by Ronan Frost
Thrum
By Ronan Frost
Published by
Copyright (c) 2012 by Ronan Frost
Chapter One
Long fingers of a rather ordinary dawn crept over the sleeping city of Hamontoast, the beginnings of a day that was to be the worst in Thrum’s life. To this he was blissfully ignorant, the strengthening light bleaching through thin bedroom curtains rousing him slowly from his stupor. Still half asleep he swung his feet to the floor and balled fists into his eyes and long moments passed before he found the strength to stand. He fumbled the length of the hallway. In a moment of carelessness his feet caught on one another and, fighting overbalance, he careened dramatically into the kitchen. Dressed in his pink dressing gown and fluffy rabbit shaped slippers nobody could have guessed he was a magician.
Well, almost a magician…
His failure was partly due to a lack of coordination (his mother had told him she had once dropped him during a chariot race – baby Thrum had never been the same since.) His early expulsion from the Magic University didn’t help either; caught red-handed executing a daring campus bet involving a pair of false teeth, a ripe banana and the Head of Occult Studies. The University flung him hexed with curses onto the street, his dreams and future ruined.
He swung a battered kettle over the fireplace and puffed upon the glowing ashes, trying not to think about the upcoming day. Recently fired from his job at the local circus he was penniless and, more depressingly, did not have a single soul to turn to for aid. The rent was overdue and the pantry held only dust.
With his last slice of bread toasting over the fire Thrum busied himself with a brew of tea. He cursed to the empty house, discovering the bread had turned to charcoal black with supernatural speed. Gathering up and balancing his tea and toast in one hand, he plunged the other into an open chest filled with rotting scrolls. The scrolls contained a few simple spells and records of novices’ experiments into the world of magic. Thrum had amassed his collection from scavenging at the rubbish dump, sifting through piles to find these minor treasures. He read them because he had a natural burning desire for the arcane and longed to master a spell. Despite his ambition he had absolutely no aptitude; his visions of being a fully fledged magician garbed in an ink black robe and grey beard sprouting from his jaw a mere dream. Doggedly Thrum collected any old scroll he could find in the hope one day he may be able to cast a single spell.
With a swing of his hip he bumped the back door open sat on his stoop in the bright sunshine. He ate both pieces of toast before beginning his morning’s study, the sleeve of his gown serving as a convenient cloth to wipe the crumbs from his lips and whiskers before he picked up the first scroll. Although battered and dog-eared Thrum knew right away something was different about this scroll. He broke the ribbon seal and pulled it open carefully, his eyes flicking over the fancy and barely legible script.
A sudden wetness washed his right ear and shoulder, his body recoiling in shock, limbs flailing at an unseen assailant. Bringing his hand to his shoulder he found a bird had taken him for a target, depositing what must have been a planned shot of guano. Wiping his hand upon his robe he hastily rose, unconsciously stuffing the scroll into a pocket as he went in search of a wet cloth.
Thrum turned as a dark shape caught the corner of his eye. He was in the busy city square scouring the market for cheap food when he saw it, the crowd parting for a jet black horse moving silently closer. Thrum could have sworn the horse was floating as it drew nearer, a figure shrouded in shadows walking beneath it. The horse stopped and was lowered to the ground, a man beading sweat appearing from the underside.
Thrum strode to the horse’s side, tilting his head to peer beneath. Curiosity mixed with unease as he took in the man’s body entwined in bulging muscles that writhed when he moved.
“Welcome to Hamontoast. May I ask...” Thrum jerked a thumb towards the horse. “...what you were doing beneath that mount?”
“Greetings friend! Ahh, you see, I have made a pact with my horse. Whenever there is travelling to be done we take turns in bearing the load.”
“I see,” Thrum said, not seeing at all.
“Do you know to the way to the Wobbly Weasel?” the man inquired.
“The Wobbly...? Oh yes, the pub. Go down that road and take the first left and second right.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Thrum.”
The man looked slightly offended. “I beg your pardon?”
“I'm Thrum Bolgan.”
“I'm sorry, I thought you swore at me.”
Thrum's brows furrowed and he looked blank for a moment before he shook his mind back into action. “No, yes, of course.” He patted the horse’s flank. “I suppose I'll be seeing you Mr...”
“Archendorf. I must attend some business so I’d better get going. Nice talking to you.”
Archendorf lifted the horse with a grunt of effort and moved off, the horse floating into the crowds.
With a heavy sigh and shoulders set in their habitual slump, Thrum resumed his scavenging.
