Botolf had lost everyone - completely and utterly. Elysa looked bleakly at the huge barbarian. His face was deeply furrowed in the firelight. He had even lost himself.

“So the mage came back to the castle… no… it wasn’t the mage, it was the prince… no it wasn’t. What I said first… it was the mage… he went into the inn and said…”

Elysa glanced across at Tovold. The old veteran was sitting bolt upright, trying to appear interested, but his expression had glazed over long ago. Sprawled on the far side of the campfire Leona and Vance were exchanging glances, rolling their eyes. However they did it very, very discretely. Since Botolf had joined the guards, a few unwise folk had made the mistake of antagonising the barbarian – none were yet to do it more than once.

Only poor gormless Rilke was seriously trying to follow the story. He sat beside the speaker, staring intently at Botolf as if hoping to force comprehension by sheer willpower. Rilke never could spot a lost cause. It had frequently been claimed that if you looked into one of his ears you would see daylight through it.

“So the prince said, ‘If you’d told me that yesterday I wouldn’t have brought the shovel!’” Botolf stopped speaking, put his hands on his knees and beamed around at his audience.

Elysa was the first to recognise that the punchline of the joke had been reached. She tossed her head back. “Ha, ha, ha.”

With self-preserving reflexes that had carried him through countless battles Torvold snapped out of his daze. “Ho, ho, ho.”

Leona and Vance were not far behind. Vance, as ever, overdid things, wrapping his arms around his waist and pumping his knee to stamp one heel upon the ground. Fortunately for him, Botolf was no judge of acting.

Only Rilke was silent. He stared in bewilderment at the others around the fire. Then he looked at Botolf. Botolf looked right back at him. Rilke again turned a puzzled expression on his hysterical companions, and at last, like daybreak over a wasteland, enlightenment descended upon him. “Oh… yes… right… Tee-hee, hee...”

But it was too late. One of Botolf’s hammer-like fists swung in an arc and connected with Rilke, landing with enough force to lift his haunches from the ground and cartwheel him backwards.

“Some people got no sense of humour.” Botolf snarled as he grabbed his cloak and stalked away.

Once he had gone Elysa scuttled over to where Rilke’s unconscious form lay crumpled at the edge of the firelight. She could only hope that nothing was broken.

“Poor old Rilke.”

Torvold came to stand next to her. “Ummm.” He made a general sound of agreement, and then pursed his lips thoughtfully. “But I guess this proves one thing.”

Elysa looked up. “What?”

“He who laughs last doesn’t always laugh longest.”

==============