***
‘My Lord, Hob and Nob are here, as you requested yesterday,’ Pimple announced, as he walked into the throne room.
‘Ah, very good, Pimple; bring them in and leave us. I wish to speak to these gentlemen in private,’ Baron Blacktie said, rising from his throne.
Hob and Nob had been spies for as long as anyone could remember. No-one knew where they originated from, nor indeed where they lived; they were an unusual looking pair and people tended to keep out of their way. There always seemed to be an atmosphere of malevolence and subterfuge around them, which was only amplified by their regular apparel of matching wide-brimmed black hats and knee-length brown leather coats. The fact they were so recognisable could be considered a serious disadvantage, given their profession, except they were both masters of disguise. Hob was the taller of the cadaverous pair by several inches, and he carried a black briefcase with him at all times.
‘Good day, Baron. I hope we find you in high spirits,’ Hob said, his dark eyes barely visible under the rim of his hat.
‘You do indeed, my dear Hob. I am feeling most exhilarated about some forthcoming events that you, my friends, will play a part in. But, firstly, pray tell me what have you learned from your little trip to Mold?’
‘There are murmurings within the curry community, my Lord,’ Hob replied, putting his briefcase on the floor. ‘There is talk of revolution in the air.’
‘Well, as long as it stays in the air and doesn’t make it onto the ground that should be fine,’ the Baron said, chuckling.
‘This is a serious matter, Baron,’ said Nob. ‘They are talking about an alliance with the Wrexham Curries.’
‘Hmm, that could indeed be a problem we could do without,’ said the Baron, twiddling his moustache. ‘A mixture of Mold and Wrexham curry is potentially a recipe for disaster.’
‘Indeed, my Lord,’ said Nob.
The Baron continued his twiddling and threw in a touch of musing for good measure. ‘This is something that does need addressing, gentlemen,’ he eventually said, ‘but for the moment it will have to wait. There are more pressing matters at hand, not least the task I have for you now.’
‘More pressing than quashing a curry rebellion? I am intrigued, Baron,’ Hob said, loftily. ‘Your ruthless reputation for nipping these things in the bud before they bloom would appear to be somewhat awry at present.’
The Baron walked purposively over to Hob and stood face to face with him, their noses almost touching. Hob shuffled backwards, recognising and regretting the impertinence of his last statement. ‘Never, EVER, question my decisions,’ the Baron whispered, in a way that sent a chill down Hob’s back, ‘else you will feel, and smell, the power of my wind, which given what I had for breakfast will be most potent. Now, we will deal with the curries when the time is right, but that time is not yet at hand. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Absolutely my Lord,’ Hob said, the deference and fear in his voice tangible.
‘Good. I’m glad that’s settled,’ the Baron said, walking back towards his throne. ‘Now, what know you of cheese lore?’
‘I would consider myself well-versed in that area,’ Nob answered.
‘Excellent. Then what can you tell me about Ceridwen’s Cheese?’
‘Why it is a myth, my Lord. It was known as “The Cheese of Pleasant Dreams”, for it was reputedly not only the finest-tasting cheese ever mined, with the most exquisite texture, but was also said to give one a sense of great serenity.’
The Baron sauntered over to the bookshelf and affectionately stroked the spine of the large book he’d been reading during General Darkblast’s visit. ‘Oh, it is no myth, my friends. Your famous omniscience is perhaps wanting here, as it would appear there are things that even the great Hob and Nob do not know.’
‘Last year,’ the Baron continued, ‘a man was found wandering the streets of Chester in a sorry, yet very happy, state. My guards noted that he was raving about “the lost cheese of the ancient’s” being found and how its discovery would lead to the deliverance of the people. Naturally, most took him for a simple drunken fool, but my curiosity was piqued and I bade my guards to bring him to me for an audience.’
The Baron picked up a large scroll from the bookshelf and unrolled it onto the impressive marble table, to the left of the throne. The parchment sparkled as the light hit it, creating an eerie glow on the face of the Baron as he examined its contents. ‘He had this map with him. It is an old map; a very old map.’
Hob and Nob sidled over to the table and stood either side of the Baron. ‘Do you recognise the map?’ the Baron said.
‘It cannot be,’ Hob said in disbelief. ‘Surely, this is a fake.’
‘It’s no fake, I can assure you. It is the only one of its kind.’
Nob was visibly trembling as he looked at the map. ‘This is treasure beyond all treasure, Baron. Do you really know what you have here?’
‘Oh, I do, my good Nob. This is indeed the ancient map of Scratchy Crotch.’
The Baron walked over to the bookcase again and removed one of the smaller books from the third shelf. There was an ornate leather and gold bookmark placed inside it. He opened the book and began to read.
‘“Let it be known that Scratchy Crotch was the first of the Evil Wizards of Bala. His power transcended all and he was thought to be invincible. His beard was black and his codpiece firm. No-one knew how he acquired such might and he did not reveal his secret. It was rumoured that all creatures of evil bowed before him, both in this world and in the dark realms; for he regularly communicated with unearthly beings and people from Prestatyn. He lived to be 534 years old and had 77 wives, 43 concubines and 12 barmaids during this period. He fathered only one son, to his 76th wife, the Lady Clarissa of Rhyl; a witch of high repute, great beauty and extraordinarily malodorous armpits. The child mysteriously disappeared before his second birthday, along with Clarissa, and this broke his nefarious heart. Subsequently, he became a recluse, shunning contact with all, until his marriage to Buxom Betty of Betws-y-Coed, the daughter of a local cobbler with plaited nostril hair. During his life, Scratchy Crotch maintained the largest collection of cheese in the land. He would relax by feasting on suckling pig, drinking malt whisky, singing sea shanties and playing the bongos.’’’
