited this equine affinity, if not the fondness for leather trousers. He felt at one with anything on four legs, and loved the smell of dung in the morning.

‘Two-Time Stables’, the royal stud farm, was the king’s pride and joy. A keen rider himself, Pip had built up a collection of the finest equine bloodstock anywhere in Phillysia, with more than fifty thoroughbred horses, and a mule called Kevin, the result of a dodgy bit of mail order from a disreputable horse supplier the king had vowed never to use again. Kevin aside, the royal stables were choc-full of outstanding Arabians, Palominos and Mustangs, and Simon the Groom knew each of them like the back of his hand. Interestingly, the back of Simon’s hand featured a malignant melanoma which he’d failed to notice, but the fact remained that he knew the horses quite well.

As Mirkin Topp and Bray the Dwarf sauntered through the door of ‘Two-Time Stables’, a small Appaloosa reared up on its hind legs and bolted out into the courtyard beyond. Mirkin watched him go, then calmly shut the stable door. It seemed the right thing to do after such an event, and he felt sure the king wouldn’t miss one horse.

Spotting their arrival, Simon the Groom hurried over to greet them.

“Ah, gentlemen, I’ve been expecting you!” he cried cheerily. “Berkin Bopp and his sidekick Fray, am I right?”

“In a word,” Mirkin replied, “no.”

“And frankly,” added Bray, “I see myself as more than a mere sidekick. I’m an equal partner in this venture. I stand four-square and resolute alongside my taller associate, ready to face together whatever challenges life throws at us, each supporting the other in a permanent and life-long partnership.”

“You’re just saying that ‘cause you don’t have a house any more.” said Mirkin.

“Well I’m going to need somewhere to stay while my new cottage is being built, it’s true,” said Bray. “But the basic principle remains the same.”

Simon the Groom picked up a piece of parchment bearing the official seal of King Pip the Fantabulous. “Well it says here you can have any horse you please to assist you on your quest. But just between you and me, I wouldn’t go for Kevin.”

“Well,” said Mirkin, the royal privilege investing him with a newly found air of self-importance, “that’s all very well for you to say, my good man, but I think it’s for us to decide. If we want Kevin, we’ll damn well have Kevin.” Mirkin placed his hands on his hips. “Now… which one’s Kevin?”

Simon indicated the nearest stall, where a moth-eaten old mule stood munching on a carrot.

“Ok,” said Mirkin, counting the mule’s legs and realising the total didn’t quite make it to four, “what else have you got?”

“Step this way, gentlemen,” said Simon.

The king’s groom led them to the far end of the stables where a row of spacious air-conditioned stalls lined the wall, each gleaming with gold-edged fixtures and fittings, and perfumed with the fresh scent of spring meadows. The signed portraits of a smiling Pip the Fantabulous wearing a cowboy hat and giving the thumbs up sign with one hand whilst holding a large carrot in the other, which hung on the wall of each stall, combined with the piped recordings of easy-listening classics (personally performed by Pip on the mouth organ) which floated through the air around them, suggested that this were home to the king’s favourite horses.

“This is home to the king’s favourite horses,” said Simon, confirming that fact.

Mirkin and Bray walked slowly along the line, examining each horse in turn. Mirkin considered himself to be something of an expert paddock judge down at the local racetrack, though his habit of begging on street corners and foraging for scraps in the local bins the day after every race meeting, led others to doubt this assertion. Nevertheless, he strolled past each horse with an air of confidence, nodding occasionally and letting out the occasional “Hmmm…” as he carefully noted the features of each animal. Reaching the end of the row, he turned to face Simon.

“Right…” said Mirkin, “… they all seem to have four legs. What else do we need to know?”

Simon the Groom sighed. “Let me help you out,” he said. “There are a number of factors to consider when selecting a horse.”

“Oh, I know, I know,” agreed Mirkin, “there’s the jockey, the trainer, the state of the going… the list goes on and on. But if you ask me, the whole thing’s fixed anyway. It’s all a conspiracy. You study the form, put your money down, and cheer on the red hot favourite who couldn’t be beaten in a month of Sundays, only to see the bloomin’ rag hack up like a sixty-a-day smoker. I don’t know why I bother. You might as well set fire to your money.” He turned to Bray. “No offence.”

“None taken,” muttered Bray, lying through his teeth.

“So anything catch your eye, my little mate?” asked Mirkin, ignoring the equine expert standing three feet away.

“Well I could only really see their feet,” replied Bray, “and the underside of their tummies. The one on the end’s got a nice belly button.”

“Is that important in a racehorse?” asked Mirkin of their host.

“No,” replied Simon, irritably, “and you’re not supposed to be choosing the winner of the 3:30 at Happy Valley. You’re supposed to be choosing a good carthorse.”

Mirkin visibly stiffened. “Did you say Hippo Valley?”

“No,” replied Simon.

“Oh, ok,” said Mirkin, pulling himself back from the brink of one of his turns.

Simon the Groom motioned for the pair of royal questers to follow him. “Allow me to give you some advice, gentlemen,” he said, making his way along the line of stalls before coming to a halt by a brass plaque bearing the name ‘Kilroy’.

“This is Kilroy,” said Simon, proving he could read. “He’s an Arabian horse of the highest order. His breeding is first class-”

“We don’t wish to know what he does in bed, thank you,” interrupted Mirkin.

“-and he possesses unusually great strength for a horse of his size,” Simon continued.

“He’s a bit of an odd colour,” commented Bray.

“That’s fake tan,” explained Simon. “He’s one of our most successful studs.”

“Well that explains the medallion,” nodded Mirkin.

“Indeed,” confirmed Simon. “Kilroy is fit, fast, confident and adventurous. I can personally recommend him.”

“I don’t know…” pondered Mirkin, concerned that Simon’s relationship with the horses may be a little too close for his liking, “… have you got any Shire horses?”

“Well I have,” replied the groom, “but trust me, the shyer horses don’t make such good studs. They tend to get flustered and spoil their chat-up lines.”

“No, Shire horses,” Mirkin clarified. “Beefy beasts with big feet.”

“Oh right,” said Simon. “No. We’re right out of them this week.”

“Shame,” said Mirkin, somewhat downhearted, “you can use their collars for gurning, you know.”

As Mirkin continued to enjoy a game of Simon Says with the king’s groom, Bray wandered over to the opposite row of stalls, where a very different animal had caught his eye. Well ok, not that different. It was still a horse. But in Bray’s eyes it possessed an altogether different quality which set it apart from the sleek, well toned Arabian powerhouses nearby. For a start it was white. Not that Bray was racist, you understand. He had nothing against Arabs, and some of his best friends were dark horses. He counted amongst his closest chums a certain Black-Eyed Pete, the Black-Bearded Dwarf of Blackburn, who was a part time goth. But Bray also had a soft spot for unicorns. Had anyone been there to witness the fiery destruction of his home, they would have seen the burning of a small, yet well cared for, collection of cuddly unicorns, each lovingly named by Bray, who would play with them late at night in the privacy of his spare bedroom.

Needless to say, no one knew of this fetish. I mean hobby. Whilst not ashamed of his passion, Bray sensibly chose to keep its existence to himself for fear of public ridicule. Much as he missed Snowflake, Ice Maiden, Fluffy and the rest, he drew solace from the fact that along with the destruction of his entire collection of unicorn memorabilia, Mirkin’s chances of ever unearthing his secret had also gone up in smoke that day. And let’s face it, Mirkin would have ribbed his dwarven chum mercilessly. Like the poisonous fumes which spread from Snowflake’s man-made stuffing as it burned, the embarrassment would have been overwhelming.

