“—Yes, look at you bloody two,” came a voice from the still open doorway. Jules, the owner of the Royal Oak, eyes flitting from one sister to the other, waved a dishrag in air. “What. The bloody hell. Are you two doing? We can all hear you down there,” Jules waved in the direction of the common room, “arguing over pies!”
Petra and Alana were speechless. They looked at each other, Petra able to see the anger still bubbling in Alana.
“Sit down.” Jules waved them to the bed. They both sat on the edge, as Jules closed the door and stood in front of them, looking down with her hands on her hips. “What’s going on?”
Petra, shamefaced, explained the events of the day. Alana followed suit and Petra realized that they hadn’t stopped to listen to each other. As she heard her sister recount the conversations she had, Petra didn’t really know what was true anymore.
“You bloody idiots,” said Jules after they finished. “Look at you. Fighting someone else’s battles. Acting like men, when you should know better. That’s how wars start. People wanting the whole bloody pie, all or bloody nothing, and usually it’s both sides ending up with nothing.”
Petra bowed her head, shame showing on her flushed cheeks. She snuck a sideways glance at Alana, who gave her a little smile, just like she used to do when they would get into trouble with their mum.
“You can’t fix stupid,” Jules said shaking her head, “but you two aren’t stupid.”
“I’m sorry,” said Petra to her sister. As the oldest she felt it was her responsibility to apologize first.
“I’m sorry too.”
Petra hugged her sister, delighted to see a smile on her face once more.
“Good,” said Jules. “And after the dinner time rush I’ll go and see those two Narrows fools and I’ll tell them what to do. And they better bloody listen. Now, I have an inn to run.” Jules turned and marched out of the bedroom without a farewell.
“By Marlth, we were being so stupid,” said Alana, once Jules had gone.
“Yes. I know you think I’m stupid, but I know it wasn’t all over a pie,” said Petra. “I’m sorry about Mum and Dad.”
“It’s ok. And I don’t think you’re stupid!” Alana put her hand over her heart, “I promise. All of this stuff we’re doing with the election was your idea. I’m sorry I said that you’re gullible. Too trusting. I guess it’s difficult how quickly you make friends. Trusting people is part of that.”
Twin tears, released at the same time raced down the sisters’ cheeks. They smiled at each other. The kind of smile that comes from a deep love, and they held each other for a while.
“I hate flying pig pie,” said Petra.
“Me too,” said Alana.
Jyuth on Magic - Applications of Magic
Mana.
Magical energy.
Whatever you call it, it is a highly flexible resource that is limited by its availability, the time available to the practitioner, but most importantly, the imagination of the wielder. A dullard will never be a magic user of any proficiency. Drawing mana in threads enables the wizard to weave different applications.
I have been told there are many ways to skin a cat, and though I have little firsthand knowledge of that, I do agree that there are multiple ways to achieve your objectives in any situation. In this regard, I have found it essential to focus on the efficient use of magic. Therefore, consider the following applications in order of their magical expenditure.
Telekinesis or the application of forces
The creation of invisible forces is both flexible and scalable. Small amounts of power can be used for the creation of forces to lift small objects or to apply pushing forces. Larger expenditures can create forces powerful enough to cause the wizard to fly or crush steel. In fact, cities or mountains could theoretically be levelled with such an application but the mana required would be immense.
Psychic projection
The wizard can travel at great speed using only their mind, leaving their physical body behind. The wizard allows their consciousness to form outside of their own self, in whatever form they choose and can, for all intents and purposes, ‘fly’ in order to travel great distances. It is possible to make yourself visible and audible, but corporeality is not possible. Psychic projection does come with risks: the wizard's body is vulnerable while the consciousness is separate; and though the wizard is not able to weave threads while projected, he can be vulnerable to some magical attacks.
Transformation
i.Of self. The act of transformation largely depends on the size of the object being transformed. And in the case of the wizard it can be considerable (especially in my case). A large use of energy may make transformation sound unappealing, but efficiency needs to be measured over a longer period of time. Let me illustrate. Transforming into a bird takes considerably less mana than flying for a prolonged period of time. Transforming into a lion can potentially be both more efficient and an effective method of dealing with attackers.
ii.Of others. Stories abound of witches transforming people into frogs, toads, pigs and even fish. It is not common for me to discover my own limitations, but I must admit that I don't truly know if these are just stories or if it is just that I have not discovered how to do this particular type of magic effectively. In my experience, I have found that when the wizard transforms themselves, it is as if they weave a new image that they choose to don like clothes. But when attempting to transform others it is apparent that the subject can, much like a child on feast days, refuse to wear the new outfit.
iii.Of things. The world is made of ‘stuff” (for want of a better word—it could even be said to be stuffed full of stuff). And stuff can be transformed into stuff of another type, but there are some very clear rules:
Size matters. The bigger the object, the more energy. And you can't significantly shrink or grow something
Like for like. You can't change iron into wood or stone into water. But you can turn stone into glass
The wielder is the craftsman. If you don't know how to make a sword, that iron ingot you make look like a sword will likely not function as well as a sword made by a talented smith
Gold and gems are difficult. I'm not saying it's impossible to transmute copper into gold, but it is a long and tiresome process. That is why these things have value and I am not rich.
