So, it’s important they keep their magic use down to the barest minimum in this dimension. This very important principle is what led to THE LAW. There are certain oaths that have to be made to certain Gods. Break these oaths and those Gods are likely to rouse from their slumber, cease in their warfare against other Gods (or from bonking each other, this appears to be one of their favourite pastimes) and make sure to give you a very personal, and very painful lesson in why you shouldn’t make a promise to a very tangible God and then break it.
Most people have a lot of Gods. After all, you would be mad to have just one with your back. These guys are busy after all. What are you going to do if your cart breaks down in the middle of the desert and you call upon Tyris, God of Limited Travel (covering only localised mobility), but he’s too busy to get to you and miracle you some wandering Yak you can saddle up? Or lead to your position handy cart repairman who just happens to be in the area?
There are a few sects with just one God of course, but they don’t fare too well. There is a long-held belief that Gods are omniscient, which is by and large agreed upon, but they aren’t omnipotent. This was proven when members of the Cult of Daive, a creator God worshipped in the western reaches of Krystalia, was questioned regarding whether he could make a rock so heavy that he couldn’t actually lift it himself.
Daive, keen to impress announced to his followers that he could, and promptly created the rock. He was then asked to show his omnipotence by lifting the rock. If he was omnipotent, they said, then surely he could lift his own rock despite him making it so heavy that it couldn’t be lifted.
Daive put his back out trying, and to add embarrassment to misery he was cold-shouldered by the other Gods for being such a gullible twat. To this day the name of Daive is uttered in almost every difficult, stupid or ridiculous situation.
No, monotheism is a bad choice. It limits your options and leaves you exposed to said God’s bad temper without anyone to back you up should he take it out on you.
It is the dimensions that keep wizards employed, those and wars. In each dimension the gloves are off for wizards. Different Gods. Different Rules. Promises and oaths made in one do not apply in another.
In wars they are hired to blow stuff up. Walls, towers, magically sealed gates, armies. Practicing high level magic is decreed only by a King or Queen or equivalent all powerful position and no less. Naturally these leaders keep a retinue of pet magic users and so getting employment can be very difficult. Although when your occupation is ripping up and redistributing the very building blocks of matter as a chaotic fury of destruction the term ‘filling a dead man’s shoes’ has a certain familiarity to it.
Corbett has no problem any of this. Gods, well they are Gods, who knew what they were thinking, ever?
Clerics apparently.
He tried not concern himself with Clerics and Gods. He had his few go-to deities, but he mostly relied on his own wits. It was THE LAW though, that was what really ground his gears. There were scores of them he was obliged to follow. Utterly ridiculous almost all of them. Sure, ‘Thou shalt not blow up thy neighbour by accident or malicious intent’ was reasonable, at least part of it, and even ‘Thou shalt not use thy magic for destruction of a place of worship,’ wasn’t particularly outrageous, although a pretty clear indication that Clerics had a hand in doing the shorthand for these alleged Godly commandments.
No, what got on Corbett’s nerves was ‘That shalt not own, nor solicit thine own travel arrangements,’ and, ‘Thou shalt not employ magic to impress others,’ and finally, ‘Thou shalt not cause the death, disablement or other ailment through magic to others just because they hath annoyed thee.’
Really the only time he could express his power, when not in under direct threat was in war, or in another dimension, where all of THE LAW no longer applied.
He didn’t fancy another war though. The other side always had wizards too. Some of them bloody good at their jobs as well.
He didn’t really have the heart for a Quest either, you never knew what you were walking in to with those things, and your colleagues would almost certainly a bunch of Grade A Certified wankers.
‘One of them will be a thief for Daive’s sake!’
Corbett immediately sank into another of his depressed moods at the thought of it. The unfairness and stupidity of it all.
‘Rogues. Pfft.’ He grumbled.
‘That’s what they call themselves, but that’s just a romanticised way of saying burglar, bandit, cut-throat, robber, pick-pocket, con-man, villain.’
He couldn’t blame them for the name change. It wasn’t a good way to start a CV was it? ‘Hello, I’m interested in the position and I’m a professional criminal.’
But still. Hardly a job. More a way of life. ‘Rogue: The Arseholes Choice. Live Your Life Like the Wanker You Are.’
He disliked Rogues immensely. Warriors were alright, but they almost always came as a pair. If you could see a lone warrior the odds were that a Rogue was behind you, stealing your bloody purse. But his dislike of Clerics took his suspicion of Rogues and dialled it up to eleven.
Clerics were the worst people of all. Corbett thought he would rather bed down with a murderer than a Holy Man, at least the murderer’s intentions were clear. Clerics made Rogues look sincere in their actions. He had encountered a Cleric a few years ago who epitomised all the things he disliked about them, about anyone really.
This individual was typical of the aloof, stuck-up, know-it-all favoured son of the Gods who looked down and with contempt upon people like him, people who just wanted to get through life with the minimum of fuss and the maximum of leisure time.
