The Travelling Magician (Or How To Lose Friends And Disrupt Communities)

Not for the first time, Rasmin was lost and hungry. Having left a small town in a state of serious emergency, he thought it prudent to get as far away from the angry inhabitants as he could. As a result, he had sprinted through the still smouldering town gates, as scowling locals dampened charred wood with buckets of water, without any real idea of where he was going and where he was going to end up. Looking desperately for a road, he had instead shambled through bramble and bracken and, finally, he had found a track-way. Wide enough for two carts to pass each other, it appeared to be a major enough route to be going somewhere of some importance. Rasmin had tightened his belt, taken a deep breath, and decided to see what new horizon would await him.

That was three days ago. Famished and utterly exhausted, he had considered lying down on the roadside and waiting for someone to find him. But in the late evening and at his lowest ebb, stumbling and tripping over his own feet, he had spotted the twinkling lights in the distance, through the hazy, warm autumn dusk. It may have been the beginnings of a village, it may have been a simple farmstead or it could just as easily be a fire lit by robbers, but at this point he did not care. Elated by the prospect of talking to creatures other than birds (or himself), he raced towards the lights.

Rasmin’s luck was changing, but in which direction was hard to tell. The lights belonged not to a village or to thieves, but to The Star of the North, an inn with somewhat of a dubious reputation. Although ostensibly friendly, the inn lay in a largely wild and ungoverned area. Rasmin’s fear of robbery was not unfounded; it was more than common around here, and The Star would often be filled with both lost travellers and unfriendly characters, sitting in the shadows and weighing up their next victims. The owners allowed these vagabonds to drink and use the facilities on the grounds that no trouble ever went on behind the closed doors. Undaunted and unfazed, the unsavoury types would wait until someone had staggered out of the door and swiftly deal with them on the road outside, sometimes even on the doorstep itself, before returning and ordering more food and drink with the ill-gotten proceeds.

After a brief jog, Rasmin made it to the front of the inn. A dim light streamed out of the dirty windows; a shaft of light piercing the keyhole of the front door, caught in the mist that was slowly descending over the area. Behind the modest frontage of the house, the rest of the building loomed above in the gloom. The Star, unusually for most inns of the time, had accommodation for travellers. This was due to it’s location on the main North road, and its proximity between the two main towns in the area - exactly a day’s ride on horseback between them both. Traders, businessmen and even government officials could therefore ride for a day to the inn, sleep overnight and then continue the journey for another day. The Star was also unusual for being so multi-cultural in the people passing through – the North road crossed the great East-West highway a few miles from here, which meant the inn was planted close to an important cross-road. For once, you could enter an inn and humans were not the dominant species. Large numbers of Dwarves could usually be found here travelling east to west between the two great belts of mountains, as would Faeries, Shambleaus (sex mad vampires), Colthurs (humanoid creatures with skin as thick as armour), a variety of ugly Goblin cross-breeds and, if you were lucky, the occasional Miiza. The Miiza race was primarily known (and unfairly feared and distrusted) for their ability to shape-shift. Male Miizas traditionally transformed into inanimate objects – anything from a signpost to a sword, whilst the female Miiza had the ability to metamorphose into animals. Although this was a self-defence mechanism designed to confuse and disorientate an opponent, no Miiza scholar had ever been able to give an adequate reason as to why the two genders had such dramatic differences between their transformed states. Such a remarkable ability came at a price, however; years and years of their lives training to be able to harness this power properly and control it. An untrained Miiza might blink their eyes and be turned into a fork or a Lion without ever intending to. This is alarming at the best of times but twice as frightening when you can’t work out how to change back. It was an old joke that every home had a Miiza, and not much of an exaggeration; every now and then someone would have a story to tell about how they had been ripped off by con-men selling furniture that, a year or so down the line, would suddenly transform back into a Miiza. After unsettling the unfortunate ‘owner’, the Miiza would calmly walk out of their front door.

