The Chronicles of Ra'jirra II: The Wasteland, In which Arch-mage Ra'jirra has an out of this world experience Options

[Cardboard Box]

CRITICAL EDIT: Haute Ecole Rider pointed out that 1) I'd used a variant of Julian without his permission, and 2) that I'd varied too far from the essential Julian as well. So there's no Julian in this splay any more.

Preface

It's probably a bit early to start posting this second fanfic, but seeing as I already have a chunk of the story... researched... I have no compunction about posting it already. If a fanfic in which Cyrodiil yankees land in Three Dog's court isn't suitable on this forum, just say so and I won't continue.

It's set in the future after the following events:

1. The elevation of Ra'jirra to the position of Arch-Mage
2. His marriage to S'jirra
3. The Oblivion crisis and the equally nasty affair of the Knights of the Nine, which was resolved by Zul gro-Radagash, Champion of Cyrodiil. (Ra'jirra and Zul don't play well together.)

More importantly, this should ensure your regular dose of everyone's favourite khajiit mage until I save up enough for a new graphics card. The original Chronicles will be restarted then, probably in November.

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Chapter 0. Prologue

"Now what's going on here?" I asked the pilus once my horse was stabled at Black Plateau.

I wasn't in a good mood. Five days ago, I'd been having a pleasant week with my family at Faregyl Inn when I received the summons. The kits are growing up so fast; R'mara and Sheeyin are following in their mother's footsteps - along with 'Auntie Abhuki's' – and with any luck will run the inn just as well. At least, once they get big enough to cook and see over the top of a broom.

Don't tell anyone, but we're thinking of taking over the Inn of Ill Omen as well. Gods know that place needs a decent cook at least.

J'dargo... well, he's a big boy and I've told him that when he's older there'll surely be a place in the Legion or the Fighter's Guild for him, if he doesn't go getting himself killed first.

And no, I will never bring them to live in the Imperial City. S'jirra hates the big smoke, and I'm not making her unhappy. Well, more than I have to. Besides, you all know by now about how so many buildings there became slaughterhouses at the height of the Oblivion crisis.

Let me tell you a truth: Despite what that cretinous "Champion of Cyrodiil", Zul gro-Kissmyarse-Radagash says, it was me who closed the gate threatening the Faregyl Inn and the Inn of Ill Omen. I even have the sigil stone, since I knew damn well that any stones that moronic snot golem found would be turned into enchanted gimcracks before you could say chump.

Anyway, the aforementioned summons was in the form of a rather tattered-looking apprentice who stumbled through the door four days ago. "Arch-mage!" cries he, looking very tired and like he misplaced a lot of blood somewhere. And here I am sitting in a corner reading The Children's Anuad to them.

So I get up and over to this apprentice who's bleeding all over our nice clean floor and land a healing spell on him. "What the hells have you been doing?" asks I, "playing with those bandits around Horn Cave?"

He just gave me a sickly look and I make a note to pay the drunken swines a visit. "At the bridge," says he. Ah. Better pay the lazy drunken Legion swines a visit instead then.

"Well," says I, "We'll put you up for the night, at twenty drakes." And he looks at me like a stunned slaughterfish and I explain, "That's bed, potions and labour. You can deliver your message tomorrow."

Then I grin to let him know I was teasing.

"Arch-mage," gods he was persistent! "I have a message from Vito."

And I just look at him. What did the pilus of Black Plateau want?

"The message can wait," says I, "let's get you sorted." And I swing everyone into action and grab J'dargo before he can head out the door.

"No," says I.

"Dad!" whines he, "I'm going to kill those ban-dits!"

"No," says I, "you're too young." And at twelve he was too. "Besides the bridge is six hours away, and they have big axes, and big swords, and bows and spells that will get you before you see them."

Well! He draws himself up to his full height and stares at me from around stomach level.

"I can see in the dark," says he correctly, "I'll kill them all first!"

This is why heroes shouldn't settle down and have kids. I think Trey, you know, the Nerevarine, would agree with me. He didn't let Athlain hare out the door with a toy mace at twelve years old in the dead of night, so why should I?

So I do the only thing I can. I'm bigger than he is, so I yank his mace out of his hand and stick it in my belt. J'dargo knows better than to try and take it from my belt, because when I take his mace off him, I'm serious.

And I look at him and he looks at me and sags. "Please?"

