 
### Thrum

By Ronan Frost

Published by

Ronan Frost at Smashwords

Copyright (c) 2012 by Ronan Frost

### Chapter One

Long fingers of a rather ordinary dawn crept over the sleeping city of Hamontoast, the beginnings of a day that was to be the worst in Thrum's life. To this he was blissfully ignorant, the strengthening light bleaching through thin bedroom curtains rousing him slowly from his stupor. Still half asleep he swung his feet to the floor and balled fists into his eyes and long moments passed before he found the strength to stand. He fumbled the length of the hallway. In a moment of carelessness his feet caught on one another and, fighting overbalance, he careened dramatically into the kitchen. Dressed in his pink dressing gown and fluffy rabbit shaped slippers nobody could have guessed he was a magician.

Well, almost a magician...

His failure was partly due to a lack of coordination (his mother had told him she had once dropped him during a chariot race – baby Thrum had never been the same since.) His early expulsion from the Magic University didn't help either; caught red-handed executing a daring campus bet involving a pair of false teeth, a ripe banana and the Head of Occult Studies. The University flung him hexed with curses onto the street, his dreams and future ruined.

He swung a battered kettle over the fireplace and puffed upon the glowing ashes, trying not to think about the upcoming day. Recently fired from his job at the local circus he was penniless and, more depressingly, did not have a single soul to turn to for aid. The rent was overdue and the pantry held only dust.

With his last slice of bread toasting over the fire Thrum busied himself with a brew of tea. He cursed to the empty house, discovering the bread had turned to charcoal black with supernatural speed. Gathering up and balancing his tea and toast in one hand, he plunged the other into an open chest filled with rotting scrolls. The scrolls contained a few simple spells and records of novices' experiments into the world of magic. Thrum had amassed his collection from scavenging at the rubbish dump, sifting through piles to find these minor treasures. He read them because he had a natural burning desire for the arcane and longed to master a spell. Despite his ambition he had absolutely no aptitude; his visions of being a fully fledged magician garbed in an ink black robe and grey beard sprouting from his jaw a mere dream. Doggedly Thrum collected any old scroll he could find in the hope one day he may be able to cast a single spell.

With a swing of his hip he bumped the back door open sat on his stoop in the bright sunshine. He ate both pieces of toast before beginning his morning's study, the sleeve of his gown serving as a convenient cloth to wipe the crumbs from his lips and whiskers before he picked up the first scroll. Although battered and dog-eared Thrum knew right away something was different about this scroll. He broke the ribbon seal and pulled it open carefully, his eyes flicking over the fancy and barely legible script.

A sudden wetness washed his right ear and shoulder, his body recoiling in shock, limbs flailing at an unseen assailant. Bringing his hand to his shoulder he found a bird had taken him for a target, depositing what must have been a planned shot of guano. Wiping his hand upon his robe he hastily rose, unconsciously stuffing the scroll into a pocket as he went in search of a wet cloth.

Thrum turned as a dark shape caught the corner of his eye. He was in the busy city square scouring the market for cheap food when he saw it, the crowd parting for a jet black horse moving silently closer. Thrum could have sworn the horse was floating as it drew nearer, a figure shrouded in shadows walking beneath it. The horse stopped and was lowered to the ground, a man beading sweat appearing from the underside.

Thrum strode to the horse's side, tilting his head to peer beneath. Curiosity mixed with unease as he took in the man's body entwined in bulging muscles that writhed when he moved.

"Welcome to Hamontoast. May I ask..." Thrum jerked a thumb towards the horse. "...what you were doing beneath that mount?"

"Greetings friend! Ahh, you see, I have made a pact with my horse. Whenever there is travelling to be done we take turns in bearing the load."

"I see," Thrum said, not seeing at all.

"Do you know to the way to the Wobbly Weasel?" the man inquired.

"The Wobbly...? Oh yes, the pub. Go down that road and take the first left and second right."

"Thank you, sir."

"Thrum."

The man looked slightly offended. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm Thrum Bolgan."

"I'm sorry, I thought you swore at me."

Thrum's brows furrowed and he looked blank for a moment before he shook his mind back into action. "No, yes, of course." He patted the horse's flank. "I suppose I'll be seeing you Mr..."

"Archendorf. I must attend some business so I'd better get going. Nice talking to you."

Archendorf lifted the horse with a grunt of effort and moved off, the horse floating into the crowds.

With a heavy sigh and shoulders set in their habitual slump, Thrum resumed his scavenging.

It was late afternoon by the time he returned home. Lairn, Thrum's landlord, was at the front gate to greet him. Judging by the short sword thrust through his belt, it seemed he was not here for a cup of tea and a chat.

"My my, fancy seeing you here! Great to see you on this lovely fine day." The wicked gleam to Lairn's eyes belied his light tone.

"S-sir. About the rent..."

"Rent? Oh yes, it had slipped my mind. You are going to pay it aren't you? Let's see..." Lairn flashed a scrap of parchment from his pocket. "Two silvers should just about cover it."

"I... Urgh... If you can just hold on another week?"

The smile dropped from the landlord's face. "No more games. Cough up, or I get my price from selling your gizzards to the witches." Lairn raised a hand and clicked his fingers.

Two heavily muscled ogres emerged from the bushes behind Lairn, a broad swathe of shadow accompanying them. They approached, thumping crude maces in callused hands and grinning as only ogres can.

Given the situation, and briefly pausing to consider his years of wizardly training, Thrum did the only thing he could do.

Run.

He fell gasping to the ground as rubbery legs gave way beneath him. If there were anything he was good at, it was fleeing, and he was sure Lairn was far behind. Picking himself up he stumbled across the wide cobblestone road, staggering to avoid oncoming traffic. Practically dragging himself by the fingertips, he crawled up a set of splintered stairs, his watery vision blurring.

The swinging sign proclaimed the building to be the Wobbly Weasel. For the benefit of those who could not read, a crude caricature of a bent-legged and half-bald rodent downing a large tankard was etched alongside.

Thrum noticed one of the horses tied to the nearby railing looked a lot like Archendorf's. Knowing that local adventurers enjoy the local tavern Thrum thought he might be able to find fortune through the swinging doors.

It was dark and smoke hung low in the room. As his eyes adjusted, he saw it filled with men, some slumped onto tables and others in loud conversation. Towards the back a large fire moodily brewed, casting flickering orange light and sharp shadows about the interior.

He had made it halfway to the bar when he realised he had no money. He stopped, made a show of just remembering something important, and turned to make back for the street.

As chance would have it a certain pair of eyes alighted upon his slumped form.

"Mister Thrum! Over here."

Thrum's gaze picked out a face in the flickering light and shadow, Archendorf sitting at a table with a mug before him, motioning in a friendly manner. It was with trepidation that Thrum approached, noticing that this man's bull-like muscled body put even the ogre's to shame.

"Hello," said Thrum in an altogether too high pitched and squeaky voice.

"Drink?" Archendorf inquired.

"I don't have any money."

Archendorf shrugged this off and raised an arm, calling in a voice that carried over the hubbub. "Bartender! A drink here."

The bartender nodded and took a greasy glass from the shelf behind.

"I want to thank you for your directions this morning - they were most helpful." Archendorf intertwined thick fingers and cracked his knuckles. "Everyone else just seemed to ignore me."

Thrum nodded. "Is this your first time in the city?"

"It is and I can't say I like it much. I smile at every person I pass but so far," he raised an index finger, "not a single person has said so much as a 'cheerio.' I thought it wasn't being sincere enough, so I tried to shake some hands, you know, introduce myself, but that didn't go down so well." He shook his head ruefully. "And I haven't even started talking about the stuffy air! I tell you what it reminds me of - sometimes when I was a kid my other brother used to hold me beneath the bedcovers after a night of cabbage stew and let loose these amazingly ripe - "

"I get the idea," said Thrum with a grin. "But come on, it's not that bad! And as for shaking people's hands, well, I'm surprised you weren't arrested."

"Not for lack of trying \- they did call the City Guard."

"They called the Guard?" Thrum's grin broadened.

"Funny for you maybe. I only just got away, you should have heard the things they were saying about me."

"Ahh, well... you'll get used to it all if you stay here long enough." For some reason the hostility and filth of the city he called home caused a feeling of pride to well in his heart. For the first time that day Thrum was able to relax, enjoying this man's company. He thought of all the things confounding him and all seemed compensated for by this newly formed friendship.

"So what brings you here?" he asked.

"Me? I'm waiting for a friend. He should be here soon - here's the letter he sent me."

Thrum took the offered paper and read it. He looked up. "This is three months old."

"What?!"

"Look, read the date on it yourself."

The bartender delivered a beer to their table. Taking hold of the flagon Thrum downed the contents. Archendorf ignored his companion as he coughed and spluttered. Thrum straightened, wiping the remains of lunch from his mouth. "What are you going to do?"

Archendorf hesitated for a moment. "I must confess I'm not exactly a scholar, can't read anything but my own name." He grinned a little sheepishly. "So I'm late, eh? Well that would explain why Krakan didn't turn up today, I've been waiting for hours. You know, to tell you the truth, I wasn't too keen on the new scheme he'd cooked up."

"Oh?"

"Yes, old Kraken is a good one for schemes. Last time I spoke to him, back in the mountains, he'd found some pirate gold map and set off to find himself a ship and crew to take on the mighty ocean and recover a vast treasure! I was to meet him now in Hamontoast but it looks like I've messed up."

"The docks aren't far away, just out of town, perhaps he is still there?"

Archendorf nodded to himself. "Yes, perhaps. In the morning I'll go down and see what I can find out. Which direction do I head from here?"

"Just follow this main road east, it drops down the hill, you can't miss them. Actually, I live... well, used to live down that way, just before you get to the docks, perhaps I can show you the way tomorrow?"

"I think I'll be fine, but thank you all the same. So you've spent your entire life in Hamontoast?"

Thrum made a half-shrug. "Pretty much. Although recently things haven't been quite working out." He fell into silence, knowing he now had no home to return to, no job, no food, and no money.

"I'm sorry to hear it. Look, if you like, if I find my friend I'll ask him if could use another hand on board-"

Horrible memories of his short-lived stint as a hand on a fisher boat came to Thrum and he shook his head. "No, thank you, I'm not great on boats." In fact, the mere thought of a boat in heaving swells, combined with the beer swilling in his empty stomach, made Thrum dizzy. He rested his forehead upon the rough oak surface of the table.

"What's this?" he muttered to himself, feeling something in his pocket. He withdrew the scroll from his robes, recognising it to be the same one that he had discovered that morning while eating breakfast. He unrolled it, noticing with uneasiness that the paper felt like crispy chicken skin. _Chicken, or human_? a dark part of his mind though. An ominous shudder ran the length of his spine as he began to read.

"Mortal child, I call upon you! From the grave I impart a quest to right what has been wronged."

"What's wronged?" interrupted Archendorf.

"What? Oh, I was just reading from a scroll I found."

Archendorf's pulse quickened. He knew a potential plot when he saw one and dragged his chair around so he could look over the small man's shoulder.

Thrum continued. "Forces gather in the wind and the time of reckoning is nigh. The pawn has been chosen; you must prove worthy of your task."

"What are you talking about?" interrupted Archendorf again. "I admit that I can't read myself, but even if I could, all I see is a blank page."

"You don't see it?" Bemused, Thrum blinked hard to reassure himself the flowing writing was not his imagination. "Do not read further. An ogre is about to bite your head off."

Thrum, his instincts of self-preservation finely tuned, ducked. There was an audible snick of jaws where his head had been moments before. He leapt from his chair and scrambled along upon hands and knees, looking about long enough to see Lairn's ogres hot on his trail. Disappearing with uncanny speed under the table he heard a fight break out overhead. A heavy black boot came down in his path. Thrum looked up.

Lairn stood with feet planted wide apart brandishing a wooden stool leg. Thrum rolled aside as the stool leg shattered into splinters upon the flooring he'd occupied moments before. The enraged landlord had another in his hands even before the larger pieces of debris rattled to the ground. Thrum did not wait to become a target - in that moment saw an escape route and leapt for it. Howling cries of frustration, Lairn pivoted as Thrum darted between his open legs and into the cover of the neighbouring table.

Huddled underneath he searched desperately for an exit. The door - if only he could reach it! Stools flew like balls from an automatic tennis machine and Archendorf was mostly to blame. Keeping his head as low as possible, his head shrunk so far back into his collar he looked like some sort of human turtle, Thrum made for the door.

He dived through the swinging gates, flew for a short distance, and furrowed the compacted earth as he skidded to a stop. A sickening thought occurred to him. The scroll was still inside!

The door of the Wobbly Weasel burst open and Archendorf emerged splattered in ogre blood. "Friends of yours?"

Thrum nodded. "Yes, all my friends try and bite my head off."

Archendorf shook his head in resignation. "I don't know how you do it."

Thrum jerked his thumb towards the pub. "What's going on in there?"

Archendorf laughed. "A full-blown brawl! Daggers, broken bottles, you name it. Reminds me of home."

"Do you have the scroll?"

Archendorf looked blank and upturned empty palms.

Thrum's eyes blurred as the world swum. The last thing he saw was the earth as it rushed up to greet him.

When he awoke he found he had only momentarily fainted, Archendorf slapping his face.

"Wake up stupid! It's only a scroll, but if it means that much to you, then go in and get it. I'll help you."

There was no need, however, for at that moment it exited the bar clenched in the hand of man sprinting past. Archendorf ducked as a three-legged stool came hurtling after.

"The scroll..." Thrum spluttered, climbing to his feet in fumbled haste. "...that man, he has the scroll!"

Still dizzy from getting up too fast he gave chase as best as he was able. The thief was quick, darting down a narrow side street. Thrum ran as fast as he could pump his legs, but could not close the gap. The gap, in fact, was widening.

Archendorf proved quicker. The thief did not even make the next corner before he was dropped to the ground. Archendorf stood over the man, rubbing his hands in satisfaction.

A few moments later Thrum arrived. Exhausted, he propped his hands on his knees and panted for air. When his wind had returned he straightened and addressed the thief.

"What...pant...are you doing with my scroll?"

Archendorf had already taken possession and gave it to Thrum, who in turn tucked it securely in his belt.

"Yours?" The thief spat. "It belongs to the Crylock, and you stole it-" The man cut off as Archendorf placed his boot on his chest, forcing the air from his lungs.

"You need to learn some manners," Archendorf said with sincere calm.

The thief nodded frantically, his hands clawing for air. Archendorf lifted his boot and the man gasped.

"But I found the scroll in the dump," wondered Thrum. "Of course now I see its strange power." He turned to Archendorf. "Did you see the way it saved me from being the ogre's afternoon snack?"

Archendorf nodded cautiously. "See what it says now."

Thrum unrolled the scroll. The page was blank. Had he imagined the whole thing?

Suddenly the thief, seeing an opportunity, leapt to his feet and dashed away. Archendorf caught him neatly by the scruff of the neck and dragged him back.

"We haven't finished yet," he scolded. He slapped the man across the cheek, leaving a red welt. "You were going to tell us who sent you." There was a moment's silence. Archendorf raised a megalithic hand.

"Okay, I'll tell!" screeched the thief. "Please don't hit me again. I was sent by Ladanum, the head of the Crylock-"

"The Crylock?" cut in Thrum. "You know it?"

"No, nothing, they told me nothing!"

Thrum waved his hand. "Very well, continue."

"Laudanum sent for me and I was sent to find you. I have been waiting for an opportunity to get the scroll from you."

"If it's so valuable, how did he lose it in the first place?"

"I don't know! Honest!" The thief measured up how well his lie had gone down and then seeing Archendorf's frown deepen he hurriedly confessed. "There was a mix-up with the magic library and it slipped from our grasp. It has been tracked down to you. I have been offered a handsome reward for his capture."

"His? Whose?"

The thief became frantic as he realised he was revealing far too much. "No, no. I said its."

Archendorf slapped the man again.

"Okay! The scroll is possessed by the ghost of Taukin the Off-White, once one of the Four Archmages of the King."

"Taukin?" said Thrum, blinking with surprise. "I think I've heard of him. Tell me more."

The man shrugged skittishly. "I told you I don't know! Look, from what I've been told, years ago Taukin found a secret sect called the Crylock, and the member of the sect managed to defeat him. They could not kill Taukin, but they were able to imprison him within a scroll, but they lost it. I was hired by the wizards to regain the scroll of Taukin. All I know is that they are desperately trying to get it back."

Thrum turned to his companion. "What do you make of it?"

Archendorf shrugged. "You lost me when you got to the part about a cry lock."

"Ah," said Thrum, his chest puffing with pride. "I have read of it. The Crylock he talks of is an ancient society of wizards. The name originates from the founder, Archmage Crylock. All members of the Crylock died when they challenged the rule of the land, and fell into bitter conflict with the King's Archmages in the Ivory Tower. Remind me to tell you the whole story sometime, it's quite interesting."

"You are indeed learned in the art of magic."

Thrum blushed. "Well, I've done my share of reading, that's true."

Then the figurative penny dropped inside Archendorf's head. "But this fellow says the Crylock still exists!"

Thrum nodded. "Yes, quite interesting."

There was a few moments awkward silence.

"Well, we'd better be getting back," said Thrum.

"'scuse me," interrupted the thief. "Could I please go now?"

Thrum regarded the man dangling from Archendorf's hand. He nodded almost imperceptivity.

Archendorf flicked a casual arm to launch the man into the air. The thief forgotten, the pair then set off back the way they had come.

A few moments later, the thief nose-dived into the cobblestones, creating a spider web of cracks about legs sticking forklike into the air.

Thrum walked beside Archendorf as they trundled down the street long with shadows. Returning to the Wobbly Weasel, they noticed a great deal of commotion inside the doors and they stopped only long enough to untether Archendorf's horse before moving away as quickly as possible. Leading his magnificent stallion by the reins Archendorf started musing aloud.

"I suppose I'll head for an inn to shack up for the night." He glanced at Thrum. "Ordinarily, I'd be all in for this adventure thing, but I should really check on my friend down at the docks. So if you don't mind I'll say goodbye to you and your scroll."

"I'm not quite sure what I'm going to do with it. When I get h-" His brow furrowed as he realised he no longer had a home. "I don't suppose you could spare a few coppers?"

"I'm sorry Thrum, but I barely have enough for a room and stall for Bronty here," he said, slapping his horse's flank. He turned as they approached an inn. "Well, I guess this is where we part."

Thrum nodded. "Thanks for your help in getting my scroll back."

Archendorf waved this off. "Don't mention it, you were good company. I needed a bit of action anyway. Perhaps I will see you some other time."

"I hope so." Thrum tried a smile.

Loosely wrapping Bronty's reins about a pole Archendorf strode into the inn, giving a broad and friendly wave goodbye. Thrum was silent as he watched his only friend disappear from sight. Turning, he walked away. With hands rammed deep into pockets he trudged along aimlessly, now well and truly stuck - no money, no home, no food. Already his stomach growled like a caged animal.

Thrum looked to find the sun touching the horizon. The day had seemed to fly past. He realised he would have to spend the night out in the street. The thought horrified him - he might be mugged while he slept, or be mistaken for a pile of rags and collected by the rubbish haulers.

Snapping back to reality, he discovered he had made his way back to his ex-cottage. As he approached, he found that his few possessions had been stripped from inside and piled upon a large bonfire. All that remained were hot ashes and the odd identifying stump of tatty furniture. The lights were on inside and he guessed Lairn had already rented it out to a new customer. It was with great effort that Thrum managed to resist the urge to hurl a rock through the window.

Groaning with self-pity Thrum sat down on the pathway just outside what used to be his front gate, bringing his knees up close to his chest as he watched the sun end its slow descend to the horizon.

Archendorf lay back in the lumpy mattress that, judging from its wafting odours, comprised mostly of rat droppings. He had seen to it that his horse had been safely stowed in the stables before settling himself. His stomach now full from the hearty counter meal, he found himself drifting off to sleep as the small room became darker.

The door to his room exploded into splinters. Archendorf sat bolt upright as shock pumped a bolt of adrenalin through his body. He saw a figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, hand raised as green sparks flew. Before he had time to spring from the bed Archendorf felt an invisible hand of powerful magic pushing him back against the wall that, even with strength of fifty men, he was unable to break. He could only watch as the wizard approached.

"Give me the scroll."

"Bugger off," gasped Archendorf, muscles flexing. Not a man to be intimidated he battled against the invisible bonds. Something cold edged into his heart, eating away at the edges like black ink on blotting paper.

"Where is the scroll?"

Archendorf's head began to swim, his vision blurring. The voice he heard from his own throat sounded distant. "I... don't... have it."

The wizard tilted his head to one side, listening. Catching something, he darted to the shadows as quick as a wraith just as the innkeeper wandered past the corridor outside.

"By the seven goddesses of fertility!" the stout man cried in anguish as he spied the ruined door. "What have you done?"

The magic spell broke and Archendorf drew a heavy intake of breath, and it was only then that the innkeeper noticed him in the shadows.

"Look...out..." Archendorf managed.

But the wizard was gone.

Thrum sat upon the cold kerb and squished ants beneath his sandal. His mind elsewhere, the pile of dead ants grew steadily, an increasing number of others coming to investigate the cause of the devastation only to fall beneath the worn leather sole. There was an itch digging into his side and he reached over to scratch whatever rodent had wormed its way into his robe. Instead, his hand rested upon a tube of writhing parchment that, now that he pulled it out, cast a ghostly guttering glow like a low candle flame. Intrigued Thrum opened the scroll and began reading.

" _Thrum."_

He blinked hard; the scroll was communicating again. He watched in stupefied awe as marks formed upon the bone-dry paper. At first clouded and indistinct the writing coalesced into a bold flowing script.

" _I am the wizard, Taukin. The gods have chosen you to complete a quest."_

"Me?"

" _I have been searching and waiting - for you and only you can read my words. In the entire world there is no other who can help me. You must set forth immediately on your quest. There are many who would kill you for what you carry."_

"I know - Lairn and his ogres."

" _His threat is meagre in comparison to those I speak of."_

"Killed is killed."

" _I know you may have questions, but now you must do as I say, no questions, at once!"_

Thrum hesitated. "But I-"

" _If you complete your quest I promise that you shall be showered in the riches of kings."_

Thrum's brows met in the middle, his spirit rising as his mind flashed an image of himself reclining in a sea of velvet, gold coins littering the ground, several half-dressed concubines feeding him peeled grapes.

The words on the scroll flashed away and reappeared in an angry scarlet.

" _And if you don't move your sorry hide I'll send you to the pits of hell myself!"_

As if on cue a huge shape detached from the shadows and with a rush filled Thrum's field of view. After a brief moment of terror (and a half-swallowed girlish cry of surprise) he recognised it to be human.

"Thank Crom I found you! Bronty and I have been searching all over." The horse tossed his head and neighed. Archendorf ruffled his horse's mane. "You've got quite some nose on you Bronty!"

"Archendorf? What are you doing here?"

Archendorf strode to Thrum's side and dropped to a conspiratorial crouch, his voice urgent. "Someone is after you, and he looks real mean son of a -"

His words were lost to the air in a sudden gush of cold wind, finishing as quickly as it had come, like the opening and closing of a door in a gale. Papers in the gutter pirouetted in the air and a cloud of dust billowed. From the folds of darkness a man stepped in the faint light of the street lantern - the wizard from Archendorf's room.

Thrum tucked the scroll into his pocket.