Rasmin walked to the main doors, the air was incredibly still and the mist continued to descend and gather around him. Cleaning his boots on the scraper, he tried the door. It did not budge. He could hear the idle, cheerful chatter of the people inside. He tried it again, pushing and pulling at it this time, but each time it did not even wobble. He sighed and dropped the heavy bag from his shoulder to the ground. Wiping some muck from one of the windows, he could see a few Urks rushing around between tables. Urks were a breed of Goblin, only three feet tall with bow-legs and completely flat-topped heads. Persecuted for years for their unusual appearance, they now found trade as waiters and waitresses balancing trays on their skulls and The Star appeared to have several in employment. He stood once again in front of the door, examining the frame. Probably opens inwards, he thought. Pivoting on one foot, he rested the other against the door and tried the catch once again, leaning against it with as much weight as he dared. Light suddenly streamed into his face, with Rasmin only just catching his balance. The door flew open, making a very soft and dull thud against the wall to his right. Eyes were on him suddenly and silently; a party of Dwarves seated around a circular table close to the entrance immediately stared at him with a mix of fear and confusion. Catching their glance, he saw their eyes move to the door pressed flat against the wall behind him. Rasmin looked over his shoulder as the door began to whimper. From behind it an unfortunate and slightly concussed Urk staggered away with a dented tray in his hands.

The Dwarves turned back into their own conversation, laughing gruffly. Closing the door behind him, Rasmin made his way to an empty table nearby. He sat down and began to survey the room. Aside from the Dwarves near the door, there were a few other scattered groups of the fellows sitting in tight circles, smoking pipes and talking in their harsh, throaty language. Here and there were a few dishevelled goblin-types, the Urks going about their duties, two petrified looking Colthurs sitting with a Shambleau who was evidently in the mood and the usual smattering of black hoods, up to no good and sitting in the darker corners of the room, who now watched Rasmin after his dramatic entrance with gleaming, golden eyes. There did not appear to be any Miiza around, but he still eyed the random empty wine glass sitting on the floor near his chair with some suspicion, just in case.

Rasmin looked at his new surroundings. Although he had heard of The Star, or at least heard the name mentioned from time to time whilst travelling, he had never ventured in here before; indeed this entire part of the country was entirely foreign to him. The entire complex of buildings was quite large with stables for a number of horses and multiple guest rooms for the majority who stayed the night; the bar area was relatively modest and small. Rasmin sat towards the corner of the long rectangular building. Immediately facing the door was the bar, and either side of the bar were the doors that led to the rooms for staying guests. The large amounts of mud that had evidently been trodden into the floor near these doors indicated that the inn was busy tonight. At the opposite end to where Rasmin sat, a huge fireplace dominated, illuminating one side of the bar and leaving the side where he was sitting quite dull. Unsurprisingly, the more unsavoury characters were sat on this side, behind Rasmin, in the far corners of the room where the light almost failed to penetrate at all. Spotting a high-backed chair in front of the fire he got up, motioning to an approaching Urk, carrying an empty tray on his head, to follow him. Once the Urk had taken his order, he settled in the chair, facing the fire. He slouched down, the high upturned collar of his coat passing over his ears. Crossing his legs elegantly, he began to feel drowsy in the heat of the flames.

An Urk scuttled over balancing a tray on his flat head with Rasmin’s order. He took a sip, swashed it in his mouth for a moment and swallowed. Nodding to the Urk, who scurried away, he placed the glass down on the floor next to him and produced a notebook from his bag. Rasmin loved to sketch; flora, fauna or any old buildings he happened to come across. He flicked through the various sketches he had already made and found a blank page. Looking up to the impressive beams that spanned the ceiling, and the timbers forming the gable above his head, he pulled a pencil from his coat pocket and began to draw.

