The Book Of Irvine - A Contemptuous Cargo: Book Of Irvine, #1

By Grandfather Nebulous

Written in Cornwall, a fantasy adventure for mature audiences. 

 

The Book of Irvine is a fantasy novel of honor, humor, and horror told through the perspectives of Irvine Bucklefoot, Roger Redbottom, and Oulyans Benynreydth. Irvine accepts the contract to smuggle a chest and key for King Whiskers (after a few drinks) and all sorts of prophecies begin to unfold before him....

For fans of Tolkien, Lovecraft, and Pratchett.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grandfather Nebulous
• Release date: Sep 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781999852825

Book preview

The Book of Irvine

A Contemptuous Cargo

Chapter Naught

ABeginning

Well, here begin my memoirs!

A chronicle of my life and times if you will. Hopefully (Morserf willing one day), I’ll have time to read it aloud and impress you first hand with my perilous story of courage and bravery!

Anyhow, I feel an introduction is in order before I whisk you away with my tales of valour and happenstance.

I will be allowing my good pard (friend in our tongue and more of him later) Roger, the privilege of arranging and rearranging my legacy of text in the unlikely event that it all gets too much for me and I end up dribbling down my front like old Billy Bob Higgins, or Morserf forbid that Father Time’s stilts claim my humble yet heroic soul before I have told all I have to tell!

You will find side notes and possibly slightly differing accounts of event throughout, courtesy of Roger’s quill.

After all, although I have been known to explain my points concisely and clearly with a thoroughly detailed and expansive knowledge to each and every singular meaning, very occasionally even the vast vistas of my quill’s descriptive power can leave a few stones unturned.

So this, the point in question, is to ensure a safe guard in the hope that my point of explaining doesn’t become too drawn out, lecturous, uninteresting, dull, tedious, tiresome, humdrum, monotonous, mind-numbingly boring and of course pointless.

As, and as hard as it is to believe, my writing can sometimes appear to folk.

However, I am sure Father Time’s stilts have a greater fate in store for me, one full of excitement, peril and wonder...

No. Wait, I don’t want that at all!

I’m sure this will be a nice gentle account of peaceful sailing and smooth transactions. Yes, that is a more amicable thought for the future.

I digress, an introduction I promised and here it comes.

After all you wouldn’t want me just rambling on and on for pages and pages before I’ve even had a chance to introduce myself and surroundings, (in the past tense of course, I might add) as I am writing from the present today, although that also will soon be the past and before I wrote anything today it was the future, in which I presumed I would be writing this!

The striding of Father Time’s stilts are mind boggling at the best of times!

Still as of tomorrow, I will be recalling my life and times with the benefit of hindsight. Yes, starting tomorrow or perhaps whenever I get time to jot it all down...

I digress yet again, back to my original point.

An introduction! I mean really annoying my future (who funnily enough will also be present then past), readers by dragging things out, diverging from the subject matter and basically not getting to the bloody point is just infuriating.

A personal and pet hate of mine is when a rubbish inexperienced author just scrawls off into a tangent about the dullest most tedious things, so much so that you just lose interest in what could later pan out to be a most excellent and engrossing story and all before said story has even started!

So, it is with a full belly and a happy heart that I am pleased to announce that my memoires will not be dragged into that dangerous current. No Sir!

They will be sharp, informative and to the point. And will certainly by no means be long, drawn out, repetitive and annoying, much in fact like the time that I got stuck in the cue for meat popsicles at the city of Gwinmouth and that bastard taxman tried to...

Editor’s note from Roger Redbottom

I had to extract several hundred pages from Irvine’s introduction here in order for the reader not to be sucked into a bland story of meat popsicle tax evasion.

Anyways, without further ado I will set sail to the story, after all that’s why you picked up my book. Wasn’t it?

Chapter One

The Actual Beginning

My name is Bucklefoot.

Irvine Bucklefoot.

