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Nightfall awkwardly got himself upright again, out of the silty dirt, and brushed his armour off hurriedly with a chainmail clad, gloved hand. His shield was dented. His cheeks flushed. He eyed this odd, grey creature that had introduced itself as General Warlock with clear disdain; cheeky sod had only gone and swiped his horse! How embarrassing. Parlan had always been such a loyal steed. Until now.

Just wait until the High Hashaan gets wind of this! You'll not be so smug with the Elite Elves to answer to!

He didn't want this freak getting anywhere near his beloved, sacred city; he'd caused quite enough disturbance to the peace as it was. He straightened his back and tried to speak with dignity, "if you would be so kind as to wait here, we will bring the Immanok orcs out to"- but he didn't get chance to finish.

"No way, mate. We'll come to them, thanks very much. This is a rescue mission, and it's not much of a rescue if you just hand them over..."

The elf huffed, "but you'll upset our other slaves!"

Anar leaned down from atop the nightmare; "other slaves?"

He swallowed. Maybe he shouldn't have said that; there was a definite tone there, a disapproving one. What was wrong with having dirty green-skins in the mines? Best place for them! Awful uncultured creatures.

"What are our orders, sir?" came a crackle as Private Gritz used the radio from within the bowels of the tank.

"Your orders are to learn how to drive that thing, and be quick about it! We're off to the mine. Our new friend said we could free all the slaves we wanted. Isn't that generous of him?"

Nightfall spluttered some, and there was a fair bit of creaking as lumbering orcs moved about inside the massive vintage machine. Then the engine began roaring, and gears clanked.

"You'd better get out the way if you don't fancy being sandwich paste," Anar advised the already very unhappy elf warrior.

He spurred Menthe on and cantered around the fresh divots, swiftly making his way to the rocky outcrop where there were already beady eyes watching them.

He was aware of his boys following dutifully behind him, slowly and clumsily. There was a lot of hissing and chugging as it stopped and started. He heard the engine stall at least twice. He could have left the tank where it was, and had them come on foot, but what was the point of bringing your toys if you weren't going to play with them?

The elf platoon were still hanging around by the city gate as Nightfall returned to them on foot. Flags were fluttering, and horses were whinnying. Nightfall would be getting the grilling of his life when he got back to them. Not that they were exactly brave themselves - scampering away at the first sign of trouble. Was there a King inside there somewhere, or an elf lord? A lady, even? Ready to burst through and demand an explanation for all the ruckus? Nightfall would tell of otherworldly contraptions and how his horse grew wings and he'd probably get thrown in the cells on accusation of being drunk at his post.

The elves stationed at the entrance to the gem mine had seen everything that had just unfolded down on the meadow, from up on their lofty vantage point. The gave each other the smallest of glances and as Anar drew up on their commander's horse (which was chattering away to the rider quite amicably) they wisely acknowledged they weren't paid enough for nonsense such as this, and stepped back, nodding 'good day', and doing their best to look non-threatening. Who, us? White City elf guards? Nahhh. Nothing to do with us. Big swords? Don't know what you're talking about...

The entrance way into the cave was spacious, and the ground smooth from the carts coming and going. There were a few pit ponies watching from behind their frizzy forelocks, munching from hay bales and their empty wooden wagons were still attached to them. It must be lunch break. From within, faint unidentifiable noises could be heard on the cold air that wafted out.

With a spring, Anar dismounted his new nightmare partner and unbuckled the unnecessary tack. Menthe was grateful to have the metal bit taken out of his mouth and the heavy saddle removed from atop his broad back. All the leather, cloth and brass was dumped in a pile for someone else to clean up and the white, winged beast gave a shudder and shake, enjoying that freeing feeling of being unburdened, and happy in the knowledge that he would never again be subjected to such things.

Then the tank turned up. Its rumbling echoed far down the tunnel. With a click of a button to the radio on his hip, General Warlock gave his lads the go ahead to get as far down into the hill as they could, find the workers, and bring them out as intact as possible. He would stay here and make sure those pesky elves didn't get any funny ideas. Just their luck for them to call in reinforcements while they were distracted.

He leaned on the pale, grainy rock, looking out across what once was a very pretty field and what now looked like the Somme, over to the city where the elf riders were still mulling about by the walls. They would not leave their post until the Kaos Army had left, he was sure of that. With a pat of his pocket he found his pack of Marlboros that always seemed to be half-full, and lit one up while he had the chance.