For now Bray put thoughts of his loss to one side and called to his elven companion. “Hey Mirkin! How about this one?”

Mirkin looked up and made his way over to where Bray stood. “Nyte,” he said, reading the name tag.

“It looks like a unicorn!” said Bray excitedly. “Only without the horn.”

“Hmmm… I dunno,” the tubby elf said dubiously, “The colour’s nice, but it’d show the dirt.”

“That’s no problem,” said Bray cheerfully. “I can wash it every day, and feed it, and take it for walks. Really, I promise I’ll take care of it. So can we have it, please, can we, can we?”

Mirkin was unsettled. He hadn’t seen this side of the little dwarf before, and he wasn’t sure he felt comfortable with it.

“I’ll have to ask your mother,” he said, for reasons even he didn’t understand.

Simon the Groom approached and took on the role of tour guide.

“This is Nyte,” he said. “She’s a mare.”

“Nyte the Mare?” confirmed Mirkin.

“Got it in one,” said Simon. “She’s quite slight, but she’s as strong as an ox.”

“White Nyte the Quite Slight Mare?” chipped in Mirkin.

“If you say so,” replied Simon. “She may not be as fast as some of the others, but she’s the right size to pull a cart and has always been one of the brightest horses in the yard.”

“White Nyte the Right Height Bright Quite Slight Mare?” Mirkin suggested, pushing his luck.

“Can you stop now, or I may have to kill you,” asked Simon politely.

“Fair enough,” said Mirkin. He was nothing if not reasonable.

“We’ll take her!” blurted out Bray all of a sudden.

Mirkin looked resigned to his smaller friend’s decision. “Well, if it’ll keep the little fella happy,” he said, “I suppose she’ll do.”

“Hurrah!” cried Bray, jumping up and down, at times leaping as much as three inches off the stable floor.

“Very wise choice, sir,” said Simon, shaking Bray’s hand as the dwarf bounced on the spot. “I’ll have the horse prepared, and you can pick her up around the front in half an hour.”

“Thanks,” said Mirkin, “you’ve made a small dwarf very happy.”

Pausing for a moment to consider the possibility of harnessing Bray’s vertical energy by pogo-ing across the Bear-Faced Mountains, Mirkin shook his head and led his small excitable friend out of the Two-Time Stables to begin preparations for the adventure which lay ahead of them.

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Chapter Six

2004-11-16T07:52:00.000-08:00

“Hmmm…” said Mirkin thoughtfully, “I have to say I expected more from a royal carriage.”

He strolled around the vehicle parked outside the main gates of Roi Castle. Nyte the white mare was harnessed in position at the front of the carriage, nose in a bag of oats, munching away contentedly. Bray stood alongside, engrossed in a small booklet.

“Thank you for buying Payntior Wagons’ Fab-Wagon Deluxe™,” said the dwarf, reading aloud from the owners’ manual. “With its no-nonsense design, sturdy construction, and attractive wood-effect finish, it’s no wonder the Fab-Wagon was voted ‘Best Budget Cart’ by the highly respected Cart Men of South Park. In common with the entire Payntior range, the Fab-Wagon Deluxe™ features mostly lead-free paint in areas accessible by your horse, reducing the likelihood of breakdown through poisoning to a manageable 20%. In addition, Payntior Wagons are subject to significantly lower levels of woodworm than our competitors’ models, due to our advanced manufacturing methods which result in the Fab-Wagon being constructed almost entirely from plastic. And all at no extra cost to you, the consumer. We hope you enjoy your Fab-Wagon Deluxe™. May it give you many years of trouble-free caravanning.*”

Bray looked down to the corresponding asterisk at the foot of the page.

“‘*Not a guarantee’,” he finished.

“I wouldn’t mind,” said Mirkin, “but they could at least have given us a new one. This heap of junk has got more miles on the clock than… um…” His words trailed off as he failed to come up with anything of a sufficiently high mileage to back up his statement. He’d never heard of Million Mile Mel, the travelling salesman, who specialised in timepieces from far-flung lands, otherwise he’d probably have mentioned him immediately.

“Well,” said Bray, “it’s no wonder they blindfolded us and pulled up the drawbridge before we had time to check out our transport.”

“You’re not wrong,” agreed Mirkin. He looked up at the castle ramparts where the Roi Castle trumpeters were preparing for another rendition of ‘Dedication’. King Pip the Fantabulous stood nearby, waving, and holding a Chihuahua.

“I think we’d better go,” said Mirkin.

Closing the owners’ manual, Bray gave Nyte a gentle pat, removed the mare’s nosebag, and climbed up into the covered wagon behind. Mirkin took his position at the front of the vehicle and picked up the reins with confidence.

“Right,” he said, “how do you drive this thing?”

“No idea,” said Bray, “but check your mirrors before pulling out into traffic.”

Mirkin did as instructed. Finding himself to be beautifully presented with scarcely a hair out of place, he put down the mirror, flicked the reins, and with a cry of “giddy up”, the two adventurers set off on their quest, Nyte setting a conservative pace of perhaps two miles per hour.

“I’m not sure the accelerator pedal’s working,” commented Mirkin, as the Roi Castle trumpeters sprang into life with a musical tribute to spur the brave questers on their way. Upon hearing the fanfare, Nyte’s pace quickened significantly, and before long the wagon was rolling into the distance across the Aero Plains, leaving the balding king behind.

Not that King Pip the Fantabulous had time to watch. He was somewhat occupied at the time, coordinating the rescue of his favourite Chihuahua who, startled by the sound of the adjacent trumpeters, had leapt over the castle ramparts and into the moat below. As Mirkin and Bray headed off into the distance, the Chihuahua was busy thrashing around in the water with a startled expression on its face, choosing to forsake the doggy paddle in favour of a surprisingly convincing drowned rat impression. As the king’s guards successfully hauled the distressed canine back onto dry land, he let out a cry of anguish, not unlike the call of the wild elephant. The lone arrow which struck him moments later brought to an end a privileged, yet all too brief, existence.

“Oh well,” thought Pip, “plenty more where that came from,” and headed off in the direction of the royal kennels.

Back on the road, Mirkin and Bray were making good progress.

“Ah, this is the life, eh Bray!” said Mirkin cheerfully. “The open road, plenty of fresh air, and a whole world of possibilities ahead of us.” He paused. “I wouldn’t mind a drink though.”

“I thought you were on the wagon?” quipped Bray.

“Don’t even go there,” replied Mirkin, unimpressed with his stumpy friend’s line in puns.

“Well,” the dwarf continued, “we’ve got a range of supplies back here. I’ll have a rummage round and see what I can find.”

Bray disappeared into the back of the wagon. The sound of boxes being opened and tins being stacked greeted Mirkin’s pointy ears. He looked out wistfully across the plains and wished he knew some cowboy songs to pass the time, before remembering an old sea shanty he’d once heard entitled “You’re Not a Cow, You’re a Dog”, and wondering if that counted. Deciding it probably did, he opened his mouth to begin verse one, only to be interrupted by the return of Bray, who emerged once more from the rear of the wagon, and joined his friend in the front passenger seat.

“Well I’ve completed my inventory,” the dwarf said. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

“Hit me with the good news,” replied Mirkin. “It’s always nice to start on a high.”

“The good news is we have vast stocks of the finest tinned meat, tinned soup, tinned vegetables and tinned fruit.”

“And the bad news?”