It was late afternoon by the time he returned home. Lairn, Thrum's landlord, was at the front gate to greet him. Judging by the short sword thrust through his belt, it seemed he was not here for a cup of tea and a chat.
“My my, fancy seeing you here! Great to see you on this lovely fine day.” The wicked gleam to Lairn’s eyes belied his light tone.
“S-sir. About the rent…”
“Rent? Oh yes, it had slipped my mind. You are going to pay it aren’t you? Let's see...” Lairn flashed a scrap of parchment from his pocket. “Two silvers should just about cover it.”
“I… Urgh… If you can just hold on another week?”
The smile dropped from the landlord’s face. “No more games. Cough up, or I get my price from selling your gizzards to the witches.” Lairn raised a hand and clicked his fingers.
Two heavily muscled ogres emerged from the bushes behind Lairn, a broad swathe of shadow accompanying them. They approached, thumping crude maces in callused hands and grinning as only ogres can.
Given the situation, and briefly pausing to consider his years of wizardly training, Thrum did the only thing he could do.
Run.
He fell gasping to the ground as rubbery legs gave way beneath him. If there were anything he was good at, it was fleeing, and he was sure Lairn was far behind. Picking himself up he stumbled across the wide cobblestone road, staggering to avoid oncoming traffic. Practically dragging himself by the fingertips, he crawled up a set of splintered stairs, his watery vision blurring.
The swinging sign proclaimed the building to be the Wobbly Weasel. For the benefit of those who could not read, a crude caricature of a bent-legged and half-bald rodent downing a large tankard was etched alongside.
Thrum noticed one of the horses tied to the nearby railing looked a lot like Archendorf’s. Knowing that local adventurers enjoy the local tavern Thrum thought he might be able to find fortune through the swinging doors.
It was dark and smoke hung low in the room. As his eyes adjusted, he saw it filled with men, some slumped onto tables and others in loud conversation. Towards the back a large fire moodily brewed, casting flickering orange light and sharp shadows about the interior.
He had made it halfway to the bar when he realised he had no money. He stopped, made a show of just remembering something important, and turned to make back for the street.
As chance would have it a certain pair of eyes alighted upon his slumped form.
“Mister Thrum! Over here.”
Thrum’s gaze picked out a face in the flickering light and shadow, Archendorf sitting at a table with a mug before him, motioning in a friendly manner. It was with trepidation that Thrum approached, noticing that this man’s
bull-like muscled body put even the ogre’s to shame.
“Hello,” said Thrum in an altogether too high pitched and squeaky voice.
“Drink?” Archendorf inquired.
“I don’t have any money.”
Archendorf shrugged this off and raised an arm, calling in a voice that carried over the hubbub. “Bartender! A drink here.”
The bartender nodded and took a greasy glass from the shelf behind.
“I want to thank you for your directions this morning - they were most helpful.” Archendorf intertwined thick fingers and cracked his knuckles. “Everyone else just seemed to ignore me.”
Thrum nodded. “Is this your first time in the city?”
“It is and I can’t say I like it much. I smile at every person I pass but so far,” he raised an index finger, “not a single person has said so much as a ‘cheerio.’ I thought it wasn’t being sincere enough, so I tried to shake some hands, you know, introduce myself, but that didn’t go down so well.” He shook his head ruefully. “And I haven’t even started talking about the stuffy air! I tell you what it reminds me of - sometimes when I was a kid my other brother used to hold me beneath the bedcovers after a night of cabbage stew and let loose these amazingly ripe - ”
“I get the idea,” said Thrum with a grin. “But come on, it’s not that bad! And as for shaking people’s hands, well, I’m surprised you weren’t arrested.”
“Not for lack of trying - they did call the City Guard.”
“They called the Guard?” Thrum’s grin broadened.
“Funny for you maybe. I only just got away, you should have heard the things they were saying about me.”
“Ahh, well… you’ll get used to it all if you stay here long enough.” For some reason the hostility and filth of the city he called home caused a feeling of pride to well in his heart. For the first time that day Thrum was able to relax, enjoying this man’s company. He thought of all the things confounding him and all seemed compensated for by this newly formed friendship.
“So what brings you here?” he asked.
“Me? I’m waiting for a friend. He should be here soon - here's the letter he sent me.”
Thrum took the offered paper and read it. He looked up. “This is three months old.”
“What?!”
“Look, read the date on it yourself.”
The bartender delivered a beer to their table. Taking hold of the flagon Thrum downed the contents. Archendorf ignored his companion as he coughed and spluttered. Thrum straightened, wiping the remains of lunch from his mouth. “What are you going to do?”