The wizard laughed. "You led me right to him, you fooooool!" He made a motion as if he were casting an invisible net. Again Archendorf felt that terrible pressure and this time Thrum was beneath its weight too. Frozen immobile at the feet of the evil wizard Thrum knew with dreadful certainty he was going to die. He closed his eyes in fear and wished it would hurry up and stop taking so long. Beside him, he felt Archendorf twist and struggle.

The dark wizard's voice was loud and emotionless. "Hand over the scroll, unworthy - uurgh!"

Rearing up huge in the darkness Bronty struck the wizard in the back. The wizard sprawled to the cobblestones.

The paralysis broke but the wizard was on his feet a moment later, the wounds on his back already healed. He threw a forefinger at the horse and conflagrating red fire shot forth. Bronty's mighty legs failed beneath him as the magic ate into the gallant horse's flesh, turning him into dust.

Archendorf drew himself to full height, trembling with rage, his voice dripping hate.

"You bastard." He dropped into a crouch, whipping a concealed blade from under his vest. In one fluid motion, Archendorf plunged the entire span of the steel blade into the wizard's chest at the exact moment the wizard sensed danger and threw up his paralysing spell. The two bodies met, overwhelming physical strength against an ethereal wall of compacted air - the resulting bass shockwave reverberating into the night as both bodies rebounded.

For long moments nothing stirred, Archendorf on his back five paces from the blast zone, the wizard on his knees with hands wrapped about the hilt of the blade in his heart, face contorted in shock.

Random sparks danced over his inert form.

Silence settled, Thrum still trying to catch up on what had happened after the 'uurgh' bit. Archendorf pulled himself upright and with dragging footsteps over to the wizard's body. Some hidden menace about the facedown form stopped him shy of turning the corpse over. His blade would have to remain behind, for who knew what powers of regeneration lay in that dark heart.

Archendorf watched Bronty's ashes wash away in the breeze. "He saved my life," he said, tears glistening in his eyes. "But now, we must go." Hardness came over his eyes, his grief buried. "Before more of them come."

Lights shone from the windows of the castle Crylock. Curls of mist wreathed the huge black towers like the still and unmoving waters of a swamp. The castle sat atop a sharp-sided pinnacle of stone, perching like some evil bird of carrion overlooking the mountains of desolation and barrenness.

The original designers had thought this position would give the castle an boding and impressive look, but unfortunately, as occupants would later discover, parts of the building had a habit of breaking off and sliding down the side of the mountain. As a result, the outer rooms were generously offered to unsuspecting novices, while the magicians remained firm in the inner catacombs. In the dead centre of the huge castle was the Grand Hall, where the Crylock members held conferences.

This particular night the torches blazed upon the walls of the Grand Hall where a hurried council was set. Around the table sat eight powerful men of magic, dressed in a variety of coloured robes and cloaks. They represented a cross section of the black arts from all corners of the globe. At the foot of the polished wooden table sat a conjurer, Gehmat the Yellow, a pipe jutting from the side of his mouth. Also in attendance were three wizards of varying skill levels, their number reduced from four by the death of their comrade. Garbed in blood red cloaks were two sorcerers, beards grey and twisted with lack of regular washing. Valgus the Silver sat beside the sorcerers, his mercury cloak denoting him to be a high magician. At the head of the table sat an Archmage, his black hood up over his head and features in shadow.

Despite their differences they were all amazingly alike. These men formed the council that led the Crylock, all twisted with a common vengeful hate of the outside world.

The Archmage at the head of the table stood. His name was well known among all delving in the mystic arts; Ladanum the Black. His cloak hung full length to the floor and he always wore a hood, his grave voice resonating from the dark shadows within. Only his hands and lower jaw (a trimmed beard flecked with distinguished grey) revealed his skin to be a deep brown. He raised his yew wood staff and thumped heavily.

"Quiet!" he called above the small talk of the council members as they made themselves comfortable. The murmuring died and all heads turned.

Ladanum drew a breath, preparing to begin, when a deep, distant rumble shook the building.

"Damn," cursed Valgus the Silver. "That sounded like the left wing. My novices were sleeping there."

Ladanum ignored this interruption. His voice carried power and hint of malice with its steady, almost ponderous cadence. Ladanum stressed at least one word in every sentence, a rising and falling lilt that gave the impression that his speech was afloat on a storm tossed sea.

"Fellow men of magic, let us begin. We have called yet another meeting. Although our meetings are usually on the first Wednesday of the month, there is a matter to be discussed that cannot wait."

The wizards buzzed among themselves until the speaker held up his hand. "You may have already guessed... from the empty seat at this table... that Valshirvira has been killed."

Once again the murmuring flared up. Ladanum spoke in a voice louder than the rest. "Valshirvira was headstrong. He didn't like taking orders... from anyone. I say forget him - we shall all be better off."

There were sounds of agreement and Ladanum raised his yew staff once more. "It is well known Valshirvira was not popular in this council yet we must remember the pledge we made when we were inducted into the Crylock." He scanned the faces around the table. "We must work together to preserve our order and ensure we survive to see our revenge carried out upon the world. We must avenge Valshirvira's death and, more importantly, get the scroll!"

"I say, what scroll is this?" muttered one of the three wizards. He was one hundred and sixty years old.

Ladanum bowed his head and sunk back into his chair. It took him a moment before he looked up, expressionless in the shadowy hood. "I had hoped to keep this between Valshirvira and myself to avoid panic... but now I see we must all act. The scroll containing the ghost of Taukin has been found."

There were gasps of disbelief from all members of the council. Well, nearly all; the old wizard cleared his throat with a phlegmy grumble and said, "Who is Taukin?"

"Most of you know Taukin," said Ladanum, addressing the council as a whole and pretending to ignore the old man, who tended to be more of an embarrassment than anything else. "Taukin was a powerful magician, more powerful than all of us put together, and was once one of the King's Four Archmages. Well, we all know what happened... Our battle with the Ivory Tower. Just as the tide of battle was turning, a binding spell caught Taukin. He struggled against it, and before he could break free, he became bound to a scroll, his life-force departing his body. We of the Crylock gathered his physical presence and transported it back to the castle. Being a powerful Archmage his body could not be destroyed, and we knew it possible for Taukin to re-enter his body if the scroll containing his spirit was ever brought back into contact. We keep watch over the body here deep in the castle. And thus it had stayed for twenty years, until now." Ladanum paused, then looked up. "We must find the ...scroll...ahem." He burbled to a halt, fists clenching in frustrated anger. All seven councillors sat heads thrown back in the chairs, snoring blissfully, rocked to sleep by the even lullaby cadence of the Archmage's words.

"Bugger," said Ladanum quietly. "Nobody ever listens to me."

Together Thrum and Archendorf shambled along the deserted streets by moonlight. Their pace was brisk yet restrained for Thrum knew they had a fair distance remaining before they reached the city gates. They moved quietly through the dark and silent city, driven by nervousness and fear. Half-hidden movements darted in and out of surrounding shadows, for it was the hour of thieves and assassins.

Thrum swore loudly as he collided with an empty rubbish bin. He regained his feet quickly and broke into a run to close the distance that had formed between himself and Archendorf. As he passed a drinking establishment, drunken men standing in lamplight laughed as he passed.

"Ahoy there, looks like your britches need emptying!"

"Just not in my letterbox!" shouted another.

Thrum determinedly ignored the mocking laughter as it spilt eerily through the darkened cobblestone streets. He at last caught up with his burly companion, and Archendorf seemed to notice for the first time that Thrum was having trouble matching his pace.

"Do you need a rest?" he said.

As if in answer, Thrum dived to the road and disappeared from Archendorf's view.

He picked himself up and propped onto hands and knees with his hand lolling between sunken shoulderblades, his lungs almost bursting. "I'm not much used to exercise," he said between hitches of breath.

"Here, let me help," said Archendorf. He picked Thrum off his feet and hung him over one shoulder like a slab of meat. The big man did not even strain as he sped to a jog. Finally, Hamontoast's city wall loomed ominously in front of them, the massive wooden gates fortunately still open, allowing the pair to lope through without slowing. Then they were out in the open, bathed in cool white moonlight. So smooth was the ride that Thrum found himself falling to sleep as they bounded along.

Valgus the Silver hastened down cold passageways, a wry straw broom clutched in his hand. A level six magician (the maximum being eight) and the second oldest member of the Council, Valgus was one of those types of people who think a lot of respect is owing to them. His self-importance stubbornly overrode any embarrassment he might have about striding through the castle with a broom.

His destination was Archmage Ladanum's chamber. Even Valgus, well known for his ruthlessness and arrogance, was supplicant to Ladanum's wishes, for the Archmage possessed a great magic and temper.

At last, Valgus reached the door. He rapped sharply on the thick wood with his knuckles in an imitation secret knock (Ladanum hadn't given him a code so he just made one up.)

A sharp voice bade from inside. "Come!"

Valgus entered Ladanum's study and crossed the thick bearskin rug towards the expansive desk, at which sat the Archmage, pouring over a stack of scrolls. He glanced up at Valgus's entrance.

"Yes?"

Valgus held the broom out at arms length. "This is all we could find, master."

Although Valgus could only see the ridge of brow in the shadows of Ladanum's hood, he could tell he was not impressed. "Where in the name of the seventh depths of hell... did you get that?"

"Er, the cellars, sir. The cleaning lady is a witch and she said we could use it."

Ladanum smouldered. He was desperate of finding a mode of transport to take Gehmat, conjurer of the Council, quickly and discretely to the city of Hamontoast. Although Ladanum could summon a fiery steed with a snap of his fingers, it inevitably incinerated its rider. After much deliberation, Ladanum refused that they use any more powerful magic, for it would attract the attention of the King's wizards. Ladanum demanded the castle be searched for something he could use.

"It will have to do," he sighed, then raised his voice to a boom. "Send for Gehmat!"

"Sir," interrupted Valgus, "I am afraid the cleaning lady is unable to pilot the broom at this present time. Gehmat will have to do it himself."

Ladanum seemed surprised by this turn of events. "But Gehmat can't pilot a broom! Wait, haven't you had some experience in this field?"

"Er," gasped Valgus, realising it would be folly to lie. "A little, but hardly adeq-"

"Then it is done. You shall leave with Gehmat at dawn."

Valgus drew a breath to protest at the same moment the door opened to admit the yellow robed form of Gehmat the conjurer.

"Gehmat," said Ladanum briskly, templing his dark skinned fingers on the desk. "You are to go to the city of Hamontoast, where Valshirvira was killed. Valgus will take you there. As you know, we must keep our use of magic to a minimum – we don't want the King's Four Archmages alerted, especially now that our invasion plans are so near. And if they were to discover the scroll of Taukin loose in the world – well, surely I don't need to press the seriousness of this matter."

Gehmat nodded. "It will be an easy matter to recover the scroll, my Lord."

"That's what Valshirvia thought," retorted Ladanum. "The rest of the council will remain here at the castle, guarding Taukin's body."

"As you wish, sir."Gehmat bowed low.

"That is all," finished Ladanum. The conjurer and magician turned upon their heel and strode out the room in a swish of silver and yellow. The door closed and Ladanum turned his attention once more to the pile of overdue bills before him.

### Chapter Two

Thrum surfaced from the mists of sleep cold and damp. Momentarily disorientated he looked about. He found himself lying on thick grass, the sun shinning down upon his form. He sniffed and was surprised how clean the air smelt (for he had not been outside the city walls in a very long time.) It took a few seconds, but then with rapidity the memories of yesterday came flooding back; the scroll, his house, the attacking wizard. Thrum groaned and slumped onto his back.

Archendorf looked up from his task. "How do you feel?"

"Like I've been mugged," replied Thrum without humour. He resignedly sat up and ran a hand through his wily hair, eyes squinted again the morning rays. "Where are we?"

"A few leagues out of Hamontoast."

Thrum's mind reeled. Archendorf must have run non-stop throughout the night.

"I got you some breakfast," said Archendorf, offering a plate of vegetables.

"No meat?" inquired Thrum.

Archendorf looked taken aback. "I'm a vegetarian. I don't see why we have the right to eat animals, when we can survive just as well without taking their lives."

Thrum took a bite out of a bulbous herb. "If you ask me a slab of steak sure beats chewing on a bit of grass like a rabbit."

Archendorf shrugged and didn't reply.

There was a silence.

"I want to thank you for all you've done," said Thrum suddenly. "You saved my life."

Archendorf frowned, the memory of Bronty surfacing again. A lump swelled in his throat and he felt himself start to weaken before taking determined hold on his emotions and rousing himself enough to answer Thrum. "He threatened us both."

Again, there was a pause. This time Thrum found it hard to find words to break the silence.

"Look, Arc. If you don't want to get involved with all this wizard stuff, don't stick around. It's bad enough I've been pulled into it. Oh, and of course, I forgot - your friend is probably still waiting for you back in Hamontoast."

"If you were right, and I really am three months late, he's probably long gone. Besides, he won't miss me. No, I want in with you, not only for Bronty's sake. When that wizard first caught me in my room I felt... well, I felt something I've never felt before."

Thrum creased his brow. "What do you mean?"

"I... well, before I thought all this scroll business nothing but small fry, you know, not much in it. But I have something to confide in you." Archendorf looked left and right and lowered his voice, despite the fact that they sat alone in a field. "I think I felt fear."

Thrum burst into sudden laughter, but seeing Archendorf bristle he hurriedly placated, "Welcome to my world. If you want to know fear, I'm sure I can tell you a thing or two."

"The thing is," Archendorf said, "is that in all my adventures and conquests, I've never felt that same feeling. I want to feel it more, and confront it. I think my best bet is to keep with you. Friend."

Thrum grinned a grin so large it almost split his head in two.

"By the way," asked Archendorf, "what are you going to do?"

Thrum was stuck dumb for a moment, realising Archendorf was right. What was he going to do? Then a thought occurred, and he pulled the scroll from his pocket.

Archendorf looked interested. "Of course, check the magic scroll!"

The air crackled with tension as they leant eagerly forwards and Archendorf cried out aloud as he saw writing upon the scroll.

"I can see it!"

Heart thumping wildly, Thrum planted his eyes down onto the scroll, hardly daring to believe that at last someone else could see what was so obvious to him.

Corn Meatballs: mix two eggs and flour, mixing well and adding a pinch of salt.

Thrum stopped, let down from his giddy height. He had pulled an old recipe scroll from his pocket by mistake. Explaining this to Archendorf, Thrum replaced it and pulled out the real scroll from the other pocket.

"Now I see nothing there," said Archendorf.

Thrum saw otherwise; the writing from the previous night was gone, to be replaced with something different.

Scroll-bearer,

_I am sorry it has come about so rapidly, as the task is indeed dangerous. The rewards are great, however, both for yourself and for the land. I cannot call upon any other for aid, only you are able to read my words. You have begun the quest, and that first step is usually the hardest. I thank you._ _There is no time for idle chatter, time is of the essence. I sense the magician sent to capture me is dead. That cannot be helped._ _You must head directly west, and keep going until you reach the Cragtop Mountains. There the secret castle of Crylock lies, and you must take me inside. Deep within their dungeons and underground labyrinths is a vault, and it is there my body rests. Ladanum, the Lord of the Crylock, knows he cannot destroy my body, for it is protected by powerful magic, so instead he makes sure nobody can get to it. Take me there, reunite me with my body and I will be alive again. I will do the rest._

Thrum stopped and looked up at Archendorf. "Do you think we should call the King for aid?"

"Would they believe you, reading from a scroll that nobody else can see?"

Thrum shook his head. After a moment, he asked a question he had been afraid to ask. "Do you believe me?"

Archendorf chewed on this. "Yes, I do – you could not possibly be making this up. But something is bothering me... how did you get hold of this scroll if it is as important as you say?"

"I found it in the dump..." Thrum's voice trailed off as his ears caught up with what his mouth was saying. "You're right. If the scroll was so important, why was it there?"

"See what old paperface has to say."

Thrum unrolled the scroll again, not surprised to see the writing had changed once more. He read aloud for Archendorf's benefit.

You are right to query how you obtained me, and you deserve an explanation.

When my spirit was imprisoned I was placed in a dwarf mine, and there I remained for more than twenty years, well aware of the passing time and not able to exert any force whatsoever. I stretched my mind, trying to reach another, and after some considerable time I was successful. An adventurer struck by an urge to explore the abandoned mines soon stumbled upon what had been my tomb for many years. The evil spells cast by the Crylock magicians faded and weak and he was able to collect his treasure, a scroll that sat rolled upon a pedestal in the centre of the room. It had been a constant feeling of something forgotten in the back of his mind for weeks; when he emerged with the scroll into the world that itch finally scratched. The poor fool knew nothing about me, and of course could not read anything on the scroll, for the spell that bound me cursed me to silence (to all but you.)

I was quite desperate to be heard and be returned to my body, I'm sorry to say, and the effect of being in such close proximity to me quite overcame the poor man. He became insane, and the scroll was once again lost. It was thrown, with the rest of the garbage, down at the dump where you found it.

"You mean it was pure chance that the only person in the world who could read you found you just like that?"

"Fate," shrugged Archendorf.

"But the chances -"

There was a scream of punctured air as two wizards on a broomstick rocketed above, screaming shrilly.

"Stop! Make it stop!" shouted Gehmat above the rush of wind, his yellow robe cracking and whipping as they hurtled through the air.

"I can't," bellowed Valgus, desperately trying to get a hold of the squirming broomstick.

Suddenly it bucked and dived, racing headlong towards the ground. Valgus heaved with all his might, forcing the nose up. The magician and the conjurer skimmed the treetops at breakneck speed.

"Look out!" shrieked Gehmat, covering his eyes.

Valgus pulled left, narrowly avoiding the rock outcrop that had leapt before them. The tandem broomstick flashed upwards, Valgus trying desperately to get some height.

Then, on the horizon, Hamontoast came into view and they headed towards it. At last, after one pant-filling hour, they had reached their destination.

They barrelled along, Valgus having no idea of how to slow.

Gehmat, behind him, clung for dear life, struggling to keep upright on the narrow stick.

At last, Valgus started to bring it in for landing in a field by the city. Shooting along horizontally they gradually approached the ground. It seemed, Valgus allowed with a smug grin, everything was under control.

Gehmat's foot caught on a ridge of grass and the broomstick jack-knifed, its riders torpedoing into the earth, ending their meteoric flight with a crash.

Stunned silence settled, the men of magic taking a moment to rest before regaining their feet.

"So far so good" said Valgus. "Now, the disguises."

Valgus reached within his silver cloak and withdrew a dirty brown shawl and beggars clothing and slipped it over the top of his silver cloak. To top it off he fitted a pair of black-rimmed glasses connected to a huge pink false nose. He pulled the hood of the shawl over his head and tucked the magic broomstick under one arm.

Gehmat, however, was not so organized. A last minute rush had meant he hadn't been able to get a decent outfit. In desperation, he rolled in the mud and splashed about until he was satisfied nobody would recognize his yellow conjurer's cloak through the ooze. He tucked his pointy hat into a mud-filled pocket. His long white conjurer's hair had been neglected of late, and let down out of its ponytail he could easily pass as some forsaken old hag.

"Ready?" asked the beggar that was Valgus.

"Ready," replied the hag, previously Gehmat the conjurer.

They swivelled upon their heels and tromped off through the fields. They halted as a call rang out.

"You there! Get off my crop, you vandals!"

The magic users turned to face the farmer rapidly approaching and waving the customary pitchfork. "What the hell do you think your doing on my land? You'll pay for this, you old cows!"

Growling, Valgus raised a hand, fingers rigid. Gehmat pulled the magician's arm down.

"No magic," he whispered urgently. "Remember?"

Valgus slowly lowered his hand.

"Very well, no magic."

The farmer placed a heavy hand on Valgus's shoulder. It was a mistake. Valgus launched his knee up, planting it solidly between the farmer's legs. The farmer made a noise in the back of his throat before falling face first into the mud.

"Let's go," said Valgus, resuming his course towards Hamontoast. Scratching his beard thoughtfully, Gehmat followed.

They trudged through the muddy fields until eventually came before the open city gates. It was market day and merchants streamed in and out, some with carts overladen with fruit and vegetables, others small wooden-railed prisons carrying bleating livestock, and others dangling all manner of trinkets and charms; all rattling past with a cacophonous clatter. Gehmat and Valgus cautiously edged their way into the disorder of heavy traffic and into the city. Above the general chaos of the market exploded calls of "Fresh oranges!" and "Get your melons here!" and the like that rung in the newcomers' ears.

Valgus stopped the first person that caught his eye with a firm hand about the upper arm. "Have you seen anything suspicious recently? A magician with a scroll. Answer me!"

A look of scorn darkened the man's face and he laughed. "Or what, you'll give me warts?" With a twist he freed himself of Valgus's grip and walked off into the crowd.

Gehmat tried stopped a fat rounded woman. She ignored him, brushing off his ineffectual grasp with a huff.

"We aren't having much luck," said Valgus after trying unsuccessfully a few more times. "Let's go get a drink - we may be more successful there."

Gehmat heartily agreed. Before joining the Crylock he had acquired a taste for ale, but unfortunately Ladanum did not permit such spirits in his castle. Now out of his master's reach he found himself yearning for a good swig.

It is said that at the heart of every city is a pub, and if you travel along the busier streets, turning only when a busier street intersects it, you will be sure to reach it. Applying this theory, and after a long battle against the swarming crowds, they finally reached the Wobbly Weasel. The muddy hag and the beggar stumbled into the interior and up to the bar, ignoring the raucous calls of "Did you get lost, Grandma?"

They ordered two beers, paid with a handful of coppers, and took note of their surroundings.

It looked as if the tavern were under renovation after a severe gutting. Four men were mending an entire wall, the floor strewn with sawdust and off-cuts of wood.

"What happened here?" Gehmat asked the bartender.

The bartender seemed engrossed in polishing glasses with a dirty rag and spoke without looking up. "Some buggers started a brawl the other night. From what the gossips say, they were fighting over a magic scroll."

Valgus's ears prickled. "Which way did they go?" he asked eagerly.

The bartender waved the rag dismissively. "I heard the huge muscled guy made his way out of town by the west gate last night – no mistaking his form, even in the dark. Good riddance, I say."

The bartender looked up to face the inquiring customer, but he encountered a vacated patch of air and two empty rocking seats, slowly coming to rest.

Valgus knew he had to find the scroll-bearer's trail quickly. If he'd known they'd left town earlier he would have been hastier; from years of experience he knew it was easy to track someone down in the city with seeking spells, and almost impossible once they'd left.

They ran to the western gate and burst out into the open fields, hurrying away from prying eyes and waiting until nobody was close before casting a search spell. Valgus restricted his motions from any casual observer.

There it was! A faint trail leading east. He turned to Gehmat.

"Do you see it?"

Gehmat nodded. The trail, made visible by the seeking spell, was a few faded specks of pale blue, already almost gone.

"We had better hurry."

"Yes," replied Gehmat noncommittally.

"Do you want to ride the broom?"

Gehmat glared at his companion. The answer was obvious. They set off after the scroll-bearer, feet upon solid ground and broomstick tucked firmly under Valgus's arm.

With a full belly Thrum felt as if he were as ready as he'd ever be. While Arc stamped out the fire he stook stock of their situation.

His attire was at odds with his surroundings; he wore a thick and now faded grey nightdress from yesterday morning, his shoes, the fluffy rabbits, could hardly be described as walking boots. His pockets contained only a layer of fluff and the rolled scroll. His hair and ragged beard was corkscrewed and his eyes bleary. All set for a journey into the unknown.

Archendorf, however, seemed a little more prepared. He wore a leather jerkin, a woollen undershirt, a thick hardwearing pair of pants and heavy brown boots that looked good for stomping about in lava pits. At his belt were a number of pouches containing, no doubt, something useful for every situation.

