Thrum
Long fingers of a rather ordinary dawn crept over the sleeping city of Hamontoast, the beginning of a day that was to be the worst in Thrum’s life. Of this he was blissfully ignorant, the strengthening light bleeding through thin bedroom curtains rousing him slowly from his slumber. It was the kind of morning on which a father might come blustering in, crying that the best bit of the day was slipping away.
Pulling the covers over his head against the intruding sunlight, he almost fancied hearing the resonant echoes of a paternal voice, calling his name. Impossible, of course. He burrowed deeper into the warm cocoon of his bed, but those echoes continued to twist oddly through his mind. A little too real, and not the echoes of a voice he had invented.
He shook off the cosy embrace of his heavy blankets and, to his relief, the voice floated up and away through the ceiling along with the warmth.
He swung his feet to the floor, grinding balled fists into his eyes. Long moments passed before he found the strength to stand. He fumbled the length of the hallway, tangled his own feet, and careened into the kitchen. Nobody who saw him in his pink dressing gown and fluffy rabbit-shaped slippers could have guessed he was a magician.
Well, almost a magician…
He swung a battered kettle over the fireplace and puffed on the glowing ashes, trying not to think about the day ahead. Recently fired from his job at the local circus, he was penniless and, more depressingly, did not have a single soul to turn to. The rent was overdue and the dusty pantry held only a single heel of rock-hard bread that he had been saving for emergencies.
Thrum took the bread and mused for some time. He at last broke it in two and set it toasting over the fire and then busied himself with a brew of tea. He cursed to the empty house, discovering the bread had turned to charcoal black with supernatural speed. Gathering up and balancing his tea and toast in one hand, he plunged the other into an open chest filled with rotting scrolls. The scrolls contained a few simple spells and records of novices’ experiments into the world of magic; Thrum had amassed his collection from scavenging the University rubbish, sifting through piles to find these minor treasures. Despite his ambition he had absolutely no aptitude; his visions of being a fully-fledged magician garbed in an ink black robe and grey beard sprouting from his jaw a mere dream.
With a swing of his hip he bumped the back door open and sat on his stoop in the bright sunshine. He ate his precious piece of toast before beginning his morning’s study, the sleeve of his gown serving as a convenient cloth to wipe the crumbs from his whiskers before he picked up the first scroll. Battered and dog-eared, it didn’t look promising, but still, worth a look –
Something made a noise.
Thrum froze, ears cocked.
Not something. Someone.
He looked down at the scroll in his hands.
A whisper, the words faint and far, but also very close.
A chill ran up his back.
He broke the seal and pulled it open carefully, his eyes flicking over the fancy and barely legible script.
A sudden wetness washed his right ear and shoulder, his body recoiling in shock, limbs flailing at an unseen assailant. Bringing his hand to his shoulder he found a bird had taken him for a target, depositing what must have been a planned shot of guano.
The voice had gone.
Wiping his hand upon his robe he hastily rose, unconsciously stuffing the scroll into a pocket as he went in search of a wet cloth, shaking his head ruefully at the way sometimes strange dreams lingered.
✱
Thrum turned as a dark shape caught the corner of his eye. He was in the busy city square scouring the market for leftover food when he saw the crowd parting for a jet black horse moving silently closer. Thrum could have sworn the horse was floating as it drew nearer, a figure shrouded in shadows walking beneath it. The horse stopped and was lowered to the ground, a man beading sweat appearing from the underside.
Thrum strode to the horse’s side, tilting his head to peer beneath. Curiosity mixed with unease as he took in the man’s body entwined in bulging muscles.
“Welcome to Hamontoast. May I ask” – Thrum jerked a thumb towards the horse – “what you were doing under there?”
“Greetings friend! Ahh, you see, I have made a pact with my horse. Whenever there is travelling to be done we take turns in bearing the load.”
“I see,” Thrum said, arching one eyebrow.
“Do you know the way to the Wobbly Weasel?” the man inquired.
“The Wobbly…? Oh yes, the tavern.” Thrum drew himself up, puffed out his chest, and his voice took on a tone of authority. “You will want to sally forth down that street until you reach a vendor selling pots, you’ll hear him before you see him. As soon as you pass his shop, take the first left – a narrow alley but the short cut will save you a long walk. When you reach a larger street swing right, walk on until you reach a crossroads and follow the scent of the fishmonger until you reach a courtyard. Turn right, head steeply downhill a cobbled path for a block and then it will be on your left.”