“We don’t have a tin-opener.”

“Oh,” said Mirkin. “But is there any beer?”

“Beer is rationed to one bottle per person per day.”

“Over how many days?”

“Ten,” replied Bray.

* * *

Later that evening, as Mirkin lined up the ten empty beer bottles along Nyte’s back, he reflected on the wisdom of King Pip’s alcohol rationing system.

“It sheems to me,” said the elf, “that if you’re going to send someone to the back end of nowhere on the trail of a shaggy dog…”

“Hairy puppy,” corrected Bray.

“Fairy huppy,” acknowledged Mirkin, “Then you’ve got to give them a decent amount of beer. I mean, how does he expect us to keep going without a drink? We’d have ground to a halt hours ago without a drop of beer.” He paused, and looked around. “By the way, where are we?”

“About a mile from the castle,” Bray informed him. “We ground to a halt shortly after you finished your second beer.”

“Drink driving, mate. I had no choice. This wagon could be a death trap in the wrong hands. It was my duty as the king’s decoy-”

“Envoy,” corrected Bray.

“Envoy, tea boy, whatever, it was my duty to pull over immediately. Responsibility is my middle name.”

“I thought Buzz was your middle name?”

“Oh yeah,” said Mirkin. “Buzz… Responsibility… it’s so easy to get those two mixed up. Buzz was my grandfather’s name you know.”

“I know,” said Bray.

“The great Buzz Topp.”

“I know.”

“He never did like public transport though. It’s ironic.”

“I know,” sighed Bray, losing the will to live.

Mirkin finished positioning his empties, and stood back to admire his handiwork. Satisfied with the display, he began to sing in a rich, vibrantly toned, and surprisingly melodic voice rarely heard outside the kebab shops of Melee.

“Ten green bottles hanging on the horse…”

Bray looked on disapprovingly from his seated position on a nearby mound of earth at the side of the road, a position he had occupied for some time whilst his beer-bellied chum had been knocking back the drinks and waxing lyrical about the state of the king’s highways and the road hogs generally found there. Personally Bray liked road hogs. With their curly tails and little snuffling snouts, the soft-hearted dwarf considered them to be rather sweet, and had campaigned in his younger days for the introduction of roadside sties, or ‘Roadsties’ as he had suggested calling them, to provide safe shelter for the oinking beasties, and reduce the number splatted under the wheels of passing carriages on a daily basis.

Road hogs were cute indeed, but to Bray, not as cute as unicorns. He looked up at Nyte and smiled. Her presence made up for the towering inferno of white horse hell he had left back in Melee. He wondered momentarily if she’d let him stick an ice cream cornet on her forehead for a more convincing look, before deciding not to push his luck. Horn or no horn, he had his very own living, breathing unicorn substitute, and that was good enough. Bray was happy once more.

As was his pointy-eared chum, who was putting his all into a musical performance of some magnitude.

“… ten green bottles hanging on the horrrse…”
Bray made his way over to the wagon and picked up Nyte’s nosebag. He stroked her mane lovingly before heading towards the back of the wagon to find her food. The singing elf, meanwhile, was building to a crescendo of melodic power, conducting himself vigorously with both hands.

“… and if ONE green bottle should accidentally fallllll…”

The white mare shook herself, sending the ten beer bottles crashing to the ground.

“There’ll be no green bottles, and one intensely irritated horse,” said Nyte disdainfully.

Mirkin sniffed. “You’re a fine one to talk,” he said, losing his balance and toppling into a nearby bush.

Bray looked up in astonishment. His jaw dropped, as did the bag of oats in his hand.

“Mirkin!” he cried. “Nyte spoke!”

“Women,” muttered the elf, climbing out of the bush and struggling to stand upright. “You can’t shut them up at the best of times.”

“Mirkin!!” Bray was excited beyond belief, his little body bouncing up and down involuntarily as oaty goodness poured out onto the ground beside him. “NYTE CAN SPEAK!!!”

“Well give her the nosebag and she might shut up,” said Mirkin.

Bray ran around to the front of the wagon and stood facing the white horse.

“Nyte!” he said, bursting with unbridled joy. “You can speak!”

“Is that an observation or a concession?” replied the mare, her joy not quite as unbridled as Bray’s, owing in part to the leather harness around her midriff.

“This is fantastic!” beamed Bray. “A talking horse! My very own talking hornless unicorn! Why didn’t you tell us you could speak?”

Nyte looked down her nose at the little dwarf. “I had nothing to add to the conversation,” she said in a snooty tone of voice.

“Yeah, right,” Mirkin interrupted, “give her five minutes and we won’t be able to get a word in edgeways.”

“Well I think this is wonderful!” said Bray, an irrepressible smile plastered across his chubby bearded face. “I’ve never had a chat with a horse!”

“No, but you’ve dated a few dogs,” Mirkin added helpfully.

Nyte shook her mane and looked at Bray. “I don’t know how you put up with the fat elf,” she said. “The creature has no manners, no class, a distinct lack of intelligence, and an insensitivity which would put a troll to shame.”

“Oi,” interrupted Mirkin, “I am not fat.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Bray to his four legged friend, “but you know what it’s like. We go way back, and beer’s thicker than water.”

“Did someone mention beer?” asked Mirkin.

“Well,” said Nyte, “we’ll put that issue to one side for now. We’ve wasted enough time as it is, and the sun will soon be setting. We must press on and find a suitable place to set up camp for the night.”

“Typical woman, taking over already…” muttered Mirkin.

Nyte turned and looked sternly at the elf. “If this quest was left to YOU, Mr Topp, we wouldn’t make it further than the first pub.”

“Sounds good to me,” muttered Mirkin.

“Well I for one am taking this mission seriously,” the white mare scolded, “and I suggest you do the same.”

“Oh perleease…” said Mirkin, “we’re doing just fine as we are, if you ask me. This is only day one, and we’ve made quite satisfactory progress, thank you very much.”

Bray turned and looked west across the Aero Plains. King Pip the Fantabulous could still be seen waving from the ramparts of Roi Castle in the distance.

“Well,” said the dwarf, “we could have made a bit more progress…”

“Bray,” said Nyte, “I suggest you take the reins and let your alcoholic friend sleep off his indulgence in the back of the wagon.”

Mirkin felt disgruntled, but was too drunk to argue. Grudgingly, he climbed into the Fab-Wagon, and decided to search through the supplies for a bridle which incorporated a tongue tie. Two minutes into his search, he forgot what he was looking for, and promptly fell asleep on a stack of tinned pilchards.

Hopping on board, Bray covered his elfish chum with a blanket, tweaked one of his pointy ears fondly, then with a certain sense of excitement, took his position at the front of the wagon. Being of limited stature, he couldn’t quite see over the back of the white mare in front, and thus his ability to actually see where they might be going seemed likely to be restricted somewhat. But with the knowledge that his mighty steed possessed the power of speech, he felt confident that she would at least alert him to any upcoming cliff edges, allowing him to take evasive action should it be necessary. Unconcerned, Bray picked up the reins.

“Giddy up!” chirped the dwarf cheerfully, forgetting to check his mirrors.

“I’d rather you didn’t say that,” replied Nyte curtly, and with a swish of the tail, the white mare trotted off down the road.

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Chapter Seven

2004-11-16T07:51:00.000-08:00

The sun was setting on the peaceful land of Phillysia as Mirkin Topp, Bray the dwarf, and their equine chauffeur Nyte set up camp on the Aero Plains. Two of the three adventurers took an active role in proceedings, dragging wood from a nearby copse, preparing a camp fire, and roasting a small guinea fowl for tea. The third was passed out in the back of the wagon with a mild bout of alcohol poisoning.

