Copyright © 2021 by K.R.R. Lockhaven
The Conjuring of Zoth-Avarex
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Printed in the United States of America
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-09835-150-2
eBook ISBN: 978-1-09835-151-9
For every book sold, $1 will be donated to the
Washington State Council of Firefighters Burn Foundation.
They sponsor Camp Eyabsut, a free summer camp for
burn survivors ages seven to seventeen.
For more information, or to donate directly,
go to campeyabsut.org
To Dad, who encouraged my fascination
with all things fantasy and sci-fi.
To Mom, who nurtured my silly sense of humor.
To both of you, for the unwavering love and support.
Table of Contents
The Site
Ice Water
Disorientation
The Conjuring Department
The Conjuring
Zoth-Avarex
The Dragon’s Perch
Meanwhile, Back at the Conjuring Dome
The Dragon’s Demands
Management’s Plan
Plan B
Interview with a Dragon
Quest for the Ring, Part One
The Softer Side of Zoth-Avarex
Travel Permits
Quest for the Ring, Part Two
Retirement of a Mentor
Twenty Questions
Quest for the Ring, Part Three
Eddie’s Locker
Quest for the Ring, Part Four
Finding Valorous
Ring Around the Dragon
The Realm of Valorous
To Titan!
Lift Off
The Castle
With the Catching Ends the Pleasure of the Chase
The Professor Is In
The Amazing Disappearing Dragon
Oops
El Erradicador
And It Feels So Good
The Promise
Return of the Sword
Epilogue
Hello
The Amazing Problem-Solving Dragon
America’s Next Top Princess
The Campaign
Oops (2.0)
Alternate Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
The Site
The sun couldn’t have possibly cared less that its light was scattered into wondrous brushstrokes of oranges and violets across the heavens. It didn’t give a flaming shit if a deep, fiery crimson along the horizon made chests swell at its splendor. Indifferent to the majesty of its radiant brilliance, which spoke of a vast infinity of possibilities, it continued to carelessly produce heat and light through nuclear fission. It didn’t give a floating fuck whether or not the glory of its rising made anyone come to believe that magic was real, or that life was, in fact, beautiful and worth living.
Harris Reed, unmindful of the sun’s apathy, was thoroughly impressed by the lovely sunrise as he headed to his first day at his new job.
Harris knew for a fact that magic was real.
He was headed to the Site.
The gravel road he had been instructed to take meandered through a still forest and up a gentle incline. He drove his barely running car with a song in his heart and a whistle on his lips, bursting with excitement at the prospect of finally arriving.
Even though Harris had spent the whole last year in basic magical training at a super-secret school, his arrival at the Site somehow cemented the idea that there was an actual magical world out there. The pure wonder of his youth was manifesting as something real, something tangible. Harris thought back to all those hours, days—the entirety of his childhood—spent imagining impossible things and holding onto the idea that there was the slightest chance they could become real. He thought back to page-turning nights, powering through fantasy books, wishing that life could really be like what he was reading. And now, in a way, it was.
With his window down and fingers tapping the exterior of his door, Harris breathed in the fresh Pacific Northwest air, spoiled only slightly by a minor exhaust leak wafting up through the floorboards. The beautiful spring morning was cool and refreshing, prompting him to stick his head out of the window like a dog.
When he reached the top of the hill, his path was blocked by a sturdy barrier that read: NO TRESPASSING—Violators Will Be Shot and Prosecuted.
Following his instructions to the letter, Harris turned off his car and stepped out.
As he scanned the immediate area for a hand-print shape, he noticed security cameras disguised as pine cones up in the surrounding trees. When his eyes lowered, he saw it: the shape of a hand embedded in the bark of a pine tree. He looked around before placing his own hand into the shape. Green light traced across his palm, followed by a beeping sound.
Harris turned around to find that the barrier—previously solid—now had a hint of impermanence to it. As per instructions, he climbed back in his car, started it, and crept forward. He couldn’t help but brace himself for a small impact as his front bumper met the barrier, but the impact didn’t come. Instead, his car passed through the barrier as if it were the brick wall at Platform 9¾, as if it weren’t really there at all.
As Harris himself passed the barrier, the world changed in front of him. What was once a sleepy forest was now a vast, buzzing city. A tall black tower rose up from the center of the city, looming high over the other buildings. The top of the tower, hundreds of feet high as far as Harris could venture to guess, was adorned with several twisting spires jutting out at irregular intervals. If he squinted his eyes, he could see black birds soaring to and from the tower’s dark windows.
Harris felt his pulse speed up. He would not have been able to wipe the smile off his face if he tried. This was it, after all his magical training. He was finally at the Site.
Two security officers, carrying both guns and wands on their belts, approached the car.