Facing the fireplace were two other chairs, one either side of Rasmin’s. The one to his left was filled with an old man, or what appeared to be an old man. Although he was far too tall for a dwarf, he had the same gnarled flesh and a thick beard. The man was asleep, emitting a gentle snore, his legs stretched out in front of him, his hands clasped together on his lap. To Rasmin’s right the chair had appeared to be empty, but even as he sketched he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a small glowing ball emitting from the arm of the chair. He snapped his notebook shut suddenly, and looked over but the object, whatever it was, had disappeared. Unwilling to move from his comfortable position, he resumed drawing. As he stared down at the picture starting to take shape, a glow appeared just in his field of vision again.

Rasmin sighed, realising what it was. It was a Faerie. This sadly meant he wasn’t going to get any peace and quiet tonight. Faeries were naturally inquisitive creatures, but paradoxically they were also incredibly shy. However, if one took a keen interest in you, you would be tormented by occasional sightings of them in your field of vision for as long as they remained interested in you. This could be anything from a few hours (if you were exceptionally boring) to weeks of constant and persistent feelings of being watched and seeing things out of the corners of your eyes. To people who had never met Faeries, this could often drive them to the point of their sanity and would cause them to lash out. And because of the unpredictability of species that were not other Faeries, they became a naturally shy race in a naturally vicious circle.

Rasmin however, was unique in having had experience of Faeries before, having been tormented by several over the years. He had once managed to coax one of them into talking to him and as a consequence, he could speak some of their own language. Although Faeries, as with most species, could understand the common language, they rarely used it and between them, they communicated with a series of high-pitched squeaks. With practise, a human could produce a facsimile of this language by whistling at a certain pitch. It wasn’t a perfect translation, but for the most part it could convey your sentiments reasonably well. Rasmin kept the glowing orb in the corner of his eye and whistled very gently and quietly almost to himself. The Faerie pricked its tiny ears and flew over to the arm of Rasmin’s chair.

Faeries varied greatly in size depending on their background, from the size of a small coin or a fingernail, to about a foot in height. From Rasmin’s peripheral vision, this one was small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, but still large enough for her features to be apparent (all Faeries were female; how they bred was a mystery they kept to themselves). It now sat on the arm of Rasmin’s chair, wings flickering every now and then to keep the blood flowing, staring at the book in his lap. He had frozen every muscle in his body so as not to startle her; his pencil was in the middle of sketching the outline of the fireplace and it remained hovering just above the page, where he had just finished drawing some of the brickwork. Rasmin whistled again very quietly; the Faerie turned around to look at him. He shifted his eyes gently to look at her and winked. She blinked once, twice and then smiled, squeaking back at him. It sounded like a strange dialect and one that he wasn’t entirely sure of, but it was almost certainly a greeting.

Rasmin began to relax in small movements. He moved his pencil slowly onto the arm and very carefully closed the book. She watched the page right up until the moment that the book closed for good, as if hoping that he might change his mind at the last minute. He looked at her. She looked up, wings still stirring every few seconds. Without warning, she began to whistle excitedly, whirling around, executing a few loops in front of him. Rasmin moved his head to follow her, taking none of it in. This dialect was too difficult for him to understand. After she had finished, she sat there staring at him, obviously waiting for an answer. He smiled, slightly open mouthed, and just shrugged.

He thought for a moment, and then sat upright and reached into his coat pocket. This was always a crowd pleaser. The Faerie continued to look at him, her head tilted slightly. From his pocket, he produced a brass juggling ball. Rasmin had learned this particular illusion years ago from a travelling magician, who had presented him with the brass ball and issued instructions on how to implement the trick. With his free hand, Rasmin held a finger up motioning the faerie to wait a moment – she was beginning to look a bit frightened and timid. To her perspective, this was a giant brass ball easily capable of crushing her. Rasmin began to throw and catch the ball with one hand. He held his other hand flat in front of him. Before long, the one ball turned into two and then three brass balls that he now juggled with his free hand. The Faerie clapped her hands and whizzed around in great loops, whirling and diving, following them as they passed through Rasmin’s hands.