Thrum was broken from his reverie as Archendorf spoke.

"What did you say?"

"I said, which way do you plan to go?" Archendorf repeated.

"Well, we could head west along the trade route, from there, well, through The Pass I guess."

Archendorf nodded. The Cragtop Mountains were far off to the west, on the very edge of the civilized kingdom.

"We need a horse," Archendorf's voice almost didn't break at the recurring memory of Bronty, but he covered it nobly with a clearing of his throat. "And provisions. I suggest we head towards Bullspit, I may be able to hock some of my gear to satisfy our needs."

Thrum nodded.

Archendorf arched and knuckled his lower back. "Well, we'd best get moving then."

They left their campsite, not even having a pack to settle into place or a sword hilt to finger. Thrum's rabbit slippers scuffed the dirt as he walked along the side of the well-travelled road, his head bowed as he placed one foot before the other.

Unknown to the pair, barely one hundred paces behind, Gehmat the hag and Valgus the beggar were fast closing. They ran as fast as their flapping skirts would allow. Within a few minutes, the scroll bearer would be in range of the seizing spell, a spell that no mortal man could break. A cart bounced past them and slackened its pace to match that of the fast hobbling pair.

"In a hurry, ladies?" enquired the cart driver. "Need a lift?"

Valgus's mind was so intent upon the scroll bearer ahead he didn't spare a glance. Gehmat shook a mud-encrusted fist at the cart and bared his teeth.

The cart driver huffed and flicked the reins, accelerating his pair of horses once again into a trot. Valgus only became aware of the cart as it drew away from them and approached the scroll bearer, slowing for them.

"Son of a-"

Thrum startled at a voice from above and behind.

"How about you guys, need a lift?"

Thrum and Archendorf looked up to see a man upon an empty cart. Archendorf got closer.

"If you don't mind, good sir, it would be much appreciated."

"Hop aboard then!"

They did so, hoisting their buttocks onto the lowered rear gate. The driver whistled his horses into motion again and the cart jolted into motion.

Gehmat swore viciously as he saw the cart pick up the scroll bearer and company. He was breathing too heavily and could only watch as Valgus gave a half-hearted attempt at pursuit. He eventually tired and waited for Gehmat to catch up.

"Blow this for a joke." Valgus pulled the broom from under his arm. "It's out only chance of catching them now," he said as he swung his legs over the pole.

Gehmat only had time to position himself behind Valgus before the stick roared into life.

"Valgus, pleeeeee-"

His cry pushed back into his throat as they accelerated, the road flashing by underneath and the trees lining the road taking on a blur and making a whoosh-whoosh-whoosh sound. The scroll bearer's cart, previously in the distance, grew larger as they approached.

Suddenly it flashed below them.

"Turn back," Gehmat roared into Valgus's ear. "We missed them!"

But Valgus was already doing his best to halt the broom. It stubbornly refused his pleas. "Good boy," Valgus coaxed in a wavering voice, stroking the wooden handle as they sped along the road. "Good boy, stop now. Stop! Stop right now you bastard!"

Thrum, Archendorf and the cart driver looked up sharply as something shot overhead like an arrow, spooking the horses. Leaves fluttered in the wave of the missile as it veered off from the road and out over the trees.

"What in the blazes was that?" asked the cart driver, who had introduced himself as Ed.

Already it had disappeared into the distance. Ed soothed his horses into calm.

Archendorf shook his head. "Sure get some strange wildlife in these parts."

Ed shrugged and goaded his horses back into motion.

They travelled until the sun angled low in the sky, forcing their eyes to be squinted against the glare. It had been a cool day typical of early winter, softened by the warmth of the sun from a cloudless sky. Now shadows were lengthening and deepening it began to chill rapidly. Lining the road to their left was Mosswood forest, the great woodlands in which the elves inhabited. To their right, just over some rolling hills and sometimes coming into view, the coastline of Deepwater Bay and the vast expanse of the Endless Sea beyond.

Thrum cast nervous glances towards the dense and crowded trees of Mosswood forest as they bumped along. Gnarled with age the trees pushed up against the road like a rebellious crowd against a barricade, exuding an aura of menace and foreboding. Thrum thought of the elves that dwelt within; a mysterious folk, poets and bards of ages past had given the impression they were a fair and beautiful people, oft bursting into lilting song about golden boughs and still waters.

They lied.

Elves of the real world lived among the trees with their homes high up in the branches. Their arms were long and thin, so long that if they were to walk upon the ground their knuckles would drag. These arms coupled with long toes suited for gripping branches enabled them to swing from tree to tree with apelike ease. Their heads were flat oblong shapes topped with a layer of short bristling hair, eyes as wide as spoons, with torsos tampered off from broad shoulders to a tiny waist.

Thrum had never actually seen an elf but had heard and read of them. The trade route they now travelled skirted Mosswood forest as no traveller in his right mind would dare risk trespass elvish territory, even if it did mean adding a few days to the journey.

Thrum woke from his slumber as the cart jerked to a halt and Ed the driver twisted around to face his hitchhikers. "We're at the fork, which way you guys planning to go?"

Thrum and Archendorf exchanged glances.

"West," Arc said with deliberation. "Up through the Pass and into the Northern Territories."

"Well, that's a bit of bad luck," said Ed. "I'm off east to Deepwater."

"Then we shall part here," Archendorf said. "Thank you very much, friend. Can we give you some coin?"

"Don't be daft, the company was a pleasure. You boys have a good trip."

They jumped from the empty cart and with this Ed stirred the horses and the cart clattered once again to motion. They waved as he and his cart retreated into the distance.

The silence seemed suddenly heavy and Thrum's eyes flickered uncertainly. The forest seemed to loom and breathe down the nape of his neck. The crossroads at which they stood was at the top of a hill, the grass waving in ripples over the plains, the road continuing its progress west. Their shadows were long and drawn.

"Shall we camp now?" Thrum asked.

"No, let's get away from this crossroads and that damnable forest. How about we head for that clump of trees," he indicated to an island of foliage in the sea of grass. "We should find some shelter there, and will also be hidden if your wizard friends should come looking for us."

Agreeing, Thrum joined Archendorf as he ploughed off through waist high grass. Shortly they came to the trees, and they found a small round door embedded into the hill. It reached up to Thrum's waist and was made of seasoned oak.

"Hobbit burrow?" asked Thrum.

Archendorf nodded. "It's our lucky day. Let's go."

With this, he pulled the door from its bed, revealing a dark tunnel leading down into the earth. He lowered himself to his knees and squeezed himself in. Thrum followed, interested, knowing from his readings that it was not uncommon for a hobbit to share his home with visitors.

A few moments later, a small round form flew from the hole like a cork from a bottle, skidding to a halt after brief flight. Disgruntled, the hobbit picked himself up and dusted his clothes, hunting around until his found his pipe. With this in hand, he settled down for a cold night under the stars, waiting patiently for the humans to leave so he could go back to bed.

Valgus leaned into the icy wind and brought the broomstick around in a wide arc. The rolling grassy hills flashed below them in the darkening night. One hand holding the broomstick Valgus ripped off his disguise and cast it to the wind. Gehmat, seeing how easily Valgus appeared to have done it, tried it himself. With his beard flattened against his chest in the whipping wind he reached up to tie his pony-tail back up. Suddenly the broomstick disappeared from beneath him.

"?" he said, the instant before gravity caught hold.

He plummeted through the air, his stomach leaping all the way up his throat, arms and legs flailing uselessly.

Valgus sensed the companion's prompt departure with a sudden lightening of the broom. He whipped the broom into an about-face.

"Help is on the way!" he cried, being one who enjoys acting the hero.

The chances that a broomstick spearing through the air could catch a man in free fall are extremely small. With an eye-watering crunch the broomstick landed between Gehmat's spread legs.

Breathless, Gehmat clung for dear life, this time however he sat at Valgus's front with his back to the direction of travel.

"You all right?"

"Gnnnn..."

Valgus took it as an affirmative. Again he swung the broom around, the bristles at the rear giving a high frequency whirr above the roaring wind. Gehmat, facing backwards, had no idea of their direction.

"Where... we... going?"

Valgus replied, but his words were torn away in the wind, and all Gehmat received was a fine stinging spray of saliva. But Valgus knew what he was doing; he'd seen the crossroads flash by and he was doubling back to it, and by his estimates the horse-drawn wagon should just about be at that location. The only trick now was to wash off some speed...

Valgus leant forward delicately, pushing downwards on the stick as it buckled nervously with restrained energy. Edging lower and lower tree tops started to brush by underneath, and then suddenly a large oak, hidden in the dusky gloom, loomed in their path and snatched them from the air. With a shower of leaves and branches they shot straight through the boughs. Their trajectory corkscrewed and they bounced into the canopy. Valgus held his breath, hands held up over his head, feeling strangely calm in the long moments of chaos. He knew he could do nothing to alter the sequence of events taking place according to the immutable laws of physics.

Gradually the human missiles lost speed and incredibly came to a complete halt. There was a short silence, the men of magic taking some time to reassure themselves they had actually stopped and waiting for any flashes of pain from broken limbs to come into the brain. Gehmat coughed and shook his head, assuming the worst was over. He struggled to his feet.

It was a mistake, for it had slipped his mind that they were on a roof of trees, the compacted cushion of branches giving way. He disappeared through the greenery.

Valgus, sitting nearby, blinked at his companion's sudden departure. He peered down through the layers, spying Gehmat had tunnelled head first into the humus, legs curled backwards over his head. Bringing the broom with him, Valgus scrambled down through the lowermost branches and into a deep cushiony carpet.

"Stop fooling around," he said, untangling his companion's limbs. "This is Mosswood forest. We'd better get out of here."

Gehmat nodded groggily and with Valgus's help managed to stagger to his feet. They emerged from the dark forest and onto the road. Valgus saw the crossroads nearby.

"How's that for navigation," he muttered with a tinge of pride.

"Wha' that?"

"Never mind. Come on, get up here." Valgus flicked back his sleeves and cleared his throat as he cast the search spell. A ghostly glimmer appeared to one side. With his heart pounding, he cast a sight spell, and the trunk of a nearby tree rippled backwards to reveal an image of Ed's cart trundling down the road.

"We got 'em."

Gehmat stirred. "They went that way? Shouldn't they be heading to the Crylock?"

Valgus didn't answer. He pulled the broom from under his arm. At the sight of it, Gehmat collapsed. "Nonono."

"Come on! We have them now!" Valgus swung his leg over. Gehmat managed to get a hold of the magician's cloak and in an instant they launched into the air, snapping like washing pegged to a line.

Opening his eyes from the depths of peaceful slumber, Thrum became momentarily disorientated, noting he slept in a bed half his size in a room of carefully varnished wood. Then he remembered the hobbit, and with this, the memory returned of the meal the hobbit had kindly supplied for them the previous evening.

Thrum swung his feet over the edge of the tiny bed and saw Archendorf already preparing breakfast. In the low kitchen the huge man was on his knees with head bowed over almost to his chest.

"Good morning!" Arc cried with bubbling cheerfulness.

Thrum groaned in reply, rubbing the crusted sleep from his eyes.

A few minutes later they ate a breakfast consisting of hot coffee, toast, porridge and bacon. With the dirty dishes piled up in the sink Archendorf absently picked up a hobbit-sized pipe lying by the stove. It was already packed and he lit it. With smoke puffing from his lips, he lazed back in the tiny seat. Suddenly there was a crunch and the seat gave way with the weight. Archendorf untangled himself from the wreckage and took another. This one creaked, but remained intact.

Archendorf sipped thoughtfully at his coffee. "Sure miss a bit of female company, if you take my meaning. Thanks to you, I missed out my chance in looking for some action."

"It's not my fault, I-"

"Hey, easy on there! I'm not serious! But maybe when we get back you could show me some highlights of the big city, eh?" Arc grinned and poked his elbow.

"I... wouldn't know... I'm a magician you know. There are certain rules... certain," He cleared his throat. "Ahem...vows."

"So you've never...?" pursued Archendorf.

Thrum shook his head.

"In your entire life?"

"There's no hurry."

Archendorf pressed his lips together and tilted his head to one side as if having just eaten something somewhat unusual and unexpected. He studied his friend as if through new eyes. Sure, Thrum was a little on the bony side, his posture a little stooped, his lips perhaps a little thin, but underneath that scraggly beard he was a handsome enough fellow. "You know," he drawled, "some choose a life of celibacy, and others have it thrust upon them."

"Look, I'd rather not talk about it. One day the right girl will come along."

Archendorf spread his hands and a wry grin split his face. "Fair call. Sorry for prying."

"So what's your story?" Thrum said to change the subject. "Where did you grow up, where are your parents?"

Archendorf's eyes defocused as he sank into warm recollection. "Ahh, I come from a village in the mountains, ma' and pa' are true hills folk. Life is tough out there and we work hard, but the people are good to each other. I've been on the road seeking adventure for, let's see now, it'd be getting on to four years."

"I never knew my real parents," Thrum said, his voice a little melancholy. "I was taken in by my foster parents - they worked in a circus - and I travelled with them. They were kind enough to me, but there was no real love, if you know what I mean. They wanted me to be part of their act, but as soon as I was old enough to enter magic university I ran away."

"Ahh, university!"

"That didn't last long, I got thrown out, but I still studied as if my life depended upon it. Never cast a spell, but not for lack of trying."

"You'll get there," encouraged Archendorf. "You've the look of a mage about you."

"Thanks. But I'm beginning to think that it's just not me."

"There's nothing else you can do?"

"Oh, I'm sure I could get a job as a scribe or something, it just means giving up my dream."

"You may never have to work again, if we can pull this stunt with Taukin off."

Thrum grunted and allowed himself to dream of what may be. He sat back in his miniature chair and there followed a minute of companionable silence.

Archendorf distractedly wiped the mud from his boots into the carpet.

"It's about time we got moving, isn't it?"

"Yes, I suppose you're right," sighed Thrum.

After a few minutes of organising and raiding the last of the food from the pantry, they clambered up the tunnel, emerging into brisk morning air. They stretched, yawned cavernously, and set off across the grass to find the road that led west.

The hobbit, sitting with his stubby arms wrapped about his knees in the biting chill of morning watched as his guests emerged. When he was sure they were a safe distance away he scrambled down his hole to clean up the mess, muttering and tut-tutting under his breath.

Valgus was not in the best of moods. They had caught Ed's cart, practically ploughing into the side of it, only to find the scroll no longer on board. With lips trembling in rage Valgus interrogated the driver, finding where he had last seen the scroll bearer. Information obtained, Valgus unleashed a storm of magic at Ed. The hapless man cowered back but there was no escape from the force of the changing spell. He turned instantly into a rat, and Valgus stepped forward and crushed the animal under his boot. Thick blood oozed from the mammalian mush.

Gehmat swallowed nervously. "We can catch them," he offered as he struggled to keep pace with Valgus.

"They've wasted enough of my time already. They will die."

Gehmat nodded quickly.

Valgus stopped and produced the broomstick before standing astride it. He beckoned Gehmat to do the same. Gehmat cowered before the magician's withering gaze and did not argue.

Valgus prepared his mind and said the spell to launch the broomstick. It required some concentration and –

Gehmat let out a snivelling whimper. Valgus became distracted as the broom exploded into life, felt his fingers lose their grip on the handle and it slipped between his hands, skyrocketing into the air. It quickly disappeared into the night, leaving the two astride thin air.

They walked back to crossroads.

The night passed - the moon rising, ponderously swinging overhead. They stopped often to rest before taking up their exhausted foot-dragging march. Eventually the sun poked a tip over the horizon, banishing the cold night. At last, they had reached the crossroads, about the time Thrum and Archendorf had left their overnight dwelling. If the magic men had looked a little closer, they would have seen the two wading through the grass.

"I need a rest," gasped Gehmat, so exhausted he ran blindly into a tree, rebounding awkwardly.

"Okay," replied Valgus, tired himself. "You see that clump of trees, head for that."

They did so, and within a minute, reached their destination.

"What luck, a hobbit hole!" burbled Gehmat, already scrambling down into the depths.

Moments later the hobbit shot from the hole and into the long grass. He picked himself up, red in the face. _That does it,_ he thought, collecting his possessions that had scattered from his pockets. With this he set off on a journey to find a new hole that was, hopefully, a little quieter.

Thrum and Archendorf stepped out of the long grass and onto the road. The dew had soaked their pants and shoes and it was a relief to get into the sunshine.

"Mid afternoon, keeping a good pace, we should make Bullspit," encouraged Archendorf.

In high spirits, with good meals in their stomachs and refreshed from a comfortable night's sleep, they set off down the road. There was no traffic at this time of the morning so they walked in the middle of the two-cart wide road. The rising sun in a cloudless sky dried their pants and shoes and gradually warmed the chill air. Birds flew overhead, small animals darting into the grass at their approach, and they tried their best to ignore the blood chilling howls that sometimes emerged from Mosswood forest.

Gradually Thrum's hunger grew and by mid-morning his stomach was grumbling uneasily. They stopped for a brief snack of muffins and pickled eggs from Archendorf's pack. Drinking deeply from their newly obtained water gourd they again felt refreshed, and began walking again.

Meanwhile, in the hobbit hole, Gehmat and Valgus were emerging after a brief rest and breakfast. They set off on the road west, on the trail of Thrum and Archendorf that was not three hours old.

As Thrum walked, he found his thoughts wandering freely. He gazed up at the sun, thinking of Isla the sun-god who controlled the rise and fall of the sun via an intricate system of thin wires and pulleys. There were many gods for every little thing on the face of the earth, he reflected. The goddess of the night, whose cloak would cover the world every night, speckled with tiny holes that let through pinpricks of light, creating the belief that the sun-god retrieved the sun from whence it had set, repositioning it back in the east like the movements of stage pieces behind a dropped curtain.

Magicians had in years past tried to investigate this huge astronomical cloak. The Ivory Tower of the King's Four Archmages had once set up a sophisticated experiment involving six hundred ladders lashed together end to end, stabilised with magic, so a man could climb to the roof of the world. In their ambition, they kept adding ladders, until the whole structure became unstable and the laddernaut toppled to the ground.

The Tower of Archmages gave up the experiment and didn't like to talk about it. The Ivory Tower was located just north of Deepwater Bay, and was responsible for governing the Kingdom. It was a difficult job to keep the peace, and it seemed every week war loomed on the horizon between neighbouring factions. For years, tension had been developing between the races of humans, elves, dwarfs and goblins, yet so far, the Tower had managed to play a consolatory role, sometimes intervening with magical force, and peace reigned.

The vast land that was the Kingdom was bordered on the east and south by the sea, the north by the desert, and on the west by the Cragtop Mountains. The Tower controlled all of this land, magic being the most powerful force in the world.

The land beyond the Cragtop Mountains was unknown, the range being impassable until recently. Some frontier camps had set up on the far side of the mountains and the new land was being explored. Thinking of the Cragtop's, Thrum recalled that this was their destination. He had never travelled so far, and in a curious way he was rather looking forward to the journey.

"...ello? Anybody there?"

Thrum shook himself from his reverie. He saw Archendorf had broken a piece of hobbit's bread and passed it to Thrum, who took it. Together they munched on the deliciously soft fresh bread as they walked.

If they had looked over their shoulder, they would have seen a magician and a conjurer topping a distant rise.

Archendorf's spirits rose as they passed a signpost proclaiming Bullspit one league away. Looking closely at the horizon he saw wisps of smoke rising from distant houses. He roused his comrade and pointed out the town.

Thrum squinted but could not see anything.

Without warning, something burst from the foliage of Mosswood forest and onto the road, a small blue scaled thing like a flat lizard. It had barely made it halfway across the road when a larger shape pursuing it flew in a great hopping motion on top of its prey. It was larger lizard, bright yellow, the size of a chicken, with powerful rear legs and a thin tail. Its sharp beak stabbed the other lizard, lifting into the air, and as quickly as it had appeared both disappeared back into forest.

"Yes," Thrum said in a voice very determined not to lose control. "We'll just, umm, keep moving shall we?"

Archendorf nodded. The inhabitants of Mosswood were strange indeed.

Behind them, two hills away, Valgus sweated freely in his mercury-lined cloak. As they staggered Gehmat removed his hat to wipe the lather of perspiration from the lining. Ten minutes later, they passed a sign informing them Bullspit one league away.

At last, the sprawling city came into view as they topped a hill. Thrum took a moment to look about from the vantage before they descended the gentle slope.

"Have you figured out what we are going to do in Bullspit?" he asked.

"Aye, I have. We need a pack horse, and add a little more to our stock of provisions." Archendorf patted his pack containing the hobbit food.

"Do you have enough money for a room?"

"No, we have to be careful with our money. Somewhere out of the wind and rain will be adequate for our overnight lodgings. First things first, though, we need to find some weapons. My dagger is still in the heart of that wizard in Hamontoast, and I'm feeling half naked without it."

"Do you know this town? Anywhere we can buy such things?"

"Nope, but let's have a wander, we're bound to find something."

By this time they had reached the town wall, a primitive affair made of wood sharpened to spikes. The gates were open and unguarded and they entered.

The town was quiet. Thrum breathed deeply, savouring the smell of rot, sewage and sweat that made it seem he was almost at home. They stood there for a moment as a few people bustled past on errands. A few wagons had just arrived and the stock unloaded at a market stall, a small crowd gathering to get the prime produce.

They made their way through the markets and wandered through some of the smaller alleys of the town. After a few minutes Archendorf said,

"Ah-ha!"

Thrum looked up, and sure enough, they stood before a shop accordioned between two larger ones. The sign on it read

Ye Olde Weapone Shoppe

"Well, I suppose we need some if we are to fight off the hideous forces of evil," commented Thrum, shrugging.

Arc pushed open the door and it caused a bell to tinkle. They entered the cool, damp interior.

After their eyes had become accustomed to the gloom they made out a dwarf sitting behind a counter of a shop cluttered with dust collecting arsenal. Shelves literally overflowed with ancient weapons and cabinets displaying an assortment of battle dress were stacked layer upon layer. Here were broadswords, knives, sabres, battleaxes and tower shields all tucked into dark recesses. The roof above had makeshift mezzanine stuffed with indistinguishable objects bathed in shadow. The aisles were so narrow Archendorf had to shuffle sideways to get through.

They made their way to the counter, and the dwarf sitting at it put down the magazine he was reading. He was a typical representation of his race; heavy clothing faded and abraded with age, a thick white beard sprouting from his face, sparkling eyes sunken deep into sockets, a white bridge of continuous eyebrow overshadowing them. The top of his head was thinning and bald, perhaps from years of wearing a battle helm. Although Archendorf couldn't see behind the counter he was sure the dwarf was wearing a pair of heavy mining boots reaching his knees.

"Afternoon," the dwarf said in a rough gravelling voice. "What can I do for you?"

"Um," stuttered Thrum. "Well, we were thinking of buying some weapons."

"You came to the right spot," the dwarf stated flatly.

Nothing happened for a good half a minute. When Thrum was sure the dwarf was not going to say any more, he continued.

"What would you, ahem, recommend?"

The dwarf shrugged, but did not have time to complete the gesture as he was interrupted by the front door crashing open, the little bell on it giving an abortive chime. The three looked up as one to see a tall magician outlined in a dramatic pose in the doorway.

Thrum sank back into the shadows of the counter and tried to melt into the floor. Archendorf prudently followed suit, slipping quietly between some nearby shelves. Thrum desperately tried to make himself as small as possible as the magician strode to the counter. It seemed they were successful, for the magician did not see either of them.

"Where are they?" hissed the intruder, speaking to the dwarf.

