Threads Better Left Unpulled

                Loose dirt shifted under Sintra's feet, packing itself between his toes as he marched along the dusty road. He wasn't permitted to wear shoes since they were protection for only a working man's feet, not befitting a noble of the Kingdom of Gold. He should never need to walk on any surface but the finest marble, and so to cover his feet in shoes is to ungratefully deny the status and privilege the High King had graciously bestowed upon him. Right now, Sintra felt that his status was 'having sore feet' and his privilege was 'dusty toes'.
                Sintra was an ambassador of the Kingdom of Gold, sent out into the wilderness to spread the glory of the High King and welcome his new subjects into the Kingdom. The High King, in his divine right, owned all of the lands in the world. Many pretenders had claimed thrones in the names of other kingdoms, and many more lived in ignorance of the High King, but they lived on lands which were not their own. It was Sintra’s duty to tell them of their transgressions.
                Magnanimously, the High King was willing to permit these trespassers to live. In fact, he had charged Sintra with welcoming them into his Kingdom of Gold, allowing them to offer their services to the crown and pay back their debts in honest, hard work. This was the good news that Sintra was walking through the jungle to spread.
                Sintra was surrounded by the decadence of the High King’s armoured knights. The King called them his word-bearers, spreading the triumphs and glory of the Kingdom to those poor souls yet to be touched by its magnificence. Their gilded armour glinted in the sunlight which pierced patchy clouds above, precious stones and metals inlaid across the surface in meticulously crafted ostentation. They carried the news of his gracious acceptance, so their garb must showcase the true glory of the High King’s rule, or so he said. Sintra had been on the High King’s leash for too many years to believe those lines any more, especially since they also carried finely honed and sharpened halberds, capable of severing flesh and bone in a single blow. To Sintra, the gilded armour only served to reflect light into his eyes and embarrass him; it was gaudy to the point of being embarrassing, like marching with a team of heavily armed jewellers.
                ‘The High King can call them whatever he likes’, Sintra had thought to himself in his private moments, ‘the only word they bear is 'intimidation'’. They were just another part of the game. The High King walked his armies into the neighbouring towns and villages casually. With a smile he welcomed them into his dominion, barely trying to disguise the blades which were levelled carefully at the throats of any who might dare to stand against him. The word-bearers were a challenge and a warning: 'Yield to me in peace or die to me in battle'. They were a gauntlet laid down by a man who can clad even his warriors with gold, jade and pearl against those who could not afford even steel.
                Sintra often had pangs of guilt about his vocation. Whenever it happened he tried to tell himself that he wasn't a murderer, but giving whole communities the choice of death by eviction, death by conquest, or death by living in squalor and servitude to the Kingdom didn't feel particularly different. Or moral. Still, it was a living, and living would be exactly what he'd stop doing if he refused to keep making these offers. Someone else would only end up doing it anyway, so he might as well stay alive.
                Thick palm trees flanked the wide road on either side, spreading shadows across it like fingers and turning the sunlight into a flickering lamp. If anything, it made the reflections from the armour worse, although the dust they were kicking up in their march was trying its hardest to dampen the shine. Looking down at himself Sintra saw the dust clinging to his own delicately embroidered robe, the vibrant colours and golden thread dulled by the sandy mist. The High King wouldn’t be impressed if he knew that his ambassadorial party was going to arrive at the village with dusty robes and armour. They were to appear next to his own godliness; clean, rich and powerful, and he would not abide any insult to his reputation by this display of filth. Thankfully, though, he wasn’t there to see, nor was he there to dole out punishments for the crime. Many such punishments would be exacted this day back in the capitol however, Sintra thought. The guilt came back again.
                “Do you ever wonder if we're doing the right thing?” Sintra asked the word-bearer marching alongside him. He was a towering wall of muscle called Madhevi.
                “Hmm?” the word-bearer replied.
                “When we march in and tell whole villages of people that they are no longer free, do you think we’re doing the right thing?”
                “Of course! If we didn't tell them then how would they know? They’d fail to swear fealty and then the army would arrive and kill them all. They'd be left wondering what was happening if we didn’t warn them.” Madhevi answered innocently.
                “The army tends to march in and kill them all anyway.”
                “At least they know why.” He answered with a shrug. “We give them a choice and they make it. And we get to spread the word all the while.”
                “I think we might be arguing at crossed purposes.”
                “Really? Would you like to hear the word of the High King to set you straight?” There was an excited hope in his voice to bear the word.
                “No, no. It's fine. I know his word very well thank you.”
                “Me too. I bear the word and enlighten the willing. I wield the blade and rebuke the rebellious.” He puffed his chest out as he recited his mantra.
                “Good for you.”
                “It IS good.”
                “But what I mean is do you think we have the right to keep taking people's homes away? To tell them they're part of the Kingdom now and they can accept it or die?”
                “Well they chose to live on land that the King owns.”
                “But they were there first.”
                “But it's the King's now and it must have been before.”
                “How does that come to be though? How is it fair that they had a home yesterday, but now the King says they don't? They can't have known that the King would claim it 300 years after they settled the village.”
                “Well that's why we're stomping around telling them all, isn't it? Why are you asking all this anyway, hmm?" He asked suspiciously.
                “Oh, I'm just trying to make sure that we have all the answers if they try to argue with us. I'm sure the High King would prefer to have more new subjects rather than another slaughtered village.”
                “Ah. Well worry not.” Madhevi said, apparently completely satisfied with Sintra’s improvised justification. “I have ALL of the answers for I bear his word. I am a word-bearer. I bear the word and enlighten the wil-“
                “Yes, yes. The willing and the rebellious and whatnot. It's very good.”
                “It IS very good.”
                Sintra smiled insincerely and then gave up on trying to appeal to Madhevi's sense of reason, on account of its non-existence.