Archendorf hesitated for a moment. “I must confess I’m not exactly a scholar, can’t read anything but my own name.” He grinned a little sheepishly. “So I’m late, eh? Well that would explain why Krakan didn’t turn up today, I’ve been waiting for hours. You know, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t too keen on the new scheme he’d cooked up.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, old Kraken is a good one for schemes. Last time I spoke to him, back in the mountains, he’d found some pirate gold map and set off to find himself a ship and crew to take on the mighty ocean and recover a vast treasure! I was to meet him now in Hamontoast but it looks like I’ve messed up.”
“The docks aren’t far away, just out of town, perhaps he is still there?”
Archendorf nodded to himself. “Yes, perhaps. In the morning I’ll go down and see what I can find out. Which direction do I head from here?”
“Just follow this main road east, it drops down the hill, you can’t miss them. Actually, I live... well, used to live down that way, just before you get to the docks, perhaps I can show you the way tomorrow?”
“I think I’ll be fine, but thank you all the same. So you’ve spent your entire life in Hamontoast?”
Thrum made a half-shrug. “Pretty much. Although recently things haven’t been quite working out.” He fell into silence, knowing he now had no home to return to, no job, no food, and no money.
“I’m sorry to hear it. Look, if you like, if I find my friend I’ll ask him if could use another hand on board-”
Horrible memories of his short-lived stint as a hand on a fisher boat came to Thrum and he shook his head. “No, thank you, I’m not great on boats.” In fact, the mere thought of a boat in heaving swells, combined with the beer swilling in his empty stomach, made Thrum dizzy. He rested his forehead upon the rough oak surface of the table.
“What’s this?” he muttered to himself, feeling something in his pocket. He withdrew the scroll from his robes, recognising it to be the same one that he had discovered that morning while eating breakfast. He unrolled it, noticing with uneasiness that the paper felt like crispy chicken skin. Chicken, or human? a dark part of his mind though. An ominous shudder ran the length of his spine as he began to read.
“Mortal child, I call upon you! From the grave I impart a quest to right what has been wronged.”
“What’s wronged?” interrupted Archendorf.
“What? Oh, I was just reading from a scroll I found.”
Archendorf's pulse quickened. He knew a potential plot when he saw one and dragged his chair around so he could look over the small man’s shoulder.
Thrum continued. “Forces gather in the wind and the time of reckoning is nigh. The pawn has been chosen; you must prove worthy of your task.”
“What are you talking about?” interrupted Archendorf again. “I admit that I can’t read myself, but even if I could, all I see is a blank page.”
“You don’t see it?” Bemused, Thrum blinked hard to reassure himself the flowing writing was not his imagination. “Do not read further. An ogre is about to bite your head off.”
Thrum, his instincts of self-preservation finely tuned, ducked. There was an audible snick of jaws where his head had been moments before. He leapt from his chair and scrambled along upon hands and knees, looking about long enough to see Lairn’s ogres hot on his trail. Disappearing with uncanny speed under the table he heard a fight break out overhead. A heavy black boot came down in his path. Thrum looked up.
Lairn stood with feet planted wide apart brandishing a wooden stool leg. Thrum rolled aside as the stool leg shattered into splinters upon the flooring he’d occupied moments before. The enraged landlord had another in his hands even before the larger pieces of debris rattled to the ground. Thrum did not wait to become a target - in that moment saw an escape route and leapt for it. Howling cries of frustration, Lairn pivoted as Thrum darted between his open legs and into the cover of the neighbouring table.
Huddled underneath he searched desperately for an exit. The door - if only he could reach it! Stools flew like balls from an automatic tennis machine and Archendorf was mostly to blame. Keeping his head as low as possible, his head shrunk so far back into his collar he looked like some sort of human turtle, Thrum made for the door.
He dived through the swinging gates, flew for a short distance, and furrowed the compacted earth as he skidded to a stop. A sickening thought occurred to him. The scroll was still inside!
The door of the Wobbly Weasel burst open and Archendorf emerged splattered in ogre blood. “Friends of yours?”
Thrum nodded. “Yes, all my friends try and bite my head off.”
Archendorf shook his head in resignation. “I don’t know how you do it.”
Thrum jerked his thumb towards the pub. “What’s going on in there?”
Archendorf laughed. “A full-blown brawl! Daggers, broken bottles, you name it. Reminds me of home.”
“Do you have the scroll?”
Archendorf looked blank and upturned empty palms.
