‘Yes.’ Dorian nodded, and looked up and about the canopy of the forest. ‘A hawk, his name is Scout.’
‘Oh.’ Felicity said, and also began to search the tree tops, but it was impossible to see anything distinct as they moved slowly beneath them.
Strangely, Dorian thought, Felicity appeared to nod, as though the presence of the hawk was somehow, correct.
‘She will be far above them. She prefers open ground.’ Dorian said.
‘Will she know where you are?’
‘She’ll find us. Don’t worry.’ Dorian advised.
They continued on through the forest until the light, already dimmed under the trees, began to fade. Felicity told him very little of her own life. That her father was Bardrack the Butcher was understood, she had four brothers, had travelled a good deal, because the conquest of kingdoms generally involved a heavy commute. Unless you were a citizen of said kingdom, then you worked from home.
He talked a little more about his brothers, Destain and Marius, and his sister Genevieve. His father too was a leader of men, and powerful. The Lord of the Deep Valley kept his kingdom free of the squabbles of neighbours and often acted as an intermediary between them.
‘You father sounds like a good man.’ Felicity said.
‘I believe he is.’ Dorian replied. ‘But the fact is that he became a Lord through conquest, just as your father did, so I suppose he is in some ways similar to yours.’
‘Does he have people who criticise him skinned alive?’ Felicity asked, as though asking whether his father indulged in amateur dramatics.
‘Er… no.’ Dorian replied.
‘Then I think we can rule out quite a few other ways in which our fathers are of the same nature.’
‘Yes. I suppose we can.’
Dorian looked about him. ‘The forest continues for another day. After that we can head to The Town through the Trestfall Borderlands. Its good ground and we can make speed. Although we should get you a horse.’
He patted at his thigh and Felicity thought he might be checking the volume of coins in the purse that she understood he thought was invisible to others. But she had seen it clearly. She had a keen eye for hidden things.
‘I have some coin for a horse Dorian’ She said. ‘I brought gold with me. My father has more interest in acquiring riches than he does protecting them.’
‘Good. Then we will camp here for the night and travel again in the early morning. There’s a number of villages on the way.’
Dorian paused.
‘It might be better for you to stay behind and I’ll get the mount for you. Your father will have an easier time of tracking you if he questions the locals.’
Felicity’s expression told him that his concern was not appreciated in this instance. ‘I’d rather pick my own ride thank you Dorian of the Deep Valley. Do you have spare clothes about you?’
‘Uhm, yes. I have a…’
‘Good. Then I’ll take those if I may. Even the daughters of sadistic tyrants learn needlework. I’ll make a few adjustments and I’ll be able to accompany you.’ Felicity said.
She slid down from the horse and gave the area a careful examination. ‘Where should we set up our camp?
Dorian felt a momentary pulse of sadness seep through his waist as Felicity’s arms had unwrapped from him. Despite their going being slow and steady she had gripped him, and he had not complained. She was very pretty. Very intriguing and he had been alone for some time. He dismissed the thought and dismounted. Returning his thoughts to the task at hand he led his horse to an area of open ground.
‘Here looks good. These thick trees will hide a fire well enough and the ground looks dry.’
‘Great. I’ll collect kindling.’ Felicity said.
Suddenly, and from absolutely nowhere Spyra appeared at Dorians side, startling her.
‘Gods!’ She exclaimed, ‘I’d almost forgotten about him.’
The Blink Dog slinked around them both, sniffing at the ground and at their legs. Felicity knelt to tickle the creature under its chin, which it offered up to her without any sign of fear.
‘He’s so adorable.’ She said as her knuckle rubbed at Spyra’s throat.
‘He’s killed at least twelve men.’ Dorian said, feeling strangely vulnerable.
‘Aww,’ Felicity purred, ‘Who’s a little tyke then… eh? Who’s been killing nasty men?’
Spyra rolled onto his back and waited for the inevitable belly rub, which duly came.
‘I’ll get the kindling?’ Dorian said, and walked dejectedly into the forest.
