Thursday 12 November 2009
Boo.
Yes, I have been away from my blog for five weeks - unfortunately I have had to be busy with other things. I've still devoted some time to writing my next parts which will be up soon!
Saturday 17 October 2009
Note - Intergalactic Hall of Heroes - The Chalice of Souls
Dear reader,
Thank you for taking interest in this here story I'm writing. This is a short note just to let you know what I'm doing. As you can see, there's parts of the story going online every now and then for you to read.
Each part isn't the finished article - I do read through and quickly edit each section before I publish it here, but there'll need to be more work than this before I'd even attempt to get something professional done. Please read, enjoy and more importantly, tell me what you think of it!
Positive and constructive critique is always welcomed.
Thank you for taking interest in this here story I'm writing. This is a short note just to let you know what I'm doing. As you can see, there's parts of the story going online every now and then for you to read.
Each part isn't the finished article - I do read through and quickly edit each section before I publish it here, but there'll need to be more work than this before I'd even attempt to get something professional done. Please read, enjoy and more importantly, tell me what you think of it!
Positive and constructive critique is always welcomed.
Intergalactic Hall of Heroes - The Chalice of Souls
“Let’s find you some threads.”
Wolagnub had left for a while and returned with a grey cloak, as ordinary looking as you could get. When he did, he found that Grimchan had stripped himself completely bare, which was a very sickening sight to see, a grey and emaciated body, ribs sticking out, pattered with terrible purple scars.
“You’re a bit eager.”
“You’re not perturbed by my appearance?”
“I’m a doctor, I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe. Things like... like this tend to not shock me.”
“I don’t know whether to feel humbled or offended by that. Even without a flash of my power, men have trembled at the mere sight of me. Anyway, step back.”
“No problem.”
Grimchan summoned a multitude of small, dark green balls of magical energy that zipped around his person, blurrily orbiting at furious speed, each pass cleaning his skin of the layers of grime and odour that had built up over time.
When he had finished, he still looked the same shade of taupe grey that he had started off with, yet his eyes had temporarily glazed over with an obsidian sheen.
“Impressive.”
“For years, I had to put up with someone sponging me down with cold, soapy water. So mundane. And at least I know my powers have fully returned. If my appearance does not frighten you, then my prowess surely will. What have you brought to clothe me?”
“Well, I borrowed this cloak from someone’s room, it was the most evil looking one I could find at short notice. It’s the thought that counts, I thought.”
“It will do.”
Grimchan’s outstretched hand snatched and pulled the cloak towards him through the air, so that he could casually put it on. The cloak was a few sizes too big, and the cloak’s hood flopped down, covering his head with shadow.
“This will pass for... decent.”
“Then let’s go and shock ‘em.”
Back to the present, one of the wizards who’d taken his leave with Cafus and the others peeped back around the door and asked in a very eloquent and posh voice:
“Oh excuse me. Sorry. Has anyone seen my spare cloak? No? It’s grey and a little bit oversized. Anyone? Alright then, bye again! Sorry, sorry.”
He was such a nice person, but just a little unlucky. Such a pity that he once bought a spare cloak that could be construed as “a little bit evil”. Even though someone like Grimchan could make the most innocent of clothes look evil instantly. Though I doubt that Grimchan would dress himself, for example, in a pink fairy princess’ dress to prove a point. And hold a wand with a sparkly star on the end.
That nice wizard popped his head around the door again.
“Excuse me... erm... Grimchan is it? I believe that you may have my cloak.”
“This is MY cloak.”
“Would you mind if I could just check the name tag inside a moment?”
As the hapless wizard approached, Grimchan pulled the hood back, so he could reach inside and tear out the name tag inside. He read it out aloud.
“Ennius Askerjian?”
“Yes, that’s my name.”
Grimchan casually dropped the name tag onto the floor and stared right at the wizard with a sly grin.
“What was your name tag doing on my cloak?”
“I beg your pardon? That’s-”
“I SAID what was your name tag doing on my cloak?”
“But that’s... but that’s m-m-m-my... I’m sorry!”
“Get out.”
“OK, I’m leaving!”
The colour had completely drained from that wizard’s face, who had foolishly dared to confront the evil sorcerer, who indeed had nicked his cloak and had no intention of giving it back. Dejected and desperate to hold onto some wee, the beaten old man left.
It had brought everyone else to complete silence.
“Well, will anyone tell me what’s going on?” Grimchan demanded, as if nothing had just happened.
“I will.” Offered Ardnal, “But I will limit this for now to simply what exactly is preventing us from obtaining outside help. It would take far too long to explain everything that has happened. People are dying as we waste time here. If you would join me, Grimchan, we will ascend so you can see it for yourself.”
The party gathered at the top of the tower, where a cold wind blew past. Grimchan gazed skyward at overcast cloud.
“Can you feel it in the air?” Ardnal shouted.
“I can feel something. Let me concentrate for a moment!”
They waited as Grimchan attempted to sense the world around him, and the shield above them. He stood there, licked his finger and raised it in the air, then turned to stare at Ardnal, the other wizards and Doctor Wolagnub.
As the wind howled, Grimchan had to shout above the noise.
“These attackers are particularly cunning. They’re fooled each and every one of you. There’s no way of breaching the barrier you call a shield with conventional knowledge. If you want me to summarise for you, they have used your gods and your magics against you. I’ve got a theory. They kidnapped wizards, right?”
“We heard many stories of wizards being taken prisoner.” Ardnal replied.
“And priests, and others who profess to using magic?”
“That is also true.”
“They’re using them. I think they have convinced gods themselves to create this barrier to protect this planet from outsiders. This is the magic of good people, and so strong is this barrier, maintained by what must be thousands of people or more, that any good magics cast upon it would fail, and be absorbed into the barrier itself. I’m impressed.”
“This is what we feared. But there is a flaw in your theory. The gods would never work for evil forces.”
“Our enemy controls the wizards, priests and the like, yet our enemy isn’t the one doing the speaking and praying. The gods have failed you. But as people like me understand, your gods are not all powerful. And in some cases, have their direct adversaries we can exploit.”
“You want to raise demons? There’s enough evil around as it is, Grimchan.”
“Not to raise them, but to exploit them. The barrier can be disrupted temporarily via a kind of feedback loop.”
“Very plausible. What do you require?”
“I want five clay bowls, ten pints of blood and some paintbrushes.”
Suddenly, someone burst through the door very angrily and stomped his way to the top of the tower. Lord Pommenby had finally arisen, and was not at all his jovial self today. In fact, he was fuming and just stood there with his fists clenched so hard, his knuckles were white. He burst into a tirade.
“I demand to know what is going on! Anyone? Why have most of the wizards gone? Why is HE out of his cell?” he shouted, pointing firmly at Grimchan.
Ardnal scowled, “If you weren’t so under the influence of alcohol, then you would have known why. Sigbie Rondar is dead. And his dying wish was to have Grimchan released. Most of the wizards didn’t want to work with him, so they took their leave. My Lord, what were YOU doing when this happened?”
Lord Pommenby scowled back from betwixt gritted teeth.
“That’s not for you to bring up. I have been lenient on you all here, and this is how I am repaid. I will not let this tower, which has been in my family for fourteen generations, be subject to dark magics!”
“Erm, can I speak now?” Grimchan demanded.
“One way or another, you will end up back in that cell.”
“Lord Pommenby. Oh gracious Lord Pommenby. Exactly how do you propose to stop me?”
“With everything I have. Sudustra Kevaronics!”
Lord Pommenby had unleashed a fireball from his hands at Grimchan the size of a basketball. Grimchan casually patted the fireball away with the back of his hand, knocking it into the sky.
“You’ll have to do better than that. If it’s a fight you want, I’m more than happy to take you on, after being your trophy for a few years. But then, you always took pride for someone else’s work, I hear.”
“Gentlemen!” Ardnal bellowed with his palms outstretched, gesturing both of them to stop. “This is no time for petty arguments. My Lord, the dark sorcerer is not your enemy, and fighting between ourselves only gives our true enemy strength. Consider that Grimchan has neither attacked any of us, or fled. He genuinely wants to help.”
“This man, or at least he used to be a man, cannot possibly be trusted, you idiot! Furthermore, I do NOT have to be lectured by you!”
“Well, then. If you refuse to let us continue our work, I will have to ask you to leave.”
“I think you are mistaken, Ardnal, if you think I will give up MY tower so easily!”
Ardnal unsheathed a straight, scarlet wand and pointed it at Lord Pommenby.
“This is my last warning, my Lord.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“I will.”
“I don’t believe you would.”
With a quick flourish of his wand, a ball of grey goo spat out, which encapsulated Lord Pommenby within a sticky web. Struggling against the elastic, he toppled over onto his side and made a pathetic attempt to free himself.
“No, I would. Please do keep quiet, now.”
Ardnal turned to Grimchan.
“Just in case you wondered, dark sorcerer, I didn’t do that to impress you.”
They set out on the task of finding the equipment and ingredients that Grimchan asked for. The five clay bowls and the brushes were easily found, though the ten pints of blood proved to be more difficult. There weren’t any animals in storage to bleed, and any stored meat had either been dried or salted. Still, blood was always best fresh, and this proved quite a conundrum for this group of wizards, until one young wizard piped up all of a sudden:
“Why don’t we use our own blood?”
Doctor Wolagnub suddenly found himself in demand. Now, Witch Doctors tend to have a dual profession of sorts, namely curing people from magical curses or possessions, and also from more mundane (but no less life threatening) conditions. It seemed to be at the moment that the latter tended to be more the case than the former, as if he were just some doctor. How boring must that be?
How he came to be of use ended up being the person who would be draining volunteering wizards of a pint of blood each, with other wizards being on hand with drinks and sugary food. By good fortune, one of the wizards happened upon a lovely fruit cake, intended for Lord Pommenby. Besides, someone a bit too rotund like him could do with a little less cake now and then.
Soon, they were back with the blood. Grimchan wanted a pentagram painted with the blood, with the five clay bowls filled with more blood at each point. He then spent a little time speaking with Ardnal, then soon after that, five wizards were selected at random to stand over each bowl, with a staff raised in the air each.
Grimchan stood in the centre, ready to begin the spell. Down below, Ardnal strutted about as if he now owned the place, making the occasional glance at Lord Pommenby, who sat cuffed on the floor with the Stone of Submission around his neck. Surprisingly, Grimchan never requested that.
Ardnal stared down at him.
“It never had to be this way, you know. But don’t worry, I have everything under control.”
Pommenby struggled to retort.
“Ev...ev...everything apart from... Grimchan.”
“Oh, I don’t think there’s too much to worry about there. I understand him. When you’ve been in politics as long as I, you learn to read people. You, my friend, are beneath me. And believe me, I’ve had my fair share of the aristocracy.”
© Luke O'Sullivan, 2009
Wolagnub had left for a while and returned with a grey cloak, as ordinary looking as you could get. When he did, he found that Grimchan had stripped himself completely bare, which was a very sickening sight to see, a grey and emaciated body, ribs sticking out, pattered with terrible purple scars.
“You’re a bit eager.”
“You’re not perturbed by my appearance?”
“I’m a doctor, I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe. Things like... like this tend to not shock me.”
“I don’t know whether to feel humbled or offended by that. Even without a flash of my power, men have trembled at the mere sight of me. Anyway, step back.”
“No problem.”
Grimchan summoned a multitude of small, dark green balls of magical energy that zipped around his person, blurrily orbiting at furious speed, each pass cleaning his skin of the layers of grime and odour that had built up over time.
When he had finished, he still looked the same shade of taupe grey that he had started off with, yet his eyes had temporarily glazed over with an obsidian sheen.
“Impressive.”
“For years, I had to put up with someone sponging me down with cold, soapy water. So mundane. And at least I know my powers have fully returned. If my appearance does not frighten you, then my prowess surely will. What have you brought to clothe me?”
“Well, I borrowed this cloak from someone’s room, it was the most evil looking one I could find at short notice. It’s the thought that counts, I thought.”
“It will do.”
Grimchan’s outstretched hand snatched and pulled the cloak towards him through the air, so that he could casually put it on. The cloak was a few sizes too big, and the cloak’s hood flopped down, covering his head with shadow.
“This will pass for... decent.”
“Then let’s go and shock ‘em.”
Back to the present, one of the wizards who’d taken his leave with Cafus and the others peeped back around the door and asked in a very eloquent and posh voice:
“Oh excuse me. Sorry. Has anyone seen my spare cloak? No? It’s grey and a little bit oversized. Anyone? Alright then, bye again! Sorry, sorry.”
He was such a nice person, but just a little unlucky. Such a pity that he once bought a spare cloak that could be construed as “a little bit evil”. Even though someone like Grimchan could make the most innocent of clothes look evil instantly. Though I doubt that Grimchan would dress himself, for example, in a pink fairy princess’ dress to prove a point. And hold a wand with a sparkly star on the end.
That nice wizard popped his head around the door again.
“Excuse me... erm... Grimchan is it? I believe that you may have my cloak.”
“This is MY cloak.”
“Would you mind if I could just check the name tag inside a moment?”
As the hapless wizard approached, Grimchan pulled the hood back, so he could reach inside and tear out the name tag inside. He read it out aloud.
“Ennius Askerjian?”
“Yes, that’s my name.”
Grimchan casually dropped the name tag onto the floor and stared right at the wizard with a sly grin.
“What was your name tag doing on my cloak?”
“I beg your pardon? That’s-”
“I SAID what was your name tag doing on my cloak?”
“But that’s... but that’s m-m-m-my... I’m sorry!”
“Get out.”
“OK, I’m leaving!”
The colour had completely drained from that wizard’s face, who had foolishly dared to confront the evil sorcerer, who indeed had nicked his cloak and had no intention of giving it back. Dejected and desperate to hold onto some wee, the beaten old man left.
It had brought everyone else to complete silence.
“Well, will anyone tell me what’s going on?” Grimchan demanded, as if nothing had just happened.
“I will.” Offered Ardnal, “But I will limit this for now to simply what exactly is preventing us from obtaining outside help. It would take far too long to explain everything that has happened. People are dying as we waste time here. If you would join me, Grimchan, we will ascend so you can see it for yourself.”
The party gathered at the top of the tower, where a cold wind blew past. Grimchan gazed skyward at overcast cloud.
“Can you feel it in the air?” Ardnal shouted.
“I can feel something. Let me concentrate for a moment!”
They waited as Grimchan attempted to sense the world around him, and the shield above them. He stood there, licked his finger and raised it in the air, then turned to stare at Ardnal, the other wizards and Doctor Wolagnub.
As the wind howled, Grimchan had to shout above the noise.
“These attackers are particularly cunning. They’re fooled each and every one of you. There’s no way of breaching the barrier you call a shield with conventional knowledge. If you want me to summarise for you, they have used your gods and your magics against you. I’ve got a theory. They kidnapped wizards, right?”
“We heard many stories of wizards being taken prisoner.” Ardnal replied.
“And priests, and others who profess to using magic?”
“That is also true.”
“They’re using them. I think they have convinced gods themselves to create this barrier to protect this planet from outsiders. This is the magic of good people, and so strong is this barrier, maintained by what must be thousands of people or more, that any good magics cast upon it would fail, and be absorbed into the barrier itself. I’m impressed.”
“This is what we feared. But there is a flaw in your theory. The gods would never work for evil forces.”
“Our enemy controls the wizards, priests and the like, yet our enemy isn’t the one doing the speaking and praying. The gods have failed you. But as people like me understand, your gods are not all powerful. And in some cases, have their direct adversaries we can exploit.”
“You want to raise demons? There’s enough evil around as it is, Grimchan.”
“Not to raise them, but to exploit them. The barrier can be disrupted temporarily via a kind of feedback loop.”
“Very plausible. What do you require?”
“I want five clay bowls, ten pints of blood and some paintbrushes.”
Suddenly, someone burst through the door very angrily and stomped his way to the top of the tower. Lord Pommenby had finally arisen, and was not at all his jovial self today. In fact, he was fuming and just stood there with his fists clenched so hard, his knuckles were white. He burst into a tirade.
