The High Sorceress Xenixala of Xendor, Breaker of Demons, Oracle of Elendar and treasurer of the Bagwell Library Club, lay in a pool of her own vomit, her mouth bitter with the tang of bile and stale Elixir.

  ‘Wake up, witch,’ came a deep voice.

  A hulk loomed over and nudged her with its boot.

  Xenixala rubbed her eyes. ‘I’m awake, Gronk. Snuff off.’

  Gronk crossed his mighty arms. ‘At last.’

  Xenixala smiled. Thankfully, Gronk was a man of few words. Typical barbarian.

  A cold drip landed on her from the cavern ceiling high above. Darkfill Cave was truly a depressing place. The air was clammy, the light was dim, and the ceiling full of stalactites that looked like a bored sculptor had got sloppy and copied the same design a thousand times. Yet Gronk never once complained about the cold in the two weeks they had been adventuring together. This was especially strange as all he wore was a tiny leather loincloth and a strap to keep his oversized axe on his bulging back.

  Xenixala sat up and rubbed her temples. How many Elixirs had she had last night? Things were a blur.

  There was a groan at her side. It came from her upturned spellbook. Its ancient papers twitched and fluttered, then snapped shut. A gap appeared between the pages along the book’s fore-edge, forming a sort of mouth. ‘I have a suspicion we overdid it last night Xeni,’ it said.

  ‘Oh stop moaning, Wordsworth,’ said Xenixala. ‘I don’t recall you asking me to stop.’

  ‘I don’t remember all that much to be honest…’

  ‘Enough of this!’ shouted Panella. Why did the Clerics of The Holy Mole have to be so self-righteous?

  Xenixala and Wordsworth turned to face her. Panella had turned bright red, her face shining against her white surcoat and neat blond hair.

  Panella lunged at Xenixala.

  Gronk’s great hands clasped Panella. Lifted from the ground, she wriggled with the violence of a cornered bugbear.

  ‘Let me go, you beast!’ she screamed. ‘She deserves death!’

  Gronk held her effortlessly. ‘Remember your oath, Panella.’

  ‘Relax, Panella,’ said Xenixala. ‘Go cast a calm-spell on yourself.’

  Panella glared at Xenixala, shaking with rage. ‘Aren’t you even going to apologise?’

  Xenixala continued to rub her head. ‘For what?’

  ‘For last night!’

  Xenixala looked across at Wordsworth. He curved his spine into a shrug.

  ‘By The Holy Mole,’ said Panella, broken. Gronk let her go and she crumpled to the floor. ‘You’re officially out of the party.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’ Xenixala glanced around, only just noticing the carnage in the cave. There were huge black gashes scarring the walls. Rubble littered the floor, interspersed with splatted goblin corpses and stinking pools of green blood. She held back a retch. ‘Where’s Jimmy Lightfoot? Hiding in the shadows as usual?’

  ‘He’s dead. No thanks to you.’

  ‘Oh, what happened?’

  ‘You really don’t remember do you?’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  Panella snatched up a discarded empty Elixir bottle and waved it at Xenixala’s face. ‘This happened.’

  Gronk shook his head but said nothing.

  Xenixala stood up carefully, trying to stop the world spinning. ‘I get it. I had one too many Elixirs, no big deal.’

  ‘No big deal? No big deal?!’ Panella raised her voice, throwing the Elixir bottle to the ground, it shattered. ‘You drank every last Elixir we had! Enough to last at least ten adventures!’

  ‘No sweat, I’ll buy us some more when we get to the next town.’

  ‘Jimmy needed those Elixirs, Xenixala. He bled to death because of you. Just one Elixir would have healed him. One.’

  ‘Run out of healing spells did you?’

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  ‘You know I did! Healing you!’

  Xenixala looked down to see the five or six goblin arrows poking out of her side. The wounds glowed with the afterburn of Elixir and healing incantations. She tutted. She’d never get another robe to fit her like this one. Especially not in blue. ‘I had enough Elixirs inside me to keep me going. You shouldn’t have bothered.’

  ‘Well I know that now. Besides, I had to use my spells on Gronk too. After you hit him with a stray fireball.’

  Gronk scowled and scratched his thick beard, half of which had been singed off.

  ‘Sorry, Gronk,’ said Xenixala.

  ‘So now we get an apology?’ said Panella, exasperated.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ Xenixala shrugged. ‘I’m sorry ok! By The Mole, just relax. You’re giving me a headache.’

  ‘Don’t blame me for your Elixir burndown, you did that to yourself. And you know what else? You killed everything yourself again! Grom and I won’t get any Experience from this dungeon, we’ll never be the most Experienced adventurers with you around.’

  Wordsworth licked his lips. Or rather, a kind of leather bookmark protruded from his pages and flickered along the edges of his cover. ‘Did we get any good loot? Any nice books perchance?’

  Panella flashed him a cold stare. ‘You’re not getting anything, you stupid book. In fact,’ she paused and crossed her arms, ‘We’re going to sue you for damages.’

  Xenixala and Wordsworth looked at one another. Then they both let out a hearty laugh. Xenixala gasped for air, then wiped a tear from her cheek, ‘Good luck with that.’

  Panella stood firm. ‘Resurrecting Jimmy will cost us a small fortune. And we’ll have to go all the way back to The High Temple. As it’s your fault, we think you should pay.’