It had been flipping brilliant finding another nightmare! He reached out absently and patted Menthe's neck. He'd only known Destroyer. Had only dreamed of finding another of the magical beasts. It was thought that they came in all shapes, sizes and colours. Abilities too. But it was all old knowledge, vague and contradicting at times. Destroyer could store magic up and use it to move through space and time, but who knew if they all could do that? Anar had a suspicion they couldn't, and that was why the Council of Sorcerer's were able to hunt them down so ruthlessly. Menthe had been a very plain, natural-looking white stallion, had obviously been taken in by the elf army for use as a battle pony, and that had probably been his saving grace. The fact he was here at all was a sure sign that at some point in this world's history, a Warlock had lived here. There had once been so many of them, after all. The Dragon had told him that he'd stationed them across the galaxy, leading wars and getting involved with politics. He shuddered. Politics!

A sudden motion beside him caused him to spin and grab his handgun, in a lightning-fast reaction that even amazed himself.

Menthe immediately kicked out with a hind hoof.

The elf guards had wandered up for a chat, and now stepped back with a panic, avoiding flying equine toenail, with hands aloft defensively and an audible 'whoooa!'.

"Bloody hell, lads, you want to be knocked into next week?"

Menthe growled as if in agreement.

They looked sheepish; "we're elves. We don't make a lot of noise, it's what we're good at." Their eyes scanned from the blocky metal object in Anar's grey hand, to the peculiar thing that was in his mouth, and then back again to the handgun.

It was clear they had questions. "Who are you?!"

"I'm General Warlock."

"Where are you from?!" they asked, brows furrowed.

"Ohhh, I'm from very, very far away. A place called 'Earth', actually."

"What are you?!"

"I'm an aardvark."

Their faces were blank. "A what?"

His shoulders dropped a bit. Probably didn't have aardvarks on this planet. "Don't worry about it," he sighed.

"Whatever you are, you've got some spunk taking on Commander Nightfall like that!"

"Right," the other nodded. "You don't even have an army!"

"Well, I'm working on it..."

"It's just you and that big, big, er..."

"It's called a 'tank'."

One of the elves was getting rather animated, "it just sneezed and big lumps were taken out of the ground!"

"Sneezed? It's not an animal, it's a machine," Anar explained. "It's made of metal and rubber, and plastic."

"Really?"

Anar couldn't help himself, "you know, if you want to find out more, you could always come back with us, we'd love to have a couple elves about the base. Nice uniform," he tugged at his jacket (which had a few specks of rock stuck to it that were swiftly brushed off, making it immaculate again), "and you get fun weapons to use," he lifted up the silver pistol and turned it about in his grip so it glinted.

The elves had that look, a look that said they were really interested but didn't want to get themselves into trouble. "We couldn't work with orcs, though. We're a fair and noble race."

"Right," the other agreed sadly. "wouldn't do to mix with those types." He gave Anar a piercing glance, "why do you want the orcs? I mean, they're terribly stupid, ugly as you like, and they fight with each other as much as anything else. Honestly, more trouble than they're worth, that's why we keep them busy down here, in the mine. If they're put to work, they can't wage war nor breed. Did you know when they can't feed all their children, they eat them?"

Anar's ears flattened, but he remained sceptical after his conversation concerning how the elves treated orcs, "really?"

"That's what I heard," he sniffed.

The General frowned. There was a lot of talk about what orcs did, about what elves did, and it was fast becoming clear that he couldn't trust any of this hearsay. The Dragon had said bring him orcs, and that was what he was doing.

"I think they're just people," he shrugged, "capable of good and bad things, and wanting to make their own choices."

The elves shook their heads as though he were making a grave mistake.

His radio crackled.

"General, sir, we just wanted to check, like, but are we bringing everyone back with us or...?"

Anar looked the elves in the eye, "everyone. If the elves want miners, they can bloody well pay them wages, like the civilised race they say they are!"

"Yessir!"

Anar could hear some after-talk before the connection was lost - "that's what he said, everyone. I checked!"

He smiled to himself, there must be a lot of orcs down that tunnel. Probably far more than they could actually house at the moment. They'd have to break the tents out. He remembered the time his father had tried taking him and his brother Edward (the insufferable little snot) camping in the woods behind their house. They'd made it about three hours before Edward had refused to piss behind a tree, and their father had failed to start a log fire, gone back for lighter fluid and managed to get a whole conker tree alight, before jacking it in and hurrying home to baked potatoes and Noel Edmond's House Party. The mystery of the single singed tree had gone on for quite a while afterwards in the local community.