At the back of the room, one of the hooded figures sat down next to another, nudging him and pointing towards the high backed chair. The other figure nodded in acknowledgement.

Rasmin continued to juggle. Part two of the trick was slightly more risky. With concentration, the brass could ignite itself, giving the magician and his amazed audience three literal balls of fire. The beauty of the trick was that the fire did not burn the handler unless due to prolonged exposure to the skin. Someone throwing them up in the air and catching them again would be completely fine. It was never wise, however, to drop them…

Rasmin continued to juggle. Part three of the trick, if you really wanted to show off, involved the fire changing colour. Soon, Rasmin was juggling three balls of different coloured fire. By now, he had attracted the attention not only of the Faerie, but also a couple of Urks who gathered by his chair, the old man who had been asleep by the fire and one of the bar-staff, who leaned on the bar cleaning a mug, obviously concerned about this stranger juggling fire and burning down the entire inn.

The Faerie did not notice the danger. She began to flit in between the balls as Rasmin threw them, making his catches unsteady. He was concentrating so hard on not dropping them that it never occurred to him to simply mouth the words to put the fires out. He dropped them. One, two, three fiery balls of brass made loud, heavy cracks against the wooden floor. The Faerie dived for cover, as did the old man who defied his age by throwing himself over the side of his chair. The Urks grabbed the trays from their heads and shielded themselves, expecting the worst. Rasmin drew his knees to his chin and covered his face. From behind the bar, there was a loud cry and a sound of breaking glass.

The golden eyes of the hooded figures, who had been paying close attention to Rasmin, widened suddenly.

There was silence except the crackle from the fireplace. Everyone, even the Dwarves, was looking towards Rasmin and the fireplace. All three balls appeared to have gone out on impact with the floor. Rasmin was the first to uncoil himself from his foetal position in the chair. The old man peered from over the arm of where he had been sitting moments before. The Urks peered over the top of their trays, and the Faerie popped her head out from an empty mug of beer on the floor that she had hidden inside.

‘Is it safe?’ The bartender appeared leaning on the back of Rasmin’s chair, looking cautiously over at the three orbs now lying on the floor. Rasmin leant forwards very carefully. The fact that there were still three, rather than one, meant that the trick was still ongoing, and they could still ignite without warning.
Rasmin leant over them and picked up all three. Everyone at the fireplace, Urks, the old man, the bartender, all collectively inhaled audibly. The balls reflected the flickering of the fireplace as he studied them to make sure they weren’t damaged. Finally, he exhaled, and everyone else did the same.
“It’s ok” he said. “I think they are safe”. He held them in one hand and waved his free hand over them, mumbling some words to himself. The balls did not merge into one another but remained as a three. Frowning, Rasmin tried again, but to no avail. He winced, scrunching his nose in annoyance – broken, no doubt. He sighed and put them in his coat pockets. By now, he was aware of the bartender looking over him very dissatisfied.
‘No more please, sir’ he said, firmly, and returned to sweep up the broken glass of the mug he had dropped behind the bar.

The inn slowly returned back to normality. The chatter gradually swelled from idle whispering to full-blown conversations. The old man reclined in his seat and attempted to go back to sleep. The Urks continued their duties. The Faerie had flitted off somewhere. Rasmin was left to stare at the fire and sulk, not only at how badly the performance had gone but the fact that he had almost certainly destroyed one of his favourite tricks. On the floor, where they had landed, were three perfectly circular scorch marks.

At the back of the room, two hooded figures started to talk amongst themselves, always looking at Rasmin’s high-backed chair, with his two elbows just protruding out from the arms.