“I demand to know what is going on! Anyone? Why have most of the wizards gone? Why is HE out of his cell?” he shouted, pointing firmly at Grimchan.
Ardnal scowled, “If you weren’t so under the influence of alcohol, then you would have known why. Sigbie Rondar is dead. And his dying wish was to have Grimchan released. Most of the wizards didn’t want to work with him, so they took their leave. My Lord, what were YOU doing when this happened?”
Lord Pommenby scowled back from betwixt gritted teeth.
“That’s not for you to bring up. I have been lenient on you all here, and this is how I am repaid. I will not let this tower, which has been in my family for fourteen generations, be subject to dark magics!”
“Erm, can I speak now?” Grimchan demanded.
“One way or another, you will end up back in that cell.”
“Lord Pommenby. Oh gracious Lord Pommenby. Exactly how do you propose to stop me?”
“With everything I have. Sudustra Kevaronics!”
Lord Pommenby had unleashed a fireball from his hands at Grimchan the size of a basketball. Grimchan casually patted the fireball away with the back of his hand, knocking it into the sky.
“You’ll have to do better than that. If it’s a fight you want, I’m more than happy to take you on, after being your trophy for a few years. But then, you always took pride for someone else’s work, I hear.”
“Gentlemen!” Ardnal bellowed with his palms outstretched, gesturing both of them to stop. “This is no time for petty arguments. My Lord, the dark sorcerer is not your enemy, and fighting between ourselves only gives our true enemy strength. Consider that Grimchan has neither attacked any of us, or fled. He genuinely wants to help.”
“This man, or at least he used to be a man, cannot possibly be trusted, you idiot! Furthermore, I do NOT have to be lectured by you!”
“Well, then. If you refuse to let us continue our work, I will have to ask you to leave.”
“I think you are mistaken, Ardnal, if you think I will give up MY tower so easily!”
Ardnal unsheathed a straight, scarlet wand and pointed it at Lord Pommenby.
“This is my last warning, my Lord.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“I will.”
“I don’t believe you would.”
With a quick flourish of his wand, a ball of grey goo spat out, which encapsulated Lord Pommenby within a sticky web. Struggling against the elastic, he toppled over onto his side and made a pathetic attempt to free himself.
“No, I would. Please do keep quiet, now.”
Ardnal turned to Grimchan.
“Just in case you wondered, dark sorcerer, I didn’t do that to impress you.”
They set out on the task of finding the equipment and ingredients that Grimchan asked for. The five clay bowls and the brushes were easily found, though the ten pints of blood proved to be more difficult. There weren’t any animals in storage to bleed, and any stored meat had either been dried or salted. Still, blood was always best fresh, and this proved quite a conundrum for this group of wizards, until one young wizard piped up all of a sudden:
“Why don’t we use our own blood?”
Doctor Wolagnub suddenly found himself in demand. Now, Witch Doctors tend to have a dual profession of sorts, namely curing people from magical curses or possessions, and also from more mundane (but no less life threatening) conditions. It seemed to be at the moment that the latter tended to be more the case than the former, as if he were just some doctor. How boring must that be?
How he came to be of use ended up being the person who would be draining volunteering wizards of a pint of blood each, with other wizards being on hand with drinks and sugary food. By good fortune, one of the wizards happened upon a lovely fruit cake, intended for Lord Pommenby. Besides, someone a bit too rotund like him could do with a little less cake now and then.
Soon, they were back with the blood. Grimchan wanted a pentagram painted with the blood, with the five clay bowls filled with more blood at each point. He then spent a little time speaking with Ardnal, then soon after that, five wizards were selected at random to stand over each bowl, with a staff raised in the air each.
Grimchan stood in the centre, ready to begin the spell. Down below, Ardnal strutted about as if he now owned the place, making the occasional glance at Lord Pommenby, who sat cuffed on the floor with the Stone of Submission around his neck. Surprisingly, Grimchan never requested that.
Ardnal stared down at him.
“It never had to be this way, you know. But don’t worry, I have everything under control.”
Pommenby struggled to retort.
“Ev...ev...everything apart from... Grimchan.”
“Oh, I don’t think there’s too much to worry about there. I understand him. When you’ve been in politics as long as I, you learn to read people. You, my friend, are beneath me. And believe me, I’ve had my fair share of the aristocracy.”
© Luke O'Sullivan, 2009
Thursday 8 October 2009
Intergalactic Hall of Heroes - The Chalice of Souls
Ardnal voiced his opinion as the other wizards chose to remain silent. Well, as if it were a choice, looking straight at this evil figure they all recognised and feared. Some of them physically shivered in his presence. Others could have done something else involuntarily and hoped that everyone else wouldn’t notice the smell.
“It seems that this choice has been made for us, then. If you are here to kill us, then you underestimate the power of we wizards.” Ardnal boomed.
“Nothing of the sort. I recognise... some... of the faces here, many of you arrested me. I have come to... lend a hand as it were.”
Grimchan then walked (though it appeared he was gliding) into the centre of the room, where Trenzar, Cafus and Ardnal stood.
“You’ve been discussing me, haven’t you?” he enquired, with a sly grin to his face.
Trenzar replied hurriedly, “Well, yes we have. Rondar’s dead. His dying wish was that you be released.”
“I know. The witch doctor told me. He said that you lot would be debatating the matter for hours and eventually do nothing. So the best thing would be to surprise you all. I like him already.”
Cafus curtly interjected, “Well, thanks for turning up but we don’t need you, so if you would kindly go back to your cell?”
“No, I don’t think I will. This place here is much nicer than those dungeons. Besides, I’m all washed and clean now. Anyway.” Grimchan raised his voice so that all could hear him, “All those who refuse to work with me, leave now!”
“I think I will!” Cafus replied, “Furthermore, I’m leaving the tower. I’m going to take as many of us out of here as possible. We’ll find somewhere else safe, don’t you worry. Seems there are plenty of places safer than here now.”
Cafus turned to Ardnal.
“Ardnal. I implore you to join me. Your knowledge would be of great use to us.”
“My place is here for the time being, Cafus.”
“Well-well, fine then!”
Cafus stomped away towards the door in a hissy fit, stopping momentarily before Doctor Wolagnub to lecture him briefly.
“When this is all over, and if you so happen to survive, I will personally hunt you down. You have my word!”
The other wizards were more hesitant when it came to thinking of leaving, however, one by one, wizards began to walk out, with Wolagnub saying “Bye!” to each of them as they walked through the door. Eventually, barely half of the wizards originally there had now left.
“What are we going to do then?” one of these wizards asked Grimchan.
“I want you to tell me everything that’s happened so far. What we are up against, and what you’re tried against it.”
“We do have one question. How did the doctor release you?”
Grimchan beckoned Wolagnub over from the door.
“Come.”
“I think this is one of these flashback moments.” Said Doctor Wolagnub.
The story flashed back to an hour ago, where Spinson, recovering from a bit of a hangover, was currently sweeping up the floor. For this was a clean dungeon. And his deputy, a half-arsed wizard, had spilled ash from his pipe everywhere. For the cheek of him, he even left his fantasy book about wheeled mechanical marvels here to read later, as if he owned the place.
At one time, these jail cells were completely full with all kind of magic-using criminals. Now, they held merely one. Spinson even used to have a small team of gaolers but now even they had gone.
He stared into Rondar’s empty, silent cell. The cold sheets and bed. A food bowl, still with tiny crumbs of bread in it.
The sheets and sleeping mat went into the laundry basket, and a bucket of cold, soapy water sloshed into the bare stone walled cell. The brush scrubbed the floor and the elevated stone plinth for a bed, then up the walls too, whistling as he did.
This was assumingly watched by the figure opposite in the one occupied cell, who sat perfectly still.
Spinson then gave the whole cell a second scrub, just to be on the safe side. As he began to scrub the surface of the bed, a patterned arm reached around him and pressed a wad of cotton wool into his face.
There must have been vapours in the wad, which Spinson, being surprised, breathed in. Muffled, he tried to call out. He struggled against his attacker, but his strength betrayed him, collapsing into the attacker, Doctor Wolagnub’s arms.
“You’re a heavy one!” The Doctor grunted.
Wolagnub steadily dragged the unconscious Spinson out of the cell and sat him on the wooden chair.
After he did, Wolagnub grabbed his right elbow and winced.
“Ow.”
Doctor Wolagnub massaged that elbow as best as he could to ease some of the pain and then fished around in Spinson’s pockets for the magic key to open the cell.
Magic keys are enchanted devices, designed for a particular lock – the spell coded so much that only one key can fit that lock, which makes the key almost impossible to copy. So if you ever lose it, you’re pretty much buggered.
And here it was, a silver key that slightly sparkled in the torchlight, due to the enchantment upon it. Wolagnub walked over to the other cell with it and looked down at the figure sitting on the floor there.
“You smell bad.”
“I... know. Don’t rub it in. I’ve been... waiting for you.”
Wolagnub inserted the key into the lock, turning it until it clicked and he could open the door.
“I think we’ve been heard. Can you move?”
“Remove... the stone... around my neck.”
As Wolagnub searched underneath Grimchan’s drooping hood, he found a stone securely and tightly fastened around his neck. Again, the same key managed to unlock it, and as the straps loosened, Wolagnub held the stone in his hand. It felt cold and draining, as if all of the colour had been drained from the world.
“That’s some artefact.”
“Yes, it is.”
The figure on the floor arose unrestrained, retracted the hood and stared into Wolagnub’s face. To a spectator, it would appear as if the two were attempting some kind of scaring competition between themselves.
“You’re Grimchan, right?”
“The one and only. You’re a Witch Doctor by the looks of it, and unafraid of my presence. Let me guess, Rondar’s dying wish?”
Grimchan walked past Wolagnub out of the cell and stared at the limp body of Spinson.
“I must have become soft in my old age, Doctor. Part of me feels happy that you did not kill him.”
© Luke O'Sullivan, 2009
“It seems that this choice has been made for us, then. If you are here to kill us, then you underestimate the power of we wizards.” Ardnal boomed.
“Nothing of the sort. I recognise... some... of the faces here, many of you arrested me. I have come to... lend a hand as it were.”
Grimchan then walked (though it appeared he was gliding) into the centre of the room, where Trenzar, Cafus and Ardnal stood.
“You’ve been discussing me, haven’t you?” he enquired, with a sly grin to his face.
Trenzar replied hurriedly, “Well, yes we have. Rondar’s dead. His dying wish was that you be released.”
“I know. The witch doctor told me. He said that you lot would be debatating the matter for hours and eventually do nothing. So the best thing would be to surprise you all. I like him already.”
Cafus curtly interjected, “Well, thanks for turning up but we don’t need you, so if you would kindly go back to your cell?”
“No, I don’t think I will. This place here is much nicer than those dungeons. Besides, I’m all washed and clean now. Anyway.” Grimchan raised his voice so that all could hear him, “All those who refuse to work with me, leave now!”
“I think I will!” Cafus replied, “Furthermore, I’m leaving the tower. I’m going to take as many of us out of here as possible. We’ll find somewhere else safe, don’t you worry. Seems there are plenty of places safer than here now.”
Cafus turned to Ardnal.
“Ardnal. I implore you to join me. Your knowledge would be of great use to us.”
“My place is here for the time being, Cafus.”
“Well-well, fine then!”
Cafus stomped away towards the door in a hissy fit, stopping momentarily before Doctor Wolagnub to lecture him briefly.
“When this is all over, and if you so happen to survive, I will personally hunt you down. You have my word!”
The other wizards were more hesitant when it came to thinking of leaving, however, one by one, wizards began to walk out, with Wolagnub saying “Bye!” to each of them as they walked through the door. Eventually, barely half of the wizards originally there had now left.
“What are we going to do then?” one of these wizards asked Grimchan.
“I want you to tell me everything that’s happened so far. What we are up against, and what you’re tried against it.”
“We do have one question. How did the doctor release you?”
Grimchan beckoned Wolagnub over from the door.
“Come.”
“I think this is one of these flashback moments.” Said Doctor Wolagnub.
The story flashed back to an hour ago, where Spinson, recovering from a bit of a hangover, was currently sweeping up the floor. For this was a clean dungeon. And his deputy, a half-arsed wizard, had spilled ash from his pipe everywhere. For the cheek of him, he even left his fantasy book about wheeled mechanical marvels here to read later, as if he owned the place.
At one time, these jail cells were completely full with all kind of magic-using criminals. Now, they held merely one. Spinson even used to have a small team of gaolers but now even they had gone.
He stared into Rondar’s empty, silent cell. The cold sheets and bed. A food bowl, still with tiny crumbs of bread in it.
The sheets and sleeping mat went into the laundry basket, and a bucket of cold, soapy water sloshed into the bare stone walled cell. The brush scrubbed the floor and the elevated stone plinth for a bed, then up the walls too, whistling as he did.
This was assumingly watched by the figure opposite in the one occupied cell, who sat perfectly still.
Spinson then gave the whole cell a second scrub, just to be on the safe side. As he began to scrub the surface of the bed, a patterned arm reached around him and pressed a wad of cotton wool into his face.
There must have been vapours in the wad, which Spinson, being surprised, breathed in. Muffled, he tried to call out. He struggled against his attacker, but his strength betrayed him, collapsing into the attacker, Doctor Wolagnub’s arms.
“You’re a heavy one!” The Doctor grunted.
Wolagnub steadily dragged the unconscious Spinson out of the cell and sat him on the wooden chair.
After he did, Wolagnub grabbed his right elbow and winced.
“Ow.”
Doctor Wolagnub massaged that elbow as best as he could to ease some of the pain and then fished around in Spinson’s pockets for the magic key to open the cell.
Magic keys are enchanted devices, designed for a particular lock – the spell coded so much that only one key can fit that lock, which makes the key almost impossible to copy. So if you ever lose it, you’re pretty much buggered.
And here it was, a silver key that slightly sparkled in the torchlight, due to the enchantment upon it. Wolagnub walked over to the other cell with it and looked down at the figure sitting on the floor there.
“You smell bad.”
“I... know. Don’t rub it in. I’ve been... waiting for you.”
Wolagnub inserted the key into the lock, turning it until it clicked and he could open the door.
“I think we’ve been heard. Can you move?”
“Remove... the stone... around my neck.”
As Wolagnub searched underneath Grimchan’s drooping hood, he found a stone securely and tightly fastened around his neck. Again, the same key managed to unlock it, and as the straps loosened, Wolagnub held the stone in his hand. It felt cold and draining, as if all of the colour had been drained from the world.
“That’s some artefact.”
“Yes, it is.”
The figure on the floor arose unrestrained, retracted the hood and stared into Wolagnub’s face. To a spectator, it would appear as if the two were attempting some kind of scaring competition between themselves.
“You’re Grimchan, right?”
“The one and only. You’re a Witch Doctor by the looks of it, and unafraid of my presence. Let me guess, Rondar’s dying wish?”
Grimchan walked past Wolagnub out of the cell and stared at the limp body of Spinson.
“I must have become soft in my old age, Doctor. Part of me feels happy that you did not kill him.”
© Luke O'Sullivan, 2009
Thursday 1 October 2009
Double bill!
Sorry, I got carried away and wrote a bit too much. Split it into two easier readable sections.
I think soon is the time when I can begin promoting this blog to others, as I would say that there is plenty of content now. I also feel like mucking about with the settings to make it look less like I've just chosen one of the starting templates. At the moment, it looks like reading an unrolled scroll (which I do like) on a brown carpet (which I'm not too sure of). It is easy on the eye though.
I'm going to have to look into art, so wish me luck.
I'm also writing as if I feel I have tons of readers. I know I don't but what the hell.
I think soon is the time when I can begin promoting this blog to others, as I would say that there is plenty of content now. I also feel like mucking about with the settings to make it look less like I've just chosen one of the starting templates. At the moment, it looks like reading an unrolled scroll (which I do like) on a brown carpet (which I'm not too sure of). It is easy on the eye though.
I'm going to have to look into art, so wish me luck.
I'm also writing as if I feel I have tons of readers. I know I don't but what the hell.