"No." The world would be a better place if more parents put their foot down and said no to their kids. I've got into all sorts of trouble just from wearing my distaste on my face when confronted with brats and their servile sires and/or dams. And I've got out of all sorts of trouble when they recognised me.

And the children of the aristocracy are the worst, which is another reason I'm not bringing my family to the Imperial City.

Anyway I turn away from J'dargo – case closed, father knows best – and he slopes off to mope with his toy soldiers to the amusement of the other patrons.

And I go up to check on our visitor. I find him in better fettle, partly due to the silver flash of healing magic observable under the door.

"You able to talk?" and he nods, but looking a little woozy still.

"Did you come all the way from Black Plateau?" asks I.

"No," says he, "the message came to your chambers at the Arcane University, and Master Polus called for a messenger." And he shrugs.

"I'll discuss your run-ins later," says I, "Now, what's the message?"

And he points to a sealed packet on the dresser; fortunately my girls are sensible and know better than to read the Arch-mage's mail – even if he is formally known as 'Daddy' or 'Husband'. So I opens it and find:

Ra'jirra,

Tuls Laren has had a fire in his laboratory as of 3 bells post-noon, 26 Last Seed 3E445. I think you should come and see this as soon as you can.

Brucellus Vito
Pilus Prior
Black Plateau Magical Research Institute

PS. Don't call me Bruce in front of the men.

That’s Bruce for you. A decorated hero from the battle of Bruma, but a knee smashed beyond repair condemned him to ‘manning the wooden fort’. He may be deskbound, but don't underestimate him. He effectively manages the place with an iron fist.

But at the same time, he knows I'm a busy Khajiit. I've got the various guilds to keep under control; the Guardians of Oblivion to worry about; battlemagi to train in order to deal to said Guardians of Oblivion; a whole new set of buttocks to kiss under Chancellor Ocato and that oaf of a Champion, Zul gro-Radagash; and the Bruma guildhall still isn't back up to speed yet. So he wouldn't summon me for a common or garden laboratory fire.

Moreover, he had a method of directly communicating with me in case of emergency. Whatever had happened in Laren's lab wasn't life-threatening yet, but he still felt I needed to see it.

The apprentice had either fallen asleep or passed out, so I slipped out into the hall. My darling S'jirra was there with a small bowl.

"Some brroth forr the apprrentice," says she softly.

"He's just passed out for now," says I softly, "but he gave me the message. I'm wanted at Black Plateau."

I hate it when S'jirra looks sad. I'd rather see her smile that smile that feels like warm sun in my heart. "Don't worry," says I, "I'm not leaving now. They can wait until tomorrow, when I've finished vital important business here." And I look her up and down in that way that always makes her chuckle and in this case almost spill the broth.

"Silly kit!" says she, "I will take this in, then we will rretirre forr yourr verry vital imporrtant business!"

And so she did and, once we finally got the kits in their own beds, we did. Allow me to add here three asterisks, to indicate the pleasant passing of many hours.

* * *

At dawn we were woken by various grunts and bustles as Abhuki and some of our guests got up and about, readying themselves to head off. And so did I – reluctantly.

My little pride came out as I, looking resplendent in my now increasingly long in the tooth 'travelling clothes' – Ayleid armour, the black bow from my Leyawiin days, and a silver mace I hung onto "just in case" – prepared to mount the white gelding I'd got to replace the unicorn and match my shield.

"Now then hot stuff," says I to J'dargo sternly, "I'll be back between a week or a fortnight, depending on what's going on, so I want you to take care of your mum and Auntie Abhuki–"

"I'll defend them with my life!" Yep, definitely warrior material. But he needs to develop brains to balance his brawn, or maybe it's that I gave him his mace back. Local rats beware!

"–and your sisters," making those two kits giggle. J'dargo made a face, but I gave him a stern look. "No arguments," says I.

"Yes, father," he knows better than to argue about that.

And so with the farewell cries of my family echoing behind me, I rode off into the sunrise to the Black Plateau Imperial Mage's Guild Research Facility.

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Coming up: Mysterious voices! Phonetic spellings! Unexpected visitors! Amusing misinterpretations! More maledictions against the Chuampion of Cyrodiil! All this and less!

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Sep 9 2010, 04:45 AM

[Cardboard Box]

[And now for a chapter that's best described as "filler." Haines has his first thirteen goes at doing magic himself. And then there's a poor retelling of a meeting with Sentinel Lyons that never happened in my first game, and took me by surprise when it did this time.