The man blinked. After a considerable pause, he nodded. “Thank you, sir,” he declared with a solemnity he judged appropriate.
“Thrum.”
The man, visibly affronted, straightened up, the bulging muscles bridging his neck to his shoulders tensing indignantly. “I beg your pardon?”
“Thrum.”
“Now look here, I’m not sure that’s appropriate, given the circumstances.”
Confusion and panic crossed Thrum’s face. “No, that’s my name. I’m Thrum.”
“Then my apologies, good sir! In our dialect back home that word means something very different.”
Thrum’s brows furrowed and he looked blank for a moment before he shook his mind back into action. “What does it mean? No, never mind. But again, welcome to our city.”
“And my thanks again, chief.”
“Chief?”
The man lifted a massive arm and scratched at the back of his neck, his biceps popping. “You’re a city official, I presume?” He looked Thrum up and down, hesitating at the fluffy rabbit-shaped slippers. “A uniform, of sorts?”
Thrum drew his dressing gown closer and hid one foot ineffectively behind the other. “Not as such, I just ran out of clean clothes.”
“You certainly know your way around.”
“I’ve lived here all my life.”
The stranger’s lower lip jutted out and he nodded in what he hoped was a show of admiration. “That really is impressive.” He looked right and left and an awkward silence grew between them, Thrum all the while drilling his foot into the pavement. The man shifted uncomfortably.
“For a silver coin I could show you around,” blurted Thrum suddenly, looking up. “All the sights of the city.”
“No, thank you. I have a pressing appointment.”
“Five coppers? Three?”
“I’m sorry, I really must be getting on.”
“Of course,” said Thrum, giving a sad smile and a pat to the horse’s flank before taking a step backwards out of the way. “Nice to have met you, Mr…”
“Archendorf. Nice talking to you.”
Archendorf lifted the horse with a grunt of effort and moved off, the horse floating into the crowds. Thrum followed it with his eyes until it vanished from sight and with a heavy sigh all the air that had inflated his chest expelled like a popped balloon, his shoulders falling back into their habitual slump, and he resumed scavenging the markets.
✱
It was late afternoon by the time he returned home. Lairn, Thrum’s landlord, was at the front gate to greet him. Judging by the short sword sheathed at his belt Thrum decided Lairn was not here for a cup of tea and a chat.
“Thrum! My friend.” Lairn’s friendly tone belied the wicked gleam to his eyes. “Are you well?”
“I’m well.” Thrum decided to take the plunge. “Look, about the rent…”
“Rent? Oh yes, it slipped my mind. You are going to pay aren’t you? Let’s see…” Lairn withdrew a paper from his belt. “Thirty coppers and we’ll call it even, ten more and you won’t see me again for a month. And best of all, we remain good friends.”
Thrum started hyperventilating and took small steps backwards. Lairn waited, his head cocked and jutting an ear forward as if to listen closely. When finally Thrum did speak only an incoherent syllable dribbled from his mouth.
Lairn slowly shook his head. “I really did try. No more games. Cough up now, or I get my price from the witches guild – they pay generously for a bag full of guts. Especially fresh guts.” Lairn raised a hand and clicked his fingers.
Two rock ogres emerged from the bushes behind Lairn, casting a broad swathe of afternoon shadow before them, the fire-red sun at their backs. They approached, thumping the handles of crude maces in thick hands and grinning as only ogres can.
Thrum did the only thing he could do given the situation and years of wizardly training.
Run.
✱
He fell gasping to the ground as his rubbery legs gave way beneath him. If there was anything he was good at, it was running away really fast. Staggering to avoid the late evening traffic he stumbled across the wide cobblestone road, practically dragging himself by the fingertips up a set of splintered stairs, his watery vision blurring.
The building looked as if it had once been three storeys but over the years had compressed under its own weight to be more like two. The swinging sign above the door proclaimed it to be the Wobbly Weasel. For the benefit of those who could not read, a crude caricature of a bent-legged and half-bald rodent downing a large tankard was etched alongside.
