The Boy Who Didn't Want to Save the World

by Dominic Barker

All the minions were leaping out of bed and pulling on their boots as fast as they could. It was just another day’s digging. Why were they all so excited?

  DONG!

  Blart sat up. Capablanca and Tungsten looked as perplexed as he did.

  DONG!

  ‘Zoltab has come! Zoltab has come! Zoltab has come!’

  DONG!

  ‘Make haste, brother!’ a minion shouted to him. ‘Why do you lie in bed on this great day? The thing that we have waited for so long has come to pass. Zoltab has returned.’

  ‘But –’ protested Capablanca.

  ‘If I have one regret, my brother,’ continued the minion as he tied his belt rapidly around his jerkin, ‘it is that I was on the day shift. Oh, to have been on the night shift and to have been there when the Dungeon was opened and Lord Zoltab was freed. Make haste! Make haste! The bell calls us all to the Terrorsium where Lord Zoltab will accept our homage.’

  The minion finished tightening his belt, pulled back the tent flap and rushed outside to join the throng. Behind him he left Capablanca open-mouthed. For, great wizard that he was, skilled in the arts of magic and learned from many years’ hard study in the Cavernous Library of Ping, he had overlooked one thing:

  There was a night shift.

  While Capablanca, Blart and Tungsten were leaving the Great Tunnel by one set of passages, another set of passages was full of minions descending to start work at the tunnel face. What a simple mistake. And yet what a terrible effect it could have.

  All that hard work. All the time spent studying, searching, travelling, learning. To come so close to defeating Zoltab and then to fail. No wonder Capablanca sat in stunned silence.

  DONG!

  The bell continued to toll the news of Zoltab’s return.

  With Capablanca still stupefied by his mistake it was left to Blart to rouse him to some action.

  ‘Come on,’ Blart urged Capablanca. ‘If we don’t go they’ll know we’re fakes.’

  ‘A night shift,’ said Capablanca. ‘How could I have been so stupid? I, Capablanca, have failed. Zoltab has returned and we are doomed.’

  ‘I thought we were doomed before,’ Tungsten reminded them.

  ‘Come on,’ said Blart, who was hoping to remain undoomed for as long as possible.

  ‘Mind you,’ continued Tungsten, suddenly seeing one of those silver linings, ‘my grandfather used to say that it’s not over until the fat dwarf sings. And I don’t see a fat dwarf singing.’

  ‘What?’ said Blart. ‘What kind of a stupid thing is that to say? Dwarfs never shut up singing. And they’re all fat.’

  ‘Mock, if you choose,’ said Tungsten, ‘but there is wisdom in these words.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Capablanca, shaking himself back into action. ‘There is still hope. We must go to the Terrorsium. What are you waiting for?’

  ‘You,’ answered Blart and Tungsten together.

  The three of them pulled on their boots as fast as they could and rushed out of the tent.

  The sky was no longer black. It was orange. But it was not the light orange which precedes a calm, sunny day. Instead it was an angry, burning orange presaging storms and tempests. A steady rain was falling. The three companions rushed across the barren blasted wasteland to join the chanting line thronging outside the Terrorsium.

  ‘Zoltab has come! Zoltab has come!’

  The Terrorsium was even more awesome in the light of day. It was easily the largest building ever constructed – a huge oval made entirely of black stone. And at four regular points in the oval were the huge square towers. They were fiercely fortified. Cannons projected at all points and along the turreted walls archers stood on watch with longbows. Around it was a vast moat filled with voracious fish and deadly snakes engaged in a constant life or death struggle with one another that made the water boil with blood.

  ‘Zoltab has come! Zoltab has come!’

  The rain grew more insistent but it did not dampen the enthusiasm of the minions. Blart felt rivulets dribbling uncomfortably down his back. He wiped his hands over his face. There had been no chance for anybody to wash since they emerged from the tunnels the night before. Indeed, to the minions washing seemed pointless because all day, every day was spent digging, and no sooner were you clean than you were dirty again. But the heavy rain was beginning to clean them up, leaving them smeared but individual. Blart saw that the minions were not just men but women as well. And some dwarves. People who looked as if they came from the land where he was born. People who resembled Illyrians. People who looked like no people that Blart had ever seen before. All of them brought to this desolate place to build the Terrorsium and to dig for Zoltab.