Clerics were always busy-bodies, poking their nose into your affairs and trying to explain which God you happened to be offending at the time. It was his hat he recalled, that had started the whole thing off. The snooty ponce had questioned why he wasn’t wearing the traditional pointy hat. It was true that the pointed hat was universally known to be housed upon the head of a wizard, unless it was black, then it was the domain
of witches. Fair enough. But THE LAW only stated that wizards should wear ‘a hat’ not any particular hat, and Corbett had argued many times that just because everyone else did something, it didn’t mean he had to follow the herd.
There was another more compelling argument for his choice of headwear however. Each wizard was presented with a hat after completing their first Chain. He had lost his. Actually, he believed it had been stolen and he had a damn good idea who had taken it but couldn’t prove it. Since then he had refused to wear the pointy hat out of principle.
A wizard only ever owns one pointy hat. It is too last him a lifetime of magical employment, its colour never fading and its angle never drooping by a single degree thanks to the spells woven into it at its creation. Deep down in the very darkest recesses of his mind Corbett really, really wanted to wear a proper wizard’s hat again, but he would fight to the very death to defend his right not to. Fight that is, in a very metaphorical sense. He was no scrapper. No pugilist. He couldn’t punch his way out of a wet paper bag. Distance was his thing. Stick the biggest warrior on the continent sixty feet away and he would trash talk the thick-headed twonk with the best of them. Have him stood next to him and Corbett would soil his shorts if the guy made even a mean look in his direction.
That said, at sixty feet away the odds are that the warriors pet rogue would be right behind you, ready to job you with some poison-coated dagger.
‘Sneaky bastards.’ Corbett thought.
Instinctively, he glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see someone about to reach into his robes. Just thinking of them put him on edge. Some fighting types were worse than others of course. The average warrior just had strength and constitution on his side. They would punch you and you would punch them, and whoever stayed up longest won. It was the same maths that was applied to pitch battles. But there were others who trained in special ways to fight. They used techniques and styles and turned kicki
ng someone’s teeth in into an art form. Martial Arts they called it. Dick Baggery was what Corbett called it.
He had been told once of a fighting style that was used in the very distant lands of Zul-Tan, across the mighty Berendor Ocean. It was called Wing Dong, or the ancient art of Penis Combat.
Corbett had been told that these warriors were so well-trained and endured such rigorous tutoring from sage old masters that their private parts were considered lethal weapons. Corbett shuddered. This kind of thing made his skin crawl. He had also heard that there were also women dedicated to a similar style of combat. He had once dreamt of how that might work out and woke up screaming.
It was, he supposed, fair to say that Wizards didn’t really get on with anyone. They just didn’t gel. Warlocks, Witches and Sorcerers all shared the same guild. That was a fact. But the Wizards couldn’t even agree on keeping Elemental magic in the same school as Shamanism whose adherents also utilised the air, the sun, wind, earth and water to produce their spells.
‘Always off their tits.’ Corbett thought, a little envy intertwined with his judgement.
He looked at his chauffer for the trip, the inanely smiling pig trader. He seemed happy with his lot, other than the current downward trend in pig futures. Corbett couldn’t see the appeal. Who wanted a life free of adventure, and excitement and risk? Actually, he would like that. He was sick of living hand to mouth.
Filled with glorious energy and power that he couldn’t use for fear that some God was going to come down and turn his skin inside out. It was ridiculous. Maybe that’s why they did it; perhaps wizards were compelled to war and adventure to give them the release they needed. And it truly was a release, because the energy wasn’t always there, it built up. It charged inside them every day until it was finally expended. That was part of the training, to tap into the energy and release it in a controlled fashion rather than letting it all go and torching your parent’s kitchen. Whenever a large amount was spent it would leave a wizard weakened and tired. Cause a modest fire and you might need to sit down for a bit afterwards, blow up a mountain and you could end up in a coma. Then there were the Demons.
Of Cows and Men
As Andreton and Donalt arrived into the town the sun was setting behind the mountains that were the backdrop to its small cluster of homes and business’s. It was a town larger than some, smaller than others. Just another place of trade and small-scale industry, with farmland and farm houses scattered about it, and the lack of defensive wall at its perimeter spoke of a place free of banditry or incursions by marauding armies.
Andreton gazed blankly ahead, his thoughts free of matters that might task his mental ability, instead a parade of foods marched past, followed by cute little dogs performing acrobatic tricks and walking on their hind legs.
By contrast, Donalt’s thoughts moved at the speed of light. He took in every figure, every shadow, every corner and every place where something unpleasant might be hiding. He had already determined the best point of exit should they be set-upon within the next few minutes and continued to update this appraisal as they moved deeper into the centre.
There were very few people headed in, and none coming out of the place. There was very little to fear in the night around the Town, but its proximity to the mountains, and by association, the Dimensional Gates, caused most to be cautious. If people could go into them, who was to say that things on the other side couldn’t come out?
This sense of fear of the unknown could also be found in the guarded way in which visitors were greeted. Considering the whole place drew its income from feeding, equipping and occasionally burying would-be adventurers the locals liked to keep their distance. Except for the ladies at Madame Foo Foo’s, in which instance keeping your distance from the client was frowned upon.
