The Boy Who Didn't Want to Save the World

by Dominic Barker

  ‘Sure, I knew you’d take it all out on me. Didn’t I tell you that it wasn’t my idea?’

  ‘Whose idea was it then, Pig the Horse’s?’ Capablanca suggested sarcastically.

  ‘No, indeed. ’T’was all that spalpeen Princess Lois’s idea. We went for a walk by the pool, and didn’t she say that if she stole the map then it would tell us where the dragons were and we could ride there on Pig the Horse and catch a multicoloured dragon to replace the one that I slew and we could take it back to Illyria and she’d make sure her father made me a knight.’

  ‘So,’ Capablanca’s voice echoed down the corridor. ‘You were prepared to betray your friends and abandon the quest and sacrifice the future of the world just so you could be a knight?’

  ‘Sure, it sounds very bad when you put it like that,’ lamented Beo.

  ‘How would you put it?’ demanded Capablanca.

  ‘I’d have come back for you,’ insisted Beo. ‘And I wasn’t really abandoning the quest, I was just having a few days off. I knew you’d be all right.’

  ‘Hardly all right,’ pointed out Capablanca. ‘We are in Zoltab’s cells awaiting our doom.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Beo rather confusingly. ‘And that proves why I was right all along. I got to thinking that if Zoltab did succeed in winning I was going to die a warrior, and what a fool I would have been to turn down my last chance to die a knight instead. If we hadn’t been captured by one of Zoltab’s Ministers with a whole group of his minions then I’d be a knight this very day.’

  ‘You fool,’ shouted Capablanca. ‘If you hadn’t run off we’d have got here in time to place a Cap of Eternal Doom on the Great Tunnel of Despair and the world would have been saved.’

  ‘It’s all ifs and buts and maybes with you, isn’t it, Wizard?’ responded Beo. ‘A damsel was in distress and I did what any other man would have done who had an ounce of chivalry in his bones. My conscience is clear.’

  ‘Unlike your arguments,’ retorted Capablanca. ‘What happened to Pig?’

  ‘They took him off to work, dragging dirt away from the tunnel,’ said Beo. ‘They don’t know that he can fly.’

  ‘He is the only one of you I’m glad is still alive,’ said Capablanca viciously. ‘You are the …’

  But his words tailed off, for there was the sound of footsteps coming down the spiral steps. Had Zoltab decreed they should be put to death in their cells? If so, none of them had any hope of escape. Each of them steeled himself to face the fate he had been allocated. Each of them except Blart, of course, who was wondering whether he could talk his way out of it.

  ‘Open!’

  Simultaneously, keys were turned in the locks and doors were thrown open.

  ‘Out!’

  Each of them walked out into the passage. An armed guard, face covered by a black visor, stood by each of their cells. At the head of the passageway stood Maroczy.

  ‘You are most fortunate,’ he told them. ‘Zoltab has decreed that he will hear your case personally and immediately. Even if he condemns you to death it will be a great honour. Guards!’

  They were marched up the spiral steps. Maroczy led the way, followed by Tungsten, Capablanca, Blart and finally Beowulf. The guards walked fast and the spears encouraged their captives to do the same. Blart wished it could be slower. He had no wish to face Zoltab. He did not want to be judged. Surely, he thought, Zoltab would understand. He’d been taken against his will from the pigs he loved. He hadn’t wanted to do Zoltab any harm. He’d have been quite happy for Zoltab to take control of the world if that was what he wanted. Zoltab would be bound to let him go because he hadn’t done anything wrong. Little did Blart realise that he was thinking the thoughts of countless small men down the ages who became embroiled in events bigger than themselves and had suffered the consequences whether they deserved to or not.

  At the top of the steps Maroczy led them into a passage. There was daylight at its end and from it came an angry roar.

  ‘Guards!’ ordered Maroczy. ‘Keep a close eye on our prisoners and march in perfect formation. For any moment now you will be under the gaze of Zoltab. Any mistake we make will be punished for Lord Zoltab rightfully demands nothing but the best from those who serve him.’

  The guards quickened their pace and Blart had to half run to keep up with them. As he struggled to maintain the pace he realised his body was close to exhaustion but he had no choice but to keep going.

