by Craig Zerf
Plob shrugged. ‘Dat is not a problem, magic man. I tink dat I am in serious need of some Blutop and a bit of shut-eye.’
Cabbie frowned. ‘Why’s he talking like Biggest? What’s going on?’
Without answering, Smegly cocked his arm and delivered a stinging slap to the side of Plob’s face raising a red glowing hand-shaped imprint.
‘Hey, master mage jus what does you tink you is doing?’ shouted Plob. ‘You’se had better apologise before I open a whole can of whip arse on you.’ He folded his arms and shuffled around in a circle.
The next slap that Smegly landed was, if at all possible, probably even harder than the first one. Plob staggered back and then fell to his knees shaking his head. ‘What the…how did…why are you hitting me? Ouch. That was seriously painful,’ he continued as he rubbed the side of his jaw vigorously.
Smegly nodded. ‘That’s better,’ and he helped the assistant to his feet.
Biggest came wandering over, magic flask in hand and puzzled look on face. ‘I don’ts feel too good,’ he growled as he looked suspiciously at his never-ending container of Blutop. ‘Here,’ he thrust the flask at Cabbie. ‘Taste this.’
Cabbie took the container and had a good swig, crinkling his eyes up against the fumes that rushed out of the neck of the flask as he raised it to his lips. ‘Yummy. Excellent as always. Why what seems to be the problem?’
‘Hey, why were you guys hitting me?’ enquired Plob once again, to no avail.
Biggest shook his shaggy head. ‘The problem is dat for a short while dere I thought that I didn’t no longer like Blutop. Sort of like a waking nightmare. Very strange.’
‘It’s no use pretending that it didn’t happen, I can feel the welt on my jaw where I was struck. Why was I smacked in the face?’ continued Plob plaintively.
‘We all felt the same way,’ exclaimed Box, who had just walked over. ‘A sort temporary anti-alcoholic insanity. Extremely disturbing.’
‘It’s damned sore. Why? Why me?’
Smegly chuckled. ‘Gentlemen, what you have just experienced is a dose of “Plob’s temporary auto-suggestion intensifier.” Through a clever combination of spells, our young magician here has managed to almost perfect the art of mind control over distance. I say almost because for a moment there he overextended himself and, instead of controlling your minds, the feedback was causing his mind to work in sympathy with yours. Or to put it simply – for a time he thought that he was Biggest. Actually I thought that we’d lost him there, it was a close call. If I hadn’t slapped some sense of self back into him who knows what would have happened.’
‘Oh. I see,’ said Plob as he slowly collapsed into an exhausted, unconscious well-slapped mage-shaped heap on the turf.
Chapter 31
‘And who the hell are you?’ bellowed King Bil the bonkers as he twitched and rubbed and squirmed uncomfortably in his throne due to the dirt-induced stiffness of his as-yet-unwashed royal blue boiler suit.
Horgy stared wildly at the king, his mind working overtime as it tried to churn out some sort of vaguely acceptable reason for his presence in the imperial throne room. ‘I…er…I’m…your…your personal…bard. Yes, that’s it. I’m your personal bard, come to sing your songs of praise to the entire known world. Hallelujah, great King. Praise and extol your virtues, O grand one. O your magnificence, your radiance, your…your grandiosity, your…’ Horgy glanced at Bil, hoping to find a reason to stop his frantic praise chanting before he ran out of synonyms for greatness but there was no chance. Bil had stood up out of his throne and, beaming face held high, wrench aloft, he soaked up the obviously false flattery with huge relish.
‘…your imposingness, your splendaciousness…’ Horgy chanced another look. ‘…your luxuriousness, your…your…’ Horgy was really reaching now. ‘…gorgeousness, sportiness…’ Now scraping the bottom of the proverbial barrel. ‘…gaudiness, obtrusiveness…’ Through the bottom of the barrel and into the chaff below. ‘…pomposity, fandangleness…er…er…attitudinatarianismismanali…’
‘All right,’ commanded Bil. ‘That’s enough. Now sing some songs about me. Start with your favourite top ten and then we’ll see how it goes from there.’
