The Boy Who Didn't Want to Save the World

by Dominic Barker

  ‘Can I have something to eat?’ said Blart. ‘I’m starving.’

  Squat looked a little taken aback by this request. Nobody had ever asked the Emperor of Dwarves to feed them before.

  ‘And order this one some food. I don’t know. One minute you’re sentencing them to death, next minute you’re giving them tea. And they call me a tyrant.’

  The wizard would have liked to order some food too but he felt it would show weakness at a time when he was supposed to look strong so he resolved to eat some of Blart’s later.

  The guards departed to get the court and the Ambassador and Blart’s tea. There was an awkward silence. The wizard couldn’t tell his story until the court came and nobody else felt much like speaking. When one person has the power to order the execution of all the others it tends to put a stop to the free flow of conversation and the lively exchange of ideas.

  The silence was broken by a muffled cry of ‘Heave’, and the sticky door suddenly shot open, tumbling the Court of His Imperial Bulkiness Squat into the room. There were only three of them, because Emperor Squat needed most of the silver dwarves to work so he could tax them heavily and continue living in the manner to which he had become accustomed.

  ‘Greetings, Your Bulkiness,’ said the three courtiers from the floor.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Squat, ‘and nod supportively when I say things.’

  ‘Yes, Your Bulkiness.’ They rushed to stand beside Squat’s throne, pushing and pulling at each other to try to be nearest to the Emperor.

  ‘Now,’ declaimed Emperor Squat. ‘Our ears will hear your story.’

  The three courtiers nodded violently in agreement.

  The wizard opened his mouth but, before the first word could emerge, through the sticky door that the guards had sensibly avoided closing came an additional dwarf. He was different from the other dwarves. Whereas all their beards were a silvery grey, his was a rusty red and his expression was open and friendly.

  ‘Welcome, Ambassador,’ said the Emperor. ‘This,’ he informed Capablanca and Blart, ‘is Tungsten, Ambassador from the Iron Dwarves. He is the first person for many years to travel down the silver and iron link –’

  ‘The iron and silver link,’ interjected the Ambassador.

  ‘The silver and iron link,’ insisted the Emperor, ‘which connects our two gargantuan mines. He hopes to re-establish the trade that was broken off due to his own leader’s unreasonable attitude concerning exchange rates. How do you find our mines, Ambassador? Too rich for your taste, I assume.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say rich,’ said the Ambassador.

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ said the Emperor. ‘But is not silver a much more precious metal than iron?’

  ‘More precious,’ said the Ambassador, ‘but less useful.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ shouted the Emperor, reducing the room to silence once again.

  Capablanca took the opportunity to launch into his story. Soon he had the dwarves gripped by his narrative. He told them about all his research and travels and all about the Cult of Zoltab even though he only referred indirectly to the name and concluded with a request.

  ‘I beg the use of a capable dwarf to assist us on our quest to cover the Great Tunnel of Despair with a Cap of Eternal Doom.’

  The Emperor paused to consult his first courtier, who nodded. He debated it with the second courtier, who nodded harder than the first. He asked the opinion of the third courtier, who nodded so hard his head nearly fell off.

  It was whilst the third courtier was nodding that Blart’s dinner arrived. A guard brought it over to him and he received it as the Emperor cleared his throat and offered his conclusion.

  ‘Capablanca, First Class Wizard and Bar, we are minded to look favourably on your appeal for a dwarf. We have decided to send –’

  ‘Call this a dinner?’ said Blart. ‘This is the smallest portion I’ve ever seen in my life.’

  All the dwarves’ eyes swung round to stare at Blart.

  ‘No wonder you’re all small if you only eat this much.’

  Everybody in the room, apart from Blart, stopped breathing.

  ‘What did you say?’ demanded Squat. ‘Did you say the “s” word?’

  ‘Yes. You’re small. He said I shouldn’t mention it, but I’m fed up. Low ceilings, narrow tunnels and stupid beards. And now this food. It’s all too small.’

  Everybody who’d stopped breathing realised that this was going to take a little longer than they’d expected, took a sneaky breath and then stopped again.

  Emperor Squat leapt to his feet.