The Baron licked his index finger and turned the page. ‘There’s a lot more here, including his battle with the Dragons of Denbigh, the destruction of the Parsimonious Wizards of St. Asaph, his fear of embroidery and his obsession with esoteric hair brushes, but I’ll skip to the bit about the map.’
‘“He amassed many powerful mystical treasures during his time, and shortly before his death he told his servants to bury each of these in secret places. When they returned from their task and told him where each of the items were buried he had them all killed, meaning only he knew of their whereabouts. This knowledge he allegedly put into a map, written on sacred parchment and inked with the timeless ink of Gringlegore. However, the map has never been discovered and the veracity of this particular tale is thus questionable.”’
The Baron closed the book with aplomb. ‘Questionable until now, my friends; for as you can see the map does indeed exist and is in my possession.’
Hob turned to look at the Baron, shaking his head. ‘Unbelievable, my Lord. Yet, if it is written that he was invincible how did he meet his demise?’
The Baron flicked past a couple of pages before locating the necessary passage. ‘The book says the townsfolk, at the end of their tether with his wicked ways and harsh rule, confronted him at his castle. They carried flaming torches and were protected by a variety of cross-stitch shawls, wrapped around their shoulders. The sight of so much embroidery caused him to convulse uncontrollably and he summoned a dark spirit to repel the people. But, in his weakened state, he had not the strength to control the demon and he was devoured entirely, apart from his left foot which was hurled skywards and remains lost to this day. He was never seen again by mortal man; which is a great p
ity as he sounded like an absolutely splendid chap.’
‘My Lord, this map details the whereabouts of the greatest and most powerful artefacts known to the black arts,’ said Nob. ‘Whoever could manage to bring these treasures together would surely be able to rule the world. If this is the task you would have us complete, simply say the word and we will get you the Aphrodisiac Dragon Horn of Jiggery, the Fragrant Sword of Pokery, the Magical Preserved Left Buttock of King Peculiar-Uliar and even the Mysterious Unknown Book of Ambiguous and Seemingly Useless but Actually Very Dangerous Evil Spells.’
‘All in good time, all in good time,’ the Baron said, waving his hand in a calming motion. ‘Firstly I would draw your attention to this section of the map here, do you recognise it?’
‘Yes, it is just south-east of Llangollen, near the Circle of Wind. There is nothing of interest there, Baron,’ Hob replied.
‘Look closer, my dear Hob, what do you see?’
‘It is a representation of a cheese mine, my Lord. But the only recognisable structure in that vicinity is the disused mine of the dead eccentric Hairy Growler. It used to contain a rich vein of Red Cheekfizzler, but that has long been exhausted.’
‘Indeed, but that was only on the upper levels,’ the Baron said. ‘The lower levels, I am very reliably informed, contain possibly the richest vein of Ceridwen’s Cheese ever to be discovered. It is also where the Ancient Map of Scratchy Crotch has been hidden for the past several centuries, until its timely unearthing last year.’
‘With all due respect, Baron, why this interest in a simple cheese?’ said Nob. ‘There are things of value beyond wealth that can be regained here.’
‘Accepted, my good Nob. Nevertheless, I wish you to infiltrate Llangollen and find out who owns this mine. I can find no record of ownership since the passing of Hairy Growler some twenty years ago. Although I could simply claim the mine as my own, I wish to be circumspect here. There may be other powers at large and I will not take risks unduly. As part of this mission, I also wish you to secretly break into the mine and search for the green and gold cheese of Ceridwen in the lower levels. I have no doubt you will find this, and then you must obtain a small sample.’
‘But beware,’ the Baron continued, ‘I hear rumours there are things that dwell in the mine that are so terrible even Trolls avoid them. Ensure you are appropriately armed, my friends, for I would not wish you ill… at least not until you have completed your task.’
Hob and Nob exchanged glances and nodded to each other. ‘If this is what you desire, my Lord, then we will fulfil your request… for the usual fee… plus 50%,’ said Hob.
‘You drive a hard bargain, gentlemen,’ the Baron replied, smiling, ‘but I agree. You will be paid when I have the sample in my hands. Now, I will despatch some of my men to meet with you in three days to ascertain your progress. Have you a place earmarked as your base for this endeavour?’
‘I think it prudent if we mingle as much as we can with the locals, my Lord, so we will seek residence at a place called “The Sheep’s Stirrup”. It is a harmless and nondescript tavern,’ replied Nob.
‘Good. Now, I’m assuming you will be transforming yourselves into something less conspicuous during your quest, so how will my men recognise you?’
Nob reached into his pocket and produced a small, leather-bound book. He flipped through the pages, with Hob looking over his shoulder. After a few seconds he stopped and pointed at a particular page. A short whispered conversation between the pair ensued before they raised their heads.
‘We will be disguised as Vagrant Vacuum Cleaner Exorcists, My Lord.’
‘And you deem this disguise appropriate?’ the Baron said.
‘Yes, my Lord. By all accounts vacuum cleaner possession is rife in the area.’
‘Very well, good luck to you. The rewards for success will be great, gentlemen. And failure, as you well know, is not an option.’
Hob picked up his briefcase and they bowed to the Baron, before heading off to encounter some experiences they were definitely not prepared for.