Prologue
"No. Not that spell."
Zarok glared at the mess of papers in front of him. This was going to be a long night. In fact actually, it already was a long night: that bony little upstart had turned up at his domain and, despite somehow missing a jaw and looking a great deal more lopsided than usual, had just wiped out his defensemen plus Lord Kardok and was currently standing around in his battleground like he bloody owned the place. This was nothing new, of course. He always was a small man in big boots in King Peregrin's day, and clearly losing half of his facial... face didn't make him any less of such. But at least he'd gotten to watch Fortesque throw the mother of all hissyfits in front of the clown tiles in the Asylum Grounds. That almost made up for everything.
Poof! "Ooh!" he said suddenly. "Oh, not right now," he decided reluctantly, stashing the page in a book of urban legends for future reference. He fiddled around some more into he finally exclaimed in triumph, "Aha! Now I have it!"
A flash and a portcullis opening later, Zarok crawled out onto the field on all fours and loomed over his foe with glee.
"None shall defeat the mighty Zarok!" An anomaly occurred briefly that would have turned the sorcerer's face red with embarrassment if it were not in fact that colour already and he cleared his throat firmly. "So prepare to die, Fortesque!"
Well, he thought with satisfaction, at least he has the good grace to run away this time.
Fortesque backed off towards the wall, keenly pursued by Zarok. The little bag of armour turned once the wall had blocked his path and faced his opponent. He was now wielding a weapon.
Bugger. It was a magic sword.
Generally things went downhill for Zarok after that. But at least his special spell was safe between the covers of his seldom read but often stepped on book of urban legends. He could come back for that later... amongst other things, of course.
And the traditional hundred years after that, two heirs to a kingdom called "England" were about to read a story...