Thrum

  Chapter Four

  Thrum pounded upon the huge oaken doors of the Ivory Tower. He gazed up again to read the words chiselled into the masonry arching over the door.

  The Ivory Tower, For the service of all, May these gates be always open

  Thrum beat again, hammering with overarm blows until the butt of his fist ached. It was late in the night, exhausted by his long trek, he longed for shelter and rest. His journey had taken two miserable days, made slightly more bearable by the thick blanket and bag of food that one of Quirk’s men had galloped up to him and dropped wordlessly to his feet. One last gesture from Archendorf, no doubt. Thrum’s heart had almost broken.

  He managed to keep his head low and stay out of any trouble, feeling strangely naked without the scroll’s accustomed weight in his pocket. With this new sense of loss there also came a lightening, for when he had the scroll it seemed the Crylock magicians always sniffed him out; now free of it he felt his own man again.

  There was no twilight with the quickly setting winter sun and it was very dark by the time he shuffled up the gravel pathway, climbing the steep hill to the Ivory Tower. Hungry and tired he had knocked and yelled, but there was no response from within.

  He turned his back and sighed, beginning to think that Taukin had been right all along; the King’s Archmages had no time for the likes of him. Perhaps he should just go home, back to Hamontoast.

  Wearily he started to scout out the sides of the path for somewhere he could sleep the night. Some broad-leaved ferns grew in a neatly manicured garden lining the side of the path and he stepped up into its bed and began to clear a spot in which to make his bed.

  A wooden slide snapped back on the castle door and a face appeared.

  “Hey, get out of there!”

  Thrum leapt as if bitten, spinning about, looking for the speaker.

  “I’m over here, you idiot! Get out of there, now!”

  Thrum spotted the face. He could only see the pudgy silhouette of a woman’s head framed by the orange light from within.

  “I’d like to come in, please ma’am,” he said.

  “Who are you and what were you doing in my garden?”

  “My name is Thrum Bolgen, I’m a mag-” Thrum stopped himself in time. He had no right to call himself a magician. “I’m a scholar, and I’ve believe I have found something your masters may be interested in.”

  “No thank you,” dismissed the voice curtly. “We don’t want to buy any.”

  The slide snapped closed again.

  Thrum strode up to the door and angrily pounded upon it again.

  “I’m not trying to sell anything!” he shouted at the wood. It looked very thick and he doubted any sound at all penetrated. “Just let me in, please.”

  There was a long silence. The slide cracked open a fraction.

  “You’re not a religious man?”

  Thrum paused. “Not… particularly,” he hazarded.

  The speaker grunted, whether because this was the correct or incorrect answer Thrum was unsure of until something very large snicked and the massive door, balanced to perfection with counterweights, ponderously opened a hand-span.

  Thrum ducked himself through the gap and into a vestibule. The single candle held by the gatekeeper thrust hard up against his face. She was a short fat woman who had to stand up on tiptoes in order to come level with Thrum’s chin. He held his breath nobly as her breath, reeking of garlic and wine, washed out in palpable waves.

  “It’s late, so I suggest you find yourself a pallet in the back of the cook’s quarters and get yourself some sleep.” She wrinkled her nose. “And a wash, verily.”

  Thrum swallowed back the rebuke concerning pots and kettles.

  “Yes, ma’am, thank you very much.”

  “Come this way. In the morning, get yourself to the secretaries and they can deal with you.”

  “Much obliged.”

  Thrum followed, and soon was scrubbing himself in a tub of lukewarm and not-quite-clean water. Feeling somewhat lighter, having lost several days of accumulated grime, he felt more civilized and willingly took on a hasty meal of stale bread and watery soup. Shortly after curled up in his allotted pallet he fell into the sleep of the dead.

  He was walking together with Archendorf along a path in the mountains. They were talking casually as they strode, the day was a little overcast and the scenery nondescript. A pause in the conversation, and Thrum looked up the path before then, his pulse racing to a gallop as a man appeared running fast and heading their way. Thrum instantly knew him to be the Crylock magician. Thrum ran forward to intercept him, his hands flung out, he had to protect Archendorf.

  The magician swept past Thrum’s grasping fingers in a blur of cloth. Thrum spun to a halt and cried out a warning, pumping his legs into a run again back towards his friend. The magician was already upon Archendorf, driving him to the ground.

  Thrum awoke with a start with a painful itch all over his body. He was not sure if he had shouted aloud, but the darkened room was unoccupied. Uneasily he lay back onto the pallet, eyes wide open now, as the itching over his body slowly faded. He was not sure he would be able to get back to sleep, so he simply lay there with his mind working.

  He must have slept for he awoke abruptly; this time sure he was under attack - the thunder of metal on metal assailing his ears. He sat bolt upright and saw the early morning baking shift had arrived and were clearing the benches for their day’s work. They moved about their chores mechanically, one lanky young lad glanced over at him, yet his eyes did not even pause and he showed no signs acknowledgment.

  He groaned and hung his head upon his chest, hardly believing how much he ached. The muscles near his shins seemed taut like piano wire, his lower back knotted, his legs pieces of jelly. He had never been as physically active in his life, now it was all starting to catch up.

  He grabbed his nightgown that he had been using as a pillow, the only piece of clothing he possessed, and pulled it under the blankets with him. He struggled under the covers and he pulled himself into it and finally emerged, smoothing the front and plucking at his sleeves. He surreptitiously withdrew the cruciform from its hiding spot under his bedding and replaced it into a pocket.

  “Excuse me,” he asked a passing boy.

  The boy stopped and leant on his broom. “Yes?”

  “I seek an audience with the King’s Archmages. Can you direct me?”

  The boy pointed towards a door and continued sweeping.

  “And I need to use the lavatory.”

  The boy wordlessly pointed to another door.

  Thrum set off and eventually found the wash rooms built on the outer wall of the castle. He was unused to such technologies and a little awed by the private stalls with a ledge of bricks and a wooden seats on top of vertical chutes. They surely knew how to do things in style in the Ivory Tower.