Intergalactic Hall of Heroes - The Chalice of Souls
Instantly, all of the wizards there began to discuss this last request with each other, as well as questioning Wolagnub’s methods. Seconds later, they agreed on a spokesperson amongst themselves, a wispy moustachioed sorcerer dressed in a gold robe, who stood forward to address the doctor.
“Doctor Wolagnub. Sorry, my name is Trenzar. Thank you. We may have difficulty in accepting Rondar’s dying wish, though these are testing times. I, myself, am willing to consider it. We must consult with our brethren, and of course, we must report everything to Lord Pommenby. Please retain the corpse for inspection.”
“That’ll mean building some kind of morgue.”
“That’s your problem now.”
Two hours later, all wizards began to gather in the top room for their ad-hoc conference, waiting of course for Lord Pommenby to arrive. Several persons had knocked on his door earlier on and called for him, but they just heard snoring from within. And farting apparently.
Presently, groups of wizards were discussing matters between themselves, just their own feelings, and general day to day stuff.
The gold robed sorcerer from earlier, impatiently rose up to address everyone else.
“If Lord Pommenby will not meet with us, then I suggest we discuss this matter without him. I have something to say, and I will do not want to permit protocol to silence me. Will all those who wish to proceed, raise your right hand now.”
Everyone else promptly raised their right hands.
“There is but one point on this agenda. The release of the Dark Sorcerer Grimchan, as per the dying words of Sigbie Rondar. Before I open this to you all, I wish to make my opinion heard. I understand why he asked this of us of his fellow inmate and I was one of those who fought against Grimchan’s Steel Army. He was a formidable foe, gifted, knowledgeable. He may be the key to salvation that we have been looking for, if we can get him onto our side.”
An angry wizard rose, dressed in scarlet, throwing his scrolls to the floor in disgust.
“Exalted Trenzar, you have my respect no longer, for these are the wishes of a criminal! An evil man doing a favour for another. Has desperation finally got to you now? That you have the... audacity... to even consider letting this... this... murderer free? No sooner than after his release would he turn on us. I read his trial. Unrepentant, proud, laughing. And you yet think this madman can save us all? Our best hope is him rotting in that cell for all time!” he spat out.
“Well, then, Grand Mage Cafus, would you kindly tell me what options we have left?”
The other wizards simply spectated silently at this point.
“There may be secret incantations in the tomes. Or we could try what we already know in another location. The shield may be weaker at another point. If we move out-“
“Move out where? This tower is the only safe place on this entire planet! If we all go outside, we would be killed, or even worse, captured. Then there will be no one to save.”
“I hardly think so! As a few of you here may testify, there’s an ancient teleportation disc in the Forest of Eddial. We don’t think the enemy would have found it out. It’s five hundred miles to the East, Elf territory, not close to any major towns or cities. It’s not strategically important to them. We can be in and out.”
“Well, we can test that by sending one of us through. Would you be willing to volunteer then?”
“I have no problem in instructing my apprentice.”
“Afraid you may be wrong, that you can’t send yourself?” mocked Trenzar.
“W-well, nothing of the sort. My apprentice has the experience to defend himself, should it be necessary. And if the coast is clear, we can all go through.”
“By that you mean your apprentice is expendable?”
“At least he’s not a stupid bloody idiot, unlike some here!”
“Silence!” someone boomed, then the two turned and looked.
The olive skinned Grand Sorcerer Ardnal entered the fray, his harsh features alone willing the two to silence.
“There will be no petty bickering here. This is neither the time or place. Am I under the impression that you are merely desperate men willing to try anything?”
The gold robed sorcerer replied.
“No, Ardnal, merely acting out a dead man’s final request. Is that too much to ask?”
“One criminal requesting the release of another?” retorted Ardnal, “How blind you must be? And you, Grand Mage Cafus, are blatantly trying to hide a mission of abject suicide! Well, have we abandoned all reasonable thought now?”
Cafus angrily replied to this, “Ardnal, Ardnal, why don’t you just tell us all what we should do next? Nothing? Or some random spell from the texts like we have been doing? How long do you think we all have left here? Weeks? Days? We all know it. They’re making the final push, wiping out the last resistance. We’ve got to do SOMETHING for God’s sake!”
“For the past month, I have been doing my own research into the shield, to find a way to penetrate it. To see if I could devise an untested method.”
“Secret research?” someone shouted, “Aren’t we all supposed to be working together on this? He’s ready to stab us in the back!”
This prompted much jeering from the other wizards, finger pointing and shouts of “Traitor” at Ardnal, who really looked like he couldn’t care.
“Silence!” he boomed in response, “If you want a reason, you shall have it. I have a doctorate in Shielding Mechanics and was asked by Lord Pommenby himself to conduct this research!”
“So do I!” called one of the wizards, a short, bespectacled fellow, “So it does comes as great surprise why I wasn’t asked. This is an insult. Now I find you’re in collusion with Pommenby and I think he has a lot to answer for!”
“Fine, you may take a look at the research I have been undertaking. I’m sure you will find it most fascinating.”
“That’s all I need to know. But being able to do that earlier would have been nice.”
Suddenly, the door noisily burst open and in stumbled Doctor Wolagnub.
“Oh, sorry, I forgot we had a meeting. Could I bring a friend? Is that alright with you?”
Then, the sounds of shuffling echoed around the room as numerous bums and shoes swivelled round to stare at the intruder.
“This meeting is for wizards only! Don’t you have patients to attend to? Can’t you read the notice on the door?” Cafus shouted.
“What, that, erm – Meeting – Wizards Only. Well I am a wizard... sort of?”
“Just get whatever it is you want over and done with and get out!”
“You’re a little tetchy and may I say, very rude. Let me introduce my guest!”
Wolagnub stepped back and gestured acknowledgably with his hands to the mysterious wizard who walked in, who was dressed head to toe in a big, grey, hooded gown that shadowed its face.
Cafus shouted, “And who are you? Have you just arrived? We weren’t aware anyone else was coming?”
It replied gratingly, “I’m surprised that none of you recognised me. Felt me coming. The borrowed cloak, maybe? Perhaps if I reveal my face?”
All the wizards were silent. The hooded man grabbed his hood with both hands and pulled it back, revealing a bony, grey visage, who stared down at the gasping wizards gleefully.
“We need to talk, me and you lot.”
© Luke O'Sullivan, 2009
“Doctor Wolagnub. Sorry, my name is Trenzar. Thank you. We may have difficulty in accepting Rondar’s dying wish, though these are testing times. I, myself, am willing to consider it. We must consult with our brethren, and of course, we must report everything to Lord Pommenby. Please retain the corpse for inspection.”
“That’ll mean building some kind of morgue.”
“That’s your problem now.”
Two hours later, all wizards began to gather in the top room for their ad-hoc conference, waiting of course for Lord Pommenby to arrive. Several persons had knocked on his door earlier on and called for him, but they just heard snoring from within. And farting apparently.
Presently, groups of wizards were discussing matters between themselves, just their own feelings, and general day to day stuff.
The gold robed sorcerer from earlier, impatiently rose up to address everyone else.
“If Lord Pommenby will not meet with us, then I suggest we discuss this matter without him. I have something to say, and I will do not want to permit protocol to silence me. Will all those who wish to proceed, raise your right hand now.”
Everyone else promptly raised their right hands.
“There is but one point on this agenda. The release of the Dark Sorcerer Grimchan, as per the dying words of Sigbie Rondar. Before I open this to you all, I wish to make my opinion heard. I understand why he asked this of us of his fellow inmate and I was one of those who fought against Grimchan’s Steel Army. He was a formidable foe, gifted, knowledgeable. He may be the key to salvation that we have been looking for, if we can get him onto our side.”
An angry wizard rose, dressed in scarlet, throwing his scrolls to the floor in disgust.
“Exalted Trenzar, you have my respect no longer, for these are the wishes of a criminal! An evil man doing a favour for another. Has desperation finally got to you now? That you have the... audacity... to even consider letting this... this... murderer free? No sooner than after his release would he turn on us. I read his trial. Unrepentant, proud, laughing. And you yet think this madman can save us all? Our best hope is him rotting in that cell for all time!” he spat out.
“Well, then, Grand Mage Cafus, would you kindly tell me what options we have left?”
The other wizards simply spectated silently at this point.
“There may be secret incantations in the tomes. Or we could try what we already know in another location. The shield may be weaker at another point. If we move out-“
“Move out where? This tower is the only safe place on this entire planet! If we all go outside, we would be killed, or even worse, captured. Then there will be no one to save.”
“I hardly think so! As a few of you here may testify, there’s an ancient teleportation disc in the Forest of Eddial. We don’t think the enemy would have found it out. It’s five hundred miles to the East, Elf territory, not close to any major towns or cities. It’s not strategically important to them. We can be in and out.”
“Well, we can test that by sending one of us through. Would you be willing to volunteer then?”
“I have no problem in instructing my apprentice.”
“Afraid you may be wrong, that you can’t send yourself?” mocked Trenzar.
“W-well, nothing of the sort. My apprentice has the experience to defend himself, should it be necessary. And if the coast is clear, we can all go through.”
“By that you mean your apprentice is expendable?”
“At least he’s not a stupid bloody idiot, unlike some here!”
“Silence!” someone boomed, then the two turned and looked.
The olive skinned Grand Sorcerer Ardnal entered the fray, his harsh features alone willing the two to silence.
“There will be no petty bickering here. This is neither the time or place. Am I under the impression that you are merely desperate men willing to try anything?”
The gold robed sorcerer replied.
“No, Ardnal, merely acting out a dead man’s final request. Is that too much to ask?”
“One criminal requesting the release of another?” retorted Ardnal, “How blind you must be? And you, Grand Mage Cafus, are blatantly trying to hide a mission of abject suicide! Well, have we abandoned all reasonable thought now?”
Cafus angrily replied to this, “Ardnal, Ardnal, why don’t you just tell us all what we should do next? Nothing? Or some random spell from the texts like we have been doing? How long do you think we all have left here? Weeks? Days? We all know it. They’re making the final push, wiping out the last resistance. We’ve got to do SOMETHING for God’s sake!”
“For the past month, I have been doing my own research into the shield, to find a way to penetrate it. To see if I could devise an untested method.”
“Secret research?” someone shouted, “Aren’t we all supposed to be working together on this? He’s ready to stab us in the back!”
This prompted much jeering from the other wizards, finger pointing and shouts of “Traitor” at Ardnal, who really looked like he couldn’t care.
“Silence!” he boomed in response, “If you want a reason, you shall have it. I have a doctorate in Shielding Mechanics and was asked by Lord Pommenby himself to conduct this research!”
“So do I!” called one of the wizards, a short, bespectacled fellow, “So it does comes as great surprise why I wasn’t asked. This is an insult. Now I find you’re in collusion with Pommenby and I think he has a lot to answer for!”
“Fine, you may take a look at the research I have been undertaking. I’m sure you will find it most fascinating.”
“That’s all I need to know. But being able to do that earlier would have been nice.”
Suddenly, the door noisily burst open and in stumbled Doctor Wolagnub.
“Oh, sorry, I forgot we had a meeting. Could I bring a friend? Is that alright with you?”
Then, the sounds of shuffling echoed around the room as numerous bums and shoes swivelled round to stare at the intruder.
“This meeting is for wizards only! Don’t you have patients to attend to? Can’t you read the notice on the door?” Cafus shouted.
“What, that, erm – Meeting – Wizards Only. Well I am a wizard... sort of?”
“Just get whatever it is you want over and done with and get out!”
“You’re a little tetchy and may I say, very rude. Let me introduce my guest!”
Wolagnub stepped back and gestured acknowledgably with his hands to the mysterious wizard who walked in, who was dressed head to toe in a big, grey, hooded gown that shadowed its face.
Cafus shouted, “And who are you? Have you just arrived? We weren’t aware anyone else was coming?”
It replied gratingly, “I’m surprised that none of you recognised me. Felt me coming. The borrowed cloak, maybe? Perhaps if I reveal my face?”
All the wizards were silent. The hooded man grabbed his hood with both hands and pulled it back, revealing a bony, grey visage, who stared down at the gasping wizards gleefully.
“We need to talk, me and you lot.”
© Luke O'Sullivan, 2009
Intergalactic Hall of Heroes - The Chalice of Souls
At the same time, Lord Pommenby, who in Spinson’s absence decided to accelerate his drinking, was absolutely wrecked. Steaming as, well, a steamer. He’d have double vision if he was able to focus on anything.
Making strange shapes with his hand through the air, he droned to the barman:
“One-one more. Come on. An-an-another... bottle.”
“You’re too drunk, my Lord, I can’t serve you.” The barman replied, casually wiping the spittle from his arms and face.
“Oi. Y’you know-you know who ows this tower. Yes? I ows this-this-this tower, so I ows YOU!” he pointed, to make the point clear, “Now I come here for fuhfuhFUN, so young man I... DON’T have lecture from YOU! Now, I dema- I dema- I want more WINE!”
“I’m sorry, my Lord, I cannot serve you! I may have to ask you to leave.”
“Do you? Do you-you know me? Who I am? Don’t deny me my DRINK! Now... bottle... here.”
Lord Pommenby patted the table exactly where he wanted the new bottle of wine. Then he retched. And thankfully he turned his head to the right, away from the barman.
Then what looked like a river of dark red, gushing yet lumpy, liquid flowed in spurts from Lord Pommenby’s mouth, onto the floor, splashing loudly – up the bar, over his clothes.
Everyone just looked at this scenario, as if being that drunk had been embarrassing enough already. He coughed and spat red gobbets of mucus filed spit onto the floor. Then coughed again and was sick a little more.
And then uncontrollably, Pommenby’s empty stomach kept trying to push out more non-existent sick.
“Huuuer! Huuuer! Hermpftst!”
The sight that then greeted the barman was a merry bearded face, ruddy and sweating, spattered with dark red spew. Droplets of it glistened in his beard. It was like what you would get if Santa Claus had been told that Christmas had been cancelled.
Spinson then bursted in to join in what everyone else was currently doing, which was clearly staring at Pommenby in his shame.
“Bloody hell. I’m gone one minute! Are you trying to kill yourself?”
“I’m alright, I’m-i’m alright.” Pommenby croaked.
“No you’re not. Oi.” He clicked his finger at a wizard sitting near him, kindly minding his own business there, “You. Help me take Lord Pommenby to his room.”
“No no no no, I want more wine. No no no no!”
Lord Pommenby was presently manheld and dragged by the two of them, against his will but unable to resist, being as legless as he was. They dragged him out of the bar, across the puddle of vomit.
In Pommenby’s bedroom, they pulled off his gown, revealing slightly winestained undergarments, then wiped clean bits of the gown across his face and beard. Then they lumped him onto his own bed, where he nodded off just like that.
And here endeth the lesson that a lightweight should really really not neck two bottles of wine and think that he or she can handle it. Of course, I’m preaching to the converted for all you who have done this already. Ahem.
The night passed, and then it was early morning. Though, the environs were silent, there were no birds chirping outside as you may expect. Though this would have been understood by even the simplest of folk, being that patches of the surrounding forest were wiped out by magical attacks from the tower. It was a face that everywhere on this planet had been touched by war, and that war had left terrible scars everywhere.
In the infirmiary, Doctor Wolagnub continued to monitor Rondar, who was still comatose. Wolagnub had administed to him a herbal remedy to thin the blood, to help prevent more blood clots. It also comes in handy as rat poison in larger doses.
Still, he pondered the fact that clotting like this was in fact unusual, and also about why weren’t his other organs affected. Maybe it was just luck, or old age, but answers like that merely tried to gloss over the nagging feeling that something was up, and it wasn’t nice.
That morning, the poorly Rondar, unbeknownst to him at the time, had attracted several visitors. You could call it a kind of a secret fan club. Sadly, Lord Pommenby was not present, as even though the light burst freely through the thin curtains, he was still sleeping off the effects of too much booze.
Even with the herbal remedy to thin his blood, Rondar’s heart had become weaker and weaker, damaged by the heart attack, not strong enough to pump blood around his body, making him look rather wan.