I am a Berr (pronounced bur) or Berrling which means I’m hitting 3ft10 and have broad webbed feet. I have big hands and ears, a proud belly, a keen appetite for food and alcohol and an insatiable yearning to be at sail upon the sea.

The sea upon which we sail is named the great Moryow Lugh and I am the captain of the finest vessel upon its vast waters.

The Kowellik.

My pride. My life. My joy! My business and my home, it is a beautifully crafted vessel of particular antiquity.

It was originally built in Porturnip (as can be attested to by its Berress craft-mark) many moons ago. She’s as sturdy as ever, her deep hull full of exotic cargoes, her old carved rooms and corridors rising from her deck and her long strong mast sticking proudly into the sky, ready for Morserf’s breath to fill our fine sails.

At her stern two rear paddles rotate and help to push us over the waters and I’m proud to say they’re still turning as well as the day she was launched.

Whilst a relatively small vessel in comparison to say a man’s ship, it is a Berr boat and that means sea worthy. In fact, its nimble size has proved beneficial in past endeavours when it has been necessary to pass quietly and unnoticed upon the great Moryow Lugh.

Berr boats are the finest in the Hidden Lands. Bar none. Almost unsinkable.

I have managed to fill my fine boat with a small crew of strong and loyal Berrs the most notable of which I shall now introduce.

Roger Redbottom -First mate (and Editor to these humble memories)

Roger has been my best friend for longer than I can remember. He has a passion and keen interest in all of the diverse creatures and beasts throughout the Hidden Lands. An unusual trait for a Berr, who generally are only concerned with the creatures and fish of the Moryow Lugh, how dangerous they are and of course how good they taste. 

Bailey Burntbottom - Chef and Surgeon of the Kowellik

His culinary and medical expertise grants him very high standing among us.

Pip-Squeek – Ship’s Lookout

An old wizened Berr, he had sailed upon the Kowellik longer than any of us, for he has been at sail since the days of my ancestor, Jerimiah Bucklefoot.

He was often playfully mocked by the rest of the crew for his very short stature. (Even amongst us Berrs!) Still there was no finer lookout on the sea; his old limbs would carry him up to the crow’s nest quicker than any other Berr.

Well they had done once upon a stride, Cliff Steamerson was the quickest up the rigging these days, because for the past ten score and three yearly strides old Pip has refused to come down from his nest at all!

Receiving his meals and passing down his waste via Pip the git’s bucket. as it has affectionately come to be known amongst us.

Chump Haddockhock – Deck Hand

A real barrel of a Berr, bulging arms, legs like masts, not always the quickest on the uptake, (which can, I must confess infuriate me at times!) he is almost as round as he is tall. Loyal beyond question, he also looks a lot like a fish.

These crewmembers amongst others and myself specialise in all sorts of things but especially conveying sensitive and valuable cargoes discreetly throughout the Hidden Lands.

MY SMUGGLING STORY starts in the port of Porth Nipple. So named according to its unfortunate topography.

I was sat on the deck of the Kowellik, partaking in a bottle of some very fine Porth Nippin wine, which I had acquired the previous evening.

Ohh, the Kowellik.

She was as nimble as a Gwinmouth alley cat when darting through the waves of the Moryow Lugh, but when tucked up in port she purred her gentle creaks of contentment, brushing up against the moorings.

Bliss!

As the sun warmed me to the gentle swell of the waters, a wonderful aroma entered my nose, the smell of mussels cooked in wine drifted up from the galley. My belly rumbled.

‘Soon my love, soon,’ I muttered as I patted her down reassuringly.

What a perfect day... I thought to myself.

Then a seagull squawked overhead.

Another soon appeared in the irritating fashion they are prone to, then another and another. No doubt, they had been drawn in by the appetising aroma.

‘Bastard sky rats aren’t having any!’ I shouted to the sky, shaking my fist.

It became apparent that as soon as my dinner appeared I would be mugged by the avian gang. I wasn’t going to allow that to happen!

My mind drifted back to the smell as I contemplated.