  Having attended to everything necessary, he washed his hands and face in the basin and straightened his gown on his shoulders, then set off to find the audience chamber. He followed a spiralling stairway down and along a wide corridor, passing quite a few people going in the other direction, mainly servants carrying loads of bedding. Most ignored him, sparing his mud-splattered and ragged dressing gown a cursory and haughty glance. A group of scampering boys bowled past, set on either errand or mischief Thrum could not say.

  As he emerged into the castle courtyard, still mostly in shadow, he saw a large crowd gathered. Many were dressed strangely, wearing black tights and puffy vests, their breath puffing clouds in the chill air as they pontificated.

  “What’s going on?” asked Thrum to a man bent over and re-stringing a mandolin.

  “Poetry reading festival,” he muttered, not glancing up.

  “Ahh.” Thrum licked his lips nervously, then, seeing no more was to be forthcoming, made a noise of farewell and moved away. The babble of lilting voices was somehow disturbing in their disconnected nature, for they did not melt to one another like a normal
conversation, each addressed their own ghostly audience.

  Returning to the corridors, and once more asking for directions, he finally came to a large open hall that was the official reception where he could ask for an audience with the Archmages. The morning light spilled through full-length glass windows, the sounds of conversation echoing in the massively high ceilinged and marble-floored room. There were a row of booths at the far end, at which there was already a line of about fifty partitioners, waiting for their audience. There appeared to be only one booth open, towards which Thrum strode determinedly.

  A guard’s arm blocked him.

  “Take a number please sir.”

  “But I must see one of the Archmages, it is urgent! I have found Taukin’s scroll-”

  “Really? Taukin?”

  Thrum paused and in shock, his mind tried to reword his sentences. “Yes! I must-”

  “I can’t believe it, wow! You have it!” The guard’s eyebrows rose to the top of his head, and only then did Thrum catch the sarcasm that had been dripping from every word.

  “Yes, I-”

  The guard’s look of exaggerated amazement fell from his countenance. “Take a number.”

  “Taukin-”

  The guard would not be budged. “Take a number.”

  Thrum studied the guard’s face but could find no trace of emotion on the now steely visage. He went to a box and took a number, glancing down wearily at it to notice he had a long wait ahead.

  As he stood in line, Thrum's eyes wandered restlessly across the hall. He was thinking about nothing at all, daydreaming idle thoughts, when he saw a young woman stride from a door behind the counters and ask something of the clerk. From the manner with which he deferred to her Thrum judged her to be a superior. He watched, spellbound and unable to draw his eyes away from her beauty as she lent forward, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders. With a swirl, she turned her back and was gone.

  Thrum closed his eyes, trying to keep the image of her face imprinted in his mind so he could savour it further.

  “Number three hundred and sixty seven!”

  Thrum jolted awake, realized this was this number, and stumbled forward to the desk. The clerk’s grey wig tilted forward over his eyes as he read from his papers.

  “Ok, we have an opening for the Royal rhinotillexis servant. Down the hall on the right to collect your equipment. Next!”

  “No, wait, I'm here for an audience with an Archmage.”

  The clerk snatched the ticket from Thrum's hand and pushed back his wig with the other. “Then why do you have a blue ticket?”

  “I'm sorry, I must have taken the wrong colour. I need to talk to-”

  “Orange ticket for consultations.”

  “Can't I just-”

  “Three hundred and sixty eight!” the clerk bellowed over Thrum's shoulder, leaving him no choice but to skulk back, collect another ticket, and rejoin the end of the queue.

  Some time later, he found himself before the same clerk and passed over his orange ticket.

  “Whom to you wish to see?” asked the clerk without looking up from his paperwork.

  “An Archmage, it's important.”

  “And you are...?”

  “Thrum Bolgen.”

  “Of what institution?”

  “Err, none, just me.”

  This was met with stony silence. Finally the clerk said, “I'm sorry sir, you'll need to contact your local representative, and they will bring your concern to our attention.”

  “No, you don't understand!” Thrum said becoming agitated. “I need to see an Archmage-” He paused and swallowed hard, suddenly realizing that he hadn't noticed the young dark-haired woman he'd seen earlier was standing at the clerk's side. She was in the process of dropping off some paperwork in the clerk's tray and her immaculately trimmed eyebrow rose at Thrum's words.

  “I'm sorry sir,” continued the clerk. “I can do no more for you.”

  The fire had gone out of Thrum's belly and his face flushed red. He wanted to stare and drink in the fine contours of the woman’s face but allowed himself only to sip in glances. Over the counter, he could see the swelling of her bosom and he felt giddy. He was vaguely aware the clerk had said something.

  “Uh, umm, yes, okay.  Goodbye.” Thrum turned away, risking a twitching of his lips into a smile at the woman. As he wandered back through the hall, he wasn't sure what to think. Rejected, but at the same time, strangely numb at the beauty that seemed to reach across the room and strike him in the heart. In a daze, he simply headed towards the doorway.

  “Hey,” a voice whispered.

  Startled and horrified he looked left and saw that the woman had appeared from another door; she had taken a circuitous route and intercepted him in the corridor.

  “Yes?” said Thrum.

  “I couldn't help but overhear, perhaps I can help. You need to speak to an Archmage?”

  “Yes, yes I do!” Thrum could hardly believe his luck, yet at the same time felt his words tumbling over themselves in his nervousness.

  “Then tell it to me, I'm second rank mage,” she said.

  Thrum's jaw dropped.

  “On one condition,” she said sternly.

  “Of course, anything.”

  “You've got to stop staring at me like that.”

  Thrum dropped his eyes. “Sorry.”

  She smiled. “My name's Karina. Come through to my office.”

  He followed as she swept through a maze of corridors. They finally arrived at a door and she went inside. As they entered, Karina absently cast a hand and several candles flickered into life, the act of magic as natural as breathing. High bookshelves filled to overflowing with bound books lined the walls.

  “It is a fine room you have,” Thrum said, not trusting himself to look Karina in the eye and instead casting his gaze about the room. His marvel was sincere however, for he had never seen such a wealth of books in such a small space. It put shame to Hamontoast’s University library, which stocked only scrolls and etchings. “Second rank mage, right?”

  “That’s right. First in line should one of the current Four Archmages shuffle off this mortal coil,” she said lightly. “But by the gods, I have enough work to keep me occupied a lifetime now. I take it you are something of a magician yourself?”