Doctor Wolagnub filled a syringe with a black fluid, the syringe itself fashioned from the stinger of a rather large and deceased insect. One of the wizards raised his hand.
“Erm, excuse me?”
“Yes?” Wolagnub replied.
“That’s a Tincture of Resurrection. You can’t use that. He’s not dead!”
“But I can use it! Watch me.”
“I must protest!” he protested.
Another wizard protested too.
“Yes, I also agree. That’s only for use on the recently deceased. You’ll kill him!”
“As you may already know, the patient hasn’t got a lot of time left. My job as his doctor is to either cure him, or make him as comfortable as possible. So, as I can’t cure him, I can make him feel better. So you can get that chance to say goodbye.”
“Carry on. Carry on. Can he carry on?” he said to the first wizard who protested.
“Go on then.”
The doctor inserted the slender needle into Rondar’s upper left arm, and injected the tincture into his blood stream. As he withdrew, that arm suddenly began to twitch, which gradually spread through the rest of his body. Seconds later, his body quivered all over. Rondar’s eyes shot open and he stared around him, then sat up to look around at all of these visitors, his colour fully returned to his skin.
And for a moment, he didn’t speak.
“Rondar.” Another of the wizards asked, “Can you hear me, old boy?”
Rondar replied, but he didn’t sound croaky at all. In fact, his voice sounded rather crisp.
“Loud and clear. Why are you all here though? Where am I?”
“You’re in the infirmary, you’ve had a heart attack and two strokes.”
“No wonder I feel half-dead. Who are you?”
“Doctor Julius Wolagnub.”
“You’re one of those witch doctors. Ahem.” He coughed a little, “What have you done to me?”
“This isn’t going to be pleasant. You’re dying and there’s nothing I can do for you.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. I’ve been dying for years. What, you mean any minute now?”
“That’s the way it is.”
“Bollocks to it then. I’d better tell you all what you should have done weeks ago. You can’t resist the wishes of a dying man. Ready?”
“What is it you want?”
“If you want to save this world, bollocks to what Lord Pommenby decreed, you’ll go down to that dungeon and release the Dark Wizard Grimchan. He is your only hope!”
Rondar’s eyes rolled around in his head, then he shuddered as if he were in the process of an epileptic fit, coughing spittle, then calmed to absolute stillness, collapsed back into the bed. Rondar was now dead.
© Luke O'Sullivan, 2009
Making strange shapes with his hand through the air, he droned to the barman:
“One-one more. Come on. An-an-another... bottle.”
“You’re too drunk, my Lord, I can’t serve you.” The barman replied, casually wiping the spittle from his arms and face.
“Oi. Y’you know-you know who ows this tower. Yes? I ows this-this-this tower, so I ows YOU!” he pointed, to make the point clear, “Now I come here for fuhfuhFUN, so young man I... DON’T have lecture from YOU! Now, I dema- I dema- I want more WINE!”
“I’m sorry, my Lord, I cannot serve you! I may have to ask you to leave.”
“Do you? Do you-you know me? Who I am? Don’t deny me my DRINK! Now... bottle... here.”
Lord Pommenby patted the table exactly where he wanted the new bottle of wine. Then he retched. And thankfully he turned his head to the right, away from the barman.
Then what looked like a river of dark red, gushing yet lumpy, liquid flowed in spurts from Lord Pommenby’s mouth, onto the floor, splashing loudly – up the bar, over his clothes.
Everyone just looked at this scenario, as if being that drunk had been embarrassing enough already. He coughed and spat red gobbets of mucus filed spit onto the floor. Then coughed again and was sick a little more.
And then uncontrollably, Pommenby’s empty stomach kept trying to push out more non-existent sick.
“Huuuer! Huuuer! Hermpftst!”
The sight that then greeted the barman was a merry bearded face, ruddy and sweating, spattered with dark red spew. Droplets of it glistened in his beard. It was like what you would get if Santa Claus had been told that Christmas had been cancelled.
Spinson then bursted in to join in what everyone else was currently doing, which was clearly staring at Pommenby in his shame.
“Bloody hell. I’m gone one minute! Are you trying to kill yourself?”
“I’m alright, I’m-i’m alright.” Pommenby croaked.
“No you’re not. Oi.” He clicked his finger at a wizard sitting near him, kindly minding his own business there, “You. Help me take Lord Pommenby to his room.”
“No no no no, I want more wine. No no no no!”
Lord Pommenby was presently manheld and dragged by the two of them, against his will but unable to resist, being as legless as he was. They dragged him out of the bar, across the puddle of vomit.
In Pommenby’s bedroom, they pulled off his gown, revealing slightly winestained undergarments, then wiped clean bits of the gown across his face and beard. Then they lumped him onto his own bed, where he nodded off just like that.
And here endeth the lesson that a lightweight should really really not neck two bottles of wine and think that he or she can handle it. Of course, I’m preaching to the converted for all you who have done this already. Ahem.
The night passed, and then it was early morning. Though, the environs were silent, there were no birds chirping outside as you may expect. Though this would have been understood by even the simplest of folk, being that patches of the surrounding forest were wiped out by magical attacks from the tower. It was a face that everywhere on this planet had been touched by war, and that war had left terrible scars everywhere.
In the infirmiary, Doctor Wolagnub continued to monitor Rondar, who was still comatose. Wolagnub had administed to him a herbal remedy to thin the blood, to help prevent more blood clots. It also comes in handy as rat poison in larger doses.
Still, he pondered the fact that clotting like this was in fact unusual, and also about why weren’t his other organs affected. Maybe it was just luck, or old age, but answers like that merely tried to gloss over the nagging feeling that something was up, and it wasn’t nice.
That morning, the poorly Rondar, unbeknownst to him at the time, had attracted several visitors. You could call it a kind of a secret fan club. Sadly, Lord Pommenby was not present, as even though the light burst freely through the thin curtains, he was still sleeping off the effects of too much booze.
Even with the herbal remedy to thin his blood, Rondar’s heart had become weaker and weaker, damaged by the heart attack, not strong enough to pump blood around his body, making him look rather wan.
Doctor Wolagnub filled a syringe with a black fluid, the syringe itself fashioned from the stinger of a rather large and deceased insect. One of the wizards raised his hand.
“Erm, excuse me?”
“Yes?” Wolagnub replied.
“That’s a Tincture of Resurrection. You can’t use that. He’s not dead!”
“But I can use it! Watch me.”
“I must protest!” he protested.
Another wizard protested too.
“Yes, I also agree. That’s only for use on the recently deceased. You’ll kill him!”
“As you may already know, the patient hasn’t got a lot of time left. My job as his doctor is to either cure him, or make him as comfortable as possible. So, as I can’t cure him, I can make him feel better. So you can get that chance to say goodbye.”
“Carry on. Carry on. Can he carry on?” he said to the first wizard who protested.
“Go on then.”
The doctor inserted the slender needle into Rondar’s upper left arm, and injected the tincture into his blood stream. As he withdrew, that arm suddenly began to twitch, which gradually spread through the rest of his body. Seconds later, his body quivered all over. Rondar’s eyes shot open and he stared around him, then sat up to look around at all of these visitors, his colour fully returned to his skin.
And for a moment, he didn’t speak.
“Rondar.” Another of the wizards asked, “Can you hear me, old boy?”
Rondar replied, but he didn’t sound croaky at all. In fact, his voice sounded rather crisp.
“Loud and clear. Why are you all here though? Where am I?”
“You’re in the infirmary, you’ve had a heart attack and two strokes.”
“No wonder I feel half-dead. Who are you?”
“Doctor Julius Wolagnub.”
“You’re one of those witch doctors. Ahem.” He coughed a little, “What have you done to me?”
“This isn’t going to be pleasant. You’re dying and there’s nothing I can do for you.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. I’ve been dying for years. What, you mean any minute now?”
“That’s the way it is.”
“Bollocks to it then. I’d better tell you all what you should have done weeks ago. You can’t resist the wishes of a dying man. Ready?”
“What is it you want?”
“If you want to save this world, bollocks to what Lord Pommenby decreed, you’ll go down to that dungeon and release the Dark Wizard Grimchan. He is your only hope!”
Rondar’s eyes rolled around in his head, then he shuddered as if he were in the process of an epileptic fit, coughing spittle, then calmed to absolute stillness, collapsed back into the bed. Rondar was now dead.
© Luke O'Sullivan, 2009
Wednesday 23 September 2009
Intergalactic Hall of Heroes - The Chalice of Souls
Down below, the figure in the dirty robes arose to his feet and walked to the bars, gesturing over to Spinson's stand-in, who was a half-bothered younger wizard, who was sitting down all to himself, not bothering anyone at all, whilst smoking a pipe and reading his book.
The wizard sat completely unperturbed, absorbed into the book he was currently reading. On closer examination, the book was a novel, one of those fiction novels about an imaginary world where in place of magic, people relied absolutely on technological gadgets that ran on different types of energy instead. This particular adventure involved escapades involving horseless carriages that were fueled by a strange type of oil. Pure fantasy for these people, but truly compelling.
The wizard was now at a point where the story reached a climactic point. In this chapter, there was now a chase involving two of these horseless carriages along a mountain road, reaching speeds of over one hundred and fourty miles an hour.
Then, from the other cell, the croaky man cried out:
“Help! Heeeelp!”
“Not again. You don't need any help.”
The croaky man's cries were ignored. He just stood there in vain, steadying himself against the bard, watching the young wizard read the apparently unputdownable fantasy book.
Later on, the old man suddenly collapsed and dropped to the floor, just like that - all of a sudden, landing onto a wooden bowl that clattered noisily out of the way, a bowl so noisy that this finally distracted the young wizard from an intriguing paragraph, where the main character was trying to get away from somewhere, but happened to be running low on the mysterious oil that fuelled the vehicle.
After putting his bookmark in place, the young man wondered over to peer down at the ungraceful pile that was Rondar.
“Old man. Can you hear me?” he asked.
But nothing happened. This flummoxed the young wizard a great deal, so much that he fumbled around with his own face, as the cold sweat began to build.
“Oh-erm-I-erm-oh dear.”
“Get a doctor!” said the other prisoner over to where he stood.
“W-what? What?”
“Get a doctor... now!”
“Oh crikey, yes! Ooh!”
The wizard, in panic mode, learning again how to use his own feet, ran, nearly tripped over his own robe in the process. Then he fell up the stairs, catching himself on the legs – which would be cheap slapstick fun if it wasn’t so serious.
“Bollocks! Ow.”
And just a few minutes later, he returned down the stairs with a man dressed in a very strange get-up indeed... covered in swirls and strange patterns in body paint, dressed in pieces of animal hides and wearing one scary mask, decorated with fangs and feathers. This man appeared to be wearing many different necklaces, one of which had a small sac attached to it. Whatever he was supposed to be, he descended down the stairs, with an air of importance, together with his skull-tipped cane.
“Where is he, then?” demanded the strange man, impatiently.
“Oh, just here. Oh, suppose I’d better unlock it. I’ll just get the keys.”
As the wizard stumbled over to the table to fetch the bunch of keys, the strangely dressed man grasped his cane by the shaft and shook it at the bars, making a shaky sound as if the skull had been filled with beans or generally dry bits of something.
Suddenly the door’s lock unlocked, and the door swung opened by itself, just as the wizard turned his head.
“Well, I wasn’t going to wait for you! Anyway, let’s look at the patient.” The man remarked.
The strange man crouched down over Rondar, pressing two fingers on his neck to check for a pulse.
“He’s out cold. A few more minutes and he’d have been a goner. I can feel his life force still there. Now, young man, here comes the fun bit.”
The strange man tore off his mask and discarded it to one side, revealing a face painted like a skull, staringly and grinning madly. He turned Rondar over onto his back, raised his hands in the air and exclaimed:
“AAAAKHTUMA!”
Instantly, a ball of lightning began to slowly grow between his clawing hands.
“CLEAR!” he roared.
He dragged the lightning down into Rondar, placing his hands either side on his chest, the left higher than the right. Then he gripped his hands into Rondar’s skin as the charge emitted a loud ‘Thump’ causing Rondar to try to arch his body upwards. Then the man pressed his lips to Rondar’s, held his nose shut between his fingers, and breathed into him.
“Come on!” he said between gritted teeth , and shouted again into the air, “AAAAKHTUMAAA!”
Again the charge grew between his hands, which he then plunged deep into Rondar’s still body.
“Grraaargh!” he roared as the charge thumped, and Rondar’s body automatically lurched up. Once more, he then breathed into Rondar’s lungs.
Rondar retched and coughed, stirring slowly from almost death, staring up in shock at this strange man’s painted visage. Rondar’s stare looked completely glazed and blank.
“Hey. You there.”
The witch doctor waved his hands frantically infront of his eyes, but Rondar didn’t appear to recognise this movement at all. The doctor turned his head to the young wizard.
“What’s this guy’s name?”
“R-Rondar.”
The witch doctor switched his wide eyed grinning stare back to the old man.
“Rondar? I’m a doctor. I’m putting you to sleep and we’re going to go upstairs. If you can hear me in there, there’s no need to worry.”
“Is he going to be ok?” the young wizard asked.
“Who knows? Time will indeed tell!”
The witch doctor now grabbed his stick with his two hands and raised it above his head, and stared at the ceiling. Then he began to chant warbling gibberish, as he shaked the staff at random intervals. For a moment, it is if the witch doctor had entered into a trance.
Within a minute, Rondar’s eyes closed and the witch doctor shifted his piercing gaze back to the wizard, who was already uneasy with him.
“You. You can move him upstairs.”
“What, you mean pick him up?”
“No? Use some of that wizard stuff!”
“What? Oh... yeah. Not thinking. Sorry!”
The witch doctor shook his head in despair, then went to get his mask. The young wizard unleashed a straight walnut wand (which looked as if it hadn’t been used a lot) and pointed it at the sleeping Rondar.
“Tarupa!” he attempted to bellow, as he whisked the wand in a careful-ish through the air.
“Tarupa!” he repeated.
“Tarupa! Oh bloody hell. Oop-“
Rondar suddenly accelerated from the floor upwards, his head hitting the frame of the jail cell door quite hard. Understandably, the young wizard cringed and felt as if the best place for him was a quiet corner to shrink into.
“What the hell are you doing?” inquired the witch doctor.
“Trying to levitate.”
“Don’t they teach this in first year wizard school anymore?”
“Sorry. I’m re- I’m really sorry.”
“Come on, let’s go.”
Rondar left the prison like a helium balloon tied to a string, the two of them trying their best not to injure him any further. Or accidentally let him out of a window. Because that would be quite an experience to wake up from that.
Into the infirmary they went, and they pulled poor Rondar down to strap to the bed. The witch doctor then reached over to checked his pulse again.
“He’s stable. “
“W-what do you think’s happened.”
“Well, medical opinion says heart attack, maybe stroke. Tell me about the patient.”
“I don’t really know a lot. Tell you what, I’ll get Spinson.”
“Who the hell is Spinson?”
“H-Head Gaoler, I think he’s got records of all the prisoners we ever have here, somewhere.”
The witch doctor stood there with his arms folded.
“Well, I’d like to meet this... Spinson then.”
“I’ll erm- go and fetch him then.”
As the young wizard left, the witch doctor tutted and shook his head.
“I don’t know, anyone is becoming wizards these days.”
The witch doctor turned towards the sleeping Rondar and clapped his hands together to rub them, and by doing so, energy warmly crackled between his palms. The doctor’s eyes closed and he breathed deeply, centring himself.
He held his palms an inch over Rondar’s body for a few seconds, then began to sweep them up and down, sensing if there was anything untoward in there. The doctor’s face looked relaxed.
As his hands hovered over Rondar’s cranium, they stopped there.
“Oh my.”
A few minutes later, Spinson arrived with the young wizard, who at this point in time was still feeling the after-effects of much alcohol. Though, this little emergency’s sobering effects muchly negated this.
“Who are you and what’s going on?” Spinson asked.
“Me? I’m the renowned Doctor Julius Wolagnub, WD. Your prisoner has had what we would call a myocardial infarction-“
“A what?” replied the astonished Spinson.