On the floor, near the table that Rasmin had originally sat at, a wine glass sneezed loudly and turned back into a bemused, adolescent male Miiza. The bartender spotted this with surprise and alarm. There had been two young Miiza chaps sitting at that table earlier and he had assumed that they had both left. He turned to look at the rows of wine glasses arranged behind the bar, some of which had been used and collected earlier in the evening, with a sinking feeling of dread.

Rasmin looked to his right and eyed the empty chair, where the faerie had been previously. To cheer himself up, he decided to practise something that he had been taught years and years ago. This particular illusion involved telekinesis, a practise that Rasmin did not really pretend to understand. Rasmin had been told about this particular trick by an elderly man whom he had met many years ago on the grassy plains, hundreds of miles from here, staying in a shack made of just about everything you can imagine (including a bucket with a hole as a makeshift chimney). It required a degree of concentration, positive thought and yet another magic word. What set this particular trick apart from most others was the degree of power being relative to the tone of the voice. The word was Agazh, a throaty word that sounded not entirely dissimilar to the odd language spoken between Dwarves. He had never quite worked out how such a pragmatic race as the Dwarves had come to be associated with sorcery. To perform the trick, you pointed to the object that you wanted to move and said the word Agazh. If you said it softly, the object would rise gently and then, once it was still and hovering, would be in your control. If you were stupid enough to point at something and bellow the word, you stood a good chance of never seeing the object again as it would be flung halfway into the skies. Rasmin, being Rasmin, had learned this the hard way. His tutor’s cat had not been seen or heard of since. Soon after this incident, the old man had thrown him out, demanding that he never darken his makeshift door again.

Rasmin now tried it on the chair. Whispering ‘Agazh’ softly under his breath whilst pointing at the empty chair, it lifted a leg… then two, and then all four were an inch or so above the ground. Once the chair was still and he was satisfied that it was under his control, Rasmin began to move his finger gently to and fro, raising the chair a few inches higher and to the left and right. An Urk, spotting this, immediately dropped his tray and hobbled over to the chair, diving on top of it in an ungraceful belly-flop. It clung to the legs, trying to force it back on the ground. Rasmin laughed and began to buck the chair, trying to see if he could throw the poor Urk off, which was growing ever more distressed and confused. There was the sound of a stern voice clearing its throat. Rasmin craned around the back of his chair to see the bartender shaking his head. With a sigh, he set the chair back on the ground and mumbled a breaking spell to release his control. The Urk, unconvinced, still clung to the chair for another few minutes before finally being persuaded by the bartender to get on with his job.

Rasmin stared at the fire. The heavy heat coming from the blaze, coupled with the gentle snoring of the old man next to him made his own head start to nod and droop. He yawned and stretched his arms out, sitting up and trying to shake the sleep from his head. Half an hour passed, maybe longer, with Rasmin drifting in and out of consciousness. Many of the Dwarves had now either retired to their rooms or made an early start on their journeys. A few of the unsavoury characters had followed them out. The bar was almost empty now. The Miiza had left without his friend. The Colthurs had both been dragged outside by the Shambleau and presumably forced against their will. A couple of lone Dwarves were finishing their drinks. At the back the two hooded figures, who clearly had their golden eyes set on Rasmin and his box of tricks, continued to watch him and wait for the right moment.

Although these dark characters were feared by almost all and sundry, they were not invincible, and the inn’s policy of not allowing robbery inside their walls was not as difficult to enforce as one might think. Secrecy was the key to their trade – if they were unmasked or their hoods removed from their heads, even accidentally in a brawl or a struggle, then identification and arrest would be swift. As such, they had to rely on a number of tricks and traps to try to get the victim outside, where a struggle in the dark would not be so revealing, and they were more likely of gaining an advantage – usually with a concealed knife; a literal stab in the dark, to injure the person enough to convince them that fighting back was rather pointless. With drunks, it was easy. They would normally walk over to their intended and simply offer them some contraband that was always conveniently buried or hidden in the bushes across the road. Narcotics, parchment pornography, even counterfeit coins were the usual temptations, (there was, of course, never anything outside, it was part of the ruse) and most of the time it worked. With Rasmin, sober and tired, it was going to take something more to tempt him out of the chair, away from the fire and out onto the road. And the general state of Rasmin’s clothes and especially his boots, suggested someone who was well travelled and wise to such tactics by vagabonds. But even with these odds stacked against them, the lure of those expensive looking brass juggling balls was too much. One of the figures drew his hood closer around his face to anticipate the light of the fire, and stood up. He took one step towards Rasmin, when something caught his golden eye.