The dwarf shrugged. "Who?"

The magician drew himself up and glared the dwarf in the eye. The dwarf remained impassive. Seconds passed with agonising slowness.

"Two men passed through here," the magician whispered in the tone of one about to lose his temper. "Have you seen them?"

Thrum was so close that if he had have reached out he could have tugged on the magician's cloak. He swallowed a lump that had built in his throat.

"Noooo," the dwarf said very slowly. "I can't say that I have."

Something behind the magician's expression snapped. With a violent start, he flung out a hand and cast a savage spell with curling lips. The air around his fingers concussed and the dwarf lifted from his stool with the rush of air and launched across the room, crashing into the back wall, pinned.

"I'll say it one more time," he warned coolly. "Where are they?"

"Here!"

Thrum's heart froze painfully and he could not breathe for sheer terror as Archendorf stepped from the shadows and huffed his chest at the magician. "Release that dwarf!"

Slowly, very slowly, Valgus turned, a grin cracking across his leathered face. From the corner of his eye Thrum saw the dwarf slide lifelessly to the floor.

"Well well, we meet at last." Valgus sized up Archendorf with a piercing gaze.

Before he had quite realized what he was doing Thrum found himself rising to his feet and a spell on his lips. He was still hidden from the magician behind Archendorf's broad back, but still a large part of his mind rebelled at his sudden act of inspired bravery.

"Er, urgi beao narcari," he incanted.

The magician heard the words and cocked an ear. He leant to one side until Thrum emerged from the Archendorf's penumbra.

"Deorn cratso, er," Thrum faltered.

The magician's cruel face twisted into a parody of a grin. Sadistically amused he stood back with folded arms.

"Munho nominik!" Thrum finished the spell with a flourish and to his utter astonishment, it seemed, for the first time in his life, a spell had worked. There was a puff of smoke between his outstretched hands and the snap of a small firecracker. The smile on Valgus's face faded.

The smoke cleared, revealing what Thrum held between his hands; a bunch of drooping flowers that looked well past their use by date. A few faded red petals drifted lazily to the floor.

Thrum looked at them stupidly for what seemed an eternity.

The grin on the magician's face reappeared, his lips pulled back to reveal an incomplete row of yellow teeth (oral hygiene being unheard of in the Crylock.)

"Look out!" Archendorf cried in warning as Valgus raised his spell-casting hand. Archendorf leapt back to tackle Thrum to the floor to save him, but his feet tangled. With a startled cry the big man pin-wheeled madly as he snatched for an anchor. His hands came into contact with a beam supporting the roof. He grabbed it and pivoted about, arresting his fall. Just as his massive bulk was swinging to a stop, the wooden pillar he held shifted, dislodging dust from overhead. An instant later the entire beam snapped away, causing Archendorf to fall again.

It was revealed that the beam was all that was holding the upper floor together. An almighty crash and snapping from above heralded a plummeting avalanche of junk. Bewildered, the magician looked up in time to see a cascade of pointy weapons hail down.

For long terrifying moments Thrum watched, frozen to the spot and unable to move, as weapons rained down, forming a massive cone of debris that buried the magician with a deep roar. Clouds of choking dust flowed down and out.

Eventually the noise abated and Thrum felt his heart once again begin to beat. He saw Archendorf lying to one side, his mouth agape. As all is bound to do, everything found equilibrium and soon the only sound was the occasional tinkling of a dagger or greave falling onto the slowly settling stack.

The magician's arm stuck out at an odd angle. Gehmat, who had been hiding at the rear of the shop, dashed out the open doorway, his yellow robe fluttering behind.

Thrum surveyed the damage and saw the second storey had only collapsed where the magician had stood. It seemed too lucky to be true. He tossed the wilting flowers aside and made his way to Archendorf.

"Wow." Arc's glazed eyes snapped into focus, looking at something over Thrum's shoulder.

"What is it?" Thrum asked, turned to see what had upset his friend.

Thrum froze.

The magician's hand, the only thing protruding from the pile, moved! It patted left and right, looking like some sort of puppet snake as it tried to uncover the mountain of weapons, but was unable. Suddenly it tensed and waved in a dance, forming a spell.

"Stop him!" Thrum shrieked.

Archendorf was already moving. In one swift motion, he had snatched a sword from the pile, grasping it neatly by the hilt. The steel blade swished through the air, neatly chopping the arm at the base of the pile.

Thrum felt his stomach churn at the sickening crunch. He averted his eyes too late, and saw the severed magician's arm topple ignominiously end over end to the ground, blood spurting from the stump.

"Urrgh, that's gross." He risked a peek at the bare skinned arm lying on the ground, fingers twitching spasmodically.

Archendorf brushed the dust from his legs, tossing the sword back onto the pile.

"Is he dead?" Thrum asked.

Archendorf studied the unmoving pile. "Yep."

"We killed him." Thrum's breath came out shaky. He was not sure what he should be feeling, so many emotions were roiling inside it made him feel sick.

Archendorf took a few steps bent to retrieve the bunch of wilted flowers Thrum had conjured. He threw a wry grin at Thrum.

"Nice work there. Although, I take it not the effect you were hoping?"

Thrum looked down at the floor, refusing to meet Archendorf's eyes.

"Cheer up, it was a fantastic effort, Thrum my friend. Magic is magic! I can't believe you stood up to that guy like that, that was some brave move!"

"Fat lot of good it did."

"Hey, I thought you said you couldn't do magic."

"It's my first spell."

"Congratulations!"

"Congratulations? For this?" Thrum ripped the flowers from Archendorf's paws and threw them back to the floor. His small heart was fluttering wildly in his chest, the adrenalin of their near encounter with death sending his fingers trembling. "Well, how about you think next time before you stick both our hides on the goddamn line."

"Hey there buddy, easy."

"Fine for you to say, but I value my life. We could have gotten away there!"

"Now hang on, that may be your way, but I'm not going to run away and let someone else take a beating in my place." Archendorf's voice firmed. "Never have, never will."

"Yeah, well, my scrawny butt is on the line too when you open your big mouth."

A consolatory grin twitched across Archendorf's visage and his eyes softened their defensive hardness. "I'm proud of you Thrum. I may be a mindless oaf, but I know for a fact that you were with me all the way. You stood out of those shadows with me, and for that I'm grateful."

Thrum shook his head, still refusing to meet his friend's gaze.

"Well, next time, think before you do something stupid like that again."

Archendorf nodded soberly. "Say, let's check on our little friend."

The dwarf in question had uncurled from the foetal position on the floor and stood, coughing and ruefully twisting his neck back and forth.

"Thanks for saving me," he said. "That bastard had me beat."

"No, thank you," said Archendorf. "By the way, why did you get involved? You didn't have to."

The dwarf shrugged. "I'll be damned if I'll side by any wizard. I hate their sort of magic, blustering around, thinking they own the place. Really gets my back up." The dwarf glanced uneasily at the pile. "Is he really dead?"

Thrum nodded.

"Chalk two on the tally, eh Thrum?" Archendorf grinned.

"Two?" the dwarf asked.

"Yep, we've dispatched two evil wizards in the space of as many days. I have to say, I'm starting to get a feel for it."

The dwarf brightened and snapped his fingers as if an idea had just come to him. "You deserve a reward! Come on!"

The dwarf paddled along on his thick stumpy legs, walking with practiced gait that avoided tripping on his beard dragging along the ground before him. As he walked Archendorf noted with some satisfaction that the dwarf did in fact wear heavy mining boots like in the old story books.

The dwarf kicked back a carpet that raised a cloud of dust, revealing the aged flagstones of the building floor. He inserted a key into a slot in the floor and something clicked, a handle appearing. The dwarf heaved the trapdoor up and said, his voice straining, "I keep all the valuables down here."

With a thump, the door opened fully and the dwarf disappeared down below. Exchanging glances, Thrum and Archendorf followed, discovering steep stone stairs leading down into the darkness.

The coolness enveloped them the deeper they went. The dwarf sprang up a few steps and called back at them.

"Oh, stop right there! Sorry, I forgot to mention, don't step on there – it's booby trapped."

Thrum froze and slowly withdrew his boot. "What does it do?"

"You don't want to know, believe me."

Thrum released his breath and took a large stride over the step in question. At last, they reached the bottom and stood before a solid wooden door reinforced with bands of iron. The dwarf slipped a key into the door and the tumblers clunked solidly. He heaved the door open and scuttled inside.

They were in total darkness for a minute until the dwarf lit various torches along the walls, revealing by stages they stood in a large stone room. The flames cast flickering shadows that danced upon the objects in the room and made them seem oddly alive. Thrum's jaw fell open.

It was filled, corner to corner, with gleaming weapons on display. There were swords beset with jewels, placed on red velvet behind glass doors of tall cabinets. There was a whole row of daggers of various shapes and sizes, edges gleaming wickedly in the light. Huge shields hung from the walls, polished and painted with blazing emblems. Curved swords arranged in cyclic patterns on the walls, gleaming helmets and suits of armour standing mute guard to the hoard.

The dwarf spoke.

"You saved my shop. The magician was about the fry the place, with me in it. I owe you my thanks. Take anything you wish." The dwarf's eyes gleamed in the torchlight as he stroked his white beard against his rounded chest.

Archendorf blinked.

"You mean it?"

The dwarf nodded.

As if in a dream, Archendorf explored the shelves. He passed rows of ornate armour and lances, whole shelves of war hammers, battle axes, finely crafted bows, maces, and morning stars.

Thrum, meanwhile, seemed more subdued, perhaps still in shock at their near encounter with the wizard. He wandered to the nearest chest and flicked it open. His hand stopped mid-air as a golden cruciform caught his eye lying within. Slowly he lifted it from its bed of red velvet, feeling its weight. Inset about its four points were magnificent jewels.

"Ah," said the dwarf, approaching Thrum. "I see you've found Gourn's Cross. It is beautiful, don't you think? It once belonged to a powerful sorcerer, and holds many secrets. Watch this."

The dwarf carefully took the cruciform from Thrum's hands and into his own. He stood back, giving himself some room before tossing it up into the air. It spun in flight, gossamer strands of gold peeling from its arc. On its descent, the blurring solidified and the dwarf caught it. Thrum saw it had become a fantastic broadsword. The dwarf twisted it so its silver face caught the torchlight.

"It turned into that?" His voice was incredulous.

Nodding, the dwarf offered the broadsword to Thrum, who took it cautiously by the leather-bound hilt. It was surprisingly light. Thrum gave it a few experimental swings. It made an eerie whistling noise through the air.

"Careful there," the dwarf said. "The edge is sharp, to say the least. Here, to return it to its original form, give it a flick."

Under the dwarf's tutelage, Thrum twisted his hand in a certain pattern and it shrunk and once again Thrum held the cruciform.

"I like it," he said, his voice filled with wonder.

Archendorf had been watching the proceedings. He grinned and winked at Thrum.

"Very well," said the dwarf. "You have made your selection."

"No," said Thrum. "No, I cannot take this. It is too valuable. Please, let me chose something plainer-"

"You've chosen. Take good care of it," said the dwarf. "Now out you go, the pair of you, I've got a business to run."

The dwarf would hear no more. They were herded up the stairs while the dwarf extinguished the torches behind them. Thrum tucked the cruciform into the same pocket containing Taukin's scroll, patting it to make sure both were secure.

They made it out into the half-light of the shop (carefully avoiding the booby trapped stair) to find the dust had settled and for a second Thrum thought the whole episode with the magician had been a dream until he saw of the mound of debris and destruction. Thrum grimaced as he thought what a horrible death it must have been, even for a magician.

Archendorf was speaking to the dwarf as he secured the stone trapdoor shut.

"You have our sincere thanks for such a kingly gift."

"Hurry up and get out of here, before I change my mind," the dwarf said, tears glistening in his eyes. "It's like losing one of the family."

They skirted the pile of debris and made their way to the door. The bell tinkled as the door opened. As they went out onto the street, Archendorf turned and waved back.

"Thank you!"

But the dwarf didn't hear. He was busy cleaning up the mess.

"I'm dying for a drink," said Archendorf. "Come on, I'll buy us dinner."

"Sure."

They started towards the pub for refreshments. They crossed the road, skirting the larger potholes and insane wagon drivers. The town's activity had increased markedly with the sinking sun. Thrum ducked, narrowly avoiding a shower as someone emptied a chamber pot out of the window. Shaking a fist at the offender Thrum continued after Archendorf, who was oblivious to his surroundings. Thrum weaved through scores of people, trying to stay in Archendorf's wake.

"Ah!" Archendorf stopped abruptly. "That looks ideal."

The pub was called the Stumbling Steed, standing head and shoulders above the other buildings of the town. It looked as if it had once been three storeys but over the years had compressed under its own weight to be more like two. They climbed the steps and entered.

A loud hubbub of chatter met their ears as they saw most of the tables occupied with merchants and farmers. The flooring was old and splintered, wallpaper hanging in strips from the walls. Breathing deeply Thrum smelt roasting meat and he began to salivate. He trailed behind as Archendorf made his way to the bar took a seat on a stool.

The bartender approached, wiping his hands on a filthy apron that hung from his waist.

"What'll it be?"

Settling himself Thrum looked at the menu chalked on the wall.

"I'll have the meat pie."

The bartender turned to Archendorf. "You?" he grunted.

"Potatoes and salad thanks mate, and a couple of beers."

The bartender filled a two of glasses and plonked them on the table. Wiping his hands on his apron he went back into the kitchen through the swinging doors, followed shortly by a wet slapping noise as if a bullfrog had been grabbed by the back legs and its head smashed a few times into the floor. Frying sounds followed.

Archendorf took a generous swig from his beer. "That was some day, eh?"

Thrum didn't reply. He looked distracted. Ever since they had emerged from the weapon shop he had avoided Archendorf's eye.

"You still sore at me for getting us into that mess?" Archendorf asked, wiping the froth from his lips.

Thrum shook his head. "No, no, it's nothing. I'm fine." The treble in his voice threatened to betray him so he took a sip from his beer and coughed.

A long uncomfortable silence between the pair fell. Both drank slowly, allowing the noise and commotion of the pub wash about their senses. Soon the bartender appeared once again and delivered two plates. Archendorf took his plate of vegetables with thanks. Thrum pulled his pie closer and, when the bartender had turned his back, cautiously lifted the soggy pastry lid.

"Urgh!"

The bartender turned and Thrum dropped the lid guiltily.

"You got something to say?" he said gruffly.

Thrum shook his head. "No, it's fine."

The bartender grunted and turned to another customer. Thrum leaned over and whispered to Arcendorf. "I can't eat thi-" Owing to his vulture-like posture upon the barstool and his awkward sideways lean, the cruciform in Thrum's pocket slid out. The golden cross clattered to the floor.

Absolute silence fell as the jewel-encrusted object lay glinting at the base of Thrum's stool. Well aware of the greedy stares Thrum bent and picked up the cruciform. He placed it back in his pocket and turned back to face the bar. The silence remained as the men goggled at the wealth that had spilt. One individual separated himself from the group and stepped forward.

"That's a pretty piece o' treasure you got there. Mind handing it over, I'd like a look."

From the glint in the man's eyes Thrum knew he had no choice.

Archendorf stepped in.

"Get back to your stew, lumphead."

The man flinched as if struck, then straightened. Half turning as if returning to his seat he suddenly turned back with fist raised swinging a lazy haymaker. Archendorf ducked the blow and returned with a solid uppercut to the jaw, knocking the man off his feet and across the room then across a table that collapsed in a shower of splinters.

A wild angry roar filled the pub; an unruly pair of drunken farmhands leapt to their feet, snatching glass bottles by the neck to use as makeshift weapons. On instinct Thrum dropped to the ground and squeezed between the four legs of his stool. In his haste, he found he had placed himself upside-down, his head jammed into the floorboards.

Archendorf seized the remains of the frog pie and flung it at the advancing pair, catching one of the farmhands across the face leaving a smear of slime. Several other patrons saw their opportunity, and suddenly it seemed the whole room was advancing towards them. Archendorf grabbed his stool and swung it wide. The crowd fell back, clutching various injuries, but circle did not break.

Archendorf hurled the stool with all his might at the snarling men. It punctured the ranks and left a trail of devastation in its wake. Archendorf reached for another stool and threw that one too.

Thrum startled as his shelter tore away. Looking up, he saw it was currently streaking through the air. He stood and, trembling, pulled the golden cruciform from his pocket. He tossed it in a small arc, but it was not enough for the transformation, and it clattered to the ground in the same shape. As he bent shakily to retrieve it, he reflected that he probably could not bring himself to bear such a deadly weapon against what were, essentially, innocent men.

Arc leapt over the counter, leaving Thrum no choice but to follow.

"We'd better make our exit," he said.

The crowd still fought on, the flying debris and shouts creating enough disturbance and they didn't notice Arc and Thrum's disappearance; they were so caught up in the brawl they simply bashed any nearest head with mindless enthusiasm.

Archendorf knew that they would soon catch on and wonder who exactly they were supposed to be fighting. Thrum had made his escape into the kitchen, doubled over and furtive, dashing this way and that until he found the back door and burst into the street. Archendorf followed, pausing to pick delicately at the leftover bits of something in a discarded frypan. Seeing Thrum gesturing in desperate 'hurry up' motions he left the kitchen and followed his friend out onto the street.

The noise emerging from the pub reduced to a muted yelling and hollow thumps; it seemed the fight had not slackened in the slightest. Thrum and Archendorf strode away and disappeared down a side street, heading for the town gates.

### Chapter Three

Gehmat ran from the weapon shop until his legs gave way in sheer exhaustion. He stumbled into a stack of empty kegs and fell to his knees, puffing and heaving. He ran a trembling hand over his brow. They'd killed Valgus! The thought was running frantic through his mind. The Crylock had underestimated the scroll-bearer's skill and cunning.

His thoughts were broken as a coin tinkled at his feet as a passer-by took him for a beggar. He shot a dirty look at the receding back, but took the coin.

_I have to get in touch with Ladanum_ , he thought. _They must talk reason with the scroll-bearer, as he knew they should have from the beginning! But no, Valgus insisted force was the only way._

He stumbled again to his feet and staggered along until at last he cleared the town and made it into the outlying fields of low bushy crops surrounding Bullspit.

He had to get in touch with the Crylock, and the only way to reach Ladanum was a mind-link. Gehmat had come out into the fields to get away from the background static of minds in Bullspit – it would make his task somewhat easier. He sat, folded his legs, and prepared himself.

"Huarmmmm," he moaned in a deep mediative voice, soothing his brain. Gehmat always had had trouble with the mind-link, and over such a large distance, he suddenly doubted his ability. He breathed low and his brows knit.

He tried, but nothing seemed to happen. He tried harder, but still, nothing.

Meanwhile back in Bullspit six of the seven tarot card readers leapt around their tents screaming an alien tongue and flailing their limbs, and one even had to be sedated with a brick to the head. The seventh was actually a charlatan, so went about her business unaffected.

Gehmat, however, was unaware his spell was doing anything at all. He pushed his mental power for another five long seconds, but still he could not make contact with Ladanum.

"Bah!" he spat, and opened his eyes, exhausted mentally now as well as physically. The Crylock was simply too far away.

He was interrupted from this gloomy line of thought by an intense whine high in the sky. It descended almost vertically from above, its Doppler scream drawing closer. It was the sort of noise that if it had to be put on paper would be written as a succession of the letter e's. He watched as the meteorite flashed down, a narrow tail of fire behind it, smashing into the fields not fifty paces away, and as suddenly as it had appeared, the noise stopped. Birds, hesitatingly at first, once again took up their song.

Gehmat stood and took a curious step forwards towards the smoking crater. He took another, then another. Soon he was at the impact site, and what he saw sent his heart leaping up into his throat. He recoiled backwards.

He found himself lying on his back. He must have fainted, and he now awoke having no idea how much time had passed. He savoured the moment, looking up at the white clouds. Groaning, he propped himself up on one elbow. He must have been dreaming, he thought, too much exertion. It can't be...

He peered through the tall grass. There, in the crater, was the broomstick.

He looked at it long and hard, half expecting it to disappear like a wavering mirage. After half an hour of staring nothing happened and Gehmat decided it must be real. He extended a shaking hand, shying his head and covering his eyes, and grasped it by the handle. He stood, the straw broom at arms length, innocuously devoid of life.

Now what? he wondered. One, he could throw away the broom, and try to reach the Crylock some other way, or two, he could ride it back.

His skin crawled.

What punishment would Ladanum deliver for not reporting back? His imagination ran riot. That decided it. He lifted a leg over the broom, the straw head lying on the ground. He drew a deep breath, his hands clenched and sweaty.

Well, here goes nothing, he thought, at the same time screwing his eyes, preparing for the launch.

Nothing happened.

Gehmat scowled, and pushed again with his mind.

Still nothing happened. He opened his eyes and let out a sigh, ripped into a wail as the broomstick exploded into the air, carrying him with it. Clinging on for dear life Gehmat saw the ground disappear. The sweat evaporated from his brow in the wind and his skin turned icy cold.

Gehmat managed to raise his head in the buffeting gale and look about. The land was far below and fleeting by rapidly. He leant in the direction he wished to go, very cautiously -

A shot of shock went through his brain, derailing such gentle thoughts, as he found he had lent too far. Slowly but surely he swivelled about. In a moment, he hung upside-down on the broomstick, held only by his hands and clamped knees. His hair and beard hung in his face, his cloak riding up revealing bony legs and white conjurer's underpants.

At least I'm going in the right direction, he thought, somewhat giddily.

The logs settled as they burnt in the campfire, sparking and casting a homely flickering light. Archendorf was roasting a marshmallow impaled at the tip of a crooked stick. He proffered one to Thrum.

Thrum shook his head.

Long minutes of silence passed. Archendorf went through several more marshmallows until finally clearing his throat.

"So, big man. What's news? You seem to have clammed up on me."

Thrum flicked his eyes up and met the other's gaze for a split second.

With bowed head, he drew a deep breath.

"No, it's nothing." Inside his emotions were roiling.

"It's about today, isn't it? At the weapon shop, almost getting us both killed."

Thrum shook his head in a determined negative. The words were on the verge of his lips, but he couldn't bring himself to form them, and now the silence had stretched too long and built an intolerable tension.

It's my fault, he wanted to say to his friend. I'm a coward. A damned, miserable coward.

What Archendorf did not know was the spell he had cast in the weapon shop was supposed to be a teleport spell - a teleport for one person. In that moment he had seen there was no way out; Archendorf's strength no match to the magician's powers, and Thrum a laughable contest if it came to a spell for spell duel. His first instinct was to get the hell out of there, and sod Archendorf.

It made Thrum ashamed, after all Archendorf had done for him. If the spell had succeeded there would be no doubt of Archendorf's messy fate.

A damned coward, Thrum inwardly berated himself.

"It's getting late, I'm going to turn in," Archendorf said. There was a note of chill civility there.

Thrum looked up. "Sure. Goodnight, Arc."

Night was falling outside but the frosted windows of the shop glowed warmly from the light of burning torches within. Despite his race's predilection for caves and mines, the dwarf didn't like to work in the dark. It made for mistakes and sloppy workmanship, something he despised.

The work before him looked like it may stretch well into the night. He had cut new braces and propped up the mezzanine floor. Study brackets held the wooden beam vertical and he gave it a satisfied thump with the palm of his hand.

Dusting his hands against his tunic, he turned his attention to the pile of weapons that had fallen. Blowing into his beard, his eyes roamed over the stack and wondered where to begin. The dead magician's stump of an arm was still visible, as was the hint of silver cloak. The dwarf lifted a battle-axe closest, sighting along its haft and eyeing the blade's edge. It seemed undamaged.

