“… Prefer a jaffa cake, if it’s all the same to—”

Archie broke off. He was standing on a rocky hillside. Above him towered mist-shrouded peaks. Far below, a mighty river thundered in foaming white fury along a narrow crack in the rock. He looked down. Where his feet had been he saw claws.

Oh hell, he thought. I’m home.

Which was so weird. Just a split second ago, the young woman called Angela had been offering him a doughnut, back in the Curator’s lab. He remembered seeing her face through the hole in the middle. Then he’d felt a curious sensation, like being a very small sock in a very large spin-drier. And now—

Now, he wasn’t Archie any more. He looked at his arms–long, hairy–and his hands, bunched up, eight-fingered, ending in the most magnificent shiny brown hooked talons. Carefully, he lifted his right hand to his face and let the pads of his fingertips trace the contours. Oh hell, he thought, oh joy. I’m back again. I’m me.

Then he remembered. One little thing we want you to do for us. He grinned; and, because he’d been human for so long, in doing so cut his top lip quite badly. Not that he cared. The taste of blood was like iced lemonade on a hot day. One little thing, huh? With the greatest of pleasure, he thought. Yes, no problem, no problem at all.

I’m hungry, he thought. Damn right; haven’t had anything to eat except bread, vegetables and the flesh of non-sentients for ages and ages. Bloody human food; fills you up all right, but twenty minutes later you’re hungry again. No wonder they’re all so fat. Fat and juicy. He licked his lips. This is so great, he thought.

Behind him was the enormous golden brown circle; he vaguely remembered it, from last time. To think, once upon a time he’d been stupid and gullible enough to go through it, of his own accord. Never again. He shuffled nervously away from it, until he felt the sharp edge of the ledge under his foot. Steady on, he told himself. Probably the sensible thing to do would be to get down off the mountainside and away from the hateful glare of the Horrible Yellow Face, before it made him dizzy and sent him bumping down the rocky slope into the river. Probably not the smartest place in the world to put a magic cave, he reckoned. Or, bearing in mind the sort of thing that happened to you there, a very sensible place indeed.

It took him a long time to pick his way down through the crags and boulders; the bright light was making his head spin and he wasn’t fully acclimatised to the goblin body yet, even though it was his own. But he took it slowly and steadily, one step at a time, and just as night was falling he found himself beside the banks of the river, where a well-beaten path led directly to the eastern gate of Eighty-six Mineshaft. An unbearable pang of longing and nostalgia tore at his heart. Round about now, the lads would be knocking off from the day shift, trooping back up the winding spiral stair from the ore-face towards the great hall for dinner and communal fighting, then off to the dormitories to sleep. If he ran really, really fast, he might just be in time for the main course. What would it be tonight, he wondered, and realised he didn’t even know what day of the week it was. Wednesday was Giblet Stew, Thursday was Offal Club, Friday was Generic Pie; best of all was Sunday, his favourite, Leftovers. He realised he was drooling, because his chin was all wet. But not yet. Not until he’d done the one little thing. Until he’d got that out of the way and paid off his obligations, he knew he wouldn’t be able to relax and settle back into real life. And in order to do the one little thing, he’d need to look at a map, which meant trudging all the way round the bottom of the mountain to the records office, which would be shut now until daybreak. Be sensible, he told himself. It’s been a long day, you’re tired, get some sleep and wake up refreshed and ready, and then you can do the one little thing and get your life back again. He yawned and stretched his wonderful arms, then looked at them again just to make sure they were really real. They were. Bliss.

One little thing. Find a little man with a funny name, kill him, please dispose of body tidily. One small problem, though. He hadn’t got the faintest idea where to find him.

He closed his eyes, just to rest them for a minute.

A voice spoke in his head. Listen carefully, it said.

Dead silence.

“Well?” the Dark Lord said. “Oh come on. Surely one of you’s got something to say.”

The Dark Council didn’t move. They’d stopped breathing some time ago. It was one of those moments when you just know that the slightest sound, the very faintest movement, will have the same effect as sticking both hands up in the air and yelling, “Me! Me!”

“Nobody?” The Dark Lord sighed. “Well, a fine lot of advisers you are, I must say.” His lidless red eyes swept around the table and lit on a certain Margrave of the Winged Death, who went very pale and tried very hard to pretend he wasn’t there. “Groth,” the Dark Lord said. “What do you think?”