  Thrum shook his head. “I’m more into the… theoretical side of things.” He risked looking up. She had pale yet striking blue eyes rimmed with a darker hairline of black. As she spoke she twisted her hair up behind her head and pinned it back.

  “Where did you study?” she asked.

  “I’m more of an autodidact.”

  “Ahh.” She smiled. Her features were not classically beautiful, but beautiful in a rugged kind of way. No, that’s no right the word, Thrum thought. Not rugged, but somehow naturally beautiful, a diamond in the rough. Thrum tore his eyes away. He knew his life would only momentarily cross with such a beauty, the knowledge of the fleetingness of this encounter giving his heart a bittersweet tang. He pressed his clumsy mind to matters at hand.

  “I have found the scroll containing the soul of Taukin, once one of the King’s Archmages.”

  “Interesting,” she said noncommittally. “Can I see it?”

  “Well, I did have it, that is, I gave it to my friend. Well, you see, it’s like this. We were going to the Crylock, only the Crylock sent their magicians and almost killed us, and, well, it’s a long story, but in the end I came here for help, but my friend, you see-”

  A polite knocking at the door saved Thrum further embarrassment. A head appeared as the door opened crack.

  “Excuse me, Lady Karina. We have the Plainsfolk King waiting for you.”

  “Thank you Billy,” Karina said. She stood, hands flat on the desk, pondering Thrum for a moment.

  “You really are a curious character. Look, I don’t like to send you away when you quite obviously have something to say for yourself. Billy, show our guest here the Royal Library. I’m su
re he’d be happy to browse our collection.” To Thrum she said, “I’ll drop in and continue this chat as soon as I am able. I must go now.”

  Thrum nodded eagerly. “Of course, thank you.”

  Karina led him to the door, introduced him to Billy, and she turned on her heel and strode away.

  “This way, sir,” said Billy, holding his head a fraction higher as if Thrum’s odour offended him.

  In a few minutes Billy threw open a pair of tall doors, bowed stiffly, and ushered Thrum into the Grand Library. Thrum felt as if he had landed in heaven. The massive hall was chock full of shelves so tall that the upper levels were only accessible by ladder, the muted light angling in through large windows and catching dancing motes of dust, the only sound in the hushed silence was the rustle of pages turning.

  He turned and thanked Billy and wandered in, unsure of where to start. He ran a hand along some leather bound spines, his head tilted so he could read the titles. His eye caught on one, An Illustrated Historie of Voodoo: a DIY guide, and he pulled it out, barely having a moment to tuck it under one arm before noticing another that caught his eye, Beadwork and Mystic Symbolism Revealed, and Hegemony of the Magician’s Order. Before he had even progressed halfway down a row he had four more, and took his treasures to an empty carrel and cracked the first one open.

  He read with rapt attention, for despite his practical inability, his mind was like a dry sponge and he drank in the words and knowledge. Although not consciously being able to realize it, he was able to draw links between different areas and form a coherent picture in his mind, the sum of which greater than the parts.

  After some time he returned to the shelves and in his browsing came across a book that made his eyes boggle. Feeling suddenly guilty, his head snapping back and forth to see who was watching, he hardly dared take it but could not resist. It was a book on the history of the land in the time of the Crylock. All other libraries banned such texts, even singing a song not approved by the Ivory Tower about those old times could land one in jail for a very long time.

  Thrum took it down from the shelf and furtively retreated to his desk before opening it. It was a long book, written a long time ago by the looks. Thrum skipped over the first chunk of boring-looking text, his eyes flittered over words describing designations of who led such-and-such a council, and what parcels of land belonged to whom. The more Thrum read, the more he became convinced that this book must have been written, incredibly, in a time when the Crylock ruled the land! In a time before the Ivory Tower, which went against every history he had ever been told. Their ruling castle, located in the Cragtop Mountains, was strong if the tabulations of men and machinery were anything to go by, and the expansion of their territory was rapid in all directions.

  They ruled, it seemed, with an iron fist. Troublemakers and tax evaders were either made slaves or executed, yet at the same time those co-operating with the ruling class were treated fairly. Production boomed and the economy prospered, and some grew very wealthy, especially those high in the positions of magic.

  It was written in the first-hand, a diary of an accountant or a lawmaker, so time passed linearly as he pressed deeper into the book. Here and there mention started to be made of the Four Archmages of the East, who were causing trouble with the Crylock administration. A section later, those Archmages seemed to be gaining strength, gathering disgruntled factions under their umbrella, until, in the last sentence the author penned portentously; there will be war between us.

  Thrum shut the book and looked up. Some considerable time must have passed, for it was dark outside, natural sunlight replaced by a score of candles blazing on the walls. His stomach was a hollow pit of hunger, and he had only drunk a small amount of water around lunchtime.

  He realized a nearby presence had made him look up, and he jumped a little as Karina spoke from just behind.

  “Still at it?” she asked, coming around and taking a seat opposite. Thrum moved aside a leaning tower of books from between them, hiding the Crylock book as he did so.

  “I must have lost track of time,” he said. “This place is truly amazing.”

  Karina grinned impishly. “I’ve never seen anyone so entranced. I always used to dread my time of study in this dusty old place, I so much preferred the practical – you know, blasting ice spells at targets, speaking with the animals, transmogrification.”

  Thrum only shrugged and smiled a little. “I’ve never been able to complete a spell.”

  Karina’s brows furrowed, Thrum’s heart beating a little faster watching her animated face, entranced by the delicate indent of her philtrum and curve of her lips dancing as she spoke.

  “Perhaps you have a mind block,” she said. “That’s been known to happen to even the most talented. Once you complete your first successful spell you’ll probably find the rest comes flowing out like a broken dam wall.”

  “Perhaps,” Thrum said. “But as much as I enjoy wandering these shelves and… ahem… your company… I can’t forget my purpose in coming here. Taukin’s scroll.”

  “Oh yes. Well, I can’t say I’m entirely convinced. The scroll of Taukin was lost over twenty years ago, no amount of seek, reveal, expose, trace or manifest spells cast by the highest ranked mages yielding a scrap.”