Thrum’s eyes blurred as the world swum. The last thing he saw was the earth as it rushed up to greet him.
When he awoke he found he had only momentarily fainted, Archendorf slapping his face.
“Wake up stupid! It’s only a scroll, but if it means that much to you, then go in and get it. I’ll help you.”
There was no need, howe
ver, for at that moment it exited the bar clenched in the hand of man sprinting past. Archendorf ducked as a three-legged stool came hurtling after.
“The scroll...” Thrum spluttered, climbing to his feet in fumbled haste. “...that man, he has the scroll!”
Still dizzy from getting up too fast he gave chase as best as he was able. The thief was quick, darting down a narrow side street. Thrum ran as fast as he could pump his legs, but could not close the gap. The gap, in fact, was widening.
Archendorf proved quicker. The thief did not even make the next corner before he was dropped to the ground. Archendorf stood over the man, rubbing his hands in satisfaction.
A few moments later Thrum arrived. Exhausted, he propped his hands on his knees and panted for air. When his wind had returned he straightened and addressed the thief.
“What...pant...are you doing with my scroll?”
Archendorf had already taken possession and gave it to Thrum, who in turn tucked it securely in his belt.
“Yours?” The thief spat. “It belongs to the Crylock, and you stole it-” The man cut off as Archendorf placed his boot on his chest, forcing the air from his lungs.
“You need to learn some manners,” Archendorf said with sincere calm.
The thief nodded frantically, his hands clawing for air. Archendorf lifted his boot and the man gasped.
“But I found the scroll in the dump,” wondered Thrum. “Of course now I see its strange power.” He turned to Archendorf. “Did you see the way it saved me from being the ogre’s afternoon snack?”
Archendorf nodded cautiously. “See what it says now.”
Thrum unrolled the scroll. The page was blank. Had he imagined the whole thing?
Suddenly the thief, seeing an opportunity, leapt to his feet and dashed away. Archendorf caught him neatly by the scruff of the neck and dragged him back.
“We haven’t finished yet,” he scolded. He slapped the man across the cheek, leaving a red welt. “You were going to tell us who sent you.” There was a moment’s silence. Archendorf raised a megalithic hand.
“Okay, I’ll tell!” screeched the thief. “Please don’t hit me again. I was sent by Ladanum, the head of the Crylock-”
“The Crylock?” cut in Thrum. “You know it?”
“No, nothing, they told me nothing!”
Thrum waved his hand. “Very well, continue.”
“Laudanum sent for me and I was sent to find you. I have been waiting for an opportunity to get the scroll from you.”
“If it’s so valuable, how did he lose it in the first place?”
“I don’t know! Honest!” The thief measured up how well his lie had gone down and then seeing Archendorf's frown deepen he hurriedly confessed. “There was a mix-up with the magic library and it slipped from our grasp. It has been tracked down to you. I have been offered a handsome reward for his capture.”
“His? Whose?”
The thief became frantic as he realised he was revealing far too much. “No, no. I said its.”
Archendorf slapped the man again.
“Okay! The scroll is possessed by the ghost of Taukin the Off-White, once one of the Four Archmages of the King.”
“Taukin?” said Thrum, blinking with surprise. “I think I’ve heard of him. Tell me more.”
The man shrugged skittishly. “I told you I don’t know! Look, from what I’ve been told, years ago Taukin found a secret sect called the Crylock, and the member of the sect managed to defeat him. They could not kill Taukin, but they were able to imprison him within a scroll, but they lost it. I was hired by the wizards to regain the scroll of Taukin. All I know is that they are desperately trying to get it back.”
Thrum turned to his companion. “What do you make of it?”
Archendorf shrugged. “You lost me when you got to the part about a cry lock.”
“Ah,” said Thrum, his chest puffing with pride. “I have read of it. The Crylock he talks of is an ancient society of wizards. The name originates from the founder, Archmage Crylock. All members of the Crylock died when they challenged the rule of the land, and fell into bitter conflict with the King’s Archmages in the Ivory Tower. Remind me to tell you the whole story sometime, it’s quite interesting.”
“You are indeed learned in the art of magic.”
Thrum blushed. “Well, I’ve done my share of reading, that’s true.”
Then the figurative penny dropped inside Archendorf’s head. “But this fellow says the Crylock still exists!”
Thrum nodded. “Yes, quite interesting.”
There was a few moments awkward silence.
“Well, we’d better be getting back,” said Thrum.
“’scuse me,” interrupted the thief. “Could I please go now?”