Strictly speaking, of course, the Margrave wasn’t there at all. He’d been a wraith for nine hundred years, and only the black cowl of his robe and the shiny new badge saying Team Leader pinned to his lapel defined his presence. That was what made it so bitterly unfair.

“I like it,” he said.

His voice was faint, the hissing of a soft breeze in dead grass or the last escape of breath from a dying man. It was his sort of signature thing, and he was proud of it.

“Say what? Speak up.”

“I like it,” the Margrave croaked, as loud as he could manage. “It’s got—”

“Mm?”

At which point the Margrave’s brain froze. He knew perfectly well what the Dark Lord’s new idea had, and so did everybody else. But—

“It’s original,” he said.

A frown creased the thin, papery skin of the Dark Lord’s forehead. “You don’t like it.”

“I do,” the Margrave said desperately. “I like it a lot. I think it’s—”

“You’re just saying that,” the Dark Lord said. “So as not to hurt my feelings.”

“No!” You can’t sweat if you aren’t actually there, but a drop of condensation plopped on the table out of nowhere and began to burn into the dark wood. “I wouldn’t do that. Well, I would. But not this time. Unnecessary. Because I love it.”

The Dark Lord pursed his thin lips. “Really?”

“Really and truly. Cross my heart and hope to live.”

But the Dark Lord hadn’t survived for six Ages of the world by being stupid. He stiffened slightly and looked away. “Well,” he said, “thank you all for coming, I think that’s about as far as we can go today. What I’d like you all to do is go back to your departments and draw up an action plan, and then we’ll reconvene this time tomorrow and take it from there. All right, dismissed.”

“An action plan,” the Margrave hissed, as soon as he was safely out of range of the Black Ear. “What the Us is an action plan?”

A senior prince of Darkness bit his lip. “It’s a plan,” he said. “For action.” He shrugged. “I don’t know, do I? He keeps using all these strange words lately. Incentivise and preplanning and in this space, going forward. I think he’s doing it to confuse us.”

“If so, he’s doing a great job,” growled an elderly goblin. “I blame all this New Evil stuff. Our bloke’s getting just as bad. Well,” he added, “maybe not. I think Mordak’s only doing it to keep in with the boss,” he added loyally. “Who can’t,” he added, after a significant pause, “last for ever.”

They all looked at each other. They’d known and worked with each other a very long time, and some things are best communicated without words. Then a Dark Elf said, “Actually…”

The goblin scowled at him. “All right,” he conceded, “he’s lasted for ever so far. Doesn’t mean he’s going to go on lasting for ever. Not indefinitely.”

“I think you’ll find that’s what for ever means,” said the Dark Elf helpfully. “What? I was just pointing out…”

“We’ve got to do something.”

They hadn’t noticed the Captain of the Guard, who had no seat on the Council and hadn’t been in the chamber with them. They all spun round in terror, but the Captain shook his head. “It’s all right,” he said. “I agree with you. He’s lost it. He’s completely out of his pram. If you’d seen what I’ve—” He broke off, his voice choked with emotion. “It’s no use,” he said. “He’s got to go, and that’s all there is to it.”

The combined sigh of relief from the councillors would have powered a medium-sized sloop. “You heard the latest,” whispered the Margrave.

“I wasn’t at the meeting,” the Captain pointed out. “What’s he done this time?”

The Councillors looked at each other. “His Dark Majesty,” said the old goblin, “wants us to organise a sponsored walk and Fun Day. In aid of Evil charities.”

The Captain’s eyebrows shot up. “What Evil—?”

“That’s Phase Two,” grunted the Dark Elf. “Apparently, Evil isn’t doing enough to connect with local communities on a grass-roots level. So the idea is, we’re going to reach out and embrace Society. Hug a human. Don’t ask me,” he added quickly, “I’m quoting.”

There was a terrible pause. Then the Captain said, “It’s the Elves, it has to be. They’ve got to him somehow. They’ve turned his brain to goo.” He turned and gave the Dark Elf a nasty look. “They can do that,” he said, “mess with your head, using arcane mind control techniques. Well-known fact.”

The Dark Elf sniggered. “I wish,” he said. “Sadly, no. You’re thinking of journalism, which is slightly different. No, if someone’s got inside his head, it’s not my lot. In fact, I can’t think of anyone who’d be capable of something like that.” He grinned. “With the obvious exception of Himself, of course. I suppose he might have trained someone else how to do all that, without us knowing. But that’s hardly likely, is it?”