  ‘Zoltab has come! Zoltab has come!’

  The crowd moved forward, the chanting growing louder and more intense. As they approached the bridge that crossed the moat there was a crush. But the momentum of the crowd was too great to stop and some of the minions were forced over the side of the bridge into the moat where they were devoured by the hideous swimming creatures. But this did not slow the crowd. All that mattered was to get inside, to be where Zoltab was.

  ‘Zoltab has come! Zoltab has come!’

  Prisoners of the crowd and its relentless advance, Blart, Capablanca and Tungsten were pushed on to the bridge. Minions piled up against them from behind and forced them tight up against minions in front. They gasped for air.

  ‘Zoltab has come! Zoltab has come!’

  Suddenly the front shot forward. The pressure from behind was still as intense and there was a stampede to get across the bridge. Those who were taken by surprise by the surge fell forward and anybody who hit the ground did not rise again. Blart fought to stay on his feet as he was hurled forward, but the weight behind was too great and he felt himself lose control, stagger and fall.

  But almost immediately he was held. He looked down to see Tungsten supporting him, his arms strengthened by years of digging. They were swept through the mouth of the Terrorsium and into the gate house. Here guards slowed the tide of minions by pointing spears directly at them. There was more space. Blart righted himself and took a deep breath. He looked around for Capablanca, but there was no sign of him. Had he fallen in one of the great surges and was he even now screaming his last as the manic hordes rushed over him? Blart had not realised how much he depended on the wizard until he was without him. What would he do if Capablanca was gone?

  Just as Blart began to despair, he spotted Capablanca being pushed into the gate house. He seemed lost and confused in the tide of minions. But by the time Blart had struggled over to him, Capablanca was straightening up. He still looked frail but there was fire in his eyes.

  Blart opened his mouth and was about to say something he had never said before. He was about to say that he was glad to see Capablanca, that he had worried about him and that he was pleased he was all right.

  But before he could speak, a hysterical voice behind him screeched, ‘He has no brand!’

  All people have some ability to know, even in a chaotic crowd, when they are being talked about. Blart knew that the words were aimed at him without understanding what they meant. But Capablanca’s face showed him that it was serious.

  The voice behind him screamed louder than before. ‘He has no brand!’

  Chapter 39

  For the heavy rain which cleaned Blart had also betrayed him. It had revealed that there was no ‘m’ tattooed behind his ear. And in the crowded gatehouse with everybody squeezed so closely together it had been spotted. Blart was exposed.

  The first cry of the minion had gone unnoticed, but the second attracted the attention of those nearby. Fingers pointed and a circle formed instantly around Blart and the wizard.

  ‘No brand!’

  ‘An impostor!’

  Blart’s accusers screamed from every side.

  ‘Kill him!’

  ‘Torture him!’

  ‘Turn him over to the Master!’

  ‘Bury him alive!’

  The sho
uts swiftly led to violence. Hands reached out to tear at Blart’s hair. Punches thumped into his stomach and kicks crashed into his legs.

  ‘Kill the traitor! Kill the traitor!’

  Blart crouched in a hopeless attempt to ward off the blows. Clumps of hair were torn from his head. The kicks intensified.

  And then there was a huge explosion. The kicks stopped. Blart fell back. Above his head stood a tall thin figure dressed entirely in red.

  ‘Brothers!’ it shouted. ‘Control your anger! I, Maroczy, Minister of Zoltab, command it!’ The mob seemed cowed by the Minister and was reduced to mutterings. ‘Your thirst for vengeance at this vile intrusion is admirable but we cannot allow it to distract us. We have found one impostor. There may be others.’

  A gasp of horror rose from the crowd.

  ‘Check all ears for the brand of Zoltab,’ ordered the Minister.

  Pandemonium ensued as the mob was given a new target of attack – their neighbours’ ears. Cries resounded as ears were examined. Minions who had had their ears pulled responded by pulling the pullers’ ears more aggressively. Just when it seemed that a riot was inevitable news of another traitor spread. And then another. The mob surged forward to catch a glimpse of these new infidels and was rewarded by the sight of Capablanca and Tungsten alongside Blart.