                Growing larger in the distance of the road was a wall of sharpened tree trunks. They spurred outwards from the ground as if thrust upwards from below, and threatened any would-be climbers with a wholly unpleasant fate if they should slip. In front of the wall was a dark strip which resolved itself with growing proximity to be a dry moat. Madhevi asked an inane question regarding where the water had got to, but Sintra wasn’t paying much attention. A land-bridge which was twice the width of the road led over the moat and into the Ranjar village, whilst the wooden palisade followed the moat around the perimeter. It was defensible enough for a small settlement, but would do them no good against the Kingdom of Gold’s army. Only obeisance could defend against that, and even then it was no guarantee of the village’s survival.
                The word-bearers and Sintra fell into a tighter formation as they crossed the land bridge and entered the Ranjar village for the first time, with a train of caravan-runners and servants bringing up the rear with carts of supplies and treasures. It occurred to Sintra that these Ranjar people had gone to all the trouble of constructing fortifications but just let him walk straight in with a detachment of armed guards. It was this kind of carelessness which got people slaughtered by megalomaniacal despotic monarchs, but the damage was done. He couldn’t exactly walk out again and give the Ranjar people a do-over on this one.
                The village was bustling with life. Children ran excitedly between houses, men and women carried jugs of waters, sacks of grain, folds of cloth, buckets of fruits, and manifold other sundries back and forth, and animals played in the sunlight. Sintra didn’t have time to question why so many things needed to be carried around in seemingly arbitrary patterns with such urgency, he was far too taken aback with how there could be so much activity in the small village. The majority of such settlements were far quieter and more sparsely populated, perhaps a few hunters and fishermen clustered together in family groups. This was almost a small township in its own right. To his immediate right stood a high-roofed bamboo temple, draped with white and blue tapestries depicting what Sintra supposed to be idyllic life in the village. It was heart-warmingly similar to the scene unfolding in front of him, which made him feel all the worse for the ‘good-news’ of the High King which he would have to deliver.
                Faces and activity dropped together when the Ranjar people noticed the gaudy train of outsiders who had arrived from the jungle, shimmering with more precious metal on their armour than the village had seen in its lifetime. Hushed voices spoke in excited and apprehensive tones, ushering one another away from the unknown band of warriors and the man in his decorative bathrobe.
                Without introducing himself or pausing for too long, Sintra led his procession into the village, walking with a practiced ease and confidence among the gawping locals. They whispered to one another as the outsiders clad in gold marched in step behind the ambassador, looking upon the idols made manifest who silently paraded their gaudy wealth through the simple village. The children were the first to follow along, but it was only moments before the adults joined them, intrigued by what these outsiders were doing among the Ranjar. Where the youthful eyes were full of admiration and wonder, however, those of age were masked in distrust.
                Around huts and shanties, the smithy, the bakery, the potter, Sintra led his parade of gold through the village of the Ranjar, until his following had become a crowd in its own right. When he reached the centre, a large square dominated by a vaulted village hall building, Sintra called the word-bearers to a halt, and the Ranjar slowly filtered around them until they had formed a circle of curiosity and anxiety.
                Behind the word-bearers, the civilian caravansary released the handles of their carts and laid their packs of treasures on the ground in the village square. The High King would have had heads rolling if he had seen it, his possessions (for everything was his) laying in the dust and the dirt, but Sintra turned a blind eye.
                There, in the centre of the village, they stood; the envoy of word-bearers from the Kingdom of Gold proudly displaying the raiment of the High King, and the Ranjar people staring at them from all sides. Sintra’s word-bearers were the showcase of the Kingdom of Gold, a taste of the riches which could await all who submitted to the High King’s rule, and they were made to be on display. The Ranjar, on the other hand, were a dusty and destitute people of the jungle. They had likely never seen anything even half as grand as Sintra’s robes, let alone his ornate escort. It was this disparity that the High King exploited wherever possible.
                Across the empty village square, the two peoples stared at one another. No-one spoke, no-one moved, and no-one knew what was going to happen. Sintra had a fair idea of how events might transpire, but he told himself to be more optimistic than that. There was always an outside chance that this meeting wouldn’t lead to a bloodbath.
                Eventually, whether it was because she was tired of being blinded by the golden armour or because the silence had become far too awkward to withstand any longer, an old woman shuffled forwards, away from the group of gawping onlookers. Stooped over with age and wrapped in a long sarong with a shawl around her shoulders, she made her gradual way towards Sintra, who stood in his rightful place at the head of the envoy party.
                “Welcome to our village, travellers. We are the Ranjar, and we open our arms to you.” She said with formality. Her words were warm but guarded; she knew what to say to an outsider and the impression to put across, but she wasn’t naïve. If she was at all intimidated by the word-bearers then she didn’t show it.
                “Your simple hospitality is gratefully received.” ‘All others must be humble before the High King’s glory. Treat them that way and, if they have any sense, they will come to act like it.’ Sintra had been taught.
                “I am Sintra, and I am here to congratulate you on behalf of his eminent majesty, High King Wadevi Mandalam Nawaabi, Unifier of the Continent, purifier of hearts, and father to us all. You have been granted a place in his dominion, which rightfully stretches from sea to sea, and with it the honour of serving the Kingdom of Gold. Your times of darkness and ignorance are at an end, and that which holds you need be feared no longer. You will have the Kingdom's protection and wisdom until the end of days.” Sintra recited with practiced perfection. ‘The kingdom is the only thing any of us need protection from' he lamented to himself.
                The Ranjar looked on impassively, biting their lips if they had anything to say. It was often the way when Sintra made his introduction to a new people; they heard his words, they dismissed their meaning, and then they died. No matter how many times Sintra rehearsed his delivery, no matter how much false sincerity he put behind his words, they ignored the meaning hidden between the lines and then they felt the wrath of the man who must be loved by all.
                “Please, follow me.” The old woman replied simply, turning away and shuffling toward the grand building in the centre of the village. Sintra and his entourage followed respectfully behind the woman, still under the watchful eyes of the other villagers. The decadence of their dress and the directness of their manner was having the desired effect of holding the peasants’ attention, at least. They were a spectacle to the Ranjar people, a civilisation beyond anything they could have imagined.
                The woman led Sintra and his word-bearers into the village. Sintra gave orders for the caravan-runners to remain outside with a handful of word-bearers, and for the rest of the party to follow him.
                “Remember" Madhevi whispered into Sintra's ear as they entered the bamboo structure "I bear the word if they ask any awkward questions, and I bear the blade if they won't listen." He patted his halberd and winked at Sintra in what he thought was a conspiratorial manner. Madhevi secretly hoped someone would resist so that he could put his blade work to practice, and Sintra concluded that Madhevi wasn’t very good at keeping secrets.
                Tapestries adorned the interior of the building, likely the richest decoration that the Ranjar could muster. Woven into immortality was the history of their village, proudly displayed around the chamber. Starting from the right, disparate groups or tribes were represented on a crude map of the vicinity, each one pressing against the others. Great battles were depicted between the rival tribes and families of old, stretching on without change until weaver women appeared behind the ranks of the group which Sintra took to be the Ranjar. Soon after, blood red, faceless giants wrought a terrible toll on the fields of war. Sintra’s education in art was cursory at best, but he presumed the giants to symbolise the darkness and barbarism of the bloodshed, and that the simple weavers represented the widows left alone after years of endless conflict. The faceless giants seemed to mark a crescendo in the violence, with the tapestries giving way to the construction of homes the unification of the warring tribes in front of a rich red sunset, with weaver women featuring unusually prominently. Another reminder of the wages of war, Sintra concluded.
                The old woman stood on a dais in front of the tapestry, flanked by two tall warriors with long, curved scimitars suspended from their belts. They wore loose, puffy purple trousers, sandals crafted from some kind of stringy leaf, and bare chests, apparently placing more faith in their combat skill than sturdy armour. Two more such warriors stood behind the word-bearers on either side of the doorway.
                "We are pleased to hear that the Kingdom of Gold prospers, and will allow the High King to visit our land himself to parlay with us if he wishes to do so. The Ranjar look forward to many peaceful years alongside the Kingdom of Gold and the trade which may blossom between our two civilisations.” Her eyes moved slowly between each of the outsiders in her home. “We thank you for your offer of absolution from our isolation, but we need nothing from your king, least of all his protection." The old woman wore a friendly smile as she rejected the rule of the High King. Sintra knew better than to think she was ignorant of the consequences of her words, but he had to play the game.
                "The High King would be displeased not to add the Ranjar to the Kingdom of Gold. Any fate could befall you without his armies to safeguard the village. There are no alliances to be found here; you either accept the High King’s claim to these lands or you do not. We offer you the opportunity to lift yourself from this isolation and come together as one with us. Ask of our word-bearers and they will tell you of the glory of the kingdom." 'Specifically, the glory it has taken in a crusade of blood against others who sought their freedom.'
                "I have seen the threads of the word that others like these golden toys bear, and its resemblance to a sword is not coincidental. I have seen the threads of the glory they have to speak of and I find it to be theft. I see in the threads of your robes the trappings of a liar and a bully who sends others to intimidate the world for him. Your high king is a flaccid coward and a tyrant." Sintra could hear that she didn't capitalise High King when she spoke, in a display of the utmost disrespect. Her tone had become cold and dark, and even the bright red sunset of the tapestry seemed more of a crimson wave of blood now, threatening to engulf them all.  The old woman's eyes were sharp and unforgiving, unyielding to the High King's display of gilt power. "I will pull on his loose threads and he will unravel in front of us all."
                Sintra was caught between anger and respect. He agreed with what she said but her resistance meant bloodshed. To argue with her was to argue against himself, an argument he which had raged in his mind countless times and never reached a conclusion. However futile the effort may be, however, winning her over was the only way to spare the lives of the Ranjar; at least for the short term. If they all shared this rebellious sentiment then nothing would save them from the High King’s wrath.
                "The High King brings light to our lives and peace to our lands. His rule is fair and just, his decrees laid out for the good of all people under his wing." ‘The High King is the light which guides us and the shield which protects us from the evil of the word’ he had been taught. Sintra kept his composure and focused himself on avoiding a conflict. The old woman had made it clear she wouldn’t be intimidated but fear was only a single weapon in Sintra’s armoury. The promise of a better life could be more powerful than the threat of ending their current oe.
                "He is a feeble man propped up by fear and carried by the lie that none need stand against him." The old woman said with a sneer.
                "These lands belong to the High King, and your people do too. You cannot deny him, but you can live well under him. The High King safeguards all who swear fealty to him."
                "If he never shows his face here then I shall never need to deny him. Walk away from this place while you can, puppet."
                "We act as the High King’s voice. If you deny us then you deny him. His word-bearers act as a welcoming hand, but such a hand can also form a fist."
                "Your golden soldiers did not fool me, voice-of-another-man. Hard as it may be to believe of a peasant village, we recognise a threat when we see it."
                “Then you should also recognise when it is not empty. The High King wishes to lift you from your darkness, but if you stand in his way and refuse him his right then you will be crushed.”
                “We are not so feeble as that, puppet. Your tyrant and his pet bullies will find more of an opponent in us than he realises.”
                Sintra sighed and placed his fingertips together, lowering the bridge of his nose to his index fingers with closed eyes.
                “You will not win. You are choosing death for everyone here.”
                “You walk into our home and tell us that we are to die or give ourselves to your king? You have offered us no choice and you know it well. Declaring our death sentence in public was in poor taste, but it will make our rebuttal all the sweeter.”
                “It will fall on deaf ears! Please, spare the lives of your people. There is no other way than-“ A song of steel against steel rang out in the hut, bouncing from the walls and amplifying the sound. Sintra span to see Madhevi decapitate one of the Ranjar warriors in a clean, swift movement of his halberd. The sword which had been inches away from Madhevi’s head fell to the ground as the corpse dropped limply form the air.
                The woman stared silently at the body as it spilled blood onto the bamboo floor, dripping between the canes onto the ground below. Sintra turned to face her again, his face a mask of unfeeling severity hiding the revulsion inside.
                “There is worse to come. The storm of steel will rain upon you all if you do not accept the High King’s right.” Sintra’s eyes pierced into the weaver woman as he struggled to hide the remorse behind them. ‘I’m saving them.’ He told himself desperately.
                “You cannot defeat us all. There are but a handful of your bejewelled bullies against all of our warriors.”
                “And there is a full battalion of men a short march from here waiting on my word.” Sintra countered. “You will not win.”
                A little of the colour drained from the woman’s face, but she fought to keep her expression straight.
                “I need to take his body away from here.” She said quietly.
                “Do not let us make more. You will learn that the High King can be merciful to those who accept him.” Sintra told her, not looking away. The woman rose without acknowledging his words and directed her three remaining men to lift the body; she took the head herself and, wordlessly, led them out of the building.
                When they were alone in the hut, Madhevi wiped his halberd clean on one of the tapestries and then patted Sintra on the shoulder.
                “Looks like we’ll be calling in Commander Jindal after all. I’m glad I got to spread the word a little bit myself already.”
                Sintra didn’t even have time to formulate a sarcastic response before screams and thuds sounded outside the hut and distracted him. Madhevi and the word-bearers burst out of the hut to see their caravan under attack by dozens of Ranjar warriors, cutting down the caravan-runners and loosing arrows into the messenger birds that they were frantically trying to release. The word-bearers who had been left to defend the caravan were already in action, blades swinging high and fast with deadly precision as more and more of the Ranjar flooded out of houses and alleyways.
                Madhevi leapt into the fray immediately, spreading the High King's message with brutal efficiency. His blade cleaved a man in two as he struggled to free his sword from a wooden trunk, then span in the air to catch a blow from another assailant. The handle of Madhevi’s weapon crashed into the man's cheek, followed by a kick to the groin and a second clean decapitation. Though his helmet covered all expression, Sintra suspected that Madhevi would be smiling like a goon.
                The word bearers outclassed the Ranjar warriors easily, weaving away from scimitar blades and maces swung by the thick-muscled locals, then lashing out with lethal blows from their halberds. Sintra looked on helplessly from the doorway of the village hall. As a noble he was not permitted to carry a weapon, because after all, no noble needed a weapon in court save for the High King's honour guard. Quite aside from that, men in Sintra’s position were not warriors, so had no need to battle. It was another of the High King’s games, keeping his advisors disarmed lest they ever dare to rise against him. Keeping them disarmed so they could not defend themselves if someone else rose against them.
                Although he was desperate to make use of himself, any action taken in battle could be misconstrued as misconduct for a noble in his position. To a reasonable man this wouldn’t be a problem, but reasonable men did not make it to the position of High King, nor did they populate his word-bearers. Although Sintra was less guarded around Madhevi, any misstep carried the risk of being reported back to the High King, who treated his representation to new lands deadly seriously. So, despite the vicious battle unfolding in front of him, Sintra stood still and watched the bloodletting with forced stoicism.
                Although they were the better combatants by far, the word bearers were surrounded and outnumbered. The civilian caravan-runners had all been run-through, and the Ranjar warriors were pressing hard on the word-bearers. They tried to assume a circular formation, backing themselves towards and around Sintra, but they were beset by a wall of hatred on all sides.
                A hard blow struck Sintra on the side of the head, sending him hard to the dusty ground. Through blurred eyes he saw the billowing trousers of a Ranjar man standing in front of him, preparing for a killing blow. Before it could fall, the handle of an ornate halberd slammed into the Ranjar warrior’s knees, knocking them to the floor. A brief flash of reflective steel was all that Sintra saw of the blade passing through the man’s torso. In the spray of blood, Sintra fell into unconsciousness.

*             *             *

                A few hour’s march away, along the jungle road, rows of tents and banners decorated in the colours of the Kingdom of Gold stood neatly in the sunlight. Hundreds of soldiers practiced drills, oiled their blades, and prepared for the eventuality of battle with whomever it was they marched on today. The soldiery weren’t privy to such details as the name or creed of their targets – the king found that such information only bred sympathy. Better that they march into the unknown and crush whatever they find. The only people were the people of the Kingdom of Gold; all others were simply animals.
                Commander Jindal waited in his tent, reviewing maps of the area and the location of the target village. An empty perch stood next to his table, waiting for the messenger bird to arrive with news of Sintra’s attempts at diplomacy. One way or another, the High King would take the lands which were his by divine right. Either word would return from Sintra soon after his departure, or the army would march in anger.
                Looking at the position of the sun in the sky, Commander Jindal decided that he had waited for quite long enough. Sintra was a punctual man when it came to these things, and if he had been successful in his negotiations then word would have been sent back by now. Why waste any more time sitting on his hands here when glorious battle awaited out there in the village? He shook with excitement.
                Forcing himself back into aloof composure, Jindal shouted for his adjutant to rally the troops into formation and prepare them for a march through the jungle. It would be a journey of a few hours but they must not tarry; word should have reached them from Sintra by now regarding the subjugation of the village. The adjutant questioned if they’d waited long enough, but Commander Jindal assured him that the suspicious absence of any communication could only mean that ambassador and his escort had been attacked or waylaid in the village, which in turn could only mean resistance. He licked the corners of his thin lips in anticipation of the battle, and only hoped that the Ranjar could muster some decent sport.