Thrum regarded the man dangling from Archendorf’s hand. He nodded almost imperceptivity.
Archendorf flicked a casual arm to launch the man into the air. The thief forgotten, the pair then set off back the way they had come.
A few moments later, the thief nose-dived into the cobblestones, creating a spider web of cracks about legs sticking forklike into the air.
Thrum walked beside Archendorf as they trundled down the street long with shadows. Returning to the Wobbly Weasel, they noticed a great deal of commotion inside the doors and they stopped only long enough to untether Archendorf's horse before moving away as quickly as possible. Leading his magnificent stallion by the reins Archendorf started musing aloud.
“I suppose I’ll head for an inn to shack up for the night.” He glanced at Thrum. “Ordinarily, I’d be all in for this adventure thing, but I should really check on my friend down at the docks. So if you don't mind I’ll say goodbye to you and your scroll.”
“I'm not quite sure what I’m going to do with it. When I get h-” His brow furrowed as he realised he no longer had a home. “I don't suppose you could spare a few coppers?”
“I’m sorry Thrum, but I barely have enough for a room and stall for Bronty here,” he said, slapping his horse’s flank. He turned as they approached an inn. “Well, I guess this is where we part.”
Thrum nodded. “Thanks for your help in getting my scroll back.”
Archendorf waved this off. “Don’t mention it, you were good company. I needed a bit of action anyway. Perhaps I will see you some other time.”
“I hope so.” Thrum tried a smile.
Loosely wrapping Bronty’s reins about a pole Archendorf strode into the inn, giving a broad and friendly wave goodbye. Thrum was silent as he watched his only friend disappear from sight. Turning, he walked away. With hands rammed deep into pockets he trudged along aimlessly, now well and truly stuck - no money, no home, no food. Already his stomach growled like a caged animal.
Thrum looked to find the sun touching the horizon. The day had seemed to fly past. He realised he would have to spend the night out in the street. The thought horrified him - he might be mugged while he slept, or be mistaken for a pile of rags and collected by the rubbish haulers.
Snapping back to reality, he discovered he had made his way back to his ex-cottage. As he approached, he found that his few possessions had been stripped from inside and piled upon a large bonfire. All that remained were hot ashes and the odd identifying stump of tatty furniture. The lights were on inside and he guessed Lairn had already rented it out to a new customer. It was with great effort that Thrum managed to resist the urge to hurl a rock through the window.
Groaning with self-pity Thrum sat down on the pathway just outside what used to be his front gate, bringing his knees up close to his chest as he watched the sun end its slow descend to the horizon.
Archendorf lay back in the lumpy mattress that, judging from its wafting odours, comprised mostly of rat droppings. He had seen to it that his horse had been safely stowed in the stables before settling himself. His stomach now full from the hearty counter meal, he found himself drifting off to sleep as the small room became darker.
The door to hi
s room exploded into splinters. Archendorf sat bolt upright as shock pumped a bolt of adrenalin through his body. He saw a figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, hand raised as green sparks flew. Before he had time to spring from the bed Archendorf felt an invisible hand of powerful magic pushing him back against the wall that, even with strength of fifty men, he was unable to break. He could only watch as the wizard approached.
“Give me the scroll.”
“Bugger off,” gasped Archendorf, muscles flexing. Not a man to be intimidated he battled against the invisible bonds. Something cold edged into his heart, eating away at the edges like black ink on blotting paper.
“Where is the scroll?”
Archendorf’s head began to swim, his vision blurring. The voice he heard from his own throat sounded distant. “I… don’t… have it.”
The wizard tilted his head to one side, listening. Catching something, he darted to the shadows as quick as a wraith just as the innkeeper wandered past the corridor outside.
“By the seven goddesses of fertility!” the stout man cried in anguish as he spied the ruined door. “What have you done?”
The magic spell broke and Archendorf drew a heavy intake of breath, and it was only then that the innkeeper noticed him in the shadows.
“Look...out...” Archendorf managed.
But the wizard was gone.
Thrum sat upon the cold kerb and squished ants beneath his sandal. His mind elsewhere, the pile of dead ants grew steadily, an increasing number of others coming to investigate the cause of the devastation only to fall beneath the worn leather sole. There was an itch digging into his side and he reached over to scratch whatever rodent had wormed its way into his robe. Instead, his hand rested upon a tube of writhing parchment that, now that he pulled it out, cast a ghostly guttering glow like a low candle flame. Intrigued Thrum opened the scroll and began reading.
“Thrum.”