I've also leaned on Haute Ecole Rider's work for the teaching session, and if the behemoth battle seems rushed... well, Ra'jirra can't recall everything. Also, I'm days behind my game, and I think 9 September 2277 has lasted over 48 hours. Strange...]

23-25 August 2277: GNR

As it turned out, the rat head stayed with us until the river, where Haines threw it in. A split second after it hit the water, something huge and hard-shelled surged up and made the head vanish.

“Mirelurk,” Haines said, and pointedly moved away from the water's edge.

We headed east again, towards the Super-Duper Mart and then further east still, into the dead city. He waved at a woman sitting outside a waterfront shack and she waved back. “Grandma Sparkle,” he explained, “her boys hunt mirelurks. She also said people are looking for someone, and maybe I could help them.”

“Looking for us, no doubt,” says I, “where are we going?”

“Georgetown West metro entrance,” says Haines, “via the Tepid Sewers, which we reach by crossing to the Anchorage War Memorial here.”

It wasn't hard to spot the memorial – the statue of three soldiers on top, the bridge right in front of us. I looked at the blackened craters in the roadbed and then at Haines.

“A most delightful experiment,” says he, “testing the effects of exposure to high-energy coherent light pulses on...”

“You shot some landmines with your laser pistol,” says I.

“If you put it that way, yes,” says he sniffily.

And we go up the top and over and down the other side. There was a brief swim before we reached a door in a low wall. “In here,” Haines said gruffly and in we go.

The walls were metal, but not scraps held together with baling wire and string as in Megaton, but purpose-made units fitted together. Pipes and things ran along the walls and ceilings, connecting machines of unknown use. I needn't tell you it was all coated in the predictable patina of neglect and age.

We stepped over mole rats, only some of which showed signs of the Staff of Moira. The others probably became dinner for the raiders. The metal dungeon terminated in a door opening onto a large tiled chamber with daylight scowling through metal mesh gates.

“We're in the Georgetown North metro station,” Haines explained, “But be careful. There's super mutants in the building facing the entrance.”

As if to confirm that tinny gunfire broke out from outside.

We carefully wriggled out of the gates and up the steps. And I got my first look at a super mutant.

Imagine a cross between an ogre and a muscle-bound Nord, but totally hairless and an odd green-brown colour. The whole creature seems to be bursting at the seams and permanently angry – as though they'd find walking through an Ayleid swinging blade trap relaxing. Got that?

And what you're envisioning is one of the weaker ones.

Anyhow, the super mutants were attacking somebody stage right. We peered over the balustrade and saw Talons. “Better them than us,” whispers I to Haines, who grinned at me behind his helm visor in response.

A broken Talon sailed off the second floor, and landed in front of us. Unfortunately the thrower stuck his head out to admire his work.

“You! Die! Now!” screams he by way of greeting and unlimbered what I had learned was a hunting rifle – it looked like a toy in those huge hands. Haines was quicker with his laser pistol and I absently lobbed a Firestarter with one hand and fumbled for the pistol Haines had given me with the other. With only sixteen arrows I had to learn how to use a gun if I was to survive.

The giant goggled at the pretty ball of light sailing towards it – until the fireball, accompanied by (mostly) Haines' and my shots, smacked into it. The beast howled and fled, its heavy steps clumping inside the ruin.

Haines pointed right, so right we went, arriving in a small square. Décor came from one of those Nuka-Cola machines and a trio of dead Talons. Being respectful of the dead we promptly stripped them of everything useful just as another Talon burst out of the building with our lightly singed super mutant in pursuit.

The mercenary saw us, and in that moment of indecision died, the mutant swinging a sledgehammer through his skull and down into his ribcage. I took a gamble and cast the killing spell, briefly shrouding the newest corpse in black and red.

“What the blazes was that?”

“Magic,” says I trying to catch my breath, “learned it from a chap in Bravil. If your victim is weak enough, it'll kill 'em outright.”

“Clarke's Axiom,” mutters Haines, “Look, Ra'jirra, could you teach me such a spell?”

Well. I have a think and decide that it's worth a go – after all, I could still fling the old favourites about, why not let one of the more important locals have a go?

“Righto,” says I, “we'll kick off with something useful: a healing spell. Tried and tested.”

“It doesn't involve prayer does it?”