  “I found it in my township of Hamontoast. I collect things, and it practically fell into my lap. As soon as it did so it seemed there’s been no end of trouble.”

  Thrum went on and told his tale, of how he met Archendorf, and of Bronty the horse and his noble death, the magician they had killed in Hamontoast and the second in the dwarf’s shop.

  “At least, he seemed dead at the time. This is the cruciform the dwarf gave me,” said Thrum, pulling it from his pocket and placing its solid mass on the table with a dull thud. “It was a reward for saving his shop.”

  Karina took the cruciform with two hands and studied it carefully. “It’s beautiful - and most unlike a dwarf to give something away! He must have been truly in your debt.”

  “Perhaps, but I now have grave fears for the poor little guy, I could have sworn I saw that same magician we killed on the road out of Bullspit, one arm and all.” Thrum rubbed a palm into his eye. “Although now that I come to think about it, maybe I was dreaming …”

  “So then your friend Archendorf took the scroll…” prompted Karina.

  “Hmm, oh yes, he’d met up with some desert nomads, real weirdo’s, no teeth. Riding deformed horses.”

  “Oh, really? Their leader’s name wasn’t Quirk, was it?”

  Thrum paused. “I can’t remember. Yes, I think you’re right. Do you know them?”

  “They’ve been causing no end of trouble for the Kingdom these past few years. They seem harmless enough though, so we haven’t seriously pursued them for their petty misdemeanours.”

  “Well, somehow Arc met up with this crew, and they were all fired up to continue the quest. They didn’t think coming here was a good idea, they doubted I would get an audience.”

  “That’s very true. Everyone is so very busy, even I hardly can get a word in to the Archmages.”

  “Then it’s lucky I found you,” said Thrum. His gaze, which had for the most part been averted and nervous, met Karina’s, and he found himself entrapped beneath those beguiling blue eyes.

  “So if you are telling the truth, how did you know it was Archmage Taukin’s scroll?”

  “I could read it. He spoke to me through it.”

  “You could read it? You could break the silence spell?”

  “There was no trick. But nobody else could see anything.”

  “That’s sure something. I wonder why only you could read it?” She waved a dismissive hand and changed tack. “But if this were true... Taukin the Turncoat, master of the Crylock, found at last.”

  “Now hang on, you’ve got that backwards, you mean master of the Tower; Taukin is one of the Four Archmages.”

  “It’s true, he was once one of the King’s Four Archmages. It was late in t
he battle between the Crylock and the Ivory Tower, it seemed Lord Crylock was facing certain defeat. We don’t know what Taukin was tempted by, but I have always suspected there are many layers to this tale. I have read that he was much enamoured by a certain Lady Cytham, who, as it happened, was another of the King’s Four Archmages at the time. She was already married to yet another of the King’s Four Archmages, so it was a right tangle. In the end, Taukin joined the forces of the enemy, the Crylock.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Thrum was on his feet, the pile of books knocked to the floor. “I’ve never heard any of this!”

  “Calm down,” said Karina. “It’s not surprising you haven’t, the Ivory Tower keeps the records of the scandal close to its chest. Airing dirty laundry, shaking the foundations of solidary, name all the clichés you like, they didn’t want their infallible reputation blemished. I’ve searched the texts, and only found clues, for at some point someone has gone to the trouble of tearing out all pages referring to Lady Cytham in all the texts of this library. With no remaining records of what actually happened who knows what infidelities occurred, I know only that Lady Cytham’s husband, another of the King’s Archmages as I mentioned, found out some detail of the pregnancy, discovered he’d be cuckolded by Taukin I suspect. Lady Cytham died in a violent manner soon after giving birth. If the child survived nobody knows, and the name Cytham is mentioned in no inheritance, no legacy, and no gravestone. From what I can figure, Taukin disappeared around the same time, to turn up in the employ of the Crylock.”

  “But it doesn’t make any sense,” said Thrum, pacing and running hands through corkscrewed hair. “Taukin was leading us to safety, avoiding the wizards who were chasing us.”

  “Really? Avoiding them? Or putting you in harm’s way so you could be picked up by them? And at the same time drawing you ever close to the Crylock so he could snatch up the prize. Why did you think the Crylock keeps guard over Taukin’s body?”

  “Taukin told us it was because they couldn’t destroy the body, it was too powerful. So instead they keep it, and make sure nobody else can get to it.”

  “Seems a little dangerous - keeping your mortal enemy’s body in the very heart of your fortress! Yes, you’re right, you can’t easily separate an Archmage’s soul from his body, but even an Archmage is made of flesh and blood and will be cut by a blade. You can cut off as many bits as you like, feed them to the hogs, or drop them in the depths of the ocean, weighed down with lead.”

  “I didn’t think of that,” said Thrum, abashed. He took his seat again but squirmed from buttock cheek to buttock cheek in agitation. “It made sense at the time... But what about the Crylock wizards chasing us?”

  “Sent out no doubt to retrieve the scroll, as they didn’t trust you to carry it safely.”

  “If they’d have only asked nicely for it…”

  “You’d have handed it over? Ha! No, for all your cowardice, I think even you would draw the line somewhere. You rather destroy the scroll yourself rather than see it in their hands.”

  Thrum was silent. He liked to think that Karina was right, and that he would have stood for at least that.

  “He’s deceived us all along,” Thrum breathed. The world as he knew it seemed turned on its head, but somehow it all felt right, all the niggling doubts and conflicting thoughts now resolved with this revelation. He snapped his fingers as he remembered, “Archendorf! He still carries the scroll towards the Crylock!”

  “Let's pretend I believe you for a moment. It would be remiss of me to not check out your story, although I doubt any others in this place would spare you the time of day. If what you say is true, we must stop your friend from reaching the Crylock.”

  The candles guttered low on the desk between them, her eyes gleaming mischievously in the light. The windows opening onto the world outside were pitch-black.

  “Meet me outside the stables in ten minutes.” Her eyes narrowed as they took in Thrum’s dirty nightgown he had been wearing since Hamontoast. “I’ll bring you something warm.”

 

  Although he admitted it was certainly a dramatic way to end a paragraph, Thrum wished Karina had given him directions to the stables before dashing away. At length he found someone to ask directions, and blundered his way through the darkened hallways.