He blinked hard; the scroll was communicating again. He watched in stupefied awe as marks formed upon the bone-dry paper. At first clouded and indistinct the writing coalesced into a bold flowing script.
“I am the wizard, Taukin. The gods have chosen you to complete a quest.”
“Me?”
“I have been searching and waiting - for you and only you can read my words. In the entire world there is no other who can help me. You must set forth immediately on your quest. There are many who would kill you for what you carry.”
“I know - Lairn and his ogres.”
“His threat is meagre in comparison to those I speak of.”
“Killed is killed.”
“I know you may have questions, but now you must do as I say, no questions, at once!”
Thrum hesitated. “But I-”
“If you complete your quest I promise that you shall be showered in the riches of kings.”
Thrum’s brows met in the middle, his spirit rising as his mind flashed an image of himself reclining in a sea of velvet, gold coins littering the ground, several half-dressed concubines feeding him peeled grapes.
The words on the scroll flashed away and reappeared in an angry scarlet.
“And if you don't move your sorry hide I'll send you to the pits of hell myself!”
As if on cue a huge shape detached from the shadows and with a rush filled Thrum’s field of view. After a brief moment of terror (and a half-swallowed girlish cry of surprise) he recognised it to be human.
“Thank Crom I found you! Bronty and I have been searching all over.” The horse tossed his head and neighed. Archendorf ruffled his horse’s mane. “You’ve got quite some nose on you Bronty!”
“Archendorf? What are you doing here?”
Archendorf strode to Thrum’s side and dropped to a conspiratorial crouch, his voice urgent. “Someone is after you, and he looks real mean son of a -”
His words were lost to the air in a sudden gush of cold wind, finishing as quickly as it had come, like the opening and closing of a door in a gale. Papers in the gutter pirouetted in the air and a cloud of dust billowed. From the folds of darkness a man stepped in the faint light of the street lantern - the wizard from Archendorf’s room.
Thrum tucked the scroll into his pocket.
The wizard laughed. “You led me right to him, you fooooool!” He made a motion as if he were casting an invisible net. Again Archendorf felt that terrible pressure and this time Thrum was beneath its weight too. Frozen immobile at the feet of the evil wizard Thrum knew with dreadful certainty he was going to die. He closed his eyes in fear and wished it would hurry up and stop taking so long. Beside him, he felt Archendorf twist and struggle.
The dark wizard’s voice was loud and emotionless. “Hand over the scroll, unworthy - uurgh!”
Rearing up huge in the darkness Bronty struck the wizard in the back. The wizard sprawled to the cobblestones.
The paralysis broke but the wizard was on his feet a moment later, the wounds on his back already healed. He threw a forefinger at the horse and conflagrating red fire shot forth. Bronty’s mighty legs failed beneath him as the magic ate into the gallant horse’s flesh, turning him into dust.
Archendorf drew himself to full height, trembling with rage, his voice dripping hate.
“You bastard.” He dropped into a crouch, whipping a concealed blade from under his vest. In one fluid motion, Archendorf plunged the entire span of the steel blade into the wizard’s chest at the exact moment the wizard sensed danger and threw up his paralysing spell. The two bodies met, overwhelming physical strength against an ethereal wall of compacted air - the resulting bass shockwave reverberating into the night as both bodies rebounded.
For long moments nothing stirred, Archendorf on his back five paces from the blast zone, the wizard on his knees with hands wrapped about the hilt of the blade in his heart, face contorted in shock.
Random sparks danced over his inert form.
Silence settled, Thrum still trying to catch up on what had happened after the ‘uurgh’ bit. Archendorf pulled himself upright and with dragging footsteps over to the wizard’s body. Some hidden menace about the facedown form stopped him shy of turning the corpse over. His blade would have to remain behind, for who knew what powers of regeneration lay in that dark heart.
Archendorf watched Bronty’s ashes wash away in the breeze. “He saved my life,” he said, tears glistening in his eyes. “But now, we must go.” Hardness came over his eyes, his grief buried. “Before more of them come.”
Lights shone from the windows of the castle Crylock. Curls of mist wreathed the huge black towers like the still and unmoving waters of a swamp. The castle sat atop a sharp-sided pinnacle of stone, perching like some evil bird of carrion overlooking the mountains of desolation and barrenness.
The original designers had thought this position would give the castle an boding and impressive look, but unfortunately, as occupants would later discover, parts of the building had a habit of breaking off and sliding down the side of the mountain. As a result, the outer rooms were generously offered to unsuspecting novices, while the magicians remained firm in the inner catacombs. In the dead centre of the huge castle was the Grand Hall, where the Crylock members held conferences.
