Nurl looked up from his worn copy of Snard’s Guide To Evil Architecture with a thoughtful expression on his pointlessly handsome face.

“Anything?” asked Borgus Rennan, 13th Level Mage, who had dismounted from his mighty steed and had spent the last 20 minutes tinkering with its throttle.

“Nothing much,” said Nurl. “It’s apparently a Level 9 castle, no-one knows who built it or why. Or when. Or out of what. And it’s been called The Castle Of Despair for as long as anyone can remember.”

“Huh,” said Gort the half-Elf, leaning forward on the handlebars of his scooter. “It’s hardly a castle of despair. It’s more like a fortification of despair. People will call anything a castle these days.”

“Well,” said Nurl, “whatever it’s called, we need to get inside. And that means we have to go across that.”

The Castle — or perhaps Fortification — Of Despair had been built against the staggeringly steep face of a bleak mountain, overlooking a valley that dropped dramatically away to a remote river floor below. The only thing that connected the Castle to the outside world at all was a stone causeway that stretched out across the chasm that separated the other side of the valley from the one on which the small band of Heroes now stood; and, against all expectation, that stone causeway somehow managed to look even more ancient than the mountain rock out of which it had been constructed.

“Fuck that for a very silly idea,” said Wandering Xing-Lu, who stood a little behind, arms folded across his chest. “If it doesn’t collapse on our way over, you sure as Hells know it’s going to collapse as soon as we become really interested in coming back as quickly as possible.”

“He’s right,” said Flargflargbloxlnl The Difficult To Pronounce, who usually didn’t get a chance to say much in the stories in which he appeared, and who was therefore going to make the most of any lull in the conversation. “Same damn thing happened to me the last 4 castles I raided. It’s bloody annoying, to be honest. This is why I’ve only been doing temples recently. Usually you only get the giant rolling stone balls and the poison darty things with temples.”

“What are we waiting for?” snapped Phil The Berserk Accountant, the last member of the party, rejoining the group from where he had been crouching, intently examining the castle through a pair of battered binoculars. “Castle over there,” he pointed impatiently, “why are we still over here?”

Nurl stroked his handsome chin with several handsome fingers and then shrugged.

“We leave the bikes here,” he said. “We play rock, paper, scissors, sorceror, political assassination to see who goes across first. Be ready to move out in 10 minutes.”

The band of adventurers (and one very angry Accountant) began their various preparations.

“It’s not even particularly ‘despairy’,” said Gort as he pushed his scooter towards a small patch of gnarled, weather-bleached bushes. “I’d have said it was only mildly depressing at best.”

Oh no! Our heroes (and one very angry Accountant) are about to enter the Castle — or possibly Fortification — Of Despair! Will they survive the crossing of the ancient causeway? What terrible secrets await them on the other side (if they survive the crossing of the ancient causeway)? How is it possible to have handsome fingers? Find out the answers to some of these questions if Murray ever writes a Part Two!

Copyright © Murray Wells 2011