* * *
Whiskey Creek Press
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Copyright ©2007 by WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
* * *
NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
* * *
A MAGE IN THE MAKING:
Book 1 of The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster
by
Alastair J. Archibald
WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Published by
WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
Whiskey Creek Press
PO Box 51052
Casper, WY 82605-1052
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Copyright ©
2007 by Alastair J. Archibald
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN 978-1-59374-845-0
Credits
Cover Artist: William ‘Nick’ Johns
Editor: Melanie Billings
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To Mathew and Esther and the regulars at ‘The Cricketers', for putting up with an inveterate scribbler.
To the good folk at fanstory.com, who took time to comment on my scribbles.
To my family, for keeping me (almost) sane.
Prologue
Humankind's long flirtation with Technology began with the first crude stone tools and ended with the fusion flames of the Final War. The war lasted five days. At the end of this time, no ruler, government or nation remained to declare itself the victor. Plutonium mushrooms hung over Earth's once-proud cities of steel and glass, turning them into radioactive charnel houses. Hundreds of millions suffered and died in the radioactive ruins, cursing the technocrats who had brought them to the gates of Paradise, only to deny them entrance.
Humanity had overseen the demise of the dodo, the passenger pigeon, the thylacine wolf and many other species. It now faced extinction at the hands of its primary survival attribute: intelligence.
Under the black, awful clouds that coalesced to form a funeral pall over the proud dreams and hopes of mankind, the flame of the human race guttered fitfully, on the brink of final, irrevocable extinction.
Nonetheless, the indomitable human will to survive made many of those remaining on the face of the radiation-scorched planet struggle to rebuild some remnant of civilisation in the wilderness, where the depredation and tribulation wrought by the thermonuclear weapons was less than in the ruined cities. The first townships were little more than loose collections of shanties where people banded together to scour the radioactive ruins for tinned food, bottled water, clothes or whatever else they could find that might prove to be of some use in their shared fight for survival.
The scourge of radioactive decay lingered, and, for generations, sports and stillbirths were common, and even the victors of the initial struggle for survival hovered on the brink of oblivion. It was then that evolution, held at bay for so long by the protective cocoon of civilisation, began once more to shape the future of humankind.
* * * *
At first, there were a few who, whilst outwardly normal, began to manifest strange abilities in their extreme youth, such as the ability to set fire to objects, or to levitate themselves above the ground. Many of these gifted individuals were killed as abominations and affronts to nature in the more puritanically fundamentalist communes. The forces of natural selection, aided by human rejection, played endless games of chance, using the lives of hapless sports and mutants as playing tokens. Most of these sports were sacrificed on the altars of new religious fundamentalism.
However, as more useful talents came to light, such as the ability to divine water in the desert, to see and delineate areas of high radiation and to cause the clouds to part or the rain to fall, these mutants became ever more highly prized and their practitioners were accorded high status, as religious strictures were thrown aside.
The most successful magic-users were protected from the harsh working conditions of the fields and were protected by their communities, although still shunned by the genetically “normal". Thus those with the gift survived and throve, their genes protected and strengthened by breeding with other gifted people who were their only real friends.
As the townships grew in affluence and wealth and magic became more accepted, the first guilds of magic sprang up to seek out and to foster the powers and sleights that might reside within the populace. Education and prosperity began to flower anew, and the spate of deformed children and stillbirths steadily decreased as the remaining breeding stock of humanity was slowly and painfully whittled down to the most hardy and resourceful individuals. Magic never became commonplace, but it became a valuable resource in the pursuit of the rebirth of Civilisation. Technology was but a dim memory, but it remained a source of hatred; a phantom with which to frighten fractious children.
Trade began between the townships as radioactive half-lives ticked away and the land became better able to support the growing of crops and the raising of healthy livestock. Barter gave way to letters of credit, followed by the exchange of metal and paper currency.
* * * *
Five hundred years after those few days of thermonuclear insanity, the widely-separated townships were burgeoning centres of trade ringing the pockets of intense radiation that had been the old cities. The most important cities established the first schools of magic, training magically-gifted youngsters of both sexes. In time, two main classes of magic emerged: the male art of Thaumaturgy, whose acolytes derived power from within themselves; and its feminine equivalent, Geomancy, whose devotees obtained their magic from within the life-forces of Earth itself, including physical love.
Most witches went about their lives in a harmonious way, applying their Geomantic powers to cure sickness and to mend damaged items; most of the new cities welcomed powerful witches.
The early mages used their budding Thaumaturgical skills in a mechanistic manner to lift heavy loads and to deter crime, and, in many cases, they lived alongside their female counterparts in a harmonious and friendly working relationship. Romances between mages and witches were not only tolerated but encouraged; the child of a witch and a mage was likely to be more powerful and skilled than either of his or her parents.