The party had made good progress across the plains in a south-easterly direction, arriving at the crossroads where the dusty wagon trail they had been following met the main highway which spanned the Aero Plains from the Benni Hills in the north to the Bear-Faced Mountains in the south. The crossroads had once been home to a cheap motel, which itself had been the site of scandal, intrigue, and a certain amount of wooden acting. But no more. King Pip had personally closed the establishment following focus group reports that it was failing to attract the required number of visitors, and that it was all rather unconvincing anyway. He chose instead to concentrate on its sister business, The Baits Motel, which, whilst it had a habit of inexplicably losing the occasional guest, was run with a far greater efficiency by Pip’s trusted old friend, Norm.

On the particular day our heroes (and horsy heroine) arrived however, the Aero Plains crossroads were no more than just a piece of land where two highways intersected, a surprising feature which it shared with just about every other crossroads in Phillysia.

As the sun had set on their backs, and with the waving king now well and truly out of sight, Nyte and Bray had agreed that the time had come to call a halt to the day’s travelling, and bed down for the night. With the contents of their tinned supplies tantalisingly out of reach, Bray had turned to the limited fresh produce that had been packed for them by the king’s caterers, and had chosen for their first meal a fresh plump guinea fowl. To be honest, Bray wasn’t sure if the bird had been deliberately packed by the royal butcher, or had just got caught up in the cartwheels as they left the castle, but either way the spoke of the wheel served as an effective kebab skewer, and Bray was happy to take advantage.

As he rummaged through a box of condiments, searching in vain for some tomato ketchup, the dwarf turned to Nyte with a look of fondness in his eyes.

“So…” he said, hoping to start a conversation with the snowy mare, “… have you been able to speak all your life?”

Nyte looked disdainful. “I didn’t come out of the womb quoting Shakespeare, if that’s what you mean.”

“No… well… I just wondered how it works with talking horses. I‘ve never met one, you see.”

“I expect you have, young Bray,” Nyte replied. “It’s just that horses are discerning creatures, and rarely speak unless we have something meaningful to add to the conversation.”

“So you won’t tell me the winner of the 3:15 at Haydock then?” came a rough voice from the back of the wagon. The words were followed by the emergence of a groggy elf, who crawled to the front of the cart on all fours, flopped his legs over the side, and sat looking out at his two friends. Well, his one friend and a horse he hadn’t yet bonded with.

“You mean to say,” said Bray, choosing to ignore Mirkin for the time being, “that most horses can talk, but choose not to?”

“Indeed,” said Nyte. “According to a recent poll conducted by Fetlock Fancier Magazine, 97% of horses confirmed that they possess the power of speech. The other 3% refused to say one way or the other.”

“How come I’ve never seen this article then?” Mirkin butted in.

“Fetlock Fancier is subscription only, and available exclusively to hoofed animals,” the horse informed him.

“Hmmm…” said Bray, with a look of calculated deduction on his face. “So The Hooded Donkey has probably seen a copy...”

“I would imagine so,” said Nyte.

“Well bully for ass-features,” muttered Mirkin, failing to see the relevance of their nemesis’ favourite reading matter.

“It’s important to know your enemy,” stated Bray. “You never know when information like this might come in handy.”

“We’re stealing his dog, not buying his Christmas present,” replied Mirkin, unconvinced.

“Ignore him, Bray,” advised Nyte, “you’re quite right to consider these matters. Well done.”

The dwarf blushed at such words of praise from the white mare.

“Well forgive me for not joining in this analysis of old Hee-Haw’s preferred book at bedtime,” said Mirkin, “but is there any chance of getting a bit of food around here? My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”

“I don’t know what you’re so grumpy about,” remarked Bray, “you’ve had a skinful and a sleep – that’s pretty much your ideal working day.”

“And now I just need a meal to cap it off,” the elf replied. “Can we call out for a pizza?”

Bray sighed. “Nyte’s had her oats…”

“I beg your pardon?” said Mirkin.

“… I’ve had a small bird…”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“… and if you want something, you’ll just have to get it yourself,” the dwarf finished.

Mirkin looked on petulantly. “No problem,” he said. “We elves are known for our hunting prowess. I shall fetch my longbow, and bag myself a meal.”

He began to make his way to the back of the wagon, before turning to face his companions once more.

“But in the morning we buy a tin-opener, ok?”

Bray nodded reluctantly, and wondered if Mirkin would really be able to shoot a moving target with a longbow he used primarily for performing music on street corners. The dwarf watched as Mirkin climbed out from the rear of the wagon, bow in hand, and clambered up onto the vehicle’s roof, where he seated himself astride its plastic wood-effect canopy.

“Right,” said Mirkin, “if you see anything pass, let me know.”

Bray looked at the hung over elf atop the wagon, bow and arrow optimistically poised for action, and shook his head, before turning back to Nyte.

“He’s not always like this,” said the dwarf. “He’s just been under a lot of strain lately.”

“You are too accommodating, my dear Bray.”

The dwarf’s heart skipped a beat at the horse’s use of the word ‘dear’.

“The elf should learn some manners,” Nyte continued. “There is no excuse for such rudeness.”

“He’s suffered at the hands of hippos.”

“Hippos don’t have hands. And even if they did, it would not excuse this apparent lack of dedication to the quest.”

“He’s just coping the only way he knows how. With excessive drinking and a spot of yodelling. He doesn’t mean any harm.”

“All the same,” said Nyte sternly, “this is a gravely serious mission, not a wild goose chase.”

Nyte’s words were interrupted by the unexpected twang of a longbow being fired. The pair turned towards the Fab-Wagon, where Mirkin sat peering up into the night sky, the string of his bow quivering with the effect of a recently departed arrow.

“Fore!” cried the elf.

The scene was tranquil for a moment, the quiet crackling of the campfire the only sound. Mirkin sat motionless atop the wagon, eyes trained on the heavens above, then, as Bray and Nyte watched with interest, a look of alarm and increasing panic spread across the elf’s face.

“Bloody hell!” he cried, scrambling to get off the roof where he sat. “Evacuate! Women and elves first!”

Struggling to seize control of his own limbs, Mirkin thrashed about for a few seconds before diving head first off the wagon and landing in a heap on the ground, where he instinctively covered his head with his hands, pointy ears protruding from between his fingers. As he did so, the whistle of a rapidly approaching missile filled the air, and to the onlookers’ astonishment, an unidentified flying object (well, to be honest, it was more of an unidentified plummeting object) came hurtling through the air and smashed through the plastic roof of the Fab-Wagon, inches from where Mirkin had been sitting.

Peeping out from between his fingers, Mirkin looked up cautiously, and, satisfied that the falling objects numbered no more than one, stood up and brushed himself down. He looked at his companions and gave a sheepish smile. They looked back in silence. The elf put down his bow and clambered into the wagon. A few moments later he emerged, holding what appeared to be a dead bird of some considerable size, from the middle of which protruded a familiar looking arrow. Mirkin held it up proudly for the others to see.

“Lunch!” he said triumphantly.

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Chapter Eight

2004-11-16T07:50:00.000-08:00

Bray sat by the campfire, slowly turning the spit on which Mirkin’s prey was gently roasting. The fowl smell and golden brown crispiness of the bird told him it was done. The dwarf looked up at his elven companion.

“Your goose is cooked,” he said.

