The Boy Who Didn't Want to Save the World

by Dominic Barker

  The horse was almost upon him when there was a flash of blue light. Instantly a great wall of flame appeared in the narrow gap between Blart and the horseman. The terrified horse pulled up short and for one precious moment the rider was still.

  There was a zing as Beo threw the spear with all the force in his arm. It sped towards Disease. The rider had no time to duck. It hit him directly in the eye. Such was the power behind the spear that it did not stop until its point protruded from the back of the rider’s head. The three horsemen had become two.

  But the cheers of the crowd did not falter. The reason was Tungsten. He had acted as a decoy but he had not been as lucky as Blart. The riders had learnt from their mistakes, so that when Tungsten twisted and flung himself to the ground they were prepared. They pulled their horses up right next to him and dismounted. Tungsten was in a terrible position. He made a desperate attempt to rise to his feet, but Pestilence flung down his cruel chain net and Tungsten was trapped beneath it.

  Beo snatched up Disease’s mace and rushed across the arena to try to save the dwarf. Blue light flashed from Capablanca’s eyes towards Zoltab’s remaining riders but his spells had no effect. It was too late. Blart winced as the terrible blows repeatedly fell on the helpless dwarf. One stab from the trident of Pestilence and then a swipe from the sword of Death. The dwarf writhed desperately beneath the net to avoid the vicious blows but there could be no escape from the savage onslaught.

  Yet still Beo ran. The crowd suddenly spotted the danger and their cheers turned to shouts of warning. Still Beo ran towards the horsemen. Capablanca ran after him. Blart, feeling rather foolish standing idly in the middle of the arena whilst everybody else was fighting to the death, began to run too. The crowd continued to shout their warnings.

  But the lust for blood was too great in Pestilence and Death. They continued hacking at Tungsten. Beo positioned himself behind Pestilence, ignoring the stinging wasps that buzzed around him. He lifted the mace high over his head only to discover it was heavier than any weapon he had ever held before. Just as he was about to let the gigantic blow fall he realised the mace was now controlling him. He teetered, struggling to stay on his feet. But muscles tire and metal balls do not, and slowly the mace dragged Beo backwards. And then suddenly he was gone, tipping over and landing with a thump on his back. Roars of laughter and great whoops greeted his catastrophe.

  Pestilence and Death turned round to find another of their enemies conveniently lying helpless on his back. Surrounded by the buzzing swarm, Pestilence raised his trident.

  It was at this point that Blart realised that being young is not always an advantage. He had started running after Capablanca but had overtaken him. This meant that only he was near enough to save Beo from having a trident thrust into his midriff. If Beo had known that all that stood between him and a deadly blow was a potential act of bravery by Blart, he would have closed his eyes, said his prayers and resigned himself to the end.

  But, fortunately for Beo, Blart saw the situation not in terms of bravery but in terms of self-pity which as we know Blart was very good at. If Beo died then there would be just him and Capablanca left, and the wizard’s magic wasn’t working, which made him as much use as any wizened old man in a fight to the death, which is no use at all. If Beo had the selfishness to get himself killed then he was as good as sentencing Blart and Capablanca to death. So, fuelled with indignation, Blart ran faster than he knew he could and, just before the trident was thrust into the body of the warrior, he threw himself forward.

  He torpedoed through the air and smashed into the middle of Pestilence. The horseman of Zoltab crumpled up and fell backwards with Blart on top of him. Straight away Blart felt a sting. And then another. The buzzing angry swarm was defending its master. Within seconds there were so many stings that it was impossible to tell them apart. On his face, on his arms, on his legs, everywhere. Blart tried to shield his face but nothing could stop the onslaught. One wasp sting will not kill anybody, but a thousand will, and Blart was rapidly heading towards that number. He rolled away but the swarm pursued him. Diving at him. Stinging him in his ears and on his eyes. Blart was dying. Nothing could save him.

  Except for the wasps themselves. For without warning they buzzed away. Dazed, Blart looked after the departing horde and saw why. For Beo had risen and grasped the great club once more. Pestilence too was on his feet, looking curiously naked without his swarm. As Pestilence thrust his trident, Beo swung the club. Which would land first?