  Now Blart could see that the passage led out into the Terrorsium. Fear gripped him and he felt as though he was about to be sick as the roar grew louder. The guards, eager to impress their leader, marched even faster. Blart tried to think of a way to escape but even his mind had switched itself off and offered no ideas. He was doomed. And then they were out in the open.

  The roars turned to boos instantly. Blart felt as if he was no longer a person. He was just a thing to be abused. All this noise. All these minions. Thousands and thousands of them, filling every space in the vast Terrorsium, going back in row upon row until they reached the sky. Blart had never seen so many in one place and this was too much for him. His mind refused to accept what his eyes were telling him. And so he was led to the centre of the Terrorsium like an empty shell, a body from which all the insides had been torn.

  And then Maroczy and the guards stopped, turned to one side and bowed. Blart turned too and what he saw shocked his brain into action again. For Blart was facing Zoltab.

  Chapter 41

  Zoltab was a huge, terrifying figure clad in armour of cold, grey steel and holding a giant sword in his hand. He stood immobile in front of a black throne adorned with fierce gargoyles and raving demons while all around him his minions roared their homage. Suddenly he reached up and, snatching off his helmet, dashed it to the floor, revealing his shaven head and a face twisted with hate. The hysterical cries of the minions grew louder. Zoltab slowly surveyed his acolytes with arrogant satisfaction and then finally allowed his gaze to rest on the four questors. They stood alone in the centre of the Terrorsium and awaited their fate.

  ‘Silence!’

  His voice filled the whole amphitheatre. Blart’s mouth hung open in disbelief.

  Instantly the minions fell silent. Zoltab stood, his giant sword raised. Not one minion breathed, such was their fear of breaking the eerie calm. Zoltab’s gaze halted on the four questors. Though he was a great distance away, Blart could feel his eyes burning into him.

  ‘Ministers and minions.’

  That voice. Gigantic, arrogant, dominating everything.

  ‘Today is a great day. Thanks to your efforts I am free. A wrong has been put right. I, Zoltab, who was banished from the world, have returned.’

  Cheers and roars burst from the crowd. Zoltab held up his hand. The noise vanished as swiftly as it had erupted.

  ‘Yet today is only the beginning. Tomorrow you will set off in great armies to conquer the world, to cleanse it of the weakness of human will, to replace all with one mighty right. The worship of Zoltab.’

  Again the crowd could not be restrained. Minister and minion cheered madly and wildly. Zoltab held up his hand.

  ‘But today we rest, for much hard work has been done and much remains to be done. Today you will be richly honoured for you will see Zoltab married. Bring forth the bride.’

  Princess Lois, wearing a simple white dress, was dragged out from behind Zoltab’s massive throne by two black-vizored guards.

  ‘Get off me!’ she yelled. ‘I don’t want to get married!’

  But her struggles were in vain. The guards pulled her forward until she was standing in front of Zoltab. He stared at her. A terrible, cruel stare that would have reduced a normal girl to a quivering wreck. But Princess Lois was not a normal girl. She jutted her chin in the air and stared at Zoltab.

  ‘I’ll never say “I do”,’ she said. Though her head was held high, her body trembled.

  Zoltab ignored her and turned to address the crowd.

  ‘This is the woman chosen to bea
r Zoltab’s children. His line shall never again be banished from the world.’

  The crowd exploded with applause. This time Zoltab allowed the applause to continue as he turned to his bride-to-be. Princess Lois met his eyes and her face remained hard and resentful. But Zoltab continued to stare and the crowd continued to cheer and eventually Princess Lois was forced to look away. Zoltab smirked horribly and looked out once more at the crowd.

  ‘But before the ceremony there is entertainment to enjoy. Before you stand four imposters. Four fakes. Four frauds who have tricked their way into Zoltab’s domain.’

  The crowd broke out again but this time their roars were of fury and blood-curdling hate.

  ‘Ministers and minions. Let what is about to happen to the scum which stand before you be a warning to any who betray the cause of Zoltab.’

  He paused. The crowd held their breath, eager with anticipation.

  ‘Death!’

  Cheers rolled from the tops of the Terrorsium down over the rows of minions and out into the centre of the ring, rocking the four helpless figures.

  ‘He didn’t hear our side of the story,’ said Blart indignantly.

