Blunderball

The Mages and the Demon's Tower

In brighter times, the Ebon Tower had been a beacon of hope and justice, its garrisons watching over the Merchants' Way from Grimble's Vale in the East to Far Baragar in the West. But since the demon Kharael had come to claim it, that tower was a blight upon the land. Travellers would cling to the shadows of the Northern Peaks simply to avoid its gaze, though those roads teemed with wolves and bandits, and many lost their way.

Few could stand against a demon, but the Arch-mage Tharandel was one of those few, and so he felt it his duty to make the attempt. He pushed open the doors of the great hall at the tower's tallest height, and what he saw there was nothing short of madness.

The demon Kharael had rearranged the very matter of the room. Screaming faces writhed across the walls, their words transmuted into silent flame. The pillars rising seemed to twist and bend, tormented serpents racked by pain that could afflict even stone. And in the centre of it all sat Kharael himself, upon a throne of skulls.

Seeing Tharandel at the entrance, he stood and laughed, but kept his rusted mace in hand. "You come alone, wizard? Is it not enough that you trespass in my tower that you must rob me of a challenge too?"

"I would fight you even if all the world turned away," answered Tharandel, "but you are wrong. The Council shall see you pay for your misdeeds, and to that end it has sent me great assistance. Step forth Sinodor the Black, Conjuror of the Eastern Woods!"

A wizard wreathed in robes of jet appeared from a cloud of smoke, wielding a wand of yew.

"Step forth Aramae the White, Sorceress of the Western Sands!"

A witch wearing a dress of pearl appeared from a crystal portal, wielding a staff of oak.

"Step forth...ugh...Barry the Meat Wizard."

"Wait, what?" asked Kharael.

"Hey, how ya doin'?" said Barry, walking through the door like a normal person.

"Yeah," said Tharandel. "Barry, Kharael. Kharael, Barry. I think that gets the introductions out of the way, so can we just get right to it?"

"No, hang on," said Kharael. "'Barry the Meat Wizard?' What's a Meat Wizard?"

"Well," Barry began to explain, "you got your Conjurors, they conjure stuff; you got your Necromancers, they raise the dead; and then us Meat Wizards perform meat-based spells and what-have-you. It's a totally legit field of magic officially endorsed by the Council of Mages—you can look it up."

Kharael turned to Tharandel, one satanic eyebrow raised in a "Say whaaat?" expression.

Tharandel sighed. "The Council of Mages supports all avenues of research that seek to support truth, light and justice, even if they sound totally ridiculous and probably damage our reputation with the arcane community and potentially the wider public as well. Now can we please just get on with the spectacular battle between good and evil?"

"Very well," said Kharael. "It was supremely foolish of you to face me here in my domain, and so it matters little what wizardly riff-raff you choose to associate with: I can feel no greater scorn."

"Then let us end this!" cried Tharandel. A bolt of light shot forth from his hand, dazzling the demon just long enough for Sinodor to summon a gargantuan suit of armour from the air.

The suit of armour strode forth, drawing as it did a long, two-handed sword with a blade that rippled like flame.

Shaking the sparks from his eyes, Kharael prepared to face the apparition, mace held aloft, ready to deliver a crushing strike. But Aramae too had readied her magic, and with a blow of her stave against the flags she summoned vines to bind his arm, allowing the armoured figure to bring its blade to bear unhindered.

But Kharael would not be so easily defeated. He kicked out with a cloven hoof, sending armoured plates scattering across the floor and the great, rippling sword clattering to the ground. Wrapping a hand around the vines that restrained him, the demon tore them up at the roots. Unhindered once again, he strode forth to smite the mages who opposed him.

"Quickly, Barry!" yelled Tharandel, his own powers not yet recovered. "You must take up your sausage sceptre!"

"What? In public?" cried a bemused Barry. Then, after a moment: "Oh, right! The other one."

He drew from his robe a disconcertingly gristly magical artefact and held it aloft.

Barry the Meat Wizard began to chant: "Findus, Bentos, Londis, Tescos. Calabacitas con puerco. Enchilada et burritos. Muy picante grande tacos!"

The room began to shake.

"What?" asked Kharael, pausing in mid-stride. "What is that?"

"Oh, it's nothing," said Barry. "Just my...meatball mortar!"

Like a gross, drippy rose, a bud of raw steak rose from the floor and unfurled before the demon. A huge gobbit of pan-fried mince issued forth striking Kharael in the face, square and true. Sizzling oil spattered the floor of the ancient hall, yet the fiend was unfazed.

"Foolish mortal," breathed the demon as he wiped the sauce from his skin. The words were accompanied by a whisper of brimstone-pungent smoke. "My flesh has felt the very fires of Hell. Do you think your feeble magic can..." He blinked. "Oh, geez. Was that chilli? It's got that kick to it."

He took another step forward, raising his great mace, but then stumbled.

"Oh, flip! Ooh! Ow!" Dropping his weapon, he pawed at his face. "It sort of sneaks up on you! Aaargh! My eyes!"

"Demon," said Tharandel, stepping forth, "in the name of the Council of Mages, I banish thee to—"

"Well don't just talk about it!" snapped Kharael. "Hurry up! I need to rinse my face with lava!"

The mages performed the necessary rites.

"So," said Barry the Meat Wizard as they began the trip back down the steps. "Was it worth having me along for this one?"

"Hmm..." Tharandel pondered the question. "Still no."