They trudged onwards, away from the hostile elves, Mortimer’s eyes not wavering from the tyre tracks embedded in the dirt as they followed them, albeit by chance. What was a truck doing out here? The only trucks he had seen on his previous short visit to this distant planet were those used by his nephew’s soldiers. It all made awful sense, though, didn’t it? He was a grey aardvark riding a magical beast, just how his nephew was a grey aardvark riding a magical beast and everywhere he went people seemed to hate him. A Kaos Army truck had visited the elf city and whatever had occurred resulted in their hostility to him, believing him to be his nephew – the General of the Kaos Army!

“You’re very quiet, honey,” Lizzy’s soft voice called up to him as she patted his ankle, fondly, “you alright?”

“No,” he moaned, miserably, “I’m far from it.”

Her white head tilted, her small pink nose twitching along with her whiskers, “want to talk about it?”

“No,” he said again, “I don’t.”

“Well,” she continued, “Chase says if we don’t get eaten by monsters, there’s one final Royal city we can try to get into before nightfall. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? Somewhere safe to curl up for the night, a warm bed… and some company?” her voice lilted in an attempt to make him look at her.

He forced a smile onto his long face, “of course. I can think of nothing lovelier.”

“It’s that or we make camp. Chase will probably set himself on fire before any kindling gets alight,” she grinned.

“Oh, I don’t know, Patrick seems to have taken that elf under his wing. He’ll have him whipped into shape in no time at all. Salt of the earth, that man. He can hunt, he can ride, he can fish… he can even steer a boat after a bottle of vodka,” Mortimer snorted, “I know, I was there at the time. Sick as a dog, me, I don’t like boats. The vodka certainly didn’t help.”

As if on cue, Patrick’s booming voice called back to them, “have you seen this, Monty? Ruddy tyre tracks! Here! On an alien planet full of elves and things, what’s that all about, then?”

Mortimer’s face grew dark again, “no idea,” he lied.

“Must be a big vehicle, like a Land Rover or something,” the human mused, looking at Chase, “you have cars here on your world?’

The elf’s brow furrowed, clearly perplexed, “what’s a car?”

“Hmmm. Definitely something funny going on. I thought it was all horse and cart stuff, you know, medieval era, I mean there’s no roads, is there? Why have a car and no road? Mind you, Land Rover’s are meant for off-road travel. Hours of fun whizzing around muddy fields in one of those, ha, I remember when…”

Mortimer let his friend’s tales of mud-track driving wash over him. He’d heard them all before.

Chase, however, was captivated at these bizarre scenes that Patrick painted so vividly in his mind. Big, metal, wheeled contraptions that moved quickly while you sat inside of them, turning a wheel with a hand and pushing a flap with your foot while a stick in the middle was in your other hand being pushed back and forth. And there was glass to look out of to see where you were going and mirrors to see behind you all at the same time! Complicated. And noisy! Patrick made chugging noises for effect.

Lizzy stifled her laughter, shaking her head.

“Vrrrm, vrrrm, vrrrm?” Chase imitated.

“Honk! Honk! There’s a horn in the middle of the wheel for when buggers won’t get out of your way on the M5. Or if they cut you up on the roundabout. It’s always BMW drivers, too,” he growled, crossly.

“BMW drivers…” Chase repeated. “Your world sounds so… different.”

“You should visit sometime,” Patrick beamed.

“We can’t do that if Chase kills the dragon who runs the portal,” Mortimer snapped.

“It’s not the same dragon, surely?” Patrick scoffed, “this world is probably chock full of the scaly beasties! Can’t move for ‘em, I bet. What about that flappy thing everyone’s terrified of? Pound to a penny that’s a dragon! We’d be doing everyone a favour, killing that.”

“It spits green fire!” Chase warned, “and don’t forget about its grey rider.”

Mortimer groaned, softly.

Lizzy patted his ankle again, “Mortimer thinks it’s his nephew, don’t you?” she gave him a hard look.

“Yes,” he moaned, miserably.

Chase scowled, “I don’t like the sound of your nephew one bit! I hope I don’t meet him.”

“Nobody does. But all my memories of him are happy ones. The trucks belong to him,” he added, bitterly. “The elves back at the city mistook me for him. I’m so sorry.”