The dwarf put it to one side, and lifted the next item.

Hours later, the dwarf working tirelessly and meticulously, three piles had formed – one with undamaged stock, one pile that required minor repairs, and another with those too damaged to be sale-worthy. It was high time he had gotten around to sorting out the mess that had been accumulating for years up there, and in his own way, the dwarf was enjoying himself.

The magician's body slowly unearthed, piece-by-piece. The dwarf did not pay much attention, so focussed was he on the job at hand. It was only when the dwarf had to lever with particular force to free a hatchet embedded itself into the magician's heart did he notice something strange.

He had thought the magician's foot twitched.

Grunting and huffing in his beard, he tossed the hatchet into the 'undamaged' pile after giving it a wipe on the sleeve of his arm, thinking no more of it. He grabbed the handle of a pike and gave it a pull. It seemed to be stuck on something-

He cried out as the magician's hand grabbed his own. "God's blood!" He snatched his hand away and watched in shocked awe, unable to avert his eyes or move his feet that seemingly had rooted themselves into the ground. The magician's head snapped upright like a puppet brought to life. The arm that ended in a bloody stump flailed uselessly, almost comically. The other arm worked to free the body.

Renewed life coursed through Valgus like the first rains filling a summer-dried creek. His eyes lit and his face became animated with barely suppressed rage. It was obvious from awkward jerking movements that every movement caused great pain.

The icy shock of surprise cracked a little around the dwarf's heart - he saw that if the apparition before him could feel pain, then it could be killed.

His paralysis broken he grabbed a battle-axe, a massive double-edged thing nearly twice his height, and brought it up high over his head to deliver the death strike.

Valgus reacted. His lower body still trapped he was still able to throw his remaining left arm forward and cast one the simplest spells there is, the fire spell. Simple, but in the hands of a level six magician, devastatingly powerful.

The blast struck the dwarf in the chest, throwing him backward. The battle-axe clattered to the stone. The dwarf never hit the ground. Every molecule that had made up his body now reduced to a random scatter of ashes and smoke dancing in the swirling eddy currents of the blast.

The only sounds emerging from the weapon shop were the steady the clink and clatter of tossed aside pieces of metal on flagstone.

A score of wiry camels beat a single-file path in the evening light. Quirk, the leader of the band, turned.

"Bullshhpit aheaf!" he cried.

There was a half-hearted cheer. All were exhausted and grubby, their camels beneath them undernourished after their long journey across the plains. Quirk had led his men across the lands since he was a youngster. In the old days, they were known for their cunning and fierceness, trekking the desert and raiding townships in search of booty, both inanimate and animate. Born from the desert they wore the traditional headdress and robe, mighty curved sabres at their waists.

Things were different now. Time had taken its toll on all of them, leaving them a bunch of knife-wielding seventy year olds. Their enemies were more likely to laugh than yell in terror as they had once done, and recently Quirk's raids had all failed.

They had decided to leave their native homeland, making the journey across the vast plains and into the cradle of civilization near the Ivory Tower. There they hoped pickings would come easier, fattened civilians rather than the hardened desert landholders.

"We'll stof here," Quirk called to his toothless team. "Ready to show'sh them hell boysh?"

They pulled into the village unchallenged, for their reputation had obviously not spread this far south. From his high vantage atop the camel Quirk noticed a great deal of activity about the pub. Intrigued, he jabbed his left heel into the flank and angled his mount in that direction. The others followed, and soon they arrived.

The rest of his band dismounted, their camels lowering themselves like awkward marionettes to the ground. Quirk's camel remained standing sullenly – he had been doing this a lot recently, either in some sort of rebellion or advancing senility, Quirk was unsure which. With some cussing, useless shoving and jerking about (the rest of the band politely pretending to be examining some object to one side) Quirk at last gave up and jumped to the ground.

"Lefph's go men," he said, dusting himself off and almost hiding his hitched breath owing to the splintering pain in his shins.

The gang moved towards the source of the commotion in the spill of light from the open door of the pub.

"Whosh going on shere?" Quirk asked, his lack of teeth and general enthusiasm resulting in a fine spray of saliva.

The man, arm about one of his fellows helping him stumble away from the pub, turned sharply.

"What do you want, gramps?"

Quirk whipped out his sabre and in a flash it was at the man's throat. Quirk repeated his question.

"Yes," the man said hastily. "I'll tell you. Two warriors came through here – one sly and quick, the other a huge brute of a man, the size of an ox! They started trouble, started roughing up us poor farmers for the sheer joy of it. Hardly a fair match, them with their training and weapons and such. And they were rich - I saw their treasure myself, a jewel encrusted cross...I've never seen the like of it."

"Treasure, yoush say? Tough buggersh too, from the sounds. Which way did theyth goth?"

"Down there. I saw them run off myself."

Quirk pondered and after a moment's deliberation turned to his fellows.

"Mount up ladsh! Theth bounty to be had!"

The riders hurried back to their mounts and rose into the air, Quirk requiring a somewhat more athletic run and jump. Quirk signalled with a forward slash of his sabre and the camels jerked into motion and sped off a quick clippity clop down the street in a picture of military discipline. It was not the promise of bounty that spurred the lanky desert men but the thrill of the chase, and a Quirk could not help but allow a grin to twitch at the corners of his mouth.

The campfire burnt low, reduced to a dull red glow barely discernable in the night. From the rise of the moon, faintly seen in the patches between the clouds, Thrum guessed it to be just past midnight. He hadn't slept a wink, but simply lay there, the prickly woollen blanket taken from the hobbit hole wrapped tight up to his chin.

Thoughts churned through his mind and he tried not to toss and turn for fear of waking his companion, who snored steadily on the other side of the fire. Then, before he could change his mind, Thrum drew a resigned breath and flung aside his blanket quietly. The cool night air washed over him, for he still only wore his nightgown and rabbit-shaped slippers from Hamontoast, now streaked with dust and stained. Coarsely folding his blanket, he slung it over one shoulder.

He paused, throat tightening, as he looked at Arc stretched out at ease and deeply asleep, suddenly unsure of what he was about to do was right.

Then Thrum remembered the teleport spell he had tried to cast; he did not deserve a friend like Archendorf. It was best to leave him now, in safety, before anything stupid happened again. From here on in, things could only get worse, and who was he kidding – there was no way they could take on the entire Crylock. It was foolish to even try. He reached into the pocket of his nightgown and with feeling of deep unease unrolled the scroll. He glanced up to make sure his friend was still sleeping before dropping his eyes. "I'm going to the King," he whispered.

The scroll remained blank.

Thrum bit his lip. "I can't go to the Crylock, as you asked," he whispered to it. "Surely there is something you can tell me, some secret password that will gain me the trust of the King's Archmages. They are your allies, they will take you to the Crylock and to bring you back to life, breathe the spirit from this scroll into your body, however that's done. That's a magician's job, not a clown's."

The scroll was suddenly snaking with words. _This is foolishness! I told you before, it must be you and you alone. There is nothing I can tell you that will convince them, and there are great forces at work that you cannot begin to understand. We are down to the last few grains of sand running through the hourglass, you must not delay!_

More words were forming but Thrum shook his head and with a hitch in his heart rolled the scroll and jammed it back into his pocket. This time he was not going to listen. He looked once more at Archendorf's back as it rose and fell in deep peaceful sleep. He wished for a spare scrap of paper so he could write a note of farewell, but then he remembered Arc couldn't read.

The first few heavy drops of rain fell from the sky and a chill breeze swept across their camp and he broke out in a rash of gooseflesh. Suddenly decided, he clutched his blanket tight around him and strode off into the darkness.

It did not take more than a score of footsteps away from his friend and the soft glow of the campfire for Thrum's heart to ache painfully. He felt very alone. Before his resolve could crumble further he picked up his pace, heading towards the road, for they had camped off in the shelter of a grove of trees. The drumming of rain increased - it seemed things could not get any more miserable as Thrum hit the road and turned left. Back the way they had come, away from the Crylock and towards the Ivory Tower.

Thrum drunk in his misery as he trudged. He deserved his loneliness, coward such as he was. He kept telling himself this as the minutes turned into hours. The Mosswood forest lay to his right now, the wide trade road quiet of traffic in the depths of the night. What little there was to be seen of the moon disappeared, the storm gathering, the air growing heavy with humidity. It seemed Thrum walked in a world of his own, had other people ever existed other than as a dream? The life of Hamontoast all seemed so remote to him now.

Thunder rolled across the sky, distant yet but still threatening. Thrum saw a few flashes of forked lightning puncture the sky when he occasionally lifted his gaze from his feet. The intervals between the flashes and the thunder grew shorter.

Looking up at the next rise Thrum was startled to see a figure suddenly illuminated in the lightning. Thrum stopped and squeezed his eyes shut tightly, rain beading down his face, in an effort to clear them. All was dark again, and he doubted what he had seen. Perhaps a log merely in the shape of a ma-

Another flash, and this time there could be no doubt. The man on the road before him had sensed Thrum's presence too and stopped, separated by shouting distance, no more. Thrum tried to swallow but could not, his legs jelly and weakness coursing through his body. He wanted to turn and flee but as if in a dream, he seemed encased in a thick molasses that he must swim against with leaden limbs.

Thunder crashed in the darkness. The rain continued to fall. Thrum still did not move, his brain processing the image. There could be no doubt – one arm severed just above the elbow, the shimmering silver cloak, close enough that Thrum could see the magician's eyes.

Mouth gaping like a fish, he did not curse; no words would come.

His body saved him. Acting instinctively his legs went into action and before he knew what he was doing he was fleeing into the boughs of Mosswood forest. The chill embrace enveloped him immediately, the smell of evil things in the air. Although only a few paces into the forest it seemed as if he might as well be at the very heart. Insects chattered in his ears, the earth underfoot muddy.

"Mosswood?" Thrum muttered deliriously. "This is stupid. Stupid!"

One look over his shoulder and he fancied he saw the shadowy outline of the magician flicker hot on his heels. It was all the encouragement he needed. With great bounding leaps Thrum fled ever deeper in the forest, feet sometimes tangling in exposed roots, cold vines slapping him across the face in the darkness.

He ran wildly for long minutes hardly sure he was even heading in the same direction. Eventually he had to stop, panting, with one hand up against the trunk of a huge tree. Now that he stopped he cocked an ear trying to hear for sounds of pursuit through the gaps of his ragged breathing and the drumming of his pulse. The storm seemed to have moved on, for now he heard only the odd, distant rumble. In the new silence there was only the steady patter of dripping leaves and the calls of insects.

Thrum's nape tingled as he had the distinct impression of being watched. Feeling uncomfortable, he started walking again, eyes wide open, movement haunting the periphery of his vision, but seeing nothing but black. He found himself wishing fervently for his cottage back in Hamontoast. He could well imagine his soft bed there, but of course someone else would be sleeping in it right now. He cursed under his breath.

He very nearly filled his pants when a cold arm wrapped about his mouth with a sibilant slither. He made a "mpppph" noise as long moist fingers pressed into his flesh. As was to be expected Thrum fainted...

When he awoke, he sensed some time had passed. He was in a clearing surrounded by a wall of thick tree trunks. It was still dark (did the light of day ever pierce those leaning trees?) but the surrounds were illuminated by a score of flaming torches about the perimeter. A tangle of vines trampled flattish bedded the clearing, large shadows close by indistinct in his blurred and still recovering vision. He tried to clear his head with rapid forceful blinking and attempted to rub his eyes only to find his limbs bound with vines behind his back. He became jittery with terror.

The elves had caught him!

Now that his vision was clearing he saw the creatures scuttling about. They were as bad as legend had made them out to be. Green, their skin slimy and glistening the torchlight with elongated bodies taut with thin muscles, long arms out of proportion with squat torsos. Gorillas with the skins of frogs. Thrum noticed when they walked their huge paddles of hands dragged furrows in the ground and they flopped their feet like flippers.

Thrum gasped as an elf suddenly appeared from one side, stuck an inquisitive head into his face, and prodded an explorative finger. Unable to pull away Thrum watched the elf grin, exposing a glistening array of shark-like teeth.

"Urrrrmmm... Hi?" Thrum tried.

Treeater climbed down the branches from his hut, swinging casually from limb to limb. As chief of the clan it was his responsibility to greet the returning hunting party. He dropped to the spongy ground and shuffled along towards the group. On the edges of the clearing elves lit torches, the village waking from their sleep as elves came to greet their fellows.

Treeater made a gurgle in the back of his throat, the traditional elf greeting, as he met Screaming-Frog, leader of the hunting party. In return, Screaming-Frog tilted back his head in the same fashion and gurgled back at him.

"You have been gone many nights," said Treeater, formalities now aside. "It is good to see you again."

"It has been a long hunt, and it is good to be home," said Screaming-Frog. "Our efforts have been rewarded." He gestured to the wagons now emerging from the forest track and into the clearing. They were narrow and high wheeled for travel in the forest, with a harness in the front for the unlucky elves chosen as cart bearers. The wagons were laden with slain beasts of all sizes and descriptions.

"What have you?" Treeater asked.

"Much food – enough to last the entire clan the winter. We found a large growing of dome mushrooms and collected many sacks worth."

"Dome mushrooms? Excellent! We shall party well tonight!"

"Indeed. Come closer, let me show you what else we have. Plenty of monkey hides, look here. And a score of giant swamp rats, have you ever seen any this size before?"

"But what is this?" Treeater exclaimed. He indicated to Thrum's limp body.

"Ah, yes! A human," said Screaming-Frog. "We came across him just now, on the outskirts of the village."

"I haven't seen an outsider for a long time. They are excellent eating."

Screaming-Frog beamed, as much as an elf is able to beam. "He'll do nicely for dessert."

Treeater leant over and poked the human, who seemed to be recovering consciousness. The human opened his eyes and flinched and Treeater laughed.

"You have done well!"

Screaming-Frog waved a demurring hand.

"A feast!" Treeater cried, turning to address his tribe. "Stoke the fires, we celebrate tonight!"

There was a returned cheer and elves scurried into action. A sprogling came to Treeater's side.

"What do you want?" hissed Screaming-Frog, almost walking on the small elf.

"I found this on the human." The sprogling held out the rolled scroll in one hand and the cruciform in the other.

Treeater carefully took the cruciform. "You have done well.".

"And this, my master?"

Treeater took the scroll and flicked it open with one hand. "Worthless," he said after inspection, tossing it aside. "But this jewel... Magnificent indeed!" After a moment's more delighted examination, he stuffed the cruciform into the front of his loincloth for safekeeping. "Now, let us attend to the feast."

The hunters returned to awaiting wives, hugging sproglings that leapt and stuck to them affectionately. The minutes soon lengthened into hours, and slowly dim light took the edge off the darkness. By mid-morning things that had been shades of grey took on faint colour.

The elves were an ingenious lot, and they had fashioned the many luxuries granted by having opposable thumbs and a generous streak of wit. A massive bonfire was set and two great swamp rats were prepared upon spits. Kegs of potent forest brew were unearthed from their ripening pits and set upon trestle tables. The tribe was a hive of merry activity as all manners of delicacies were presented.

Treeater ceremoniously cracked the top off the first keg. There was a cheer and the festivities began. Soon all the elves relaxed, lounging back in hammock-like chairs and telling uncouth jokes and laughing. There was the regular clang on wood on wood as goblets were raised in as many toasts the elves could think of.

Waxeye turned to his companion who hid, like him, in the undergrowth.

"Drunk and totally off guard," he hissed, grinning.

The other, his elvish face streaked with warpaint, returned the grin. "It is just as well we passed by, now is the perfect time for attack. We will be able to slit their miserable throats while they slumber, and we will have our revenge! Quickly, we must tell master Pinworm."

Waxeye nodded eagerly and they both backed away silently, remaining in the shadows. Only when sure they were a safe distance away did they turn and run.

Seeing an elf run is a peculiar sight, resembling a clown with long shoes tumbling down a hill trying to outrun something unpleasant. Somehow it worked and they travelled swiftly, more often than not grabbing a low hanging branch and swinging from it to cover extra ground.

Half and hour later they fell panting to the door of Pinworm's hut, chief of the Lizard Clan.

"My master, we have news!"

Pinworm, his lidless orbs of eyes bleary with sleep, shrugged into a dressing gown and was tying the furry belt about his waist when he emerged.

"Make it good," he hissed.

"My master, we come from Leaf Tribe, they are feasting and celebrating, all intoxicated, leaving themselves open to an attack."

Pinworm's lidless eyes flickered back into his skull (the elvish equivalent of a long thoughtful blink) before speaking again.

"Their guards?"

"All at the feast. From what we observed, their winter hunting party has returned."

"Could it be a trap?" mused Pinworm, turning on his heel. "Waxeye, call the war-councillor."

An elf, a full head taller than the average, stepped forward. "I am already here, sir."

"Ahh, excellent. How are our forces? How is morale?"

"As to be expected, sir. We sustained major losses, as you know, but all are ready to fight."

Pinworm nodded to himself. Their enemy, the Leaf Tribe, had attacked a month ago and had brought his own clan almost to ruin. The Leaf Tribe had killed the old elves and children of Pinworm's tribe in a despicable sneak attack. Pinworm remembered leading his army, all the young men and women of fighting age, on what was supposed to be an attack. He'd been deceived, however, and the camp they'd fallen upon was a decoy, and by the time they'd returned home the damage had been done. Without the children and the wisdom of the elders, his clan was but a shadow of its former self.

"And the other tribes, will they join us in this battle?" asked Pinworm.

"The Marsh people will aid us, but they fear the Hollow Log Clan."

"Send out our fastest elf to the Marsh Clan," said Pinworm. "Tell them we shall join them in their battle if they join our attack today. Organise our forces, everyone will fight, leave nobody behind."

The war-councillor bowed low at the waist. "All will fight willingly."

"Then, to war!" Pinworm cried.

Thrum turned as far as his bonds would allow, trying to get some blood flow, for he had been tied to a wagon wheel for hours now. The elves, it seemed, knew their business, no amount of squirming and twisting would loosen the knots at his wrists.

Thrum's hopes sank lower and lower. He watched as the elves drunk themselves into stupidity, his only hope that perhaps they may forget about him. He doubted that, for every now and again one of them would point in his direction, say something, and those in earshot would lick their lips. So far they restrained themselves, always glancing towards what seemed to be their leader. Over time, however, the looks his direction grew bolder and the licking of lips more salacious.

His only hope, it seemed, was Archendorf. Archendorf could follow a trail, couldn't he? Of course he could, Thrum reassured himself. Any minute now, he would come slipping up in the shadows, a sharp knife to sever the bonds at his wrists, and they would both disappear silently into the trees.

Any moment now...

Archendorf's eyes shot wide open at the touch of a cold blade against his throat. After the initial shock he carefully turned his head, careful not to make any sudden movements. He saw from his prone position he was surrounded by what looked like the local lawn bowls team on their way to a themed fancy dress party. They all wore light grey gowns and scarves, and all held wicked sabres, all pointed in his direction.

Archendorf cleared his throat.

"Ahem. Er, can I help you?"

He noticed Thrum was gone, perhaps to attend his toilet. He hoped his friend had the sense to hang back until he sorted out this mess.

What seemed to be the leader stepped from the ranks of dirty and seemingly frail old warriors. He was grinning, exposing his solitary front tooth jutting from a vast expanse of pink gum.

"No doubtsh you have heard of ush. I am Quirk!"

"Really! Gosh," said Archendorf, putting on a tone of admiration. He had never heard the name, but as long as they held the knife, he was willing to agree. "Great to meet you, but if you don't mind, I really do have to go-"

"Filence, foul fiend!" Quirk shouted, really getting into the swing of things now. "We are the deffert kings - raiders, conquerors, fearless warriors!"

"Saviour of small children!" cried a voice from someone at the back.

Someone elbowed him into silence. "Shuddup Hodfast, we've told you before, that was no infant."

Quirk raised the flat of his hand to his mouth and stage-whispered down to Archendorf, "It turned out to be a burrito."

"Ahhh," said Archendorf carefully. "Look, I think you've got the wrong guy. If you'd kindly-"

"I fed filence! We know shoe are rich, so hand over the loot!"

Archendorf was puzzled and shook his head, wiping the spray of saliva from his face.

"You will learn our true strenghf! We will teach you a leffon you will never forgetsh!" Quirk coiled his sabre arm back.

"Wait, no, look, I'm not rich," Arc cried frantically. "See for yourself." He pulled his pockets inside-out, revealing nothing but fluff. His mind worked overtime; it was obvious these fellows were a few sausages short of a barbeque - he had to distract them. He lowered his voice conspiringly. "Look guys, me and my mate are off to kill some evil magicians. A quest to save the world no less, plenty of loot and action to be had."

There followed several long seconds as the old men put this through their rusty minds. Quirk's tiny beadlike eyes glinted.

"Why didn't you'sh say so before!" he said, leaping in the air and clacking his heels. "Release this man, we have a quest!"

There was an almighty toothless cheer and several hands helped a rather dazed Archendorf to his feet.

"So you'll help us?" he asked.

"We haven't had'sh a quest for a long time! Count ush in, my friend!"

Archendorf grinned in genuine happiness and heartily shook Quirk's offered hand. He hadn't expected such a rapid turnaround of his fortune, but gladly accepted it. He sensed no duplicity or trickery, and despite their senility at the very least this crew had beasts of burden that would speed up their march considerably. He cast about and called Thrum's name, telling him it was safe to come out.

"Who'sh do you call?" asked Quirk.

"My friend, he's the one with the magic scroll. He should be around here somewhere."

Quirk ordered his men to begin searching. While they waited, Archendorf looked closely at the mutated beasts the nomads now led closer to the campsite, lanky creatures with big teeth and knees, long lashed eyes, folded over nostrils, a shaggy hump raised on their back.

"Ahh, I s'hee you are interested in our camel'sh."

Archendorf reached out and touched the beast's hide. "I've never seen the like before."

"We come'sh from the desert of the far north'sh. We could not live with'sh-out them."

"They've got quite a smell," said Archendorf, his eyes watering.

"You think'sh? I hadn't noticed."

One of Quirk's men returned from his search for Thrum and saluted. "We could find'sh no sign, sh'ir."

"Where can he have gone?" said Archendorf, rubbing the stubble on his jaw. "We have to find him."

"Dulog!" Quirk bawled. A hunched over man shuffled forward.

"Dulog," continued Quirk. "Which'sh way did our friend'sh friend go?"

Dulog dropped to the ground and crawled a few revolutions of the campsite. Archendorf remained dutifully silent, awkwardly aware that he stood like a mountain in a sea of pygmies.

At least Dulog stood and dusted dirt from the front of his robe. He cast an arm back in the direction of Bullspit.

"No, that can't be right," said Archendorf. "We were heading to the Cragtops... What is the little bugger playing at?"

Pinworm held up his hand, palm outward, waiting for the moment. His forces, a good fifty elves strong, had positioned themselves carefully about the Leaf Tribe's clearing. They were outnumbered three-to-one, for the Leaf Tribe was one of the larger in the forest. Pinworm, however, had the advantage of surprise.

He chopped his hand down and a wave of arrows launched into the air from compact hunting bows. The lazy silence broke as several dozen elves of the Leaf Tribe cried out in sudden pain as the metal tipped arrows speared their flesh.

He had to keep the momentum of his strike. With a cry Pinworm brandished his flail and rushed forward, the rest of the Lizard Clan following close behind. They covered the distance quickly and within moments were hacking and chopping at their enemy. It was an ugly butchering and Pinworm felt for a moment a surge of elation; they might just pull this off!