  He found himself breaking into impromptu dance as he walked, gyrating his hips and shuffling slippers along the flagstones. He was not such a pessimist that he didn't allow himself to imagine what lay ahead, the two of them, together on a journey, who knew what may develop! Life had never felt so good, he reflected, bopping his hands in the air. Besides, the way he had parted company with Archendorf had left a sour taste in his mouth, and now they were going to rescue him everything felt right.

  He came face-to-face with a stern faced guard, dressed in full armour. Thrum lowered his arms and grinned winningly.

  “Good evening!”

  The guard's eyes were invisible in the shadows of his helm, only his lower jaw and mouth exposed, twisted in a grimace as he took in Thrum's unruly form. “Are you authorised here?”

  “Friend of the mages,” Thrum said, still wobbling backwards and forwards to an imagined rythmn. “Can you show me towards the stables, my good man?”

  The guard paused for a long time. Finally, he lifted a hand and pointed. “Keep following that corridor, two flights of stairs down, you'll find it.”

  “Many thanks.”

  The guard simply grunted, and Thrum danced away.

  He was late in arriving and Karina was waiting impatiently beside a stableboy standing a little to one side holding a partially shuttered lantern. She had changed from her robes into a riding jacket, tight fitting pants and tall boots. Thrum didn’t have time to ogle as she stuffed a bundle of clothing into one of his hands and a sack into the other.

  “There you are. Here,” she said, stuffing both into his arms. “Put that cloak on, and there's a bag of food, if you haven't eaten today you must be starving.”

  Thrum struggled to balance both and keep up with Karina as she strode along the stalls. From behind the doors Thrum heard snorting and the occasional stamping of hooves as horses awoke from slumber. “We can take Fawn and Hiro, my personal mounts,” she was saying over her shoulder. “I haven't cleared this with the administration - that would take days. With luck, we’ll be able to catch up with your friend and be back by tomorrow evening. Ahh, and here we are,” said Karina as a horse stuck its head over the stall door and whinnied lightly.

  “Hi there Fawn,” she said, rubbing the horse's long nose affectionately.

  “Archendorf has at least three days head start on us,” said Thrum. “He also had a mount, those long legged things of Quirk's. They looked like they could go a fair clip.”

  Karina slid back the bolt and opened the door. She grabbed a saddle and handed it heavily to Thrum, who, already encumbered, managed to keep it balanced atop his other burdens.

  “They're called camels,” she said. “And these are no ordinary horses. How do you think the Ivory Tower can patrol such a large area as the Kingdom? These babies can warp the fabric of reality, crinkle it up enough to make a short cut, you'll see.” Karina smiled mischievously as she slung a saddle over Fawn, and then took the one Thrum held and took it to the opposite stall where a jet black stallion was waiting. The massive beast loomed like a purebred war machine, muscles bulging under a coat brushed to gleaming perfection, tossing his head and dancing upon iron shod hooves with barely repressed energy. Thrum was more than a little glad when Karina said,

  “This is Hiro, I'll be riding him. You can take Fawn, she's a little more even-tempered.”

  “I've not actually ridden a horse before,” confessed Thrum, struggling one arm into the sleeve of the thick brown cloak.

  “You'll have no problem with Fawn, just gentle with the reins, she'll understand you. Come on, I’m set.”

  Thrum twisted his other arm through and flipped the hook of the cloak over his head. It felt good,
he almost felt like a magician.

  The doors to the stable crashed open and the stable hand dozing there leapt to his feet as a thunderous voice rang out,

  “Clear the way in here! Boy, wake up boy!”

  Karina’s eyes widened as she spun upon Thrum. “It’s my husband! Quickly, get back in there!”

  “Your hus-” spluttered Thrum, staggering backwards under Karina’s shove and into Fawn’s stall. In one swoop his world came crumbling down, the flimsy supports bolstering his confidence washed away in the flash flood. Husband? he thought. Of course, how could he have been so stupid. He was no Casanova, he hadn’t charmed Karina out of her boots, she was simply doing her job.

  “My husband is one of the Four Archmages,” said Karina in a staccato whisper. “Get in there, hide, he won’t take kindly to-”

  She swallowed the rest of her words, the bellowing voice closer.

  “Karina, is that you my sweet?”

  Karina threw the stall door closed and slid the bolt home, locking Thrum inside with Fawn. He cowered down low in the hay, hardly daring to breathe in the darkness. One of the Four? Thrum shook his head of the cotton wool that seemed to be dulling his mind. Everything all seemed to be happening way too fast.

  “What are you doing at this time of night, my sweet? You’re dressed for riding!” The voice lowered as it approached and there was the sound of embracing and of a kiss, a sound that tore Thrum’s birdlike heart in twain.

  “I was saddling Hiro, I’ve had reports from a villager that the scroll of Taukin has been found and-”

  “Taukin? What nonsense! It’s just as well you’re up, I’ve come to find you. Our negotiations with the elves have failed. The disturbance that flared up a few days ago is spiralling out of control, the crazy little bastards. I thought you could use your negotiation skills in our meeting with the tribal elders, stop this thing before it spreads too far. You were always a dab hand in the gentle art of persuasion.”

  There followed more sounds of lips upon lips, to which Thrum valiantly tried to block his ears. Perhaps, he thought, it was some old codger. Yes, that must be it. In which case, who knows, ten years or so he’d be dead and clear the way to a more appropriately aged suitor.

  Thrum risked straightening his legs and lifting his head a fraction to peer over the top of the stall. In that instant his knees, the joints of which had always been rickety, gave a rifle pop and he dropped back down hurriedly.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing, Fawn is just restless my darling,” said Karina.

  From within the stall Thrum balled his eyes closed. He had seen enough of the gentlemen to know when beaten. A tall, barrel-chested fellow in the hearty prime of his life, long hair tied back in a ponytail, a silver headband binding errant hair from his granite visage. He was one of those paladin knights from ages past.

  Karina was still speaking. “You go into the keep and feed yourself, I’ll see to your mount.”

  “Nonsense - I’m here to whisk you away, ha ha! Time is of the essence. Come now, are you ready?”

  “Yes. Just give me one more moment. I’ll meet you outside.”