Plob lent over the bucket of cold water that Dreenee had brought to him and splashed his face liberally with cold water, puffing his cheeks out and blowing at the same time in an effort to jolt himself awake.
‘Plob’s temporary auto-suggestion intensifier.’ His spell. His very own spell. He was well chuffed but, as he continued to chuck cold water at his face, he knew that, however hard he concentrated, he would never be able to use it to effect more than six or seven people at once and manage to keep control. Still, it would definitely prove to be useful in the upcoming battle and, moreover, he was now more convinced than ever that he was solidly on track regarding his grandfather’s mysterious disappearance.
He stood up, scrubbed himself dry with the rough towel that Dreenee handed him and then followed her to the fires where a bowl of thick venison stew and mug of ale waited for him.
Horgy slid carefully into the water and gasped involuntarily as the coolness of the moat rapidly lowered his sky-high body temperature. He swam with one hand across to the other side, holding the king’s red heavy metal sceptre above his head with the other to keep it out of the wet. When he reached the other side and climbed out, it took all of his remaining strength to stop himself pitching forward onto the sod such was the depth of his post-fear-induced exhaustion.
It had been a close-run thing. Very close. Too close. If not for Bil’s seemingly insatiable appetite for fawning flattery, however devious, disingenuous and deceitful it may be, he never would have been able to obtain the sceptre without a great deal of bloodshed – probably all of it coming from Horgy.
His break had come when he started singing Bil’s top-ten praise songs, a process which basically involved Horgy dredging up faded old schoolboy memories of religious hymns and replacing any mention of the gods with Bil’s own regal name, the rendering of which sent Bil into ecstasies of self-important delight. When he got to the part in the second hymn that went - praise him, praise him, praise him, praise him, for King Bil is his name, Bil went into such paroxysms of conceited rapture that he literally swooned from the sheer delight of it all and Horgy, taking note of Bil’s temporarily incapacitated state of rabid self-acknowledgment, whipped his belt off and wrapped it tightly around both Bil’s mouth and through the back of the throne thereby both gagging and imprisoning him in one swift move. He followed this up by cutting a length of the tasselled silver bell-pull and binding Bil’s arms and legs and then, wrapping the sceptre in his coat, he frantically legged it back to the sally port and out into the moat.
And now, as he staggered on shaky legs back towards the fires, he felt well and truly pleased with himself for, mayhap he was not the best of knights, but he was, for the moment, both the best, and the happiest, of thieves.
They came howling out of Bil’s castle at first light, bent on the retrieval of the wrench, gibbering and screeching like the very personification of the king of dementia that they represented.
Captain Bravad brought his arm down and the first volley of arrows went sheeting through the still, crisp morning air with an appealing fluting sound like a flock of sugary-voiced songbirds in dawn flight. The wet meaty smack of the missiles riving human flesh and the ensuing screams of pain quickly dispelled any such temperate and poetic thoughts and, with the steely whispering rush of the unsheathing of a multitude of swords, the battle for the castle was joined by all present.
The candles wavered and guttered fitfully in a wind that wasn’t there. The heavy oaken desk shuddered and bumped and the incense flared briefly in a self-destructive orgy of flame and then went out. Terry tried to remove his hand from Madame Zelga’s grip but it was no use, she clasped his sweaty appendage in her own with a grip like a carpenter’s clamp. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets and her head swivelled three hundred and sixty degree
s on her stout middle-aged neck.
And then, with the all encompassing sound of fury ringing in their ears, their world went black.
And over the hill, surrounded by the billowing dust raised by over a thousand hooves, came Typhon the Dark and his dastardly, devious, deceitful and dishonest minions of evil. And as they broached the rise he did stop and survey the battlefield.
The tears of grief rolled freely down the parchment-like skin of his cheeks as Partlee Nobby held Pup’s doggie corpse to his chest, the yard-long arrow still protruding obscenely from the dead dog’s ancient torso. Cabbie stood protectively over him, his massive two-handed, ever-sharp broadsword glowing redly as its sticky layer of congealing blood reflected the light of the weak mid-morning sun.
