One dragon, one wizard, one witch and two pratts.
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Mishtar wanted out. After two hundred years of captivity he'd found a way to escape the magic that bound him, to smash it completely so that he could take his revenge on the peoples of Middle Vooragh.
What he hadn't accounted for, however, was his unwilling assitant's penshant for ale, women and his uncanny ability to screw things up. Throw in a cunning sister of the New Dawn, the last wizard, a cretinous dwarf, a flying lizard and a big red dragon and maybe, just maybe, the world could be saved.
Oh! Did anyone mention the cannibals?
"Bugger me," murmured Jollif, recognising the tribal markings of the men. "Wolverines!"
They were the most feared of all the barbarian tribes, known the land over for their ferocious fighting skills, their reckless abandon, their passion for torturing captives. They were right evil bastards.
"Bugger me," Jollif whispered again, and began to back stealthily away from the table. There was only one safe place for him and it certainly wasn't here.