  The traitors were encircled by a Minister of Zoltab and six guards armed with spears, but still the mob wailed for blood.

  ‘Give them to us!’

  ‘Traitors!’

  ‘Murderers!’

  ‘Deniers of Zoltab!’

  ‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’

  Blart’s whole body shook. The Minister of Zoltab held up his hand. Slowly, the cries of anger and the demands for vengeance tailed off.

  ‘Brothers!’ cried Maroczy, Minister of Zoltab. ‘Allow me to compliment you on your thorough search. It shows us once again that we should all be constantly vigilant against those evil forces that seek to prevent Zoltab’s return.’

  The mob hissed and booed

  ‘Brothers,’ continued Maroczy, ‘we are now truly fortunate. For today we no longer need to decide the fate of these traitors ourselves. We can pass the decision to a higher power. For the first time in an age we are able to raise our hands in the air and cry, ‘Let Zoltab judge!”

  A roar reverberated through the gatehouse. The Minister pointed to the entrance to the Terrorsium and the mob turned and marched into the amphitheatre.

  ‘Let Zoltab judge! Let Zoltab judge!’

  Maroczy made a sign to the guards, who dragged Blart, Capablanca and Tungsten through a door and down stone steps that spiralled round and round. At the bottom was a passage and on one side a row of doors with barred windows. The Minister stepped forward and opened one of them.

  ‘In!’ he ordered Tungsten.

  He opened the door of the next cell. Capablanca walked in without being told. He opened the next cell and looked at Blart. Blart didn’t move.

  ‘In!’ said Maroczy.

  ‘I’m claustrophobic,’ said Blart, proud of having remembered this word.

  ‘In!’ repeated Maroczy.

  ‘How do I join?’ asked Blart, who had always doubted he was on the right side.

  ‘What?’ said Maroczy.

  ‘How do I join?’ repeated Blart. ‘I’d like to become a minion. I’ve always wanted a tattoo behind my ear.’

  ‘Show some dignity, boy!’ shouted Capablanca from his cell.

  But Blart could only show cowardice and he continued to show it rather well.

  ‘Zoltab must judge!’ he began to shout.

  ‘You shame your ancestors!’ called Tungsten from his cell.

  ‘Zoltab is going to judge,’ pointed out Maroczy.

  ‘Yes, but I don’t want him to judge me,’ explained Blart. ‘He can judge those two.’

  ‘Guards!’ demanded Maroczy, deciding that the best way to treat Blart was to ignore him.

  ‘Please,’ begged Blart. ‘I’m happy to be just a minion.’

  But entreaties were hopeless. Two guards dragged him into the cell and threw him roughly to the floor.

  ‘Traitors to the cause of Zoltab,’ announced Maroczy, ‘very soon you will appear before Lord Zoltab to answer for your crimes. It would be best for you if you spent your few remaining moments dwelling on your past errors and preparing yourselves to face the awesome power of true justice. Banish any thoughts of escape. The dungeons of Zoltab are subject to a terrible curse. Should any prisoner attempt to escape from his cell it will immediately collapse inward, crushing his bones and squeezing all life from him. The only escape from these dungeons is death. Guards, close and lock the doors.’

  The doors slammed shut. Keys turned. Marching feet receded. The prisoners were left with nothing but their own thoughts.

  Which meant that Blart was soon bored. He looked around his cell but there was little to see. A board covered in straw to serve as a bed, a plate of stale bread and a foul-smelling bowl. Water trickled down the cold stone walls. There was a squeak and a scuffling and two rats scuttled across the dungeon floor

  ‘Yaahhh!’ shouted Blart, and they disappeared through a tiny gap in the wall. But their disappearance did not make him feel any better. He knew they would be back. He vowed never to sleep again for fear that he should wake to find one rushing across his face or gnawing at his toes.

  Things could not be any worse.

  And then, from another cell, there came the sound of singing.

  Chapter 40

  Harsh, tuneless, unpleasant singing.