  “Very well.”

  Thrum heard the sound of confident striding footsteps recede and then the clunk as the stall lock slid back.

  “Look, I’ve got to go,” said Karina. She unclasped a bracelet from her neck and lay it carefully in Thrum’s outstretched palm. Thrum’s flesh tingled in such close proximity but her fingers did not touch his and he felt strangely relieved. “Take this. I shouldn’t be more than a day, so don’t do anything rash. Take Fawn, find your friend, and come back here. If you get into any trouble I’ll be able to find you with a tracing spell if you keep hold of that bracelet.”

  Thrum nodded, his heart all a-flutter. He tried to speak but nothing came out.

  “Good luck!” she said, and with that she was gone. Silence descended and Thrum saw from the dancing lantern light that the stable boy drew near.

  “Sir, are you all right back there?”

  “Yes,” said Thrum. “Please, if you don’t mind, can you give me a hand here?”

  He rode into the night. The moon was full and he had no problems in finding his way over the grassy hillocks. As Karina promised Fawn seemed to sense Thrum’s inexperience and responded with matron-like care, firmly ignoring his pull of the reins when it was obvious to the horse there was a quicker way around, or if there was an obstacle ahead. The ride was curiously stable and Thrum did not have to place his weight upon the stirrups for the horse’s back was as straight and level as an arrow as she galloped in a blur of motion.

  There was more than a hint of magic about the beast, Thrum reflected, noting how quickly the landscape seemed to be morphing around them. Hills in the distance quickly grew large and then flashed by, the air having a strange muted feel to it.

  Thrum ducked lower into the saddle, holding the hood of his cloak with one hand and his gaze averted, for it seemed once he’d given Fawn the bearing she was happy to find her own way. Thrum had simply aimed westwards, and towards the black silhouette of the Cragtop Mountains low on the night sky. He had time to think about all he had been through and his heart hardened a little when he recalled the sight of Karina’s husband, a firm and gallant man no doubt. In his mind’s eye he could still see them held in an embrace, she coming up only to his chin, his arms wrapped about-

  No. He mustn’t think about that. He shook his head, trying instead to figure out how he was to find Archendorf. He had no doubt he would catch them at the speed he was going - the only question was where.

  He fell into a doze, then a fitful sleep. The gentle rocking beneath and the blurred thunder of galloping hooves melded into a soothing rhythm and his head fell forward and jounced on the pommel as he slept on well into the night.

  He awoke with a start, head slipping to one side, and it took him a moment to remember where he was. The wind rushed by and Fawn ran untiringly onwards in the red rays of dawn. Thrum risked pulling a little on Fawn’s reins in what he hoped a slowing gesture. She understood and slowed her run into a canter, then into a walk, huffing and blowing and tossing her head as if frustrated at the sudden lack of pace.

  “Easy there,” Thrum said awkwardly, not sure exactly how he should be talking to a beast. “Break time.”

  When Fawn slowed and then finally came to a complete halt, the world seemed strangely silent, ears ringing with an echo of wind. Gazing about he saw the landscape had changed considerably since last night, for they were now well into the foothills of the mountains. There were no trees, the tall grass now patchy in places, scattered boulders here and there. He yawned cavernously and straightened a crick from his back, cautiously descending from the saddle and taking a few wobbly steps in the gritty soil.

  He rooted about in the sack Karina had given him and found some bread and a jar of milk, which he proceeded to eat ravenously. As he stood there in the chill air, alternatively filling his mouth with food and water, his wandering eyes noticed something on the horizon just ahead and slightly to the left. He finished up and returned to Fawn’s side, clambered back atop the high vantage of the saddle, and looked again. Yes, definitely a campfire’s smoke rising lazily into the air.

  “Let’s check it out,” he said eagerly, and Fawn seemed to understand his words perfectly for she whinnied in agreement, raised herself slightly on rear legs like a coiled spring, and set off galloping.

 

  The embers of the fire were mere hints of light as the dawn’s first rays drove some colour into the grey landscape. The camp was in a clearing surrounded by rocks scattered like giant’s teeth, the western side rising sharply against a rock wall. A path up the rock cliff wide enough for one horse only contoured into the misty morning air.

  A score of shapes lay upon the ground, the sleeping men closest to the fire and in concentric ring further out the sleeping camels with legs folded up beneath. A wizened sentry sat with steaming breath and cloak pulled tight about his
bony shoulders at the outer edges of the circle, his head nodding in a continual battle with sleep.

  There came the mouse-like tinkling of small stones, and silence. The sentry’s head popped upright and his ears cocked. There was no further sound. He half unsheathed the sabre in his lap and called, “Who goe’sh there?”

  Still nothing moved, but eerily it felt not like an absence, but somehow like someone trying hard to be silent. The sentry drew his blade fully and stood, blinded by the blazing strip of sun on the horizon.

  There was a flutter of cloth and a motion too rapid to be human. The sentry had no time to even flinch as a blow of concussed air struck and he fell wordlessly to the ground. A nearby camel flickered open a long lashed eyelid but finding nothing out of sorts closed it again. The rest of the camp slept on.

  The shadow picked his way through the recumbent forms neither timidly or rashly, simply as one intent on a purpose. It narrowed in on a familiar form; Archendorf’s unmistakable shape. The shadow crouched as it neared and a hand snaked in and seized Taukin’s scroll, slightly protruded from Archendorf’s pack. It withdrew into the folds of the shadow’s sleeve like a fly stuck to a lizard’s tongue.

  Valgus allowed himself a smirk as he straightened, his fingers tight on the scroll as he felt it throbbing with the magic inside. He thought about making some supercilious comment, but none really came to mind and besides, who was awake to hear? He could always make up something witty when recounting the tale later to his friends.

  He turned on his heel and took one stride away. He gasped, stuck still. A firm fist held the other foot in an iron grasp.

  “Drop it!”

  Archendorf pulled upon the bony ankle and yanked the magician from his feet. Moving with the speed of a born warrior Archendorf leapt to his feet and grabbed Valgus in a headlock, shouting an alert that awoke Quirk’s men.

  Everything happened very quickly.