“Oh yeah, for people like you, he’s had a heart attack.”
Spinson considered for a moment what this meant.
“Bloody hell. Is he dead?”
“I managed to save him, oh, and he’s had a stroke at roundabout the same time too. I want to keep him here for now.”
“Well, that’s fine by me, you can keep him.”
“Before you go, can you just tell me a little about the patient?”
“Well, erm, his name is Rondar, and we locked him up for a series of robberies years ago, escaping justice and all that. Age-wise, he’s about mid seventies, yeah?”
“Is there anything... medical we need to know?”
“He’s got arthritis and, oh yeah, his short term memory’s going.”
“I scanned his body and there was something there I couldn’t put my finger on. An unusual level of blood clotting, all at the same time.”
“What does that mean?”
“When the blood clots, it blocks arteries. In older men, particularly if they’ve been smoking or,” he sniffed the air, looked down and pointed at Spinson, staring down at him, “Drinking too much, they can get narrowed. Makes blood clots more easy to form. You don’t know any family history?”
“No, nothing. What can you do for him?”
“At the moment, I’m just keeping him stable. Though tell me, where’s your Lord Pommenby?”
Spinson slapped his own forehead.
“Oh shit.”
© Luke O'Sullivan, 2009
The wizard sat completely unperturbed, absorbed into the book he was currently reading. On closer examination, the book was a novel, one of those fiction novels about an imaginary world where in place of magic, people relied absolutely on technological gadgets that ran on different types of energy instead. This particular adventure involved escapades involving horseless carriages that were fueled by a strange type of oil. Pure fantasy for these people, but truly compelling.
The wizard was now at a point where the story reached a climactic point. In this chapter, there was now a chase involving two of these horseless carriages along a mountain road, reaching speeds of over one hundred and fourty miles an hour.
Then, from the other cell, the croaky man cried out:
“Help! Heeeelp!”
“Not again. You don't need any help.”
The croaky man's cries were ignored. He just stood there in vain, steadying himself against the bard, watching the young wizard read the apparently unputdownable fantasy book.
Later on, the old man suddenly collapsed and dropped to the floor, just like that - all of a sudden, landing onto a wooden bowl that clattered noisily out of the way, a bowl so noisy that this finally distracted the young wizard from an intriguing paragraph, where the main character was trying to get away from somewhere, but happened to be running low on the mysterious oil that fuelled the vehicle.
After putting his bookmark in place, the young man wondered over to peer down at the ungraceful pile that was Rondar.
“Old man. Can you hear me?” he asked.
But nothing happened. This flummoxed the young wizard a great deal, so much that he fumbled around with his own face, as the cold sweat began to build.
“Oh-erm-I-erm-oh dear.”
“Get a doctor!” said the other prisoner over to where he stood.
“W-what? What?”
“Get a doctor... now!”
“Oh crikey, yes! Ooh!”
The wizard, in panic mode, learning again how to use his own feet, ran, nearly tripped over his own robe in the process. Then he fell up the stairs, catching himself on the legs – which would be cheap slapstick fun if it wasn’t so serious.
“Bollocks! Ow.”
And just a few minutes later, he returned down the stairs with a man dressed in a very strange get-up indeed... covered in swirls and strange patterns in body paint, dressed in pieces of animal hides and wearing one scary mask, decorated with fangs and feathers. This man appeared to be wearing many different necklaces, one of which had a small sac attached to it. Whatever he was supposed to be, he descended down the stairs, with an air of importance, together with his skull-tipped cane.
“Where is he, then?” demanded the strange man, impatiently.
“Oh, just here. Oh, suppose I’d better unlock it. I’ll just get the keys.”
As the wizard stumbled over to the table to fetch the bunch of keys, the strangely dressed man grasped his cane by the shaft and shook it at the bars, making a shaky sound as if the skull had been filled with beans or generally dry bits of something.
Suddenly the door’s lock unlocked, and the door swung opened by itself, just as the wizard turned his head.
“Well, I wasn’t going to wait for you! Anyway, let’s look at the patient.” The man remarked.
The strange man crouched down over Rondar, pressing two fingers on his neck to check for a pulse.
“He’s out cold. A few more minutes and he’d have been a goner. I can feel his life force still there. Now, young man, here comes the fun bit.”
The strange man tore off his mask and discarded it to one side, revealing a face painted like a skull, staringly and grinning madly. He turned Rondar over onto his back, raised his hands in the air and exclaimed:
“AAAAKHTUMA!”
Instantly, a ball of lightning began to slowly grow between his clawing hands.
“CLEAR!” he roared.
He dragged the lightning down into Rondar, placing his hands either side on his chest, the left higher than the right. Then he gripped his hands into Rondar’s skin as the charge emitted a loud ‘Thump’ causing Rondar to try to arch his body upwards. Then the man pressed his lips to Rondar’s, held his nose shut between his fingers, and breathed into him.
“Come on!” he said between gritted teeth , and shouted again into the air, “AAAAKHTUMAAA!”
Again the charge grew between his hands, which he then plunged deep into Rondar’s still body.
“Grraaargh!” he roared as the charge thumped, and Rondar’s body automatically lurched up. Once more, he then breathed into Rondar’s lungs.
Rondar retched and coughed, stirring slowly from almost death, staring up in shock at this strange man’s painted visage. Rondar’s stare looked completely glazed and blank.
“Hey. You there.”
The witch doctor waved his hands frantically infront of his eyes, but Rondar didn’t appear to recognise this movement at all. The doctor turned his head to the young wizard.
“What’s this guy’s name?”
“R-Rondar.”
The witch doctor switched his wide eyed grinning stare back to the old man.
“Rondar? I’m a doctor. I’m putting you to sleep and we’re going to go upstairs. If you can hear me in there, there’s no need to worry.”
“Is he going to be ok?” the young wizard asked.
“Who knows? Time will indeed tell!”
The witch doctor now grabbed his stick with his two hands and raised it above his head, and stared at the ceiling. Then he began to chant warbling gibberish, as he shaked the staff at random intervals. For a moment, it is if the witch doctor had entered into a trance.
Within a minute, Rondar’s eyes closed and the witch doctor shifted his piercing gaze back to the wizard, who was already uneasy with him.
“You. You can move him upstairs.”
“What, you mean pick him up?”
“No? Use some of that wizard stuff!”
“What? Oh... yeah. Not thinking. Sorry!”
The witch doctor shook his head in despair, then went to get his mask. The young wizard unleashed a straight walnut wand (which looked as if it hadn’t been used a lot) and pointed it at the sleeping Rondar.
“Tarupa!” he attempted to bellow, as he whisked the wand in a careful-ish through the air.
“Tarupa!” he repeated.
“Tarupa! Oh bloody hell. Oop-“
Rondar suddenly accelerated from the floor upwards, his head hitting the frame of the jail cell door quite hard. Understandably, the young wizard cringed and felt as if the best place for him was a quiet corner to shrink into.
“What the hell are you doing?” inquired the witch doctor.
“Trying to levitate.”
“Don’t they teach this in first year wizard school anymore?”
“Sorry. I’m re- I’m really sorry.”
“Come on, let’s go.”
Rondar left the prison like a helium balloon tied to a string, the two of them trying their best not to injure him any further. Or accidentally let him out of a window. Because that would be quite an experience to wake up from that.
Into the infirmary they went, and they pulled poor Rondar down to strap to the bed. The witch doctor then reached over to checked his pulse again.
“He’s stable. “
“W-what do you think’s happened.”
“Well, medical opinion says heart attack, maybe stroke. Tell me about the patient.”
“I don’t really know a lot. Tell you what, I’ll get Spinson.”
“Who the hell is Spinson?”
“H-Head Gaoler, I think he’s got records of all the prisoners we ever have here, somewhere.”
The witch doctor stood there with his arms folded.
“Well, I’d like to meet this... Spinson then.”
“I’ll erm- go and fetch him then.”
As the young wizard left, the witch doctor tutted and shook his head.
“I don’t know, anyone is becoming wizards these days.”
The witch doctor turned towards the sleeping Rondar and clapped his hands together to rub them, and by doing so, energy warmly crackled between his palms. The doctor’s eyes closed and he breathed deeply, centring himself.
He held his palms an inch over Rondar’s body for a few seconds, then began to sweep them up and down, sensing if there was anything untoward in there. The doctor’s face looked relaxed.
As his hands hovered over Rondar’s cranium, they stopped there.
“Oh my.”
A few minutes later, Spinson arrived with the young wizard, who at this point in time was still feeling the after-effects of much alcohol. Though, this little emergency’s sobering effects muchly negated this.
“Who are you and what’s going on?” Spinson asked.
“Me? I’m the renowned Doctor Julius Wolagnub, WD. Your prisoner has had what we would call a myocardial infarction-“
“A what?” replied the astonished Spinson.
“Oh yeah, for people like you, he’s had a heart attack.”
Spinson considered for a moment what this meant.
“Bloody hell. Is he dead?”
“I managed to save him, oh, and he’s had a stroke at roundabout the same time too. I want to keep him here for now.”
“Well, that’s fine by me, you can keep him.”
“Before you go, can you just tell me a little about the patient?”
“Well, erm, his name is Rondar, and we locked him up for a series of robberies years ago, escaping justice and all that. Age-wise, he’s about mid seventies, yeah?”
“Is there anything... medical we need to know?”
“He’s got arthritis and, oh yeah, his short term memory’s going.”
“I scanned his body and there was something there I couldn’t put my finger on. An unusual level of blood clotting, all at the same time.”
“What does that mean?”
“When the blood clots, it blocks arteries. In older men, particularly if they’ve been smoking or,” he sniffed the air, looked down and pointed at Spinson, staring down at him, “Drinking too much, they can get narrowed. Makes blood clots more easy to form. You don’t know any family history?”
“No, nothing. What can you do for him?”
“At the moment, I’m just keeping him stable. Though tell me, where’s your Lord Pommenby?”
Spinson slapped his own forehead.
“Oh shit.”
© Luke O'Sullivan, 2009
Monday 21 September 2009
The rules
Usually there are a set of rules for writing - plan out what your story will be like in advance, do yer sequence of events in the story, write it, edit it, edit it, edit it, then begin the hard bit - getting it published.
I don't see rules as rules, they're kind of more like guidelines. If I plan out a story in advance, more chance than not the plan seems less appetising and I would veer away and write something else entirely. Sometimes I don't know where I'm going and this injects quite a bit of unpredictability into the story. This doesn't mean that I can't put in intelligent twists into the story, but it does make it more difficult.
I've been breaking rules already with this blognovel, I've got a basic skeleton for how everything is going to pan out, but the parts I've been publishing haven't been edited greatly. Plus, once they're published, they can be edited still but maybe I should leave them the way they are, imperfect, but not necessarily faulty. Sod any grammatical or structural mistakes, eh?
I don't see rules as rules, they're kind of more like guidelines. If I plan out a story in advance, more chance than not the plan seems less appetising and I would veer away and write something else entirely. Sometimes I don't know where I'm going and this injects quite a bit of unpredictability into the story. This doesn't mean that I can't put in intelligent twists into the story, but it does make it more difficult.
I've been breaking rules already with this blognovel, I've got a basic skeleton for how everything is going to pan out, but the parts I've been publishing haven't been edited greatly. Plus, once they're published, they can be edited still but maybe I should leave them the way they are, imperfect, but not necessarily faulty. Sod any grammatical or structural mistakes, eh?
Sunday 20 September 2009
Part 3 soon!
Sorry for the delay... I wrote a largeish chunk, so I've published about half of that, so I need to check and edit the next part which should be ready soon.
I feel as if I have been slacking, which isn't ever good.
I feel as if I have been slacking, which isn't ever good.
Intergalactic Hall of Heroes - The Chalice of Souls
Pommenby, ahead of the throng, descended a couple of levels and sauntered into a room with a round sandpit, surrounded with dangling bells. Stood by this pit was a young wizard with a concerned look on her face.
“Well then, operator? Any luck? Did we get through this time?”
The young woman’s face was uncomfortably grim, as if she were to burst into tears.
“Afraid not. No signal at all. We didn’t even detect any interference from beyond the shield. It’s as if it were stronger than before.”
“That can’t possibly be true! No, no, no.” Pommenby replied, a little frustrated, “Not unless our enemy is strengthening it. That’s the only explanation for it!”
“My Lord, if I may suggest something?”
“What is it?”
“Our efforts may have simply been strengthening the shield. Our enemy could-“
“No, young lady! That can’t happen. That’s not how it works!”
“I don’t want to upset you, my Lord, but we do seem to be trying random magics out of desperation now. Has it really come to that now?”
Pommenby paused for a second, then retorted in a very overassertive manner.
“Do not concern yourself with that, young lady. Focus on your work, and we will do ours. Rest assured, we will make contact.”
Pommenby was visibly stressed at this point. Even the regular meditation didn’t have much of a relaxing and calming effect on him anymore. He thought to himself that this would be the time to seek out special potions to help him.
Strolling past the Potions room, Pommenby went next door to the Wizard’s Bar. Spinson was already there, propping the bar up.
“Spinson!”
“’Ello, sir. Did we win?”
“Not this time.” Pommenby ahem-ed, “Barkeep?”
“Yes, my Lord, I’m surprised to see you here. Can I do anything for you?”
“I want a bottle of house red.”
“Bad day, my Lord? I’d have thought you’d be on that meditation stuff, not here.”
“Oh it wasn’t too bad. The spell looked very pretty. First time I ever cast that one.”
“Do I, erm, take it that this was a complete failure then, my Lord?”
“Oh, not completely. Even though times are hard, someone has to remain positive. We only need one spell to work.”
The barkeep, who was also a wizard, but not nearly as senior as the others (and needed to hold down this job to pay the bills), had lost his enthusiasm days ago. He saw that the best, the great and good of this land just could not cut the mustard, and that all hope was indeed lost, which was some genuinely tough mustard oh yes. Anyway, the barkeep found a slightly dusty bottle of red wine down below the counter, something rather befitting for the Lord Wizard.
“Will this do, my Lord?”
“Ooh, let’s see. 845 Vintage. That sounds like it could be enjoyable, yes.”
Lord Pommenby then proceeded to wave his hand above the bottle and spake:
“Sisa Thuasis!”
And with that incant, the cork appeared to slide out of its own accord, and plopped neatly onto the bar.
“Very good, my Lord.” Said the unimpressed Barkeep.
Lord Pommenby, who chose to not reply, grabbed the bottle firmly in his right hand and swigged heartily from the bottle, emptying half of it within seconds, some of it spilling down his cheek into that beard. Spinson, who at the time was only a mere spectator, felt he had to comment on this with conviction:
“Hey ey ey ey, steady on! Steady on!”
Pommenby turned to his left.
“What?”
“What the bloody hell are you doing? Slow down!”
“Sorry, my friend. Just a reflex habit.”
Spinson, who had already been present here, in the bar for a couple of hours, was already in the process of marinating his liver with a choice of local brews. Or from another point of view, ensuring that what beer was left behind didn’t go to waste. As he spoke, he tried hard as he could to keep his gaze on poor Pommenby.
“You won’t enjoy it necking it like that. Just pace yourself.”
“I know what I’m doing!” Pommenby replied, who was clearly a little irritated.
Spinson was already in the phase where he couldn’t help but converse with his hands as well. Steady at the bar, he stretched out his palm and fingers at Pommenby.
“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. Trust me, you know, this sort of thing I’m an expert in.”
“I’d have you know, I’ve been abstintent for twenty years. Abstinunt.”
“No worries. Times are hard but you have to take it slowly. Trust me, you’ll feel better. Oi... Barman, bloody get him a glass would you? Come on.”
“Right up, sir.”
Barely hiding his annoyance at the pair of them, the barkeep swiftly produced a wide wine glass from the shelf under the bar, upon the table.
“Right, just sip it, don’t, you know, glug it down. That don’t help nobody.”
“Don’t woollrry, I’ll be alright.”
Pommenby presently filled the glass almost to the brim with wine, set the bottle back onto the bar and without pause or hesitation, swigged the entire glass.