This particular night the torches blazed upon the walls of the Grand Hall where a hurried council was set. Around the table sat eight powerful men of magic, dressed in a variety of coloured robes and cloaks. They represented a cross section of the black arts from all corners of the globe. At the foot of the polished wooden table sat a conjurer, Gehmat the Yellow, a pipe jutting from the side of his mouth. Also in attendance were three wizards of varying skill levels, their number reduced from four by the death of their comrade. Garbed in blood red cloaks were two sorcerers, beards grey and twisted with lack of regular washing. Valgus the Silver sat beside the sorcerers, his mercury cloak denoting him to be a high magician. At the head of the table sat an Archmage, his black hood up over his head and features in shadow.
<
br /> Despite their differences they were all amazingly alike. These men formed the council that led the Crylock, all twisted with a common vengeful hate of the outside world.
The Archmage at the head of the table stood. His name was well known among all delving in the mystic arts; Ladanum the Black. His cloak hung full length to the floor and he always wore a hood, his grave voice resonating from the dark shadows within. Only his hands and lower jaw (a trimmed beard flecked with distinguished grey) revealed his skin to be a deep brown. He raised his yew wood staff and thumped heavily.
“Quiet!” he called above the small talk of the council members as they made themselves comfortable. The murmuring died and all heads turned.
Ladanum drew a breath, preparing to begin, when a deep, distant rumble shook the building.
“Damn,” cursed Valgus the Silver. “That sounded like the left wing. My novices were sleeping there.”
Ladanum ignored this interruption. His voice carried power and hint of malice with its steady, almost ponderous cadence. Ladanum stressed at least one word in every sentence, a rising and falling lilt that gave the impression that his speech was afloat on a storm tossed sea.
“Fellow men of magic, let us begin. We have called yet another meeting. Although our meetings are usually on the first Wednesday of the month, there is a matter to be discussed that cannot wait.”
The wizards buzzed among themselves until the speaker held up his hand. “You may have already guessed… from the empty seat at this table… that Valshirvira has been killed.”
Once again the murmuring flared up. Ladanum spoke in a voice louder than the rest. “Valshirvira was headstrong. He didn’t like taking orders… from anyone. I say forget him - we shall all be better off.”
There were sounds of agreement and Ladanum raised his yew staff once more. “It is well known Valshirvira was not popular in this council yet we must remember the pledge we made when we were inducted into the Crylock.” He scanned the faces around the table. “We must work together to preserve our order and ensure we survive to see our revenge carried out upon the world. We must avenge Valshirvira's death and, more importantly, get the scroll!”
“I say, what scroll is this?” muttered one of the three wizards. He was one hundred and sixty years old.
Ladanum bowed his head and sunk back into his chair. It took him a moment before he looked up, expressionless in the shadowy hood. “I had hoped to keep this between Valshirvira and myself to avoid panic… but now I see we must all act. The scroll containing the ghost of Taukin has been found.”
There were gasps of disbelief from all members of the council. Well, nearly all; the old wizard cleared his throat with a phlegmy grumble and said, “Who is Taukin?”
“Most of you know Taukin,” said Ladanum, addressing the council as a whole and pretending to ignore the old man, who tended to be more of an embarrassment than anything else. “Taukin was a powerful magician, more powerful than all of us put together, and was once one of the King's Four Archmages. Well, we all know what happened… Our battle with the Ivory Tower. Just as the tide of battle was turning, a binding spell caught Taukin. He struggled against it, and before he could break free, he became bound to a scroll, his life-force departing his body. We of the Crylock gathered his physical presence and transported it back to the castle. Being a powerful Archmage his body could not be destroyed, and we knew it possible for Taukin to re-enter his body if the scroll containing his spirit was ever brought back into contact. We keep watch over the body here deep in the castle. And thus it had stayed for twenty years, until now.” Ladanum paused, then looked up. “We must find the ...scroll...ahem.” He burbled to a halt, fists clenching in frustrated anger. All seven councillors sat heads thrown back in the chairs, snoring blissfully, rocked to sleep by the even lullaby cadence of the Archmage’s words.
“Bugger,” said Ladanum quietly. “Nobody ever listens to me.”
Together Thrum and Archendorf shambled along the deserted streets by moonlight. Their pace was brisk yet restrained for Thrum knew they had a fair distance remaining before they reached the city gates. They moved quietly through the dark and silent city, driven by nervousness and fear. Half-hidden movements darted in and out of surrounding shadows, for it was the hour of thieves and assassins.