  ‘I was,’ he announced, ‘about to use my power to grant your request but I have never been so insulted in my own throne room. There are some things that once said to a dwarf can never be forgiven. I sentence you to death. Guards, take him away.’

  The guards pulled out their axes and approached Blart.

  ‘You don’t want me,’ he shouted at Squat. ‘You want him.’ Blart pointed at the wizard. ‘He murdered Yucky and Acrid.’

  ‘What?’ shouted Squat.

  Which is how Blart and Capablanca both found themselves sitting in a spellproof cell with a week to live.

  Chapter 32

  The Third Law of Magic, as proposed by Znosko-Borovsky in his seminal paper delivered at the University of Theoretical Wizardry five centuries ago, states that to be successful a spell must not only be based upon the correct incantation but have accurate direction, and what is more it cannot disappear until it has engaged. This law, which is seen as common sense now by most wizards, revolutionised the whole process of magic. Until its proposal wizards had been mystified by the unpredictability of their results. Trying to turn a table into a pig, for example, they were surprised to discover that they turned their assistant into a pig instead. For centuries wizards felt that the way to greater reliability lay in finding a slightly different incantation. The breakthrough discovery of direction increased wizards’ reliability but paradoxically reduced their power. For directly related to the discovery of the necessity of direction in spells was the invention of the spellproof cell, which meant that wizards could be locked away for ever with no need for a large guarding force to recapture the wizard whenever he made one of the walls collapse and made a run for it.

  A spellproof cell is made entirely of small mirrors all placed at irregular angles to one another, with the result that any spell that is cast is automatically reflected to another mirror that reflects it once more to another mirror and so on for ever. The wizard’s magic power is thus rendered useless. Historically, mirrors have always been a problem for wizards, demonstrating the limitations of their powers whilst also reminding them that they aren’t very good-looking.

  ‘Ow!’ said Blart as another irregularly angled small mirror grazed his behind.

  ‘Shut up,’ growled Capablanca. They had been in the cell for approximately five days now and relations between them had steadily worsened.

  ‘Do you think it hurts?’ asked Blart.

  ‘What?’ snapped Capablanca.

  ‘Being put to death.’

  ‘It depends how it’s done.’

  ‘How do dwarves do it?’

  ‘They cleave your skull in two with a ceremonial silver axe.’

  ‘Does that hurt?’ asked Blart.

  ‘Only the first time.’

  There was a silence while Blart pondered his immediate future.

  ‘What happens after you’re dead?’ he asked.

  It is perhaps a pity that at this precise moment the ceiling of the cell was smashed open, showering glass everywhere. A pity because, had the wizard known, he could have answered the most fundamental question of man’s existence and saved us all a lot of worry.

  A rope was let down into the cell and a familiar face with a rusty-red beard appeared.

  ‘Hurry,’ said Tungsten, the Ambassador from the Iron Dwarves, ‘we haven’t got much time.’

  Capablanca immediately shinned up the rope with an agility that you wouldn’t have expe
cted in a wizard of his years.

  ‘Come on!’ he shouted to Blart.

  Blart leapt on to the rope and wound his legs round it exactly as he had observed the wizard do. Then he tried to pull himself up. Unfortunately, he didn’t move.

  ‘Come on!’ shouted Capablanca and Tungsten.

  Blart tried several times without success. Eventually he could hold on no longer and fell back to the mirrored floor.

  ‘Tie it round you,’ hissed Tungsten. ‘We’ll pull you up.’

  Blart grabbed the rope, pulled it down and attempted to tie a knot around his middle. In his panic, he forgot that nobody had ever taught him how.

  ‘Ready?’ demanded Tungsten.

  ‘Yes,’ said Blart.

  ‘Heave!’ ordered Tungsten.

  The Ambassador and the wizard strained hard. The rope flew up to them. Unfortunately it was no longer attached to Blart.

  ‘Someone’s coming,’ whispered Capablanca, who could hear the sounds of approaching footsteps.

  ‘Silver dwarves,’ said Tungsten. ‘We must go.’

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ squeaked Blart.

  ‘I can’t leave him,’ said Capablanca reluctantly.