“Oh for f-, no, no, no, no don’t blame me if you’re sick. I did tell you.”
Pommenby suddenly took righteous offence at this and lectured back:
“There’s bloody alien forces on our land and there’s nothing, nothing we can do about it! None of our spells work and you’re bloody asking me to enjoy myself? Do you know how much we’ve tried this past month? Well?”
“So you’ve given up all hope then? I tell you, yeah, if I was in your shoes, I wouldn’t have given up. I never did anyway. No. I wouldn’t. You know what I’ve lost?”, Spinson replied, counting his losses on his fingers, and either looking close to punching someone or crying, “My wife... yeah? My two boys? My beautiful baby girl? YOU – you ain’t never had a family but if you had of done, how would it feel like?”
“Pretty bad.”
“You see, that’s it yeah, you wouldn’t understand because you never had one. You’ve got all this..” He bounced his index finger off his skull repeatedly, “Up here, so you people can NEVER give up hope, never.Iif they ever brought an army here, if they brought an army up here, right, I would break every one of their stinking bloody necks, “ He said as he rammed his fist on the bar, “Before they had me. I don’t care if they did. I’ve got nothing. Nothing here.”
Pommenby began to point his finger wildly back at Spinson in response.
“Spinson... we have, have tried everything... in the books. That’s all of our, of our magical knowledge. So what then? If we’ve thrown everything at it, what do we do?”
“Why are you asking me? I’m no magician. I look after these bloody prisoners. We’re kind of counting on you lot to get us out of this mess. I can’t believe you’ve tried everything. It’s bullshit-”
Suddenly, a younger wizard burst into the bar, waving his arms around.
“Lord Pommenby? Lord Pommenby!” He exclaimed loudly.
“Ooh, company?”
And Lord Pommenby slowly turned around to look.
“Two more have arrived. Wizards of the West, my Lord.”
“Good, good. Tell them. Tell them..” He gestured with his finger at the young man, “Ask them young man... see if they have any ideas we could try. Any spells we haven’t used yet.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
The young wizard bowed to Lord Pommenby, switched around and left the bar. Pommenby turned himself back to Spinson.
“They’re all good you know.”
“Well, they’re the best wizards in all the world. What’s left.”
“Yes, I forgot. I had many, many colleagues. Some of them, Spinson, I never saw that much because of study and whatnot. I do miss them. Yes.”
“So, would you say you’d think that’s something to be worth fighting for?”
“Well I suppose so. You know that's what we're fighting against.”
“They're not your friends any more. They're slaves now and they ain't coming back.”
© Luke O'Sullivan, 2009
“Well then, operator? Any luck? Did we get through this time?”
The young woman’s face was uncomfortably grim, as if she were to burst into tears.
“Afraid not. No signal at all. We didn’t even detect any interference from beyond the shield. It’s as if it were stronger than before.”
“That can’t possibly be true! No, no, no.” Pommenby replied, a little frustrated, “Not unless our enemy is strengthening it. That’s the only explanation for it!”
“My Lord, if I may suggest something?”
“What is it?”
“Our efforts may have simply been strengthening the shield. Our enemy could-“
“No, young lady! That can’t happen. That’s not how it works!”
“I don’t want to upset you, my Lord, but we do seem to be trying random magics out of desperation now. Has it really come to that now?”
Pommenby paused for a second, then retorted in a very overassertive manner.
“Do not concern yourself with that, young lady. Focus on your work, and we will do ours. Rest assured, we will make contact.”
Pommenby was visibly stressed at this point. Even the regular meditation didn’t have much of a relaxing and calming effect on him anymore. He thought to himself that this would be the time to seek out special potions to help him.
Strolling past the Potions room, Pommenby went next door to the Wizard’s Bar. Spinson was already there, propping the bar up.
“Spinson!”
“’Ello, sir. Did we win?”
“Not this time.” Pommenby ahem-ed, “Barkeep?”
“Yes, my Lord, I’m surprised to see you here. Can I do anything for you?”
“I want a bottle of house red.”
“Bad day, my Lord? I’d have thought you’d be on that meditation stuff, not here.”
“Oh it wasn’t too bad. The spell looked very pretty. First time I ever cast that one.”
“Do I, erm, take it that this was a complete failure then, my Lord?”
“Oh, not completely. Even though times are hard, someone has to remain positive. We only need one spell to work.”
The barkeep, who was also a wizard, but not nearly as senior as the others (and needed to hold down this job to pay the bills), had lost his enthusiasm days ago. He saw that the best, the great and good of this land just could not cut the mustard, and that all hope was indeed lost, which was some genuinely tough mustard oh yes. Anyway, the barkeep found a slightly dusty bottle of red wine down below the counter, something rather befitting for the Lord Wizard.
“Will this do, my Lord?”
“Ooh, let’s see. 845 Vintage. That sounds like it could be enjoyable, yes.”
Lord Pommenby then proceeded to wave his hand above the bottle and spake:
“Sisa Thuasis!”
And with that incant, the cork appeared to slide out of its own accord, and plopped neatly onto the bar.
“Very good, my Lord.” Said the unimpressed Barkeep.
Lord Pommenby, who chose to not reply, grabbed the bottle firmly in his right hand and swigged heartily from the bottle, emptying half of it within seconds, some of it spilling down his cheek into that beard. Spinson, who at the time was only a mere spectator, felt he had to comment on this with conviction:
“Hey ey ey ey, steady on! Steady on!”
Pommenby turned to his left.
“What?”
“What the bloody hell are you doing? Slow down!”
“Sorry, my friend. Just a reflex habit.”
Spinson, who had already been present here, in the bar for a couple of hours, was already in the process of marinating his liver with a choice of local brews. Or from another point of view, ensuring that what beer was left behind didn’t go to waste. As he spoke, he tried hard as he could to keep his gaze on poor Pommenby.
“You won’t enjoy it necking it like that. Just pace yourself.”
“I know what I’m doing!” Pommenby replied, who was clearly a little irritated.
Spinson was already in the phase where he couldn’t help but converse with his hands as well. Steady at the bar, he stretched out his palm and fingers at Pommenby.
“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. Trust me, you know, this sort of thing I’m an expert in.”
“I’d have you know, I’ve been abstintent for twenty years. Abstinunt.”
“No worries. Times are hard but you have to take it slowly. Trust me, you’ll feel better. Oi... Barman, bloody get him a glass would you? Come on.”
“Right up, sir.”
Barely hiding his annoyance at the pair of them, the barkeep swiftly produced a wide wine glass from the shelf under the bar, upon the table.
“Right, just sip it, don’t, you know, glug it down. That don’t help nobody.”
“Don’t woollrry, I’ll be alright.”
Pommenby presently filled the glass almost to the brim with wine, set the bottle back onto the bar and without pause or hesitation, swigged the entire glass.
“Oh for f-, no, no, no, no don’t blame me if you’re sick. I did tell you.”
Pommenby suddenly took righteous offence at this and lectured back:
“There’s bloody alien forces on our land and there’s nothing, nothing we can do about it! None of our spells work and you’re bloody asking me to enjoy myself? Do you know how much we’ve tried this past month? Well?”
“So you’ve given up all hope then? I tell you, yeah, if I was in your shoes, I wouldn’t have given up. I never did anyway. No. I wouldn’t. You know what I’ve lost?”, Spinson replied, counting his losses on his fingers, and either looking close to punching someone or crying, “My wife... yeah? My two boys? My beautiful baby girl? YOU – you ain’t never had a family but if you had of done, how would it feel like?”
“Pretty bad.”
“You see, that’s it yeah, you wouldn’t understand because you never had one. You’ve got all this..” He bounced his index finger off his skull repeatedly, “Up here, so you people can NEVER give up hope, never.Iif they ever brought an army here, if they brought an army up here, right, I would break every one of their stinking bloody necks, “ He said as he rammed his fist on the bar, “Before they had me. I don’t care if they did. I’ve got nothing. Nothing here.”
Pommenby began to point his finger wildly back at Spinson in response.
“Spinson... we have, have tried everything... in the books. That’s all of our, of our magical knowledge. So what then? If we’ve thrown everything at it, what do we do?”
“Why are you asking me? I’m no magician. I look after these bloody prisoners. We’re kind of counting on you lot to get us out of this mess. I can’t believe you’ve tried everything. It’s bullshit-”
Suddenly, a younger wizard burst into the bar, waving his arms around.
“Lord Pommenby? Lord Pommenby!” He exclaimed loudly.
“Ooh, company?”
And Lord Pommenby slowly turned around to look.
“Two more have arrived. Wizards of the West, my Lord.”
“Good, good. Tell them. Tell them..” He gestured with his finger at the young man, “Ask them young man... see if they have any ideas we could try. Any spells we haven’t used yet.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
The young wizard bowed to Lord Pommenby, switched around and left the bar. Pommenby turned himself back to Spinson.
“They’re all good you know.”
“Well, they’re the best wizards in all the world. What’s left.”
“Yes, I forgot. I had many, many colleagues. Some of them, Spinson, I never saw that much because of study and whatnot. I do miss them. Yes.”
“So, would you say you’d think that’s something to be worth fighting for?”
“Well I suppose so. You know that's what we're fighting against.”
“They're not your friends any more. They're slaves now and they ain't coming back.”
© Luke O'Sullivan, 2009
Thursday 17 September 2009
Next part ready soon...
I've been a bit busy, including my other, older project (i.e. another novel i haven't finished yet which I should really focus on as well).
Thursday 10 September 2009
Off for the weekend
The next part is underway. I'm going away for the weekend but I may be able to still spend time on the next installment.
I have one follower... (thank you though) but I wasn't expecting anything until I had several parts of the story online! Anyway, I hope you're patient.
Also, there's been no more incidents with the fire alarm.
I have one follower... (thank you though) but I wasn't expecting anything until I had several parts of the story online! Anyway, I hope you're patient.
Also, there's been no more incidents with the fire alarm.
Monday 7 September 2009
I love bacon
But not when you're cooking it early in the morning, and you accidentally set off the fire alarms in the house, waking your wife up (who has problems sleeping anyway). Sorry!
Intergalactic Hall of Heroes - The Chalice of Souls
Book One – The Ravaged City
Chapter One
Race For The Tower
The Head Gaoler, a very hardy fellow who had many scars across his face, which looked as if it had been carved from granite, sat glumly at the round wooden table in the centre of this small prison. The prison, of which, was situated underneath a rather important tower.
Supporting his bald, heavy head with his fist, he appeared deep in thought. One would wonder what burned deep inside the soul of such men, for they would never show the entirety of it in fear of advertising a weakness.
And yet another thumping explosion nearby reverberated inside the prison, which shook various chains and loosened grit and plaster from the ceiling.
“They’re coming... But they’re not all here yet. I can just about... sense them.” Spoke an eerie, wispy, burdened voice from one of the cells.
“Shut up!” The gaoler shouted back.
“They’re in... peril.”
“Will you bloody shut your mouth? I’m thinking.”
“May I ask... what you are pondering?”
“No.”
“You can tell me... I won’t tell anyone.”
The head gaoler jolted upright and marched towards the cell in particular, grabbed onto the bars with big strong hands and bellowed:
“I DON’T WANT TO TALK TO YOU, RIGHT! I DON’T CARE. JUST SHUT THE BLOODY HELL UP OR GOD HELP ME, YOU’D HAVE WISH YOU DID. ALRIGHT?”
“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-“
“I WON’T BE SORRY WHEN I’M FINISHED WITH YOU.”
“I didn’t mean... any offence.”
“I’LL SHOW YOU BLOODY OFFENSIVE, MATE.”
“Please... I meant no harm.”
Another shockwave hit, dusting the gaoler’s head. This did nothing for the gaoler’s rage.
“Nothing would satisfy me more than throwing you outside into the absolute hell outside right now. Of course, after I’ve taken that Stone of Submission they tied around your neck and shoved it right up your f-“
“Spinson!” someone bellowed (in a friendly manner).
Spinson jolted around to see the jolly white bearded magician plod into his domain, who stood there, belly ungracefully out protruding from within his loose scarlet robe. He stood there, with a jolly grin.
“Why, I heard shouting from above. Is there cause for alarm, Spinson?”
“Oh, just the prisoner, my lord. Never will shut up, will he?”, he replied, attemping to meet the wizard’s jollity of the moment.
“Well, sorry about the noise outside. The wizards of the west are approaching, just a little covering fire, ho ho!”
“How is that distress signal going?”
“Coming along nicely. If we can solve that conundrum of breaking through the barrier of course. No reply yet though, but more people are coming to join us to focus their efforts. The more the merrier, as I always say!”
“Well, yeah.”
“No need to look so glum, Spinson! Cheer up! Help WILL be on its way!”
“Ain’t gonna bring back my family though, will it, sir?”
The jolly magician put his hands onto Spinson’s shoulders, who managed to hide his embarrassment for now.
“We must look forward, Spinson! Never backward! Now, let me have a word with old nastyface.”
“My pleasure.”
Spinson walked away back to the table. The only thing he actually liked about this tower was that even in these adverse circumstances, with all the crap going on, this place was quite safe. You just had to put up with all manner of weird people, people from all kinds of magical professions wittering on about their experiments and meditations, far away from the company of equals where most of the conversation would revolve around sport, dirty jokes and sexually attractive members of the opposite sex, and what each of them would like to do to them.
The wizard peered into the cell, where a dimly lit figure, concealed in brown rags sat.
“Are you giving my friend trouble again?”
“Not... intentionally, my Lord. I take it that you have made... no contact yet.”
“That is not for any of us to discuss with you.”
“My offer to help... is still offered to you.”
“I can say that we shan’t possibly need your help. Not that I’d consider releasing you. You may sooner ally yourself with the enemy than give us aid.”
“Your efforts... will fail, Lord Pommenby.”
“That’s enough.”
Lord Pommenby’s patience was truly tested. Normally, the gentle lord was convivial, upbeat and accommodating, but even he showed disdain towards the mysterious prisoner. It wasn’t the stale pissy smell emanating from within, but something much worse than a bad smell.
The wizard turned around to Spinson, who was sat at the table again, playing with a broken pencil.
“I must leave to meditate. The more powerful I am, the more chance we can break through and finally make contact.”
“See you, then.” Spinson replied, not even making a glance up from the table.
“Farewell, Spinson!”
As the Wizard left, Spinson grabbed his face with both hands and stretched the skin down. It helped ease the stress and tension. He growled slightly, just so anyone else could just hear.
The man in the rags lay eerily still. You couldn’t tell from looking at it whether whoever it was in there was indeed alive or dead. It never flinched, it just sat there perfectly still as a statue.
Above, at the great portal to the Wizard’s Tower, in the pouring rain of the evening, two fists rammed hard upon the wooden door.
“Is there anyone there?” bellowed the bald mage, as heavy rain hammered onto his head.
The door opened, where stood Lord Pommenby, as well as a few other important looking wizards.
“My goodness. Come inside at once! Are you hurt?” Pommenby asked.
“I’m not used to this weather. I live in a desert!”
This wizard was completely soaked to the bone in his sky blue robe, and shivering. He staggered in.
“Are there others with you?”
“They didn’t make it.”
Pommenby waved his palms through the air, weaving a complex pattern of magic, and chanted:
“Amutis Entstrai!”
Suddenly, the soaked wizard’s clothes and hair plumped outwards, spraying fine droplets of water in all directions. The wizard examined how dry he and his clothes were.
“My many thanks!”
“Ah good. Now, would you like a nice cup of tea?”
“Oh, yes please!” The wizard emphatically replied.
“Well, if you would follow me upstairs please, tell me, do you like custard creams?”
“Ah, don’t mind if I do!”
After the nice cup of tea, Pommenby introduced the new guest to the other wizards up at the top room of the tower, where the staircase also led to the very top. Various learned men and women from different magical professions were congregated here, some of which had also travelled considerable distances.
It was a relaxed environment here, with gentle lighting, dark wooden furniture and a large round red carpet.
A tall, thin man with olive skin, harsh features and a hooked nose approached the newcomer. With a deep, booming voice he said:
“Welcome, Wizard of the West, to the Tower of the Eternal Light. We have heard many stories of your kind, and your journey must have been long. I am The Most Venerable Ardnal, Grand Sorceror from the Entesis Empire and former advisor to the late Emperor.”