Nearby, among the number of horses tied to the railing, Thrum noticed one that looked a lot like Archendorf’s. Knowing that adventurers enjoyed the local tavern, Thrum thought he might find his fortune through the swinging doors. He banged through.
A small part of Thrum’s mind hoped an awed silence would fall and eyes turn towards him.
Everyone ignored his bold entrance.
It was dark and smoke hung low in the room, a loud hubbub of chatter with most of the tables occupied with merchants and farmers. The flooring was old and splintered, wallpaper hanging in strips from the walls. Breathing deeply, Thrum could smell roasting meat and he began to salivate. A large fire burned towards the back, casting flickering orange light and sharp shadows about the interior.
He had made it halfway to the bar when he realised he had no money. He stopped, made a show of just remembering something important, and turned to make back for the street.
As chance would have it a certain pair of eyes alighted upon his slumped form.
“Ahoy! Over here.”
Thrum’s gaze picked out a face in the flickering light – Archendorf, sitting at a table with a tankard before him, beckoning. Thrum approached with trepidation, noticing that this man’s bull-like body put even the ogres to shame.
“Hello,” said Thrum, his voice coming out embarrassingly squeaky.
“Take a seat, chief.”
“I told you I’m not a –”
“Drink?” Archendorf said.
“I don’t have any money.”
Archendorf shrugged this off and raised an arm, calling in a voice that carried over the hubbub. “Bartender! A drink here.”
The bartender nodded and took a greasy glass from the shelf behind.
“I want to thank you for your directions this morning – they were most helpful.” Archendorf intertwined thick fingers and cracked his knuckles. “Everyone else just seemed to ignore me.”
Thrum nodded. “Is this your first time in the city?”
“It is and I can’t say I like it much. I smile at every person I pass but so far” – he raised an index finger – “not a single person has said so much as a cheerio. I thought I wasn’t being sincere enough, so I tried to shake some hands, you know, introduce myself, but that didn’t go down so well.” He shook his head ruefully. “And I haven’t even started talking about the air! I tell you what it reminds me of – sometimes when I was a kid my older brother used to hold me beneath the bedcovers after a night of cabbage stew and let loose these amazingly ripe—”
“I get the idea,” said Thrum with a grin. “But come on, it’s not that bad! And as for shaking people’s hands, well, I’m surprised you weren’t arrested.”
“Not for lack of trying – they did call the City Guard.”
“They called the Guard?” Thrum’s grin broadened.
“Funny for you maybe. I only just got away, you should have heard the things they were saying about me.”
“Ahh, well… you’ll get used to it all if you stay here long enough.” For some reason the hostility and filth of the city he called home caused pride to well in his heart. For the first time that day Thrum was able to relax, enjoying this man’s company. He thought of all the things confounding him and all seemed compensated for by this newly formed friendship.
“So what brings you here?” he asked.
“Me? I’m waiting for a friend. He should be here soon – here’s the letter he sent me.”
Thrum took the offered paper and read it. He looked up. “This is three months old.”
“What?!”
“Look, read the date on it yourself.”
The bartender delivered a beer to their table. Taking hold of the flagon Thrum downed the contents. Archendorf ignored his companion as he coughed and spluttered. Thrum straightened, wiping his mouth. “What are you going to do?”
Archendorf hesitated for a moment. “I must confess I’m not exactly a scholar, can’t read anything but my own name.” He grinned a little sheepishly. “So I’m late, eh? Well that would explain why Kraken didn’t turn up today, I’ve been waiting for hours. You know, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t too keen on the new scheme he’d cooked up.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, old Kraken is a good one for schemes. Last time I spoke to him, back in the mountains, he’d found some pirate gold map and set off to find himself a ship and crew to take on the Southern Ocean and recover a vast treasure! I was to meet him at noon on the first day of the new moon in Hamontoast, in this exact tavern, but it looks like I’ve messed up.”
“The docks aren’t far away, just out of town, perhaps he is still there?”
Archendorf nodded to himself. “Yes, perhaps. In the morning I’ll go down and see what I can find out. Which direction do I head from here?”
“Just follow this main road, it continues to drop down the hill, you can’t miss them. Actually, I live… well, used to live down that way, just before you get to the docks, perhaps I can show you the way tomorrow?”