Conjuration.
I shall limit this topic to the conjuration of inanimate objects because the summoning of creatures brings with it certain ethical issues. This is because conjuration literally takes something that is wanted from somewhere else; and whilst I may have not balked at tasks that would have led others to question their own humanity, I am not a thief or a taker of slaves. However, should you need to the means are theoretically straight forward. The wizard weaves the thread into what is desired, and the conscious locates it and pulls it through a magical gate to the wizard. Conjuration uses a great deal of energy (less if you know where the object resides and the distance is not far, incredible amounts for unique objects of unknown location), though it is great for the showman. Some people say there is nothing like pulling a rabbit out of a hat to get a crowd's attention, though I have typically found more efficient means to get all eyes on me.
Pure energy, including fire
For offensive purposes, especially in combat with another proficient magic user or a magical creature (when you can't run) it is important to hit hard. Fire. Lightning. Pure energy.
These weapons are combinations of transformation and conjuration, combining elements that do not exist on-hand with what does. And thankfully it does not require the wizard to understand the physics behind it. Weave tightly to strengthen purpose.
And don't forget some imagination if you want to catch your opponent off guard.
Teleportation
If conjuration works then surely the wizard can send himself to another location through a magical gate.
The answer is no.
A resounding no. This does not work.
The Workin
g Dead
“And five more makes fifty gold crowns,” said the well-dressed woman counting out the reward into Trypp’s hand.
Bekah, for that was her name, was a business associate of their usual middleman, Artur Danweazle. Artur was renowned for being able to obtain specific items for the right kind of discerning clientele and while Redpool was his usual home base, his network was a spider’s web of similar individuals across the Jeweled Continent. Bekah was the better looking Carlburg version of Artur.
As usual for business dealings: Trypp took point; Florian loomed, acting as a deterrent to any signs of mischief; while Motega remained aware of their surroundings. Motega was happy to let his friend lead in business transactions, each of them well aware of the strengths of the others. Discussions of money was not where he was best suited.
“Thank you, Mistress Bekah. That all seems to be as agreed, though I don’t think this price was right,” said Trypp, as he dropped the small stamped gold coins into a leather purse, that disappeared into his shirt. “There was no mention that the crypt was haunted.”
“Master Trypp,” she said, her voice calm and slow, “I didn’t think it would be necessary to call that out. Artur made it sound as if you three were professionals. When has a magic object tucked away in a crypt not resulted in a haunting? Magic leaks after all. Why, if someone could just walk right in and get it then why would I need you?”
“A zombie or two, even a few skeletons, we expected. A handful of wights and a shambler are a different matter. We’ve, maybe, come out even on this job, what with travel and materials. Goblin fire does not come cheap; as you well know.”
“Yes, well I understand your concerns,” she said. Motega could tell she may well understand but she also didn’t plan on doing a fig about addressing them. “Hmm, perhaps I can help you out?” she continued. “I happen to know of another job that should be much more straightforward.”
“What is it?” asked Trypp, eyebrows arched.
“There is a town called Stableford near the mountains between here and Kolsvick. They have a little problem I’m sure is nothing. Reports of grave robbing.”
“What else?” asked Trypp. “Sounds like a job for the Sheriff. Or a fence maker. What’s going unsaid?”
“Well, they had a problem with a necromancer ten years ago,” said Bekah. Trypp sighed and Motega and Florian exchanged similar shakes of their heads. “But he is supposed to be dead,” she quickly added, “no one has heard of him since then. The town will pay twenty-five crowns to get to the bottom of the matter. And I have an interest in this as well, so I’ll add another ten crowns for you.”
“What type of interest would you have in a little town like that?”
“There is a new supplier of furniture and decorative objects there. Good quality and great prices. They are selling like hot pies—I just can't get enough for my clientele here in Carlburg. I want nothing interrupting that supply line.”
“Well we were hoping to stay away from dead folk for a while. But I guess where there’s corpses, there’s gold.” Trypp looked to Motega who shrugged, the meaning clear to his friend. It’s your call. “We’ll do it for thirty-five gold and you’ll sell to us at cost going forward,” he said, thrusting out his hand.
Bekah licked her palm, the Skarian way to vouch that your hands were clean, and they shook on it.
Three days’ pleasant horse ride had led them to the outskirts of Stableford. The journey had been a welcome respite after their recent underground exertions; the road well maintained and free of bandits.
Cresting a hill, Motega gazed down at the valley below. Their destination was a small town that nestled between flowing waters from the mountain range behind it. In the distance to the north west, they could see the river Tarm falling down the sheer white cliffs to the valley floor, where it winded its way to meet a large stream that flowed from the east; a stone bridge arched over the stream on the far side of town.