  The desert men scrambled out of their bedding, sabres making a schwing noise as they were drawn from scabbards, confused yells with Archendorf’s strong voice at the centre of it all. The magician and the strongman twisted over one another like a python trying to devour a struggling pig; Valgus was wry and nimble, always managing to slip away, but Archendorf was similarly quick and pinned his foe down with a new hold every time another broke.

  Quirk and his men surrounded the pair, unsure of what to do, blades bristling. Quirk held a hand back and gestured them to give some room.

  “Careful’sh of the big man,” he said. “See if you can stab the little one.”

  He jabbed and Archendorf howled.

  “What the hell! Get him you fool, him!”

  “Sorry,” said Quirk, hesitantly taking a step backwards, forwards, then backwards again.

  Valgus at last managed to incant a spell. The ground where they struggled erupted as if some beast sleeping beneath the surface roused. In a great spray of dust Quirk’s men fell backwards and Archendorf was blasted away, becoming airborne and landing awkwardly on his back and neck, his feet almost coming back over his head.

  “Where is he?” came voices from the dust cloud.

  “Can you see him?” came another.

  They all coughed and waved hands in a futile effort to clear the dust. Archendorf was on his feet and at Quirk’s side by the time the air had cleared enough for them to see again.

  “Where did he go?” asked Archendorf.

  Quirk silently raised his sabre in the direction of the rock face and a narrow cave in it, for they all felt the oppressiveness of the now suddenly still and funereal air.

  “Did you see him?” whispered Archendorf.

  Quirk nodded. His own voice was a dry whisper. “I know that cave. It’s a dead end.”

  Archendorf nodded, his heavy quick breathing now slowing to a normal rhythm. “Then we wait,” he whispered back.

  Quirk glanced uncertainly at Archendorf, scanning the ranks of men, searching for signs of fear. They’d never taken on a magician before. He wasn’t sure who was waiting for who in this standoff; was the magician simply regaining his strength there in the darkness? Quirk tried to set a good example of bravery and not to let the tip of his sabre waver.

  There was the unexpected approaching thunder of hooves from behind, several heads whirling as Thrum’s voice cried out,

  “Archendorf! It’s me!”

  “Thrum?”

  “Archendorf, I’ve found you! Great gods, you’re not going to believe this.” His voice was high and jarringly light.

  “Thrum, what are you doing here, how the, whose horse is this?”

  “It’s a long story. What’s going on? Why is everyone so quiet?”

  “Get down here, I’ll fill you in.”

  Thrum dismounted quickly, his voice lowering in response to the mood. He saw Archendorf’s tunic and leggings coated in dust, Quirk’s men clustered close with a hostile air.

  “If it ishn’t our yellow bellied friend. What’sh you doing’sh here?” Quirk asked.

  “There’s something you have to know,” Thrum said in a hurried low tone. “Some bad news.”

  Archendorf wrapped his arm about Thrum’s shoulder. “I have some bad news of my own little buddy. But I’m sure glad to see you, we can use your magical help right now!”

  Thrum was aware the crowd around him softened a little.

  “It’s about Taukin’s scroll,” Thrum said.

  “Not now,” breathed Archendorf. “Later. Right now the Crylock magician has it, I’ll be damned if it isn’t the same one we struck stone cold dead in Bullspit, one arm and all. Creepy bastard stole it from me in my sleep, we had a bit of a grapple here but he slipped away and right now he’s holed up in that cave.”

  Thrum looked in the direction Archendorf pointed.

  “So he was real…” he said, almost to himself. “He has the scroll?”

  Arc shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry.”

  “No. I’m sorry. Look, Arc, there’s something I’ve got to tell you first.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “No.”

  Archendorf looked a little hesitant but nonetheless spread his hands expansively. “Okay, sure thing, shoot.”

  “That time, back in the dwarf’s weapon shop, when I cast that spell,” said Thrum, quickly so as to get it done. “It was a teleport spell, I was trying to get myself out of there.”

  “There's nothing to be ashamed,” Archendorf said after a moment’s silence. “You acted on instinct.”

  “Don’t you get it? Fine friend I am. Had it worked, it would have left you to face that bastard magician alone.” Thrum slowed, his words were more difficult to find now. “I’m such a miserable coward.” His mouth worked some more, but he could not quite find the right way to say sorry.

  Archendorf sensed this and saved him further embarrassment.

  “Hey, come on, things worked out in the end! Say, is that the only reason you’ve been so quiet with me since then?”

  Thrum nodded. “I guess I was trying to drive you away. I don’t deserve your friendship.”

  To Thrum’s surprise Archendorf laughed heartily. He slapped Thrum across the back with a paddle-like hand. “Here I was, racking my brains, trying to work out what I’d done. Forget it buddy, and let’s get on with things.”

  Thrum grinned despite himself as relief palpably flowed through his body. “Sure thing, Arc. Sure thing.”

  “So what’s the plan, how do we smoke this guy out? Got some magic spell up that fancy new cloak of yours?”

  “No, I’m giving up on spell casting. I know when I’m beat. I’m more of a theory kind of guy.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Thrum shrugged and pulled the cruciform from his pocket. “I guess we just go in after him.”

  Archendorf glanced aside, not willing to meet Thrum’s eye. “You’re sure about that? You couldn’t just, like, give one spell at least a try, make him come out here? It looks awful dark.”

  Thrum snapped his
head in an almost comic double take. “You’re not afraid, are you?”

  Archendorf blinked as if he had surprised himself. “By Jove! Yes, perhaps I am! A weakness in my knees, jelly in my arms as if I’d just done five hundred chin-ups…?”

  “That’s it,” said Thrum.

  “So this is fear.” Archendorf breathed in mightily and let it out slowly through the O of his lips.

  “Shall we go in?” said Thrum, tossing his cruciform in the air. It blurred in flight and to his amazement, he caught it by the hilt. He leered like a buccaneer. The blade shone blue and almost disappeared from sight when viewed edge on such was its gossamer thinness.

  “I guess so,” said Archendorf. He indicated to one of the men nearby, who more than willingly handed over a sabre. Archendorf tested its weight and, satisfied, glanced over at Thrum. The big man’s heart had started beating double time again, suddenly not so sure this was a good idea.

