by Dave Higgins
Sorcery
Dragons & Magic Book 3
Higgins & Cantan
Sorcery is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the authors’ imaginations or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
Published December 2016.
Copyright ©2016 Simon Cantan & Dave Higgins.
All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information retrieval system without permission of the publisher. The moral right of the contributors to be identified as the authors of their work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988.
Cover by MickeyMik (99designs.co.uk/profiles/mickeyart).
Published by Dave Higgins, Bristol.
Contents
Chapter 1 - A Future Scholar
Chapter 2 - Axe
Chapter 3 - Suspicious Quiet
Chapter 4 - Quest
Chapter 5 - Six Years Later
Chapter 6 - Hungry
Chapter 7 - Headache
Chapter 8 - The Search
Chapter 9 - Floating
Chapter 10 - Turning the Earth
Chapter 11 - Fishing
Chapter 12 - The Sea
Chapter 13 - Giants
Chapter 14 - Gus
Chapter 15 - Undead
Chapter 16 - Tribal
Chapter 17 - Holdout
Chapter 18 - Corpse Armies
Chapter 19 - Amberwick and Gone
Chapter 20 - The Other Side of the Fence
Chapter 21 - Wake
Chapter 22 - Reunion
Chapter 23 - March of the Dead
Chapter 24 - Caught Up
Chapter 25 - Research
Chapter 26 - Battle
Chapter 27 - Sneak Attack
Chapter 28 - Inside
Chapter 29 - Sanctum
Chapter 30 - Stopping It
Chapter 31 - Re-reunion
Epilogue
Simon’s Afterword
Dave’s Afterword
About Simon Cantan
About Dave Higgins
Chapter 1
A Future Scholar
Peony’s legs dangled over the edge of the gilt chair. She drummed her fingers on the ancient oak table in front of her. So many dusty books cluttered the table she could barely see past them to her dad, Edmond. Standing with his back to her, he ran his finger along the shelves opposite, trying to find some vital tome to show her.
Years of poring over tomes had left him slightly stooped. His glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose. His hair was retreating faster than a goblin spotting a soap factory. And lines had etched their way across his forehead. In a few more years, he’d look like everyone’s image of a scholar: old, wizened, and muttering.
He was still searching. She’d lost count of how many times he’d paused in the middle of an explanation of something that didn’t matter because he had to show her something vital. Each time, it had just been more scratched words on yellowed parchment. She felt like she’d spent every one of her twelve years cooped up in the library, watching him search through those words.
Her gaze went to the book in front of her. Fundamental Statistics was a perfect example of how useless books could be. Everyone knew about character statistics, so why write a book about them? She flicked through a few pages, glancing at each one. All it took was a moment to take in most of the information there. She felt the book filling her head with clutter, so turned and looked out the window instead.
The sun shone down from a pure blue sky outside, tanning the farmers and thrilling the children. She’d even seen the sergeant of the guard crack a smile. By the time Dad finished droning on, though, clouds would have appeared again. Even the weather conspired to keep her locked inside.
“Statistics are the basis for all progress in our world,” he said. “When people put too much emphasis on Strength, progress stagnates. Too much on Intelligence and a kingdom is too weak to resist the neighbours.”
“Uh huh.” Peony unfocused her eyes and looked at her dad’s back.
Level 35
Strength: 6
Constitution: 5
Dexterity: 6
Intelligence: 28
Charisma: 5
Wisdom: 26
Willpower: 3
Perception: 3
Luck: 14
Unknown: 14
It was easy for him to talk about how great statistics were. He had exactly the statistics for his favourite pastime of sitting in a library, studying the lost art of plumbing.
And he’d ruined her life by giving her a miniature version of the same stats. Stats that she hated, but that both perfectly equipped her recall them without thought and to see the irony in that.
Level 1
Strength: 3
Constitution: 3
Dexterity: 3
Intelligence: 3
Charisma: 5
Wisdom: 7
Willpower: 3
Perception: 4
Luck: 4
Unknown: 7
Everything in Wisdom, Charisma, and whatever the Unknown stat was.
“They don’t stop you from doing other things,” he said. “They didn’t stop you.”
He nodded without turning from his search. “Of course. There’s more to it than that. A rich idiot is still rich. He can buy the help he needs. But if you take two people from the same background, with the same goal, the one with the better stats will win every time.”
She knew the answer, but she flicked through Fundamental Statistics in case she’d missed it. “And the last one?”
“No one knows.”
“But you put most of my points into it anyway.”
“It seemed like the thing to do at the time. I wanted the rest of your points in Intelligence. Your mother wanted Strength or Dexterity. We compromised and put it into Unknown.”