  ‘Oh, I’ll tell you a story of a warrior brave

  Sing hey ho, hey ho ho

  They threw him into jail like the basest knave

  And he never has felt so low, low, low

  No, he never has felt so low.

  His dungeon had naught that would do for a bed

  Sing hey ho, hey ho ho

  There was lice in his hair and weevils in his bread

  And a corn on his big toe, oh, oh

  And a corn on his big toe.

  They branded him with irons and they stretched him on the rack

  Sing hey ho, hey ho ho

  He suffered chronic pain in his lower back

  At the hands of his evil foe, oh, oh

  At the hands of his evil foe.

  They dragged out his nails and they pulled his teeth

  Sing hey ho, hey ho ho

  He longed for a mouthful of the River Lethe

  For his death it was so slow, oh, oh

  Yes, his death it was so slow.

  They robbed his jewels and they stole his clothes

  Sing hey ho, hey ho ho

  They stamped on his vitals and they squashed his nose

  With a very nasty blow, oh, oh

  With a very nasty blow.

  So, if you’re jailed by a man bad and wrong

  Sing hey ho, hey ho ho

  There’s not much comfort in this song

  And your life it soon will go, oh, oh

  Yes, your life it soon will go.’

  Blart realised it was indeed possible for things to be worse.

  ‘Beowulf?’ he heard Capablanca shout.

  The singing stopped.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘It is I, Capablanca.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was visiting time.’

  ‘We’re not visitors, you fool,’ Capablanca responded. ‘We’ve been captured as well.’

  ‘Oh.’ Beowulf sounded a little hurt.

  ‘How did you get here?’ demanded Capablanca. ‘We thought you and Princess Lois and Pig the Horse had been pulled into the oasis by serpents and killed.’

  ‘Why did you think that?’ asked Beo, who felt this was rather a wild guess.

  ‘You mean you weren’t killed?’ said Capablanca.

  ‘Do I sound like I’ve been killed, Wizard?’ responded Beo.

  ‘Your singing does!’ shouted Blart.

  ‘Has nobody cleaved that boy in two yet?�
� enquired Beo.

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Capablanca, ‘but I have been sorely tempted. However, it is you and Princess Lois not dying that is of more concern to me at the moment.’

  ‘That’s nice, I’m sure.’ Beo sounded offended. ‘Old comrades-in-arms meet up after a time apart and all you can say is that you wish I was dead.’

  ‘Not you so much as the Princess,’ explained Capablanca.

  ‘That’s worse. Nobody can wish death upon a damsel.’

  ‘I’m not wishing her dead,’ said Capablanca exasperatedly. ‘I’m wishing her back from the dead because then she would fulfil the prophecy we found on the back of the map.’

  ‘Sure isn’t her safety more important than a prophecy?’

  ‘Don’t underestimate the importance of prophecies,’ warned Capablanca. ‘If a quest is to make proper sense then all the prophecies must be fulfilled.’

  That silenced Beo, who liked his quests to be in good order.

  ‘Still,’ observed Capablanca, ‘we did think she was dead.’

  ‘I wished she was dead,’ added Blart somewhat unnecessarily.

  ‘And you always have to be prepared to be a bit flexible when it comes to prophecies,’ continued Capablanca.

  ‘What do you mean?’ shouted Beo.

  ‘I mean that, taking everything into account and with a little give and take on all sides, I think I can conclude that the prophecy has come to pass.’

  ‘Hurrah!’ shouted Beo.

  ‘It is not a matter for rejoicing.’ said the wizard sternly. ‘A more appropriate reaction would be a scholarly nod at the implacable forces of fate and destiny. Now tell me what really happened to you.’

  ‘Oh … er … not much.’

  ‘What do you mean, not much?’ demanded Capablanca. ‘You vanish in the middle of a desert and reappear as a prisoner of Lord Zoltab. Something must have happened in between.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Beo. And then there was a pause. ‘Well, all right, then. But only as long as you understand that it wasn’t my idea.’

  ‘What wasn’t your idea?’

  ‘The … er … thing that … er … happened. That … er … idea.’

  ‘What idea?’

  ‘Going dragon catching.’

  ‘Dragon catching?’ yelled Capablanca.