Author's Note: Greetings once again. To any unfortunates who read the last chapter I promised some WoT-based shenanigans and have thusly delivered. I hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: I owe more apologies to poor Jasper Fforde and Michael Moorcock. A mention also for Emily Bronte and, yet again, papa Tolkien. I don't think I pillaged any other authors in this chapter, apart from Keats for the title. I am suitably riddled with remorse.

Chapter Two - La Belle Dame sans Uzi

An author's worst nightmare. Imagine your character, your creation, acting upon their own desires. Then imagine that character is the saviour of your entire fictional world. According to Millon deFloss, the average author can expect a concentrated sense of abandonment at the PageRun of a minor C-class character. To lose an A-class is nothing short of a catastrophe.

In short, Jordan must have been shitting bricks.

Chasing the Dragon – Liberty Belle


'So, Rand al'Thor – ginger hero extraordinaire – has gone AWOL.'

'Correct.'

'He's armed....'

'Of sorts,' agreed Neil.

'....and considered extremely dangerous.'

Neil nodded gravely.

Foremost at our minds at that moment, however, was not the PageRunning lunatic; we were on a quest to find my tutor.

To prevent a potential 'the' overload, it was standard practice for The Great Library to disregard the 'the' in any title beginning with the adverbial 'the'. Jordan's first instalment, Eye of the World, The, was therefore stored with its fellow E's on Level 5.

Being a pedantic soul, Mister Carnelian insisted that The Eye of the World should only ever be filed under T and had, in polite protest, secreted himself somewhere in the depths of Level 20. Rumour had it that he was loitering in a chamber behind Tin-Tin and Tristan und Isolde. Confused? So were we.

'What about Jordan?' I asked my bemused boss, mainly by way of distraction. A trek through the annals of all known literature was no stroll in Thrushcross Grange and my rotund superior was sweating like a cellophaned egg.

'Thankfully,' puffed Neil. 'He's put al'Thor's absence down to a bad case of writer's block. Poor chap's confused, though. Even started churning out prequels.'

I whistled appreciatively. 'Bet the fans are happy with that.'

We shared a meaningful look.

'This must be it.' Neil stopped me before a door apparently made of cream silk. 'Mister Carnelian awaits.'

'What about my new partner?'

'All in good time, Agent Belle.'

I waiting for Neil to waddle 'round a corner before rapping on the taut silk.

Jherek greeted me with customary puppyish glee and I was heartened to see he had dressed especially for the occasion. Clad in a stunning blend of silks and satins of the most blinding white, he was truly a spectacle to behold. Even his face and hair had been powdered to a flawless ivory. He looked radiant, a sort of seventeenth century pimp.

'Is this not most exciting, Agent Belle?'

I actually nodded. Carnelian's enthusiasm was infectious. Like glandular fever.

Standing before the bright, glowing portal was a rapt GG1. The portal was humming slightly. It seemed to be paying tribute to ABBA, but Jherek was dubious.

'Fernando, you say? I think not, dearest Liberty,' said my tutor absently. He had a small sliver of silver in his palm and seemed intent on prodding it. 'The portal's delicate dolorousness is most reminiscent of the latter 23rd century's musical movement. The fourth Pre-Post-Raphael-Raphaelite dynasty, if I'm not much mistaken.'

I grunted. My stomach had begun to itch. If those were butterflies in there, they were of the carnivorous variety.

Rand V.2 was bouncing on his toes. 'I haven't felt this excited since my last visit. I played random Aiel no.73 in tSH, you know?'

'tSH?'

'The Shadow Rising. I almost touched the Car'a'carn.' GG1 was aglow. 'Nearly got my head clopped off by a Fade, too.'

'Fascinating. Jherek, have you finished fiddling with that communicator yet?'

'Done and done, my vision of luminous literary loveliness.' Jherek pinned the pin above my breast.

We looked at each other for a moment.

'How does it work?' I prompted.

'An exact science of olfactory peristalses.'

I blinked.

'Sniff.' Jherek commanded as he jounced to hide behind a silken screen.

I sniffed.

'Perfect,' chimed Jherek's voice from the tiny communicator. 'My explorations revealed a disproportionately high level of emotive inhalatory activity in this realm, commonly displayed by the female occupants. A most peculiar phenomenon. My personal theorem is that the 'sniffing', if you will, engages some form of complex, pheromonally-charged mating ritual. Now, I merely need to discern if I can hear you. Would you be so kind as to form an experimental response, my subliminal Scheherezade?'

'I'm not the pheasant-plucker, I'm the pheasant-plucker's son, and I'll keep on phuc—'

'Capital!' Jherek leapt from behind the screen and hurried to me. 'It gives me great joy that, though I might not witness the adventure, I am but a mere nasal expulsion from my peerless pupil.'