‘Ve should get food.’ Andreton said.
‘You literally ate a whole deer less than six hours ago.’
‘Vas not whole deer!’ Andreton protested.
‘Andy, it was a whole deer, bar the very modest steak I had.’
‘Vas not whole deer though.’ Andreton replied. Feeling he had supported his claim.
‘Well, we should find somewhere to obtain a little coin. I doubt anyone is going to feed us for free.’
‘Ve verk?’
‘Yup. Ve Verk. But that will come tomorrow. Just leave tonight’s income with me.’ Donalt looked at Andreton from under his eyebrows. ‘You absolutely must NOT get into any trouble. There’s no law here but there’s a lot of testosterone, twitchy Wizards, and townsfolk who will try to sell you little decorations made from pegs. Don’t get involved in any of it.’
Andreton didn’t reply. He didn’t like it when Donalt treated him like he was some kind of impulsive child. Although he was very interested in seeing the little decorations made from pegs.
‘Andreton sharpen Dennis vile he vaits.’ He said.
‘Good, yeah. Sharpen Dennis.’ He pointed to Francis. ‘We could sell that you know. We’d get a good price for it here.’
‘Vat? Are you crazy? Francis is part off family now. Ve not sell him.’ Andreton’s huge palm patted the beast upon its thick mob of hair and the Steppe-beast made its strange mooing noise.
‘Yeah. I figured as much.’ Donalt said, ‘I thought I’d give it a shot. It would save me a bit of trouble that’s all.
‘Ve not sell Francis.’ Andreton said firmly.
‘Alright, alright, like I said, just asking.’ Donalt said, and then brought his mount to a halt. ‘Ok, if I remember rightly there’s a bloke from the Rogues Guild who runs a bookies here, it’s just around the corner. I’m going to pop in and say hello.’
‘You rob him?’
‘What?’ Donalt asked, indignant. ‘No. I’m not going to rob him, what do you take me for?’
‘A thief.’ Andreton replied, with absolutely no hint of judgement.
‘I AM NOT A…’ Donalt started, but realised that he was on shaky ground protesting this with a man who had watched him
go about his business for the last ten years, ‘well, yes... I am a… I’m not what you might term your common or garden thief Andy, I’ve explained this to you before. I’m very highly trained in Personal Security Analysis. I use my varied and much sought-after skills to vigorously interrogate the protections people have put into place on such things as their homes, their belongings and certain information. Thanks to my probing these people will then be able to improve or extend their security where required.’
‘But you stole that man’s hat?’ Andreton said, not really sure what Donalt meant whenever he started talking of what he did in these terms.
‘That’s right. And now that man will know not to leave his future hat on a table in a bar when he’s pissed. Anyway, I need to go and see my geezer.’
He dismounted and led his horse over to a hitching post. There were many such posts along the street. This was where new arrivals usually arrived and a cadre of urchins ran around offering their services. They would water the animals, groom them, and inform on anyone who might fancy taking one without permission.
Donalt dug deep into the furthest recesses of his jacket and managed to retrieve two copper pieces. He handed one to the first urchin that reached them. The kid eyeballed the Steppe-beast and took a sharp intake of breath.
‘Sorry mate. There’s a premium on livestock. Especially big bastards. That’ll be six copper.’
‘Fair enough.’ Donalt said, making as though to withdraw more coins, then stopped. ‘Hold up. This isn’t livestock son. This is a mount.’ He jerked his thumb towards Andreton, who loomed over Donalt. ‘His mount.’
The urchin, already wise beyond his years knew a veiled threat when he saw one and waited for the counter-offer.
‘I suppose I could chuck in another coin as you are in fact offering your services for two mounts.’ Donalt said. No point in making the kid lose face. ‘Hmm.’ The urchin said, scratching his nose. ‘Tell you what mister, here’s the deal of a lifetime.
; I’ll water and groom both…er, mounts, if I can get a bucket of milk from the cow.’
‘Milk?’ Donalt said. ‘What do you mean, milk?’
‘From the cow. She looks like she’s bursting. You won’t miss a bucket will ya?’
Donalt looked at Andreton. Andreton looked down at Francis.
‘Is girl cow?’ Andreton said, frowning.
‘Course it’s a girl cow.’ The Urchin said. ‘Look at her. Are you telling me you didn’t notice her tits?’
Donalt and Andreton bent and looked beneath the shaggy fur that hung all about the Steppe-beast. She had udders.
Andreton beamed, ‘Francis is girl cow!’
Francis mooed.
‘Yeah, Ok. Bucket of milk. Sure.’ Donalt said, sighing.
It could have been worse he supposed, the thing might have been some kind of evil cow-dragon.
The kid spat into his hand and offered it to Donalt who did likewise, and they shook. The coins were passed on.
‘I’m off. Don’t wander.’ Donalt said.
‘Andreton vill help Francis make milk.’ Andreton said. Thoughts of sharpening Dennis had fled his thoughts.
‘Whatever.’ Donalt replied and headed into the town.
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