Thrum swore loudly as he collided with an empty rubbish bin. He regained his feet quickly and broke into a run to close the distance that had formed between himself and Archendorf. As he passed a drinking establishment, drunken men standing in lamplight laughed as he passed.
“Ahoy there, looks like your britches need emptying!”
“Just not in my letterbox!” shouted another.
Thrum determinedly ignored the mocking laughter as it spilt eerily through the darkened cobblestone streets. He at last caught up with his burly companion, and Archendorf seemed to notice for the first time that Thrum was having trouble matching his pace.
“Do you need a rest?” he said.
As if in answer, Thrum dived to the road and disappeared from Archendorf’s view.
He picked himself up and propped onto hands and knees with his hand lolling between sunken shoulderblades, his lungs almost bursting. “I’m not much used to exercise,” he said between hitches of breath.
“Here, let me help,” said Archendorf. He picked Thrum off his feet and hung him over one shoulder like a slab of meat. The big man did not even strain as he sped to a jog. Finally, Hamontoast’s city wall loomed ominously in front of them, the massive wooden gates fortunately still open, allowing the pair to lope through without slowing. Then they were out in the open, bathed in cool white moonlight. So smooth was the ride that Thrum found himself falling to sleep as they bounded along.
Valgus the Silver hastened down cold passageways, a wry straw broom clutched in his hand. A level six magician (the maximum being eight) and the second oldest member of the Council, Valgus was one of those types of people who think a lot of respect is owing to them. His self-importance stubbornly overrode any embarrassment he might have about striding through the castle with a broom.
His destination was Archmage Ladanum’s chamber. Even Valgus, well known for his ruthlessness and arrogance, was supplicant to Ladanum’s wishes, for the Archmage possessed a great magic and temper.
At last, Valgus reached the door. He rapped sharply on the thick wood with his knuckles in an imitation secret knock (Ladanum hadn’t given him a code so he just made one up.)
A sharp voice bade from inside. “Come!”
Valgus entered Ladanum’s study and crossed the thick bearskin rug towards the expansive desk, at which sat the Archmage, pouring over a stack of scrolls. He glanced up at Valgus’s entrance.
“Yes?”
Valgus held the broom out at arms length. “This is all we could find, master.”
Although Valgus could only see the ridge of brow in the shadows of Ladanum’s hood, he could tell he was not impressed. “Where in the name of the seventh depths of hell… did you get that?”
“Er, the cellars, sir. The cleaning lady is a witch and she said we could use it.”
Ladanum smouldered. He was desperate of finding a mode of transport to take Gehmat, conjurer of the Council, quickly and discretely to the city of Hamontoast. Although Ladanum could summon a fiery steed with a snap of his fingers, it inevitably incinerated its rider. After much deliberation, Ladanum refused that they use any more powerful magic, for it would attract the attention of the King’s wizards. Ladanum demanded the castle be searched for something he could use.
“It will have to do,” he sighed, then raised his voice to a boom. “Send for Gehmat!”
“Sir,” interrupted Valgus, “I am afraid the cleaning lady is unable to pilot the broom at this present time. Gehmat will have to do it himself.”
Ladanum seemed surprised by this turn of events. “But Gehmat can’t pilot a broom! Wait, haven't you had some experience in this field?”
“
Er,” gasped Valgus, realising it would be folly to lie. “A little, but hardly adeq-”
“Then it is done. You shall leave with Gehmat at dawn.”
Valgus drew a breath to protest at the same moment the door opened to admit the yellow robed form of Gehmat the conjurer.
“Gehmat,” said Ladanum briskly, templing his dark skinned fingers on the desk. “You are to go to the city of Hamontoast, where Valshirvira was killed. Valgus will take you there. As you know, we must keep our use of magic to a minimum – we don’t want the King’s Four Archmages alerted, especially now that our invasion plans are so near. And if they were to discover the scroll of Taukin loose in the world – well, surely I don’t need to press the seriousness of this matter.”
Gehmat nodded. “It will be an easy matter to recover the scroll, my Lord.”
“That’s what Valshirvia thought,” retorted Ladanum. “The rest of the council will remain here at the castle, guarding Taukin’s body.”
“As you wish, sir.”Gehmat bowed low.
“That is all,” finished Ladanum. The conjurer and magician turned upon their heel and strode out the room in a swish of silver and yellow. The door closed and Ladanum turned his attention once more to the pile of overdue bills before him.