Generation by generation, the dispassionate power of Natural Selection amplified the traits of magic and the differences between the two complementary disciplines.
The truce between the devotees of Geomancy and the adepts of Thaumaturgy did not last. The death knell of the old concord sounded as the mages began to band together into what would become the Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges, guarding the secrets of their art with jealous zeal. The witches responded by forming the Geomantic Sisterhood, which the mages saw as a threat to their growing power.
The new battle of the sexes ended when the Guild introduced strict rules of celibacy, denying the members of the Sisterhood their greatest advantage over their male rivals for power. Although most witches gained great reserves of magical strength through intimate physical contact with men, they did not seek to use it as a weapon against their male-friends; nonetheless, the masters of the Guild saw sexual contact as a threat, and they acted accordantly, instituting strict rules of celibacy for all mages under their control.
Denied direct influence over the mages, the witches’ might waned, and the patriarchal cities began to marginalise the witches, giving preference to the establishment of Guild Houses, who were governed by a single authority: High Lodge. While the Houses undertook the training of promising boys who showed the signs of Thaumaturgical power, High Lodge stood aloof, confining its role to the determination of Guild policy and the settlement of disputes between the rival Houses.
The Sisterhood faded and died, leaving its former members to scratch out meagre livings as best they could, while the Guild went from strength to strength. In time, the reasons for the strict rules regarding celibacy and Technology were forgotten, although the laws themselves remained as articles of faith.
After the passage of eight millennia, the Guild became complacent; confident in its pre-eminence, putting its trust in its ancient laws and strictures. Protected by law in many townships and cities, its leaders became self-satisfied and vulnerable, since no single organisation remained to oppose it.
While most witches accepted their imposed lower status, many did not. Many peaceful demands for the recognition of witches were crushed by brutal force from the towns’ fathers, until only the very bravest women would dare complain about their lot. The majority of the enfeebled witches had little choice but to accept the few, stale crumbs their male masters threw them, deprived as they were of their greatest power. A thousand years after its formation, the Guild basked in its pomp and pride. Since no enemies remained to threaten its supremacy, it became bloated and lethargic, a shadow of its former self.
Hidden in a remote nunnery, a single witch watched and waited; plotting the downfall of her hated male rivals and the resurgence of the Geomantic cause. With the strange, awful new power she had discovered, she had influenced Guild politics more than once, and she sought the final, irrevocable push that would topple the Lords of the Guild from their lofty pedestals.
* * * *
In a small, run-down smithy in a drab hamlet, an old man, burdened with years of guilt and self-loathing, put down his quill and placed a folded letter into a waxed pouch. The grizzled smith reached into his shirt pocket and extracted an ornate blue and gold ring, staring at it for a few moments. Then, he kissed the ring and dropped it into the pouch, sighing as he sealed the package.
"You will understand when you are older, Grimm,” he muttered under his breath. “May the Names bless you and ... forgive me."
Chapter 1: A Bedraggled Boy
With a grateful sigh, Doorkeeper lowered himself into his comfortable, battered leather armchair. He asked little of life, and he preferred tranquil solitude to vigorous debate or studious book-learning. The cheerful fire, whispering and crackling in the grate, and the sonorous tick of the pendulum clock opposite him, soothed the old man's jangled nerves.
The distant, muffled sounds of atrocious weather, kept at bay by the mighty walls of the ancient fortress of Arnor House, served to increase his feeling of well-being, and the old man poured himself a glass of wine from a bottle on the small table beside him. Doorkeeper held up his glass and admired the ruby liquid, seemingly brought to life by the flickering of the fire's flames. He drew in a mouthful of the beverage, rolling it around his palate and savouring the wine before swallowing. He put the glass back on the table and contemplated.
Tick, tock, tick, tock...
Doorkeeper was at peace, comforted by the knowledge that the House was safe within its thick stone walls and sustained by its immutable, ages-old rituals and customs. The effects of a heavy meal and the comfortable, familiar surroundings dulled the old man's senses, and he settled back in his chair with another sigh of deep contentment.
Tomorrow night would not be so tranquil, Doorkeeper reflected, since he would be required to act as Master of Ceremonies at a gathering of mages, representatives of High Lodge among them. Such meetings were always well attended and often noisy. The old man knew there would be demonstrations of magic, sometimes destructive, once the wine had started to flow, as the various mages bragged of their powers, each trying to outdo his peers and prove himself the most powerful mage.
Doorkeeper disliked these drunken revels, since they interrupted his precious routine; as Master of Ceremonies, it was his duty to keep the guests cheerful and well-supplied with food and drink, and he frowned upon the disruption of proper pomp and protocol by what he considered foolish tricks. The aged major-domo liked to tell himself that such childish pranks were beneath him; the truth was that even the very simplest of these ‘foolish tricks’ was beyond his meagre magical capabilities.