“I think I’ll be fine, but thank you all the same. So you’ve spent your entire life in Hamontoast?”
Thrum made a half-shrug. “Pretty much. Although recently things haven’t been quite working out.” He fell into silence, knowing he now had no home to return to, no job, no food, and no money.
“I’m sorry to hear it. Look, if you like, if I find my friend I’ll ask him if he could use help on board—”
Horrible memories of his short-lived stint as a hand on a fisher boat came to Thrum and he shook his head. “No, thank you, I’m not great on boats.” In fact, the mere thought of a boat in heaving swells, combined with the beer swilling in his empty stomach, made Thrum dizzy. He rested his forehead upon the rough oak surface of the table.
“What’s this?” he muttered to himself, feeling something in the pocket of his dressing gown: a scroll. Withdrawing it, he recognised it as the one that he had discovered that morning while eating his sorry excuse for a breakfast. He unrolled it, noticing with uneasiness that the paper felt like heavily oiled chicken skin. Chicken, or human?
“‘Mortal creature, I call upon you! From the grave I impart a quest to right what has been wronged.’”
“What’s wronged?” said Archendorf.
“What? Oh, I was just reading from a scroll I found.”
Archendorf’s brows shot up. He dragged his stool around so he could look over the small man’s shoulder.
Thrum continued. “‘Forces gather in the wind and the time of reckoning is nigh. The pawn has been chosen; you must prove worthy of your task.’”
“What are you talking about?” said Archendorf again. “I admit that I can’t read, but even if I could, all I see is a blank page.”
A voice came from off to one side. “Excuse me.”
Thrum didn’t register the interruption. Instead he looked at Archendorf. “You don’t see it?” Bemused, Thrum blinked hard to reassure himself the flowing writing was not his imagination.
“I don’t,” said Archendorf.
“Excuse me,” came the voice again, louder, closer.
Thrum looked over and saw a slight man dressed in a red silk shirt and canvas pantaloons had sidled up to the table. He reached out tentative fingers. His voice was thin and reedy. “I really would like to take that off your hands.”
Archendorf looked at the man, then back at Thrum. He shook his head, slowly, firmly. “No, I don’t think so.”
“For money?” asked Thrum.
“I don’t think so,” repeated Archendorf, cutting off the man’s reply. “If you don’t mind, my friend and I are in the middle of something.”
“What are you doing?” hissed Thrum when the man had backed off a little and was out of earshot.
Archendorf turned his back on the man, forming a massive shield. “I don’t like the looks of him. And something tells me whatever he can offer will be significantly less than its worth. Let’s look at that scroll again.”
Thrum placed it upon the table. “It’s blank.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, I mean now, it’s blank.”
Archendorf moved his beer so that it pinned one corner of the scroll, keeping it open. “Curious,” he mused. He shot a glance up, but the stranger had melted back into the crowd.
“Wait!” cried Thrum. “There are words forming on it now. It says…”
“What?”
“Wait, it’s still coming. Okay, it says, ‘Do not be alarmed. An ogre is about to bite your head off.’”
Thrum, his instincts of self-preservation finely tuned, folded himself low.
There was a loud clack of closing jaws where his head had been moments before.
It took Thrum a moment to gather his senses. In his haste, he had dropped and twisted, somehow squeezing himself between the four legs of his stool, and was now upside-down, his head jammed into the floorboards.
He saw Archendorf’s boots plant solidly on the ground. His voice boomed across the now silent pub. “Another creature from the woodwork? And who the blazes are you?”
Behind the ogre’s feet a smaller pair stepped out.
“Your friend owes me, and I am taking payment in blood.”
“Get back to your stew, lumphead,” said Archendorf.
Thrum wiggled himself from the base of the stool so he could twist sideways and look up. He saw Lairn poke at his ogre.
“Get him!”
The ogre surged forward with a lazy haymaker as unstoppable and ponderous as the incoming tide. Archendorf ducked the blow and returned with an uppercut to the jaw, perfectly placed. The beast staggered back onto a table, which collapsed in a shower of splinters.
Lairn retreated, and when he was a safe distance away he threw a pointed finger at Thrum, who still lay compacted under the stool.
“Two gold pieces to the man who brings me the skinny one’s head!”