  ‘We haven’t got time,’ insisted Tungsten.

  ‘Delay them,’ said Capablanca.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Do I have to think of everything?’

  Tungsten stomped off.

  ‘Blart,’ whispered Capablanca, ‘take the rope,’ and he threw the rope into the cell.

  ‘Greetings, guards,’ Tungsten said at the end of the corridor.

  ‘Place the rope around your stomach and then take one end in each hand,’ instructed Capablanca.

  ‘Musty sort of day, isn’t it?’ observed Tungsten.

  ‘Place the left end over the right end.’

  ‘Do you know, I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,’ said Tungsten.

  ‘Left? Right?’ repeated Blart blankly.

  ‘I’m Tungsten.’

  ‘Give me strength,’ said Capablanca.

  ‘Son of Gravel.’

  ‘Put one over the other, bring the top one round and underneath the bottom one and pull up into the gap,’ directed Capablanca.

  ‘Grandson of Slab.’

  ‘And repeat,’ finished Capablanca.

  ‘Great-grandson of Hurry Up,’ shouted Tungsten.

  ‘Hurry Up?’ said one of the guards. ‘That’s a strange name.’

  ‘Done,’ said Blart.

  Capablanca heaved. Blart began to rise.

  ‘Well, if you’ll excuse us,’ said the guard, ‘we have to go and carry out the execution.’

  ‘You mean you haven’t heard?’ said Tungsten.

  ‘Heard what?’ said the guard.

  ‘About the reprieve.’

  ‘Reprieve?’

  ‘The cancellation of the execution announced by Emperor Squat to celebrate the new trade agreement.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like the Emperor,’ said the guard doubtfully.

  ‘He issued it only moments ago,’ insisted Tungsten.

  The guards muttered to each other.

  ‘I wonder what His Bulkiness would do to two guards who disobeyed his orders,’ asked Tungsten hypothetically.

  ‘He’d kill them,’ the guards told him immediately.

  ‘Would he really?’ said Tungsten.

  ‘Yes,’ said one of the guards, and then he paused and said, ‘Oh.’

  The guards muttered to each other some more.

  ‘I suppose we’d better check.’

  Their footsteps retreated down the passage as Blart emerged from the cell.

  ‘Come on,’ said Tungsten. ‘Our only hope is to reach the iron and silver link before they find out you’ve escaped.’

  They ran behind Tungsten through the tunnels of the silver dwarves until they finally reached another tunnel where Tungsten stopped.

  ‘Behold the Iron and Silver link,’ he announced.

  To Blart and Capablanca, who lacked the expert eye of a dwarf, the Iron and Silver link looked exactly like any other tunnel and unworthy of this grand introduction. Still, Tungsten had rescued them and saved their lives, so they tried to be respectful.

  ‘Very nice,’ observed Capablanca.

  ‘So what?’ said Blart.

  At least Capablanca tried to be respectful.

  Tungsten gave Blart a hostile glare.

  ‘He is a mere boy. He doesn’t appreciate these things,’ Capablanca urgently reassured Tungsten. The wizard was well aware that all dwarves have fierce tempers and are very proud. The last thing he wanted was for the situation to escalate before they had reached safety. ‘Let us enter this great tunnel.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Tungsten, considering. ‘I don’t know if he’s worthy.’

  ‘It’s only a hole in the ground,’ pointed out Blart unhelpfully. Blart lacked the sensitivity to appreciate that those from different cultures valued different things.

  ‘How dare –’ began Tungsten, but he was silenced by the sound of running feet behind them. The silver dwarves were coming.

  ‘Come on,’ said Capablanca.

  ‘I will remember this insult,’ replied Tungsten. ‘And I will have my revenge.’

  And so, yet again, Blart had managed to turn a potential friend into an enemy.

  ‘We must hurry,’ insisted Capablanca.

  Grim-faced Tungsten led them into the Iron and Silver link.

  ‘They will not follow us here,’ he informed the others.

  Once inside Blart and Capablanca understood why. The tunnel was in a state of advanced dilapidation – the timbers that shored up the roof were buckled and in many places the roof had partially collapsed, leaving mounds of earth that they could only climb over with difficulty. And all the while the creaking of the beams hinted that another collapse could be imminent.