She scowled and abandoned the book, picking up a quill from the ink pot nearby. She rubbed the dodo feather with her other hand, turning it over when the ink threatened to drip. Anything would have been better than some useless mystery attribute. With Intelligence, she could have studied magic. Strength or Dexterity would have made her a warrior, like her mother. But instead she’d gotten something no one could even work out what it did. Useless. “Stats can change, though.”
“Through years of study. Your Uncle Grew has managed to increase his Intelligence and Wisdom through intense training. Almost three points a year, when he last wrote.”
“And quests.”
“And quests,” he acknowledged. “Statistics go up on quests too.”
“Much faster than three points a year,”
“It depends how you count it. If you average it out over all of the people who go on quests, it’s less.”
She scrunched her brow up. “What? How?”
“Because a lot of people die before they even level up. So they drag the average down. Remember your mathematics.”
She’d rather not remember her mathematics, but it all came back to her unbidden.
“There.” He slid a book from the shelf. “You know, we really need to reorganise all of these to make things easier to find. There are just too many now.”
“Uh huh.”
He turned back and froze, his gaze going to the quill in her hand. With a start, she followed his horrified expression down.
Ink dripped onto Fundamental Statistics.
Her dad rushed to the table, placin
g the book in his hands down and snatching hers away from her. He settled the stained book onto the other side of the table and pulled out a handkerchief, dabbing at the ink.
When he looked up, his eyes crackled with anger. “This is one of a kind. What are you doing?”
“It was an accident.” She matched him scowl for scowl. “It’s not like I meant it.”
“You weren’t paying attention.”
“Of course not. You’re droning on and on about things no one cares about. We’re surrounded by useless books.”
“They’re not useless.”
“They are.” Her rage boiled inside her and she grabbed the closest book to her: Sewage Systems of Ancient Trimer. “Who needs to read this?”
“You do, if you’re going to be a scholar.”
“I’m not going to be a scholar. You can’t turn me into you, no matter how much you try.”
“Peony.” His now calm voice angered her even more. “You can live a long, safe life as a scholar. You’re going to inherit a kingdom, with all the riches that go with it. You can do anything.”
“I don’t want anything, I want a quest.”
“You aren’t built for quests. You’d die.”
“I’d rather die than look at one more book.”
She stormed from the room and slammed the door behind her. Pressing her back to the wall, she tried to breathe through the anger that threatened to overwhelm her. Dad wanted to make her into something she wasn’t. He wanted to turn her into the same stooped, irrelevant scholar he was. Because her becoming anything else would just show him how pointless his life had been.
She realised she still had the quill in her hand. Scrunching it up, she threw it aside. She needed to talk her mother, make her see reason.
After a satisfying stomp along mostly empty stone corridors, she reached more bustling areas of the castle. Few ventured near the library, for fear her father would corner them and force them to listen.
The guards outside the council chamber stood aside as she approached, one of them opening the door for her. They knew better than to refuse her. As she’d told them countless times, she was a princess and should have access everywhere.
Her mother, Daffodil, was inside with Hendrix, the chamberlain. Despite many thinking it was unbecoming in a queen, her arms were bare. And her blonde hair hung over the map between her and Hendrix rather than being twisted and pinned into rigidity. Peony knew why she did it, though. Her mum’s thick, carved muscles and disdain for frippery would intimidate the bravest neighbouring king into whatever treaty she proposed. A threat bolstered by her reputation.
“What is it now?” Her mum swept her hair back and regarded Peony steadily.
“Dad freaked out about one of his books.”
“Of course he did.” Refilling the cup of wine on the table, she drank deeply. “So what happened to it?”
“It was an accident. I didn’t mean to spill the ink.”
Mum shook her head. “You’re like two peas in a pod. You can’t be in the same room for more than an hour without arguing.”
“We’re not peas in a pod.” Peony scowled at her. “Me and Dad are nothing alike, and I won’t let the two of you turn me into him.”
“Oh, Peony. I know you can’t see it now, but this is just a phase. When you’re older, you’ll understand he has your best interests at heart.”
“No he doesn’t.” Peony stamped her foot. Why wouldn’t either of them listen to her?
“Enough. I need to get back to matters of state. I have Marshal Tiller in an hour.” Her mum returned her attention to the map.
Peony glared for a moment longer, but it had no effect. Her mother ignored her, back to the discussion with Hendrix. Peony turned and stormed from the room, her feet taking her up to the royal suite. If no one was going to be reasonable, then she should just be alone. Maybe she could lock herself in her room and never come out. Then they’d listen.
Or maybe she’d starve before they noticed. She wouldn’t put it past them.
Reaching the top floor of the castle, she turned toward her room. Her feet slowed as a better idea struck her. Swivelling on the spot, she stomped to her parents’ bedroom and through the doorway.
Several servants glanced at her and looked down again, frowning as if confused, but none of them said anything. After all, she was the princess; she could go wherever she wanted.