  The club smashed into Pestilence’s head. The swarm sped towards Beo, each wasp, hornet and mosquito poised to strike their venom into his blood. And then suddenly they stopped. What had been a deadly dagger became a confused mass. Instead of aiming for Beo it buzzed instead over the prone figure of Pestilence. Beo’s massive blow was proving fatal and as the horseman died so did the insects, dropping harmlessly around his corpse.

  The two horsemen had become one.

  ‘Help!’ yelled Capablanca.

  And he was in need of it. For though there was only one horseman left, he was the deadliest of them all. Death himself.

  ‘Watch out!’ shouted Capablanca. ‘If Death’s sword or bones so much as touch you, you will die instantly!’

  Even as Capablanca spoke, Death’s sword scythed towards him. Capablanca jumped backwards just in time. The sword hacked through his cloak but did not touch his body.

  Death tried again, this time with a terrifying downward swipe intended to split Capablanca down the middle, but the wizard’s reflexes did not fail him and a leap to the side saw the sword smash into the ground.

  Capablanca ran towards Beo and Blart.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us that bit about Death before?’ demanded Blart. ‘I might have touched him by accident.’

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you,’ snapped Capablanca. ‘And stop scratching. It’s most off-putting when I’m trying to think.’

  Blart was frantically scratching at the stings that were beginning to lump up all over his body.

  ‘He’s coming!’ shouted Beo. ‘What do we do? How do we kill Death?’

  ‘Run!’ shouted Blart desperately as Death loomed nearer.

  And this turned out to be the best plan. It wasn’t very courageous and it didn’t look particularly heroic but it kept them alive. Round and round the arena they ran with Death pursuing them on foot. The crowd booed and jeered but the questors kept running. They split up and Death followed Blart. Blart ran until he was exhausted and then Beo distracted Death who ran after him. Then when Beo was exhausted he handed him on to Capablanca, who only got a short turn because he was old, before returning him to Blart who had got his breath back. Death, it was turning out, may have been extremely deadly but he wasn’t very bright.

  But though this delayed the ending, it could not prevent it, for with each run Blart, Beo and Capablanca grew more exhausted. Death continued at the same remorseless pace for Death never tires and Death never sleeps. Sooner or later they would be so weakened that they would be unable to run and then Death would strike them down mercilessly. All three realised that this would be their fate – Capablanca quickly, Beo slowly and Blart very slowly. But what option did they have but to keep running? Life feels very precious when it is about to be taken from you.

  ‘Death, death, death,’ chanted the crowd.

  Finally, Capablanca was too weary to run any more and it was left to Beo and Blart to carry on distracting the terrible horseman.

  And Beo was not built for long-distance running. He was built for short sprints and for face-to-face combat and for drinking beer. His legs would no longer carry his huge bulk. Blart alone had to keep Death running. When he flagged it would all be over.

  ‘Death, death, death.’

  And then death came.

  Blart stumbled. His legs gave way beneath him and he fell. He could not get up. He was going to die. He buried his head and waited for the final blow.

  But it didn’t come. This was true torture. Knowing
you were going to die and yet being made to wait. Still the final blow didn’t come. Unable to wait any longer, Blart rolled over, expecting to see Death standing over him.

  But that was not what he saw.

  Death had stopped in the centre of the arena. He was swaying from side to side. A spasm shot through him. The bones that had once been his hands grabbed at his chest. He staggered and fell. He did not rise. The final horseman was no more.

  The crowd was stunned into silence. Death, their ultimate champion, lay dead on the ground. It couldn’t happen. He couldn’t die again. But even if it couldn’t happen, it had. The minions were transfixed with horror.

  Blart, Beo and Capablanca approached the still figure.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Beo.

  ‘It is incredible,’ said Capablanca. ‘The boy has outrun death and triumphed over him. It is impossible and yet it has happened. I do not understand.’

  And so unlikely was their survival that the wizard admitted his ignorance of the reason for it without bitterness. They were distracted from contemplating Death’s corpse and the mystery of his defeat by an awful groan.