Two gold pieces bought a lot in Hamontoast. It did not, apparently, buy anyone’s attention. A chair creaked. Somebody at the back cleared their throat.
“Two?” A reedy voice from the sideline. “I’ll give two thousand.”
The sound of forty men pushing their chairs back and standing all at once filled the room. There was a beat while those forty men looked at one another. Then the room moved, and every one of them discovered the other thirty-nine were in his way.
Thrum wiggled from his confinement and scrambled on hands and knees, not stopping, hearing the commotion escalate behind him. A heavy black boot came down in his path. Thrum looked up.
Lairn stood with feet planted wide apart brandishing a wooden stool leg. Thrum rolled aside as the stool leg shattered into splinters upon the floorboards he’d occupied moments before. Lairn had another in his hands even before the larger pieces of debris rattled to the ground. In that moment Thrum saw an escape route and leapt between Lairn’s legs. Howling with frustration, Lairn pivoted as Thrum dove into the cover of the neighbouring table and once again into the confines of another stool.
Archendorf seized his half-full tankard and flung the beer at the advancing ring of assailants. It did very little. Behind him, unseen, the scroll rolled itself shut and slipped from the table.
Archendorf grabbed his stool and swung it wide. The crowd fell back, clutching various injuries, but the circle did not break. He then hurled the stool with all his might at the snarling men, and it punched a hole in the human circle, which closed again within moments. Archendorf reached for another stool and threw that one too. He reached for another. This one was heavier, and he had to put some effort into raising it high above his head.
Thrum felt himself being lifted in the air and swung about a few times. He tried to shout but couldn’t. Archendorf threw the stool and Thrum with it through the air. Thrum heard only a whooshing and he felt a lightness in his gut that seemed to last an awfully long time. Finally he hit the ground, the stool disintegrating, and he rolled a few times into the shadows of the bar.
Archendorf vaulted over the counter and landed next to him.
“We’d better make our exit,” he said.
The crowd still fought on, the flying debris and shouts creating enough disturbance that they didn’t notice Archendorf and Thrum’s disappearance; they were so caught up in the brawl they simply bashed any nearest head with mindless enthusiasm. They would soon catch on and wonder who exactly they were supposed to be fighting.
Thrum followed Archendorf into the kitchen, keeping as low as possible, his head shrunk so far back into his collar that he looked like some sort of human turtle. He paused to pick delicately at the leftover bits of something in a discarded frypan. Archendorf made a hurry-up motion and opened a side door. Thrum followed his friend out onto the street.
The noise emerging from the pub faded to muted yelling and hollow thumps; it seemed the fight had not slackened in the slightest.
A sickening thought occurred to him. The scroll was still inside!
“Do you have the scroll?”
Archendorf looked blank and turned out empty palms.
Thrum’s eyes blurred as the world swam. When he awoke he found he had only momentarily fainted, Archendorf slapping his face.
“Wake up chief! It’s only a scroll, but if it means that much to you, then go in and get it. I’ll help you.”
There was no need, however, for at that moment it exited the main door of the pub clenched in the hand of the man in silk, whose legs were moving at considerable speed. Archendorf ducked as a three-legged stool came hurtling after.
“The scroll…” Thrum spluttered, fumbling to his feet. “…that man, he has the scroll!”
Still dizzy from getting up too fast he gave chase as best as he was able. The thief was quick, darting down a narrow side street. Thrum ran as fast as he could pump his legs, but could not close the gap. The gap, in fact, was widening.
Archendorf proved quicker. The thief did not even make the next corner before he was dropped to the ground. Archendorf stood over him in a pool of lamp light, rubbing his hands in satisfaction.
A few moments later Thrum arrived. Exhausted, he propped his hands on his knees and panted for air. When his wind had returned he straightened and addressed the thief.
“What… pant… are you doing with my scroll?”
The scroll lay upon the ground, just out of the thief’s reach. Archendorf, keeping one boot upon the man, leant over and picked it up.
“Yours?” The thief spat. “It belongs to the Crylock, and you stole it—” The man’s words cut off with the increased pressure from Archendorf’s boot.
“You need to learn some manners,” Archendorf said with sincere calm.
The thief nodded frantically, his hands clawing for breath. Archendorf lifted his boot and the man gasped.
“Two thousand gold,” said Archendorf. “That was you.”