*             *             *

                Cold water ran traces along Sintra’s head, dripping from his nose and chin onto his lap. The smell of blood assaulted his nose, mixed with wet dirt. He sat bound to a hard bamboo chair with his arms restrained behind it, elbows and forearms pressed together so that his shoulders were pulled back hard. They burned. His skull ached. This was not the successful negotiation that he had been hoping for.
                “How large is this army and from where does it march?” A voice said from behind. It was cool and even but without patience.
                “Ugh…” Sintra replied, not entirely satisfying the question. The questioner highlighted this to Sintra by stabbing something into his forearm from behind. “Argh!” Sintra screamed, no more helpfully than his previous answer.
                “How large is this army, and from where does it march?” The voice asked again.
                “If I tell you I will die.”
                “If you don't you'll suffer something worse.”
                “The High King does not show mercy to traitors.”
                He felt a stabbing again, but it was accompanied by the sensation of something burrowing or being pulled into the wound.
                “I would advise you to speak soon, since I do not show mercy to the lapdogs of tyrants.” Came a second voice. It was one Sintra recognised though; the old woman.
                “I was trying to protect you. Either you give yourselves to the High King or he will march on you and burn you from your homes.” A stabbing pain shot through Sintra's other arm, along with the same burrowing sensation. It pulled through both arms and dragged them together.
                “You are no longer in a position to threaten us, puppet.”
                “It was never a threat! It was a warning!”
                “How sizable is this army?” the unfamiliar voice asked again.
                “Large enough that you will never defeat it.”
                “Watch us.” Spat the woman.
                “A village against a thousand is suicide.”
                “As I feared.” The woman muttered to her unseen companion. Sintra cursed himself for mentioning details. “I will continue preparations.”
                Though he could not see it, she gave Sintra a look of disgust. “Let him tell no more lies for his puppet-master ‘king’.” She instructed her companion.
                Light briefly flooded the room as the woman left, but Sintra was too preoccupied to notice his surroundings. The tall, dark frame of the torturer had at last stepped into view with a needle and thick thread in one hand. He grabbed Sintra’s face in the other. Bound to the chair with his arms restrained behind, he was unable to fight the burly torturer away, even as the needle punctured his lip, spilling blood and pulling the thread through, inch by agonising inch. Sintra tried to pull his head away, but the torturer was too strong. Seemingly unhindered by the ambassador’s resistance, he pushed the needle into Sintra’s other lip and pulled the thread through again, pinching one side of his mouth together. Trying his hardest not to humiliate the High King by screaming, Sintra was powerless to stop the man as he continued his work.

*             *             *

                Dusk was falling, and Sintra had been alone for a few hours, bound to the rough bamboo chair in the dark hut. What little light spilled through the gaps in the cane walls was dim and weak. It failed to illuminate the room around him, and he was too far away from the walls to see out properly.
                Whoever and whatever these Ranjar were, they seemed blind to the futility of their resistance. Perhaps this was simply fate; after years of intimidating the simple villages around the Kingdom of Gold, Sintra was finally receiving a taste of powerlessness and cruelty. He knew that the High King was liberal with his punishments, but as a loyal servant he had been spared from them so far. Perhaps this would be the end, the last time Sintra would have to tear families from their homes in the name of a narcissistic demon-king. He only lamented at the price he had to pay to be free from his life of intimidation.
                Sintra attempted to shift his weight in the chair, but was stopped short by shooting pains from his arms. He could feel the stiches binding them together and the blood trickling down through his hands from the wounds. The torturer had finished that job after ensuring that the ambassador could tell no more lies.
                Half-drunk from pain, Sintra wondered if any of his word-bearers or caravan-runners were left alive. He seriously doubted it. The word-bearers weren’t known for their receptiveness to surrender. There had been no sounds of fighting since he’d woken up, and the rest of the sounds from the village had been terrifyingly normal. It was almost as if they were accustomed enough to the wholesale slaughter of any outsiders that it didn’t register with them. Sintra shuddered at the thought of the High King’s rule of iron being vindicated here.
                The noise of the village had died down as dusk closed in, with fewer people running between homes and families settling in to eat and rest. The nocturnal birds and animals of the surrounding jungle commenced their calling now that the village had calmed down enough for it to be heard.
                All of a sudden, however, there was a commotion outside, and the sound of panic seeped through the cracks of the bamboo hut. Sintra lifted his head and listened hard to pick out what the cause was. The familiar sound of war horns in the distance gave him a ray of hope – the army had arrived.
                Urgent shouting came closer to the hut and the door slammed open.
                “...and get word to the weavers. It is time.” An unknown voice finished as it entered the room.
                “Right away.” Another replied as he ran from the hut.
                “You! Up!” the voice shouted at Sintra. He tried to stand but his ankles were still bound to the chair.
                “Umf.” Was the best Sintra could muster through sewn lips.  A heavy sword blade crashed through the legs of the chair, shattering the wood and sending Sintra hard onto the ground.
                “I said, UP!”
                Sintra had landed on his arms, and was rather busy mutedly screaming in pain through his stiches, but did his best to acquiesce to the order regardless. Shakily he staggered to his feet, large chunks of wood still bound to his ankles making it nearly impossible to stand properly. A hand roughly grabbed the dangling ends of the strings which secured his arms to one another, tearing at the skin and muscle through which it had been threaded, and dragged him towards the doorway.
                “Your warmongering tyrant will see what his misdeeds have wrought.” The man spat.
                The sounds of terror were greater outside the hut, between screaming children, shouted orders and steel being unsheathed. The distant echoes of marching, armoured feet sounded from the direction of the road.
                The Ranjar warrior dragged Sintra roughly by the threads, yanking hard on him every few paces, supposedly to make him keep up. Sintra suspected it was just to hurt him. The dust they kicked up stuck to his open wounds and stung, creating a crimson paste along the length of his arms.
                Back past the smithy they went among a throng of Ranjar warriors, clad in mailed skirts but still bare-chested. Some gripped huge two-handed scimitars, others maces or bows. The warriors were taking a much more direct route back to the entrance of the village than the ambassadorial party had taken on the way in, dragging Sintra directly to the front lines. This journey was no longer a showcase of power, but a man being led along death row to his execution. Once again the strange blanketed temple loomed into view, but now its doors were barred shut and red tapestries had been hung along the façade showing scenes of violence and war. At the gateway of the village the Ranjar forces congregated, fortifying themselves against the incoming invaders.
                The livery of the Kingdom of Gold was already in view along the road, torches burning brightly to highlight the banners which bobbed among the organised ranks of armoured men. Though they were without the decadent raiment of the word-bearers, they were still an impressive sight to behold, and a tantalising relief for Sintra.
                A single torch-bearing man walked along the road, unarmed. Sintra recognised him as Commander Jindal’s adjutant, undoubtedly on his way to offer the Ranjar a final chance at parlay and peaceful surrender. Jindal would almost certainly have argued against this, since it would delay the commencement of combat, but tradition demanded it.    
                Then the adjutant arrived, Sintra was dragged forwards past the ranks of the Ranjar. The warrior pushed the ambassador forwards, tripping him so that he fell to the ground at the adjutant’s feet
                “This is what we make of your power and your promises.” He said with a snarl as Sintra’s body rolled in the dirt.
                The adjutant recoiled in horror at the mutilated ambassador thrown down before him, mouth and arms sewn shut, soaked in blood and caked in dirt.

*             *             *

                Commander Jindal, waiting with the front line troops a few hundred paces from the village, was watching through a spy glass. There were few fundamental principles of right and wrong that most savages could be expected to uphold, but the sanctity of a diplomat was always one of them. No civilised man would do this to an unarmed representative of another kingdom. These people were animals, and honour need no longer apply.
                “Fire at will.” He told the archers, lowering the spyglass and preparing to don his helmet. Out of sight of his men, Commander Jindal rubbed his hands gleefully. They were about to get going with his favourite part, the initial charge it battle. There was even a narrow bridge to take, a glorious focal point of which tales could be told for years to come.

*             *             *

Blood sprayed over Sintra from the warrior who had stood over him. He was wrestling an arrow from his throat in blind panic, which only caused the blood to spray around farther. All around the mouth of the village was shouting and mayhem; the adjutant had retreated immediately, the Ranjar were diving for cover or preparing their own counter-barrage, and arrows fell from the sky like rain. Sintra lay helplessly on the floor, desperately trying to quiet the fierce agony in his arms and his mouth long enough to get his bearings. All around him was chaos and noise, Ranjar warriors shouting orders to one another as volleys of arrow-fire slammed into flesh, ground and bamboo cane wall. Writhing there on the floor amid the battle he had been forgotten.
                The charge of the vanguard came like a battering ram into the Ranjar defenders. Steel armour plates crashed into bare flesh and halberd blades arced murderously through the air as the villagers attempted to repel the outsiders. Although it was now the Kingdom of Gold who boasted far greater numbers, the channelling of the narrow land bridge prevented them from leveraging their advantage and surrounding the Ranjar. Instead, the entryway to the village formed a choke-point in which perpetual battle raged. Commander Jindal, front and centre of the charge, roared feverishly as he hacked his sword across a bare chest in front of him. He ducked a sword-swipe at his neck and then head-butted the perpetrator squarely on the nose. It was everything he’d been waiting for and more.
                Underfoot on the Ranjar side of the battle, Sintra struggled his way onto his feet. He was unsteady from the pain and the chunks of wood still bound to his ankles, and the rushing, violent combat around him overloaded his senses. Seeing a gap in the Ranjar lines he ran as best he could, awkwardly hopping his way towards the friendly forces, but jerked to a halt as the lines from his arms pulled taut. Behind him many of the Ranjar were falling back, and none were willing to part with their prize, their symbol of defiance against the High King. Scrabbling ineffectually on the dusty ground, Sintra was dragged backwards into the heart of the village.