"Master Warlock," Menthe nudged his shoulder, "it appears Commander Nightfall is coming back."

The snooty elf warrior, on a new horse that behaved itself this time, was marching a long line of armed riders up to the cave mouth. He'd cleaned up his armour and replaced his dinged shield. He looked very happy, and this did not bode well. What was he up to? He knew full well what the tank could do, and from the trembles beneath Anar's booted feet, it was clear it was rumbling back towards them right now, with lots of orcs following behind. Sure, the orcs didn't have swords, but they still had fists and tusks and quite possibly a grudge against their fair-skinned antagonists.

He wondered, for the briefest of moments, if Gritz had found reverse, or if they'd just turned round in the tunnel. If they'd bent that bloody turret...

Anar gestured for the two elf guards he had been talking to, to leave and leave now. He had no real beef with them, nor they with he, but the time for conversation was over, and this was going to be a stand-off.

So much for enjoying a cigarette in peace...

"You know, mate, for all the smack you talk about orcs, you sure don't want to see them go, huh?" He clicked the radio and hissed a heads-up to his boys that they had company out front.

"We don't like foreigners meddling in our affairs, General," came the snappy response.

Anar stubbed his Marlboro out under his steel-capped toe with a firm twist. "You don't like lots of things. It's tough. The times, they are a-changin'."

"You're merely one curious animal, with a noisy destructive thing; face it, you're not going to be changing anything around these parts. We are the White City elves of Amberlee, and we will not stand by while you steal our workforce from under our noses without a proper fight!"

It was like talking to a brick wall, "why do you think this is going to go any better for you than last time? We have better firepower, we outnumber you... well, we will..."

"You think the orcs will fight for you? They'll run, they'll run back to their dirty swamp, like the filth they are!"

There was an enormous squeak of breaks behind him as the tank came to a stop. The ground was still shaking. Orcs were on the move.

Anar feigned deafness, "sorry, what? What will the orcs do?"

Nightfall bellowed into the cave, his voice carrying, echoing, "the orcs will run! Back to their swamp! Like the filth they are!"

Behind, the soft words bounced from rockwall to rockwall, 'filth they are! Filth they are! Like the filth they are!'

An ocean of green spilled from the hill, every arm carrying a pickaxe, or sharp rocks, or swinging a discarded slave-chain, every mouth straining with a guttural cry for war, and vengeance, and to teach these cheeky elves a jolly good lesson!

The armour-clad White City defenders unsheathed their swords, stood their ground, and prepared to fight back.

Anar jumped up onto Menthe's back, ordering his Privates via walkie-talkie to load up the shells and scatter the horses again. Dull thuds and recoiling steel filled his ears. He wouldn't be going deaf this time, though, as The Dragon had made sure to protect his delicate ears with a simple spell. Warfare was noisy business.

Rock was blasted from the hillside in great clumps and granite fell down like confetti, horses reared and screamed, swords flashed and struck. Orcs pulled at reigns and tried to drag riders from their saddles. A sharp scent of blood began to creep along the breeze as pointy blades pierced thick, green hide.

Nightfall was shouting orders. Orcs were bellowing bloody murder.

Somewhere in the middle, a long sceptre was raised skyward, and Anar immediately knew who his particular target was in this fight! The blue aura, it was unmistakable to him. They had a magician/sorcerer/wizard in their ranks. The crafty bastards!

Funky lightning struck and left smouldering patches where an orc had been only seconds before.

He didn't have to direct the nightmare, they more or less thought as one now, and powerful haunches launched them towards the crackling air.

He hadn't had much chance to use his firearm, and as stated earlier, he didn't have many bullets left for it, so he was hell-bent on making every single shot count. The White Shitty elves of Whatever had brought this fight to him! They could have let the Kaos Army stroll on back to where they had come from, with their orcs, but nooo...

Truth be told, it looked dead easy in movies and exciting Saturday evening television shows, you just pointed your gun at what you wanted 'ka-blamm'ed, and pulled the trigger. In reality, though, you had this thing called 'recoil' that could fracture your wrist. Those action heroes also didn't have a magical, winged equine creature beneath them, rearing and kicking.

There was a high-pitched whine that could be heard now, growing steadily in volume, and a second wave of what Anar could only think of as 'mini-orcs' poured out from the entrance to the cave onto the makeshift battlefield. Small, very vividly green (like they'd had a glo-stick spill on them), and just as angry as the big lumbering fighters before them. It was the perfect distraction, and he intended to make good use of it.