“We have heard word of you before. I am Haklatus, Senior Thaumaturge and Trainee Overseer from the Krentok Academy. Though I think I’m the last one left.”
“All of us have lost people close to us here. Now you ARE here, you can aid us in preventing any more deaths. You must rest, obviously, for later, but please make yourself acquainted with your new colleagues.”
Back in the dungeons, the thing in the cell spoke again.
“Someone’s arrived.”
“What?” Spinson replied.
“I can just about taste it in the air... Whoever it is has come from afar... yet alone.”
“So what?”
“It means there’s little chance that... anyone else will arrive. It’s been a whole month... now... since the message went out. ... This is all the help... that they will get. It isn’t enough.”
“Well, there’s bugger all else to put my faith in right now. All of the major cities have fallen, or have been destroyed. Everyone’s surrendered.”
“I have... not forgotten. Quite impressive... don’t you think?”
“Well of course, I forgot. The murder of innocents. That’s right up your street, isn’t it?”
“I achieved... much. Now my notoriety... is forgotten. They stole it from me.”
Spinson giggled.
“Does it piss you off that this made your genocidal rampage look a little tiny?”
“You could sum it up... like that, yes. It makes me... jealous.”
“Well, it’s good you can’t do anything about that then, is it? Now, will you shut up?”
An old man’s voice from one of the other cells croaked.
“Water! I need water!”
“Oh, not you as well.”
Spinson shook his head, huffed in despair and went upstairs to fetch a bowl of water.
“He’s really good to us, you know. Us old evil types.” It croaked.
“You’ve lost... your touch. I think prison... finally broke you. You know I admired you... once.”
“Oh, that was a long time ago. Fourty years ago I think. Many, many robberies.”
“We showed them... in our own ways... our greatness.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I just got rich, and then lost the lot. I am nothing but a cursed name now, a trinket, a prize to be bandied around the world in a cage.”
“Are you... proud?”
“Only proud. Erghm.”
The croaky man, making some disgusting noises, coughed up some phlegm and spat it out somewhere.
“I am only proud that those who caught me were otherworlders. They were heroes from afar. All I did was go into exile, but they had to get outside help to find me.”
“The Intergalactic... Hall of Heroes?”
“Oh yes. Nothing but the best of course. I heard on my way here that that’s who they’re trying to reach. They’re trying all their magical knowledge, but nothing is breaking through the barrier!”
“I know... They tried to summon the best minds in the craft here... but they forgot at least two.”
“Oh I was a cunning one, but I was never a powerful wizard! And all my power has gone away now. They should ask you to help.”
“If only... it wasn’t a matter of principle for them.”
“That’s a shame. They need you, you know. But they won’t admit it.”
The croaky man coughed some more, and didn’t seem to be able to stop. Though it had taken much effort, he shouted (croakily):
“Help!”
Spinson returned, hurriedly, down the stairs with a bowl of water.
“I’m only gone two minutes. What’s the bloody matter?” He asked, unlocking the croaky man’s cell.
“I’m a dying man!” He croaked.
“No you’re not. Keep yourself warm in that blanket over there. Don’t be stupid.”
“Can I have my water?”
Spinson huffed as he passed the bowl to the croaky man, who gripped it with shaky hands and raised it to his mouth to drink. Droplets of water streaked down his matted and unkempt beard. The empty bowl was handed back to Spinson.
“Thank you.”
“Now, wrap yourself up.”
“Okay.”
The croaky man shuffled off the floor to get the blanket off his bed, while Spinson locked him in again. Spinson huffed, then began to whistle a tune, which kind of resembled a popular folk song of these parts, “The Naughty Bard” if only he could get any of the notes right.
Later on, at the twilight before dusk, all of the wizards began to congregate on the very top of the tower. The storm continued to lash up here, and the wind howled past, catching the wizard’s robes. Leading the party was Lord Pommenby, who somehow managed to stay upbeat, despite the awful inclement weather.
“All of you assemble around the perimeter for this one!” he shouted, “Link arms with the person stood next to you.”
Senior members of the magical profession arranged themselves near the battlement perimeter, steadying themselves, and linking arms with their neighbours. Meanwhile, Lord Pommenby was passed a large, gnarled wooden staff by an assistant, who nodded and then turned to leg it downstairs out of the rain.
Lord Pommenby tapped the butt of the staff onto the worn flagstone floor three times. He then chanted:
“Blessed Hazdar, eastern Lord of the Sun, aid us in our quest to break the shield. We are gracious for your presence here. Give us the power of your maelstrom.”
With the butt of the staff, Pommenby began to draw a clockwise spiral towards the centre. Still, the wind howled as the sun set.
Pommenby finished his spiral.
“Hazdar, though you set, your power rains eternal. We call on you to bring light to dark, bring hope to suffering, bring peace to war. I summon thee here!”
All together the wizards and witches chanted:
“We summon thee here!”
Where Pommenby had traced the spiral onto stone, a red line appeared. Pommenby walked to the edge to join with the other wizards there.
“Could I just put my staff here, by the wall? Thank you very much.”
And together they chanted.
“The setting sun is the rising sun.
Power is eternal.
The setting sun is the rising sun.
Power is eternal.
The setting sun is the rising sun.
Power is eternal.”
From the centre of the spiral, a shaft of golden light had burst upwards through the clouds, dispersing them. Above, an expanding circle of clear sky flickered between day and dusk. The shaft widened and intensified, spinning rapidly, twisting itself into a drilling golden helix above, which would be visible for miles.
The tower vibrated, which coursed back down to the prison below. Spinson had retired for the evening, leaving the two prisoners to their own devices.
“You... Rondar. You escaped from prison before... This building does not seem... structurally safe.”
“I don’t think we’ll get out of here, unless you fancy climbing out of thousands of tons of rubble. If you’re still alive. If I could have escaped from here, I would have done it years ago.”
“Oh... bollocks then.”
“Well at least it’ll be a quick death.”
“Hmm.”
“I think I’ve had a good innings anyway.”
“I don’t think... my work is finished yet.”
“Well if you can escape from a wizard’s prison, fair enough. But you won’t.”
Atop, the wizards and witches held fast as the light continued to burst upwards. Then the light began to wane. Soon, they were all bathed in darkness, but as people of magic were, this would not be for long, as various people began summoning light for personal uses, whether it be at the end of wands, floating orbs, magical rings lighting up or ghostly fireflies and stuff.
“Thank you once again, ladies and gentlemen.” Pommenby announced, “I will see if we managed to get through!”
© Luke O'Sullivan, 2009
Chapter One
Race For The Tower
The Head Gaoler, a very hardy fellow who had many scars across his face, which looked as if it had been carved from granite, sat glumly at the round wooden table in the centre of this small prison. The prison, of which, was situated underneath a rather important tower.
Supporting his bald, heavy head with his fist, he appeared deep in thought. One would wonder what burned deep inside the soul of such men, for they would never show the entirety of it in fear of advertising a weakness.
And yet another thumping explosion nearby reverberated inside the prison, which shook various chains and loosened grit and plaster from the ceiling.
“They’re coming... But they’re not all here yet. I can just about... sense them.” Spoke an eerie, wispy, burdened voice from one of the cells.
“Shut up!” The gaoler shouted back.
“They’re in... peril.”
“Will you bloody shut your mouth? I’m thinking.”
“May I ask... what you are pondering?”
“No.”
“You can tell me... I won’t tell anyone.”
The head gaoler jolted upright and marched towards the cell in particular, grabbed onto the bars with big strong hands and bellowed:
“I DON’T WANT TO TALK TO YOU, RIGHT! I DON’T CARE. JUST SHUT THE BLOODY HELL UP OR GOD HELP ME, YOU’D HAVE WISH YOU DID. ALRIGHT?”
“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-“
“I WON’T BE SORRY WHEN I’M FINISHED WITH YOU.”
“I didn’t mean... any offence.”
“I’LL SHOW YOU BLOODY OFFENSIVE, MATE.”
“Please... I meant no harm.”
Another shockwave hit, dusting the gaoler’s head. This did nothing for the gaoler’s rage.
“Nothing would satisfy me more than throwing you outside into the absolute hell outside right now. Of course, after I’ve taken that Stone of Submission they tied around your neck and shoved it right up your f-“
“Spinson!” someone bellowed (in a friendly manner).
Spinson jolted around to see the jolly white bearded magician plod into his domain, who stood there, belly ungracefully out protruding from within his loose scarlet robe. He stood there, with a jolly grin.
“Why, I heard shouting from above. Is there cause for alarm, Spinson?”
“Oh, just the prisoner, my lord. Never will shut up, will he?”, he replied, attemping to meet the wizard’s jollity of the moment.
“Well, sorry about the noise outside. The wizards of the west are approaching, just a little covering fire, ho ho!”
“How is that distress signal going?”
“Coming along nicely. If we can solve that conundrum of breaking through the barrier of course. No reply yet though, but more people are coming to join us to focus their efforts. The more the merrier, as I always say!”
“Well, yeah.”
“No need to look so glum, Spinson! Cheer up! Help WILL be on its way!”
“Ain’t gonna bring back my family though, will it, sir?”
The jolly magician put his hands onto Spinson’s shoulders, who managed to hide his embarrassment for now.
“We must look forward, Spinson! Never backward! Now, let me have a word with old nastyface.”
“My pleasure.”
Spinson walked away back to the table. The only thing he actually liked about this tower was that even in these adverse circumstances, with all the crap going on, this place was quite safe. You just had to put up with all manner of weird people, people from all kinds of magical professions wittering on about their experiments and meditations, far away from the company of equals where most of the conversation would revolve around sport, dirty jokes and sexually attractive members of the opposite sex, and what each of them would like to do to them.
The wizard peered into the cell, where a dimly lit figure, concealed in brown rags sat.
“Are you giving my friend trouble again?”
“Not... intentionally, my Lord. I take it that you have made... no contact yet.”
“That is not for any of us to discuss with you.”
“My offer to help... is still offered to you.”
“I can say that we shan’t possibly need your help. Not that I’d consider releasing you. You may sooner ally yourself with the enemy than give us aid.”
“Your efforts... will fail, Lord Pommenby.”
“That’s enough.”
Lord Pommenby’s patience was truly tested. Normally, the gentle lord was convivial, upbeat and accommodating, but even he showed disdain towards the mysterious prisoner. It wasn’t the stale pissy smell emanating from within, but something much worse than a bad smell.
The wizard turned around to Spinson, who was sat at the table again, playing with a broken pencil.
“I must leave to meditate. The more powerful I am, the more chance we can break through and finally make contact.”
“See you, then.” Spinson replied, not even making a glance up from the table.
“Farewell, Spinson!”
As the Wizard left, Spinson grabbed his face with both hands and stretched the skin down. It helped ease the stress and tension. He growled slightly, just so anyone else could just hear.
The man in the rags lay eerily still. You couldn’t tell from looking at it whether whoever it was in there was indeed alive or dead. It never flinched, it just sat there perfectly still as a statue.
Above, at the great portal to the Wizard’s Tower, in the pouring rain of the evening, two fists rammed hard upon the wooden door.
“Is there anyone there?” bellowed the bald mage, as heavy rain hammered onto his head.
The door opened, where stood Lord Pommenby, as well as a few other important looking wizards.
“My goodness. Come inside at once! Are you hurt?” Pommenby asked.
“I’m not used to this weather. I live in a desert!”
This wizard was completely soaked to the bone in his sky blue robe, and shivering. He staggered in.
“Are there others with you?”
“They didn’t make it.”
Pommenby waved his palms through the air, weaving a complex pattern of magic, and chanted:
“Amutis Entstrai!”
Suddenly, the soaked wizard’s clothes and hair plumped outwards, spraying fine droplets of water in all directions. The wizard examined how dry he and his clothes were.
“My many thanks!”
“Ah good. Now, would you like a nice cup of tea?”
“Oh, yes please!” The wizard emphatically replied.
“Well, if you would follow me upstairs please, tell me, do you like custard creams?”
“Ah, don’t mind if I do!”
After the nice cup of tea, Pommenby introduced the new guest to the other wizards up at the top room of the tower, where the staircase also led to the very top. Various learned men and women from different magical professions were congregated here, some of which had also travelled considerable distances.
It was a relaxed environment here, with gentle lighting, dark wooden furniture and a large round red carpet.
A tall, thin man with olive skin, harsh features and a hooked nose approached the newcomer. With a deep, booming voice he said:
“Welcome, Wizard of the West, to the Tower of the Eternal Light. We have heard many stories of your kind, and your journey must have been long. I am The Most Venerable Ardnal, Grand Sorceror from the Entesis Empire and former advisor to the late Emperor.”
“We have heard word of you before. I am Haklatus, Senior Thaumaturge and Trainee Overseer from the Krentok Academy. Though I think I’m the last one left.”
“All of us have lost people close to us here. Now you ARE here, you can aid us in preventing any more deaths. You must rest, obviously, for later, but please make yourself acquainted with your new colleagues.”
Back in the dungeons, the thing in the cell spoke again.
“Someone’s arrived.”
“What?” Spinson replied.
“I can just about taste it in the air... Whoever it is has come from afar... yet alone.”
“So what?”
“It means there’s little chance that... anyone else will arrive. It’s been a whole month... now... since the message went out. ... This is all the help... that they will get. It isn’t enough.”
“Well, there’s bugger all else to put my faith in right now. All of the major cities have fallen, or have been destroyed. Everyone’s surrendered.”
“I have... not forgotten. Quite impressive... don’t you think?”
“Well of course, I forgot. The murder of innocents. That’s right up your street, isn’t it?”
“I achieved... much. Now my notoriety... is forgotten. They stole it from me.”
Spinson giggled.
“Does it piss you off that this made your genocidal rampage look a little tiny?”
“You could sum it up... like that, yes. It makes me... jealous.”
“Well, it’s good you can’t do anything about that then, is it? Now, will you shut up?”
An old man’s voice from one of the other cells croaked.
“Water! I need water!”
“Oh, not you as well.”
Spinson shook his head, huffed in despair and went upstairs to fetch a bowl of water.
“He’s really good to us, you know. Us old evil types.” It croaked.
“You’ve lost... your touch. I think prison... finally broke you. You know I admired you... once.”
“Oh, that was a long time ago. Fourty years ago I think. Many, many robberies.”
“We showed them... in our own ways... our greatness.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I just got rich, and then lost the lot. I am nothing but a cursed name now, a trinket, a prize to be bandied around the world in a cage.”
“Are you... proud?”
“Only proud. Erghm.”
The croaky man, making some disgusting noises, coughed up some phlegm and spat it out somewhere.
“I am only proud that those who caught me were otherworlders. They were heroes from afar. All I did was go into exile, but they had to get outside help to find me.”
“The Intergalactic... Hall of Heroes?”
“Oh yes. Nothing but the best of course. I heard on my way here that that’s who they’re trying to reach. They’re trying all their magical knowledge, but nothing is breaking through the barrier!”
“I know... They tried to summon the best minds in the craft here... but they forgot at least two.”
“Oh I was a cunning one, but I was never a powerful wizard! And all my power has gone away now. They should ask you to help.”
“If only... it wasn’t a matter of principle for them.”
“That’s a shame. They need you, you know. But they won’t admit it.”
The croaky man coughed some more, and didn’t seem to be able to stop. Though it had taken much effort, he shouted (croakily):
“Help!”
Spinson returned, hurriedly, down the stairs with a bowl of water.
“I’m only gone two minutes. What’s the bloody matter?” He asked, unlocking the croaky man’s cell.
“I’m a dying man!” He croaked.
“No you’re not. Keep yourself warm in that blanket over there. Don’t be stupid.”
“Can I have my water?”
Spinson huffed as he passed the bowl to the croaky man, who gripped it with shaky hands and raised it to his mouth to drink. Droplets of water streaked down his matted and unkempt beard. The empty bowl was handed back to Spinson.
“Thank you.”
“Now, wrap yourself up.”