“But I found the scroll in the dump,” wondered Thrum. “Of course now I see the strange power it has.” He turned to Archendorf. “Please, give it to me.”
Archendorf passed it over, and Thrum unrolled it.
“Blank,” he said.
He looked at Archendorf. There was a micro twitch in Archendorf’s brow. Thrum reflected that Archendorf had said he had never seen any writing on it at all. Thrum looked again at the scroll. Had he imagined the whole thing?
The thief, seeing an opportunity, leapt to his feet and dashed away. Archendorf caught him neatly by the scruff of the neck and dragged him back.
“We haven’t finished yet,” he scolded. “You were going to tell us who sent you.” There was a moment’s silence. Archendorf raised a megalithic hand.
“Wait!” screeched the thief. “Please don’t hit me. I don’t know anything!”
Thrum pointed the rolled-up scroll as if it were a magic wand. “You said that it belongs to Crylock!”
The thief squirmed within Archendorf’s grasp. Most of his body weight was held by the handful of clothing at his chest, his feet barely touching the ground. “I know nothing, they told me nothing! I was sent to find you by someone, that’s all. He knows you have the scroll.”
“That’s impossible, I didn’t even know I had it myself.” Thrum stood back and scratched at his beard. “Unless…”
“Magic,” prompted Archendorf with a knowing nod.
Thrum pondered. “Yes, powerful magic. And this man knows it.”
The thief shook his head violently. “I’m just here for the money. There’s a handsome reward for his capture.”
“His? Who?”
“No, no. I said ‘its’.”
Archendorf raised a hand.
“Stop! Look, they told me the scroll is possessed.”
“A ghost? Is it dangerous?” Thrum held the scroll at arm’s length and tilted it to peer within the curves.
“I don’t know, honest!”
“And stop avoiding my question. You said this is something to do with the Crylock.”
“I said, umm, my luck. It was just my luck that landed me in this mess.”
Thrum looked at Archendorf.
“You heard him, right? He definitely said ‘Crylock’.”
“Maybe? I wasn’t quite listening. What’s the Crylock?”
“Ah,” said Thrum, his chest puffing with pride. “The Crylock is a secret society of wizards. The name originates from the founder, Archmage Crylock. All members of the Crylock died when they—”
“Never heard of it,” interrupted Archendorf.
“Well yes, it’s a secret society.”
“Still, I have never heard of it.”
“That’s the idea of a secret society. Look, they challenged the rule of the land, and fell into bitter conflict with the King’s Archmages—”
“Yes, but, you know…”
“Can I finish?”
Archendorf tilted his head and gave a small shrug. “Please.”
“You don’t have to, you know.”
“What?”
“Pretend. I know I’m not much to look at, but I do know a thing or two.”
“I don’t doubt it. It’s just that I’ve travelled from one sea to the other, and even far past that, and in all my time I’ve never even heard mention of—”
“Because it’s a secret!” exploded Thrum.
Archendorf blinked and both were quiet, and silence blossomed between them.
“’scuse me,” interrupted the thief after some time. “Could I please go now?”
Thrum regarded the man and gave a resigned shrug. Archendorf flicked his wrist and launched the thief into the starry heavens.
“What an odd night this has been,” mused Archendorf, clapping his hands together and rubbing them.
“Yes, we’d better be getting back,” said Thrum.
“I do believe you, you know. You are no doubt wise and well learned in the ways of magic,” said Archendorf.
“Thanks,” said Thrum, as they walked down the street together.
“Many years studying, I imagine,” said Archendorf.
“That’s true.”
“Must be hard on the body, to be crouched on a chair all day.”
“Not at all. It’s the easiest thing in the world.”
“Well, at your time of life a man wants his sitting.”
“What? My age? How old do you think I am?”
Archendorf’s mouth moved. He swallowed whatever he was going to say, and instead said, “Oh, no more than forty.”
“I’m twenty-two!”
“Ah! It’s the shadows, you know. I’m terrible, my eyes.”
“I get it.”
“It’s actually a compliment. You look wise. Packed so much into your life already.”
“I said I get it.”
They kept walking in silence for a while. Archendorf started whistling an absent-minded tune. After some minutes a thought struck him.
“You think that’s true what that fellow said? About the ghost?”