                The choke-point had slowed down the High King’s army but for every man who fell there was another to take his place, and the Ranjar front lines were soon overwhelmed. Once it hit more open ground in the village the fighting spread backwards quickly, with warriors fighting in the streets and alleyways which ran between the shabby bamboo structures. Bodies littered the floor and blood soaked its way into the tapestries hung from the walls, covering the culture of the Ranjar in the carnage of war.
                When the High King’s forces reached the town centre the sounds of desperation from the Ranjar had reached a fever pitch. They knew they couldn’t stand against the better-trained, better-equipped and more numerous foes. They were unwilling to surrender but unable to win. Sintra lay at the door of one of the houses overlooking the village square, facing the village hall building in which he’d tried to prevent this bloodshed. He’d thought he might be able to convince these people to save their own lives, and he’d been mutilated for it.
                A man came running from the doors of the village hall with wide eyes, shouting something that Sintra couldn’t make out. Whatever it was, it had far more of an effect on the other Ranjar than anything he’d ever said himself; the warriors who weren’t already fleeing now turned and ran, abandoning the square to the Kingdom of Gold with an animalistic terror as more and more of the Kingdom’s soldiers flooded in. Even Sintra himself had been abandoned in the rush to flee.
                A deep rumbling sounded from the village hall, like a stampeding elephant crashing through the jungle, mixed with a ship’s rope pulling taut. Sintra’s gaze was locked on the blackness visible behind the open door, desperately trying to make out who or what was making the noise. Soldiers from the High King’s army rushed forwards in the sudden absence of an enemy holding them back, some pressing onwards against the fleeing foe and others searching for any stragglers, traps or ambushes. Taking him by surprise, a pair of armoured hands grabbed Sintra by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet again.
                “Are you alright ambassador? Try to hold still.” Said a gruff, controlled voice. The man drew a dagger from its sheath at his belt and cut through the stiches which bound Sintra’s arms together. They fell to his sides immediately, still searing and swollen but at least freeing his screaming shoulders.
                “We’ll get you out of- By the King!” exclaimed the soldier as he rolled Sintra over and took a look at his face, frozen in disbelief at the barbarism of what had been done. The rumbling from the village hall grew louder behind them. The soldier brought his dagger up to Sintra’s mouth and delicately cut through each of the threads in turn. Bloodied and limp, the strings dangled away from the ambassador’s face like the monstrous facial hair of an ogre transposed onto a man, each one ending with a bright red, raw wound.
                “Thank you.” Sintra managed, garbled though it was through a dry throat, but the soldier wasn’t listening. He was distracted by the cracking and splintering coming from the village hall. The thin bamboo walls bulged and split, coming apart like an eggshell to reveal a dark red mass unfolding from within, like a ball of string wrapped around a chunk of raw flesh. Bamboo canes slid like pine needles to the ground as the gargantuan beast grew from the building. As it rose, the shape of a head sewn onto a set of shoulders became discernible, along with two mighty arms which were encircled by helixes of thick white binding. All over its body were stiches, threads and shreds of cloth, apparently holding its bloody form together, and the tapestries of war and conflict were draped over its shoulders. The monstrosity was a patchwork of flayed muscle, stitched together into a human shape of gargantuan proportions.
                “By the King…” Sintra muttered to himself.
                The golem of flesh, blood and thread swept one colossal arm through the front of the hall, splintering bamboo and straw into a fine cloud of structural detritus. That was the start of the new screaming, this time from the soldiers of the Kingdom of Gold.
                The golem unrolled itself upwards, unfolding like a bedsheet in its grim parody of a human body standing up straight. Its back arched backwards much too far, like a sail caught by the wind, and its neck was tilted to one side, like a puppy contemplating the path of greatest mischief with least effort. One leg, threads dripping with blood, kicked forward and dug a trench through the elevated floor of the building, leaving wreckage where the village hall had once stood.
                Behind it, connected on long tendrils of thread like umbilical cords and sinuous cords, were the old weaver women of the village, joined to the golem like marionettes with eyes rolling back in their heads. Their bodies were riddled with threads which led upwards into the golem, their own blood coursing through them like veins into the monstrous fabric construct.
                “What have they done?” the soldier asked out loud, staring up at the beast.
                The golem took its first steps into the village amid shrieks of primal terror, the bloodied effigy of hatred and rejected oppression made manifest in a self-destructive torrent of power. None would be allowed to subjugate or extinguish the Ranjar but themselves, it seemed. They were more willing to tear their own village apart and give themselves over to dark powers than submit to the High King’s rule; such was their prerogative, but for the first time in his life Sintra felt that the High King's crusade was at least partially justified. If these Ranjar were able to field such monstrosities then they could not be allowed to remain uncontrolled. It was a dangerous precedent for Sintra to agree with a warmonger in his decision to wipe out a whole culture, but he could let it slide on account of the agonising torture to which he had been subjected by that culture, followed by the black magic.
                “Can you run?” The solider asked Sintra urgently
                “Not with these around my feet.” The soldier knelt down and hacked at the ropes around Sintra's ankles, revealing sore rope burns and sticky skin.
                “Ok, now come on.”
                “Thank you.” The ambassador said as he burst into a run.
                The golem lifted one huge foot and brought it slamming down onto the hut beside it, spraying bamboo and timber shrapnel into the soldiers who hacked and stabbed ineffectually at its ankles. A sickening pile of broken bones and armour were left smeared and embedded into the flesh as it took another step.
                "Don't run you cowards! In the name of the High King bring it down!" Screamed Commander Jindal from one corner of the square. He emerged at a sprint, soaked in blood which dripped from his polished armour. He stared up at the golem and cursed his advisors for refusing to load up the siege engines. They aren't necessary for taking a bamboo village, they had said. If a battering ram can bring down a wall it can bring down a man, damn it, and then you don’t get caught short like this!
                A threadbare hand swept towards the soldiers on the ground as they charged forwards. Some managed to roll or leap out of the way, but more were caught by the fleshing and bindings. The sound of crumpling armour was unfamiliar and horrifying, with the sound of cracking bones playing a sickening undertone. Loose strands dangled limp and bloody from the limbs and torso of the monster, trailing behind it with every motion like a horrifying streamer. Each impact of its disgusting fists left a pool of fresh blood and torn fabric caught on the hooks and snags of the wreckage.
                Dragged along on their threads the weaver women wore the open mouthed expression of one who is completely outside of their own mind. They moved blindly and dumbly, stepping through the debris of the village and following the golem on its path of spiteful vengeance.
                All around himself, Sintra saw carnage; from the broken bodies of the Kingdom soldiers who had faced the golem, from the Ranjar who had been cut down by the Kingdom soldiers, and from the village which had been destroyed by all three parties. This whole diplomatic mission was turning into a disaster; a fabric-heavy nightmare in the name of the High King.
                The golem was perversely silent as it tore through the soldiers of the Kingdom of Gold. It should have screamed or wailed or bellowed a deafening roar, but instead it silently pursued a path of destruction, murdering loyal soldiers of the Kingdom with every swing. It was a difficult scene to reconcile with the absence of any bestial vigour from the atrocity which the Ranjar had begot. Everything about this nightmare had reeked of the unnatural; the blasphemous weaver women of the Ranjar had toyed with powers darker than the High King would allow.
                “Ambassador!” Commander Jindal shouted as he saw Sintra running from the golem. Sintra reflexively turned towards the familiar voice and moved in its direction.
                “Commander Jindal. I couldn’t send word, we were ambushed.”
                “And forcible un-shaven by the look of you.”
                Blood still dripped from the cut stitches.
                “I was… I was sewn shut to silence the word of the High King.”
                “This cannot be allowed to stand. Take up arms with me and you can taste your own vengeance!” The commander boomed, sprinting forwards before Sintra could object.
                Commander Jindal darted through the square, leaping over the fallen and dancing away from the blows of the golem in a daring flanking manoeuvre which brought him to the side of the left-most weaver woman. She was open-mouthed, white-eyed and entirely oblivious to the commander’s presence. Under normal circumstances he would consider attacking an unarmed, unaware, blind woman to be below the belt; conduct not fit for a warrior. In this case, since she was feeding a demon of catastrophic countenance with her lifeblood and indulging in unspeakable black magic, he was willing to make an exception.
                He drove his sword into the woman's chest with both hands, aiming for the heart and bracing for the cascade of crimson which traditionally followed that sort of thing. The Ranjar, it seemed, we're not traditionalists in any sense. Where they should have worn armour they were bare chested, where they should have fought man-to-man they summoned demonic flesh and thread golems, and where they should have bled from a sword wound to the heart absolutely nothing happened. Commander Jindal pulled his sword out and peered into the wound, moving his face far closer to it than a man of honour should. He could see clean through the old woman's chest but she didn't seem inclined in the least to make a fuss over it. He rested his sword point on the ground, handle against his waist, and pondered the situation. In all his years of warfare, Commander Jindal had never known that particular technique, basic as it was, to fail. The heart was always critical, no matter who you were stabbing. The chaos still ensuing around him had faded from his mind as he concentrated on this conundrum. He supposed that most people weren't connected by bloody threads to a monster, so that could have been a factor. He idly cut the woman's leg off while he thought. Still nothing, not even when caught unaware by an amputation. There was still a lot of blood flowing along the surface of the threads which led up to the golem though. Cutting string was rarely a decisive tactical manoeuvre but since everything else was being unauthentic today he felt like he may as well try.
                With an overhead swing he brought his sword down on the threads, severing them and finally seeing the spray of blood he had been looking for. The weaver woman crumpled to the ground almost immediately, as was befitting a woman in her position, and Commander Jindal felt far more at home with the whole situation.
                The flesh and thread golem did not take so kindly to this development. The other weaver women screamed in unison at their suddenly extinguished companion, and sent the titanic atrocity into a frenzy. Where his attacks had been ponderous and lumbering before, they were now desperate and furious. Its mighty fists hammered at the ground, crushing dozens of men and driving their weapons into its own body. The threads dangling from its limbs were alive, winding themselves around those who strayed too close and constricting them. They were left suspended like baubles and swung as flails when the golem resumed its spiteful assault.
                Commander Jindal rolled narrowly from the path of a hard kick, only to be caught by the section of wall it had displaced. The bamboo shattered against his breast plate but propelled him over backwards. There wasn’t even time to stand before he was rolling away again from a stamping foot; it seemed that his tailoring had caught the attention of the weavers.
                “Attack you dogs! Kill the old women!” he shouted wildly. It was the first time he’d issued that order, but now hoped that it would not be the last. The decimated Kingdom soldiers used the distraction that their commander had afforded them and rushed at the weaver women.
                The golem’s guard was not completely down, and several more devastating blows landed on the ground around its marionette women. Soldiers became red smears in the dust as the monster defended itself, lashing out at anything within reach. Even straggler Ranjar warriors who had been hiding in huts or launching hidden strikes against the Kingdom soldiers were crushed or snapped by the unbounded might of the golem.
                Despite its violence and barbarism the golem could not fully fend off the Kingdom soldiers, another of the weavers was severed from the monster, tumbling backwards into a pile of splintered bamboo. This shifted its attention away from Commander Jindal, who was able to cease his feral rolling on the floor.
                “That’s the way men! Slaughter the elderly!” he cried, rushing towards the next closest of the women. He ducked as a bound soldier soared towards him and slammed into the ground with a bone-rending crunch, but miscalculated the return trajectory and took an armoured foot to the head. Blood spilled from his scalp, stinging his eyes and partially blinding him, but he pushed on towards his target.
                Another of the women fell on the other side of the golem, sending a shuddering wave of anguish up the monster. It seemed to be weakening from the severance, less able to control its limbs and weakening, but it was panicking even more. Its arms and feet slammed into the floor with human flails crashing all around it. Another body struck Commander Jindal on the back, bowling him over forwards into the legs of the weaver woman. She staggered backwards, also struggling to cope without her companions, but remained connected to the golem.
                The commander groaned and pushed himself back up to his feet, lifting his sword again for a severing blow on the threads when one of the golem’s bindings lashed out and restrained his arm. He cursed loudly and dropped the weapon, taking it up in his off-hand. The binding tightened, cracking his armour plates and pressing torn steel into his flesh as it lifted him from the ground, when another of the women was cut-off elsewhere. The binding slackened and drooped enough for the commander’s feet to hit the ground again, and he seized the chance to swipe at the thread in front of him.
                The golem swayed as the commander’s blow hit its mark, like a drunk trying to stand against a headwind. Commander Jindal yanked at the binding around his arm but it was stuck fast, snagged and pinned by his ruined armour plating. His sword was long and awkward to lift towards the string, and he was unable to fit it between his own reach and the mass of flesh that was the golem. He leaned away as far as he could to make room for the blade as the rocking and swaying of the monster grew more violent, making it increasingly difficult to steady himself and aim the sword.
                Once again, Sintra stood helplessly by as he watched the struggle ensue. He could see Commander Jindal straining against the golem and attempting to lift his sword up, and he could also see the beast start to topple backwards. In a gut-wrenching moment, the commander’s footing slipped away underneath him, sending the blade through the thread at last. Commander Jindal had just enough time to look up and see the threaded flesh dropping like an avalanche on top of him.

*             *             *

                The dust of the monsters earth-shaking impact cleared slowly, unveiling the ruination that the Ranjar had unleashed. These were not simple, innocent peasant folk being evicted from their homes. They were not going to be honest citizens of the Kingdom of Gold. The High King would not be shedding his light upon a single one of them if Sintra had his way about it.
                The ambassador with his threaded muscles, mutilated face and dead friends reached to the ground and took up a fallen halberd in both hands.
                “With me men!” He shouted at the soldiers who still stood. “There are yet Ranjar in this village who stand against the High King. Let us spread the word.”