“Nope, this one's only for light wounds. Now, imagine you're in a refreshing breeze.”

Ernie looked doubtful, but he closed his eyes. “All right...”

“Now, imagine all your aches and pains are clenched in your right fist, so tight they crush into silver light. Then lift your fist, open it, and let it go.”

Sounds simple doesn't it? But it took Ernie about a dozen goes before I even sensed the vaguest stirrings of magicka in, or spotted the faintest glow of healing magicka around, his frame. His face was red, his knuckles were white, and he was sweating.

“That's enough,” says I, “let's find shelter.”

“No, wait,” says he, “I think I felt something. And there was a sort of light...”

“I said that's enough,” snaps I, “you're wearing yourself out, and for all we know there's other uglies around. Save your breath until we find a place for the night.”

There were other uglies around. One was a super mutant that was bigger and better armed than the others we'd met, and he had what we later learned were called centaurs.

Centaurs still give me nightmares sometimes. Imagine several people all melted together in a semi-erect, tooth-studded, sluglike mass, dragging itself forwards on malformed hands, tongues flickering, and puking poison. Actually they don't look half as bad, but they weren't born that way.

(I'd explain how they're made, but I've been forbidden to do so by the Imperial Council, and I'm sure this chronicle will fall into the hands of a necromancer, a follower of Relmyna Verenim, or some other sicko who'd get ideas.)

After bowling the above-mentioned abominations we had a relaxing time in the Georgetown North metro station, killing raiders who were not distorted or malformed in any way whatsoever.

Well, all right, we had a relaxing time after killing the raiders.

“Well then,” Ernie said after the last raider died – something to do with me managing to hit the target with that damn pistol more frequently.

“Well then what?”

Ernie didn't reply, and up went the fist. The silvery spiral was more obvious in the dim light of the metro tunnel, but still pretty weak.

“Not bad, Haines,” says I, “you'll make Associate yet.” In a pig's eye.

“Ha,” says he, “ha ha. That was funny.” And he frowns as we make our way down a tunnel we hope will bring us closer to the fabled GNR Plaza. “I'll be honest with you, this magic confuses me. At first I thought it was some sort of technology, but what I just did was... just a visualisation. Wasn't it?”

“The visualisation's just part of it,” explains I, “it's a tool to grab hold of the Aurbis and bend its energies to your will. Seriously though,” and I look squarely at Haines, “I'm impressed you've managed that much. I thought this world knows nothing about magic.”

“Well, there's storybooks,” Haines muttered, but I could tell he was pleased, “and then in the Bible there are magical transformations, staffs into snakes, water into wine, stuff like that. But I originally though that was all fairy tales.”

And he looks at me. “Then you happened.”

“Me?”

He stops and glares at me. “You, your fireballs, your healing magic, that damned skeleton! I'm a man of Science and all of a sudden you come along flinging spells all over the damn place!” He shakes his head angrily. “All of a sudden I'm... I find out there's another aspect to the...”

And he trails off, peering into the gloom. I cast Watchfulness but there was nothing within a hundred feet.

“As far as you know,” says I carefully, “nobody on Earth has ever been able to do magic, right?”

“Well, no,” Haines stuttered a bit, but caught himself, “the only reports of magic or psychic powers have always been either fictitious or utterly unreliable. In fact,” and he preens slightly, “attempts to prove such powers by Science have always failed.”

“I wonder why,” and I really did. My hypothesis is that Earth people did so well with Science that they didn't need magic, so the knowledge died out. At the same time, this hypothesis doesn't wash. If they still had access to the Aurbis, surely there'd be the odd involuntary spell recorded, wouldn't there?

But there's all those mutants, suggesting something that, once again, I've been forbidden to share.

“Hang about,” says I, “What's this Clarke's Axiom you mentioned before?”

“I did? It's simple. 'Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.'”

How witty. I'd have to discuss it with Daenlin next time I was in Bravil. My thoughts, so close to home, promptly shot over to Faregyl and S'jirra – then went up her skirt before I could stop them.

From Georgetown we found ourselves entering an immense hub, where metro tracks (or “lines” according to the signs on the walls) converged. Unfortunately so did a colony of ghouls. Killing them didn't help the air much, so the two of us chose a promising tunnel and headed for the surface.

Our tunnel took us to a station at Pennsylvania Avenue, and we gladly pushed past the gates to the sunlight. Then we heard super mutants stomping around. We gladly retreated underground again.