“It’s certainly possible.”
“It’s worth much more than he was offering, you know.”
Thrum nodded slowly. “Yeah, but to who?”
By this time they had returned to the Wobbly Weasel. There was still a great deal of commotion inside the doors and they stopped only long enough to untether Archendorf’s horse. Leading his magnificent horse by the reins Archendorf started musing aloud.
“I suppose I’ll head for an inn to shack up for the night.” He glanced at Thrum. “Ordinarily, I’d be all in for this adventure thing, but I should really check on my friend down at the docks first thing tomorrow. So if you don’t mind I’ll say goodbye to you and your scroll.”
“I’m not quite sure what I’m going to do with it. When I get h—” His brow furrowed as he realised he no longer had a home. “I don’t suppose you could spare a few coppers?”
“I’m sorry Thrum, but I barely have enough for a room and a stall for Bronty here,” he said, slapping his horse’s flank. He turned as they approached an inn. “Well, I guess this is where we part.”
Thrum nodded. “Thanks for your help in getting my scroll back.”
Archendorf waved this off. “Don’t mention it, you were good company. I needed a bit of action anyway. Perhaps I will see you some other time.”
“I hope so.” Thrum tried a smile.
Loosely wrapping Bronty’s reins about a pole Archendorf strode into the inn, giving a broad and friendly wave goodbye. Thrum was silent as he watched his only friend disappear from sight. Turning, he walked away. With hands rammed deep into pockets he trudged along aimlessly, now well and truly stuck – no money, no home, no food. Already his stomach growled like a caged animal.
He would have to spend the night out in the street. The thought horrified him – he might be mugged while he slept, or be mistaken for a pile of rags and collected by the rubbish haulers.
Snapping back to reality, he discovered he had made his way back to his ex-cottage. As he approached, he found that his few possessions had been stripped from inside and piled upon a large bonfire, now in its final stages of life. All that remained were ashes and the odd identifying stump of tatty furniture. The door was closed and curtains drawn and he guessed Lairn had already rented it out to a new tenant. It was with great effort that Thrum managed to resist the urge to hurl a rock through the window.
Groaning with self-pity, Thrum sat down on the pathway, bringing his knees up close to his chest and soaking in the residual warmth of the fire of the destruction of everything he had once owned.
✱
Archendorf lay back in the lumpy mattress that, judging from its wafting odours, consisted mostly of rat droppings. He had seen to it that his horse had been safely stowed in the stables before settling himself. His stomach now full from the hearty counter meal, he found himself drifting off to sleep as the small room became darker.
The door to his room exploded into splinters. Archendorf sat bolt upright. He saw a figure standing silhouetted in the doorway, hand raised as green sparks flew. Before he had time to spring from the bed Archendorf felt an invisible hand of magic pushing him back against the wall that, even with the strength of fifty men, he was unable to break. He could only watch as the wizard approached.
“Give me the scroll.”
“Bugger off,” gasped Archendorf, muscles flexing. Something cold edged into his heart, eating away at the edges like black ink on blotting paper.
“Where is the scroll?”
Archendorf’s head began to swim, his vision blurring. The voice he heard from his own throat sounded distant. “I… don’t… have it.”
The wizard tilted his head to one side, listening. Catching something, he darted to the shadows as quick as a wraith just as the innkeeper wandered past the corridor outside.
“By the Twelve!” the stout man cried in anguish as he spied the ruined door. “What have you done?”
The magic spell broke and Archendorf drew a heavy intake of breath.
“Look…out…” Archendorf managed.
But the wizard had gone.
✱
Thrum sat upon the cold curb and squashed ants beneath the sole of his fluffy rabbit slipper. His mind elsewhere, the pile of dead ants grew steadily, an increasing number of others coming to investigate only to fall victim themselves. There was an itch digging into his side and he reached over to scratch whatever rodent had wormed its way into his robe. Instead, his hand rested upon a tube of writhing parchment that, now that he pulled it out, cast a guttering glow like a low candle flame. Holding it away from his body cautiously Thrum slowly opened the scroll, eyes averted, half expecting something to leap out from within. When nothing happened he cracked open one eye and brought it closer and began reading.
“Thrum.”