  ‘Go stuff yourself. He got himself killed.’

  ‘Oh really?’ said Panella. ‘He’d crept right up behind the Goblin Lord, then you two buffoons ran in screaming incantations. Those goblins were on him faster than a dragon on heat. He didn’t stand a chance.’

  Xenixala scoffed. ‘Serves him right for being such a dirty sneak.’ You never could rely on thieves in your party. They were too damn fragile, and their egos were so big they always insisted on being the first into the room. They thought they were so brooding and complex. ‘He had it coming. What sort of a name is Jimmy Lightfoot anyway?’

  Wordsworth chuckled. ‘It’d be like calling you Sally Spellhands.’

  ‘Exactly, utterly ridiculous. Pretentious is what it is.’

  ‘Totally pretentious.’

  Panella sighed and drew the mace from her belt. ‘Enough of this.’ She pointed the weapon towards the pair. ‘Pay us what you owe, then get out of our sight.’

  Wordsworth coughed. ‘Xeni, perhaps we do a page four hundred and fifty-three?’

  ‘Oh excellent idea, Wordsworth,’ Xenixala said with a grin.

  ‘Right you are.’ Wordsworth leapt into her arms and riffled open to page four hundred and fifty-three.

  Panella frowned. ‘What’s on page four hundred and fif…?’

  Before she could finish her sentence, she froze on the spot. Her skin turned a stone-like grey, her face twisted in confusion.

  Wordsworth’s pages stopped glowing. ‘Nicely done, Xeni.’

  ‘And a nicely done to you too, Wordsworth.’

  Gronk stood watching them with his mouth hanging open, clearly deciding whether to run or attack. It amused Xenixala that he thought he might stand a chance to do either.

  Xenixala ran her finger down four hundred and fifty-three again and read the incantation a second time. The words glowed a bright blue and lifted into the air like smoke, then raced towards Gronk.

  Gronk tried to lunge aside, but was too slow. He froze in a half jumping pose of panic, then toppled to the floor. The stone Gronk clattered and splashed into goblin’s blood.

  Xenixala shut Wordsworth. ‘They’ll be alright in a few hours won’t they, Wordsworth?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure they’ll be fine. A little stiff perhaps. But alive.’

  ‘I guess we don’t stay around for long after we cast that one.’

  ‘Probably for the best,’ said Wordsworth. ‘So what’s next? Go back to the local inn and find another party? Get another quest or two?’

  ‘I dunno, I’m getting sick of these adventures. They’re all so boring. It’s always ruddy bandits or goblins.’

  ‘We just need to keep looking. We’ll find something good eventually.’ Wordsworth excitedly leapt from her arms. ‘Come on, let’s see what glorious treats they’ve found. That’s bound to cheer you up.’

  Xenixala went over to Gronk and pulled the Sack of Clutching from his belt. She stuck her arm inside and rummaged around.

  Adventuring had been such a nightmare before Sacks of Clutching came along. They were a real revolution in portability. You could put anything in there, so long as it fit through the mouth of the bag. Then it weighed a consistent fifteen pounds, regardless of what you put inside. All you had to do was put your hand in, think of an item and it would come to you. Fortunately, this bag had a search function, so she simply thought “recently added”.

  A cold metal handle materialised in her palm. She pulled it out.

  ‘Oh great, a useless shortsword.’

  ‘Keep looking!’

  Xenixala tried a second time. She groaned. ‘Another shortsword. They must have really needed cash.’ You couldn’t expect more than a couple of gold pieces for them at the blacksmith. Perhaps it wasn’t going to be such a good haul after all. No wonder Panella was so grumpy.

  ‘Try refining your search, think “recently added, no shortswords”.’

  Xenixala did so, and felt a soft sheet appear in her hand. She pulled the canvas from the bag and unfurled it. It seemed to be a map.

  ‘Map to The Treasure Of Yal...ahn...akes? Ylalanaks. Who came up with these names?’

  Wordsworth bounced with excitement. ‘Wondrous! That sounds like an excellent adventure! Seems like that Sack of Clutching read your mind. Literally.’

  ‘The treasure is a valuable long lost family heirloom, why is it always a lost heirloom? It says the reward is two-hundred gold pieces.’

  ‘We could buy Elixir for weeks with that kind of money!’ Wordsworth flapped with glee. ‘Perhaps this could be the perfect adventure to get you out of this rut?’

  ‘Maybe. But first things first, we need to get out of here. I can’t stand this stench of goblins for much longer.’

  The smell brought back the memory. A memory she visited all too often.

  ‘If you’re not the best, Xenixala. You are the worst.’ Professor Mogg loomed over her.

  The whole class stared. She had a potion in her hands. It reeked of goblin blood.

  ‘Drink it. Drink the poison,’ barked Professor Mogg. ‘Maybe next time, you will do the spell properly. I will not tolerate failure in my classroom.’

  Xenixala shuddered, picked up her own Sack of Clutching and wiped off the spatters of sick. It was only last week she’d customised it with jewels to match her now-ruined robe. It glinted in the torchlight. Another thing she’d have to replace.

  She sighed, stuffed the map into the bag, then walked back towards the cave exit.

  Wordsworth bounded along behind her, his pages clapping each time he hit the floor. ‘Time to find ourselves a nice refreshing Elixir, don’t you think?’