Mussels cooked in fine Porth Nippin wine are probably my favourite food...  Next to lobster braised in Medcalfian whiskey or freshly barbecued sea bass with a nice cold glass of Brewer’s Drop Beer or freshly ground roast... 

My fantasy was interrupted by the most wonderful sound in the Hidden Lands...

The ship’s dinner bell.

I arose, picked up my glass and bottle and took one last threating look at the amassing sky rats as I made my way down to the galley.

BAILEY BURNTBOTTOM stood with ladle and cauldron, my meal had been laid upon the galley table in captain’s fashion and my mouth began to salivate. Mussels in wine! Bailey Burntbottom had the best recipe for them.

In retrospect that’s probably why I had hired him, he was a very, very fine cook indeed.

Bailey Burntbottom measured in at a burly 4ft (almost 5ft with his hat!) and was dressed in typical Berr fashion, with the addition of his chef’s hat and apron, which I had never seen him without!

Bailey’s philosophy of the universe was that... 

‘Only as a cook can I face the world and appreciate the multitude of flavours that life has to offer! For the wisdom is in knowledge of the dish!’

His near permanent stained hat and apron were complemented by a round stubbly face and proud gut (as all us self-respecting Berrs are prone to).

After a delicious meal and my compliments to the chef, I returned to deck. The afternoon was progressing nicely and the sun was still beating down ansome (that’s Berrish for lovely).

I soon realised that I desperately required further beautiful Porth Nippin wine and as such had a few more bottles fetched from my personal store.

It was a wonderful afternoon in Porth Nipple. I sat drinking the time away watching the great galleons of men come and go, busy with their crews rushing around them eager to get into port. Not that it mattered to me for I had not a care in the lands that beautiful afternoon.

I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING in my captain’s room. My memory was a little foggy but I could just remember leaving the deck for some more mussels.

The sunset had been glorious over the port that evening and after I had drunk another bottle under the stars, I may have just snuck to the galley to acquire a little extra helping.

As those wonderful memories began to drift away, I could hear a distant sound like a drum beat. No, a thumping and now a loud pounding! I realised it was in my own head and that I had also began to acquire a slight hangover.

I made my way to the deck to check I had finished all the wine. After all, it is often jestingly remarked upon by other folk at port that if Berrs kept dogs they would almost certainly be hairless!

A Lugh, or fine sea mist had pervaded the port that morning. It was accompanied by some abrasive snoring, courtesy of Chump Haddockhock.

A friendly voice entered my right ear.

‘Morning.’

I turned to face the voice’s master, although I knew well enough whom that was.

‘Morning Rodge, how you feeling?’

‘Like my heads been repeatedly battered by a Fungmir and me assholes like a dwarven forge.’

That’s what I liked about Rodge; He got straight to the point.

Roger Redbottom, a real gem of a Berr, was hitting 3ft11 and was well built with the big belly common to our kind, he always sported splendid side burns. Being a Redbottom, he was continually in constant dispute with the ship’s chef, Bailey Burntbottom.

For you see there was a long running feud between the two families over the origin of the name. Was it Red? Was it Burnt? Each had a detailed and intricate explanation as to which was the correct derivative.

The fact, as every other Berr could see, was that they looked very, very similar. Although the merest suggestion that they belonged to the same family would be the deepest insult to either of them.

To keep morale at a high, I made absolutely sure that I was never foolish enough to mention it.

‘I tell you that’s the last time I’m going out drinking with Haddockhock! By Morserf can he tuck them away!’ exclaimed Roger.

‘Ha! Glad I never bothered now, couldn’t be doing with a hangover with so much to do today,’ I replied with a steadily increasing headache.

‘Wise move Irve, I mean, I only meant to go for one or two at the Sporting Man but Haddockhock is a demon once he gets the taste and besides, they had a load of cheap wine they were trying to shift, needless to say we shifted it for them, put the big folk to shame.’

I laughed out loud!

‘I bet you did! The Berrs of the Kowellik can out drink any here I’d wager.’

Roger laughed heartily, the remnants of the previous evening’s intoxication clearly still evident in his complexion.