“Fantastic!” cried Mirkin, rushing over from the nearby stream where he’d been washing his hands for dinner, an action suggested by Bray as an attempt to prove to Nyte that he wasn’t entirely without standards. “Now that’s what I call a meal!” the elf continued, wiping his nose with the palm of his hand, and picking up the bird. Nyte rolled her eyes. The attempt to win her over appeared not to have been wholly successful.

Mirkin was unconcerned, somewhat preoccupied with the magnificence of his upcoming meal.

“Have a gander at this goose,” he said proudly. “It’s a whopper isn’t it?!”

Although reluctant to admit it, Bray had to concede that yes, Mirkin’s goose did indeed put his little guinea fowl to shame, but, he decided, it wasn’t the size that counted, it was how it felt when you put it in your mouth. And the dwarf felt sure that his was significantly more succulent.

Nyte, meanwhile, was a little distracted. Released from her harness for the night, she had wandered over to the side of the wagon where a small pile of feathers lay on the ground – the aftermath of Mirkin’s attempts at poultry preparation. Prodding them carefully with her hoof, the white mare began to look deeply concerned.

“Plucking hell…” she said under her breath.

The others turned to look at her.

“I think we may have a problem…” the horse continued.

Bray looked anxious. Mirkin’s body became covered in gooseflesh. He was such a messy eater.

“What is it?” Bray enquired.

“I’m not so sure the elf’s bird is quite the whopper it appears...” replied Nyte, ominously.

Mirkin continued eating, unconcerned. “Well it sure as hell is finger lickin’ good!” he remarked, smacking his lips with satisfaction.

“What do you mean?” asked Bray of their equine companion.

“These feathers…” said Nyte, “… they look remarkably like the plumage of the Giant Mountain Goose, a wild and fearsome creature with three-inch fangs and a love of tobogganing.”

“Nah,” said Mirkin with his mouth full, “it’s not that big. It’s barely going to stretch to sandwiches.”

“Precisely,” said the horse. “Which means that if this is a Giant Mountain Goose, it must be a baby…”

“No wonder it’s so succulent,” remarked Mirkin.

“… and if it’s a baby,” Nyte continued, “then its mother is not going to be best pleased that you’ve roasted her offspring.”

Bray looked alarmed. Mirkin didn’t.

“Oh relax,” said the elf. “I’ll have eaten the evidence by the time Mother Goose gets here.” He took another bite. “Do we have any tomato ketchup?”

“No,” said Bray. “And if Nyte is right, I’m not sure you should be eating that.”

“What, no ketchup? You’re kidding me…” Mirkin got up. “Here, hold this for a moment,” he said, handing Bray a half-eaten drumstick and heading off in the direction of the condiments box.

It was around this point that the sound of distant flapping began to register with the three adventurers. As Mirkin rummaged around amongst the mustard pots, Bray sat by the campfire, goose drumstick in hand, listening to the rhythmic beating of wings which appeared to be getting louder by the second. Perhaps if he’d stopped listening and looked up, things might have turned out very differently, but he didn’t, and as a result the Giant Mountain Goose which was bearing down on him at high speed, went unnoticed until the very last moment.

His search for ketchup proving to be a search in vain, Mirkin turned back towards the campfire at precisely the same moment that Bray looked upwards. It was difficult to say which of the two had a better view of the event: Mirkin, who witnessed the majestic sweeping dive of the wild goose across the panorama of the night sky, or Bray, who experienced an up close and personal view of the giant bird’s belly as it grasped his shoulders with its webbed talons (an interesting anatomical feature unique to the Giant Mountain Goose), lifted him into the air, and carried him off into the darkness.

Ironically, Nyte the mare would later claim that it was she who had the unrivalled perspective, with the dangling body of the dwarf backlit by the orange glow of the campfire, a viewpoint from which she was able to see that the feathers of the bird did indeed match those plucked by Mirkin from the body of his uncooked lunch, a discovery which gave the horse a certain inner sense of satisfaction. Ultimately however, the issue of who amongst them had enjoyed the most complete overview of the incident remained a matter of pure conjecture.

For now, such debate was put to one side.

“Bray! Come back!” screamed Mirkin, before realising it was a slightly stupid thing to have said. He turned to Nyte instead.

“Quick,” he cried, “let’s get after them!”

Choosing not to add anything to the discussion at this point, Nyte positioned herself at the front of the wagon. She had plenty to say, but along with the power of speech, she possessed an ability to choose the appropriate moment. Mirkin buckled up the mare’s harness with all the speed and urgency of a man whose best friend had just been carried off by an enraged waterfowl.

Within seconds they were off, Nyte galloping for all she was worth, Mirkin wiping warm goose juice from his chin, and trying to keep a hold of the reins whilst reaching in vain for his longbow.

The hauntingly evocative outline of a small dwarf dangling from the claws of a giant goose was silhouetted against the moon, as the furious fowl carried Bray south towards the Bear-Faced Mountains.

Struggling to maintain visual contact with his airborne chum, and with the situation appearing more desperate by the second, Mirkin called to the white mare in front.

“Ok Nyte,” the elf shouted, “you kept the speaking thing to yourself, but if you’ve also got the power to see in the dark, now would be a good time to mention it.”

“Don’t let the fact that I eat carrots cloud your judgement, Topp,” the mare panted, managing to remain aloof despite their breakneck speed and the shortness of breath it induced.

Through a break in the clouds, Mirkin caught a glimpse of the wild goose and gave chase, rousting Nyte with a flick of the reins, and bouncing about in the driving seat as he prayed to the gods of night-time for another shaft of moonlight.

It didn’t come. The wagon rattled and rolled along the road at high speed, but as Mirkin looked up, the dark shape of the Giant Mountain Goose and her stumpy prey passed across the moon for the last time and disappeared behind a wall of cloud, which enveloped the elf’s friend ominously and completely. There were no more breaks in the cloud, and no more sightings of the little dwarf and the big bird.

Gradually, and reluctantly, Mirkin slowed the wagon to a halt. As he stared into the inky blackness, he felt an emptiness inside. It was the loss of a loved one, the metaphorical severing of an essential limb. Or possibly just that he’d only had time to eat half the roast goose. Whichever it was, he felt an overwhelming sense of regret.

“I’ve been a fool,” declared Mirkin humbly.

“I won’t argue with you on that score,” agreed Nyte, still trying to catch her breath.

“If I hadn’t wasted time washing my hands, I could’ve finished that goose, and none of this would’ve happened.”

“What?!” the mare whinnied. “You shouldn’t have shot the thing in the first place! If you hadn’t been passed out in a booze-fuelled coma, you could have shared the guinea fowl, and let me tell you, Mr Topp, no matter how miffed its parents may have been, you do not get ten-foot fanged guinea fowl hell-bent on revenge.”

“Don’t blame me!” said Mirkin indignantly. “It was dark, I didn’t know what I was shooting. For all I knew it was a plump chicken flying past up there.”

“You do not get airborne chickens flying past the moon.”

“Yeah, and next you’ll be telling me there are no kippers in the River Feenix.”

“There aren’t!” the mare cried exasperatedly.

“Whatever,” muttered Mirkin. “The fact remains that the damage was done the moment the arrow was fired, and at that point the best thing I could do to remedy that situation was to eat the evidence. Which I did.”

“You didn’t! You involved an innocent dwarf! If you hadn’t left Bray with his hand on your thigh while you went looking for sauce-”

“I beg your pardon?”

“- it would be YOU dangling from the feet of a goose, not Bray!”