Treeater, leader of the Leaf Tribe, groggily awoke to cries of pain and screaming. He raised his head, taking precious seconds to figure out what was happening. They were under attack!

He struggled for long moments to free himself of his deckchair, the darned contraption folding beneath him in his haste and partially trapping him until he kicked it free. Glancing up he saw the tide of battle sweeping rapidly closer. He grabbed his hatchet just in time to parry what would have been a decapitating blow. The wily old elf danced aside, planting his hatchet into the back of his attacker's head with a solid thunk and spray of green blood.

Noting with mounting dismay that already half of his warriors lay slain he shouted a rousing war cry. The two factions met like swirling water, confusion reigning as the element of surprise was lost and defensive action began. Treeater retreated up into the boughs of his treehouse, gathering his bodyguards. They assembled, hastily fitting thick leather body armour and cinching tight weapon belts. They moved with deliberation to fight off the effects of the forest wine and were soon lusting for revenge.

"Who is it? Who attacks?" Treeater demanded of his captain.

"It's Pinworm," replied an elf. One of his eyes was milky white with cataract, a fold of long-healed scar running across his cheek.

"How did they get past the sentries?" demanded Treeater, shaking his bloody hatchet.

"They... I..." It was clear the captain had no defence.

Treeater raised his hatchet, and the close gathering of elves in the treehouse held their collective breath.

"You fool!" Treeater slammed his hatchet down, diverting at the last moment so it took a chunk out of the wall. "You will die today one way or another, but I will give you the chance to do so nobly in battle."

The captain bowed low.

Treeater turned to another elf. "Hillfern, I want you to take your fighters and defend the sproglings, take them to the High Treehouse. Wormheart, are you here? No, dead? Then you, yes, you, take three others and sweep the forest for Pinworm's archers. Screaming-Frog, ah, good, you are here, stay close to me, same for the rest of you. If we can kill Pinworm himself, perhaps the others will lose heart. Now, go!"

With a roar the small band leapt from the treehouse, keeping a tight formation as they ran full speed into the bulk of the attacking army. Treeater's deadly efficient unit swathed through their enemy, outmatching them in both weaponry and technique.

A cluster of bodyguards tight about him, Pinworm looked across the battleground to see Treeater's charge eating into his forces. With a toss of his head, he instructed his companions to the attack, coming at Treeeater's blindside. As Pinworm ran, he raised his nasty looking spiked ball and swung it on its chain, leaping into the fray, bringing his weapon down with a devastating crunch.

Treeater, his oblong head made concave, fell to the ground.

Screaming-Frog saw his leader fall and gave a cry of dismay. He roared and swung his mace in a wide arc, taking Pinworm's jaw clean from his face in a shower of gore.

The battle raged on, a now desperate blurring confusion of strike and counter-strike, where friend could barely be distinguished from foe.

Thrum blinked in disbelief, watching in mute horror as the massacre began. Rather than getting better, he feared his prospects were suddenly worse.

There was a gasping rattle from overhead, and a body dropped almost into Thrum's lap. The dying elf tried to raise a dagger in defence, but another elf had leapt down from the cart, feet splayed and knife striking bone. Having dispatched his foe, the elf danced off to find further action.

Thrum stayed very still for a moment, just looking at the fallen knife by his feet, hardly believing his luck. Slowly, trying not to attract any attention, he pawed with one foot at the knife just out of reach.

_Dammit!_ he thought, stretching to his full extent. His slipper brushed again the blade and pushed it away slightly. _Dammit to hell!_

Wriggling deeper into the earth he pointed his toe out again, willing his limbs to pop from their sockets in his effort to stretch further. He touched the hilt and moved it a fraction closer. Sweat beading from his brow Thrum refused to pay any attention to the tumult surrounding him, focussed entirely on the knife. It moved closer again, and this time he was able to hook his ankle around it.

Then he had it! There followed some awkward movements of pushing and twisting as he manoeuvred the knife under his buttocks, but soon the hilt was in his hands and the blade working against his bonds.

The rope severed after long moments of furious sawing and at last a rush of blood flowed into hands suddenly aching with pins and needles. He wasted no time in ducking away under the high cart and into deep shadow.

He stopped short and snapped his fingers in frustration. "Those elves still have the scroll."

He huddled low and scanned the campsite. The golden gleam of the cruciform was not hard to miss, and there, right next to it, lay the scroll. He knew he had to escape while he could, and damn the rest.

On sudden impulse that surprised even himself he leapt forwards into the mass of fighting elves. Nobody seemed to notice, which suited Thrum just fine. He scuttled on all fours keeping his head low and clambering over fallen elves, wincing as he touched their repulsive flesh. He ducked, narrowly avoiding a war-axe as it came to rest in the earth in his path. He leapt over it and continued.

At last he reached the cruciform and scroll and grabbed both in the one hand, drawing them close. He about-faced and hurried out again.

He emerged very suddenly.

"That was stupid," he said to himself, laughing like a lunatic, shaking from adrenalin and hardly believing his own bravery. "Time to get out of here!"

He fled, not following any particular path or direction, but trying to maintain a direct bearing. He skipped through broad-leaved plants heavy with dew, his feet sinking deep into mud, clawing over slippery roots. The rain started again, thick heavy drops that fell from leaf to leaf, sagging the foliage, the air misty with moisture.

He stopped to listen as a crashing of hurrying feet reached his ears. He had only time to drop low and roll into a hollow as a horde of elves swung by. Intent on their destination they did not notice him. Peeping between leaves Thrum saw all were armed with hatchets or bows and streaked in war paint, and surmised that word of the conflict had spread and other tribes converged in who knew what alliances.

He waited long minutes until all sounds of their passing receded and insect chirps and croaks resumed. He had scratches on his forearm from thorny ivy and already ugly welts were rising. At least, he reflected, the thickness of his dressing gown saved him from the worst.

A gloomy light filtered down to the understorey, but Thrum could only guess at the time of day. He had no idea which way was which and knew the possibility of becoming lost forever in these woods was very real indeed. He started in one direction, only to pause, reconsider, and strike off in another. A wall of greenery confronted him and, seeing no other way, plunged through the tangle of branches shoulder first, arms shielding his averted face. Blindly stumbling forward the ground dropped away beneath his feet, the leaf litter causing him to stumble over a concealed stump and flailing wildly for footing.

He fell flat on his face with a crash, landing nose-to-nose with a huge toad. The creature lifted itself upon hind legs, revealing a bright yellow underside in some sort of warning. Thrum backed away, not keen to witness what sort of bizarre and no doubt effective defensive mechanism it had evolved to survive in Mosswood forest.

He wasn't quite fast enough for the toad's liking as its yellow belly pulsated and produced a thunderous belch and spray of saliva, the volume of which would have been the envy of any beer-swilling drunkard full of cheap ale and chips. The blast of fetid air made Thrum's eyeballs roll back in his skull, only the whites showing, the reflex gagging a physical blow invading every pore in his lungs. Using his hands and feet he literally propelled himself backwards as if swimming into clear air where he could breathe once more.

Wiping the wet clinging leaves from his front he stood and resumed his course. He stumbled across a path of sorts, nothing more than a half-overgrown animal track. It seemed to be going in the direction he wanted to go. It ran a twisting path through the looming trees and he felt exposed on it, but progress was much quicker than hacking through the undergrowth, where every step was hard fought.

The forest opened into a clearing and before he knew it he'd stumbled into an elvish village. He stood rooted to the ground in terror for a moment, his eyes darting left and right, feeling naked. The trees, as menacing and pressing as they were, had at least provided cover. The clearing was not particularly large, maybe ten or twenty tree houses bordering. There were no buildings at ground level, only a low haphazardly constructed wall about a small well complete with bucket and winch and a bonfire pit.

Nothing moved. The village, it seemed, was empty. There was no sound but rain pattering with a steady drumming on leaves. Although the smouldering fire pit indicated the elves were not far away everything was funereally still and obviously deserted.

Thrum relaxed a little, his shoulders dropping from where they had hunched up somewhere near his ears, and back straightened from a protective hunch. With quiet steps, he edged around the clearing and picked up the trail on the far side.

He continued onward. Although endeavouring to stay headed in the same direction every now and again he would encounter a massive half-decayed fallen tree or deep ravine necessitating a detour. At one point he heard distant battle cries echoing through the forest. It was difficult to tell exactly how far away the fighting was, for with a cocked ear he could only discern the faint sound of metal on metal and the hollow shrieks of elves. After a few minutes the sounds died away with a slight shift in wind direction, so Thrum continued onwards.

After what he could only guess as a period of one or two long hours of determined and strength-sapping walking he stumbled through a tangle of branches and into a clearing, a small oddly-familiar well and bucket before him. At first he couldn't believe it, but when he finally accepted the truth, the surroundings clicked into place.

He realised he had been travelling in circles.

The thought circled in his brain like his path through the woods had done. Panic rose and he started to hyperventilate. He doubted he would survive a night in the forest. He dove back into the forest and away from the elvish village, no longer following the trail but blinding crashing through the undergrowth and cursing at every snag and catch.

Finally, out of breath and a stitch in his side, he stopped and forced himself to think. He needed to locate himself, to fix a direction. To do that he'd need to be able to see a landmark, if he could climb high enough he'd be able to see the road, perhaps, or at the very least, the Cragtop Mountains to the west. He paced in a breathless circle, head craned back, to find a suitable tree. Nothing presented itself, those gnarled trunks nearby over five arm spans in diameter and totally lacking in lower branches. There was no way he'd be able to get any purchase on the smooth vertical towers, and prospects didn't look promising if he did manage in any case; his eyes travelled up and up, the upper canopy a distant shadow in the sky. There was no way he had the nerve or skill to get up that high, and climbing a smaller tree would serve no point as far as gaining a vantage went.

The other option was to cast a spell of finding. He licked his lips in nervous anticipation, the words to the spell in his mind's eye. He could do it.

He exhaled.

Flicking back the heavy sodden sleeves of his gown he thrust up his arms and began the incantation. It was not a long spell, only a score of words, and once done he looked about, alert for a signs something had happened. Rain continued to mist down, his feet slowly sinking in mud, the chorus of insects forming a monotonous background he no longer consciously heard. The forest remained impassive and, if anything, the trees seemed to lean over a little further as if angered.

His options were running out. He fixed his gaze determinately upon the nearest oak, whose lower branches seemed perhaps a little lower than the others. Before fear had time to take hold he leapt at it, fingernails clawing, feet scratching, embracing the trunk in a spreadeagled hug and scrambling blindly upwards.

Slowly, inexorably, his flailing limbs slipped on the wet surface, and when he opened his eyes instead of finding himself high above the ground as he expected, he was where he had begun. He stepped back to the ground resignedly. It was just not going to work. It was getting darker. He was lost. He was alone.

Fighting back tears Thrum launched a wild kick at some long stemmed mushrooms, the bunch of them exploding in a satisfying powder of spores and fragments.

Then he had a thought.

Of course, the scroll!

He pulled it from his pocket and read;

_Calm down, we're lucky, the elves are distracted for the moment. I know the way. Follow my lead_.

Thrum's loneliness vanished as he read Taukin's almost paternal words; he'd forgotten he'd had a travelling companion all along, once one of the King's Four Archmages no less.

The words on the scroll faded to be replaced by an arrow pointing straight ahead and left. As he pivoted, the arrow remained in a fixed direction like that of a compass. He followed the arrow carefully, holding the scroll like a divining stick as he paced along. Taukin seemed to know the lay of the land, too, for his directions led him around the major obstacles and followed rudimentary paths for much of the time.

Finally, after a long stretch of walking, the forest above started to thin, blessed sunlight shafting onto the humus.

Thrum broke out from the folds and was suddenly out in the open. He gazed about in wonder, feeling that he had been in the forest a lifetime.

Here the sun was shining brightly in a bluebird clear day, the air clear and fresh. He allowed himself a manic laugh and stood head tilted back to the sky for some time. He had just broken the law of Mosswood; what goes in must not come out.

He had no idea where he had emerged, but he had not forgotten the one-armed magician of last night. With this thought in his mind he wasted no time in crossing the road and into the lush grass of the far side. He read the scroll, still in his hand.

Changed your mind yet?

Thrum set his chin.

"No, I must try the Archmages of the Ivory Tower."

Did I just not save your life? Do you not listen? You must not go there! Time is of the essence, you do not know the dangers afoot. The Crylock has plans unfolding as we speak, and only I can stop them. The course to the Ivory Tower is fruitless.

Thrum shook his head.

"No, you have mistaken me. I am not your hero."

He rolled the scroll back into a cylinder, feeling it twitch like an angry captured bug as he stuffed it back into this pocket. With a heavy sigh he steeled himself and set off northeast towards the coastline and the Ivory Tower.

He strode through the tall grass swelling like an ocean on all sides. The noise of crickets and the swish-swish of his footsteps blended into monotony as the day wore on, but Thrum relished the openness and freedom. Since his time in Mosswood he doubted he would ever feel comfortable in an enclosed space again. The load on his mind grew lighter with every step and before long he became convinced he did the right thing. The King's Archmages would be able to sort this mess out; as long as he kept his head low and his pace steady he doubted the one-armed magician would find him. There was the thought of the nights to come, which would surely be cold and miserable, for he dared not start a fire (or possess the means) and he had lost his hobbit blanket when captured by the elves. Nevertheless, the day was mild and the rain had stopped, and that brought a little consolation.

He thought about Archendorf, and wondered what his big friend was up to right now.

"Ho there! Thrum, at last!"

Thrum almost fainted, sure he imagined Archendorf's barrel of a voice, but sure enough as he turned there he was, riding high over the chest deep grass. As he drew closer, he saw Arc mounted upon a strange knock-kneed creature with a scraggly beard and lofty head. It paced towards him rapidly, the beast seemingly so urgent in its stride that its head stuck out on an impossibly long neck far ahead of its body.

"Archendorf? What the!? Is that really you?"

"It's me all right, mate!" Archendorf drew to an awkward stop and leapt from the tall saddle in delight, not waiting for the camel to lower itself and rushing over and grabbing Thrum in a massive bear hug. "I thought I'd lost you!"

"How did you find me?"

"You'll see, wait, ah, here they come now."

The heads of several of the desert nomads came into view, Dulog the master tracker was in the lead and Quirk a close second. Archendorf waved them in.

"You led us on a merry chase, we lost you for a bit when your trail disappeared into Mosswood - I guess you ducked in there to try hide your trail, eh? But old Dulog the master tracker can't be matched, he picked it up again not far away! Quirk, this is my friend, Thrum, and Thrum, this is Quirk and his team of ruthless and hot blooded desert raiders!"

"I sh'am honoured," Quirk said.

"Why is he talking like that?" said Thrum to Archendorf blinking away a spray of spit.

"Don't mind that, tell me what you're doing here!" Arc said, his hand grasping Thrum's shoulder. "Where are you off to, what plans are afoot?"

Trying to put his arm back in joint Thrum backed away and waved a hand in deprecation.

"No, no, look, you don't understand. The quest, it's over."

Abrupt silence fell, even the camels stopped their snorting.

In the strained atmosphere Archendorf took Thrum aside and whispered, "What are you talking about?"

"I'm quitting, I'm going to the Ivory Tower."

"The Tower? But they won't believe you."

"I know. But what chance do we have against the Crylock, it's stupidity to even try."

"But this was our story, it will work out, you just watch."

"No, I'm a coward. I can't go. I'd rather live to an old age than die young for some stupid quest."

"Thrum, please, reconsider."

Archendorf's words were cut short as Thrum ripped the scroll from his pocket and thrust it away from his body. "You want a quest, well take it. Go on. Now leave me alone, and don't follow me."

Archendorf unwillingly took the scroll, his eyes wide. Thrum knew he turned his back on a solid friend, but emotions were in control, and not logic.

Archendorf called after him. For the first time Thrum heard contempt in the big man's tone. "Live well, Thrum. I hope you enjoy your long life."

Thrum could only lift a hand in silent goodbye as he continuing walking, taking deep shaky breaths.

### 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 sure 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 the 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.

### Chapter Five

The celebratory bonfire blazed high, the feeling of relief contagious. Quirk's men sat about eating a hearty lunch of roasted rabbits, tossing aside bones toothlessly sucked to pearly perfection. Thrum and Archendorf exchanged tales of their adventures since their separation, Thrum describing his at first not so welcome reception at the Ivory Tower, and then Karina's help.

Archendorf elbowed his friend in the ribs.

"You've gone a bit dreamy eyed there, mate. She a bit of a looker, I take it?"

Thrum shook his head. "Like it matters... She's married. To one of the King's Four."

Archendorf made a low whistle of admiration. "And you say she's second-in-line for replacing the next Archmage? There'd be some serious magic in their kids, eh?"

The truth only served to remind Thrum of his inadequacies, for indeed magical ability passed on down the family line, the progeny of two Archmages would be a force indeed. He grimaced.

Seeing his friend's discomfiture, Archendorf bellowed a laugh and punched Thrum good-naturedly in the arm.

"Cheer up! If we survive this mess, then you can think about finding yourself a woman!"

Quirk half collapsed at their feet, offering a leather gourd and motioning them to drink. "What'sh going on here fellash? Here, get some of this'h into ya."

Thrum did so, raising it to his lips and taking a cautious sip of the milky liquid and making the appropriate grimace. Quirk gave him a broad wink.

"So onward'sh with the quest!" he said.

Thrum broke from his reverie. "No. No. There's something you should know." He took a deep breath before plunging. "Taukin the Archmage is a traitor."

Archendorf's jaw dropped open and Quirk blinked heavily.

"What do you mean?"

"I found out some hidden history at the Ivory Tower. It seems before his death he turned to the side of the Crylock, and he's tricked us into carrying him back."

"Son of a bitch!"

"That's what I said."

"So he's really an evil magician? I always sensed the bastard was being cagey, but this!"

Thrum nodded. "Makes sense, his body being guarded by the Crylock, his urgency to get us to take him there."

Quirk spoke up. "Hang'sh on a moment, are you shaying we've been had?"

Those of Quirk's men nearby perked up their ears, the wave of silence spreading quickly and soon all had stopped chewing. A few edged closer, eyeing the scroll suspiciously.

"It seems that way," said Thrum, finding himself now addressing an audience.

"It's lucky you caught us in time," said Archendorf.

"It was no problems on Fawn." Thrum indicated in the direction the Tower horse stood, untethered and waiting patiently. He glanced down at the scroll in his clenched fist. "We've got to destroy it."

A few murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"So you believe it?" asked Archendorf. "There's no way this girlfriend of yours could be mistaken?" Archendorf nodded towards the scroll. "You don't think we should, you know, consult the scroll, like the old times."

Thrum chewed his lip for a long moment then slowly shook his head.

"Shouldn't we at least check?" pressed Archendorf.

"No. I can't... I...I'm afraid."

"Afraid'sh? Of what, it's just a piece'sh of paper. I think Archendorf is right, what if you've been had by those'sh jokers in the Ivory Tower?"

"I'm not going to give up everything we've been through without being totally sure. This is not a decision to be made lightly," said Archendorf.

Thrum looked despondently down at the rolled scroll and turned it in his hands. "What if Taukin can play some sort of mind-trick on me? He's a powerful Archmage, who knows what he may be capable of?"

"We'll keep an eye on you. We'll make a decision together, after all, we can't be affected by any tricks he might pull."

"All right. Okay." Thrum took several long moments before taking the scroll in two hands and by degrees he unrolled it, inclining his head upwards and peering down into the curve, as if this would give advance warning of any traps.

"Well, what does it say?" asked Archendorf after a while, watching Thrum's eyes move backwards and forwards as he read and re-read.

Thrum let it fall from limp fingers, his face draining of colour, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.

"What did it say?"

Thrum didn't speak for some time. Finally he shook his head, clearing it of cobwebs and trying to think clearly. "He is trying to deceive us again. No, they were right, Taukin is a traitor, he belongs to the Crylock. We must destroy him."

Archendorf gently reached down and took the scroll up in his bear-like hands, ready to tear it in two.

"You sure?"

Thrum simply nodded.

With a twitch, Archendorf ripped straight down the centre, the sound of tearing parchment like a thousand limbs wrenching from sockets, much louder than the collective gasp of the crowd.

"Stone me dead," said Archendorf, regaining his breath. The terrible noise had grated against his bones like nails down a blackboard. The deed was now done; in his fists he held two separate parts of Taukin's scroll. Crumpling them together and tossing them down, he brushed his palms together.

"And that," he said, "was mighty Taukin."

"Hip-hip," Quirk started.

"Hooray!" chorused his men.

"No," said Thrum. He spoke quietly, but somehow they heard. The men broke off, the breath in their lungs ready for the next hooray a silent exhale. All followed his gaze, watching.

Like a thing alive, the two separate pieces of scroll found each other and morphed to form a whole. Nobody said anything for some time.

"Dammit, well, I'll try again," said Archendorf. He picked up the scroll and repeated the procedure, this time tearing it in quarters then into eighths. He threw them into the air and the pieces fluttered to the ground.

As before, the scroll seemed to liquefy and meld back together.

"This isn't going to work," said Thrum. "Here, you tear it in half and you take your half over there and bury it. I'll take my half way over there and bury mine."

Archendorf nodded and once again, the harsh cringe-inducing noise accompanied the tear, and Archendorf passed over half. Thrum set off in the one direction, Archendorf with his half heading the other. When he was a good fifty paces from the campfire, he turned over a rock with his slipper and crouched, thrusting the scroll underneath.

He noticed the scroll was whole and complete.

"Dammit!"

He grabbed the scroll again and strode back towards Archendorf, who was also heading back with an expression of confuddlement.

"I was carrying it, I didn't let go, but when I'd dug my hole it was simply gone from my hand!"

Thrum held out the scroll. "It's obvious this isn't going to work. Ok, how about some fire?"

Shielding one hand over his face before its radiant heat Thrum advanced and tossed the scroll as deep as he was able into the heart of the campfire. It simply sat within imperviously in the coals for long moments, and just as they were about to despair flame caught hold of one edge. A small hollow thump of explosion puffed from the scroll and with a high pitched wail, like the singing of burning green wood, thick black smoke poured forth as fire spread across its length.

They stood and watched it burn. Turning black, it disintegrated satisfyingly into tiny pieces that fell between the burning logs. There were a few tense minutes while Archendorf prodded the pieces with a stick, but after some considerable time it seemed they had truly destroyed the scroll.

Thrum turned to Archendorf and thrust out his hand. With huge grins, they shook and Archendorf clapped Thrum on the back, espousing his relief.

"It's over!"

"Then the quest is'h a success!" said Quirk, joining them and toasting his leather gourd. "Let'sh have anotsher drink!"

The festivities lasted well through the day. Thrum did not last nearly half as long, however, for after filling his belly with food and drink an incredible weariness came over him. He could not remember the last decent night's sleep he'd had, and had been running on a fast-emptying tank of adrenalin. Borrowing a blanket and sleeping mat his grainy eyes closed and such was his fatigue he slept right through the day, despite the noise.

He awoke that evening to find the party still in progress. Someone had gone off hunting and returned with two small wild pigs that were now rotating on spits over the bonfire. Thrum wiped crusted sleep from the corners of his eyes and propped himself upright, trying to get his bearings. The delicious aroma of crackling pork wafted up his nose, triggering a flow of saliva, and suddenly he was extremely hungry again.

They ate and drank well into the night, the blazing bonfire keeping the chill and clear night air at bay. The quest abruptly at an end, all were relaxed, for there was nowhere pressing to go.