The elf stopped, planting his feet and folding his arms, crossly, “that’s what that was about? They shut the doors to us because of your nephew? They fired arrows at us because…”

“Of my nephew, yes. The place you are taking us is the Lowlands, isn’t it?”

Chase stammered, “how…? How do you know…?”

“That’s his base of operations. That’s the Kaos Army headquarters. That’s where the dragon is who tells him what to do.”

“Well, then we MUST kill the dragon! Clearly he has your nephew under some sort of spell or enchantment. Nobody in their right mind would go making enemies of elves and fair folk otherwise. Stands to reason. Dragons are wicked creatures, hungry for wealth and power, never a true word falling from their lips. No good ever came from a dragon! I can’t believe I’m saying this because I really don’t like the idea, but I see now that this is my fate – my destiny – to aid your nephew in his freedom from the foul clutches of an evil, bewitching dragon!” Chase puffed out his small chest, slapping his breastplate.

Mortimer shook his head, “the dragon brought us here!”

“To bewitch you, too!”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Mortimer sighed.

Lizzy intervened, “you said he was a bit screwy in the head,” she reasoned, “who knows what goes on in a dragon’s brain? He’s probably lost the plot completely. Maybe he wants Chase to come to him so he can control the elves, seeing as they don’t like his army at the moment?”

Mortimer rubbed his chin, “perhaps. Makes the most sense so far. I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?”

Patrick boldly walked onwards, “for now, a beer and a bath sound pretty darn good to me! Where’s this Royal city? I hope your nasty nephew hasn’t gone and ruined that for us, too.”

As it turned out, he hadn’t. The entrance was open to them and the main street was full of hustle and bustle, nobody paying them any attention while they passed through, eyeing up the closing stalls as the evening drew in. The rings in the sky faded away and the twin suns were replaced by a singular, white, glowing crescent moon. Dwarves mingled amongst halflings and satyrs, races that Patrick could only have dreamed of spying in his wildest dreams, and his head turned this way and that gawking at them while they searched the street for a place to spend the night.

Up ahead a grand castle stood tall, its spires reaching up to the sky with lit windows, the heavy grey stone chiselled neatly into blocks, looking like a good, solid, standard fortress until the eye caught sight of the futuristic metal tower bolted onto the side. It was a slim, white cylinder with a meshed triangular top that had other, much smaller, cylinders spaced at intervals around it.

“What is that?” Chase gasped, turning to his companions, “another thing from your world?”

Patrick looked just as confused, “nothing like that back home,” he said, “looks alien to me. Like out of Star trek.” He gave Mortimer a questioning glance.

“No, not a clue. Sorry.”

Lizzy pointed at another thing that was out of place, “they have lightbulbs in their street lamps. They have electricity!”

“So they do! Well, I never. Fancy that,” Patrick gasped. “It’s like the past and the future, all mixed together.”

Chase was suspicious of it all, “what’s electricity? Is that bad?”

Patrick tried to think of a way to explain it, “spicy energy,” he said, slowly, “makes things work, but with less faff.”

“Like cars?” the elf asked.

“No,” he chuckled, “no electric cars yet. But in this new millennium of ours, anything is possible.”

A sharp, rhythmic, melodic beeping sounded out and they watched as a halfling reached into its satchel and pulled out a small rectangle, pressing its surface, holding it to a keen ear, “hello? Hi! Yeah, I’m just grabbing some groceries… mmhmm… yeah, I can make it tomorrow night, sure. Yeah, I’ll be at yours for seven, ok? Sure, see you then. Bye!”

Lizzy’s mouth dropped open, “it’s a cell phone! They’ve got cell phones here! That’s what the tower is for – phones!”

“Halflings and mobiles, whatever next?” Patrick marvelled.

And then they saw it, smooth and black with painted white lines running down its centre; a road. A road running from out of the wilderness, through the city’s other entrance and up to the castle courtyard. A road coming in from the mountains in the east.

“That’s going to make things much easier,” Patrick sighed with relief. “Can’t get lost on a road. Unless you’re driving in Scotland, anyway, I remember once when…”

“Not now, Patrick,” Mortimer groaned.