“Hey, what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the little fella with the beard. He wanted ketchup as much as the next man.”

“That is not true. Bray was merely taking care of your bird while you went looking for a bit on the side. It was an act of supreme selfishness, and YOU, Mr Topp, are entirely to blame.”

Mirkin shrugged. He wouldn’t admit it to the stuck up mare, but deep down he knew he was in the wrong. He would also never admit just how much the little dwarf meant to him, but the truth was that for all his polemic chat and arrogant bravado, he was crushed inside at the loss of his little pal.

“Well,” said the elf in a subdued voice, “it was a Giant Mountain Goose, right? So the chances are it’s making for the Bear-Faced Mountains. We’re headed that way anyway, so let’s keep going. I’m not giving up on the bearded midget just yet.”

Nyte shook her mane. “Indeed. We can set up camp in the foothills. We may be able to pick up the trail from there.” Despite her words, the mare did not appear too optimistic. “I just hope for your sake, Mr Topp, that we have not seen the last of the young dwarf.”

A tear welled up in Mirkin’s eye. He hoped so too.

With a half-hearted flick of the reins, the white mare stepped forward and the wagon rolled off slowly into the night.

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Chapter Nine

2004-11-16T07:49:00.000-08:00

The Bear-Faced Mountains lay to the south of the Aero Plains and the small town of Melee, and stretched from east to west (and back again) across the peaceful land of Phillysia, dividing the kingdom like a mighty granite net on a lush green table tennis table. Melee, it had been noted, stood approximately two thirds of the way from the net to the service line, with the Benni Hills marking the baseline beyond. Roi Castle could be represented by a carefully positioned ping-pong ball, and the southern body of water known as Rikky Lake by a pimply bat. Ultimately however, it was easier to use a map.

The mountains were so called because from space they formed an uncanny likeness of Danny Bear, the legendary yogi of Phillysia, and husky-voiced star of stage and screen. Windscreen that is. From his regular position by the traffic lights on the magic roundabout just outside Florence, Danny would clean the windshields of a thousand carriages a day. Mostly without their owners’ consent, it has to be said. But his night job as a performing yoga master had earned him a reputation which stretched far and wide throughout the small theatres of Phillysia, and beyond.

Of course, as a kingdom yet to discover space travel, no one knew of the mountains’ striking similarity to Danny’s smiling face, but as King Pip the Fantabulous was fond of saying, “Long before we discovered Rikky Lake, the lake was there.”

He was wrong of course – Rikky Lake was a man-made body of water created by a group of landscape gardeners and venture capitalists with a view to turning the nearby WC fields from a communal toilet area into an exclusive country club and leisure resort. When planning permission for a karaoke bar had been refused, the group had abandoned the project, leaving the area for good and travelling north, where they invested heavily in a new business venture called ‘The Bitch & Butt’. Shortly afterwards the abandoned lake was discovered, and the rest, as King Pip would say, is a mystery.

The fact remained, however, that from space the Bear-Faced Mountains looked like Danny Bear the yogi, and there was simply no getting away from it. Unless you had a spaceship with extra thrust and a map of the far reaches of the solar system.

It was here, amongst the snowy windswept peaks, that a small bearded face could now be seen in the early morning light, poking out from a hole in the side of a rocky mountain. The hole was the lair of the Giant Mountain Goose, and the face belonged to Bray.

The dwarf had crawled on all-fours towards the rocky ledge at the entrance to the fowl beast’s lair. As the wind whistled around his ears, Bray looked down. It was a sheer vertical drop to the steep snow-covered slopes below. There appeared to be no way out.

As he peered through the wisps of cloud around his head, he felt a tugging at his foot, and turned to see Mother Goose with her beak around his shoe. Taking a firm hold, the giant waterfowl dragged Bray back into the cave, before picking him up by the ankle and dropping him into the nest from which he had crawled moments before.

The dwarf’s journey here the previous night had been both swift and somewhat chilly. With nothing to keep him warm but a freshly cooked drumstick, he had flown (well, dangled) through the air at high speed, the mountain breezes chilling his bones and forming icicles on his beard. Tempted to eat the drumstick, he had decided it might aggravate his captor if she looked down to see him munching on her offspring, and thus had resisted, choosing to grin and bear the harsh elements with all the dwarfish resolve he could muster.

Fortunately the journey had not been excessively long, and they had duly arrived at the goose’s lair, where Bray was immediately deposited in a fittingly large nest lined with feathers, leaves and bric-a-brac, the like of which the dwarf had not seen since Mirkin last had a yard sale.

Bray sat there now, up to the waist in feathery debris, looking at his three bedfellows: a trio of baby Mountain Geese which had not yet earned the description ‘giant’. The dwarf smiled uneasily, looking from the geese to the roasted drumstick in his hand, and back again. He felt a little uncomfortable to be sitting amongst these creatures whilst holding the cooked leg of their sibling, but was reluctant to loosen his grip on the drumstick in case its scent was the only thing keeping the Mother Goose from eating him.

As much as Bray disapproved of Mirkin’s actions the previous night, as he looked at his three step brothers and sisters now, he couldn’t help thinking how much better they would look rotating slowly over an open fire.

He put such thoughts to the back of his mind as his wicked stepmother approached.

“Honk,” said the goose, standing over him and reaching out a webbed talon.

Bray smiled weakly. “Er… good morning,” he said.

“Honk,” repeated the goose.

Bray held up the roasted drumstick as a talisman of protection. The Giant Mountain Goose looked unimpressed. She poked the dwarf with her claw.

“Erm…” stammered Bray, “… I don’t speak Goose, do you speak English?”

“Honk,” said the goose.

“Would it make any difference if I said I was from Fetlock Fancier Magazine?”

“Honk,” came the reply.

“Feathered Friend Fancier?”

“Honk.”

Bray quickly realised that his hopes of having meaningful intercourse with the bird were likely to be hampered by her failure to do any more than honk. True, she had a plump breast and a well turned thigh, but Bray wanted a bird he could talk to.

Of equal, if not more, concern for the dwarf at this juncture, was the way the Mother Goose seemed to be encouraging her young to peck at him. Time appeared to be running out. Armed with nothing but a cold cooked goose leg, Bray knew he had to take action. And fast.

* * *

In the northern foothills of the Bear-Faced Mountains, a weary white horse trudged slowly down the long and winding road, following the undulating curves of the Kellee Brook towards the foot of Mount Baton, pulling a plastic wagon with a goose-shaped hole in its roof.

A mere four hundred yards away, Nyte was pulling a similar wagon with an overweight dwarf aboard, blissfully unaware of her doppelganger a quarter of a mile further on down the road. Sadly they were destined never to meet, and would remain unaware of each other’s existence for ever more. Which was a minor tragedy for Nyte, who had always dreamt of the possibility of such a twin, but a stroke of good fortune for Mirkin, who found it a struggle to cope with just one white mare, and would in all probability have found the presence of a second horse a little too much to bear.

Unaware of his lucky escape, the elf was looking up at the snowy peak of Mount Baton, his mind filled with thoughts of his short chum Bray, his eyes scanning the mountains for any hint of a flying waterfowl or dangling dwarf.

It was early morning, and Nyte was tired.

“I can’t go any further,” the mare sighed. They had travelled through the night, their pace gradually slowing, until the brave horse could take no more.

“Hey, I’m the one who’s been doing all the driving,” said Mirkin, a little unreasonably.

Nyte stopped and looked at the elf behind her with an expression of contempt. “I will not dignify that statement with a response,” she said.