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Harold the Suburban Magus

                Harold stirred in his bed, the morning sun being resisted but not defeated by his frankly vile brown curtains. He liked them, but by all objective measurements of beauty he was wrong to do so. With a groan he looked over at his digital alarm clock and saw that he still had twenty minutes until it would sound.
                ‘Typical. I’ll never get back to sleep before that goes off.’ He lamented to himself in the midst of his pillow stack. He rolled over, but his pyjamas didn’t follow suit, constricting themselves around his neck and pulling on him.
                ‘Ugh, blasted things.’ Harold cursed as he wriggled his shoulders and tried to shuffle the clothing back into place. The sounds of fabric rubbing against fabric seemed obnoxiously loud in his tired stupor. They also sounded a lot more wooden than he would have anticipated. Harold ceased his rustling and listened. The scratching sounds continued, albeit sounding like they were farther away.
                ‘What on Earth is th… oooohh’ the memory of the previous night came flooding back; he really had to stop putting off his problems and just going to bed. With embarrassment and annoyance, Harold remembered that he'd summoned an eldritch abomination the previous evening and was yet to get rid of it. Much like yesterday’s washing up, it was still roaming around the kitchen, waiting judgementally to be dealt with and probably racing towards decay. Sometimes, being a magus was more of a hassle than it was worth.

                In the ages of mythology, magic had been commonplace. The animal-headed Egyptian gods accepted sacrifices, the titans and men of Greece were victims to the whims of Mount Olympus and humble witchcraft was responsible for every bad crop in continental Europe. But as time went by and technology moved on, magic began to fade from the world. The great gods were stripped of their powers, fantastical beings disappeared from the face of the Earth, and of all the young women executed as witches, but a handful were truly capable of magic. The decline of magic happened almost in perfect harmony with the improvement of dental care, but in the modern world of industry, technology and affordable toothbrushes, one bastion of arcane power and crooked oral enamel remained. A causal relationship between oral hygiene and arcane powers is yet to be proved, but anecdotal evidence appears to be undeniable.
                Every one hundred years, a grand magus of great magical prowess is born onto the Earth by the will and whim of the otherworldly powers. This grand magus took a role of supreme authority, commanding and teaching other, lesser magic users and solving the problems that only the arcane arts could influence. For generations, none but the grand magus themselves could ever predict the identity of the next grand magus, but cabals of evil grew powerful over the years. They worked in shadows and conspired amongst themselves to learn the secrets of the grand magi. After generations of sabotage and conflict, a damning curse was finally laid upon the line of grand magi, stilling the hearts of the chosen in their infancy and leaving the world devoid of sorcery. So effective was the curse that there had been no mage in adulthood for over 400 years prior to the birth of Harold.
                The line of saboteurs had disappeared sometime during the great wars of the twentieth century, leaving none to continue the clandestine crusade against magic and maintain the curse. There were none in place even to detect Harold when he survived through his childhood, let alone have his assassinated. He was the first magus free to practice the magical arts in generations, but in the absence of magic the world had moved beyond any reliance on magi. Certainly, no-one in West Turnton had thought they needed a grand magus before Harold had been born. Once he became active, those suspicions were fully confirmed.
                The problem was that although Harold was grand, wasn't a particularly good magus; he wasn't even a particularly good person. He kept an immaculate garden though, which he insisted was the product of his own honest hard work, but was really a needless form of exchange magic. His neighbour Margery suspected as much, looking over at Harold's spotless lawn from her own untamed jungle of weeds. She'd long given up on trying to pull them out – she would spend hours meticulously un-rooting invasive plants from her lawn only to find that they had all reappeared the very next day. Whenever Margery mentioned this to Harold he magnanimously replied that he didn't mind at all. It wasn’t how he’d leave his own garden, of course, but it wasn’t affecting him so why should he be concerned? Margery’s business was her own, he said, and he wouldn’t interfere.
                Harold’s magical education and instruction had been severely hindered by the lack of any other magic users in existence for the last 4 centuries. With so little expertise around, he hadn’t even realised his own status as a grand magus until his late teens, by which point he’d already got a job in the local shop, and had no real time for arcane studies alongside his college work.
                Once he had achieved his qualifications, Harold gave a cursory look to magical education. In his spare time, he began to consult library books on famous wizards and attempted to trace their writing. With no wizards actively practicing magic in recent history, let alone writing anything they were doing down, reference texts were both patchy and outdated. As such, Harold’s methods and approach to problem solving were often somewhat archaic; Merlin’s teachings featured heavily, which is tremendous for a court wizard protecting a glorious monarch, but less appropriate for life in a suburb of Surrey.
                Given the relative dearth of reference texts, Harold took a parallel path of forging his own magical styles in order to increase his repertoire. After many years of hard study, alchemical experimentation and blind trials, Harold became a master and a pioneer of beeomancy – the sorcery of bee manipulation. Harold singlehandedly put the honey makers of West Turnton out of business and indirectly led to over a thousand stingings in his first year alone. He considered this to be his greatest personal achievement in the field of magic.

                Harold lurched out of bed and pulled his dressing gown around himself. He’d bought one with a hood so it felt more like a wizard’s robe, but he rarely put it up; it just felt silly. After slipping his feet into the pair of slippers neatly placed next to the bed, he shambled down the stairs to deal with his abomination.
                Waiting in the kitchen was the grim result of yesterday’s work. It looked like a man-sized chicken drawn by a three-year old, with the legs of a donkey to add flair and stuffed full with the bones of a rhino. Harold looked upon it with a quiet mixture of regret and sadness; he’d never really got the hang of summoning spells, which is why he favoured the training-wheels of exchange magic in most cases. Cleaning up the mess of a bad summon was enough to make Harold practice it infrequently, so he hadn’t improved in the last few decades. For someone without tuition though, he told himself, he was doing a jolly fine job. Merlin would have been spinning in his grave.
                “OK, bugger off. Get out of my house.” Harold told the abomination, making shooing motions with his arms and directing it towards the front door. “Go on.” Harold’s banishment spells had also been a non-starter.
                The abomination regarded Harold and recognised him as its summoner. Under normal circumstances it would have been bound to follow his every instruction, but this summoning had been poor at best. The runes painted onto the kitchen floor appeared not to be blood but a strange mix of beef-dripping and tomato puree, the lines of salt were a low sodium alternative, and the skulls on display had been salvaged from a nearby mousetrap. It was an embarrassing show and did not lend itself to commanding respect and dominance.
                The summoned body was too poor to be capable of true speech, so the abomination articulated its thoughts by tipping its head slowly to one side, continuing past the point of broken bones until it was completely upside down.
                “Don’t give me that look! You know what I mean, now get out.” Harold told it indignantly, folding his arms over his middle-aged paunch and fixing the beast with a stern glare through his spectacles. The abomination completed the rotation of its head in a chorus of crunching and grinding bones. The skin had already been stretched over the rhino bones, but on top of that it was now horribly twisted and taut. This was exactly the sort of thing that Harold hadn’t wanted next to the fruit bowl.
                “No amount of head twisting is going to make you welcome. Shoo!” Harold grabbed a broom from the corner of the room and swept aggressively. The abomination wasn’t going to tangle with cleaning equipment wielded in anger, so it span on its hind legs and lopsidedly hobbled away, rocking violently as each leg came down at a different height. Its distended shoulder knocked a painting off the wall of the hallway, spilling broken glass onto the floor, and despite having already deployed the broom, Harold was still aggravated. When the abomination reached the front door it found that it didn’t have the necessary appendages to operate the door, and its efforts to peck the handle down proved futile.
                Harold shimmied past the grotesque horror and opened the door for it.
                “There you go.” He said passive-aggressively, as if the creature had been deliberately stalling. The abomination looked at him with an upside down head again, as if contemplating that its freedom was no longer so appealing. Harold shimmied back and grabbed the broom again.
                “I’m warning you.” he threatened, with bristles aimed directly at the beast. It pecked towards Harold in a show of displeasure at being shown the business end of the implement. Harold wasn’t going to balk at a fight for his own home however, and he whacked the abomination squarely where the rhino pelvis seemed to be resting, which was somewhere in the chest region. With a yelp and a peck, the abomination ran out of the front door and along the driveway, crashing into Harold’s wheelie bin as it did so. Rubbish bags tumbled onto the pavement, promptly getting torn open as the abomination struggled to walk over them. It bucked in annoyance before regaining its footing, and then scampered its way down the street and out of sight.
                “Oh for goodness sakes! Bloody vandal.” Harold shouted at the beast as he looked at the liberally spread rubbish on the driveway and the road. “I ought to grab him by the scruff of his neck and make him clean the lot up!” he told no-one in particular. Even if someone had been around to hear him they wouldn’t have believed that he’d do it.
                As if his own bin being toppled wasn’t enough, Harold was incensed to see that Margery's bin was overhanging his driveway YET AGAIN. The thin wall which separated the two driveways was narrower than a single wheelie bin, meaning that there was always overhang if a bin was placed in front of it. Margery always made sure that her own driveway was clear, the hag.
                Harold had enchanted his wheelie bins to put themselves on the kerb every week, avoiding the hassle of doing it himself. As if to spite his good idea, Margery’s actions forced him to go out and manually move a bin anyway. Too many times he had been forced to shift it back over her driveway; too many times had he seen the aftermath of a badger knocking it over onto his petunias; the time for retribution was at hand.
                He stomped his way out to the drive and grabbed the devil's wheelie bin roughly by the handle. The lid flapped open as he yanked the bin, slapping his knuckles and further earning his ire. Whilst it was open though, he took the opportunity to put his own spilled rubbish inside – a fitting punishment for Margery using his space. He wheeled the bin away and left it squarely in the centre of Margery’s drive, ensuring that if she tried to drive around it she’d have to either scrape against the wall or crush her magnolias.
                Margery appeared almost immediately at her front door; Harold supposed that she wasn’t bat-like in appearance alone, having clearly heard the rumble of wheels from inside the house. He didn’t acknowledge her though, as he was deep in incantation. A wind emanated from the wheelie bin, causing his loose dressing gown to flap and dead leaves to dance elegantly around him.
                “WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY BIN!?” Margery shouted over the eldritch commotion. Harold ignored her, continuing with his spell-craft.
                “PUT THAT BACK! IT’S BLOCKING MY DRIVEWAY!” she continued. The wind died sharply, not dissipating gradually but suddenly disappearing outright.
                “Good! It’s your own bloody bin, and I told you to keep it on your own side, but you still insisted on blocking my access. Only a true king may pull this bin from your driveway now, Margery.” Harold told her smugly. “I hope it was worth it!” Monarch anchoring spells were one of the few things he'd managed to learn from Merlin.
                “You petty oaf!” Margery shouted back him, but he ignored her with his held high and re-entered his own home. She immediately rushed out and attempted to put her bin in front of the wall, but found that it was impossible to move. She swore under her breath, cursing her non-regal lineage, and went back inside.