"So, I'd imagine the Ivory Tower will be impressed we've... destroyed... Taukin," said Archendorf. He could not quite bring himself to say 'killed', for it seemed their act had been too much in cold-blood. Burning a scroll was one thing, murder another.

Thrum noticed Archendorf's careful use of words.

"It had to be done. He was part of the Crylock. While I was in the Tower, I did some reading. I found out the Crylock were once the big wigs of the land. They set all the laws, reaped all the taxes. The whole land was theirs, before the Ivory Tower fought them for it. Who knows what vengeance Taukin would have wrought."

"That's weird, I'd never even heard about the Crylock before I met you."

"The Ivory Tower pretty much has a law preventing anyone even mentioning the Crylock. I wouldn't be surprised if they also had a blanket spell over the whole kingdom, erasing memories that it ever existed."

"Why would they do that?"

Thrum shrugged. "It was a pretty grim battle between them, I gather. The quicker the Crylock were forgotten, the better."

"Huh! Interesting... Do you think we'll get some sort of reward? I don't mean to be tight, but I don't have a lot of spare cash at the moment."

"I can ask, I've got to go back to return Fawn. But I don't fancy our chances, they didn't really believe me the first time, and now that we've burnt the scroll, we have even less proof."

"Hmm, that's true, now that you mention it. I don't suppose we could borrow Fawn for a bit longer, you know, take it as compensation..."

"No. I dare not. She's a magical horse, I don't think they'd take kindly to that. And if there's one lesson I've learnt, it's not to get a magician peeved."

Archendorf laughed. "At least there's something to take away from all of this." He sighed. "So nobody even will know we've saved the kingdom. That's a bit of a let-down."

"Well, at the end of the day, you and I both know it," said Thrum, biting into a piece of meat on the bone.

"That's true." Archendorf saluted with a roasted potato, for he was vegetarian and did not partake in eating the roasted pig. "A story to tell the kids!"

After eating Thrum found himself yawning cavernously and, making his goodnights, retired to bed again and had no trouble sinking into a deep sleep.

He slept well without any dreams and awoke early as the morning sun edged over the horizon, taking the biting edge off the morning air. Flinging aside his bedding with a shiver, he hurried some distance away to relieve himself against a bush, steam rising in the air.

Strewn about the clearing were empty bags once containing stores of travel provisions, flasks with a few drops of liquor pooling about open mouths. In the centre, cold ashes were all that remained of the bonfire. Thrum saw the desert nomads were already awake, struggling in sombre silence to get organised.

The thought of going back home to his normal life left Thrum feeling strangely lost. He sat on a rock, his hood over his head, basking in the rays of the sun, musing on all he had been through and all he had seen. Unlike Archendorf, he was not made for adventure; he didn't wish to risk his life again, for he realised now how short it could have been, but by the same token he felt he had to make more of each day, and not simply waste them away as he had done all his life.

"Ah, there you are!"

Thrum turned to see Archendorf approach.

"Are you sure you won't join us?" he asked.

Thrum shook his head. "No, I've been thinking about we were saying last night. I'm not sure where I'll go. After taking Fawn back to the Ivory Tower..." He did not mention Karina - he half hoped he wouldn't see her again, yet half hoped he would. "From there, I don't know."

"You should come with us," Archendorf pursued. "Quirk is more than happy for you to join the tribe as well. Come on, it'll be fun, see how far north we can get before world ends!"

"I've had enough quests for one lifetime," Thrum said with a wry grin. "But ride with me as far as the Ivory Tower."

Archendorf nodded. "You got a deal."

Nearby one of Quirk's men scooped up the collection of debris that had been the contents of his saddlebags and shoved them into the bag. He threw them over the back of his balking camel, the beast barking with annoyance as it backed away. Tossing its bearded jaw the camel stretched its snake-like neck, lifted its tail, shuddered, and launched a liquescent and voluminous crap upon the ground. The nomad was shocked and took a step backwards, but soon saw the camel seemed its usual placid self once again, so he continued to saddle up.

Very slowly the camp packed, and the morning was well progressed by the time they were all moving, Quirk in the lead, with Thrum upon Fawn alongside Archendorf, and the rest of the band following in single file. Two tribesmen rode tandem at the rear of the train, as one had given up a camel for Archendorf.

The camels glided along at an even and jaunty pace. Thrum and Archendorf rode in companionable silence. The pocket of Thrum's new cloak hung with the weight of the cruciform, but every now and again, he found himself startled and checking for the scroll, only to realize what they'd done. It was a burden lifted, but still Taukin's final message, the one that he could not tell anyone, haunted his thoughts.

"Thinking of a crafty new scheme?" teased Archendorf.

Thrum broke from his trance. "What, oh? No, I was just thinking."

"You know, it's been fun," said Archendorf.

"Fun? Ha! That's not what you were saying back in that cave," Thrum reminisced with a smile.

"Ah, I was just a little scared."

"You finally got your wish to experience fear, eh?"

"What came over you, wanting to charge in after that guy?"

"I don't know. I guess I was trying to make it up to you, to show I wasn't such a chicken, like I was before."

"The dwarf's shop...?"

"Look Arc, I'm sorry for being a bastard and running off on you."

"Not at all. Lucky one of us has a brain, all I can say. If I'd have had my way, at this moment I'd be knocking on the Crylock's door and they'd be no doubt willing to let me right on in."

"He had us both going, didn't he?"

"Sneaky bugger."

"I hope to meet again sometime, Thrum."

"You never know..."

The day passed. The mountains receded slowly and the grassland once again opened up, the clattering of broad camel hooves upon stone softening in stages. They had been travelling for most of the morning and by Quirk's reckoning were well on course to the Ivory Tower when Dulog, the sharpest eye among them, spotted something ahead.

"A rider!" he hailed.

They reined in their mounts a little, loosening sabres in scabbards, as the unidentified mounted rider topped a nearby hill. It seemed to be galloping directly towards them, cloak billowing grandly behind, the horse massive and black. It drew closer with startling rapidity and Thrum saw the figure's hair streaming out behind.

"Karina! Quirk, it's a friend!"

Quirk sheathed his weapon but did not take his hand from the hilt. The camel train had drawn to a halt and awaited the breathless arrival.

"Thrum!" she cried. "I've found you!"

She drew up alongside. The camels were of similar height to Karina's lofty steed. Thrum, however, was a good three hands shorter upon Fawn. He felt a little self-conscious and out of sorts. He suddenly felt possessive of his time spent alone with Karina, a special enclosed sphere of his life that he wanted to preserve and loathe to share. Seeing her here was the intrusion of reality upon dream. None-the-less, he made the introductions.

"This is Karina, of the Ivory Tower. And this is my friend Archendorf."

Karina inclined her head slightly. "Well met, friend Archendorf. And of course I know Quirk."

Quirk grumbled a little but wisely did not take Karina's sternness to heart.

"I came as soon as I was able, but the negotiations with the elves were difficult." Karina said. She was still dressing in the same riding clothes of the previous day, her black hair tied back in a simple yet mysterious manner, her face glowing and spirited, her cheeks flushed red.

"Is your husband here?" asked Thrum as casually as he was able.

"No. I'm afraid he doesn't believe the story that Taukin's scroll could still be in the land of the living."

"Ah, it's not!" said Archendorf.

"The scroll's destroyed," Thrum said.

Karina's eyes widened. "Destroyed?"

Archendorf nodded, reaching down and clapping a hand across Thrum's back.

"That's right!" Arc said. "We burnt it!"

"That's fantastic," cried Karina. "So, we are finally rid of Taukin the Turncoat! Congratulations on the spell, Thrum, finally managed to crank out a fire spell, eh?"

"Spell?" asked Thrum, sensing all of a sudden that something was not right.

"No, not a spell," put in Archendorf. "Just plain fire."

"Normal fire?" Karina's tone rose several pitches in disbelief. "You tried to burn a magic scroll with plain earthly fire?"

Thrum nodded slowly, not sure where all this was going but feeling a heavy weight grow in his stomach. "Ye-es."

"You need magic fire to destroy a magic scroll, I thought you of all people would know that Thrum."

"So the scroll is not destroyed?" Archendorf asked.

"No, you pair of imbeciles. It'll regenerate. Where is it?"

"Back at our camp."

"Quickly, there's no time to lose, let's go back and see if we can find it before someone else does. Archendorf, you can ride with me. Fawn and Hiro will outpace your camel."

Archendorf looked a little hesitant, but Karina's voice was so confident that he found himself obeying. He slung both legs on one side of his camel then hopped the small distance onto Hiro's back as Karina drew alongside. Thrum watched jealously and he averted his eyes lest he betray emotion as he saw Archendorf's hand brush Karina's.

"Wha'sh going on?" Quirk asked.

"We're going back," said Archendorf from his position behind Karina's narrow waist. The big man sat off the back of the saddle. "Catch us up."

Karina geed and the mighty war stallion, imbued with magic, leapt into blurring motion like a fish flashing into deep water. Thrum hardly needed to urge Fawn on for she turned about of her own accord to follow her stable-mate. Thrum hunched forward in the saddle as Fawn sprung into a gallop, the ground flashing by underfoot, the acceleration smooth and strangely gentle.

Something twitched in a mound of camel dung. It was a sloppy mix and most it had run clear of the crumpled, broken umbrella shape buried within. It twitched a second time then began quivering, shaking a brown spray.

With a creaking and popping sound like fingers rubbing across a balloon the wings elongated and the body of the bat puffed outwards. In a complex series of jerks, the shape unfolded upon itself again and again until finally, with a snap, Valgus returned to human form.

The first few minutes he spent coughing violently, hacking deep in his lungs and bringing forth great globs of colourful phlegm he spat aside, suffering the very understandable dejection of spirits that comes with being passed through the digestive tract of a camel. Very slowly, he became aware of his surrounds and managed to creak open an eyelid. Naked and shivering after his transformation he propped his one remaining arm under himself as a blistering headache pounding in his temples. His white body, covered in crease and fold marks, stank horribly. He tried to move but his broken marionette joints seized and popped uselessly.

And he'd lost the scroll.

Valgus hung his head. He had been so very close to success; he'd allowed himself to dare dream of the great things to come. Ladanum would shower him in praise, he would no doubt have gained another ranking in the Magician's Scale, perhaps even to Archmage as Ladanum himself. With some intensive healing spells of the Crylock combined, they would be able to patch his body back together. His future had been rosy.

After all he had been through, all was now lost. For a long while he sat, uncaring that runny camel dung squelched slowly up his crack. Battered, bruised, his life was at an end.

Something caught his tear brimmed eye, something fluttering in the breeze and he looked, hardly daring to believe. Could it be? The scroll, partially caught beneath a half burnt log, flapping as if waving to catch his attention. He stood slowly, lest he scare this apparition away, and hobbled across on bowed legs, eyes never leaving the pristine parchment. When close enough he snatched at it, half surprised it did not dissolve in his hands, joy bursting forth in his miserable black heart.

"Yippeeee!"

He danced a jig as best as he was able, a naked magician looking as if he had come out of a wringing machine, kicking dust up with untended-toenail feet and cackling riotously to the sky.

"I've got it, I've got it, woo hooo!"

He held it tight in his one hand and forced himself to take several deep breaths.

"Ok, calm down. I've got to get out of here before they get back. No magic left, I can hardly walk. Ok, think Valgus, use that big noggin of yours."

He paced tight circles, restless eyes scanning the horizon for any dust cloud. For the moment all was quiet.

"Ladanum. That's it!"

Valgus folded himself into a seated position and closed his eyes. He allowed a good long five minutes calming into the proper state of mind before attempting the mind-reach spell, for he knew he had only one chance before his strength gave out. He felt in the stillness of his conscious the calling of his mind towards those in the Crylock.

With a suddenness that almost made him break contact Ladanum's cowled visage appeared. His characteristically measured paced and emphasised speech came through clear.

"Valgus! By the mighty sins of Holgat! What happened to you?"

Valgus recovered the strength of the connection before trying to reply. "I have the scroll. Need assistance."

"You have it?"

Valgus felt Ladanum's effortless strength bolstering the spell, firming the contact.

"Yes, I have it. But...weak...don't know when they'll be back..."

"Stay there, I have a fix on your position. Gehmat and I will be there as soon as possible."  
"Gehmat...?"

"Yes, he made his way back here some time ago, said you'd met your end. Seems he's become quite proficient on the broomstick, as you will see. Save your strength, we'll be there soon."

"Yes, my Lord. Thank you."

The connection broke. Valgus's mind fell back loosely into his brain and he jiggled about until it felt mostly back in place – mind connections always left him feeling as if his body were an alien thing. Still clutching the scroll, he walked towards one boulder, with every movement his joints clacking and popping. It was only a matter of waiting.

The sun rose slowly in the sky, shadows shrinking and the chill mists clearing. Every now and again he would drag himself around the other side of the boulder and scan the horizon for signs of the camel troupe's return, and then the sky for any sign of Ladanum. It was a tense waiting game and much as he felt the driving need to flee, any movement caused an agonising ripping pain. He went through periods of doubt, fear, euphoria, and terror. What if his foe should arrive before Ladanum? He couldn't bear the thought of another drubbing, the thought of losing the scroll again stilling his heart with icy dread. Then he thought that on the broomstick Ladanum would be here in the no time, providing they did not get lost.

That thought shocked him. What if right now they were shooting out of control right over his head? If they did know what they were doing, surely they would be here by now, which meant they were lost.

Caught in these revolving paroxysms of elation and dread Valgus crouched with his knees drawn up to his chest, his eyes on the sky every second breath and starting at every birdcall.

Then he saw it - a black speck low in the sky growing closer fast. With a graceful wide arc it circled his position, the cracking sound of its passing delayed several seconds behind. Valgus saw two figures riding the broomstick, their cloaks wiping behind as it slowed, steepening its bank and braking majestically in the air. The landing was graceful, like that of a pelican skidding with webbed feet into water, the magicians aboard the broom stepping from it with a minimum of fuss.

Gehmat, his yellow cloak freshly laundered and gleaming drew the broomstick under one arm. His dark robed passenger stood and cast a hooded gaze about, spying Valgus instantly near a boulder. They had landed only a score of paces away and Ladanum closed the gap with large strides.

"Valgus."

He struggled to a standing position, aware of his nakedness but none-the-less puffing his chest with pride.

"Your arm seems to be missing," said Ladanum, the timbre of his voice pacing like careful deliberate footsteps. He waved a hand casually and a growth sprouted from Valgus's stump.

Valgus watched as it clawed and flailed like growing ivy, taking on shape, and a few moments later he had the rudiments of an arm back, still wishbone thin but filling out slowly.

"You have the scroll," said Ladanum, his deep-sleeved arm outstretched.

"Yes, my Lord, it is yours."

Ladanum accepted the scroll, taking a moment to fill his lungs, eyes closed, as if listening. Gehmat the Yellow sidled up, looking a little embarrassed. He and Valgus exchanged piercing looks, both amazed the other still lived. Animosity flared between them, for as Valgus recalled, Gehmat had fled when he himself was in dire need. Similarly, Gehmat scowled at Valgus for he recalled how he'd been terrorised on the broomstick piloted by Valgus back when they first set after the scrollbearer.

Ladanum exhaled and lifted the scroll up to eye height, very slowly pulling the roll of the parchment apart, scanning the blankness therein.

Valgus and Gehmat froze, watching for their Lord's verdict. Was it the genuine article? After all this time, what if they'd be chasing a fake? Valgus felt dizzy.

"It is Taukin," said Ladanum at last. "The spell of silence is strong, but I can sense his soul. We are successful!"

A wave of relief swept Valgus. The end was in sight.

"Wait, what's that?" Gehmat said. He craned his neck and peered with slitted eyes at something in the far distance. A blurred shape grew larger very rapidly, the earth distorting about its form as if it passed through a powerful lens.

"They are Ivory Tower horses!" said Ladanum. "Valgus, take the scroll, return to the Crylock. Awaken Taukin the Archmage!" He thrust the scroll into Valgus's good arm.

Gehmat had the broom ready. Valgus noted an odd detail in the rush; the wooden handle was varnished and shining and the straw bristles groomed to neat perfection. Gehmat noticed the attention.

"I've given her a bit of a clean-up."

"You know how to fly this thing?"

Gehmat nodded. "On my way back to the Crylock I picked up a few things."

Valgus moved in and grasped Gehmat about the waist with his new stick hand.

"What about you?" Valgus asked.

Ladanum's attention was upon the approaching riders. Already they were only seconds away.

"Get moving. The scroll must not be lost again. I will hold them off. Now go!"

Indeed Gehmat's skills had improved; it was with a controlled and deliberate surge he lifted into the air, carrying Valgus and the scroll with him.

Karina saw the broomstick with the two mages aboard and Ladanum's deep cloaked form like a wall between them.

"Stop them!" hollered Thrum, close enough to see the scroll clenched in Valgus's fist.

Hiro plunged straight ahead, powerful iron-shod hooves clawing the air at Ladanum's unflinching face. The dark Archmage's wrist flicked in a dispelling motion and Hiro reared up on hind legs and cast over backwards as if struck by a wall of water.

Thrum saw the blur of confused motion as Karina and Archendorf collapsed to the ground, pinned beneath their mount. Thrum was a little behind Hiro and his steadfast steed leapt with ease into the air, straight over the wreckage and even over Ladanum's head. Time seemed to have stopped for Thrum. As if watching himself in slow-motion he knew Fawn with her mighty leap carried him within striking distance of the broomstick and the mages aboard. His heart was mid-beat, his eyes fixed the scroll, aware of the tableau beneath him, of Ladanum's tilted back head and unbelieving gaze, Karina and Archendorf struggling to free themselves.

This was his moment to be a hero.

Grasping the pommel, he reached out his other hand, the scroll suddenly close, so very close. Valgus, too shocked to move all but his eyes, could only watch his own hand as Thrum's straining fingers brushed the edges of the scroll.

In that fraction of an instant the scroll tugged a little, caught between Thrum's index and forefinger. A hero...

Time accelerated again. In a sudden rush, Gehmat powered the broomstick and Valgus surged away. Thrum fell forward into recently vacated air, thrashing wildly, managing to cling to the saddle as Fawn reached apogee and came to ground again, her front hooves striking earth, her muscles rippling to take up the shock.

The broomstick overhead spiralled upward and in moments a mere speck heading directly west towards the Crylock. The scroll was gone.

Fawn's momentum took her several long strides past the others and by the time Thrum wheeled about Karina and Archendorf were on their feet, bracing themselves before the evil Archmage. Time seemed to be trying to make up for its lack previously, for everything seemed sped up. Thrum fumbled in the tangled folds of his cloak for the cruciform and by the time he looked up again Archendorf was mid-air, throwing himself with reckless abandon like a mauling bear.

Archendorf's speed almost had Ladanum, but it takes more than human speed to catch an Archmage off-guard. A waved hand, and Ladanum batted Archendorf away like a fly, deflecting the big man impossibly into the air where he hung as is suspended between giant invisible hands. Ladanum held his arms outstretched and moved them apart slowly. Archendorf screamed overhead, the voodoo magic tearing one half of his body from the other. The sounds of ligament straining merged with his defiant angry cries.

Karina cast a spell of her own. She reached down, hauled on an ethereal weight, and the earth at her feet puffed and ran in a line towards Ladanum as if she were flicking up a buried cable. It snaked rapidly about in a neat circle, throwing Ladanum to the ground, legs ensnared.

It saved Archendorf's life. Like a discarded toy, he shot into a boulder, where he lay if not breathing, then at least whole.

Ladanum raised himself like a vampire from the coffin, striking the ground with the flats of his hands and pivoting upright about his heels. He paused, head cocked, looking Karina up and down.

"You are of the Ivory Tower, that I can see. But how dare you challenge me!"

"I'm not afraid of you." Karina's eyes flashed, her lips a tight determined line.

"Then you obviously don't know me," said Ladanum. With slow movements, he reached up and cast back his voluminous hood.

Karina gave a momentary start. She recognised the dark skin, the close-cropped greying hair, the little goatee. Ladanum was a man of intimidating physical bulk, his shoulders broad, neck thick with muscle.

"Give up your little quest," he said. "It is lost!"

She felt her heart stutter as if on command from his words, words that took on a simple power of their own, not magic but something deeper.

She snapped herself back into control and spoke firmly, trying to keep her voice level. "No, Ladanum. I'm not afraid of you."

Ladanum laughed. His closely set eyes squinted in sudden determination as he conjured tendrils of black cloud from his body. The brewing thunderheads billowed, growing in substance and roiling about Karina, who stood her ground firm, the clouds enveloping her diminutive form.

Karina breached the darkness with an incantation that came with a defiant shout, the clouds of stabbing lightening driven apart and scattering as rapidly evaporating mist, leaving her free once again, on her knees, head bowed, arms cast out to either side.

Ladanum paused, a cat playing with its prey discovering the mouse had teeth. The Archmage's eyes smouldered black as he drew deep from inner strength to strike a deadly blow with all his might upon this pesky upstart. He pinched his fingers together and almost delicately raised them to his lips and puffed a breath over them.

Meanwhile Thrum had dismounted, torn between the ongoing battle and rushing to help Archendorf. He held the cruciform in one hand, his head snapping backwards and forwards between the two combatants. He had felt the dark heavy pressure of the storm clouds, and knew that although Karina had warded them away easily enough, she was desperately outmatched. He knew, as she surely did, that she only bought time. Time for he and Archendorf to escape.

The stony ground surrounding Ladanum started rippling and many helmed heads sprouted like mushrooms, lifting skywards, exposing the bodies of earthen warriors. Their flesh, clothing, helmets and chain mail were all a uniform dusty grey. Thrum stumbled aside as one emerged practically from under his feet. He need not have shrunk away for the stony warrior's mechanically intent visage betrayed neither emotion nor spark of life. There were at least fifty, no, more like one hundred now, focused intently on Karina. Their feet emerged at the same time, a synchronised snapping as if from moulds, the warriors charging forward voicelessly, rushing inwards in a shrinking radius.

Ladanum did not relent or wait for the tit-for-tat parry and riposte of the traditional magical battle exchange, as many more old-fashioned mages may have done. He intended to finish this quickly with overwhelming force. He raised his arms and called aloud in an ancient tongue, summoning a comet of fire from the sky.

The warriors raised earthern blades as they drew upon Karina, she seemed too shocked to even move a single muscle. Ladanum saw a slight ghostly flicker to her form and instantly saw through the ruse and cast a finding spell. Teleportation spells could only cover short distances and they left a telltale bluish mist in their wake. In the same instant the earthen warriors smashed together into Karina's dissolving decoy Ladanum diverted the comet of fire, channelling it into the teleportation trail.

It was only the fact that Karina had not paused for breath that saved her. The ball of searing heat blasted the air she had recently re-materialised in but moments before. The stench of sulphur filled the air, the smell of natural hot springs and rotten eggs, as the pool of fire spread, thinning as it did. Katrina danced away from the steaming tendrils as they petered to a stop.

Still Ladanum's strength did not falter as he reached into seemingly depthless reserves. He made a cupping motion with one hand that sealed Karina in a shimmering orb, a life-sized snow globe with warriors trapped with her, pivoting like automations and charging again. Karina felt the press of rising air pressure as the sphere shrunk, her ears aching and buzzing, her sense of balance skewed. Caught within she knew she could not teleport again. Her short sword was in her hand and ringing out as it shattered the blade of the nearest warrior in a shower of clods of dried mud. Swiftly she deflected a second blow, smashing the warrior's head into tiny pieces.

