“Oh yes, this is just perfect Willand… I thought you said this thing was four-wheel drive. We need to get to Tretsa before noon…”

“Hey, the guy who sold me it said it could take…”

“You believed the word of a used-cart salesman? A used-cart salesman called Honest Uther?!”

Grutzal the Hairy, Barbarian for Hire, smacked the vehicle’s side panel as the Wizard revved the horse for the ninth time. The wheels churned in the track, kicking golden autumn leaves into the air and providing forward motion at a speed rivalling the fastest of continental drifts.

“Look, it’s the fashionable thing to do,” explained Willand, shaking the reins so hard more of the bedraggled mystical symbols from his robe flew in all directions. “Arrive late, make an entrance…”

“Yes, fair point... However, I think they normally mean harvest dances rather than heroic battles to the death with a gang of demonic centaurs…” explained Grutzal in his calmest voice.

Willand gulped and tried the horse again, he’d been with the barbarian long enough to know his calm voice meant that he’d transcended annoyed to a point where all his vexations were queuing up and slipping on the knuckledusters.

Showing a disregard for personal safety only seen before in the Plummeting Platypii of Piyn, the wizard attempted the placatory approach.

“Now Grutzal, have I steered you wrong before? Didn’t I help you acquire a magical sword of renown?”

Both heads turned to take in the well wrapped parcel buried under their luggage, even a bag of Grutzal’s used jockstraps failed to muffle the high pitched voice proclaiming its love for young female goatherders skipping through the mountains.

“Yeee-ess,” pondered Grutzal. “I’m sure one day I’ll come to my senses regarding magical yodelling swords and their plus points over, say, a quiet ‘not giving my position away’ type of weapon…”

“OK, how about the oft fabled Tam O’Shanter of Tom O’Shanter?”

“Oh yes, I don’t mind looking like a pillock… after all, the reward of being able to speak to oysters is invaluable…”

As the explosion of pithy sarcasm threatened to reach Defcon three the two were interrupted by a reedy, off-tune version of Pantalentio’s ‘Concerto no 34 for Armpit Flute and Unsociable Bodily Functions’ coming from Grutzal’s loincloth pocket.

Pulling out his ivory iBone the barbarian flipped it open and waited for the BlueToe imp to collect his messages.

“Oh brilliant, it’s from Tretsa, looks like we’re not needed anyway.”

“But the Centaurs said if we didn’t defeat them the village would be subject to their alcoholism, orgiastic sexual perversions and relentless pillaging?”

“Exactly, all the plus points of normal politicians and honest too, they got voted into parliament uncontested… Dammit, we needed the gold.”

“Is this a good time to talk about endorsements? Bob’s Beard Delouser is after a face for their adverts?”

“Willand… do you want your lower intestine to ring to the sound of yodelling?”