                Harold sat at his kitchen table for breakfast whilst his enchanted broom swept up the broken glass in the hallway. In days gone by Harold had cast spells on the broom so that it would not only pile up the sweepings but dispose of them entirely. Where the broom had been putting all the sweepings had been a mystery to Harold for many years, but all became clear when his gutters started to overflow despite the lack of any moss or leaves nearby to his roof. A simple modification to the enchantment solved that problem, with the added bonus of clogging Margery’s gutters instead.
                The kettle was busily boiling water for a cup of coffee, eyeing the dishcloth with an air of suspicion. It was a replacement of the previous, worn out cloth and the kettle couldn’t help but feel resentful. Most dishcloths ignored the kettle’s need for cleaning, treating it as an eternally clean surface rather than another critical utensil for washing. Months could go by, grime building gradually, without even so much as a wipe over. The previous dishcloth had been different, though. It had taken time to clean the kettle inside and out on at least a weekly basis with suds and everything! The new cloth would have an awful lot to live up to, although if the kettle forced itself to be fair, it supposed that Harold’s enchantment was the primary factor involved here, rather than the dishcloths work ethic.
                The cupboards didn’t know why the kettle was so riled up. They too were relative strangers to the touch of the cloth but they didn’t complain all day. After all, neither they nor the kettle were put inside Harold’s mouth, and therefore they didn’t need such regular attention. Being cleaned too often would lead to a greater chance of developing allergies anyway, the cupboards had heard, so perhaps their low-frequency cleaning schedule was for the best.
                Little did either of them know, but the new dishcloth was under the same enchantment as all of its predecessors. Harold didn’t enchant all of them separately, he just transferred the magic over. The dishcloth kept this as its most closely guarded secret, adopting a new personality with every new body to keep the rest of the kitchen guessing. It was probably a sociopath.

                Harold was ignorant to the politics of his kitchen as one of his spoons served him breakfast. A shirt and trousers were attempting to covertly slip themselves on the magus’ body while he sat and ate, but because Harold was seated they were destined to struggle. When he felt a shirt crumpling itself between his back and the chair he stood up to give it some access, stumbling on the trousers which were tangled around his ankles. He span to one side and fell face down onto the ground, an opportunity that both shirt and trousers seized to ambush him.
                “Blasted clothes sneaking up on me.” Harold grizzled as he stood himself back up. He’d long ago cast a softening spell on his floors so that falling down would not hurt as much, but it did mean that heavy furniture had a tendency to sink. His fridge-freezer was half a foot below the floor level, so the lower door was completely useless.
                Once his breakfast was eaten, his clothes were put on and his work bag had presented itself to him, Harold stepped into his shoes and exited the house. As he opened the garage door he was pleased to overhear Margery arguing with the binmen.
                “How many roaming monarchs do you think there are in West Turnton?" She shouted, clearly agitated. “Why can’t you just take the bags out?”
                “Health and safety. Can’t lift heavy bags out of the bin like that because it might hurt my back.”
                “It’s not full of gravel for Christ’s sake! It’s wrappers and empty yoghurt pots.”
                “Yoghurt pots and wrappers should be in separate bags. Are you mixing your recycling and waste?” The binman said interrogatively. He opened the lid of the wheelie bin and gasped.
                “You are! And these bags are torn open as well, everything would fall out if I tried to lift it. What are you trying to pull here?”
                “They weren’t when I put them in! They… this isn’t even my rubbish. Who… Harold!”
                Harold laughed to himself as he got in the car. The day might hold something worthwhile after all.

                The ancient texts all suggested that Harold should earn his gold by solving magical problems, taking quests, and providing remedies. Better still would be to claim an income as a royal advisor of course, but such vocations can be dangerous depending on the monarch. Harold didn't really feel like he could make a living from selling potions and medicines; not only did he know very few formulae, but there was already a Boots store in West Turnton and it was much closer to the bus stop than his house. Besides, no-one wanted a deer's blood tincture when paracetamol only cost 30p. In lieu of any royal advisory positions being open, Harold was forced to find work as project scheduler in order to pay his mortgage - fulfilling magical contracts freelance wasn't seen as a reliable source of income by any of the major banks.
                Harold pulled into the busy car park outside the office. Parking had been getting steadily more challenging as the company grew, but nowadays if you wanted a space you had to arrive at approximately sunset the previous day. Crawling through the car park in vain hopes of finding a free space, Harold saw something which made his blood boil - a sporty looking vehicle parked neatly on the line between two spaces by what could only have been an anthropomorphised buttock. Here Harold was, just trying to get himself to his poxy job, and he was being prevented from doing so by the selfishness of a carrier-bag full of old shower-water masquerading as a human being.
                Pulling up behind the offending vehicle, Harold closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Any observer might have thought he was attempting to cool his temper, but they would have been wrong. Deeply wrong. In moments, a quiet hum emanated from the surrounding air, which grew to a deafening buzz as a legion of bees descended onto the sports car. They swarmed its wing mirrors, clustered around the wheel arches and formed elegant patterns atop the roof, all at Harold’s command. Working as a single super-hive with the magus at its head, the bees worked quickly and efficiently around the car, encasing it in a honeycomb of poor parking decisions and actual honeycomb. The hive structure bulged from all orifices and crevices of the vehicle, as if someone had gone mad with a particularly rustic tube of decorators caulk, and distorted the car into a surrealist nightmare carriage. It was some of Harold’s finest work.
                Viscerally and vindictively pleased by his masterpiece, Harold followed it up by bringing the bees all to one side of the car. Acting as a team, they pushed it along the ground until it was within the bounds of one space only, a feat which was easy enough for the bees but apparently terribly difficult for the ‘human’ driver. Dark smears of rubber remained on the ground to mark the car’s path, and Harold drove happily over them to park in his rightfully won space. Their work done, the bees dispersed back to their daily activities, feeling as if they’d all taken part in something much larger than themselves, and an improved sense of community.

                Without acknowledging any of his colleagues, Harold slumped down onto his chair in the office. He grumpily switched on his computer, awaiting whatever bad news the monkeys he tried to arrange and organise would surely have left for him.
                Harold was not an adept computer user, being of that age to distrust them implicitly rather than learn about them. He had, however, decided to speed things up by enchanting his keyboard and mouse to do his bidding without contact. This tended to unnerve some of the other support staff and was the subject of a number of 'betterment chats' with the group formerly known as the disciplinary board. As his emails opened in front of him, he breathed a heavy, defeated sigh at the list of names and panicked subjects awaiting his attention. It was back to the daily hell.
                Harold’s day, as with all work days, passed at half the rate of normal time. He’d repeatedly tried to cast a spell to speed up the passage of time inside the office, thereby allowing him to whip through his work day more quickly, but all he’d manged to achieve was an acceleration of deadlines. If anything, he’d made life much harder for himself.
                After what Harold assessed to have been at least 6 hours, it was in fact mid-morning, and he noticed some commotion in the tea area to the side of the office. It seemed that Gary, one of the salespeople with a large mouth and an even larger need to be hit there, was setting out some cake, sweets, cheeses and fruit. It could mean only one thing - a birthday.
                Harold had no time for office birthdays. He didn't understand why anyone should be forced to bring in treats just for being born, he didn't understand why anyone else in the office should be expected to care, and he certainly didn't understand why no-one ever invited him out to the drinks afterwards. He would have categorically declined every invitation anyway, but he still felt robbed of every opportunity to say no.
                At 11 O’clock the tea area was plagued with milling employees all pretending to like Gary and wish him well, entirely as an excuse to eat cake and not do any work. They were clogging the small room, blocking any access Harold should have had to the kettle despite it clearly being time for his mid-morning tea top up.
                Grumpily, Harold pushed away from his desk, grasped his mug by the handle (to grasp it elsewhere would have been foolish) and ambled towards the overly busy tea area. Entering the cloud of false sincerity and empty compliments, Harold was forced to huff and grunt requests at several people to excuse him, as if he was the one who should need to be excused. It was his right to get to the kettle, but these human obstacles were standing in a stupid place and getting in the way.

                Harold stood at his final destination by the kettle and waited for it to boil, teabag already in the mug and ready for a quick escape from this over-populated hellscape. Before the kettle made it to boiling point, however, Gary called out.
                “Harold! Here to do some magic tricks for me? Make it a party? Gonna pull a rabbit out of a hat?” He said with smug self-confidence, buoyed by the grinning buffoons around him. He got a few laughs as payment for the cake.
                Harold replied devastatingly with a heavy sigh, which should surely have been enough to put the loud-mouth into his place.
                “Turn me into a frog?” Gary followed up, clearly a glutton for punishment in inviting a second sigh and even a shake of the head.
                “Unleash flying monkeys?”
                Harold slowly turned to face the grinning git. Comparing a grand magus to a common magician was insulting enough, but to be compared to a witch? A wicked witch? That was too much.
                “Right, that's it you waste of skin.” Harold snapped at Gary, frowning and raising his arms. He’d been working on a new spell and this was the perfect opportunity to try it out.
                “AGGLOMERATE!” he shouted, pointing towards the table of treats.
                The large birthday cake on the table vibrated and began to drift rightwards, and simultaneously a large block of Stilton drifted leftwards. The gaggle of vultures looked on, some in innocent confusion and others with the horror of realisation as the two mismatched food items approached one another across the surface of the table. When the Stilton met the edge of the cake it started to get absorbed, not puncturing the surface at all but soaking into it like water. As the cheese disappeared, it left a Stilton-coloured stain which spread outwards like the sun rising across an unusually flat and heavily iced plateau. In a few short seconds the whole cake had adopted the grey-white and blue-veined pallor of Stilton, with a layer of unpleasant looking icing oozing down the sides. The faint click of the kettle finishing its work was the only sound in the room.
                In the shocked silence, Harold calmly filled his mug with hot water and walked back to his desk, leaving Gary and his cronies with their newfound baker’s nightmare.

                A disciplinary hearing for disruption to Gary’s celebration was called and then immediately suspended. Harold presumed that he had successfully managed to convince everyone it had been a cheesecake all along, but HR’s realisation that spontaneous snack transmutation wasn't covered by dignity at work guidelines was a much larger factor.  Powerless though they were to punish him for agglomeration, they did still reprimand him for breaching internal rules on the inappropriate use of magic in general; those rules had been added shortly before Harold’s employment at the office, as a result of a Wiccan with a bad attitude and even worse self-control. Gary wasn't terribly pleased with the lack of affirmative action against the magus, but kept his silence lest he find his shirt agglomerated with a roaring fire.

                Open grievances with HR be damned, at 5pm on the dot Harold stood up and walked out of the office. His various garments dressed themselves onto him and his equipment switched itself under their respective enchantments as he went, drawing yet more suspicious and envious looks from his colleagues. When Harold arrived back at home however, things took a turn for the worse.

                A parcel had been delivered for Harold whilst he was out, which must have been the new socks he’d ordered. It turned out that, for reasons Harold was insufficiently educated to understand, a large amount of the magical power used for spellcasting was charged and discharged through the feet. When casting minor enchantments and hexes this wasn’t a big deal, but the powerful magics wielded by a grand magus were another matter entirely. The intense flux of power wreaked a terrible toll on the sock, fraying the fabric and wearing it down in a few short weeks of use.
                This sock parcel had been left with Margery, despite the clear "Don't leave it with that harpy at number 45" instruction Harold had added to the packing slip. The box had been opened already and then left in the rain on his doorstep, almost certainly spitefully. There was an outside chance that Margery had read the packing slip and been offended by the wording, Harold supposed, but if she was too childish to accept her true nature than that was her problem, not his. It was no excuse to give someone a serious case of the rainy socks.
                Injustices to innocent clothing reinforced Harold’s opinion that Margery needed to be exorcised for the good of the world, but as ever he stayed his hand. He couldn’t banish her without a proper council of mages present to agree with the ruling and aid in the spellcasting, and no council of mages had existed for hundreds of years. The West Turnton district council was a poor substitute. Revenge was still necessary, however. By the light of every full moon thereafter, Margery's front garden was filled with legions of rats from all around the greater Surrey area. They never really did much, because they were all thoroughly confused as to why they'd gathered on the surface so suddenly, but it was an intimidating and unpleasant sight none the less.
                Harold took his new, wet socks indoors and hung them up to dry before setting out again. Despite the hardships of the day, he still needed to get the shopping, awful as that experience always was. Over the years Harold’s attempts at conjuring his own produce in order to avoid the hassle of grocery shopping had been of poor quality. The majority of vegetables tasted of ash, looked like ash, and emerged in a ball of flame – much like ash does – and his meat usually turned out like the abomination which had haunted his kitchen that morning. Shopping was quite literally the lesser of two evils.