The white mare pulled the wagon off the road, and, deciding not to make waves, Mirkin unbuckled her harness. Nyte lay down on a nearby bed of bracken, close to the clear mountain waters of the Kellee Brook.

“Well,” said the horse, looking up, “those are the Bear-Faced Mountains. We’re here. And with any luck, so is Bray.”

“Well, have a rest for five minutes, and then we’ll go and find him,” said Mirkin.

“Mr Topp,” Nyte did lot look amused. “I have been walking all night, I have had not one wink of sleep, and I need to rest.”

“Yeah, I know. But Bray’s out there, somewhere, all alone in the clutches of an evil goose, and it’s up to us to find him. We can’t just sit here all day and expect him to magically appear.”

“I know,” said the horse patiently, “and I’m as anxious to find him as you are, but the time has come to rest. I suggest you fetch yourself a drink from the brook, and try to sleep for an hour or two.”

Reluctantly, Mirkin took the mare’s advice. He jumped down from the Fab-Wagon and made his way over to the small stream. Peering into its shallow waters, he decided they lacked the depth required to conceal a giant hippo, and consequently felt confident enough to kneel down and take a drink, scooping up the crystal clear mountain water with his hand, and enjoying the refreshing taste which had made the Kellee Brook famous in these parts. The refreshing taste which could only safely be enjoyed by races of a non-elf persuasion. For the waters of the Kellee Brook flowed directly from the heart of Mount Baton, a rocky peak hewn over the centuries by Mother Nature (and her daughter Hoomen) from the purest Sharen stone, a strikingly beautiful and naturally occurring rock, yet one poisonous to elves. Whilst harmless to all other Phillysians, contact with Sharen stone could be seriously bad for your elf.

Unaware of the inevitable consequences of his actions, Mirkin finished his drink and returned to the wagon. His equine companion was already asleep, and Mirkin had resigned himself to following her example. Climbing aboard, he lay down in the back of the Fab-Wagon and covered himself with a blanket, wishing that Bray were there to tweak his pointy ears as he fell asleep.

Closing his eyes, the elf stretched out, and promptly kicked something with his foot. It clinked appealingly. Sitting up, he reached to the bottom of the bed and examined the box he found there. It was Bray’s beer ration.

“Hmmm…” said Mirkin thoughtfully.

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Chapter Ten

2004-11-16T07:46:00.000-08:00

Back in the big bird’s love nest, Bray was weighing up his options. Reasoning with the giant bird by means of considered debate and well thought out arguments appeared to be a non-starter. Plunging two hundred feet off a ledge onto the side of a mountain also held something of a limited appeal. Yet the third option – to sit on a pile of downy bric-a-brac while a Mother Goose with fangs gave her goslings a lesson in dwarf-pecking, seemed least appealing of all.

Bray was not violent by nature – he could not have remained friends with Mirkin if he were, and indeed no court in the land would have convicted him had he beaten the elf around the head with a frying pan on several separate occasions. There is, after all, such a thing as provocation. Although a good barrister would have pointed out that in order to inflict wounds of that nature, the dwarf would have required access to a step ladder, a fact which suggests premeditation. So perhaps the trial would not have been so cut and dried after all.

It was a moot point however, because, as previously stated, Bray was not violent by nature. This was particularly true when it came to small furry animals. Unicorns and road hogs notwithstanding, the dwarf had a soft spot for many of Mother Nature’s creatures, from the soft-bellied aardvark to the wily moose, and he could often be seen pounding the streets of Melee, home-made banner in hand, protesting about the unreasonably high water temperature inflicted on his aquatic chums at the fish-boiling factory. And haddock weren’t even furry.

So when presented with the cute innocent faces of three white fluffy goose chicks, Bray found it harder than most to contemplate beating them to death with a roasted drumstick.

Nevertheless, action was required. The relentless pecking told him that. But morally speaking, the use of a cooked goose leg seemed off-limits. Bray needed a weapon.

Fending off the trio of goslings with one hand, Bray delved into the mass of debris which lined the giant nest in which he sat. Amongst the feathers, twigs and leaves, he found animal bones, small carcasses, and a rare copy of ‘King Pip the Fantabulous Sings the Easy Listening Classics’ on mini disc.

“Interesting…” thought Bray as he delved deeper.

He began to pull out small shiny metal objects: aluminium foil, sardine tins, artificial hip replacements. It appeared that the Giant Mountain Goose might be a distant cousin of the magpie. Bray wondered if he had stumbled across an important find for the naturalists of Phillysia. Perhaps the missing link between the crow and the mountain goat, whose love of sparkly fish cans was well documented. He made a mental note to contact the Museum of Natural History in the western city of Attenborough, should he ever escape from this predicament.

Rummaging around in the nest, his left little toe in the beak of a baby goose, Bray’s fingers touched a hard metal object. Unsure what to expect, but hoping against hope that it wasn’t another musical offering from King Pip the Fantabulous, the dwarf pulled it from the detritus and shook it free of feathers. He looked at the object with surprise. It was a shiny new tin-opener.

Unsure if it would make an effective weapon, but certain he could use it to open the syrup pudding he’d spotted in the back of the Fab-Wagon the previous day, Bray pocketed the item, and continued delving.

Deeper and deeper the dwarf dug, disappearing head first into the downy bric-a-brac which lined the nest, his protruding ankles being pecked by the orange bills of three hungry goslings and their pushy mother. Fighting his way past a dozen pieces of heavy metal, one of which proved to be a rare and all but forgotten recording from the misspent youth of King Pip, Bray’s enquiring digits made contact with an altogether larger item, made not of metal, but of wood. He ran his hands over the find, unsure of its identity, and unable to pull it free from the pile of debris in which it lay.

Fortunately he had reckoned without the assistance of his fowl captor, who was growing bored with her offspring’s well-meaning, but frankly ineffective, attempts at destructive pecking. As Bray grasped hold of the mystery object, the Mother Goose grasped hold of him, grabbing the dwarf by the ankles and pulling him clear of the feathery pit, before dumping him back down amongst her young, and demonstrating the correct use of the beak with a forceful peck to the midriff.

Bray was winded, but triumphant. He may have been surrounded on all sides by disagreeable waterfowl, but at last he had a means of escape. He looked down at the wooden object he had unearthed. It was a toboggan. But not just any toboggan. A Sister Sledge 9000™, the finest toboggan known to man (or dwarf) and the sledge of choice for any discerning Giant Mountain Goose. If he could make it to the snowy slopes below with this superior piece of kit, he stood at least a fighting chance of a clean getaway. Bray had a plan.

As the Mother Goose attempted to pull off his shoe with a single webbed talon, Bray held up the roasted leg of her departed offspring, and in an act of convincing ventriloquism, the like of which had not been seen since the days of Lip-Trembling Len and his Gabbling Gottle o’ Geer, the legendary old variety act of the Phillysian music halls, the dwarf began to throw his voice.

“Honk,” said the roasted drumstick.

The giant bird look confused. Bray wiggled his thigh.

“Honk,” he repeated.

Bray stood up and placed the toboggan on the floor of the cave, outside the nest. Then, with a honk of entirely convincing proportions, he tossed the drumstick onto the bed of the sledge, hoping it might flutter realistically, but not being surprised when it merely thudded to the floor like a piece of cooked meat.

The big bird distracted momentarily, Bray grabbed two of the goslings, stuffing one under each arm, and cautiously climbed out of the nest.