He loved Spyra, he loved all animals, but it really got on his nerves that he was forgotten in a heartbeat whenever one of them did anything cute. He looked back to the girl, rubbing at the Blink Dog’s belly and baby talking to him. She hadn’t even noticed he was gone. He had saved her from the predations of eight killers, she had also just lost her companion who had bravely, but ineptly, tried to save her. She didn’t seem all that bothered. He looked up to see if Scout had returned, but the hawk was nowhere to be seen.
As he searched for decent twigs and branches, he wondered if a Quest might actually be something he should get involved in. Earn a bit of kudos. It might impress his brothers when he returned to the Deep Valley. They had both ventured to the Town and gone on adventures.
That said, he didn’t think the girl realised just how far the Town was from here. It would take them days just to get through the forest. Still, that wasn’t all bad. He would sleep quite well knowing that he had days of travel ahead with Felicity at his side, listening to his stories. He quickly snatched up enough wood to get his fire started and returned to her. He discovered that she was playing Fetch with Spyra, the vicious, killer Blink Dog.
On Dimensions
Dimensions are not at all strange things. In fact, what would be strange is if there were no such thing. Everything has at least one dimension, much like boring people,[1] but usually more. Your hair has length, and thickness. They are dimensions. Unless you are bald, in which case replace your hair with the amount of time you have felt insecure since you noticed it was falling out. That’s time, another dimension. And Dimensions aren’t just measurements of time and space. They are also what is scientifically known as ‘plot devices.’ [2]
A dimension can be almost identical to the one you presently occupy, except for a few small details, perhaps only one. For example, your hair may have not deserted your scalp in your mid-twenties, forcing you to either shave it all off or attempt some kind of elaborate comb-over, instead you may have lush bouffant, expertly coiffured by some chap named Lionel. The point is its these small changes that can make a big difference.
Once its accepted that Dimensions exist it’s almost a given that the question that will follow is ‘How do we get to them’ and then most likely ‘Is there any money in this?’
The answer to the first question is simple.
Gods.
Dimensional travel is impossible for any human to naturally experience because we lack the power. Literally, we lack both the energy and technology required to tear a hole that is:
A: Safe to cross through
B: Certain to be somewhere able to support us
Only a God, a being who draws on the energy of an infinite number of universes can not only create a Dimensional Gate but also have it lead to a specific place. Nature can manage the first part in the form of a Black Hole, but they are mindless, messy things, whereas a God has total control over his/her/its choice of architecture and destination. Yet the Major Gods don’t really get involved with such stuff, not often anyway, because they are very busy with fighting and having a lot of sex with each other across the limitless expanse of time and space, and thus leave such stuff to the Lesser Gods.
The Lesser Gods are the ones we know of. Zeus, Loki, Jehovah, Ganesha, etc, and they simply love to get involved in human affairs, when they are also not fighting and having sex with each other across the expanse of time and space but on a slightly les
s demanding schedule than the Major Gods.
One of the surprising things about the vastness of the cosmos and of time and of space is that very little changes in the grand scheme of things.
The Legendary Gates of the Mountains are evidence of the Gods power and their strangeness, and that by and large whatever you do doesn’t really make much difference when you look at the big picture. This is the kind of thing that gave Friedrich Nietzsche wet dreams.
Many Gates may appear at once or only one might show in a matter of years. They are believed to stay in place until crossed by mortals. A few minutes later they vanish. Whoever has crossed through the Gate is now there until another one appears inside the new dimension. This usually at the completion of some great feat or test of endurance. Should they fail, the Gate to that Quest will never appear again, worse they may be trapped inside it! But, if they succeed, they will reap the rewards the strange new dimension has to offer.
Many stories from those who have survived a Gate tell of dungeons filled with creatures and treasures. Some speak of incredible worlds with inhabitants made of iron, or diamonds, or slime. A great many feature journeys across lands very much the same as the one they have left behind but with subtle changes, such as a famous person didn’t die.[3] Whatever the Dimension the situation is the same. The lone traveller or group must face dire peril to succeed in returning home.
This is known as a Quest.