Thrum's heart leapt as he saw the glassy sphere shrinking. Karina fought bravely, smashing foe after foe, but her movements were slowing and becoming desperate. With a cry Thrum pushed out a palm, in that instant no longer thinking anything at all, strangely calm. It was as if in the manic flurry another part of his mind had taken over, leaving the rest simply taking it all in.

The power from his fingers shocked Thrum. He had tapped into something hidden but familiar, a sensation as intangible as smell, yet having the solidarity and rightness of a childhood memory.

This power was his.

The shrinking sphere did not simply fade; it literally shattered into thousands of fragments as if made of eggshell-thin glass. The magic rush cleared the ground of stone warriors in a sweep of wind accompanied by the sound of breaking pottery.

Ladanum did not move, his face twisting uglily. Karina moved her eyes in Thrum's direction in a curious mixture of admiration and stricken anguish. He could read that look – it said, 'Why didn't you flee while you could?'

Ladanum cast out a hand in Karina's direction and said a two-word spell. A terrific crack tore open in the ground, shooting towards Karina like an arrow and the rock wall at her back splitting with a tremendous crack. Karina doubled over, gasping and coughing blood.

Ladanum turned in Thrum's direction.

"And you must be the scrollbearer. I have something special for you..."

The air above Thrum's head tore apart with a ripping noise, a small pinprick of blackness that rapidly stretched with a sound that made one's hair stand on end. It stretched, peeling away the fabric of space, revealing a deep blackness beyond, growing and growing until it was an arm width wide. A wind picked up, gentle at first but growing to a roar as air rushed to fill the hungry void beyond the portal. Thrum fell to his knees, scrambling with fingernails into the ground for purchase as the folds of his cloak whipped and snapped. Squinting against the whirling sand he managed to pull himself a few steps away, feeling weightless, on the verge of lift-off.

A figure descended from the portal, lowering in a few awkward stages from the rim, feet wavering uncertainly above the ground for a moment before letting go and dropping the last little way.

Thrum strained his eyes against the stinging sand. "Mum?"

It was too strange to be true, but he could not deny his eyes. She looked as she had just before she'd died four years ago, a little scruffy as if she'd just woken up, that woollen shawl she always wore about her shoulders, peering and squinting despite proclaiming when quizzed that she saw perfectly and did not need glasses.

"What...What are you doing here?" he said.

His mother shooed the dust irritably as she hobbled in Thrum's direction. "There you are," she cried. "Come on, we've got to get you out of here."

"But... you're dead."

"Pah! I've more magic in me that you think, my boy. Come on, we have somewhere safe for you. You can bring your friends too, I'll get them. You just get yourself up in there quick smart!" She hauled him upright by the arm and started to propel him towards the portal.

"There, you'll soon be safe, come along, come along," she doddered.

Thrum saw a shadow rise up behind his mother's head. His mind in a state of blank shock did not register Archendorf, a mighty stone block between hands raised up high.

The stone was clearly heavy and at the limit of Archendorf's strength. He brought it down squarely upon his mother's head and it exploded into a thousand rocky shards upon impact, driving the woman's neck down into her body like a stake into the ground.

Archendorf's now empty hands followed through and he staggered off-balance into the wailing woman. Her eyes had popped clear of her head and writhed about on stalks, her hands flailing and grabbing, finding Archendorf's vest and drawing the big man in close.

Thrum fell back as the thing transformed before his eyes, the illusion shattered and transforming into its natural shape. Horns sprouted from its head, the hair falling off in ugly mats revealing a blotched and bald scalp, clawed fingers doubling in length, the illusion of the old woman's clothing fading into nothingness, exposing a gnarled, long limbed and red-skinned demon-being.

Thrum scrambled away on his back like an upside-down spider. One of his fluffy rabbit slippers came off but he hardly noticed. He could only watch as Archendorf grappled, he and the demon locked in a struggle that caused them to roll away. Thrum felt the wind increasing, plucking insistently at his cloak, as the portal grew and grew. He knew he had to do something.

For every spell there is a counter-spell, and the trick to magic is to know that counter. An average scholar would know the portal spell has no counter, its appetite insatiable. Thrum was no ordinary scholar. Reading scores of hours every day, drinking knowledge and learning every spare moment, his mind was a sponge. He knew the only way to counter a portal.

Thrum began to incant. Words came to his mouth easily, as if the exact text lay right there before him, one he had practiced in the past but of course never completed.

This time everything was different. The wall had broken. He knew where to find his strength, he knew the trick.

"Erogarth upar, narshanth urgol hal, erogarth ulum hadgar ulum."

Description defies the experience of casting a powerful spell; his whole being lifted and tossed about, the last words sending a shock rocketing through his body, power drawn from every ligament draining him instantly and leaving his mind stripped.

Another portal formed in the sky just to the side of the original - the portal that he had summoned. Thrum saw the blackness within, writhing shapes of dragons and sprites. It grew alongside the other, both portals wavering and shimmering as edges hovered closer and closer. The surface tension broke like two pools of water flowing into one as the edges finally touched, both portals shrieking with the intake of great torrents of air now feeding off one another. With a sharp and rather unceremonious pop both disappeared into one another, a snake that had eaten itself from the tail up. The gale ceased immediately.

In the strange new silence Thrum opened his eyes to see Archendorf had gotten the better of the demon. He had it trapped in a wrestler's body hold, his legs trapping its flailing clawed arms that judging by the blood on them had scored a few telling blows. With grim determination Archendorf grabbed the demon's slippery hairless head between two massive palms and gave a mighty twist, the muscles in his arms bulging. The demon's neck made a loud crack and spun a fully backwards.

A slow, mocking applause made Archendorf look up. Ladanum was close by, clapping slowly and shaking his head in wonderment. "You people amaze me. Don't you see, we're just trying to help."

He raised a finger and blasted a ball of molten fire. Archendorf dodged, rolling neatly and with surprising agility for one so large. He was not quick enough. The edge of the fireball struck him with enough force to whip his head backwards, the stench of searing flesh blossoming into the air. Like a rag doll he struck a stone, the air heavy with the tension of his agony that could not find release from his throat.

Red-hot rage swelled with Thrum. The cruciform was still in his hand. Without thinking he drew an arm and flung the thing with all the strength of his fury in a flat backhand throw like a discus. It spun horizontally through the air towards Ladanum in a golden flash, transforming smoothly mid-flight, gleaming silver edge extending in a blur.

Ladanum saw it coming and raised a protective arm. The sword swished through the black cloak sleeve and continued. For a moment, Thrum thought the Archmage had dodged. Great splashes of crimson spun from the sword as it loped away like a wolf returning to the shadow.

Ladanum's hand fell to the ground, sliced cleanly through. An expression of twisted surprise contorted his face as his head teetered then, as if in slow motion, tilted backwards, the neck severed cleanly. The headless body stood upright for a long moment before it, too, toppled forward. A blue rippling of magic sparked about the body, flaring into a peak before slowly fading away.

Thrum watched for what seemed a long time, his limbs seemingly set in concrete, his jaw hanging wide.

"Bugger me dead," he muttered under his breath after some time, the words in his ears breaking the spell of immobility. His sipped quick glimpses about the clearing for his friends, quickly returning his gaze to the decapitated corpse should leap into life. It seemed Archendorf had not moved from his curled position on the ground, and although Karina stood, she was doubled over in pain.

Archendorf was the closer. Thrum sidled in his direction, his feet feeling like lead, his head buzzing with adrenalin overflow. Karina straightened carefully and took long deep breaths, forcing herself in a staggering limp towards Thrum.

"Do you think he's dead?" asked Thrum.

Karina gave a solemn nod. "That was a magic blade. Normal steel cannot harm an Archmage, but that thing..." She shook her head. "You are full of surprises. How is your friend?"

Thrum cradled Archendorf's unconscious head. A large gash leaked blood above closed eyes and one side of his face torn with burns.

"Here, let me help." Karina's fingers drifted just above the wounds and she quietly spoke the words of spell. The blood stopped leaking and the burn marks closed over, leaving a rippled mat of skin.

The big man gave a cough.

"Arc!" Thrum yelled. "You're alive!"

"Always one to state the obvious." Archendorf tried to lift his head. "Did we win?"

"We got him," said Thrum. "Thanks for saving my bacon back there."

"I thought that old hag had the best of you."

"Old hag? That was my mother."

Archendorf's brows shot up. "Your what? No way, oh far out, I'm so sorry. From the back, you see, I could only see, well, you know, she was all hunched over and her hair, I mean, if you came across her in a dark alley you'd be, well, you know how trolls tend to look when they're half in shadow, but no wait, I'm not saying that she-"

"No, no, it's ok, you did the right thing. It was an illusion, a trick to get me to follow. Besides, it was only my foster mother. I never knew my real parents..." Thrum trailed off, his eyes reflecting the troublesome thought that crossed his mind.

Archendorf propped himself upright, his hand cupping the injured side of his face. "I think the bastard stung me a little," he said, breaking the moment.

Thrum shook his head, clearing it of the thought that had troubled him, and forced a grin.

"You'll have a nice scar to show the ladies," said Karina. "But you'll live." She sat back on her heels and brushed a stray wisp of hair from her face. Thrum's heart turned over in his chest at the perfection of the scene, everything seeming just right, Karina's eyes flashing, her lips parting in a smile.

"You know," she continued, "a good part of me didn't really believe you, right up until I actually saw Ladanum, I was half playing along with what I thought was your game. Who'd have thought a little known magician from a little known town would find the scroll of Archmage Taukin, after all these years."

Thrum shrugged, trying to find the words. Even after all they had been through, he still found talking to her difficult. "I guess so."

Karina made a huffing noise under a breath, a noise conveying grudging admiration. "And to defeat Ladanum... Come on, we'd really be best to get out of here."

"The scroll," said Archendorf. "Did we get it?"

"Precisely why we have to get moving - they've taken it back to the Crylock."

"I was close," said Thrum, recalling with clarity how his fingers had brushed the scroll before it had shot into the sky on the broomstick. "I almost had it."

"We've got to get it back," said Archendorf, trying to get to his feet yet underestimating his giddiness and falling back on his butt.

"No," said Karina. "Once Taukin is restored to his body, it will take the combined strength of the Four Archmages to even hold off an attack, let alone mount an offensive. He is many times more powerful than the late Ladanum."

She raised her eyes to the sky, as if trying to determine their enemy's strength. She knew that Taukin's revival would trigger storms and powerful winds that would be felt the length and breadth of the land. The sky, so far, was clear.

"So what, we just let it go?" said Archendorf.

"Yes, we let it go." Karina turned her attention back to Thrum. "Now that Taukin is restored, we need call on all our strengths. You must join us in the Ivory Tower, you've shown us your power."

"Me? What do you mean?"

"Those were no novice spells, I saw them myself. You have talent."

"See," said Archendorf. "I told you that you'd get it one day!"

Thrum shook his head – things were happening way too fast. "I managed a couple of spells, yes, but-"

"And the first is always the hardest. With tutoring, I'm pretty confident we'll unearth something big. With time, you will learn the ways of magic at the Ivory Tower. Who knows, perhaps become one day you'll become one of the greatest of Archmages, fighting for the side of light."

"I... I..." Thrum rubbed his forehead, for of course it was his dream to be a magician, and to be taken in by the Ivory Tower a privilege, but his heart was heavy with reluctance.

"You had other plans?" asked Karina.

Archendorf punched Thrum in the arm. "Sure he did, the motivational speech circuit, right Thrum?"

Although Thrum did not allow himself to be drawn by Archendorf's playfulness he had to admit he had a point. There was nothing for him back on Hamontoast, he was now a part of this thing.

"Do you think there will be a war?" Thrum asked, already knowing the answer.

Karina nodded. "There are things about the Crylock that few are privy to. They will be quick to claim what they believe is theirs."

"Do you think that I can possibility make a difference?"

"That's what we will find out."

"I guess so. It's just that, well... I hope I do not fail you."

"What do you mean?"

Words dredged from Thrum as if from a great depth. "As... Taukin once did."

"Ah yes, the turncoat," Karina sighed. "If it should come to that, my husband has an excellent dungeon from which no man has ever escaped."

Thrum gaped.

Karina's grin brightened her face, instantly dispelling the sombre mood.

"Just kidding, you great lump! Now let's get our back before all hell breaks loose."

### Chapter Six

They were lifting Arc to his feet when interrupted by a war-like bellow and the staccato pounding of hooves on sand. A horde of camels, Quirk's men atop waving sabres, burst into the clearing.

Thrum hailed and waved a hand over his head. Quirk wheeled in their direction.

"Something happened'sh?" he asked from high on his camel. "Archendorf! Is he ok?"

Archendorf raised a hand. "I'm ok, just took a bit of a burn, it's nothing."

"We'll take you back to the Ivory Tower," said Katrina. "We have healers there who can-"

"No, thank you. It's not too bad, really." Archendorf sat upright and grinned to prove it, only a slight twitch of the muscle around one eye betraying the flare of pain.

"Very well," she said. She dubiously examined his swollen left eye, the cheek puffy with burn scars, and finally nodded. "I think you'll be fine. You two wait here, I'll be back in moment."

With a covetous eye, Thrum watched Karina's backside as it strode away. She beckoned Quirk to approach, engaging him in conversation that they were too far away to catch a word of.

"You behave yourself," Arc said after a pregnant pause. "I've seen the way you look at her," he nodded in Karina's direction, currently in spirited debate with Quirk and seemed to be haggling over a saddlebag.

"What do you mean? I never-"

"Hey, easy there, no need to get upset. She's an attractive girl, no doubt about it, and I don't blame you. But from what I hear, she's got a husband."

Thrum did not reply.

"I'm just saying keep those hormones in check. But of course you will, right!" Archendorf slapped Thrum across the back and laughed in such a friendly way he could not help but feel his resentment at the accusation melt away.

"Sure, of course."

"And if you ever need a hand, just call on me."

Thrum nodded. "I couldn't have made it without you. Thanks, my friend."

Karina had finished her negations with Quirk and came striding over, holding an empty saddlebag. She shook it over her head.

"Okay boys, who wants to volunteer? It's never safe to leave an Archmage, even if he's lost his head."

Archendorf and Thrum looked at each other blankly before realisation struck.

"You want to take back his head?" Thrum blanched.

Karina tossed the empty bag in Thrum's direction. "Think of it as insurance," she said.

"Here, let me give you a hand with that," said Archendorf, and with Thrum's help managed to get to his feet and get his balance back. Together they walked in the direction where Ladanum's body still lay.

Evidence of the battle scarred the landscape; here and there were pieces of earthen warriors smashed into small pieces, patches scalded with hell-fire, and a gap that had opened up in the ground more than a hand-span wide, running a good score of paces where the earth had buckled and split.

Ladanum's head had rolled some distance away from his black-cloaked body, specks of dried blood trailing between the two. Ladanum's face was into the ground, so fortunately they could only see the back of his head, the greying hair of the Archmage that would grow no more. A copious amount of blood had leaked from the severed neck, the bone cut clean through, a faint blueness glowing about the wound, the aura left by the magical blade. They managed to scoop the head up without touching it, and Archendorf hefted the saddlebag up and closed, keeping it a distance away from his body as redness seeped through the material.

"Don't forget your sword," said Archendorf, nodding in the direction it lay, gleaming golden in the clear morning sunlight.

"Oh, yeah, right." Thrum paced over and picked it up, noting with relief that not even blood could stick to the blade's slick surface. He flicked it in the motions the dwarf had told him and the sword shrunk back to cruciform size once again.

Archendorf was leaning heavily against a rock wall as Thrum returned.

"You feeling ok?"

"Yeah, just getting my breath back - head's still a bit woozy."

"It's no wonder," said Thrum. "I really thought that fireball was the end of you."

Archendorf grinned, but it was a changed grin, no longer characteristically boyish and carefree. The swelling would go down, but his face was forever scarred.

"It's not so bad," said Archendorf, lightly touching the burns. "Come on, let's get back."

Karina was already saddled up on Hiro and ready to go by the time they got back. She wordlessly took the bag containing Ladanum's head and tied it to the rear of her saddle.

"We'd best be back to the Tower," she said. "The Four will want to know as soon as possible of Ladanum's death and Taukin's revival. Defensive lines must be drawn up and our forces must be bolstered."

"You're going already?" asked Archendorf.

Karina nodded, gesturing with a glance upwards. A reddish hue had come over the sky as if from a summer sunset, even though it was barely midday. Long tendrils of high cloud slashed from the west like the raking scars of long-nailed fingers, their undersides reflecting the unnatural red light.

"What in sod's name is that?" asked Archendorf.

"Taukin has been restored," said Karina. Even as she spoke, a huff of a breeze fluttered a stray strand of hair across her face. The wind carried the heavy promise of rain. "If I were you, I wouldn't stay here any longer than necessary."

"Sounds sensible to me," said Archendorf.

Thrum turned to Archendorf, shrugging as he spoke. "I guess, well, this is goodbye."

"Already? Far out, I guess so." Archendorf lowered his voice a little so Thrum alone could hear. "Look, are you sure about this?"

"My duty is to return to the Ivory Tower, and to learn to become a magician," said Thrum, his heart heavy. "I'm the one who lost the scroll, I owe it to them to join their fight against the Crylock. My life is not my own any longer."

"Remember what I said, the offer is always open. Any time you get into strife give me a yell, any time you need to be kept to the straight and narrow, so to speak." Archendorf gave a wink. "And anytime, I'll be willing to fight for the just cause!"

"Sure."

There followed a time of silence, and in those few moments thoughts flashed unbidden to the surface of Thrum's mind. The last words of Taukin's scroll ran through his head, that time he had been pressured to read before they finally attempted to destroy it. Surely, those words could not possibly be true... but the more he thought about them, the more it made sense; the reason Taukin gave directions to save Thrum's life, why the magicians chasing him never actually tried to kill him, indeed even Ladanum's portal spell did not intended to maim, but to spirit him away.

Could history repeat?

With an internal scowl that betrayed his emotions as a twitch of his brow he shook away these thoughts – his future was unmade yet.

His troubled expression vanished as Archendorf grasped his hand and shook it roughly. "Goodbye Thrum."

"Farewell," said Thrum. He thought he saw a tear in his big friend's eye. His handshake grip tightened, then released.

Archendorf slapped Thrum on the back.

"Say," he said as if suddenly remembering, "I have something here." He fished within his vest pocket and pulled out a dried and very battered stalk, the remains of what had been a flower. "Remember this?"

Thrum shook his head in a puzzled negative.

"It's from the dwarf shop," Archendorf said. "That spell you made, just before we buried that creepy sucker under the pile of swords? I kept it, a memento of the Mighty Archmage Thrum's first spell."

Thrum grinned, honoured and embarrassed at the praise, and he could not come up with any words, but simply took the proffered dried flower. It brought back a double-edged memory, firstly of his cowardice. It carried another greater meaning; a reminder of the steadfastness of his friend - come what may.

"You two get going," said Archendorf.

Thrum scrambled to climb Fawn, one foot in the stirrup the other skittering for purchase as he clung desperately to the saddle. Instinctively Archendorf came to his aid and propelled the small man up, much to Thrum's embarrassment.

"Goodbye, Archendorf. Thrum, are you ready?" Karina asked.

Giving a nod, Thrum looked down at the man who had become his first friend in the world. He thought of the times they had shared and their bond of companionship. "Come back and visit the Ivory Tower after your journey north."

"I will."

Karina dropped into a crouch and spurred Hiro, the mighty warhorse neighing and rearing up on hind legs, pawing the air for a moment, and launching into a blur of motion. Fawn snorted, tossing her head and dancing sideways. Thrum, pulling upon the reins, only just managed to keep her from following after her stable mate. He locked eyes with Archendorf.

"Please, come and visit soon. I will need your help."

There was a depth to Thrum's eyes, his voice heavy, like the bluffed bravery of a condemned man at the gallows.

"You can count on it," said Archendorf. "Now, get going buddy!"

Thrum eased the tension on the reins and Fawn eagerly leapt into a gallop in Hiro's wake. All at once, Thrum was in motion, launching into a course that carried him away from his friend before he could reconsider his actions. He looked over his shoulder at the waving figures that grew smaller. He gave a return wave.

Thrum turned his gaze away and straightened in the saddle, one hand pressed against the dead flower in his pocket. The rushing wind blew back his hood and through his hair, filling his lungs with invigorating energy. His soul was a cocktail of emotion, of sorrow, dread and optimism for what the future may hold.

He raised his eyes to set them on the new horizon of promise.

Tendrils of thick fog blanketed the Castle Crylock. The air was black, blacker than night, the moat of lava haunting the low mists with a dull red glow. Birds of prey drifted lazily overhead, their mournful cries strangely humanlike. Swarms of movement in the open area surrounding the castle looked like the busy activity of an ants nest, closer examination revealing that the forms are human as a great army amassed. The gate of the castle loomed open like a massive mouth, a broad bridge strung from the mouth and spanned the gaping chasm that formed the moat, moored to the ground by great stakes driven in solid rock. Over this bridge trooped regiments of armoured creatures streaming out of the castle, produced at steady intervals as if pressed from moulds, joining those ranked on the other side.

All windows of the Crylock glowed with bright light from within, a sub-audible hum vibrating the stones, the castle brought to life. In one of the high towers a figure stood, hands clasped behind the back, surveying the growing army.

The door of the room opened cautiously and a head appeared in the gap.

"My Lord?"

"Come, Gehmat," said the figure at the window without turning.

Gehmat approached, bobbing low in obsequiousness.

"Look how our forces grow," said the figure.

"Yes, my lord, things do go well."

They both watched the movement, vague at this distance. Wrought entirely from magic, the army was none-the-less as real as any of flesh and blood.

"Isn't it incredible, Gehmat, the power of magic... A thousand times a thousand men can slave for an entire lifetime, yet only achieve a fraction of what we have wrought in a single day. Did you ever wonder the privilege afforded us, the ability to channel a power far, far greater than any other? An accident of birth raising a select few above the swarm of humanity."

Gehmat did not reply immediately, unsure if this was rhetorical. Not one given to philosophy he decided to ignore the question.

"My Lord Taukin, the Council is keen to begin the reclamation. Shall we issue the order?"

Taukin turned to face Gehmat. His features etched deep with lines, the hair on his head and thick eyebrows and his goatee beard the purest white. His eyes, however, were the most striking, the darkest of black, as if they carried secrets from beyond the grave in their depths.

"No, Gehmat. Not yet."

"Our army is strong, surely now would be the best time, while we are the peak of our powers."

Taukin returned his gaze out the window and spoke carefully. "The Four have had thirty years of rule to grown soft in their Ivory Tower - a little longer will not change anything. Their Kingdom is weak, Gehmat, for what is peace, if not weakness? A mighty nation must always be at war, the strong must rise from the weak, the clever separated from the stupid. And that strength is what we will return to the land."

"My Lord, if you were to contact...him" Gehmat fidgeted, clearly nervous. "If he were to join us, we could destroy the Ivory Tower in one swift stroke."

Archmage Taukin did not speak for a few moments, the only motion of the slight flicker of the hairs of his moustache as he breathed in and out.

"No," he said finally. "We will wait. I told him the truth before we parted; he now knows who he really is. Those fools in the Ivory Tower have taken him in and will teach him his strength and betray their secrets. In time Thrum will find the Ivory Tower is not as pure as it makes itself out to be, he will come to face his inevitable fate; the time of the Crylock will come again." Taukin paused, savouring the words on his tongue.

"...And my son will come to us of his own will."

Your feedback is valuable! If you enjoyed this book, or even if you didn't and just skipped ahead to the end, please comment and review, or email Ronan at ronan.frost@gmail.com

You can find Ronan at ronanfrost.weebly.com