The Giant Mountain Goose was not an unintelligent creature, but the sight of a dwarf with a baby goose under each arm, edging towards the entrance of her cave with a Sister Sledge 9000™ on which sat a talking roasted drumstick which bore an uncanny resemblance to her deceased child, was enough to puzzle the oversized fowl. She looked on in a state of confusion as Bray nudged the sledge nearer to the rocky ledge with his foot, letting out the occasional honk as he goose-stepped to freedom.

Stunned into a state of near-catatonic inaction, the Mother Goose enabled Bray to make it unchallenged to the cave entrance, where he stood on the verge of something big. And possibly stupid. He wondered if it was a little foolish to place his life in the hands of two goslings’ ability to counteract the effects of gravity, and flutter him down to the mountainside below. But that was his plan, and there was no going back now.

Positioning himself on the state-of-the-art toboggan, cooked thigh wedged between his knees, Bray readied himself for action. He hoped the geese under his arms were similarly prepared. He took one last look at his wicked stepmother, and braced himself.

“There’s a goose loose aboot this hoose!” cried the dwarf for reasons he couldn’t quite put his finger on, and with one last ventriloquial honk, he launched himself into the cold mountain air.

To his relief, the fluffy goslings under his arms began beating their wings instinctively. To his mild alarm, their flapping proved a little too effective. Rather than floating gently to the slopes below, Bray’s flying sledge hovered in mid air. He looked panic-stricken towards the mouth of the giant bird’s lair, where Mother Goose, shaken from her confused stupor by the sudden departure of two thirds of her family (or four fifths if you include her stepson Bray, and the late roasted offspring between his legs), was approaching rapidly towards the ledge, a look of vengeful anger on her wide-billed face.

Lacking the presence of mind to honk, Bray resorted to drastic measures. As the giant fowl neared the cave entrance, he removed a flapping gosling from his armpit and chucked it for all he was worth, back into the feathery lair it called home, where it hit its mother in the face and rolled on by into the nest.

With only one aviation assistant remaining, Bray’s airborne toboggan began to plummet. He flapped his spare arm valiantly, in an effort to assist his fluffy accomplice, and with a velocity a little greater than he would have liked, the sledge dropped two hundred feet and hit the snow at speed. A lesser toboggan might have disintegrated on impact, but not the Sister Sledge 9000™, which was built to withstand the sternest of winter sporting tests.

The airbag which had activated automatically as he hit the ground was a slight hindrance, smothering the dwarf and preventing him from having any real idea where he was headed, but only one thing mattered: he was on his way. He released his hold on the gosling, and the young fowl fluttered upwards toward the mouth of the cave.

Where it collided with its mother coming in the other direction.

As Bray slid down the mountainside at breakneck speed, he glanced behind him, where an awesome and terrifying sight greeted his eyes. The Giant Mountain Goose was giving chase. Not on the wing, but on a toboggan of breathtaking dimensions. Though Bray could scarcely believe it himself, it appeared to be a Sister Sledge Turbo II™, a vehicle whose very existence was the stuff of myth, legend and drunken exaggeration. Bray had never seen one, indeed he had previously refused to believe that such a sledge had even been built, but now here he was, face to face with the mythical creation. And it was gaining on him.

“Honk!” cried the goose, the pressure of an extreme situation clearly not persuading her to start speaking English.

Grappling with the inflated airbag, Bray continued down the mountain at ever increasing speeds, skimming over the snow and ice, and dodging the occasional rock with no little skill. Well, no skill at all really – he couldn’t see where he was going, so the presence of such rocks in his path was news to him. But dwarves are nothing if not lucky. And short. Not to mention bearded. And for now, his luck held.

Still the giant goose came. Faster and faster, closer and closer, until Bray could feel her fowl breath on his neck. He turned around, wishing he’d had the foresight to arm himself with a few snowballs before he set off. Facing backwards, the icy mountain air blowing his beard out in front of him and freezing it to a point, he looked into the vacant soulless eyes of a tobogganing goose. Which wasn’t something he did every day. He brandished the roasted drumstick menacingly, but the fearsome fowl refused to be intimidated.

Travelling at speeds which would make a skydiver sweat, the Giant Mountain Goose drew up alongside Bray’s Sister Sledge 9000™. The dwarf swore he saw a smile pass across the giant beast’s bill, as she slowly raised a webbed talon, razor-sharp claw glinting in the bright morning sunlight, and prepared to strike.

Bray closed his eyes. Which was a shame, because it meant he missed the startled and panicked expression on the Mother Goose’s face as she noticed the ravine ahead of them. A jagged gorge, many hundreds of feet deep, it stretched across the mountainside in the path of the speeding tobogganers, crossable only via a narrow ice bridge, itself barely more than the width of a single sledge. It would be impossible to navigate at such high speeds.

Fortunately Bray wasn’t bothering with anything as complicated as navigation. He was relying on sheer good fortune, and as such, his vehicle sped across the ice bridge at a hundred miles per hour with inch perfect steering. Not that Bray was bothering with steering either. Let’s face it, his luck was in that day.

Behind him, the Giant Mountain Goose slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. Bray opened his eyes just in time to see the big bird on the state-of-the-art sledge disappearing over the precipice and tumbling down into the ravine below.

“I hope she remembers she can fly before she hits the bottom,” said Bray, unfailingly considerate to the last.

* * *

At the foot of Mount Baton, by the undulating curves of the Kellee Brook, Nyte stirred, and opened her eyes. There was no sign of the annoying elf. There was, however, a distant humming, drifting along on the breeze from the mountains above, and filling her ears, which she pricked, attempting to decipher the sound which greeted her as she awoke.

No, not a humming, it was more of a wailing, she decided. And it was getting louder. The white mare sat up and yawned.

Still the volume of the noise increased. Puzzled, Nyte stood up and turned towards the Bear-Faced Mountains. Something was approaching with speed down the snowy slopes above the impromptu camp. And it was responsible for the ever loudening wail.

If she could have rubbed her eyes, she would, for the sight which greeted the surprised mare was not one she could comfortably believe at first viewing. A toboggan was speeding down the lower slopes of Mount Baton at an alarming pace, taking an even more alarming and unconventional route through the rocky hazards before it. And onboard this runaway sledge, holding a roasted drumstick aloft, and having an ongoing battle with an inflated airbag, was Bray.

“Aaaaaaaarrrrrrrrgggggggghhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!” cried the dwarf, as if to confirm the runaway nature of his vehicle.

Helpless to do anything but watch, Nyte stood open mouthed as Bray neared the camp, hit an incline, and sailed majestically into the air, clearing the Kellee Brook by a good three feet and slamming into the back of the Fab-Wagon, the right rear wheel of which shattered instantly, sending shards of cheap plastic flying through the air.

For a moment all was quiet. Nyte rushed over to the wagon, and there amongst the wood-effect debris, still sitting in the stricken sledge, hand on a cooked goose leg, face frozen to an airbag, she found a somewhat bewildered, but very much alive, Bray.

The horse opened her mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by a voice from the front of the wagon.

“What’s all the noise?” the voice said, with a tone which suggested its owner may have been drinking.

Nyte looked up to see the dishevelled and somewhat unsteady figure of an elf approaching, half-empty beer bottle in hand, walking the staggering walk of the inebriated. In a tender and moving scene of friends reunited, the elf looked down and saw his long-lost chum. His eyes lit up.

“Bray!” cried Mirkin, the emotion of the moment evident in his voice. “You found my lunch!”

He plucked the drumstick from Bray’s hand, took a bite, and with a drunken pirouette, collapsed on the ground before them.

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