                Despite the track record of failure, Harold couldn’t help considering one more attempt at a grocery summoning as he navigated the human wreckage in the dairy aisle. He always thought that it was fitting that the other customers shuffled along for their milk like human cattle, but assured himself that he was special for noticing it and thereby exempt.
                Once the grand magus had been allowed to shuffle through the traffic of trolleys and bovine customers he was presented with what their slow stampede had wrought – the yoghurts on their high shelf were dented, crushed, split and, in one case, lidless and inverted. Harold puffed his cheeks out in displeasure, like an irate, balding hamster, and stared at the yoghurt mayhem. There was an awful lot of dripping dairy, with appreciable chunks of fruit resting on the mousses and fromage frais below. Peering past the superficial chaos, Harold noticed that there were still a few tubs left intact at the back of the shelf, but he would need to plunge his hand into the disgusting realm of spilled desserts in order to reach them. That wouldn’t do at all; he’d get yoghurt all over his shirt. Another method was required.
                Carefully thinking about which tub he wished to reach, Harold murmured some words of power and a small but violent wind billowed around the aisle. With a sound like water being torn and sand rushing along an exhaust pipe, a rift in reality opened up behind the shelf of Low Fat Strawberry and Lime Greek-Inspired Yoghurt-Style Dessert. Three tubs toppled through the rift and landed neatly in Harold’s trolley just next to the aubergine; this wasn’t the ideal arrangement due to the temperature difference between the vegetable and yoghurt, but it would do for now.
                His business in refrigerated dairy concluded, Harold rounded the aisle and groaned audibly when he saw a certified Margery looking at the very choc ices that he wished to browse. Now he would be forced to mill awkwardly nearby until she was finished, the selfish cow.
                Margery seemed to be finding the answers to life’s great mysteries among the frozen goods, spending what felt like hours examining each box in fine detail before placing it back into the freezer. If anyone else had been doing this then Harold would have feared for their fingers, but Margery’s heart of ice safeguarded her against any dangers of the cold.
                When Margery had finally finished doing her profane reading she lifted a single box and dropped it into her trolley. Once she’d moved along slightly, Harold peered into the freezer which had held her attention for so long and was struck the deathblow; she had taken the last box of choc-ices. The demonic harlot had delayed him purposefully and then deprived him of his rightful treats, yet another crime in a long list of evil deviancy. Grumbling to himself over the injustice, Harold continued along the aisle, his gaze resting on the stolen choc-ices in Margery’s trolley.
                “Harold.” She said tersely as they passed, with an almost imperceptible smugness that told Harold she had meant to make him suffer.
                “Oh. Margery, isn't it?” He replied. Mind games could be the greatest magic of all.
                “Why are you pretending not to know me? We've been neighbours for 15 years you pathetic oaf.” She asked, annoyed.
                ‘How dare she not be humiliated!’ Harold thought to himself. War had been declared.
                “In fairness, so-called Margery, you're a forgettable bunion on the foot of life.” It was a real zinger that promised him victory, but Margery didn’t break down in tears; such was the way when one battled demons. She simply ignored him and looked down at her shopping list.
                Harold could see the choc-ices right there, resting on the other frozen goods in Margery’s trolley, and heard them calling to him. They were his by right and Margery had usurped them from him knowingly. She must have seen the wrappers in the torn rubbish bags that morning and laid her evil plans out to the letter. How exactly she had known there would be only one box left in the store by the time she went shopping Harold couldn’t say, but he suspected she may have made several trips today. She must have had to ship out dozens of boxes of choc-ices every time and then lay in wait for him here all afternoon, the sadistic banshee.
                Harold saw a store assistant at the other end of the aisle fussing over the price of some cordial bottles and recognised him as just the distraction required to liberate the imprisoned treats. Whilst Margery was consulting her list, likely populated with the souls of newborns, Harold levitated a tub of vanilla ice cream from the freezer next to her. Naturally, the sight of floating dessert caught Margery’s attention, doubly so when the tub pressed itself into her hands. She peered at the frozen lid which boasted a soft-scoop and creamy experience but saw no mention of any flying abilities; of all the selling points this ice cream could have prioritised, that would surely have been the best. In much the same way as a dog pleading for an additional few hours of scratches, the tub pushed against Margery’s hand, lifting it upwards until it appeared that she was holding the tub at chest height. Then, unlike most dogs requesting a scratch, the ice cream was forcefully propelled down the aisle by Harold’s magic.
                The tub shattered when it hit the back wall, spraying frozen dairy across the neat shelves of cordial on the back wall and showering the store assistant. He snapped up sharply with surprise and betrayal in his eyes, and saw Margery looking aghast next to the ammunition freezer. A crowd of junior managers, sub-junior managers and envoys to the sub-junior managers gathered at the scene, pointing fingers at Margery and muttering in tones of tenuous authority to one another. As they assembled a task force of lesser employees to harangue Margery, Harold used the chaos to levitate the choc-ices from Margery's trolley unnoticed and make a break for freedom. It was a triumph for the forces of light.

                Once he had returned home and had his shopping unpack itself, Harold wandered into the living room and switched the television on. A news broadcast showed horrified local people complaining about some kind of wild beast rampaging around West Turnton, knocking over bins, digging up gardens, and scattering large quantities of human teeth all around the neighbourhood. Blurry amateur video footage, which appeared to have been taken using a ham sandwich in lieu of a traditional camera, showed a huge, vaguely chicken shaped horror ambling around a corner and shrieking.
                Seeing that no good would come from watching that broadcast, Harold switched the television back off and plonked himself down on the armchair, which had scampered around behind him for the occasion. Unfortunately, when Harold had cast his animation spell on the armchair he’d also given it an addictive personality, and now it was completely dependent on Harold sitting down to be able to function. Seeing as allowing Harold to sit down was its sole function in the first place, this raised all sorts of deep philosophical questions to which Harold was entirely oblivious. This obliviousness did not extend, however, to the strange dark shapes covering his garden all of a sudden. Harold stood, much to his armchair’s dismay, and looked out of his patio window to see that Margery had thrown a not insubstantial quantity of dog's mess onto his otherwise pristine lawn. It was an outrage to say the least, and probably some kind of vengeance for the wheelie bin this morning, despite the fact she had already wrought soggy havoc with the sock delivery. This never-ending war of discourtesy followed by arcane curse followed by discourtesy was a vicious cycle to be sure, but Harold couldn't back down now; they’d come too far. With a grimace and a poorly executed fire spell, Harold vaporised the stinky projectiles and created himself an even more unpleasant smog. Panicking, he quickly summoned a wind and wafted the aroma into Margery's house via the extractor fan.
                "HAROLD! WHY DOES MY KITCHEN SMELL LIKE AN ABANDONED KENNEL?" It had taken only a minute for Margery to conclude that Harold was the cause of her kitchen’s new blight and start screaming at him through his front door.
                "The same reason my lawn was...was…was defiled by your dog's filth." Harold replied angrily.
                "That was retaliation for vandalising my wheelie bin and putting your rubbish in it."
                "And what of the sock delivery, hmm?" His trump card had been played, evidence that Margery had made two moves against him since this morning, three if he included the attempt choc-ice rustling.
                "That was an accident! I didn't read the address until after I'd opened it."
                "A likely story. I suppose you accidentally left it exposed to the rain too, you old hag."
                "Hag!? It WAS unintentional for your information, but now I'm glad it happened. You deserve wet socks every day you petty illusionist.”
                “Illusionist is it?! Well, a thousand days of locusts on your window boxes, Margery.” Harold hissed venomously before slamming the door in her face.

                A couple of days later, whilst eating dinner and watching the locusts swarm Margery’s empty window boxes, Harold couldn't help wondering if the delivery debacle had been an accident after all. He certainly wouldn't be apologising or lifting the curse since that would be an admission of guilt, but the uncertainty plagued him all the same.
                Harold’s ponderings were reaching a fever-pitch when a knock on the door rudely interrupted them. Aggrieved that anyone should have the nerve to disturb him, Harold stomped with a theatrical sigh to the door and opened it to a thin man in a pinstriped black suit. The man held a sheaf of papers out to Harold, who eyed them suspiciously.
                “Why are you knocking on my door? Can’t you see I’m eating my supper? What do you want?” Harold questioned intently, apparently assuming the man could see through walls and thus determine that Harold was engaged in a meal.
                "Harold Livingston?" The man asked. He had a fairly good idea that this was indeed Harold Livingston, but wished to be sure.
                "Yes, what is this?"
                "I am here to notify you of proceedings being raised against you by my client for misuse of magic to the detriment of others. You are due in court in one week to hear the case against you."
                "What the- this is preposterous!" Harold bellowed incorrectly.
                "We'll see you again in court Mr Livingston." The man in black replied smugly before turning away and walking up the driveway.
                "Come back here and explain yourself!" Harold demanded.
                The man kept walking and so Harold did what any self-respecting citizen accused of magic abuse would do; he cast the spell of the never-ending driveway. This was another of the spells he'd picked up from the old tomes. Previous magi had used never-ending path spells to protect the routes into their homes, so that any intruder could walk forever but never reach their destination. Harold, on the other hand, used it whenever he saw salespeople walking towards his door. This time around, in his rage, he fudged it up and instead of making his driveway endlessly long, it became endlessly wide. Thankfully the lawyer had parked in front of the door, and was now unable to walk around his car to get in. He stopped and faced Harold again.
                "You see, this is exactly the kind of thing my client is talking about. Magic abuse, using your powers to exploit the magically-impaired."
                "Oh I am not."
                "You are currently holding me prisoner in an infinite driveway of your own creation."
                Harold frowned at the accusation and blustered "Well I don't see what business it is of yours how I conduct myself."
                “It’s precisely my business, Mr Livingston. My name is Zachary Null and I specialise in magical litigation.”
                “Magical litigation? I’ve never heard of such poppycock in my life”
                “I can assure you it is not poppycock, Mr Livingston. I’m an expert in claiming for all damages caused by the higher powers, including but not restricted to plagues of locusts,” Harold shot a sideways glance at Margery’s window boxes “curses, hexes, enchantments and miracles. Artefact abuse is considered on a case-by-case basis” he recited with a thin smile. Zachary Null didn’t know it, but he was a distant descendent of the cultists who had originally sought to expunge magic from the world. His own view on magic was far more avaricious than that of his ancestors, which, if anything, made him far more dangerous in the modern age.
                “What a load of bunkum. There’s no way anyone could sustain themselves so… well, like such of a leech.”
                “Take a look at my car and you’ll see how well someone can sustain themselves by upholding the law against the abusers of magic.” Zachary said, holding a hand towards the vehicle. It was mid-range hatchback, at least ten years old, with a Porsche badge crudely duct-taped to the boot lid. It was also currently infinitely wide, rendering it an impractical choice of transportation for narrow country lanes, although this wasn’t an inherent design choice by the manufacturer.
                Harold was deeply unsure as to whether this display of automotive delusion was an elaborate bluff or not, but chose not to question it openly.
                “Now would you please release me before the charges against you grow any greater?”
                With a deep huff Harold muttered some magical words and the driveway returned to its original dimensions, with the exception of two bricks at the end that travelled to a mystical dimension of golden rains and obsidian lakes. They felt awfully under-dressed for their surroundings.
                Without speaking further, Zachary climbed back into his ‘Porsche’ and drove away, bouncing his suspension with a teeth-chattering crunch on the two-brick pothole which had recently emerged.