Rasmin was still nodding. Every so often, his head would roll over to the side or loll forwards, and he’d wake up with a start. He was drowsy and aware of his senses starting to blur. His sight was becoming misted. His hearing was vague and the crackle of the flames was not as sharp as it had been. The chair seemed to have moulded itself to his figure as if he was a part of it, and in his nostrils was the soft scent of burning wood. And, as an aftertaste, the harsh smell of burning fabric.
He took another deep breath through his nose. The scent of the logs in the fire relaxed him, it was fragrant, but it came with the bite of something else burning close by. He became aware that his hip was growing considerably hotter, and he shifted his weight to try to point it away from the fire. However, in putting all his weight on the hot half of his body, it only made the burning sensation far worse, even painful. Must move this chair back, he thought to himself drowsily. Even as he did so, a frustrated voice shouted from behind him.
‘Oh! What now?’
Rasmin opened his eyes wide and realised that a small fire was erupting in one of his pockets, leaving a small but noticeable trail of smoke emerging from his right side. One of the brass balls had self ignited again. The bartender was filling up a bucket with water.
‘Under all the stars in the known world, I have never known anything like this!?’
Rasmin stood up, fighting to get his coat off. The fire was now burning through the fabric; his coat was now on fire. He struggled to get one arm off as it began to take hold. The bartender rushed towards him with the bucket of water.
‘Take it off! Take it off and I’ll put it out!’
Rasmin knew that this was futile though. He threw the coat off and onto the floor and began stamping on it. The bartender threw the water under his feet. The coat was put out, but Rasmin knew that nothing would put out the brass ball aside from the counter spell that he had tried earlier and had failed; if he left the object in his pocket it would simply evaporate the water and catch fire again. Reaching gingerly into the sodden pocket, he picked out the flaming orb and hurled it in the direction of the window. It passed through one of the small square panes, shattering it, and landed harmlessly outside.

Meanwhile, on the road next to the Inn, a single mounted knight trotted by slowly, dressed head to toe in black armour, a long sword clanking from a belt wrapped around the horse’s underbelly. The knight’s chest-plate was inscribed with a coat of arms, as was his shield, although this appeared to have been badly singed recently, as though it had been used to put out a fire. The horse reared as the flaming missile burst out from one of the windows and landed in the road in front of them. The knight checked his horse and dismounted to take a closer look.