All around him the dead and dying lay, clothes and flesh torn asunder, friend and foe alike, oft draped over each other in death like some perverse necrophillic orgy.
And with a baying battle cry that rent the heavens did Typhon command his cohorts to fall upon the fast dwindling army of good. And Master Smegly looked up and knew that all was lost.
Flickers of light assailed Terry’s stinging eyes and, suddenly, like a child bursting free from the womb, he and Hugo and Madame Zelga and a budget priced Government Issue desk, were in another place, and another time, and another world. And there a vast medieval battle raged around them and Terry for one was hugely confused. So much so that he almost forgot to be terrified. Almost.
Plob gathered himself, tensing his will as he readied his mind to form the spell that he was going to cast. ‘Plob’s temporary auto-suggestion intensifier,’ and he was going to give it all he had and bugger the consequences to himself. Ready - one, two, thr…
And, not for the first time in his career, Terry wished that he carried a gun. And a couple of grenades. And a bloody tank. He crawled under the desk to join Hugo and Madame Zelga and started praying as fervently as a missionary in a cooking pot.
‘Stop. Don’t do it, my boy.’ The voice rang in Plob’s head like the sound of fornication in a cathedral - loud, clear and totally unexpected.
‘Grandfather?’
Cabbie was no more, for in his place, striding the battlefield like the gods of war, was Tarlek Honourusson son of Glimburble Honourus son of Swain Honour. Tarlek Honourusson ‘the Dragon slayer.’ Knight at arms and keeper of the sword of the nation and the most deadly wielder of the double-handed blade in the known world. And the enemy were as blades of grass before him as he exacted a furious vengeance upon all in his path.
‘Well yes - and no,’ said the strangely choral voice in Plob’s head.
‘Where…where are you?’ asked the assistant.
‘I am we. And we are here,’ chimed the multitudinous tone.
And through the forest came the ululating hordes of the Hobgoblins. And they fell upon the evil ones like a storm of wrath from the heavens.
And Typhon the Dark unfurled his leathern wings and, as was his bent, cravenly flew from the tumult of battle.
And Tarlek leaned upon the pommel of his awesome sword and surveyed the vanquished foe.
And Dreenee, who had fought back to back with the captain, turned to embrace him, and kissed him, and stared into his eyes noting well the look of love that was reflected back at her.
And Biggest took a swig of Blutop, and passed it to Legles who, in turn, passed it along to the six or seven surviving dwarves.
And Horgy sat down next to Master Smegly, a grin on his cut and bleeding face and, wordlessly, the two of them clasped each other on the shoulders and then laughed.
And Bil, who had somehow, impossibly, regained possession of his wrench during the course of the battle, was surprised to find himself wrestled to the ground and handcuffed by a shaven-headed man in a Marks and Spencer suit shouting, ‘You’re nicked, you psychopathic bum-hole.’
Plob faced the King of the Hobgoblins who communed wordlessly to him via the mental part of him that was still Plob’s grandfather. The small part that had come to exist when Slodong the Mage had overextended himself whilst exerting his spell of ‘temporary auto-suggestion intensification’ and became a small part of every living Hobgoblin.
Plob’s grandfather was more alive than one would ever believe possible but he was also dead and gone. The goblin king gravely bowed to Plob and the voice in his head sounded one last time as it bade him goodbye. And with that the Hobgoblins melted back into the forests from whence they came, taking their fallen with them.
And Madame Zelga’s head revolved once again and, like a smearing of a picture, the psychic, Terry, Hugo and the insane plumber exited the scene, leaving the desk behind them.
And Plob - Reetworthy Plob - Reetworthy Plob the IIIrd - said, ‘Well how about that.’
And the rebuilding began.
THE END
Did you enjoy PLOB? If so, please could you leave a review on Amazon.
If not, please contact me at [email protected] and feel free to insult me at length!
Now try the first chapter of Plob Goes South. (It’s after this bumf below).
Who is Craig Zerf?
Craig wrote his first novel at the age of four and, by age seven, he was one of the most prolific writers in the Northern hemisphere. Unfortunately none of these tomes were published. This rejection forced him into seeking a career in the Dark Arts of business management. His unhealthy obsession with medieval bladed weapons and riveted metal clothing caused his initial fast rise in the corporate world to be curtailed when it was recommended by senior management that he seek professional help.
