The Banned Underground: The Mystic Accountants [Englisch] [Taschenbuch]

Will Macmillan Jones lives in Wales, a lovely green verdant land with a rich cultural heritage. He does his best to support this heritage by yelling loud encouragement at the TV when Wales plays international rugby. Having been an accountant for much of his working life, he now writes in a desperate attempt to avoid terminal atrophy of his brain. A fifty something lover of blues, rock and jazz, he has achieved a lifetime ambition by extending his bookcases to fill an entire wall of his home office.

England. The Lake District. The most beautiful place in the world. However, this region – beloved by photographers across the world – has a downside. Occasionally, it rains. This fact is especially known by the assistant photographers whose task, in return for meager wages, is to carry all the gear and not drop it in the mud, under any circumstances, on pain of death. Accordingly, unusually, and most remarkably, that evening it was raining. The waters hammered on the houses of the towns and villages, forcing visitors to take shelter in the various pubs. Much photographed and adored by the professional photographers, and hated in equal measure by those who had to carry the equipment, the mighty Lakeland Fell of Helvelyn stood tall against the storm. The delicate tracery of the attached Striding Edge laughed at the rain, while the lashing water made sure that the paths became a nightmare to traverse while burdened down with the gear. Down the slopes into the next valley of Borrowdale lay the ancient Bowder Stone, rumored to be the location for various supernatural beings and, in fact, the front door to the Helvyndelve. The ancient dwarven halls of the Helvyndelve lie beneath the frowning fells of Helvelyn and quite a few other mountains too, of course, as the Helvyndelve is enormous. On a night such as this, who would have been surprised at the sight of a large group of eldritch beings, dwarves, trolls, half-elves and so on swathed and huddled against the rain, gathered together there? Their conversation could have been – should have been – mystical, magical, occult, or paranormal, or indeed all of them at once: “I don’t care who you are, if you ain’t got a ticket, yer can’t come in,” said security. “But I’m with the band!” said the first in line. “They all say that,” replied security, in the form of two dwarves clad in full body armor and bad attitudes. “I’ve got a t-shirt on.” “All it says is ‘Let me in cos I’m with the band’,” pointed out security. “See?” insisted the would-be concert-goer. “£9.99 at the supermarket. Everyone’s got one.” The dwarf opened his cloak and revealed a badly-fitting t-shirt stretched over his armor. “Come on. Some of us behind you are getting soaked waiting out here!” came a complaint from further down the line. “Not my fault they didn’t put up any awnings,” replied the ticket-less one. “Show us yer ticket, or go away,” insisted security. “Alright, I haven’t got a ticket.” “Should have said so. Then you could just have bribed me straight off, instead of standing out there getting wet.” There was a chink, as several coins passed hands. A derisive snort and several more joined the first set vanishing into security’s secure pockets. The line moved on. Inside the Gate Chamber – a large, dimly-lit cave underground beneath the Bowder Stone – more security awaited the intrepid visitors. “Helvyndelve Security. Please leave your spears, swords, staffs, wands, knives, and other weapons at the desk, to collect on your way home,” said the banner. “Good bit of spell casting that, Milim,” said the first underground guard, another medium-sized dwarf who was also fully armored. “Getting the banner to talk like that saves us a lot of work, Daran,” replied his colleague, through his enormous beard. “Pity it has a Yorkshire accent though.” “Can’t have everything. No, sorry sir, got to leave that over there. Collect it on your way out.” “But it’s cultural!” objected the gig-goer. “It’s also banned completely in most countries,” Daran insisted. “It’s recommended for police use in the others.” “But not here, so leave it.” “Guard?” “Well done sir. Identifying me as a guard wins you a prize.” “Great! What did I win?” “The right to be not gratuitously assaulted, until you’re on the way out again.” “Guard? I’ve got a press pass!” “Press past me and you will know about it. Get in line with the others.” “Guard?” “Yes sir?” “Says you have to leave your weapons here.” “That’s right.” “I’m an expert in unarmed combat.” “Then just leave your arms with the other weapons.” Daran and Milim watched the guest – empty sleeves flapping – join the wanderers down the dimly-lit corridor into the heart of the Helvyndelve. “I dunno, Daran, it’s not rocket science is it?” “And he’s armless now.” “Don’t that make ‘im more dangerous than before?” “Oh, cos he’s an expert in unarmed combat?” “I never expected The Banned Underground to get a house this size. The Chamber of the Throne’s goin’ ter be packed out,” Milim said to Daran. “Lord Lakin spent a lot on the advertising for them. Witches Chronicle, Modern Warlock, What Witch, The Craft Magazine, New Shaman, Investment Banker International.” “Investment Banker International?” queried Milim. “Get a lot of the Edern reading it. Regular order at their Fairy Hill.” “Always been a bunch of bankers, that’s true. Is the Lord expecting any trouble?” “Don’t think so, really. The Tuatha can’t make the gig. Erald, their boss, has got them on some sort of team building exercise in Wales. It’s his latest management thing. He got it from that Lord Telem of the Edern.” “What’s it supposed to do, then?” Milim wanted to know. “I saw the brochure lying about. It’s supposed to, uh ‘encourage coordinated action; enhance teamwork; develop leadership skills; teach the art of ‘elegation; reduce dependency on others; encourage self-reliance’.” “What does he want to teach that lot those things for?” Milim asked. “Improve their efficiency?” Daran wondered. “The only thing they’ll ever be efficient at is drinking. And if they get any more coordinated at the bar, no one else will ever get served.” “Talking of which, let’s get the doors locked and get a round in before the hospitality bar closes and the gig starts.” “With Fungus the Boogieman and The Banned Underground playing, the bar will never close.” Milim and Daran closed the magical doors and locked them with the traditional spell – “and bloody well stay shut!” – before following the last of the latecomers down the western passage to the Chamber of the Throne. Despite how much money had been spent on the advertising, the drinks, the other drinks, the further drinks, the emergency drinks, the essential drinks for when the emergency drinks ran out, and the last ditch secret stash of drinks for real emergencies (such as running out of drinks), and the customary catering, (“you want onions or chips wiv yer burger, luv?”) the backstage area was not so well equipped (except for the drinks). The Banned Underground were enjoying the hospitality room, a curtained off area ten square and dusty feet behind the dais at one end of the enormous Chamber of the Throne, which lay deep below Helvelyn itself. The ancient, mystical, and woodworm infested Throne of the Mountain King occupied much of the space, but there was plenty left as a stage for The Banned Underground. Popular in many quarters, and unpopular wherever bar tabs remained unpaid, the band (all dwarves with one exception,) were: Haemar: lead vocals Scar: keyboards Felldyke: drums, percussion, empty beer bottles, etc. Gormless Golem (aka GG): guitar And, on saxophone, a five-and-a-half foot high, luminous green bog troll called Fungus the Boogieman, according to the fly posters presently being removed from various local car parks. “I wanted those M&M things, with all the yellow ones taken out,” grumbled Scar, engaged in his favorite hobby: complaining. Fungus was peering through the hastily-erected curtain, which hung behind the dais on which the throne rested. His shades kept slipping down his nose in the heat but he would not discard them. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Haemar gargling. “Do you have to do that, Haemar?” Fungus demanded. “Just lubricating me throat before the gig,” Haemar replied, unconcerned. “Can’t you use WD-40 like any other singer?” “This water is free. Look, it even runs free.” “Down the wall, near the power socket,” observed GG who was fussing around as usual. “Any normal singer would use beer,” said...