  Capablanca’s frustration at his defeat by Zoltab and his failure to become the greatest wizard of all time boiled over.

  ‘This is all your fault,’ he yelled at Beowulf.

  ‘You always feel sorry for yourself,’ retorted Beowulf. ‘I’m going to die a warrior. I’ll never be a knight now.’

  ‘And I should never have listened to you,’ Tungsten added. ‘You promised to make the iron dwarves the greatest of dwarves. Now my people will stay as the lowest of the low. My father and grandfather and great-grandfather turn in their graves.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, all of you!’ yelled Blart. ‘I never even wanted to come. I wanted to stay at home with my pigs. But he made me and then he kept trying to cleave me in two and you’ve been too small ever since I’ve met you.’

  Boiling with rage, Blart aimed a kick at Tungsten. Tungsten threw a punch at Blart. Capablanca yanked Blart’s arm. Beo grabbed Capablanca around the neck. Capablanca kicked out and hit Tungsten in the face, sending him tumbling to the ground. Blart, seeing Capablanca gripped by Beo, punched the wizard as hard as he could in the stomach. Tungsten, dazed and unsure what had happened to him, bit Beo in the leg. Beo howled with pain and let go of Capablanca, who swung round and prodded Beo in both eyes. Beo stumbled backwards and fell over the figure of Tungsten. Blart grabbed hold of Capablanca’s hair and pulled with all his might. Capablanca’s head jerked backwards and he lost his footing and fell over, taking Blart with him. All four lay on the ground panting for breath.

  They heard a new sound, a sound unheard for a long time. Laughter.

  Fingers were pointed at them. They could see the faces at the front of the crowd contorted with hysteria. They had come this far and sacrificed this much only to become figures of fun to Zoltab’s throng.

  ‘Ministers and minions.’

  Blart looked round to see Zoltab looking down at them, and even his face was shaped into a contemptuous smirk.

  ‘When I condemn traitors to death even I, Zoltab, do not expect them to carry out the sentence themselves.’

  More laughter erupted from the rows of minions.

  ‘And though it would give me great pleasure to watch them kill each other, we do not have the time – for one of them is little more than a boy, another is an old man, a third is a puny dwarf and the last is a fat oaf. It would take days for them to kill each other as they are so pathetic. I, Zoltab, wish to see the blood of these traitors now and I call upon the Four Horsemen of Zoltab to dispatch them from this world.’

  Immediately there was the thunder of hooves. The crowd was silenced, eager to see what would appear.

  Four horsemen on great black steeds burst from the tunnel. They galloped towards Zoltab’s throne, brought their horses to a shuddering halt and saluted. The crowd went wild, for they were a truly awful sight to behold.

  The first sat tall and gaunt in the saddle. His skin was stretched so tightly over his bones it seemed as though it was about to tear. The fire in his eyes was savage. Armed with a sharp spear, he was starving for blood.

  The second was worse to look at. His face was covered with sores and boils. Yellow pus ran from encrusted scabs and black bile flowed from his nose. Armed with a bulbous mace, he was sick for blood.

  The third was almost invisible, surrounded as he was by a haze of stinging wasps and deadly mosquitoes. The black cloud of insects swarmed around him wherever he went. Armed with a trident and net, he was burning for blood.

  But the fourth was worst of all. For in the saddle sat nothing but a skeleton. A set of remains revivified by some diabolic force, its skull set in a terrible grin that was worse than any expression of hatred could ever be. Armed with a great sword, he was dying for blood.

  The crowd continued whooping and yelling and cheering. Here were the champions of Zoltab who would lead them to conquer the world and they would see them in action any second now. The promise of slaughter drove the minions into a frenzy.

  If Blart could have stood up he would have done. But he was paralysed with fear. He couldn’t believe that these terrible warriors were here to kill him. He, who’d never done any harm to anybody. This wasn’t strictly true but it seemed very true to Blart at the time. But as he gulped with terror he knew that there was no getting out of this one. There could be no bargaining and there could be no running away for there was nowhere to run.

  ‘Famine, Disease, Pestilence and Death,’ Zoltab’s voice boomed around the Terrorsium. ‘You, the Four Horsemen of Zoltab. The guilty are before you. Zoltab has judged. Execute the sentence. Kill them.’