She looked around. Other than two wardrobes and a massive bed, the room was decorated with trophies from her parents’ quests. Almost at ceiling level, a tree branch twitched and writhed on massive hooks, still as determined to escape as it had been the day it was hacked off.
Further down the wall, a glass jar filled with swirling fog stood, chained to a shelf. As she watched, the fog changed colour. Beside the jar stood a flask filled with a clear liquid. If she didn’t know better she’d have thought it was water; but her parents’ wouldn’t keep a flask of water on a shelf for no reason.
A giant candy cane hung beside the fireplace. Dad had warned her often not to try eating it. For a moment, she was tempted to lick it just to teach him. But she shook that off at once. Nothing on those walls was harmless, even if it looked like it was.
Finally, her gaze fell on the axe hanging over the mantel. The blade was nicked and matte. Rivers of tarnish swept across the surface from the repeated touch of odd ichors and venoms. It wasn’t a decorative item, it was a weapon of war. Something her mother had used to put down endless evil monsters.
Peony found a chair and sat, her gaze barely leaving the axe; even as, the servants cleaned around her feet.
“Millie, did you hear?” The shortest maid whispered.
“What, Mary?”
“Rapid Bluff has wights,” the first said. “Eating all their sheep, so I heard.”
“Eww. I hate those things. Such a nuisance.”
“No doubt Queen Daffodil will send some guards in a month or two to take care of them.”
Peony glanced at the two servants. Both flushed at her interest and looked down, then quickly finished their work and bustled from the room. As they went, Peony thought she saw them smile. No doubt happy their work was done. Servants could be very lazy.
She returned to staring at the axe above the fireplace.
Chapter 2
Axe
The throb in Peony’s arms grew with each step, but if she stopped moving, she might not start again. That first glorious moment when she’d raised her mother’s battle axe, slowly, it felt as if a weight was lifted from her; she was Peony the famous monster slayer, not the daughter of overprotective killjoys.
Several corridors and flights of stairs later, though, she realised that misfortune waits as often as destiny. A battle axe was difficult to carry for long periods of time; especially for a twelve-year-old without the stats for it. At least this corridor ran straight for a while, so she could just grit her teeth and keep staggering. Corners were as tedious as indexing, only with a greater risk of breaking something.
But, no matter how painful and difficult carrying the weapon became, she couldn’t give up. Wrists burning, she rested the axe over her shoulder, lurching to the side as the cold metal handle bit into her bare skin. Not for the first time, she cursed the impractical dress her parents made her wear. Every time she informed them she wanted leather armour, they laughed and told her it wouldn’t be proper.
She sneaked down the stone steps, listening for any sounds below. If the guards saw her with the axe, they’d take it from her, and her quest would be finished before it even started.
The word flashed in her mind again: quest. She’d heard the stories since she’d been old enough to listen. How her parents had defeated dragons and evil mages, monsters and demons, from one end of the land to the other. And ever since, she’d been waiting until she was old enough to do the same.
As she got older, the stories changed. When she was young, her mother boasted of fighting a dragon at fourteen. As Peony grew, so did the Daffodil in the story,
until she now claimed it happened when she was twenty-six.
She knew her mother was lying to protect her. The wights were the sort of low-level quest her parents didn’t bother with any more They’d send a few of their guards before long, but Peony would beat them to it. She’d complete the quest and level up, just like her parents.
A few guards stood in front of the closed front gate. She rested the axe against a buttress and tried to remember how to glide. Settling for not striding, she crossed the courtyard, struggling not to whistle innocently.
“Good Day, Your Highness.” The sergeant of the guard saluted. She didn’t know his name. She wasn’t allowed to speak to the guards, other than to be polite. She’d watched him in the practice pen, though, and knew he could fight three men at once. Her was a stern man with closely cropped grey hair and a permanent scattering of ragged stubble sprouting between the scars on his chin and cheeks.
“Good Evening,” Peony said. “I don’t mean to bother you, but there was a strange man up on the battlements. He had a scarf around his neck and a knife in his hand. Is he supposed to be there?”
“No.” The sergeant’s eyes grew wide. “No, he’s not.” He led the other guards off at a quick march.
She watched them leave, then scurried back to fetch her weapon. Moving as quickly as she could with a battle axe trying to push her into the ground, she ran back, slid the bolt on the wicket gate, and stumbled to freedom.
The sun slowly baked a dirt road. Green fields sloped down the sides of the hill in all directions. Peony straightened. There wasn’t a book, magnifying lens, or armchair in sight. It all looked so non-academic.
The village infested with wights was to the north. According to Petheriv’s Ingens Ex Parte Solis the sun would be south-east at the moment, so she needed to keep it behind her shoulder.
The axe dug deeper into her shoulder as she walked. Princess Merrilie of Broken Bells had her own sword, a gift from her older brother, but Peony never got nice things like that. Instead, she got books; so many books, they were in danger of toppling and crushing her beneath them.