XENIXALA

  Queen Warlock Xenixala of Xendor, denier of The Untruths of Old, Wielder of Time and a ten-year subscriber to Turnip Weekly, frowned into the images that appeared in her silver bowl. Could this be true? Was this Eric The Chosen One? She sat back. Sighing, she broke open another Elixir and drank it down, letting the pulse of happiness wash over her.

  She was home, or at least the closest thing she could call home. It was the best witch’s tower she’d ever had the pleasure of ransacking, and so had decided to tidy it up and move in. The hilltop had an unparalleled view over Porkhaven. Sure, she’d had to fend off the odd adventurer here and there, but that wasn’t anything a few animated golems and spike traps couldn't sort out. She knew how adventurers operated, so she also knew exactly how to make defences to bamboozle them. Having no stairway was a big plus, as adventurers were notorious for needing a specific path to guide them through a dungeon or they would become pathetically lost. Sat atop the warren of boobytrapped and vacant rooms below, the inaccessible tower was where she spent most of her time, the only place she felt truly at ease.

  Her thousands of trinkets and trophies filled the chamber around her. Creatures’ head’s, demons’ horns, golden cups, silver rings, magic scrolls, enchanted books, haunted orbs, glowing balls, keys to kingdoms, jarls’ pardons, college certificates, arrest warrants… she’d done it all. A lifetime of achievements. They were probably worth a small fortune, but she would rather die than pawn a single one, no matter how bad things were. Yet for some reason, they no longer gave her an ounce of joy.

  ‘You will never amount to anything, Xenixala. You are worthless. You can barely survive these punishments. Drink another poison. If you aren’t the best, you are the worst.’

  She looked back into the silver bowl, whispering the spell once more. The images appeared again, flickering as the liquid silver moved. She was back in the bandit fortress, looking down on the figures below. Her vision was limited because it depended entirely on the well-trained crow she’d sent to spy on The Bandit King. Annoyingly, the crow spent far too much time glancing around at insects rather than focussing on the task at hand.

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  Eric pulled the trigger.

  The crow looked at the head of The Bandit King as it rolled to the ground, obviously curious at the fly that had landed on the corpse’s nose.

  Xenixala drummed her fingers. She couldn't believe the mettle of this unassuming man. He’d actually gone and killed The Bandit King, exactly as the prophecy foretold. It had to be him, but she could hardly believe it. She was expecting some kind of hulking goliath or mighty wizard. He was supposed to have slain an Elder Dragon for Mole’s sake. But for all intents and purposes, the person who had shot off the head of one of the most feared men in the land was just… plain. Everything down to his wispy middle-aged hair to his grubby overalls made him plain. Nothing about him screamed “Chosen One” in the slightest. Maybe that was what made him so special?

  There was no way he was the world’s most Experienced adventurer. It must be some kind of mistake.

  Bill got up onto the ostentatious skull throne and shouted about destroying all the Adventurer’s Supply shops. The bandits cheered in agreement and stormed out of the room.

  Wait. No more Adventurer’s Supply meant no more Elixirs. That was bad news. Very bad news indeed.

  She’d spent many years trying to recreate the Elixir formula, to little success and a scalded oesophagus. She even tried to find out who their supplier was, but that led to a dead-end too. It was infuriating.

  This had to be stopped.

  She’d have to confront Eric immediately and put an end to this nonsense. Hopefully he’d be the nemesis she so sorely desired, but it didn’t seem very likely. He looked pathetic.

  She needed to be the best. He had to be the great foe she must conquer.

  What was even more worrying was that she had just finished off her last Elixir. She’d need some more, and fast.

  Xenixala set the bowl aside, stood up and snatched the napping Wordsworth from the table.

  Wordsworth stretched with a flap of his pages. ‘Where are we off to then?’

  ‘To kill this Chosen One and become the most Experienced adventurer of all time.’

  ‘Oh, excellent.’ Wordsworth’s bookmark licked his front pages. ‘But we’ll get a few Elixirs first, right?’