Gripes and Gods
The ride upon the villager’s cart had been bumpy, noisy, and the air for the whole trip infused with the stink of Pig. But Corbett didn’t complain because at least he wasn’t walking. In fact, the real difficulty was that the villager hadn’t stopped talking since they had set off, and his topic of conversation consisted solely of the woes of the current market situation for pig vendors.
Corbett’s only response to the villager, whose name he still hadn’t been bothered to learn was, ‘Really,’ or ‘Oh, really?’ expressed in a few variations in tone, usually when he picked up on a short gap in the villager’s conversation.
He had never wanted to be a Wizard. He had hoped to become a Baker like his father. Growing up with the smell of dough being baked, and pastries and cakes had been wonderful. Until, when he was seven, and he had accidentally blown up his father’s kitchen.
Young Corbett had discovered that he was able to make things react when he focused upon them. He could, with concentration, cause a small patch of loose earth to shake a little. He was able to make tiny fractures and fissures appear in stones. He could, if he really, really tightened his thoughts, make a small flame appear from his thumb. And it didn’t hurt. The flame seemed to be coming from him.
The kitchen thing was an accident. He had meant to create enough heat to make a few cakes rise without the use of the oven but hadn’t managed to control the output. It had gone spectacularly and painfully right, and at the same time, awfully and horribly wrong. After that incident his mother took him to the local witch. A woman named Our Sandra Our Sandra looked young Corbett over. Noted his eye colour, made him spit into her hand, and tasked him with fetching her some tobacco from the next village.
To this day Corbett wasn’t convinced that the latter was part of the testing procedure. The upshot of all of this was that Our Sandra pronounced Corbett to be a Wizard, elemental in nature and most likely under the watch of the God Tyso, Lord of Destruction or Mike, Keeper of the Flame. She wouldn’t guarantee this however, as Corbett had burned her Tarot Cards when he had tried to show her a trick with them.
Our Sandra advised his parents that young Corbett should be taken to the nearest school of wizardry and have his talents trained and his understanding of them explained to him.
‘If he is not trained properly Corbett will be a danger to himself.’ Our Sandra said.
‘He blew up my bloody kitchen.’ His father replied.
‘…and others.’ Our Sandra added.
And so, his journey to become a wizard had begun.
Almost all wizard schools were found in the Great Cities and each specialised in their training. Krystalia, the enormous city at the heart of the Krystaline Empire focused on what was called ‘Conjuration’. This arcane art was sought after across the world. A master of Conjuration could produce objects from thin air, could imbue them with a degree of animation, even sentience, and they could have materials construct themselves into incredible architecture. These days all Wizards Towers, Palaces and Great Monuments were erected by Conjurors, much to the annoyance of the Brick Layers guild.
In Khaffka, which lies on the edge of the rolling, seething desert of the Khaff region, the school there is home to the Academy of Sorcerers. This is a mixed school. Boys and girls educated together to learn the art of manipulation through magical means of the mind, of organic shape, and a little bit of the natural elements. There was still, even after a few thousand years a bit of a hoo-hah about the sexes being thrown together here. Khaffka was largely an easy-going kingdom with equality across society, but magic has always been determined as something unique in its form and expression to each sex, and as such sorcerers gained a reputation of being a bit on the sexy side. A bit too free with it all.
The only other thing to be said for sorcerers is that there aren’t a lot of them. For some reason few children show aptitude for this kind of magic. Which is probably just as well, because people who can mess with your mind and physical shape can be quite a handful. There is another less savoury aspect of Sorcery, they tend to seek the darker side of magical experience, but not so much as the next group…
The City of the Last Bell, named by the religious order that controlled it, is where you would be sent if you had a thing for the darker side of magic. It is here that Occultism is learned and practiced. An umbrella term for the many smaller schools of magic here, Occultism covers both pro and anti-magical ability. In one of the schools you will also find Necromancers. These are weird individuals who, for some reason, like to animate dead things and wear a heck of a lot of black.