“Badge,” one of them said.
Harris fumbled around with the lanyard around his neck and produced his security clearance badge.
One security officer looked at the badge while the other waved her wand over the car.
“Clear,” she said, tucking her wand back into its holster.
The other guard waved Harris through without another word.
As he drove away from the checkpoint, he noticed a nearly imperceptible sheen—an iridescent film, like on a soap bubble—coming up from behind him, continuing in an arc over his head, and up over the top of the tower, encapsulating the entire Site.
Now making his way down into the city on a paved road, Harris had to try hard to focus on his driving rather than gaping at the Site’s sights. The closer he got to the buildings, the shabbier and more dilapidated they began to appear, but Harris didn’t let that strange fact disturb him or put him off his great mood.
Ever since he had t
aken the bizarre aptitude test during his junior year of college, and then been offered an opportunity to train as an actual magician, he’d looked forward to arriving at the hub of all things magic. For the last year he had learned about how magic worked and how to use it. He had a knack for conjuring, so his major—so to speak—was in that specific field.
Harris pulled up to the orientation building, his mouth now too dry to whistle. He took a deep breath in through his nose and let it out slowly through pursed lips. Everything was going to be fine, he tried to tell himself. He knew his stuff and people would notice that. But his self-talk wasn’t very effective. He was about to meet with real, powerful magicians. Sure, his teachers had been magicians as well, but now he was expected to be a peer. Self-doubt made it difficult to get out of his car.
Sitting in silence, Harris looked up at the sun, which was a vibrant red when viewed through the Site’s protective bubble. Not thinking, he stared directly into it, instantly scorching his retinas.
“Shit,” he said, blinking away the bright white spots in his eyes and feeling like an idiot.
As he recovered, he noticed that the enchanting colors of the earlier sunrise had all bled away, leaving a cloudless blue sky above. For the briefest of moments, Harris considered the unblinking sun as a metaphor for the cruelness and indifference of the world, but he figured this wasn’t the time or place for such nonsensical musings. Instead, he narrowed his eyes, pushed past his pessimism, and pushed open the car door.
The orientation building was two stories and made of cement. It was a perfect square and had small windows lined in two perfect rows. Harris thought the building looked at least fifty years old.
Once inside, he was greeted by a middle-aged woman at the front desk.
“Yes?” she said, without looking up from her computer screen.
“Hello. My name is Harris Reed. I’m here for orientation.”
“Calm down, sir.” The woman made eye contact now. “Take a seat and someone will be with you shortly.”
“Thank you.”
Harris thought her comment about calming down was strange, but maybe he had let his excitement and nervousness show too much.
“Sir?” the receptionist called.
“Yeah?”
“Your manager left this for you.” She held out a rune-drawing wand.
“Is it. . . mine? Like, my wand? To keep?”
“That’s the idea.”
Harris felt like King Arthur acquiring Excalibur as he took the wand from the woman. Rune-drawing wands weren’t much bigger than pencils, and this one was very plain, with nothing but the serial number 137 stamped into the base, but it was his. He had the odd urge to hug it.
“Thank you very much,” he said before going to sit down.
The receptionist took a phone call.
Harris sat and stared down at his new wand.
What you’re doing is the noblest of causes.
Harris’s head darted back and forth as he tried to locate where the thunderous, gravelly voice had come from, but no one was nearby. To be honest, it seemed like the voice was inside his head. Harris hoped he wasn’t cracking up under the pressure of starting a new job. This would be the worst possible time to begin to lose his mind. He shook his head, hoping to dislodge any insanity.
Someone else entered the building, a man of about his age. After talking with the receptionist, the man strolled over and took a seat next to Harris.
“Chris Miyazaki.” He held out a hand.
“Harris Reed.” Harris wiped his sweaty palm on his jeans before shaking the man’s hand.
“Good to meet you. What’s your art?”
“Conjuring.”
“Oh, cool. I’m a Caster.” He pulled out a gnarled but nicely varnished wand from a kind of holster on his belt. “I swung by the Casting Department early and picked this baby up.” He looked at the wand longingly, like it was a loved one with whom he’d just reunited after a long absence. Harris totally understood.
“Nice.” Harris racked his brain for something else to say, but came up blank.
“I hear you Conjurers have something huge happening soon,” Chris said in a lower voice.
“Really?”
Before Chris could reply, his attention was drawn to the front door as two women entered the building. Harris recognized one of them from class. Silvia Flores was the best Conjurer at his school. The woman with her appeared to be her sister, but she was much shorter, and in Harris’s humble opinion, prettier.
When they came over, Silvia’s face shone with recognition. “Hey, Harris.”
Harris stood up and shook her hand. “Hey, Silvia.” He tried to keep his eyes off of the other woman.