‘Morserf! My mouths dry, any mussels left down there?’ he enquired, nodding in the direction of the galley.

‘Might be a dozen or so left...  I seem to remember having a couple of three servings last night.’

‘Ha ha, good Berr! Some things never change Irve,’ he chuckled as he slapped me on the back and walked towards the galley.

I stood on deck, and listened to the Kowellik still purring at her moorings. She was helping my headache drift away.

My vision wandered out over the harbour to the far side of the port, where the great galleons of men I had half watch arrive yesterday were moored. Beyond them on the cobbles of the town sat the main drinking establishments of Porth Nipple.

The Hog and Trotter, The Sporting Man, and of course, the lands famous Porth Nippin Wine Co.

I should point out that Porth Nipple is infamous in the Hidden Lands for its brewing and exporting of very fine wine. (And it’s not quite so fine salted pork.)

I hoped the payment for our next operation would be plenty of crates of Porth Nippin’s finest, preferably paid in advance.

As I peered through the mists and further into the port I could just make out the crenulations of Medhow keep.

The king of Porth Nipple’s residence and my destination today, I thought grudgingly and a surge of hangover returned as my head began to pound once again.

I hated leaving the Kowellik, especially for solid ground (as every Berr does!) but Needs must I supposed.

‘After all, a self-respecting Berr such as myself needs rewarding for the purchasing of fine wine and even finer meals,’ I caught myself thinking aloud.

I returned to my captain’s room to ready myself for the council of King Whiskers...

HAVING FITTED MYSELF with a fine red waistcoat worthy of a king’s audience, I set about the arduous task of leaving my boat, no easy thing for a Berr. Two reasons can be appointed to this difficulty, the first is that we simply do not like to lose the rhythm of the sea underfoot; it just doesn’t feel natural for a Berr.

The second is that, leaving deck onto a big folk’s quay involves the agile tasks of stepping, jumping and climbing in quick succession, leaving fine oak straight for stone, so as to avoid soaking oneself and one’s belongings.

Whilst Berrs have been known to be naturally buoyant for exceedingly long periods of time due to our webbed feet, big hands and rounding shape, not to mention our natural affinity with the Moryow Lugh, we, like all civilized races of the Hidden Lands, never relish the idea of one and one’s belongings becoming drenched. We would rather be on the water than in it! 

Having succeeded at both points, (with relative ease I might add) I set foot upon the cobbles of Porth Nipple. Leaving the Kowellik always takes some getting used to but I adjusted reasonably quickly that particular day, although I would be remiss if I did not mention that it still felt unnerving to be without Morserf’s rhythm underfoot.

I made my way up the quay and along the harbour front, past the busy stalls with the Porth Nippin fishwives crying out in their haggling demeanour. 

One convenient thing about being 3ft10 is that people often mistake you for a man-child, especially if you have learnt how to pass through a crowd and not draw attention to yourself such as I have done. A consequence of this is that I always make a point of being clean-shaven, so as to retain my child-like appearance.

(I being the captain of the Kowellik, have much more cause to leave the vessel for long periods of time than the rest of the crew had, as they seldom left unless the need to visit a drinking establishment overwhelmed them. Which come to think of it, was actually pretty frequently!)

I took the road towards Medhow Keep and became surrounded by the leaning houses that are so characteristic of Porth Nipple. In fact, it has been remarked that the houses themselves are under the influence of the high quality wine!

Although my opinion is, that it is far more likely that the builders of the houses were under the influence of the very fine wine!

I stole one last glance over my shoulder towards the harbour, I could just make out the Kowellik on the far side of the port, her distinctive shape sat perfectly in the water, the mists were beginning to lift and it was turning into another glorious day.

Damn business, I thought as the idea of sitting on my boat all day drinking fine wine in the sun, came nagging at me.

With a large heave of will power I tore my vision away from the Kowellik’s inviting deck and persevered, after all it’s not every day you have an audience with a king!