  “Look,” he said, “maybe its best we wait out here. We know he’s got nowhere to go-”

  “He’s building strength in there,” Thrum said. “You must have weakened him, and there’s no way we can take what he deals out when he’s ready. No, it’s now or never.”

  “You’re one brave little bastard. Ok, after you, my friend.”

  As Thrum took a few hesitant steps forward he reflected on how much had changed since he’d left Hamontoast. Was he doing this for Karina, he wondered, or in some sort of misguided attempt at making up with Archendorf? Either way, with each shuffled sidestep he neared the yawning darkness.

  Quirk sidled up to Archendorf and passed over a flaming torch - a gnarled log at the end of which a piece of twisted cloth burnt. Arc took it with a curt nod of thanks and joined his friend, thrusting the torch out before them to drive back the shadows. He could feel Quirk’s men closing ranks behind, tightening the net.

  Thrum was the first into the cave. The entrance would only allow one person at a time, a tall narrow corridor with a smoothed sand grounding. After a short distance the cave widened and Thrum paused, allowing Archendorf to catch up and they stood side-by-side, the space stretching before them into pitch-blackness. The ground had become rocky and uneven and Thrum had to pad blindly with his toe before every step. The air was cool and heavy as it is only in places that never see the light of day or feel the breath of wind. Echoes of their footsteps gave some vague measure of the size of the cavern; it didn’t feel vast, but rather close.

  Thrum’s sword swished backwards and forwards in a horizontal arc, the flames of the torch casting a feeble and inadequate light.

  “See anything?” whispered Thrum, eyes wide in a vain attempt to soak up any reflected light.

  “You’ll be the first to know. Keep that sword up, looks like it’s got a bit of glow from it we can see by.”

  The blueness of its edge complimented the orange of the torchlight, but shadows danced confounding and Thrum started at every one. He closed his mouth hoping it would deaden the sound of his hammering pulse.

  The two friends stood back pressed to back, the sounds of their breathing oddly in synch, advancing deeper over the uneven ground with slow careful steps. By degrees, their eyes adjusted, but they could see no further than the pool of light. Rather than feeling like the hunters, it was as if they offered themselves up as easy meat.

  “I don’t like this,” breathed Archendorf. “It’s too quiet.”

  Thrum tried to reply but all that emerged was a slightly louder huff of breath, which Archendorf seemed to understand. The torch made a whoomphing noise every time he swept it backwards and forwards across their path, eyes darting to the ground in search of tracks. This small cave had been used as a shelter in times past, for the remains of fireplaces and half burnt logs were scattered here and there. All was still.

  They neared the back wall of the cave, the rock face pockmarked with shadows and spider webs. Thrum glanced back towards the exit, a narrow slit of daylight that suddenly seemed very far away, and he felt like a deep-sea diver sinking down an abyss. His eyes, like Archendorf’s, flitted rapidly, trying to be all places at once. It was reassuring to feel his friend’s back against his own, for at least nothing could sneak up from behind.

  They stopped when they reached the back wall.

  “Where now?” asked Thrum. His voice was low and quick.

  “Looks like he’s not here.”

  Thrum was relieved. “Maybe we should get out of here.” Once this thought had entered his mind he found he couldn’t bear to stay any longer. He had tested his mettle; he had gone in the cave - now it was time to get out.

  The tension was getting to Archendorf too. They could not see anything, could not hear not a whisper, yet they both knew eyes were watching them. They were the moth trapped in the web, waiting for…

  “…the spider,” said Thrum, finishing his thought aloud in a whisper. He looked up.

  A spreadeagled bulk fell from above with a wild scream, a flash of shadow upon shadow. Archendorf yelled and dropped the torch.

  Thrum hunched away, swinging his blade and it hissed harmlessly through thin air. Archendorf yelled something but the Thrum did not hear it. He felt his friend warding off a blow. The Crylock magician swooped down as if on a circus wire, striking them both. Dirt was in Thrum’s face knuckles smashed against rock, his sword scattered from his hand. He felt oddly detached and out of control; he would have to count what bits of him were left, if any, at the end.

  Like game pieces scattered on a board all paused to see where they’d landed. Somehow, Archendorf was between Valgus and the exit of the cave. The fading light of the torch lay on the ground several paces away, casting sharp shadows upward. The evil magician tensed like a sprinter at the blocks ready to make a dash towards the cave exit, his horrible arm stump wavering obscenely. With a cry, Archendorf raised his sabre and slashed.

  Valgus batted away the blow with his remaining hand, the blade piercing between his fingers into the flesh of his palm, the tip of the sabre arrested a hair’s breadth from his leering face. Inhumanly oblivious to pain, Valgus twisted the blade caught between mangled finger bones and ripped it from Archendorf’s grasp. With an ugly spatter of blood, it tore free and clattered to the rocky ground.

  Valgus ducked low into his swirling his cloak, a puff of smoke, an imploding sound, and he transformed. The magician’s now empty clothing snaked to the floor as the bat flew into the air, spiralling wildly with a single broken umbrella wing pumping furiously. Thrum saw that in its clawed feet it held the scroll. They could only watch as the bat’s tight manic circles carried it over Archendorf’s head and out the cave.

  Escape seemed assured as the bat flew into the dawn light, flapping lopsidedly about head height from the ground, flying over the sleeping forms of the camels. Casually one of the camels reached up and chomped the bat from the air. Chewing nonchalantly, huge teeth grinding, the camel quickly devoured what had once been Valgus, and the scroll fluttered somewhat anti-climatically to the ground.

  The desert warriors simply looked at one another in stunned silence, too startled by the bat’s sudden appearance and disappearance to speak.

  Thrum was on his feet, joining Archendorf at the exit of the cave.

  “Did he get away?”

  Archendorf shook his head and wordless pointed to the camel, the last fragment of wing sucked between rubbery lips.

  Quirk grinned lopsidedly and bawled, “We’fph done it, men!”

  A wave of cheering washed Thrum back into reality. Quirk’s men rushed forward and lifted him in their arms, jostling and shouting gleefully. Quirk took Thrum’s hand in a vice-like grip and shook it rapidly.

  Thrum, trying to put his shoulder back into joint, returned Quirk’s compliments and bemusedly allowed himself to be carried along.