Corbett had a cousin who dealt heavily with the Necromancers school. Soddy Corbett made a fortune cultivating the plant Nocturnum Negroni, more popularly known as Ravenroot, and also known, or cursed, as Bastardweed. Renowned for its properties as a dye, making almost any liquid pitch black, it also has the strange property of only revealing its delicate bloom, the part required to make the dye, in the dead of night. Its thick, twisting roots lie above ground and often lead those who seek it out in the wild, as it refuses to take in any garden, to trip over them and end up with a twisted ankle.
A sprinkle of shouts of ‘Bastard Weed!’ can often be heard out on the moors where the flowers grow best.
Unfortunately, Soddy died unexpectedly due to an amateur dramatics related illness. Yet, this ended quite well for Soddy as the School of Necromancy, who risked missing out on their order of ‘Large Voluminous Cloaks. Black,’ for their upcoming graduations, revived him and were able to get their order fulfilled. Soddy gave up amateur dramatics after this and moved on to cat-juggling. A less dangerous hobby.
While there are schools for the previously mentioned Necromancy, and Demonism, Dark Runic Theory and Tantric Magic[4] there are also schools dedicated to producing agents whose sole purpose is to counter each and every type of magic learned here. These truly terrifying individuals are called by many names, but the one that is used by most magic users is ‘Narrow Minded Arseholes.’ They seek out disciples of dark magic who have been reported to have used their talents in less than savoury ways. The phrase ‘It’s all a bit of fun until someone summons something that wants to suck your soul’ has found its way across many dimensions in various forms.
Yes, it is fair to say that The City of the Last Bell has produced some graduates who went off the rails a bit. Necromancers with undead armies, genocidal Warlocks, Occultists trying to bring Great Old Ones through Dimensional Gates to ravage the world and claim their heritage ‘as was intended,’ but by and large it’s no worse than having someone wh
o likes Folk Music around the place.
Thanks to Alan Tandy, or Voltaz the Defiant, his working name, Corbett had two Demons safely bound to him. The binding ensured that the Demons could never get free in the material world unless the Wizard chose them too. The Demons were sleeping now. Which was good, because if they knew he was going on a Quest he wouldn’t hear the end of it.
He missed Alan. He was one of the few people Corbett found he could listen too without the compulsion to make them catch fire. They had met at his own school, the School of Arcane Activity which focused on wizardry of the elements. Alan had been moved to a new school on account of his affinity for Demons and resistance to their bullshit.
As an Elemental Wizard Corbett had the power to control inorganic materials. He wasn’t good with the weather, that was a whole other branch.
Water, Fire, Air, Earth and Metal were supposed to be at the command of a good Elementalist, but Corbett wasn’t particularly adept with most of them.
He wasn’t entirely incapable and could influence them to a certain degree, just basic stuff, but manifesting a tornado out of thin air, making metal bend to his will or having a mighty fissure open up in mountain, all that was way out of his league at that time. Rather, he had earned his Chains through his very solid ability to make things explode. Mostly he was good with the Earth, with rocks especially. Show him an errant rock and he would have it raining down as jagged fragments with a click of his fingers. Getting his third Chain had been touch and go until he had suggested what a shame it would be if the school, resting upon a great pillar of granite on the edge of the city[5] should suddenly find its insurance policy going up because the granite had become ‘less than sound.’
As he had matured, he had found that fire began to work as he wanted it too, but still lacked finesse. Corbett couldn’t produce delicate sparks that danced in the air, but he could turn your home to a heap of cinders at the drop of a hat. All he needed now was for Wind to come under his control and he had the start of a pretty decent disco band Threats and bribery were a large part of any magic-user’s arsenal. This was because one thing people just didn’t understand was that every single use of magic presented a number of problems associated with it. For a start, magic invariably mixed up the fundamental fabric of reality, so there was that, then there’s the inevitable clarion call that its use sends out to creatures across the Dimensional landscape. These creatures, hungry for fleshy bodies that can manipulate the very Essence that holds all things together and will cross time and space to get to anyone or anything that even does the ‘disappearing handkerchief’ trick without using a false thumb prop.
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