And it certainly wasn’t everyday a monarch of the Hidden Lands would be in need of the secret services of a crew and vessel such as ours!

As I wandered onwards, I realised I had never been to this part of Porth Nipple, it had been many years since we last docked here and my memory of the place had been somewhat eroded by the strides of Father’s time not to mention the many pints that seemed almost mandatory to consume when docked in Porth Nipple.

I had however briefly explored the port-town when we had arrived here from our previous endeavour to deliver the payload to the client personally.

Oh yes, I almost forgot! How silly of me. You may find the terms a little strange if indeed my book is ever read by eyes outside of the known Hidden Lands. You see the way our time works may be a little different to yours.

Grandfather Time, strides over all of us. Each step bringing (amongst other things) the sun and then the moon. There is thirteen months in our year and each year lasts a little over three hundred and ninety-seven falling moons, of course then there are other peculiar factors to consider but generally, most folk adhere to this.

As for Berr time, well we measure our days into several distinct times:

Sunrise

Breakfast time

Croust

Lunchtime (my personal favourite time of day!)

Afternoon tea

Dinnertime (Or perhaps this is actually!)

Evening

Sunset

So you see it is easy for prior arrangements to be made, the king in this case had sent me a message in secret to say that I should arrive at Medhow Keep at croust time.

Anyway back to the tale at hand, I had used our payment to purchase some of Porth Nippin’s finest, which unfortunately was already rapidly dwindling along with my memory of the correct course to Medhow Keep.

(Always stock up when in Porth Nipple, no other great port in the Hidden Lands can rival their wine; it is worth a fortune if you can abstain from drinking it, although this is not likely for a boat full of Berrs!)

I consulted my chart of the city streets. Ah, yes charts...

I must confess, next to being at sail upon the great Moryow Lugh my greatest passion in life, is charts.

I possess a modest collection on board the Kowellik, often cross references and discrepancies can obtain my undivided attention for long periods of time, the older charts of my ancestor’s times in particular, hold some very interesting anomalies, which I have yet to plot a course for.

After consulting my chart of Porth Nipple, I continued through the lurching streets with the lurching occupants, this wasn’t turning out to be so different from sea after all!

The keep came looming up at me as I picked my way between swaggering big folk. The stronghold of Porth Nipple, Medhow keep! What a splendid sight it was, bathed in the bright morning sunshine.

Regal and ancient that gatehouse stood before me. I was impressed at the elaborate architecture. It was as if every pillar and support was leaning to the point of collapse, yet paradoxically it felt perfectly level and stable.

The intricate workings of the bottle and axe were worked into the stone leading up to the relief of the Porth Nippin crest.

Although I prefer the working of wood to stone, I must admit I had often had a secret yearning for a vessel crafted entirely from stone! Alas, there are some things that will always be just beyond our grasp, in this case the joining and floating of stone!

Still, perhaps Morserf willing, when I have made my fortune and I am a great hero with a legacy fulfilled, I can pour some gold into the idea!

Ha! It was fine work indeed.

I passed beneath the ancient architecture into a grand entrance hall, a cortège of important looking big folk milled around chatting idly.

Politics, how I despised them!

Guards stood at awkward angles around the room (as is the Porth Nippin custom) staring into space.

I was barely noticed as I made my way through the room but as I advanced upon the inner chambers the two leaning guards at the door staggered forward in their drunken demeanour.

‘Haltsh,’ they demanded.

Yet I was not so foolish to think that these Porth Nippin guards were drunk, (well not too much on duty at least!) it had been custom in Porth Nipple for many centuries for guards of the keep to imitate the drunkenness that the whole port exudes.

This way they were deemed to be more in tune with the intoxicated nature of Porth Nipple and its occupants, and after all this was an ancient decree from King Whiskers himself!

As one of the divine monarchy of the Hidden Lands, he had an enduring lifespan over us mere mortals, hence he had created, and now upheld the ancient customs of the port. - Roger Redbottom

The two guards were dressed in the livery of Porth Nipple, blue and white tabards with the bottle and axe respective of each other, their axes were crossed in front of me, barring the way.