His proper title was Mage Doorkeeper, although, to his endless disappointment, nobody ever seemed to remember the honorific. Despite the fact that he wore a Guild ring and carried a mage staff, he was not a potent master of the arcane arts. For this reason, the old mage tended to dislike talented Specialists from other, richer Houses: men with fine silk robes and bulging purses, who boasted of travels to exotic lands Doorkeeper would never see. He revered the senior mages of his own House, but he tended to disparage the skills of those whom he considered as mere ‘Outsiders.’ Nonetheless, he was always careful to keep a respectful distance from them.
Doorkeeper had essayed a number of Specialities such as Reader, Healer, Scholar, and Seer, proving quite unsuited to all of them. At the age of fifty, as the oldest Neophyte in the House, he had despaired of ever finding a true magical vocation. It was with great relief that he had accepted lifetime tenure as Mage Doorkeeper of Arnor House, overjoyed to have found an accepted Speciality at last. This also pleased the authorities of the House, since there had been no permanent incumbent in the post for many years. Although the post of Mage Doorkeeper was a symbolic position with few real responsibilities or privileges, any House that could afford to employ one seemed to enjoy a certain cachet within the Guild.
Tick, tock, tick, tock...
The old man had been addressed as ‘Doorkeeper’ for so long now that he could barely remember the name he had borne before being granted the title. He dressed in fading midnight blue robes decorated with embroidered silver runes, and he bore a handsome head of curly white hair and a long white beard. Image was important to Doorkeeper, and he tried hard to cultivate the air of a master of the arcane arts, but his bulbous, red nose and round, ruddy face ruined the impression he sought to create.
Despite his yearning to be recognised as a venerable magic-user, he knew he gave the impression of a genial, bumbling and slightly senile grandfather, and he announced his presence wherever he went by a chorus of creaking, popping joints. Doorkeeper's habits included rubbing his nose, sudden fits of furious scratching under his robes and muttering to himself, all of which detracted severely from the stern, sorcerous image he tried to display to his peers. However, although the old man was dimly aware of these little tics and foibles, he found himself quite unable to suppress them.
There was a common saying within the Guild, power and presence complete the mage, and the old man knew he had little of either, to his continual chagrin. One of the outward signs of a Guild magic-user's ‘presence', apart from his staff and his Guild ring, was ‘Mage Speech'. This was a formal, rigid manner of delivery, without contractions and heavy on polysyllabic verbiage, intended to raise an invisible barrier around the speaking mage, so as to maintain an air of aloofness that demanded respect. From an early age, the Magemasters in the Scholasticate hammered into each House Student the need to adopt this mode of speech when on official House business and when dealing with
Seculars such as tradesmen, but Doorkeeper never seemed to have found the knack. Despite his best efforts, he always ended up repeating himself, stammering, or lapsing into vernacular speech.
The ancient mage had few formal duties, but he regarded each of his obligations as essential for the smooth running of the House. Among these was the responsibility to be on hand to welcome any mage returning home after leave of absence, and Doorkeeper regarded this responsibility as paramount.
The heavy, black oak door that led to the Great Hall had neither handle nor lock, but it swung open at the merest touch of anyone bearing a Guild ring. Whenever a member of the House approached the portal, a soft chime sounded in Doorkeeper's chamber, enabling him always to be ready to greet a returning member of what he regarded as his true family.
Tick, tock, tick, tock...
Doorkeeper felt his eyelids growing heavy. He gave a deep yawn and stretched luxuriantly, to the almost musical accompaniment of protesting joints.
Nobody's going to be travelling tonight in this weather, thought the major-domo. Best I have an early night, so I can be ready for tomorrow.
Opening his mouth in another cavernous yawn, he forced himself to his feet, stretched again, picked up his glass and downed the remainder of its contents at a gulp. As he walked over to damp down the fire, he heard the gentle musical tones signalling the arrival of a House mage.
Who in the world can that be? he wondered. Oh, well, duty calls, I suppose.
"You'd think a few more people round here would appreciate my efforts on behalf of the House. Work, work, work; that's all I ever seem to do,” he muttered in a peevish tone. Grumbling under his breath, he gathered his voluminous robes around him, belched and rushed to the main hall to discharge his ceremonial duty.
* * * *
The small boy felt enormous relief and a sense of victory as he reached the huge portal. His brown, homespun robes were soaked and mud-spattered, clinging to his thin legs and body like some avaricious octopus unsure of where to begin devouring him. His long, dark hair hung in a dripping mess across his face. His legs were sore; indeed, his whole body ached after the long trek up the winding mountain pass, a journey that had appeared much less onerous at its outset than it had proved to be. The black fortress was far larger than he would have believed and, therefore, at a much greater distance than he had thought.
The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster [Book 1: A Mage In The Making] Page 1