Haines was glaring at his Pip-Boy, which was showing the map. “We've gone too far southeast,” complains he, “We'll have to go back.”

So we did, finally delving to the lowest level of Metro Central and picking yet another promising tunnel. Right at the end, a raider outpost had been set up before a door reading DUPONT STATION ACCESS – STAFF ONLY. Past the door, we were surprised to find a natural cavern with a metal bridge just above the dirt floor.

“Must have been for moving heavy stuff,” Haines observed, kicking up a puff of dust. “Bet they took advantage of this place when digging...”

I was going to respond when a voice echoed from around the corner ahead. Watchfulness showed at least three raiders (from their postures) wandering around ahead. What it didn't show was the fixed gun (a 'turret') suspended from the ceiling, damn it.

Once the raiders were offed and the turret destroyed – apparently Mr Turret and Mrs Shock Magic don't like each other much – we headed upstairs to a small office, where Haines found a wall-mounted terminal. “It's that damn turret's control system,” said he disgustedly, “just when we don't need it any more.”

About five minutes and one rather dead sentry later – apparently his head ran into my mace at speed – Haines was more upbeat. “Night vision goggles!”

“What?” was my intelligent response.

“Night vision goggles,” says he waving a bulky, queer-looking metal mask in my face. “It collects and amplifies ambient light, letting you see in the dark!”

I try them on. The chamber around me sprang into sharp green illumination, but with no colour except green. “I'll stick to the Eye of Night,” says I handing them back.

“Fine,” says the good Doctor Haines slinging them around his neck, and away we go.

According to Haines' Pip-Boy it was about nine-and-half bells in the morning when we emerged in what Haines told me was a place called Vernon Square. Here the metro carriages actually emerged into broad daylight briefly before continuing on their routes.

“Ra'jirra!” exclaims he, “we could go visit Vault-Tec headquarters – they're right around the corner!”

So I grab him and haul him further into the tunnel mouth.

“Keep your voice down,” whispers I, “There's one of those damn mutant men about eighty feet away!”

And he just stares at me, and I mouth magic. The pinky cloud stood where it was for a while, then either billowed or shrugged and resumed walking. Or mooching. Or whatever it is super mutants do when they're not trying to kill or abduct people.

“Our mission is to reach GNR,” says I once I'm sure the mutant is out of earshot, “or had you forgotten that already?”

“Well...” Haines looked pouty. “I guess you're right. We know how to get there, it's just a matter of finding that violin later. GNR and Three Dog, then Dad, then we get that violin for Agatha.”

We scurried from one side to the platform to the other and once underground again, he explained about the lonely old woman he'd met on his visit to Minefield, and how she wanted Ernie to locate Vault 92 and a priceless musical instrument, a 'swah straddy-various'. “Still,” Ernie concluded, “let's finish what I've dragged you down here for first, eh?”

Amazing. He was almost considerate of me there.

Somewhat less considerate were the heavily armoured people who finished off several super mutants as we emerged from Chevy Chase station and promptly turned their guns on us.

Being sensible lads we put our hands where they could see them.

“Goddamn scavvies...” a woman grumbled from behind the armoured people, “I'll deal with this,” and her voice rose. “Look, I don't know who you are but you don't belong...”

The speaker was a hard-faced blonde, sans helm, who'd trailed off when she saw, well, me.

“You're damn right we don't belong here,” says I, “so we'll find GNR Plaza, have a word with Three Dog and get out of your way.”

She wasn't listening. “What the hell are...?”

I sigh and before I can snark, Haines speaks. “This is Ra'jirra, a Khajiit, and I am Doctor Earnest Haines–”
One of the other armoured men lowers his weapon. “The same one who disarmed the Megaton bomb?”

“Initiate...” the woman growls before Haines can even start preening, and the lad gathers himself as she turns back to us, “You don't belong here. The Super Mutants have overrun our brothers at the Galaxy News Radio building, and we're headed there to back them up.”

“Fine,” says I before she can continue, “and we can back you up. I know I'd be happy with the Arch-Mage at my back.”

And she just looks at me without any comprehension whatsoever, sweeping over our Talon duds, arms, and back to my face, my tail and my elven plate.

Then she shrugs. “You can tag along if you want,” says she distantly. “But keep your head down and try not to do anything... stupid.” She looks around. “Well, stop gawking and start moving people!”

