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