'And if I need to turn it off?'

Jherek gave my freshly plaited hair a soft tug. 'This gesture is also indigenous to the native women. Therein lies the secret, my palatable papermite.'

'Ingenious.'

Jherek beamed.

'So all I have to do is pop in, deposit old Rand XP here and pop back out?'

'Absolutely. Our contact will do the rest.'

'Righto, though it seems a bit...'

Jherek gave me an enquiring look.

'...a bit like, well, donkey-work.' I finished, feeling a trifle churlish.

'How curious of you to say so, Agent Belle. The Council, in passing converse, mentioned something about a 'trained chimp' being sufficiently qualified for your mission. Tell me, parenthesis of piquancy, are our fauna friends common amongst the workfor...?'

Jherek trailed off when he saw my dour expression. His quickly turned to one of mortification.

'Agent Belle. Have I said something amiss?'

'It's quite all right, Jherek.' My voice sounded....wobbly. For some reason, Tensile's stupid, smiling face had popped up behind my retinas. 'It's not your fault.'

But Jherek would not be comforted. 'I am unworthy. If it pleases you, I will gladly serve my pennance at the End of Time. Oh, I am sure I have never felt this wretched! Not since I almost lost my yuek to that slaprevb in the fifty jhdkl centurflurgh.'

'Jherek, is your translator playing up again?'

'Why du yaou askquert?'

I rummaged in my pocket for a translation pill.

'Oh, most kind os yiue, frtonte—'

'Just take the pill.'

I trudged to the glowing portal. It was now humming something like a timid rendition of Dancing Queen. I felt a smidgen better at stepping into something with such obvious good taste.

'Dearest Liberty, passenger of prose, navigator of notoriety; are you ready?'

The translation pill obviously had its limits.

'I'll go first,' I muttered to my red-headed comrade.

GG1 nodded and gave me a cheesy grin. 'Dovienya!'

'What?'

'Er, good luck.'

I stepped into the portal.

There was a sort of wobbly pop! and I was suddenly bombarded with the smell of rolled hay and bee-bright blossoms. I sniffed appreciatively.

'Is there a problem, Agent Belle?' piped Jherek's voice through the communicator.

I glanced around, startled, until I remembered how the pin was operated. This communicator was going to be a pain in the arse. 'Sorry Jherek. Something tickled my nose there for a minute.'

I yanked my braid, winced, and watched as my Generic Ginger stepped through the portal.

'This is fantastic,' he enthused, wide eyes taking in the blue sky and evergreen studded glade. 'But where is our conta—?'

He sort of broke off at that point. He wasn't being rude. It's rather difficult to talk when half your head is lying at your feet.

I frowned as the ersatz-Rand crumpled, his lower, remaining lip locked in semicircle of surprise.

After a few seconds of fruitless gaping, I looked up.

It was big, hairy and smelled like a builder's cleavage. The towering creature snorted and menaced closer, its barbed sword clotted with GG1's first-rate generic blood.

Through my horror, I remembered the Uzi and scrabbled at my belt.

Tusk-face snarled, jaws drooling with fetid slaver. Fighting a desperate urge to chuck it a breath-mint, I made a grab for the gun....and found it wasn't there. 'Aargh.'

'Naargh,' agreed the halitoic hell-beast.

His vile breath must have been hallucinogenic for I had a brief, and terrible, vision of the Uzi sitting on my pillow; I had left it there when I changed into the ridiculous woollen dress, the hem of which I was currently tripping over.

All was lost.

I gagged as a crimson spray slapped my face. The beast and I shared a moment of incomprehension as we gaped at the foot of steel erupting from its breastplate. With a gurgle, the monster lolloped and slumped to the grassy floor, landing so its tusk grazed the tip of my left big toe.

Then I got another unwelcome surprise;

I had been saved by a floating head.

The bobbing bonce eyed me with confirmed disdain. 'Jurisfiction.'

I bristled. He had made the title sound venereal. I wiped a few spatters of blood from my lip. 'Yes. And you are under arrest.'

'Charming,' exclaimed the curious cranium. 'I just saved your life.'

'You are not fictional. Outlanders are not permitted to page-hop without the relevant documents.'

'A textport?' His lip curled. 'I'm not a sodding tourist.'

'Then how do you explain that accent?'

'Seanchan,' he drawled in unmistakable Bristolian. 'Besides, there's no way you can arrest me.'

I spun, the portal was sputtering like a miner on nitrous-oxide. 'Shit!'

Too late. I watched the portal suck itself into a belly-button sized blob. There was a plaintive bop and that was that. I was marooned in Randland.

'Thanks a bloody lot. You could have told me.'

'Why, so you could try and put me under arrest?'

As the amused-looking head drifted closer, I saw it was attached to something after all.