‘Nahme,’ they demanded.

I realised everyone in the entrance chamber had turned their attention upon me, the previously unnoticed man-child.

I suddenly felt embarrassed and may have even blushed a little but I soon recomposed myself, looked at them and in the most authoritative voice I could summon said ‘Maximus Arthurian.’

This was the name the king had sent to me in his secret message for safe passage throughout the keep. I could see now how useful it was, using false names for eager ears, it gave these political parasites something false to fuel their schemes with.

Indeed, there were plenty of attentive ears at the sound of my voice and plenty of murmuring began from the lords and ladies sporting calculating eyes that clearly regarded this man-child with jealousy and contempt. I could just imagine their serpent tongues wagging to one another.

‘A mere child what could the king possibly want with him? Surely we have more pressing matters to bend his ear to!’

‘Maximus Arthuraian I’ve never heard of a little lord with such a title. Have you?’

‘No, certainly not! Look, he wears no shoes! What could old Whiskers want with such an urchin?’

The voice of the guard snapped my attention back.

‘Pass friend, may the bottle and axe see you safe here.’

The guards returned to their stationery, sloping stances, vacant stares projecting across the grand hall. I didn’t hesitate or turn back to look at the parasites eager for the king’s attention; I simply strolled straight on and up whilst striking up a jolly whistle.

That ought to really piss them off! I thought to myself with a great big smile.

Chapter Two

Medhow Keep

Stairs...

They were never built with Berrs in mind. There seemed far too many steps in Medhow keep for my liking and could I find the right bloody staircase?

No. I bloody well could not.

The place seemed deserted after the entrance hall. Old suits of armour and various other castle paraphernalia lined the seemingly endless, slanting corridors and staircases of the keep.

I knew I was meant to meet the king but it would be a very short meeting indeed, if I couldn’t find the moustached old git!

I persevered and began wandering up and down long slanting corridors of stone. Thin window slits let in daylight at seemingly nonsensical angles and where daylight could not reach, lanterns swung from the stone roof exuding a strange smell of thyme and sage.

It seemed as if there was no apparent end to the maze of awkward corridors and spiralling staircases.

One thing was for sure, there was certainly no end to the King’s chambers this way -> directional signs, because there weren’t any of the fugging things!

After an irritatingly large amount of searching, I decided it would be best to slump down against the nearby stone of the wall and collect my wits.

Was this a test or perhaps even a trap?

The letter I had received upon arrival into Porth Nipple had only informed me to attend the king’s chambers in Medhow Keep using the password ‘Maximus Arthurian’ and had made no mention of how to locate said chambers once inside the keep.

I looked around, corridor stretched off in either direction and alarmingly I now couldn’t quite remember the way I had come from. It felt as if I were becoming more and more forgetful in this place.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t remember, more like, something in my head was telling me not to bother trying...

Lost in thought I was startled when,

‘Irv-ine,’ was whistled into my ear, I turned... 

No one.

Anxiety surged throughout me.

Great. I’m lost somewhere in a castle, seemingly conceived by a piss head, for it makes no bloody sense and now some twat is whistling my name at me! I thought to myself in great frustration.

‘Show yourself!’ I shouted out, now standing up in alarm.

‘Irv-ine,’ the call came again, further down the corridor and from behind me this time, still no one showed themselves.

Annoyance was starting to override my anxieties and they subsided. With typical Berr resolve, I decided...

‘Ah balls to it,’ and followed the call anyway.

‘Irv-ine.’

I followed the whistling call down the corridor; it all looked much the same as before, slanting stonework imbued with an odd mesmeric combination of light and smell, which had the most perculiar effect upon one’s sense of direction.

I was just about ready to stop following the call when suddenly to my left I noticed a sharp angle in the wall, one which I had not seen before.

I stood for some strides of Father’s time examining the angle, then when I at last tilted my head to lull on its side like a drunkard, I could see the entrance.