Inside the inn, Rasmin and the bartender looked down at his soaking wet, trampled coat. Rasmin was breathing deeply. The old man had woken up and was looking confused at the pair of them. The bartender was furious to put it mildly.
‘Are you doing this on purpose?’ he bellowed. ‘Is this some tactic or ploy to ruin me and scare off my customers?’
At the back of the room, the hooded figure who had stood up was watching this scene unfold, waiting for an opportunity to take advantage. Surely, this weird magician was going to be thrown out. Then we’d get him on the road. He has to throw him out now. Surely!
‘I mean, what is all this business about? You’ve concussed an Urk with your dramatic entrance…’
Rasmin had forgotten all about that. He was beginning to realise his list of charges was about to grow.
‘…throwing fireballs about, setting fire to yourself and nearly to others… and look! Look!’
He spluttered and pointed to the chair that now had a big black singe mark on it. Rasmin hoped he wouldn’t spot the floor.
‘…and Look! Look! That was you as well I suppose!?’
Rasmin nodded solemnly. He had spotted the floor.
“I can only apologise…” he began, but the bartender was having none of it. He pointed an outstretched arm to the door.
‘I’m not going to ask you to pay for it, and you should be grateful. Don’t think I’m showing you mercy though; I just don’t want to see your hands go into your pockets again. There’s no telling what you’ll end up producing. I could ask you for a few gold coins and you’ll end up pulling out a small army of poisonous serpents. That would finish us all wouldn’t it? Of course, it’s going to cost a bit more than a few gold coins to get this sorted.’
Rasmin stood, nodding at the bartender. He would’ve liked to have argued, but the bartender’s evidence was quite damning. And he didn’t have that much money on him anyway.
‘Just… just leave. Please.’ The bartender turned on his heel and walked towards the bar. As he did so, he spotted the hooded figure standing upright. He looked to the figure, then to Rasmin, then back to the figure.
‘On your own head be it’ he shouted. ‘I wouldn’t though, if I were you’. He stormed into a backroom, slamming the door behind him.

Rasmin sighed and gathered his belongings. He gingerly picked up his damp coat, covered in muddy footprints and draped it over one arm. He trudged slowly towards the door. The hooded figure made his way to the door to meet him.
Before either of them had reached it, the door swung open by itself. The knight, resplendent in black armour, sword by his side, strode into the room. In his gauntleted hands, he juggled the brass ball that Rasmin had tossed through the window, like a hot potato. The hooded figure stopped suddenly. Rasmin froze and felt his heartbeat quicken.
“Where is the proprietor?” boomed the voice of the knight. “And where might I find a fellow called Rasmin?”
He had barely finished asking the question when his attention turned to Rasmin, who had enough wits about him to turn on his heel and attempt to sneak back to hide behind the chair.
“You!”
Rasmin dropped his bag and coat to the floor and ran to the fireplace, behind his blackened chair. The bartender emerged in a state of anger, flinging the door of the backroom open and bursting out onto the bar.
‘Is he still here!? What IS going on here?’ he demanded.
The knight had already dropped the brass ball that was now smouldering on the wooden floor and creating another large black spot of scorch. His sword was drawn and he was marching towards Rasmin’s hiding place. He stood behind the high back of the chair.
“Out!” he shouted, and thrust his sword through the middle of it. The blade shot over Rasmin’s shoulder, missing it by inches.
The bartender stumbled to the end of the bar to try and quell the knight.
‘What is going on here? What is this?’
“Hold sir!” shouted the knight. “My quarrel is not with you. It is with HIM”. He stabbed the back of the chair again. This time the blade passed over Rasmin’s other shoulder. Rasmin looked over to the old man, who was now wide awake and cowering in his chair. He looked over towards the door, which was still open. Somewhere behind all of this, the dark figure had been joined by his partner in crime, who now stood watching this scene unfold and hoping to pick up any scraps or loot from Rasmin’s seemingly imminent execution.
The knight sheathed his sword.
“Up! Up!” he yelled. “You are coming back with me. There is a debt to be discussed!”
The knight in question had been drinking in The Frog and Goblet, which was a pleasant inn located in the middle of the last village that Rasmin had visited; the very same village that Rasmin had recently fled from. Just like tonight, Rasmin had tried to impress the regulars with his juggling trick and just like tonight it had not gone to plan. Hence the reason why most of the villagers were sleeping in tents or under the stars tonight. Hence the reason why the knight’s shield was black and charred in places. Hence the reason why The Frog and Goblet was no longer a pleasant inn, but a large pile of blackened timbers.