                Harold did his best to keep a low profile for the week leading up to his hearing, lest anyone else get ideas above their station regarding legal proceedings. He seethed and dwelled on whom the prosecution was representing, suspecting the involvement of some kind of Margery. This was exactly petty enough for her, but lacked a certain personally demonic touch; she wasn’t renowned for hiring in professional help. Still, not wishing to take any risks, Harold avoided raining magical fury down upon her too hard, only once giving into vengeance when Margery’s newly bought wheelie bin was protruding onto his drive again. Even then, it was a subtle curse of eternal night time onto her flower beds so that her sunflowers wouldn’t bloom; passive aggressive magic was about all he could muster confidently.

                On the morning of the hearing Harold made his way to the town hall by distinctly non-magical means and waited patiently outside the courtroom until he was waved in. On the way to his seat, Harold saw Zachary sitting alone at the table for the prosecution, apparently acting entirely on behalf of his client. The fact that whomever was raising these spurious charges against him was too cowardly to show their face somehow angered him more than the charges being raised in the first place; now it would be that much more difficult to know who to curse.
                Zachary sat with a neat stack of papers in front of him, several more folders to one side and a briefcase resting on the adjacent chair, showing that he meant business in a display of professionalism. Conversely Harold’s own legal advisor, Joan Merris, had elected to arrive half an hour late with wet hair and a wonkily buttoned blouse, in an effort to intimidate her opposition with extreme confidence. At least, Harold hoped that was what she was doing.
                “Now that we are all finally present” the judge started with a sharp look at Joan “we’ll get underway.” Joan gave the judge a thumbs up to signal that she was ready, then stuck her tongue out when he turned away again. “Would the prosecution please read the charges against the defendant?”
                “Certainly, your honour.” Zachary said with saccharine sweetness. Harold squinted at Zachary’s suit and saw that an ‘Armani’ label had been safety-pinned to the lapel. “Harold Livingston stands accused of causing my client significant distress and loss of earnings as a result of the abuse of his magical powers. Not content with having the advantage over all other men and women, he actively seeks to make the lives of those around him more difficult and thereby his behaviour is a danger to the public.”
                “It most certainly is not!” Harold shouted angrily across the courtroom.
                “Mr Livingston, please remain silent whilst the charges are being read.” The judge told Harold with the authority of a hundred librarians.
                “You should listen to him, ‘Rold. He’s got a tiny hammer and everything.” Joan added in her expert opinion. She was reclined in her seat with her feet up on the table, staring at her fingernails as she filed them.
                “As I was saying, Harold Livingston, the so-called ‘Grand Magus’, is a threat to society with his malicious use of magic. He shows a wilful disregard for other people and the trouble his spells may cause them, exercising spite and pettiness where there should be restraint and compassion instead. It is the responsibility of those with power to use it for the common good, not to torment the people around him.”
                This sounded exactly like Margery’s sob story. He’d barely even hexed her at all, only ever lashing out at her home or belongings. If that wasn’t restraint against the woman who had left her television too loud for more nights than Harold could remember then he didn’t know what on Earth these people were expecting from him.
                “Moreover, my client moves that Mr Livingston has used his magic to permanently disfigure property and land in pursuit of trivial convenience and petty retaliation.”
                “I am perfectly within my rights to use magic to make my life easier!” Harold protested, having far more objection to the dismissal of his convenience as ‘trivial’ than the accusations of vandalism.
                “Mr Livingston, I will not warn you again to stay quiet.” The judge snapped.
                “He probably will warn you again; guy’s just trying to throw his weight around. Still, you’re probably best off listening to him and keeping your mouth shut.” Joan’s nails were still more deeply engrossing than her work.
                Harold seethed but nodded to the judge. He couldn’t believe how much Margery was blowing these things out of proportion. Sure, he might have dropped one or two lingering curses on her home and magically sealed a wheelie bin to her driveway but it was a proportionate response. Her bin was slightly over his driveway every week. She’d ruined more than one delivery, been caught throwing her garden clippings over his fence, and even had a barbecue specifically because his washing was out on the line. Who has barbecues in the middle of the day in November? Harold asked himself that question every time he ran Margery’s cover story over in his head. This was a war of tit for tat that she was losing, and now she was getting the law involved to really cripple him. It wasn’t just unfair and underhanded, it was barbaric. Harold didn’t know why he would expect any more from a vile hell-beast like her.
                “My client moves that damages and compensation for loss of earnings are due from Mr Livingston, along with a court-ordered restriction on his use of magic.”
                “And for the court, who is your client, Mr Null?” The judge asked flatly.
                It’s that contemptible witch. Harold shouted inside his own head.
                “Mitchell Clyde, manager of the West Turnton branch of Cheapo’s Supermarket.”
                Harold was flabbergasted. He'd been much more vengeful to Margery than the supermarket manager - in fact, he had never exacted personal retribution on the manager at all. The worst he'd done, he told himself, was to use magic for his own gains. That hardly qualified as tormenting someone in Harold’s book. Tormenting was far better described by some of the things he’d done to Margery.
                “The supermarket is raising charges against me?” Harold whispered incredulously to Joan.
                “Guess so yeah. Must be antsy about you using the self-service checkouts wrong or something.”
                “My client has listed several complaints against Mr Livingston, including but not restricted to the opening of a rift in space in the dairy aisle just behind the yoghurts, the attempted assault of an employee with a tub of vanilla ice cream, the bestowal of sentience upon a trolley which has since elected to leave the service of the supermarket in pursuit of a golfing career, and the creation of a sacrificial circle in the family section of the car park.”
                “Well how else was I supposed to load my shopping?”
                “The court recognises the difficulties inherent in loading the shopping, particularly in the rain. I’ll going to allow this interruption.” The judge said supportively, much to everyone’s surprise.
                “Yes, but not everyone needs to slaughter live animals in front of young children for the occasion.”
                “The court recognises that everyone has their own method of loading the shopping, Mr Null. There will be no further discussion of Mr Livington’s sacrifices in the car park.”
                “Preach it!” shouted Joan, pointing at the judge with one hand and carefully examining the nails on the other.
                Zachary let out a disgruntled sigh and sat down.
                “Does the defence have any opening statements?” The judge asked Joan and Harold. Joan made no move to respond, or even to acknowledge that she had heard the judge speak. When Harold nudged her she looked up at him and shrugged.
                “You want to say anything?” she muttered to Harold. He shook his head. “Ugh, fine. I will then.” Taking her own time about it, Joan swung her legs off the table and stood up, flattening out the creases in her blouse and trousers before addressing the court.
                “I move that Harold’s done nothing wrong in using his abilities for his own good. I also move that Znull over there is a nerd.” Joan spoke without passion, but had enough confidence to make up for it. She swaggered with each of her few words and waved her pointed fingers freely as she did so.
                “The court recognises that it is permissible for people to act in their own interests, and that, in all likelihood, Zachary Null exhibits some nerdy behaviour.”
                “I object to that!” said Zachary, his tone corroborating that claim.
                “That’s fine.” The judge replied as Joan returned to her seat. “I will now hear the evidence against the defendant.”
                Zachary cleared his throat and stood again, attempting to regain his composure after being insulted by not only the defence, but also the ‘impartial’ judge.
                “Harold Livingston has a history of ruining honest businesses with his magic, and I intend to show that he is repeating his dangerous behaviour to the detriment of Cheapos supermarket. How many beekeepers were there in West Turnton before Harold came along with his reckless beeomancy?”
                “Technically speaking, one half.” Joan replied.
                “Oh. Well, that’s still at least half of a tragedy, which is far more tragedy than anyone would like.”
                “The court recognises that one half is greater than none.”
                “Harold has never shown any indication of remorse for the half of a livelihood he ruined. I move that Harold is to pay the damages he owes and is contracted into servitude to the Cheapos store for at least a year, using his magic for the benefit of others instead of their detriment. Although these punishments do not fit with any of the legal precedents I could find for misuse of magic, I felt that I would be magnanimous with such leniency. After all, burning Harold at the stake seems excessive and drowning him would be inhumane. Plus, it would deprive Cheapos of the servitude they are due.”
                “These are... bold claims and sentences, Mr Null. I would remind you that sentencing is my right and duty alone. I will, however, recognise that compensation and, let’s call it what it is, slavery are much more modern punishments than the alternatives.”
                “I am attempting to extend an olive branch, even whilst bringing about the justice that Cheapos deserves.” Zachary told the judge, his words even slimier than a jellied slug. As he smugly grinned a high heeled shoe struck Zachary on the side of the head. Joan looked innocently in the other direction, one bare foot crossed over one high heeled foot, both still up on the table.
                “Continue giving your evidence, Mr Null. And please do not deviate into sentencing again.”
                The case extended for the majority of the day, with Zachary listing various magical offences that Harold was observed to have committed and Joan rebuking them with either projectiles or shrugs. Harold passed the time shuffling his hands around under the table and muttering quietly to himself occasionally. When Zachary finalised his case by pointing out that the roving beast which had been terrorising bins across the town had originated at Harold’s house, the judge finally called proceedings to an end.
                “I think we have heard enough now, Mr Null. We will have a 15 minute recess whilst I consider the facts, and then I shall pass my judgement upon you all.” The judge told them with grandeur and abuse of power.
                “This whole trial is a farce.” Harold told Joan grumpily. She was still, impossibly, filing her fingernails down. After such a long time she should have had no fingers left at all.
                “All trials are farcical. They should call the courtroom a farce-hole.”
                “Are you going to say anything useful today?” Harold snapped at her.
                “Depends if I need to speak to a waiter or not, really.” She said, still not looking up. Harold made various grumbling noises and ceased his attempts to discuss the matter with her.

                After the recess they piled back into the courtroom and Harold resumed his muttering. The judge called for quiet and then, once Zachary had ceased firing platitudes around, he spoke at length on the evidence had heard. Harold zoned out after the first ten minutes, Zachary was enraptured the whole time, and Joan had clearly mentally checked out of the whole case at least 3 days previously. Finally, however, the judge ruled in Harold's favour, much to Zachary’s dismay. It allowed Harold to breathe a sigh of relief, though. The case has been deeply stressful to him and he'd nearly lost hope on a few occasions, but in the end everything had worked out - Harold's first successful allegiance charm had paid off and totally convinced the judge that he was innocent, despite an avalanche of evidence to the contrary. The charm had been sloppily done, of course, and the judge would eventually relax back into a state of hatred for Harold, but for now they were on the same page. Abuse of magic indeed, Harold muttered to himself. Preposterous.

                Arriving back at home, Harold saw that Margery had swept all the leaves from her driveway onto Harold's, leaving a pile exactly where he’d have to drive. The pile almost certainly contained thorned plants and other such objects renowned for their aggression towards tyres, so that Harold would either have to move it all carefully or risk flattened tyres. This was exactly the kind of straightforward attack that Harold respected – none of this getting the courts involved nonsense. Demon though she may be, at least Harold understood her brand of evil.
                Looking at the tyres of Margery's car, Harold decided the best approach would be exchange magic. He paused, muttered a few words whilst looking distant, and then drove through the leafy detritus as if nothing was there at all.

                The following morning Margery drove herself to the shops as normal, smirking to herself as she looked at the tracks running through the pile of leaves on Harold’s driveway. A few miles away, Zachary Null stood by the side of the road staring at his car, wooden thorns and steel nails jutting from all four flattened tyres.

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