He had (reluctantly) agreed to ignite the Winter Solstice lamps in the village of Bhut, and he said he’d think about appearing as a panel guest on A Question of Slaughter, but when the invitation arrived to play the genie in the annual citadel pantomime of Aladdin, it was really the last straw.

“Who the spahk do they think I am?” he thundered. “Some washed-out old has-been like Krollshun the Necromancer?”

The demi-goblin publicity agent cowered behind the wall hanging, as the desk went flying across the room, scattering papers in its wake, and eventually knocking down the trophy severed arm of the Minotaur of Ghish.

“Perhaps it doesn’t put you in the best light,” the goblin agreed. “But what about the charity auction of draconian battle axes? Please say you’ll at least consider it.”

“No! No! A thousand times no!”

There was something of the primal bloodlust in his eyes that made the demi-goblin scuttle back to the relative safety of the half-lit under-room. Dakon fingered his sword, breathing heavily. He simply couldn’t be bothered with this any more. He didn’t want to go to Bhut. He wanted to get out there and kill things. Someone else ought to be able to take care of the boring bits. It was only a case of showing his face.

And there was the answer: doubles; doppelgangers; look-alikes. He could hire a team of, say, four or five biggish peasants (there were plenty of them out of work since the descent of the Forty-fifth Darkness), give them basic voice and mannerism coaching, kit them out with an old outfit and a replica sword each, and the problem was solved. They could do all the publicity appearances and he could get on with battling the monsters and the demons and basically saving the world.