Rasmin stood up to face the knight. The knight lifted his visor; his cheeks appeared to be black with soot. All eyes were on this drama, with the exception of a few Urks, who were trying to attract people’s attention to the small fire growing around the brass ball that the knight had dropped on the floor. Rasmin looked around him for an escape route. He could see, out of the open door, that the knight’s horse was outside. He looked for a way of making it to the door before the knight could manhandle him. If the knight had him pinned, he knew he would not be able to escape. He looked to the barkeeper and realised immediately that he was not going to find an ally in him. The bartender was now standing by the knight’s shoulder and glaring at Rasmin. He glanced down to the old man… forget it. Then he looked up, to the inn’s beamed roof.
“You can come with me quietly”. The knight’s voice was softer, although he could sense the pent-up aggression in how the calm tone seemed to waver.
“You can come with me quietly” he repeated “Or I can force you. The choice is yours”.
Rasmin looked to the door, then to the old man, then to the bartender, then to the roof. In the end, none of this mattered. The knight made the decision for him.

With a growl, the knight’s patience snapped. He grabbed the chair that was between himself and Rasmin and threw it aside, inadvertently sending the bartender flying as well. Both man and chair crashed into a corner of the bar sending vibrations all the way down the woodwork. Bottles crashed from the shelves to the floor, as did a couple of wine glasses. One of them, on its descent, changed back into the second, missing Miiza. Amid the crashing and tinkling of broken glass, there was a dull thud as the young man landed on the floor behind the bar.
Meanwhile, the knight had lunged at Rasmin. In a panic, Rasmin pointed to himself and shouted aloud. Agazh! Without warning, he shot into the air right in front of the knight; his trailing foot accidentally kicking the knight in the face; the knight’s visor had still been up. He stumbled backwards, trying to reach inside his helmet to his broken nose – the clumsy and bulky gauntlets failing to fit. Rasmin himself had taken off with incredible velocity. Just before he erupted from the thatched roof, he was able to grab a ceiling beam. Still clinging desperately onto the wood, as his body tried to continue upwards, he mumbled the counter-spell and dropped face first, his limbs instinctively wrapping themselves like a spider around the solid piece of oak. The hooded figures, realising his escape plan, ran for the door, but they were curtailed before they could reach it. The knight, stumbling and confused, drew his sword clumsily against the two figures. Rasmin watched all this from above, even as he was inching himself closer to the door. The two figures looked in astonishment as the knight stumbled towards them.
“Ras… min! I’ll… get you… yet!”
The two figures parted out of the way; the knight passing between them. In his concussed state, and with blood pouring from his nose, the knight had assumed that they were both Rasmin. They watched as the knight stumbled away behind them, crashing into a table, and turned their attention back to the beam. Rasmin was now dangling by his fingertips, close to the door, trying to let himself down gently without breaking his ankles. The figures were just about to rush over to catch him as he fell, when the knight came at them again from behind. The figures panicked, torn between going after Rasmin and protecting their identity and their lives from this disorientated knight. A sword described a vicious arc through the air, as they both ducked from being beheaded. The knight lost his balance in the swipe, and fell to the floor, taking one of the figures with him. The black hood fell back to reveal his face – he hissed and his golden eyes narrowed in alarm. The second figure, realising that his partner had been unmasked, immediately bolted for the exit. In this unpredictable and volatile scenario, he could be next. He ran out of the main doors and skidded to a halt on the road. The knight’s horse was gone and so was Rasmin. He had slipped away quietly in all the confusion, mounting the horse and speeding off down the road. Inside the inn, the knight lay across the unmasked figure’s legs, pinning him to the floor. He removed his helmet to regain his senses, groaning and bleeding, whilst the body underneath rained punches on him in anger and frustration, spitting on his black armour and cursing. Around the glowing brass ball, a small fire had now developed; various Urks were taking it in turns to carry buckets of water over to try and keep it under control, but to their eternal confusion, it just would not go out. The bartender, dazed, lifted the heavy chair off of him and blinked; trying to focus. His shattered bar swam with liquor and broken glass.

Behind the bar, a confused Miiza stood up, rubbed his backside, surveyed the carnage in front of him, and wondered where his friend had gone…