The Tragedy of Fargon the Wizard

Fargon the Wizard stood on the battlements of Castle Covet, enjoying the icy blast of the wind and the sting of sleet on his face. Dark, menacing clouds raced across the sky. Crows, vultures, and an occasional eccentric bat flapped among the chasms and peaks of the Barren Mountains. Fargon owned everything as far as the eye could see, by right of conquest. Not that anyone now wanted these wastes. What everyone wanted was to see Fargon's head parted from his body, a stake through his heart, his dismemberment, and all the bits buried in a grove of garlic with an enormous stone on top.

"Grimwally, come here."

The slobbering mutant emerged from the niche where he had been skulking.

"Yes, master?"

"Jump off the battlements. I want to see you die."

"Yes, master."

Grimwally leapt nimbly onto a crenelle, gave a little salute and a terrified leer, then jumped into the void. Fargon leaned over to watch his minion fall. He reached out with the awesome power of his mind. Sleet caused interference. He kept focussing on sleet and stopping that from falling. Ah, he had him. Four feet above a rock-strewn granite slab, Grimwally stopped falling and drifted gently upwards. He floated over the crenelle from which he had departed, then dropped to the battlements. Fargon regarded him with his cold eyes, more terrifying than the thousand foot drop. Grimwally cowered and trembled.

"Do you still want to see me die, master?"

"No, Grimwally. I lied to you. Did you enjoy being free from gravity?"

"I've shit myself, master."

"Then go and have a shower. Now."

"A shower, master?"

"Or would you prefer a tumble over the Waterfall of Interminable Forgetfulness?"

"I'll go for my shower, master." Grimwally shambled away, dragging his knuckledusters along the ground.

"Grimwally."

He shambled back.

"Yes, master?"

"Burn your trousers. You may skin one of the goats to make a new pair. Remember to kill it first."

Grimwally was delighted. A great, happy grin spread over his misshapen features.

"Yes, master."

Grimwally shambled off in search of a shower, a goat, and a seamstress. Sharp knives were always to hand. Fargon went back to brooding over the landscape.

After some time, the sleet stopped, the wind fell and a break in the clouds let the sun through. Fargon went inside and slammed the great oaken door behind him. He strode down a cobwebby passage, his cloak swirling about him. Creatures of various kinds, human, semi-human and nonhuman, heard the tread of his jackboots on the stone floor of the passage and moved rapidly to other parts of Castle Covet.

Fargon entered the Pool of Perception room. Brunhilde, his assistant, sex object and bad influence, was gazing into it. She looked up.

"Hello, darling," she said.

"Hello. Anything interesting?"

"There's another musclebound fool on his way to destroy you. He's about to enter the Misty Marsh with a mixed rabble of elves, goblins, mutant crocodiles, giants, dwarfs, a beautiful but violent woman and something cute and furry. He's carrying a magic sword, a laser pistol and a Barishnikov assault rifle."

"He's not taking any chances. Has he got ammunition for the Barishnikov?"

"Yes. A minor goddess provided some."

"How irritating." Fargon stared into the Pool of Perception, but all he could see was a reflection of Brunhilde's cleavage. It had such mystical powers that it blotted out all else.

"Stand back."

Before Fargon concentrated on the Pool, he sent a mental message to the chef that he and Brunhilde would be ready to eat in half an hour. Below, in the kitchens, the chef shuddered and wept at the intrusion into his mind, the stripping of his very soul.

"I saw Grimwally looking very happy this morning," said Brunhilde.

"I had him over the battlements."

Jealousy flared in Brunhilde's eyes.

"I didn't think he was your type, darling."

Fargon looked up from the Pool. Strange longings were aroused by her anger. He enjoyed resisting them.

"You misunderstand." There was an icy edge to Fargon's voice which made Brunhilde wonder if she should have guarded her tongue. She could not see into the cesspit of Fargon's mind.

"I ordered Grimwally to jump off the battlements, which he did. I gave him permission to kill and skin a goat, which is why he was happy. I thought about letting him kill and skin you, but you're more fun as you are."

Brunhilde looked for a trace of a smile and was relieved not to see one. She had only seen such a thing on Fargon's face in particularly hideous circumstances.

Fargon stared into the Pool of Perception at the small army of heroes bent on his destruction. Magic swords and minor goddesses were easily dealt with, but he'd always had problems with artefacts from the Mechanical Age.

The group were entering Misty Marsh. Fargon sent a mental message to Captain Vilepractice of the hellhorde to set an ambush at the other side. The average hellspawn was so stupid that if he entered the Marsh he'd likely drown before coming to grips with the invaders.

Fargon returned his attention to the Pool. A water creature, with an enormous reptillian head and rows of pointy teeth emerged from the pathside swamp and gripped one of the goblins. The muscleman unslung his magic sword and threw it into the beast's neck. The beast roared, dropped the goblin and sank back into the swamp. Exit one magic sword.

"Sword of Arachnia, come," said the muscleman.

The sword dislodged itself from the water creature's neck and flew out of the swamp. Fargon turned it in midair so that it flew blade first. The goddess turned it back to fly handle first. The magic sword stopped in midair and rotated like the propellor of a light aircraft as the wizard and the goddess struggled for supremacy and everything dived for cover.

Fargon gave up and watched the sword fall blade first into a clump of reeds and bury itself up to the hilt. The image faded, Fargon's breath was coming in great gasps and he felf drained. He looked at Brunhilde.

"Take off your clothes," he said.

Brunhilde removed her cloak, her low cut, floor length gown, her shoulder holster, her fur lined boots, thermal long johns and low cut thermal vest. Fargon stared coldly at her beautiful, well proportioned body, such a contrast to those of the other inhabitants of the castle, except his own. He had to admire the steadfastness with which she stopped herself from shivering.

"All right, get dressed. When you were spying on our visitors earlier did you catch any names?"

"The big, muscly one is called Wizardslayer. His girlfriend is Princess Autumna. A purely honorary title. That tall elf is called Galadtobefey. The injured goblin is Carigrunt.

Brunhilde reeled off names while she dressed. Wearing just her long johns and furlined boots, she reminded Fargon of a bare knuckle boxer. There was a thought. He wondered who or what he could put in the ring against her. It would have to be something pretty ferocious because the mystical powers of her breasts would give her a serious advantage.

"Did you hear mention of the goddess who's protecting them?"

"They just call her The Goddess."

Fargon looked again at the Pool of Perception. The image returned.

"If I knew who she was, I could take action against her and see the colour of Wizardslayer's intestines within the hour."

Carigrunt, the goblin who had been chewed by the water creature, was the centre of an attentive crowd. Wizardslayer cradled Carigrunt in his arms while Carigrunt made a sickening speech about comradeship.

"Wizardslayer?" said Fargon. "What sort of dolt chooses a name like that? It's asking for trouble. Even the Alliance of Virtuous Mages would wipe him out for his effrontery. It's a pity the Alliance are too busy fighting each other."

Fargon reached out with his mind to take control of Wizardslayer. As he had expected, the goddess had placed a bag of protection round his mind and taped it firmly closed. Fargon could have pierced the bag, but it would have destroyed Wizardslayer and left Fargon exhausted and weak. The goddess would then send some other muscular numbskull after him.

Fargon groped around the minds of Wizardslayer's companions, except the elves. He had never mastered elf control. They were so thoroughly weird. All the non-elves wore bags of protection around their minds. Fargon focussed on Carigrunt, who was dying. No bag of protection could confer immortality. His mind was slipping away; the bag was collapsing.