They passed by a restaurant and a bar, a coffee shop, even. An old-style inn was just past them, its sign swinging creakily, faded from the sun. The Happy Hovel.

“I hope they take Moonstones,” Chase chuckled, “or we’re screwed.”

Patrick took the lead, smiling at the bearded goat-man at the front desk, “hallo! We’re looking for rooms for the night and a place to keep a horse. Oh, and we can only pay in Moonstones, if that’s quite alright.”

The goat rolled his eyes, “we do accept contactless by preference.”

“Err… sorry. Moonstones is all we have.”

“Fine,” he sighed, dramatically. How many rooms? Breakfast? Your horse can go in the barn out back. It’s extra.”

Chase dug in his belt-bag and spread the pretty rocks on the counter for the goat to count out.

Lizzy went back out to help Mortimer bring Flamed into her barn stall. Flamed did not look impressed.

“It’s only for tonight,” Mortimer assured her, “and there’s hay and water. We’ll see you bright and early, I promise. Try not to look too magical,” he winked.

She blew air at him, haughtily.

“Hay, you,” Lizzy joked, brushing the aardvark’s cheek tenderly, out of sight of the others, “get it? Hay?” she gave him a kiss on the lips.

He flushed, kissing her back, “very droll.”

“We’ll get our own room,” she nudged at him, “you best beHAYve!”

He exhaled, deeply, shaking his head, a cheeky smile spreading on his face, “well, now, can’t promise anything.”

“No, I’m out of hay jokes. Come on, I need some dinner,” she took his hand and they walked inside to meet the other two.

Patrick was animated, “someone used their card to pay and they didn’t have to sign! They just waved it and the machine went ‘beep!’. That’s not very secure!”

“Gosh,” said Lizzy, her stomach rumbling, “anyway, food? Yes?”

The inn had an eating area and Chase frowned as more of his Moonstones were parted with, “don’t get as much in return for stones as you used to,” he said, unhappily.

Patrick gave him a sympathetic look, “that’s inflation for you.”

Beer was brought to them along with small plates of crunchy coated chicken and fries, with salad leaves and a pot of mayonnaise to share. They ate slowly, savouring every hot, fresh bite as it had to last before they munched their snacks up in their rooms later.

The telephone rang at the reception desk and the surly goat yanked it off its holder, “Hello? Happy Hovel?” he snapped.

“This place is well named,” Lizzy remarked, drily.

The goat’s entire demeaner suddenly changed entirely and he snivelled with a simper, “your majesty! What an honour, it is!” he bowed to the phone, though the receiver couldn’t see, “how may I be of service, your highness? A – a what, your majesty? An aardvark? Grey, long ears? why, yes! Yes, there is! Yes, he DID come in on a horse, your highness! He’s not alone.” the goats eyes swivelled straight to the munching group and they froze, mid-bite.

“Here we go,” Patrick gruffed, swallowing, “gig’s up.”

Chase gobbled up his food as fast as he could before the inevitable kicking-out happened, cramming chicken into his neat mouth like his life depended upon it.

“I… I would be most honoured to deal with this matter, your highness! Happy to help, your highness!” he continued bowing to the phone in his hand as he held it out a good distance from his ear, a high-pitched squawking shrilling out the other end, “straight away as a matter of urgency, your most gracious majesty!”

“Evil nephew?” Lizzy asked, swigging her drink.

“Evil nephew,” Mortimer sighed, “we’ve caught someone’s eye, it seems. I really didn’t want to camp out…”

The goat slammed down the phone and launched himself in the direction of their table, his cloven-hooved feet almost skidding.

“We’re going, we’re going!” Patrick threw his hands up with an air of defeat, pushing back his chair.

The goat threw himself to the wooden floor, his hands grasped together, his horned head to the ground, “honoured guests!” he whined, “please accept my most humble apologies for my utter rudeness! I had no IDEA I had such a highly-esteemed guest in my humble inn! The Royal household has graciously placed you under my care, anything you wish, anything will be paid for by Her Majesty, Queen Raz herself!” His beard dragged on the wooden floor as he spoke, “another drink? A dessert? My best rooms shall be yours, free of charge!” He scrambled upright, placing their Moonstones back on the table with a flourish, “free of charge, anything you wish, please leave a five-star rating on Trip Advisor, General, anything you wish, free of charge!”