  Turning round, they were horrified to see it had come from Tungsten. He lay under the net, bleeding from the terrible wounds that he had received at the hands of Death and Pestilence. Beo rushed over and pulled the net off him. Up close his wounds were grievous indeed, and there seemed little chance that he could survive. Indeed, it was a miracle that he had lived to see the end of the battle. Capablanca knelt by his side.

  ‘Tungsten,’ said Capablanca gently. ‘Can you hear me, Tungsten?’

  Tungsten’s eyes fluttered open and he seemed to recognise his companions.

  ‘You have died nobly,’ said Beo.

  ‘Sssh,’ hissed Capablanca. ‘He isn’t dead yet.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Beo. He coughed and tried again. ‘You are dying nobly.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ snapped Capablanca. ‘Hold your tongue if all you can talk about is death.’

  Beo looked sulky but he said no more.

  ‘Tungsten,’ said Capablanca. ‘Is there anything you want to say to us, any message that we can take?’

  Tungsten opened his mouth. His three companions inclined their heads to hear his final words.

  Tungsten burped.

  ‘What kind of a message is that?’ demanded Blart.

  ‘Hush,’ insisted Capablanca. ‘He is going to speak.’

  And Tungsten was. In a tiny voice he said, ‘What’s my name?’

  ‘Tungsten,’ said Blart. ‘Your name is Tungsten.’

  ‘Tungsten,’ repeated Tungsten. ‘Tungsten. Son of Gravel, Grandson of Slab, Great-Grandson of Tar, Great-Great-Grandson of …’

  And there he stopped. His eyes glazed over and his breathing was silenced. Tungsten the dwarf had gone to the Great Mine in the Sky.

  ‘You know,’ observed Blart, ‘he doesn’t look so small now he’s dead.’

  Chapter 43

  ‘Ministers and minions of Zoltab.’

  The three of them jumped as Zoltab’s enormous voice shattered the silence.

  ‘So, they have defeated the Four Horsemen of Zoltab. Do not despair. They merely prolong their suffering. For now, I will deal with them myself.’

  The crowd’s spirits were lifted and they began to cheer once more.

  From the tunnels appeared forty guards, each dressed in the black armour of Zoltab, led by Minister Maroczy in his flowing red robes. They marched directly towards the three questors.

  Blart looked at Beo. Beo looked at Capablanca. Capablanca looked at Blart. Blart looked back at Capablanca, who avoided his gaze and stared at Beo. Beo flicked his eyes towards Blart. They were looking at each other for an answer to this new problem and it was increasingly obvious that none of them had one.

  ‘Their armour will protect them against my magic,’ said Capablanca.

  ‘There are too many even for a warrior of my strength,’ said Beo.

  ‘Um,’ said Blart.

  The crowd’s cheering grew wilder as they saw that the traitors were not offering any resistance.

  The cohort marched up to Blart, Beo and Capablanca and halted. Maroczy stepped forward.

  ‘Guards, take them to the platform,’ he instructed.

  The guards marched them across the arena, leaving the body of Tungsten behind. The crowd found a new chant that it accompanied by stamping its feet.

  ‘Go to Zoltab! Go to Zoltab! Go to Zoltab!’

  Past the body of Famine. Past the body of Disease, the spear still sticking out of his head. Past the body of Pestilence who had been decapitated by Beo’s great blow. Past the body of Death himself.

  ‘Go to Zoltab! Go to Zoltab!’

  Up the stone steps which led to Zoltab’s platform. They were among the minions now. There were shouts of ‘traitor’ and they had to cover their faces to ward off stones. If the guards had not been there they would have been torn apart. The noise drummed into their skulls.

  ‘Go to Zoltab! Go to Zoltab!’

  And then they stopped.

  Blart couldn’t see past the guards, but he heard the crowd quieten and Maroczy announce, ‘Lord Zoltab. The traitors are here as you requested.’

  ‘Bring them forth.’

  The guards in front of Blart drew to one side. He and Beo and Capablanca were pushed forward. Blart gazed upon the face of Zoltab and knew absolute fear for the first time.

