Squire StinknZombalot rapped at the inside of the crate for the 400th time. Why? Why had it seemed so appealing? After he was chased out of the pub by a conga line of screaming bar wenches he'd wandered around the port town looking for a place to lay low. The only place that seemed at all appealing had been this wooden crate. But in the night some bastard had sealed it shut, and no matter how good it smelled (like freshly squeezed lamb's brains) it was cramped and he needed to pee.
He tore off another corner of the only other thing that occupied the crate: a poster that said something about crossing the Belgaer Sea, North East to the Northern Isles in Middlesteem and catching up with an old pal. That was a lot of gobbledygook as far as Zombalot was concerned, and no self-respecting squire from Byron would be caught dead anywhere as pokey as Middlesteem, but there you are. Sometimes you don't choose crates, they choose you.
The paper smelled good, almost overpowering the stench from outside, that frankly reeked of the fart from a barely-tamed ass. Zombalot munched on a wad of the paper, chewing thoughtfully. The only other mark on the paper said 
For an instant he was weightless as he felt the crate tossed into the air. A moment later he crashed to the ground as it slammed into something large and unforgiving. Zombalot grunted in pain, twisted his head back on the right way and went back to chewing the paper, imagining what blacksmith brains might taste like (iron) or the brains of Iron Maidens who ride asses.
From outside the crate the sound of the surf crashing against rocks was only slightly muffled by the wooden walls. I must cut my toenails, he thought, wondering exactly how long it was humanly possible to stay with one's feet wrapped literally around one's head. Then there was another strange noise. Something was being jammed into the edge of the crate. The noise continued for a moment, then the lid of the crate lifted with a squeal worse than a rat when you bit off only the tip of his tail (not that Zombalot had ever tried that).
"This one's got our rum in it." Said a voice. "It was right heavy 'an all."
"It better bloody have our rum in it. After taxing this from that feckless fop Lord Percival's kitchen and lugging it all the bloody way here? If you've the wrong crate I'll flog you meself."
The crate opened and Zombalot found himself face to face with a hideos monster. He screamed. The monster screamed. He screamed again. The monster screamed again also.
"Will you both shut the feck up?"
Zombalot saw another man's face appear at the top of the crate. "What do we have here?" said the man. "Looks like someone's let hisself go a bit. You all right?"
Let himself go? Zombalot was furious. He was about to say something when the other man said, "He looks a bit like one of them zombabies the sheriff were talking about. Dontcha think Harry?"
Harry, rubbed his chin. "He might do at that. Close it back up."
Close it? "No, wait!" Zombalot had barely got the words out of his mouth when the crate closed once more.
"You'll get out when we get to port," said one of the men.
"Harry, don't let him get delivered to port. Put a Himling note on it. Those bastards deserve what they get."
Harry laughed. "True enough. Himling it is. Now I only wish we had a crate large enough for Chooxena's arrogant Unicorn. That fecker lets loose more shite than me mum."
"Serious?"
"Harry? Would I lie to you?"
"I don't know, Fez. Weren't you saying something about a bunch of fools going to the island of Crete to pick up a present?"
"I weren't lying about that, Harry. That's the honest truth. If I'm lying shave me balls and call me Charlie. Harry?"
"I thought I told you not to say that no more. It ain't right."
"Sorry Harry."
The two laughed as they moved on, but with every footfall Zombalot heard, the angrier he became. Lock him in a crate would you? Make fun of his complexion would you? It's not decay, they're just acne scars, lots of people have them. Well, he'd show them all. He'd get to Crete before the lot of them. And once he was there, he'd get the best present. No. He'd get all the presents!
The rest of the voyage was slow, but Zombalot needed the thinking time. In just the same way as a handful of beans can make a small casserole, a little honest thinking time can be morphed into a cunning plan.
Steemlords is the brainchild (yum) of the greatest knight in all the land......'s cousin, 
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