Mortimer stiffened.

Lizzy gave him some side-eye, “they think you’re him, and this time they’re loving it!” she hissed, “are you going to tell them the truth? You’re not going to impersonate your nephew, are you?”

Every face in the place was turned to him. He widened his grey eyes and tried to keep his cool; he really didn’t want to ruin this stroke of good luck. He straightened his shoulders and raised his head, “as General of the Kaos Army I thank you for your apology, errr, dear goat. I… I say… a drink for everyone! A token of my kindness, because I’m such a great guy! And a hero and – and – I’m just really nice, you know? And not enough people appreciate that, if you ask me. And my horse would like some carrots, if you have them.”

With a snap of his thick fingers, the goat gestured to their table and the waitresses scurried over, filling up drinks and fussing with extra breadsticks and nibbles.

The group all looked at each other. This was either wonderfully brilliant or a disaster waiting to happen.

“I promise I won’t do anything stupid,” Mortimer hissed to them.

Around them, strangers raised their full glasses with happy nods and some salutes.

“Might be too late. Your evil nephew might not like this if he finds out,” Chase warned.

Mortimer spread his hands, “Anar is terribly vain, he will love it! He’ll think it’s funny.” he waved back to them all, grinning widely. “Enjoy your drinks,” he nodded, “on me, General Warlock!” He turned to Lizzy, winking, “well, they’re on the Queen, apparently. My dear nephew has friends in high places. I told you he was a great guy! Rubbing shoulders with royalty.”

Lizzy wanted to argue about the French Revolution but more food appeared to change her mind.

Patrick sat back down, not one to refuse free drinks, asking to see the wine list, rubbing his hands together, “finally something is working out for us! Killing monsters is thirsty work. I could go for a nice merlot, if they have it here. Maybe they have space wine! Oh-ho, can you imagine? Ooooh, elf wine! I want to try some of that. We’ll have a whole bottle! Several bottles, even. The Queen can afford it. I met our Queen once, you know, lovely lady…” Patrick was off, rambling again, happy and relaxed now he wasn’t having to sleep under the stars.

Mortimer still sat bolt upright, a big smile on his long, grey face, his furtive glances searching for the first signs of trouble. His mind scrambled for memories of his nephew; Anar had been a sulky, brooding teen, full of sarcasm and bitterness, resenting his future working in Hell, but who could blame him? The Underworld was an awful place – on purpose! The last time Mortimer had seen his nephew, here on the Black Planet, he had been a very different man; older and distinctly more mature, happy and confident, with a boldness only Patrick could match, striding tall with his head held high, proud of all he stood for. If Mortimer was going to sit here and pretend to be him, he couldn’t show fear, could he?

“A glass of elf wine, General?” Patrick waved the bottle, temptingly, a full glass already in front of the human.

“Please, my dear friend!” wait, would Anar say that? How did Anar talk? He gave a chummy thumbs-up, “nice one! Great! Cheers!” he took a deep gulp of the fizzy, sweet drink, nodding approvingly, “bloody brilliant.”

Chase stabbed a fork at a bit of everything on the table, hungrily. Where the skinny elf packed it all away was anybody’s guess; he must have hollow legs.

The evening continued without event, the adventurers drinking and steadily making their way through the entire menu, slowly becoming more inebriated.

Mortimer’s ears drooped down as his face flushed, his smile still firmly in place, waving to the other patrons as they left while thanking him for their drinks.

And then the goblins turned up.

“Goblininins!” chase pointed, while lying across the table, burping. “Oh no. I can’t fight like thissss.”

The small, flat-eared warriors approached them; toothy and green and mean. They bowed down respectfully before Mortimer, wide battle-axes glinting at their backs - much larger than they were; their well-worn leather outfits were covered in grime and sweat.

“No, no!” Mortimer patted the elf a little too hard on the hand, “goblins like me! Hello goblins,” he grinned, lopsidedly, hiccupping.

“Good evening, General. We bring you terrible news.” They straightened up, their small, pointed faces were unhappy.