‘Irv-ine,’ came the call from within.

I slipped through and surprise, surprise another set of bloody stairs.

‘Irv-ine,’ I followed the whistle up the stairs and out into a small royal hall, suits of armour and great stuffed fish heads of the Moryow Lugh adorned the walls.

‘Irv-ine,’ the whistle led me out of the hall into another stone corridor but this one positively felt as if the stone was lurching over and one had to walk heavy on the left to pass through.

‘Irv-ine,’ some more fugging stairs. This time I had the strangest notion of descending when ascending and ascending when I descended.

‘Irv-ine,’ suddenly and most unexpectedly, I found myself stumbling out into a large royal hall decorated in the same peculiar and ancient fashion as the rest of the keep.

I wandered over to inspect a beautiful glass cabinet, which much to my delight displayed peculiar and antique nautical charts. Unfortunately, my visual exploration of the cabinet was soon interrupted by the sound of commotion.

I darted into a recess in the wall of the hall and hid behind a suit of armour, the bottle in one hand, the axe in its other. My palms were sweating. I peered out.

At the far side of the hall was a grand doorway and at last there was a fugging sign.

It read - KING’S CHAMBERS.

The door was slightly ajar, no guards stood watch and the sounds of commotion were emanating from within.

I gulped hard...

The doors flew open. My eyes went wide!

A guard hurtled out, soon followed by another...

Quick, the king’s life is under threat! I thought as I prepared to slip away unnoticed.

Then I realised how strange it looked that these Porth Nippin guards were not holding their axes and I could hear raucous laughter approaching.

One now stood over the other with blooded knuckles, a duke and lady appeared at the doorway laughing, they were accompanied by the king of Medhow Keep.

King Whiskers.

‘Ha, ha, ha, jolly good, jolly good!’ the King laughed heartily.

‘I told you Raymond that Karl could best Harold, did I not?’

‘Ha! You did indeed my King, you did!’ the lord replied.

‘Superb you two!’ the king addressed the guards.

‘Now send up some replacements to guard my chamber doors and take the rest of the week off, drinks courtesy of the King at the Hog and Trotter. Understood?’

‘Yes Sir,’ a pleased black-eyed Karl said as he began to drag the unconscious Harold towards the staircase.

‘Well, I have to hand it to You Alan; my money was on the fat one, as he usually wins!’ said the lord to King Whiskers.

‘Ahh, Raymond. You see it is not all size, Harold Is too keen on the salted pork, which whilst giving him an ample and hefty size to contend with, it dampens the effects of the grape upon him.

Whereas fine young Karl here sticks largely to the bottle, sparing little time for the gluttony of salted pork. The true strength as we well know is the strength within, the strength one commands over the bottle.

To continue to imbibe when your body is failing you and telling you no more! Regular and firm alcoholic intake is the reason why Karl won this particular time.’

‘Your wisdom of the bottle is infinite my King,’ the lord replied.

‘Al-an,’ It was the same whistle that had led me here and the King seemed to hear it but not the lord and lady.

‘Indeed. Now Raymond you and your beautiful lady wife must leave me, as I am expecting a guest able of high consumption.’

‘My King,’ the lord and lady replied as they bowed and curtseyed respectfully and made for another set of bloody stairs I hadn’t seen until now.

When the lord and lady had passed from the hall, the King turned to his chamber doors, paused and listened. He then turned to look at the shadows where I was concealed.

He tutted and said, ‘Smugglers eh? That is a very old suit of armour, it was once worn by a wise and loyal friend of mine many moons ago, be careful not to damage it when you’ve finished hiding in behind there. Now come and let us have a drink together boy.’

I WAS EMBARRASSED, for generally speaking in our line of work you learn to become rather adept at hiding yourself and other people’s belongings. The fact King Whiskers had spotted me at all was tributary to the fact that his heightened royal senses far surpassed those of a mere mortal.

For the kings and queens of the Hidden Lands were indeed beings of greatness and wisdom.

Being very careful not to disturb the armour I emerged and followed the