With careful aim, he gripped the pistol steadily with both grey hands. His target was in his sights, and he hadn't been spotted yet. He took a breath and gently squeezed the trigger. There was a flash of fire, and the stink of gunshot. His shoulders jerked from the force of firing the handgun.

As the elves and orcs had been attacking each other, and the tank had been rearranging the landscape, and now the mini-orcs had joined the fray with sharp teeth and claws that dug into the horse's flesh, and raked at pretty, pale faces; Anar and Menthe had been steered away off to the side and they were now face-to-face with a surprisingly not-dead Enchanter.

The space around his billowing cloak blurred. There was a force-field, or a shield of some sorts protecting him. Or her. It was more cloak than person, at any rate.

The handgun idea hadn't worked. Bugger. It was good enough for Indiana Jones against those swordsmen, oh yes, but not for him against Merlin.

The sceptre raised up towards the heavens again. The air crackled. Within the sceptre, a golden orb became blue as it charged power.

In the space of a heartbeat, many things whizzed through Anar's whimsical mind: how he wished he'd had Rap and Rave here with him at the end, how he wished he didn't have to die to a lame, power-orb magic-user, how even landing in France would have been better than getting stuck here on this rotten planet, and how nice it would have been to not had to eat so many fucking Pot Noodles.

Menthe was also panicking, because even magical horses are still mildly unhinged.

Anar couldn't tear his eyes away from the bright blue of the orb as it built up in power, sealing his doom.

He watched, helpless, as it lowered and pointed its sharp tip towards his heart. Or his chest, at any rate. Where even was your heart - was it in the middle, or off to left side a bit? He could never remember. What he could remember was that this was probably how his ancient ancestor had felt all those hundreds, maybe thousands of years ago, seconds before that Tri-corn sceptre had struck him dead. It was all right for him, though, he'd been brought back to life and been granted magic powers by The Dragon. Anar wasn't willing to take that chance, thank you very much!

The prospect of death can do amazing things; feats of agility and strength hitherto regarded as impossible had been achieved in order to avoid it. For Anar, his poor struggling brain-cells had worked overtime at double-rate and come up with the most amazing idea in the history of amazing ideas. Or ridiculous. Absurd, even...

Menthe bolted forward, very unwillingly, his hooves dragging as he went, in a fit of mental confliction.

Don't think, just do!

The elven conjuror stood dumbfounded as their target did the most stupid thing that could ever be conceived: they reached out to grasp at the Seer Staff of Ranhalen as it was about to fire. It could only be classed as honourable suicide. To willingly touch living matter to a crystal of this magnitude would result in a ritual burning unlike any other. The smell would be be really, really bad.

Anarchy Warlock was a magnifier of magic. It was a thing he could do. His touch could elevate anything magical to ridiculous levels of power. Unsustainable levels, even...

A bright light that would be unbearable to witness, if anyone except Anar was actually capable of seeing it, radiated forth. The orb was overloaded, filled beyond capacity, and it promptly shattered into a million pretty glass splinters with an imploding 'crunch!'.

The fuzzy outline before him faded away to nothingness.

The sceptre was broken. Its power dispersed harmlessly on the wind.

With a trembling grip, Anar slid back the slide release on his handgun and raised it once more. His blood rushed, his living heart (wherever it was located), was pounding and his head buzzed. Around him, the elves were retreating at the loss of their magical artefact. It had been the ace up their sleeve, obviously, and now it was no longer operational, well.... They were outnumbered and outgunned, literally.

The orcs and mini-orcs turned their attentions to the chugging tank, and their new pals inside who had thrown open the hatch and were having a bit of a celebratory thing, bashing burly fists on the already rusting metal, amid cries of 'waaaaaagh!'.

Admitting defeat, and with nowhere to run and no horse to ride off on, the magical menace pulled back their silken, white-cloak hood and stared down the muzzle of the Earth weapon.

This elf was black-skinned, with tumbles of bleached hair about the shoulders in sharp contrast. It had pale, sad eyes. It appeared to have accepted its fate, in whatever form that may take.

For just a moment, Anar paused to listen to his gut. He slowly clicked the safety back into position on his handgun and lowered it. With words that could only be described as 'trauma-laden', he spoke a few, choice words.

"Would you like to join the Kaos Army?"