He told them to sod off and wrote Plob instead.
He has now published a trio of award-winning fantasy/humour books in the Plob series and also writes best-selling thriller novels as C. Marten-Zerf.
As Craig Zerf
Plob
Plob goes south
Plob srikes back
The Forever Man: Book 1 Pulse
The Forever Man: Book 2 Axeman
As C. Marten-Zerf
The Broken Men
Choice of Weapon
Another way home
PLOB GOES SOUTH - PROLOGUE
Typhon the Dark lifted the weasel up by the scruff of its neck and dropped it into the large black cauldron, chanting the ritualistic words as he did so. Instantly it was covered in a slithering mass of snakes that seethed and churned together, striking at the small furry creature in a frenzy of fear and anger.
The animal fought back valiantly but never stood a chance. With a grin on his demonic face Typhon gestured at two goblins, who stepped forward and filled the cauldron to the brim with boiling chicken fat. A pinch of salt, a small rub of pepper and it was complete - Blistered weasel with scalded serpent and chicken fat - just like Mama used to make.
‘Come and get it while it’s still hot,’ he roared, clapping his claws together and laughing in excitement.
It wasn’t every day that Typhon cooked a meal for anyone. He was more a give-me-your-meal-or-I’ll-suck-your-eyeballs-out kind of demon. But then this was no ordinary crowd of people. And this was no ordinary day.
Oh no, no, no - for this was the day that Typhon the Dark would finally achieve world domination. Complete ascendancy and dominion over us all. And I mean all - this world, that world and the next. And this time it was going to work.
No - really - it was.
Chapter 1
‘And it’s a nail biting finish this, at the high temple of sport - Lords cricket ground. Shane Shepherd starts his run up with Arthur Ashton facing. It’s the last ball of the over, and of the series. If Ashton can score a run off this one, then England will have finally won back the Ashes after almost twenty years in the wilderness. He bowls - Ashton strikes - it’s in the air - he’s been caught on the boundary! No, no - Bruce Boulder, the Australian captain, has fumbled, he’s dropped it - and we’ve won - I mean they’ve won - England has won. Oh bugger it - we’ve won. Won, won, won, won. Nyaah nyaah nyaah nar nar. We’ve won the Ashes. Yah yonkee yah yah
…Sorry. I don’t know what came over me.’
It was the small things that bothered Plob. (Reetworthy Plob. Reetworthy Plob the Third). Little things. Childish really. When you think about it. But still - they irked him, left him feeling piqued, put-out, peeved and pissed off (which is still better than being pissed on I suppose). After all - he was a magician (well almost), and he was world famous (well - world famous in his neighbourhood), and he had saved the universe (with a little help - alright - a lot of help, from his friends). Anyhow, he was a grown man (Soon - in a couple more years), and he wanted to be treated as such.
He didn’t want to have to ask Smegly (the master magician to whom he was apprenticed), permission to leave the house whenever he wanted to go out. A bit of pocket money wouldn’t go amiss either. It was virtually impossible to impress any girls without some access to a little lucre and, although he might have impressed them with a bit of magic or conjuring, he was banned from using even the smallest of spells without permission. Sometimes being a teenager and a magicians apprentice sucked - big time.
What Plob didn’t realise is that Master Smegly was doing all of this for Plob’s own good. (That’s what they always say - isn’t it?) But seriously, although he was still only fifteen years of age, our teenage hero was accomplished in magiks way beyond the skills of magicians many times older, and wiser, than him. And this is what Smegly was worried about, for, although age does not always bring proficiency, it does bring with it a certain wisdom and a definite understanding of the need for caution. This caution is oft needed. Especially if you are a frustrated, testosterone driven, marginally attractive, well built, sandy haired teenager with the magical expertise of a mage perhaps ten times his age and the emotional maturity of - well - of a normal fifteen year old boy. (Look – no one is saying that Plob is immature or anything. All that is being said is that he’s not exactly One hundred and forty years old. Well – he isn’t. Is he?)