Following the road, the three riders arrived at the river, the shale of the bed visible through the cold clear water; the ford that had led to the founding and naming of this settlement.
Water splashed into the air as Motega led the way through the crossing, his horse snorting at the cool water after the long dusty ride—though he didn’t let him stop to play. Through the town they passed an evolution of human habitation; one-story wooden buildings giving way to two-story; wood being replaced by the same white stone from the mountain side. Barge stations by the river became taverns and inns for the traveling soul, and eventually they found a small but thriving market, populated with handcarts, upon reaching the central square.
There was no wall about the town. No gate to stop them, or guards to question them. In fact, their passage went unremarked by a local populace apparently used to travelers passing through.
The Kingdom of Skaria, much like many monarchies, had its own assortment of nobility. If Motega could recall, he thought they were referred to as Greves and Grevindes, though he had yet to find any who referred to themselves as noble born who were worth a fart in the cold. But one thing he approved of in Skaria, was that any town situated on the King’s road had to have an appointee of the crown to run the show—nobles had farm land, hunting grounds and serfs, of course—but the thinking seemed sound that at least they couldn’t fuck up any place important.
And so Motega asked an old lady, sat on her wooden porch, for directions to the Town Hall. The home of the Sheriff.
The town hall was a simple one-story stone construct not far from the main market square. Attached to it on one side was the small-town lock-up and guard house, and on the other side was the local money lender. It was Sheriff Garrelont who had put word out for adventurers to help, and it was to her that Motega, Trypp and Florian were escorted by a local constable of considerable years.
“If this wrinkled old scrote is all that stands between them and a necromancer, I’d be putting word out for help too,” muttered Motega to Florian. His friend grinned, but Trypp glowered at the pair of them.
Sheriff Garrelont’s office was sparsely decorated; simple functional furniture, bare stone walls visible behind plain green rugs that hung for warmth. She stood and shook hands with each of them. Motega first, then Trypp, and finally, being most vociferous in her hand pumping with Florian. Garrelont was a small woman, and Motega guessed she was not yet forty by the few wrinkles that were only visible around her eyes; but she had an air of confidence about her from which Motega guessed she'd been Sheriff for more than a few years.
She sat down behind her desk and looked at the big swordsman. “Master Florian, I am so glad for you and your employees to be here.”
Florian exchanged looks with Trypp and didn’t answer their host.
Motega had seen this before in Skaria, especially once you got out of the big cities. The country was not welcoming of foreigners or different faces; all were assumed to be indentured servants or, best case, skilled employees.
The first time they had encountered this, they’d tried to go with the flow and have Florian take the lead. But after the soft lad had agreed to help another particular town for free, falling for the sob story and the pretty smile of the mayor’s daughter, Florian had agreed not to talk in public. Not until the talking got to talking about fighting at least.
“Sheriff Garrelont, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” said Trypp. “I made the arrangements with Mistress Bekah. The three of us are not from Skaria, but let us reassure you that we are extremely capable. Now tell us, what are your troubles?”
“I guess it started a decade ago,” said the Sheriff. “We had a problem with a necromancer up in the mountains. He went by the name of Hrodebert. I remember the day quite clearly. It was a spring morning, the daffodils were blooming and everyone was moving about the town with a spring in their step, happy for winter to be finally over; when he turned up out of nowhere.
“Walked into town with hundreds of zombies and skeletons shambling behind him. He must have come across a go
blin graveyard as most of them were only four feet tall, but it was also plain that he was the cause of our grave robbing problem we had back then. I saw my great aunt Gertrude holding a pick-axe, by the love of Marlth!” The sheriff shook her head at the thought, before plowing on, Motega and friends paying close attention. “She’d been dead for years and everyone said afterwards how her walking into town was more active than she’d been in life. Right lump she was. Anyway, that’s besides the point. So, there were hundreds of dead things walking around, some of them we knew personally, and so, to be honest, no one put up a fight. We all just ran indoors and hid. The few mercenaries around town scarpered, or hid in a bottle in the tavern. There definitely weren’t no heroes.
“Hrodebert took the Sheriff's house for himself and renamed the town to the New Republic of Zomtopia.”
Florian let out a chuckle, Motega shot him a smirk. Why was it that those who liked to spend their time with dead always turned a little peculiar?
“Oh, yes. It was clear he was three crates short of a full barge, but he was in charge. My predecessor, Sheriff Marley, tried to reason with the necromancer as he marched into town, pleading with him to negotiate. His face went redder and redder as Hrodebert ignored him, jogging alongside the marching army, his paunch wobbling along. Eventually he earned the pleasure of being held by the skeletons after screaming in the necromancer’s face. And that’s when the poor bugger realized where they were heading; he keeled over and died right there as his family were evicted from their house to make way for Hrodebert. Seeing his wife marched out by a decomposing corpse proved too much for his heart, we reckon. And Hrodebert brought him right back to life again, or whatever you call it. But it was obvious he weren’t the same no more.”
Tales of Kingshold Page 13