  The horsemen pulled their horses on to their hind legs and saluted Zoltab once more. Then they wheeled round and charged.

  ‘Let us die like knights!’ shouted Beo, pulling himself from the ground and standing four-square, unarmed as he was.

  ‘Let us die like my ancestors!’ yelled Tungsten, rising to his feet.

  ‘Let us die like heroes!’ cried Capablanca, as he too rose up.

  ‘I can’t stand up,’ said Blart. ‘My legs have stopped working.’

  The other three looked down at Blart with contempt. Perhaps the last looks of contempt that he would ever receive.

  Chapter 42

  Monstrous and terrible, the four horsemen bore down on the stricken victims. Instinctively, Capablanca, Beo and Tungsten threw themselves to the ground and buried their faces in the sand. The horses thundered overhead. They were still alive.

  ‘I knew I shouldn’t get up,’ said Blart.

  The Four Horsemen of Zoltab wheeled round and prepared for another charge. The questors were in urgent need of a good idea.

  Capablanca rose to his feet and shouted an order to Beo and Tungsten. Then he turned to Blart.

  ‘Be a decoy, boy.’

  Unfortunately, Blart had no idea what he meant by the word ‘decoy’.

  And there was no time to ask. For the second charge of Zoltab’s horsemen had already begun. Blart found that somehow his legs had rediscovered their power to stand. The horsemen advanced. Blart ran, which, though he didn’t know it, was exactly what he was supposed to do. The horsemen were moving at a great pace. Disease, Pestilence and Death chased Blart. Famine drove on towards the three others.

  Blart was still running away as they thundered past him. From one side of Blart a sword slashed down while from the other a net was thrown to enmesh him. For a moment it seemed that Blart was doomed, but with a feint one way and then a twist another he managed to avoid the horsemen’s weapons. Off balance, Blart stumbled to the ground as the horsemen galloped past. Immediately he looked across the ring to witness the fate of the others.

  Famine charged towards a stationary Capablanca, his spear pointing directly at the wizard’s heart. The crowd roared. Their first victim was to die. Behind Capablanca, Beo swiftly knelt down and clasped his hands to form a step. Tungs
ten ran towards the warrior and leapt. His foot landed in the step created by Beo’s clasped hands. With all his strength the warrior threw Tungsten up and over his back as Capablanca stooped. Tungsten the dwarf flew through the air, sailed over Capablanca, over the horse’s head, past the pointed spear and smashed into Famine. The horse carried on. Zoltab’s horseman didn’t. Tumbling from the horse, he fell, spear slipping from his hand.

  For an old man Capablanca was on his feet remarkably quickly. He swooped on the spear. Without stopping he ran towards Zoltab’s horseman. The first thing Famine saw when he looked up was Capablanca thrusting the spear into his throat. The four horsemen were now three.

  A stunned silence enveloped the crowd. One of their great champions had been defeated. And not only defeated – defeated by a flying dwarf and an old man. Nothing could have surprised them more. But at the end of the Terrorsium the three remaining horsemen were turning once more. They would still defeat these puny unarmed challengers. As the horsemen charged, the crowd found new heart and roared them on again.

  Blart ran to join the others. Beo was frantically pulling the spear out of the corpse on the ground. Capablanca and Tungsten were staring at the charging riders. Nobody knew what to do.

  ‘If we could stop one,’ shouted Beo, ‘I could get a throw at him with this.’

  ‘Can’t you magic them or something?’ Blart suggested.

  ‘They are horsemen of Zoltab,’ panted Capablanca. ‘No magic on earth would be powerful enough to work on them.’

  The riders sped towards them. How could they survive a third charge unscathed?

  ‘What about their horses?’

  Capablanca’s expression cleared.

  ‘Boy,’ he ordered. ‘Stand straight in front of one horse. Tungsten! Distract the others.’

  ‘But I’m good at distracting,’ countered Blart.

  ‘Stay there!’ ordered Capablanca.

  Tungsten ran directly towards the horses. Beo and Capablanca backed off behind Blart. When the horses were almost upon him Tungsten changed direction. Two of the riders veered off to chase him, but Disease kept coming. Somehow Blart resisted the urge to flee. He faced the terrible beast and its horrific rider with his suppurating sores that oozed yellow pus and he did not flinch.