Mortimer blinked, rubbing his face, feeling a bit too sozzled for this, “that’s terrible,” he said.

“Yes, General, that’s what I said. We have been to the White temple city to collect our food and they are refusing to hand it over. We had an agreement!” the goblin snapped.

“Bastards,” Mortimer slurred.

“They fired arrows at us!” Patrick boomed, sloshing his drink over the table.

“Us too,” the spokesperson goblin snapped, “surely you won’t let this stand, General? Our people go hungry while the elves hoard all the harvest, yet again!”

Chase raised his head up, “but the elves own the farmland, it’s their food,” he reasoned, slowly, “not our fault you goblins are too busy fighting to plant some crops.”

The goblin shot the elf a dark look; “what did you say?”

Mortimer shushed the elf, sensing this was going to go wrong rather quickly otherwise.

“Who’s this joker?” the goblin asked the aardvark with a spit.

“He’s… new. Terribly sorry. What… what was the agreement, again?”

The goblin pushed his small head forward, a dangerous glint in his eye, “it’s the agreement that you put in place, General! We don’t fight the elves and they feed us, on account of them not allowing us to own any land! Well, we ain’t been fed and our axes are still sharp. I see you’ve been well-fed, though,” small, sharp eyes darted to the empty plates piled up in front of the General and his friends.

Mortimer fought the fog in his brain, “you can eat here!” he blurted, “free of charge!”

The goblins huddled, whispering in rapid words. Occasionally, one would look back at the aardvark, frowning.

They all came to an agreement, the spokesperson goblin turning to Mortimer again with a bow, “it will suffice… for tonight! But we expect you to deal with this matter as an urgency, General. If we return to the White temple city tomorrow with the same result, we will consider your arrangement broken. Do you understand?”

Mortimer sweated, “I understand, sure, yeah, brilliant.”

Lizzy suddenly felt a bit queasy. “What happens if the agreement is broken?” she asked, her face full of concern, “I’m also new,” she added quickly.

The goblin rattled his battle-axe at his back meaningfully, “then we take the farmland by force,” he growled, “and take matters into our own hands. You don’t want that, rabbit, not one bit, believe me.”

“His army would stop you,” she confidently jabbed a thumb at Mortimer who gulped, covering Lizzy’s mouth with his hand as the goblins became enraged all over again.

“You would take sides? Is that what you’re saying, General?! You would aid the elves in stopping us? You would have all us goblins as your enemies?!” blades glinted in the lights of the hovel.

This diplomacy stuff was harder than it looked, “I’m not saying that! I’m not saying anything! I will speak to the elves, I will sort it all out, I promise.” His heart hammered, was that the right thing to have said? He didn’t know, how could he know? And Anar had no idea any of this had happened! Finding him and telling him was vital, now, or there would be terrible consequences.

The goblins piled in, more numerous than at first suspected, filling up the dining room of the Happy Hovel.

The goat could only stand, opened-jawed, his beard dropping to his chest, “I can’t feed all of this lot,” he bleated, “whether the Queen pays for it or not.”

Mortimer pulled at the goat’s tunic, dragging him face-to-face, “you better, pal! Or its curtains for all of us.” His grey face was pale, his composure lost in the face of this sudden crazy turn of events. War! War would happen, and it was all his fault!

“I suppose… if the Royal household is paying, we can bring in more food. Yes,” the goat nodded, “we can replenish supplies!”

Mortimer released his tight grip and the owner scurried off to rouse up staff, sending them out into the darkness with lists and orders.

Chase slicked back his blonde hair, “well, we sorted that out, didn’t we?”

Mortimer rounded on him, now, furious, “no thanks to you and your big mouth! You upset them first!”

“They’re goblins, they’re always upset about something,” he sniffed. “ugly little buggers.”

“You’re doing it now; they can hear you! Off to bed, all of you! Can’t cause trouble if you’re sleeping. We’ve got a full day ahead – dragon-killing AND finding my nephew before everything goes to Hell in a handcart!”

They retired to their rooms, still staggering unsteadily, leaving the rowdy little creatures to hopefully eat their fill without bloodshed. Whatever the next day had in store for them would be dealt with then. A bath, a soft bed, and some delightful rabbit company was what he needed to calm his soul at this moment. He was rather looking forward to it, especially the rabbit company part.