“This is my twin sister, Ana.”
Harris re-wiped his palm and shook her hand as well. “Pleased to meet you.” Pleased to meet you? Really? Had anyone in this century used that greeting?
“Pleased to meet you, too,” Ana said with an unbearably cute giggle.
“Ana is a Caster. And she’s short. We’re fraternal twins.”
“Silvia is tall, but she’s stupid,” Ana said, straight-faced.
“You’re not that short,” Harris said, although she couldn’t have been much taller than five feet.
Ana was not only shorter than her sister, but also a bit heavier. She was thick through the middle and had slightly chubby cheeks, with a wonderful dimple on the right side. Her sister Silvia was more classically beautiful, but Harris found himself drawn to Ana. There was a kindness in her eyes, a playful sarcasm and joy in the way she carried herself.
“Thanks?” Ana said, dimple showing.
Another man, again about Harris’ age, came in and joined them after a brief conversation at the front desk.
His name was Patrick Nash, he said, and he was a Conjurer as well.
Before they could converse any further, an older man came out from a side door and approached the small group.
“Your orientation has been delayed for about an hour,” he said.
Harris found himself pleased with this turn of events. Now he would have more time to talk with Ana. More time to stumble and stutter and stare in silence. . . . Shit.
The man looked directly at Harris. “Calm down, man. It’s just an hour or so.”
Harris felt as if he’d showed nothing but calm, but he must not have been—he’d have to try harder.
“In the meantime, I need someone to take this over to the south fire station.” He held up a sheet of paper. “How about you?” he said to Harris. “Maybe it’ll help you loosen up.”
“Sure, sir. Er. . .” Harris took the paper and spun around.
“Do you know where you’re going?”
“Uh, no.” Harris turned back to the man.
“When you exit this building, turn left. You’ll see the Conjuring Dome several blocks away. Just past that is the fire station.”
Harris nodded and made his way back to his car. Before he got in, he glanced at the words on the paper. It read: Pre-Job Briefing, Tomorrow, Conjuring Dome, 9 a.m., 1 Engine, 1 Medic Unit.
As he neared the Conjuring Dome he was taken aback by its grandeur. It reminded him of the Coliseum in Rome in a way, maybe because it seemed to be about the same size. It looked ancient and had an undeniably numinous quality. Its golden dome was topped with an American flag that fluttered majestically in the breeze.
Everything will go according to plan.
The voice in his head was much louder this time. It resonated with both an eminent wisdom and a wry mischievousness.
You have nothing to worry about. Nothing bad will happen, rest assured.
Harris was passing the dome now. The voice in his head was all-consuming.
Just hurry up and do it already!
Harris didn’t know what the voice was talking about, but h
e felt an overpowering urge to obey it. He pressed down on the gas pedal and sped by the dome.
Ice Water
The fire station looked like any other Harris had seen in any given city, only a bit older. A perfect half-circle of towering sycamore trees bordered the well-manicured lawn behind the station. Two nice new fire trucks and a red ambulance sat out in front of opened bay doors.
Across the potholed street to the south was a charred-black building that looked to be a remnant from the Dark Ages. Its clay-tiled roof peaked at an extreme, sharp angle. Windows built into the roof glowed with an eerie green light, and thick black smoke rolled out from several stone chimneys. A word was spelled out in the stone above the heavy oak double-doors, but Harris was unable to read it. The surrounding landscape could best be described as spooky. Crooked dead trees loomed up out of tall dead grass, and an ornate wrought-iron entryway looked like something out of a horror movie. The building and grounds made for a strange juxtaposition across from the relatively new and modern firehouse.
As Harris parked, he noticed a tall, muscular man carrying a bucket around the side of the station. When Harris stepped out of the car, the man waved him over.
“Could you help me with something?” he said as Harris approached. “Maybe use a little magic? I won’t tell a soul.”
“I’m supposed to deliver this.” Harris held out the paper.
“Okay, thanks, Magician.” The big man took the paper, folded it roughly, and jammed it into his pants pocket.
“Actually, I’m a Conjurer.”
“Cool. Can you help me out?”
“Maybe. What do you need?”
“Well, that asshole Jenkins dumped ice water on my head this morning when I was in the shower. He’s over on the other side of the station now practicing his golf swing. I want to take this bucket of ice water up on the roof and dump it on him, but my captain just caught me with it and told me I’d better not get up on that roof. You think you could maybe float it up there and tip it on him? I’d owe you a big one.”
Harris considered the question. He had been itching to use magic ever since he’d finished his schooling but had been bound by The Curse to not use it outside of the Site. He didn’t yet know how things worked here, though. Maybe he shouldn’t be using unauthorized magic. That had been a point of emphasis at school.
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