“That’s not important,” the Margrave said firmly. “What matters is, he’s a bloody liability and he’s got to go. Are we agreed?” He waited. Five seconds, a very long time in context. “We’re agreed,” he said. “Fine. We do him in and get a new Dark Lord.”

A senior troll-wrangler who’d been listening carefully at the back cleared his throat. “I wondered when we’d get on to that,” he said. “Presumably you’ve got someone in mind.”

The Margrave hesitated. “As it happens—”

“Thought so. Yourself, of course.”

“Well, no,” the Margrave said. “Actually, I was thinking of Mordak.”

A stunned moment, as if someone had just exploded; followed by a gentle susurration of Actually… “Mordak,” the Dark Elf said. “You must be kidding. Although—”

“Quite,” the Margrave said. “I mean, yes, he’s a goblin. That said—”

“I’m a goblin,” pointed out the goblin.

“Yes. My point in a nutshell. That said, he’s bright, he’s capable, energetic, knows how to get along with people, he can read a balance sheet and everybody likes him. Sort of. Anyway, who the hell else is there?”

“But he’s a goblin,” said the Dark Elf. “You can’t have a goblin as Dark Lord. He’s too—”

The old goblin shot out an arm and closed his talons precisely around certain strategic points on the Dark Elf’s neck. “Choose your next word very carefully.”

“Short,” the Dark Elf said. “Well, he is. You can’t have someone sitting on the Black Throne whose feet don’t reach the floor. It’d be silly.”

“There’s that,” the Margrave said. “But so what, a new throne’s no big deal. Or saw a bit off the legs of the old one. You’re just agin him because he’s a goblin.”

The troll-wrangler nodded sagely. “Prejudiced.”

“Of course I’m prejudiced, you halfwit, I’m evil,” snapped the Dark Elf, wriggling free of the goblin’s claws and wiping his neck with a lace handkerchief. “Elves and goblins don’t–well, they don’t, that’s all.”

“Mordak does.”

They all turned their heads and looked at the Captain, who shrugged. “Well, it’s true,” he said. “Like, right now at this very minute, Mordak’s off on a special assignment for Him, and he’s got an Elf with him. Boss’s orders. And last I heard, they were getting along just fine.”

“Wash your mouth out with soap and water,” snarled the old goblin. “That can’t be true.”

“Straight up,” insisted the Captain. “I was there, I heard everything.”

“The Dark Lord told Mordak to take an Elf—”

“Yes.”

“That’s easily explained,” the Margrave said. “I think the key words we’re missing here are packed lunch.”

“As a sidekick,” the Captain said firmly. “Sure as I’m stood here.”

“Well, there you go,” the Dark Elf said smugly. “I withdraw my objection. Obviously Mordak’s got more sense that I credited him with. So, he’s it. Agreed? Show of claws?”

Voted unanimously, the Margrave abstaining (but only because he had no hand to raise) “Fine,” he said. “Just one thing. How the hell are we going to do in His Majesty?”

Everyone was suddenly struck thoughtful. The torches in the courtyard flickered, casting ghastly dancing shadows. “We could—” began the goblin, then he shook his head. “No, scrub that. Ignore me.”

“There are,” the Margrave went on, “certain technical issues. Like, you can’t kill the bugger, because he’s seriously Undead. You can’t imprison him in a sealed dungeon a thousand miles under the biggest mountain in the world, because that’s been tried loads of times and he’s always really snarky when he gets out again. Same goes for binding him on a mountain-top with adamantine chains or hurling him into the Fiery Pit. That’s the thing about Himself, he’s so horribly persistent.”

“We could always—” The Dark Elf frowned. “No, he’s got a point there. It can’t be done. Bugger.”

The old goblin shook his head. “There’s bound to be a way,” he said. “Got to be. It’s just, we’re too thick to figure it out.”

“Speak for yourself,” muttered the Dark Elf. “Though personally—”

“So,” the goblin went on, “what we need to do is, we need to ask somebody smart. The sort of bloke who knows stuff. You know.”

A pause. Then the Margrave said, “Enlighten us.”

“Simple,” the goblin said. “Mordak’s smart. Ask him.”