His slumber was rudely broken with the sound of cheering outside of the window; exciting things were going on, out there, it seemed. Mortimer snorted, unwrapping himself from Lizzy’s soft, clean fur, rubbing his eyes. “What’s going on?’ he asked aloud.

“No idea,” his bed partner yawned, stretching out her long, strong legs. “But it’s a happy noise, at least.”

“True. I wonder if the others are awake?”

“Won’t be still sleeping with all that din,” she smacked her lips, “I need coffee, we drank too much last night. Patrick’s fault, as usual.”

A fanfare of trumpets joined in the sound of the cheers and Mortimer smacked his hands over his delicate ears, “yikes!”

There was a bang at their door, “General, the Queen is here to speak to you!”

Mortimer was wide awake now, his eyes flying open, “what? Really?” oh, no! Last night was tricky enough, he had planned to slip out quietly onto the nice tarmac road leading out to the mountains. No more trouble, no more trickiness.

Lizzy could see his panic and wasn’t sure if any words would be enough, to be fair, so she patted him instead.

“I’m… on my way!” he quavered, pulling on his clothes and tweed jacket.

Lizzy also dressed quickly and they found Chase and Patrick scurrying out of their rooms, too, fastening armour and tightening up bootlaces.

“The ruddy Queen!” Patrick grumbled, “nobody say a damn thing, let the General here do the talking, for heaven’s sake.”

“Thanks for that, dear, I’m sure I’ll handle this wonderfully,” Mortimer’s reply was heavily sarcastic. “Get Flamed ready to go, if we have to make a run for it I want Patrick up with me, you two have fast legs!” he ordered.

Lizzy bound down the stairs, headed for the barn, “on it,” she yelled.

Mortimer breathed deep, shuffling his shoulders and flexing his toes in his walking shoes, “Queen. Got it. Bowing and scraping, I can do that. Easy. Oh.. heck,” he moaned.

With wobbly legs and a dry mouth, he walked down, through the reception area now missing the grumpy goat, and he opened the door to the Happy Hovel to meet her Royal highness, followed by his silent friends.

Bright Royal musicians lined the main street, their trumpets lowered, emblazoned tunics flapping in the breeze. The crowd were behind them, waving and cheering, still.

Mortimer saw, coming down the cobblestones, a tall, massive green-skinned figure in a dazzling sleeveless gown of shocking pink. A figure that could only be described as an orc in a dress. She was muscular with outrageously wide hips. Sturdy military boots clomped as she marched, her gleaming, well-polished tusks only outshone by her bejewelled, glittering tiara. She grinned, happily, her high ponytail of sunny blonde flowing out behind her. She waved back, airily, at her subjects, her pink lips and eyeshadow matching her dress. One hand was curled into a tight fist, her unclothed arm muscles bulging as a chain leash strained in her grip, the other end containing a massive wolf. A warg. It snarled, snapping its jaws, mottled brown and black fur bristling with uncontained rage as saliva dripped in its path, its white chest fur sodden with the stuff. Around its thick neck was a neon pink, diamond-encrusted collar and a dangling metal pet tag.

The Queen approached them, still smiling, widely, her warg coming to heel obediently at her side as she stamped a boot and saluted to Mortimer, flicking her ponytail.

“Hello, General, sir! What you doing here? Thought you was in the Crystal Empire, stirring up trouble as usual.” Her voice was high and excitable.

The warg growled and snarled.

“Not you! Silly boy,” the Queen laughed.

Mortimer bowed, stiffly, taking the orc’s free, perfectly-manicured hand and planting a kiss upon the giant, ruby-stoned ring placed there, “your majesty,” he said, politely.

Hooves clopped behind him. Lizzy curtsied.

The Queen tilted her head. She had more angular features than a regular orc, there was a touch of elf about her. A smaller nose. Pretty, light green eyes. “you playing silly buggers or what, sir?” she demanded, pulling her hand away with an air of surprise and disgust.

Mortimer stammered, feeling very, very lost. This was going to be more difficult than he had thought, and he had thought it was going to be rather tricky!