So we all stopped gawking and started moving, Haines and I taking up the rear.

Whoever these armoured people were, they were prime warriors. An alleyway opened up to what must have been an automobile stable in front of a building – apparently a school, according to Haines – which turned out to be full of the big greenies – until the armoured people cut them down with brutal efficiency, while Haines and I provided some fire support.

“Damnit! Get back!” the hard-faced pilus spun and yelled at us at one point – just as another damn mutant came charging around the corner with a sledgehammer held high.

She yelled again as I sent Wizard's Fury over her head straight into the giant's face.

He didn't like that.

Haines boiled one of his eyes out with a well-aimed shot. He didn't like that either.

The woman brought her gun to bear and sent most of his jaw out the top of his head. He was so upset by that he dropped dead, and believe me he didn't half make a noise when he hit the ground.

“Brothers!” she yelled then, “get to the positions now!”

“What for?” asks I intelligently, “he looks dead to me.”

And she just stares at me and before she can reply there's another almighty crash – from points west.

“Oh,” says I, and she just rolls her eyes and wheels around and is haring out the north side of the building into a courtyard in front of a building bearing three symbols: GNR. Home of Three Dog and our goal.

And then Mehrunes Dagon smashed his way onto the scene to the left of us.

All right, it wasn't Dagon, but this super mutant stood a good thirty feet high at least. In one hand, twice the size of my head, it held a six-foot length of metal pipe capped with a squat round-headed object I'd seen standing in places on the road. Ernie later demonstrated how these 'fire hydrants' could be used for water. Given how firmly they were fixed in the ground...

...It wasn't surprising, in retrospect, that one swing from that dreadful mace literally smashed one laggard warrior's head clean off, sending both parts of him flying a good twenty feet.

The other warriors had established themselves behind fortifications on steps leading up to the building, and began opening fire on the giant.

All that seemed to do was make the beast groan like a falling tree, and get even angrier. Its club smashed into stone, sending chunks flying.

Haines goggled at the monster from where we were frozen in fear on the second storey of the school building. He eventually hauled out his pistol and started shooting at its head, before the beast finally turned and sent us fleeing with one wall-crushing swipe of its hydrant.

We huddled at the foot of the stairs and stared at each other through a cloud of dust, then back at where the titan hammered again at the walls before turning back to the warriors. Haines crept towards the ground floor doorway, raised his pistol, then paused. Turned to me and gestured me over.

“Fat Man!” hisses he, pointing at the headless torso.

“He looks trim enough to me,” is my intelligent response.

“No! His weapon!” That half-circular chute thing? “How fast are you?”

“Me? I was born under The Steed, why?”

“Er... While it's back's to us, run across and get that Fat Man and all the ammo you can! I'll go upstairs and distract it if you're spotted!” He's already moving upstairs. “Hurry! Run!”

My footsteps felt loud and leaden as I sprinted to the dead man. The behemoth hadn't noticed yet – three – two – one – Yanking at the straps holding the bulky dingus to the dead man. Big fat orbs with fins on the end – these are ammunition? - Oh gods that thing's turning around – one last strap that won't give – now it has – the great club turns the corpse into shrapnel –

“Now what the hells do we do with this?” screams I. The monster smashed its damn weapon into the school again, leaving a great crack in the wall. Apparently my blessings of speed had made the beast angrier, if such a thing were possible.

“Shoot these mini-nukes at it of course!” Haines waves one of the big orbs before retreating into the building. And the great Ra'jirra brain suggests that anything that could harm a beast like the one currently looking over the wall and giving me the stink-eye might need its space.

So I head over to Haines and watch as he props the dingus on his shoulder, slides a mini-nuke down until a little bell goes 'ching', aims, raises his aim, aims again and pulls the trigger.

All the contraption did was go chumpf! and send the orb arcing through the air and over the wall in a puff of anticlimactic vapour.

On the other hand, the mind-buggering explosion that followed – too bright to see, too loud to hear – was well worth three days' slogging underground for.

When the ringing in the ears and lights in the eyes faded the giant was clearly limping and making a noise like a bull who'd not only caught them both in stinging nettle, but got Molag Bal's affections as well.

Then there was another 'ching' – chumpf! – BOOM!!, and I saw a beast-shaped shadow topple out of sight.

And let me tell you, when one of those falls, it makes one hell of a noise when it hits the ground.