  ‘This tunnel is rubbish,’ observed Blart after they had been walking and clambering for a while. ‘Not like the ones the silver dwarves mine. You can’t be very good dwarves if this –’

  ‘Tell me, Tungsten,’ Capablanca decided to distract the dwarf before Blart could make their situation any worse, ‘why did you rescue us?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Tungsten. ‘I have the natural repugnance of all right-thinking dwarves towards the abuse of judicial process.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ replied Capablanca, who wasn’t convinced.

  ‘What do you mean, hmmmm?’ demanded Tungsten. ‘I save your life and all you can do is hmmmm at me. There’s no gratitude there.’

  ‘I apologise,’ said Capablanca hastily. ‘Blart and I thank you.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Blart.

  Tungsten led the way through the link. It was only wide enough for them to proceed in single file.

  ‘What I meant when I asked why you rescued us,’ panted Capablanca, who still believed that there was more to Tungsten’s rescue than merely the wish to see justice done, ‘is whether you wanted us to do something for you in return.’

  ‘There might be something you can do,’ conceded Tungsten.

  Finally, thought Capablanca. If only other beings were more like wizards there’d be none of this beating about the bush.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Capablanca.

  ‘Know ye,’ said Tungsten importantly, ‘that the tunnel of the iron dwarves lies closer to the Great Tunnel of Despair than that of the silver dwarves. We have heard noises coming from that direction. When I heard you speak in the hall of Emperor Squat of names that we dwarves had hoped never to hear again, I knew that you spoke the truth. And so I resolved to rescue you.’

  ‘What do you want?’ cajoled Capablanca, increasingly aware that if Tungsten didn’t get to the point soon then it wouldn’t be so much a case of stopping Zoltab as of being the first tourists to visit his empty dungeon.

  ‘Know ye, Wizard, that my people have suffered for centuries. All dwarves look down on iron dwarves and regard us as their social inferiors. We would like to be
come top dwarves. We have the breeding, we have the deportment, we have the beards. What we lack is the metal. Iron is regarded as less rare than platinum, gold and silver. Therefore what I request of you in return for my assistance is that you create more platinum, gold and silver, making iron the rarest and therefore the most valuable. Dwarf society would change and we, the iron dwarves, would be the greatest of dwarves.’

  ‘Is that all?’ said Capablanca sarcastically. ‘Just alter the entire metal balance of the earth? That would require the work of many wizards for years to achieve.’

  ‘Dwarves are patient,’ said Tungsten. ‘We will wait. But I demand your word that if I help you then one day you’ll help me.’

  ‘I give you my word,’ replied Capablanca.

  ‘You give him your what?’ said Blart, who didn’t want to miss out if there were gifts being handed out.

  ‘My word,’ said Capablanca.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Blart.

  ‘It’s like my promise,’ said Capablanca.

  ‘Can you eat it?’ demanded Blart.

  ‘Shut up, Blart,’ snapped Capablanca. Not only did he have to save the world from Zoltab, he had to start on the laborious business of altering the earth’s constituent parts. All in all he felt it was a bit much.

  And so yet again we discover a hero with an agenda. First, Blart has to be forced to try to save the world and now, Tungsten only agrees to help on condition he is repaid with social advancement. Ah, for the stout-hearted zeal of yesteryear.

  ‘Waaaaaaaaaaaah!’ shouted Blart, Capablanca and Tungsten in unison as the ground gave way beneath them and they fell even nearer to the centre of the earth.

  Poetic justice, some might say.

  Chapter 33

  ‘Doomed,’ wailed Tungsten. ‘Doomed.’

  ‘Uh,’ said Blart, recovering consciousness. Nothing seemed to be in focus and he felt as if he was spinning.

  What does ‘doomed’ mean? Blart wondered. And why was it so hot? He was definitely spinning. His arms wouldn’t move. Heat intensified on his back. Things were getting clearer. He was in a cave. But the cave was moving. No, that couldn’t be right. He was moving. He felt the heat again. There was a fire below him. Now it had gone. Now it was back again, searing his forehead.