He blinked hard; the scroll was communicating again. So he hadn’t imagined it. Or was imagining it again. He couldn’t decide which was worse.
He watched as marks formed upon the bone-dry paper. At first clouded and indistinct the writing coalesced into a bold flowing script.
“I am the wizard, Taukin. The gods have chosen you to complete a quest. You must set forth immediately. There are many who would kill you for what you carry.”
“I know – Lairn and his ogres.”
Thrum had spoken beneath his breath to himself, but was surprised to see the scroll respond.
“His threat is meagre in comparison to those I speak of.”
It felt odd to talk to a scroll, even here, in the quiet of the street. Thrum kept his voice to a whisper, aware that this is how crazy people who talk to themselves look.
“Killed is killed.”
“I know you may have questions, but now you must do as I say, no questions, at once!”
“There’s no way that I—”
“If you complete your quest I promise that you shall be showered in the riches of kings.”
Thrum’s brows met in the middle, his spirit rising as his mind flashed an image of himself reclining in a sea of velvet, gold coins littering the ground, attendants feeding him peeled grapes.
The words on the scroll flashed away and reappeared in an angry scarlet.
“And if you don’t move your sorry hide I’ll send you to the pits of hell myself!”
As if on cue a huge shape detached from the shadows and with a rush filled Thrum’s field of view. After a brief moment of terror (and a half-swallowed cry of surprise) he recognised it to be human.
“Thank Crom I found you! Bronty and I have been searching all over.” The horse tossed his head and neighed. Archendorf ruffled his horse’s mane. “You’ve got quite some nose on you, Bronty!”
“Archendorf? What are you doing here?”
Archendorf strode to Thrum’s side and dropped to a conspiratorial crouch, his voice urgent. “Someone is after you, and he looks a real mean son of a—”
His words were lost to the air in a sudden gush of cold wind, finishing as quickly as it had come, like the opening and closing of a door in a gale. Papers in the gutter pirouetted in the air and a cloud of red embers billowed. From the folds of darkness a man stepped in the light of the dying bonfire – the wizard from Archendorf’s room.
Thrum tucked the scroll into his pocket.
The wizard laughed. “You led me right to him, you fooooool!” He made a motion as if he were casting an invisible net. Again Archendorf felt that terrible pressure and this time Thrum was beneath its weight too. Frozen immobile at the feet of the evil wizard Thrum knew with dreadful certainty he was going to die. He closed his eyes in fear and wished it would hurry up and stop taking so long. Beside him, he felt Archendorf twist and struggle.
The dark wizard’s voice was loud and emotionless. “Hand over the scroll, unworthy – uurgh!”
Rearing upon hind legs in the darkness Bronty struck the wizard in the back with a mighty kick. The wizard sprawled to the cobblestones.
The paralysis broke but the wizard was on his feet a moment later, the wounds on his back already healed. He threw a forefinger at the horse and conflagrating red fire shot forth. Bronty’s legs failed beneath him as the magic ate into the gallant horse’s flesh, turning him into dust.
Archendorf drew himself to full height, trembling with rage, his voice flat and level.
“That was not a nice thing to do.”
He dropped into a crouch, whipping a concealed blade from under his vest. In one fluid motion, Archendorf plunged the entire span of the steel blade into the wizard’s chest at the exact moment the wizard sensed danger and threw up his paralysing spell. The two bodies met, overwhelming physical strength against an ethereal wall of compacted air – the resulting bass shockwave reverberating into the night as both bodies rebounded.
For long moments nothing stirred, Archendorf on his back five paces from the blast zone, the wizard on his knees with hands wrapped about the hilt of the blade in his heart, face contorted in shock. Random sparks danced over his robes until at last he fell face forward to the ground.
Silence settled, Thrum still trying to catch up on what had happened after the ‘uurgh’ bit. Archendorf pulled himself upright and with dragging footsteps limped over to the wizard’s body. Some hidden menace about the facedown form stopped him shy of turning the corpse over. His blade would have to remain behind, for who knew what powers of regeneration lay in that dark heart.
Archendorf watched Bronty’s ashes wash away in the flickering red light. “He saved my life,” he said, tears glistening in his eyes. “But now, we must go.” Hardness came over his eyes, his grief buried. “Before more of them come.”
Thrum is available now on ebook. Paperback coming soon.
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