My unwelcome saviour was wearing a strange cloak, one that swayed and bustled so it appeared to merge with the bucolic surroundings.

The man assumed an arch glower as he swept the nauseating cloak over his shoulder. 'Well?'

'Well what?'

'Are you going to stay here all day? That Trolloc is unlikely to be alone.'

'Trolloc? Is that Cockney rhyming slang for something?'

'I don't quite follow.'

'As in a kick in the Trollocs. Get it? Trollocs?'

I heard a faint, tinny chuckle. 'Glorious, my sartorial student! You replaced the appellation with rhyme to create crudity, yes? The source pun, I assume, is bolloc—?'

'Jherek!' I managed to sputter. 'You're still there!'

'Indeed I am.' Carnelian sounded delighted by my enthusiastic greeting. 'But where are you?'

'Stuck.' I said miserably, eyeing my companion with some disgust.

'Don't look at me like that!'

'Who is your new acquaintance, my stranded siren?'

'Some bloke with a detachable head.'

'And where is the GG1 known as Rand?'

'His head has become detached. Permanently.'

'Oh, that is a shame.'

'Yes yes. Jherek? Can you get me out of here?'

'Without your portal?' scoffed the caped cretin. 'You might as well offer a Fade free contact-lens trials.'

I gave my braid a peeved tug, remembered the cut-off signal, sniffed and was relieved to hear Jherek's gentle tones pipe from the mic.

'...new friend is right, I fear. I must speak with LiteraTec concerning permission for another portal.'

'He's not my friend. And Jherek?'

'Yes, my melancholic martyr?'

'Please get me out of here.'

Mister Carnelian promised me his most vehement assurance and signed-off.

My plait received a forlorn tug and I slumped to the grass.

'We should get going.'

'We?' I squinted at my rescuer. He was cleaning his stupid, ugly sword with the dead beast's cloak. 'What makes you think I'm going with you?'

'Because you're my partner.'

'Piss off!'

He quirked a well-shaped brow. 'They didn't tell you? No matter.'

Then it all fell into place; the self-satisfied smirk, the miasma of arrogance, the perfect hair. 'Goliath,' I snarled.

I glowered at his smirk. If you're wondering what a Goliath is, the clue's in the name; picture that biblical bully on steroids, amphetamines and a serious ego trip and you'll get a pretty good idea.

I had worked under the Goliath Corporation in my SpecOps years. The memories were not fond ones.

'Why are Goliath soiling themselves with Jurisfiction work?' I demanded. 'Or is that classified?'

His grin was all the answer I needed. 'You're stranded. My training,' He gave me a superior look. 'Equips me with the means to decipher this world, a boon you will doubtless find useful in your current circumstances. When the portal is reactivated, the echelons will be only too glad to answer any queries. Until then, I advise you follow me.'

I threw poor GG1 a mournful look and trotted after my guide.

'So, where are we going?'

'To liaise with my contact. After all, there aren't supposed to be any Shadowspawn in this vicinity until chapter five.'

'Shadowspawn?'

'Trollocs, Myrddral, Draghkar.' He gave me a suspicious glower. 'Have you actually read any of Jordan's work?'

'Of course,' I snapped.

He was still eyeing me, clearly disbelieving.

'In fact,' I brazened. 'I'm very much looking forward to meeting Conan.'

There was a startled pause. A tumbleweed chose that very moment to breeze past.

'I think it would be best if you remain silent, Agent Belle,' said the stiff-looking Goliath Agent. 'Trollocs, and the like.'

Lip buttoned, I straggled in the tosser's wake.

'Where's your contact based?'

Sourpuss sighed. 'He's currently lodged at the Brandywine Inn.'

'Hang on; that's a pub from Lord of the Rings.'

'No, that was the Prancing Pony. The Hobbit Meriadoc's name was Brandybuck.'

'Right. Where are we going after that?'

We were approaching some sort of village now: cows, geese, muck and thatched roofs; your basic fantasy fare.

'To the Taren Ferry—'

'Now that's definitely filched from Fellowship.'

He gave me a withering look. 'The Hobbits made their escape via the Bucklebury Ferry.'

'I still say it's derivative.'

'As you wish, Agent.'

'So, what's your name?'

'Agent Iron.'

'I mean your real one.'

His hesitated. 'Richard.'

'Mind if I call you Dick?'

'I'd prefer if you didn't.'

'Righto, Dick. Gosh, there's the Brandybucklebury inn already.'

'Brandywine. And I don't want you bothering my contact. He likes me to do the talking.'

I shrugged. 'What's his name?'

There was something wicked about old Iron-Dick's grin. In fact, it was positively feral.

'Lan,' he replied, an ominous note in his west-country twang. 'al'Lan Mandragoran.'