“Okay.”
The croaky man shuffled off the floor to get the blanket off his bed, while Spinson locked him in again. Spinson huffed, then began to whistle a tune, which kind of resembled a popular folk song of these parts, “The Naughty Bard” if only he could get any of the notes right.
Later on, at the twilight before dusk, all of the wizards began to congregate on the very top of the tower. The storm continued to lash up here, and the wind howled past, catching the wizard’s robes. Leading the party was Lord Pommenby, who somehow managed to stay upbeat, despite the awful inclement weather.
“All of you assemble around the perimeter for this one!” he shouted, “Link arms with the person stood next to you.”
Senior members of the magical profession arranged themselves near the battlement perimeter, steadying themselves, and linking arms with their neighbours. Meanwhile, Lord Pommenby was passed a large, gnarled wooden staff by an assistant, who nodded and then turned to leg it downstairs out of the rain.
Lord Pommenby tapped the butt of the staff onto the worn flagstone floor three times. He then chanted:
“Blessed Hazdar, eastern Lord of the Sun, aid us in our quest to break the shield. We are gracious for your presence here. Give us the power of your maelstrom.”
With the butt of the staff, Pommenby began to draw a clockwise spiral towards the centre. Still, the wind howled as the sun set.
Pommenby finished his spiral.
“Hazdar, though you set, your power rains eternal. We call on you to bring light to dark, bring hope to suffering, bring peace to war. I summon thee here!”
All together the wizards and witches chanted:
“We summon thee here!”
Where Pommenby had traced the spiral onto stone, a red line appeared. Pommenby walked to the edge to join with the other wizards there.
“Could I just put my staff here, by the wall? Thank you very much.”
And together they chanted.
“The setting sun is the rising sun.
Power is eternal.
The setting sun is the rising sun.
Power is eternal.
The setting sun is the rising sun.
Power is eternal.”
From the centre of the spiral, a shaft of golden light had burst upwards through the clouds, dispersing them. Above, an expanding circle of clear sky flickered between day and dusk. The shaft widened and intensified, spinning rapidly, twisting itself into a drilling golden helix above, which would be visible for miles.
The tower vibrated, which coursed back down to the prison below. Spinson had retired for the evening, leaving the two prisoners to their own devices.
“You... Rondar. You escaped from prison before... This building does not seem... structurally safe.”
“I don’t think we’ll get out of here, unless you fancy climbing out of thousands of tons of rubble. If you’re still alive. If I could have escaped from here, I would have done it years ago.”
“Oh... bollocks then.”
“Well at least it’ll be a quick death.”
“Hmm.”
“I think I’ve had a good innings anyway.”
“I don’t think... my work is finished yet.”
“Well if you can escape from a wizard’s prison, fair enough. But you won’t.”
Atop, the wizards and witches held fast as the light continued to burst upwards. Then the light began to wane. Soon, they were all bathed in darkness, but as people of magic were, this would not be for long, as various people began summoning light for personal uses, whether it be at the end of wands, floating orbs, magical rings lighting up or ghostly fireflies and stuff.
“Thank you once again, ladies and gentlemen.” Pommenby announced, “I will see if we managed to get through!”
© Luke O'Sullivan, 2009
Tuesday 1 September 2009
Hmm...
I'm sat here in the morning, pondering how this blog should actually look. I'm tempted away by a nice bagel with well done (burnt to a crisp) bacon and Heinz tomato ketchup. Basically, the story should be easily readable, whether this is someone catching up on the story on a regular basis or someone reading a large amount from scratch.
So I should see how other people are doing it, obviously. But not steal of course. Hmm...
I've got another part which I can get published soon and although no one's reading this yet, I'm ok with that, I'd rather have several bits here anyway before advertising myself.
So I should see how other people are doing it, obviously. But not steal of course. Hmm...
I've got another part which I can get published soon and although no one's reading this yet, I'm ok with that, I'd rather have several bits here anyway before advertising myself.
Monday 31 August 2009
Intergalactic Hall of Heroes - The Chalice Of Souls
Introduction
RETIREMENT. It’s such a beautiful word for it is a word that signifies a great deal of change in a person’s life. For some, it simply means not having to get up for work anymore. For others, it isn’t the end of an era, it is the start of something completely new. A happy start in one’s autumn years, where one can finally take it easy and rest those old bones. Maybe take up a new hobby, or do something you once did when you were younger. As long as it isn’t extreme sports.
For those about to retire, it seems like something to look forward to, a milestone. A chance to stop and take control of things.
Some people don’t want to retire because they’d rather carry on a while longer. And I say Godspeed and all the best. Nothing against you retirees though, no offence meant! If you enjoy working then why stop?
And some people just can’t physically stop. Even when you’re millions of light years away from home, when you’re fighting the forces of evil with all your might, even though you’re now aged 67 and every muscle in your body says “No!” it is that incessant tyrant of a brain forces the body to keep going. Retire now? Bollocks!
There was a man out there who people called ‘Alf the Unstoppable’, because firstly, his name was Alf, and he never fully understood or acknowledged the need to stop, or slow down. A rather stubborn fellow to say the least.But good fortune was indeed in his favour over the years, as even though he had risked life and limb countless times, travelling to various points in the galaxy and sometimes beyond, Alf had reached the age when he would nowadays be entitled to a free bus pass.
This was Alf, the cunning fighter, warrior, adventurer, but not least, a hero.
So, where did our senior citizen find himself? Not acting out of character, near the end of this tale (which artfully, I have put at the beginning of this story), he found himself charging down a hugely long, torch lit stone corridor, cool breeze whipping through his thinning white hair and handlebar moustache, his battered and worn leather armour dripping with sweat on the inside. Eyes always forward, mouth gasping for as much air as possible. Completely focussed on the prize.
In his right hand, he wielded “Tran”, which was his name for this mighty war hammer that gave its user enormous strength when held. Even the weediest boy (or girl) could pick this up and be able to break massive boulders in two with it, then pick up the pieces and throw them great distances. But like all magically powered objects, its power would not be finite, needing to be charged up now and then.
At the end of the corridor stood a magical door, leading to the inner chamber, where the masterminds of this terrible atrocity were based, attempting to make their escape. Even though Alf wasn’t that magically gifted, the intense magical energies being utilised in the room beyond gave him goose bumps.
The door would be protected by a complex magical ward, requiring a magic-user some time to dispel and open. But there wasn’t time for that, for THEY were getting away and if the others couldn’t simply catch up with him, it was, well, their loss. Again. They would have to deal with the leftovers.
The door was protected, but the surrounding wall wouldn’t be. Right, you bastards!
Alf, while still running, gripped the end of the mighty hammer by the end of the shaft, stopped running and began to spin around, as if this was the Olympics.
Faster and faster he began to spin, the centrifugal forces becoming greater than any normal man could withstand. The strength that the hammer lent to its master enabled Alf to remain holding onto it.
His arthritis protested greatly. Alf’s brain then promptly cursed the arthritis for interrupting and released more endorphins to counteract the rebellion.
Below the spinning man, a blur of leather boots smouldered. Pain from the heat made the feet protest too, but they were seldom listened to either.
Alf was spinning at such an incredible speed that his own blood began to pool outwards, which was a really odd feeling.
His senses were fully trained to pick the right moment to let go. Now.
Tran shot away from its master at a thousand miles an hour at the door, finally shattering on impact, breaking the door free from the supporting wall. Alf shot the other way, somersaulting through the air and skidded, squeaking, backwards on his ruined shoes.
Alf should have fainted or at least, fallen. But that would be giving in, that would be surrender. Suddenly to his right, a voice spoke.
“Alf?”
Alf turned his head and saw Grimchan, the green hooded sorcerer. He, with the unseen face and bony, gnarled and grey hands.
“What? Oh, it’s you. Come on then, the door’s open.”
“We’re all here now.”
“Well stop trying to chat me up then.”
Behind them, the remnants of the resistance charged. Friends, survivors. Good enough. Led by Alf, who just wouldn’t have anyone else in front, they charged forward, letting out their war cry, which reverberated all the way down the corridor.
Alf unsheathed a pair of short swords. He smelt it ahead before he realised what it was before him. A fully grown eight foot high Sinbala Hellbeast was resolutely charging the other way to buy these bastards more time. Of course, Alf was completely undeterred.
Grimchan chanted “Xopaphialias!” and blasted the beast with an arcing bolt from his right hand, shredding its skin, spitting black blood. Others threw more spells and chants, slowing the beast’s mind and weakening it.
And Alf leaped onto its head and plunged his swords into its skull. Not enough. This thing still lived, even when pumping stinking blood from its black and leathery hide, and still charging with brown tusks ready to gore.
Everyone assaulted it. Spells, arrows, blades. But the task was swiftly done. The beast was dead.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Alf led the charge again. Beyond the door was a shimmering energy, but no one was seen. Grimchan shouted to Alf:
“Dark Portal! They’ve created a Dark Portal! They’ve escaped!”
Alf shouted back, “Then we’ll follow them then.”
“You don’t know where it leads!”
“Don’t care. Will it hold?”
“A good few more minutes.”
“That’s all we need.”
The heroes spilled out into the massive golden chamber, towards the shimmering and smoking column of dark light in its centre.
Then came the thought of retirement. But this last fight needed to be fought before that.
And what happened next? Well, I’m not in the mood for spoilers yet. But I will tell you all about how they all got to this point, and all about who these bastard enemies are, what atrocities they committed here and so forth. Let’s begin.
© Luke O'Sullivan, 2009
RETIREMENT. It’s such a beautiful word for it is a word that signifies a great deal of change in a person’s life. For some, it simply means not having to get up for work anymore. For others, it isn’t the end of an era, it is the start of something completely new. A happy start in one’s autumn years, where one can finally take it easy and rest those old bones. Maybe take up a new hobby, or do something you once did when you were younger. As long as it isn’t extreme sports.
For those about to retire, it seems like something to look forward to, a milestone. A chance to stop and take control of things.
Some people don’t want to retire because they’d rather carry on a while longer. And I say Godspeed and all the best. Nothing against you retirees though, no offence meant! If you enjoy working then why stop?
And some people just can’t physically stop. Even when you’re millions of light years away from home, when you’re fighting the forces of evil with all your might, even though you’re now aged 67 and every muscle in your body says “No!” it is that incessant tyrant of a brain forces the body to keep going. Retire now? Bollocks!
There was a man out there who people called ‘Alf the Unstoppable’, because firstly, his name was Alf, and he never fully understood or acknowledged the need to stop, or slow down. A rather stubborn fellow to say the least.But good fortune was indeed in his favour over the years, as even though he had risked life and limb countless times, travelling to various points in the galaxy and sometimes beyond, Alf had reached the age when he would nowadays be entitled to a free bus pass.
This was Alf, the cunning fighter, warrior, adventurer, but not least, a hero.
So, where did our senior citizen find himself? Not acting out of character, near the end of this tale (which artfully, I have put at the beginning of this story), he found himself charging down a hugely long, torch lit stone corridor, cool breeze whipping through his thinning white hair and handlebar moustache, his battered and worn leather armour dripping with sweat on the inside. Eyes always forward, mouth gasping for as much air as possible. Completely focussed on the prize.
In his right hand, he wielded “Tran”, which was his name for this mighty war hammer that gave its user enormous strength when held. Even the weediest boy (or girl) could pick this up and be able to break massive boulders in two with it, then pick up the pieces and throw them great distances. But like all magically powered objects, its power would not be finite, needing to be charged up now and then.
At the end of the corridor stood a magical door, leading to the inner chamber, where the masterminds of this terrible atrocity were based, attempting to make their escape. Even though Alf wasn’t that magically gifted, the intense magical energies being utilised in the room beyond gave him goose bumps.
The door would be protected by a complex magical ward, requiring a magic-user some time to dispel and open. But there wasn’t time for that, for THEY were getting away and if the others couldn’t simply catch up with him, it was, well, their loss. Again. They would have to deal with the leftovers.
The door was protected, but the surrounding wall wouldn’t be. Right, you bastards!
Alf, while still running, gripped the end of the mighty hammer by the end of the shaft, stopped running and began to spin around, as if this was the Olympics.
Faster and faster he began to spin, the centrifugal forces becoming greater than any normal man could withstand. The strength that the hammer lent to its master enabled Alf to remain holding onto it.
His arthritis protested greatly. Alf’s brain then promptly cursed the arthritis for interrupting and released more endorphins to counteract the rebellion.
Below the spinning man, a blur of leather boots smouldered. Pain from the heat made the feet protest too, but they were seldom listened to either.
Alf was spinning at such an incredible speed that his own blood began to pool outwards, which was a really odd feeling.
His senses were fully trained to pick the right moment to let go. Now.
Tran shot away from its master at a thousand miles an hour at the door, finally shattering on impact, breaking the door free from the supporting wall. Alf shot the other way, somersaulting through the air and skidded, squeaking, backwards on his ruined shoes.
Alf should have fainted or at least, fallen. But that would be giving in, that would be surrender. Suddenly to his right, a voice spoke.
“Alf?”
Alf turned his head and saw Grimchan, the green hooded sorcerer. He, with the unseen face and bony, gnarled and grey hands.
“What? Oh, it’s you. Come on then, the door’s open.”
“We’re all here now.”
“Well stop trying to chat me up then.”
Behind them, the remnants of the resistance charged. Friends, survivors. Good enough. Led by Alf, who just wouldn’t have anyone else in front, they charged forward, letting out their war cry, which reverberated all the way down the corridor.
Alf unsheathed a pair of short swords. He smelt it ahead before he realised what it was before him. A fully grown eight foot high Sinbala Hellbeast was resolutely charging the other way to buy these bastards more time. Of course, Alf was completely undeterred.
Grimchan chanted “Xopaphialias!” and blasted the beast with an arcing bolt from his right hand, shredding its skin, spitting black blood. Others threw more spells and chants, slowing the beast’s mind and weakening it.
And Alf leaped onto its head and plunged his swords into its skull. Not enough. This thing still lived, even when pumping stinking blood from its black and leathery hide, and still charging with brown tusks ready to gore.
Everyone assaulted it. Spells, arrows, blades. But the task was swiftly done. The beast was dead.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Alf led the charge again. Beyond the door was a shimmering energy, but no one was seen. Grimchan shouted to Alf:
“Dark Portal! They’ve created a Dark Portal! They’ve escaped!”
Alf shouted back, “Then we’ll follow them then.”
“You don’t know where it leads!”
“Don’t care. Will it hold?”
“A good few more minutes.”
“That’s all we need.”
The heroes spilled out into the massive golden chamber, towards the shimmering and smoking column of dark light in its centre.
Then came the thought of retirement. But this last fight needed to be fought before that.
And what happened next? Well, I’m not in the mood for spoilers yet. But I will tell you all about how they all got to this point, and all about who these bastard enemies are, what atrocities they committed here and so forth. Let’s begin.
© Luke O'Sullivan, 2009
Tuesday 25 August 2009
Another blog rises from the great Abyss
Some day, when I look back on all of this, I'll either be proud or emit a "hmm" and think what could have been.
Anyway, this blog, fresh from the Abyss where all blogs originate from, but without that fresh smell of originality, is a story blog. A story blog for me, a "wannabe author" who decided it would be a good idea to publish some stories for free. A man's got to make himself known, and the best way is to showcase your talents to the world, and let the audience gasp in awe at the developing masterpiece that would surely ensue.
So, less talk and more action. I'm also writing a novel which I plan to get published at some point, which probably won't be for free. Man's got to eat.
Finally, for anyone who wants to subscribe to this blog, I love you forever...
Luke
Anyway, this blog, fresh from the Abyss where all blogs originate from, but without that fresh smell of originality, is a story blog. A story blog for me, a "wannabe author" who decided it would be a good idea to publish some stories for free. A man's got to make himself known, and the best way is to showcase your talents to the world, and let the audience gasp in awe at the developing masterpiece that would surely ensue.
So, less talk and more action. I'm also writing a novel which I plan to get published at some point, which probably won't be for free. Man's got to eat.
Finally, for anyone who wants to subscribe to this blog, I love you forever...
Luke
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