  For Zoltab was indeed terrible. Even sitting on his throne he was massive. Much, much bigger than Beo and Beo was the biggest man Blart had ever seen. Zoltab’s hands were closed in fists so gigantic that Blart felt that one of them could crush the life from him. Yet one punch would also be deadly for protruding from each armoured knuckle was a sharp steel spike. From Zoltab’s shaven head a horrific scar ran down his cheek and his lip was wrinkled into a cold commanding sneer. Blart felt Zoltab’s black eyes boring into him. In fear he looked away and for a moment his eyes caught those of Princess Lois. He was amazed to find them still sparkling with defiance. She looked at him with almost frightening intensity. Nobody had ever looked at Blart like that before and for some reason it made Blart feel stronger.

  ‘Kneel,’ barked Zoltab.

  The three questors knelt and looked up at the dreadful Lord.

  ‘Your names before you die. You, wizard.’

  ‘Capablanca,’ replied Capablanca, his voice shaking. ‘Wizard of the Order of Caissa.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Be-Be-Be-Beowulf the Warrior,’ stammered Beowulf.

  ‘And you?’

  Blart opened his mouth but no words came.

  ‘Do not keep me waiting.’

  Please speak, Blart begged his mouth. Please speak.

  ‘Blart.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘To save the world,’ said Blart.

  Next to him, Capablanca sighed.

  ‘To save the world,’ mocked Zoltab. ‘You? A mere boy? Save the world? That is a task for a great and powerful Lord. That is a task for Zoltab.’

  The crowd roared its approbation.

  ‘I will give you a new task, Blart,’ announced Zoltab, twisting his mouth into a cruel smirk. ‘It is not to save the world, Blart. It is to choose how you will die. Behold.’

  Two prisoners were dragged into the centre of the arena. Zoltab addressed his minions.

  ‘These traitors are guilty of not digging hard enough.’

  The crowd booed.

  ‘Of taking rests.’

  The crowd booed louder.

  ‘And leaning on their shovels.’

  More boos.

  ‘There can be only one punishment for these offences – death.’

  The crowd’s boos turned instantly to cheers.

  ‘Let the sentence be carried out.’

  There was a black flash from behind Blart. One of the prisoners howled in agony and fell writhing to the ground. Blart had never seen such pain.

  The effect on the other mini
on was not so dramatic. Indeed, at first it was difficult to tell that there was anything happening to him at all. But he had become terribly still. His face was rigid. Something awful was happening to him but Blart had no idea what it was.

  ‘Your choice, Blart. One traitor is being burnt to death. I have set fire to his entrails. He cannot see the flames, he cannot roll on the ground to put them out. But he can feel them consuming him.’

  ‘Stop it!’ cried Princess Lois.

  Zoltab laughed.

  ‘Does my little punishment offend you?’ he asked her mockingly. ‘You will grow used to it when you are my wife.’

  Princess Lois turned away. Tears burned in her eyes. How she wished she had never left Illyria and all that was good.

  Smoke began to pour from the mouth of the minion. His howls filled the arena.

  ‘Could you do that, Wizard?’ demanded Zoltab.

  ‘No,’ said Capablanca, and his voice shook with rage and terror.

  ‘No. Your weak power is no match for the greatness of Zoltab. You are nothing.’

  Blart could not take his eyes from the second minion. Something horrible was happening to him but what was it?

  ‘The other traitor is slowly freezing. An awful cold is creeping through his body. His liver, his brain and his heart slowly turn to ice. Whilst still alive, he experiences death.’

  Blart could not drag his eyes away. Behind him he heard Princess Lois gasp in disbelief at Zoltab’s cruelty.

  ‘Blart, I ask you first. How will you die? Either will suffice, but is it to be fire or is it to be ice?’

  Capablanca moved nearer to him as though he wished to offer some comfort. Was this it? thought Blart.

  It appeared that it was.

  ‘Er …’ said Blart.

  In some situations it may be a comfort to know how and when you are going to die. But this is not the case when you know that the how is going to be extremely painfully and the when is going to be now.

  ‘Er …’ said Blart again.