Dark Tidings: Ancient Magic Meets the Internet Book 1 (11 page)

When Mifal’s men reported to the king and told him what they had found, he pondered for a while. He knew he needed a good explanation to satisfy his people. He was a bad king, but he was a clever man and he eventually devised a story he knew would work.

“My people,” he decreed, “two demons visited our fine city and turned some of my unfortunate subjects into chickens. I sent soldiers to track them down. These demons were so petrified of my virtuous vengeance that they panicked when they heard my men approach. They were too scared to fight our wonderful guards. The cowardly little devils self-combusted so they could escape back to hell and avoid my righteous retribution.”

The pieces fitted. The king’s account explained the charred clothes, burnt grass and the fact that there were no demons to be found. The story worked for his subjects so all was well in the kingdom. The people were happy in the knowledge that the malignant spirits had been dispatched back to hell. Everyone slept easier in their beds that night and Mifal was satisfied that the Madrick matter was finally, finally at an end.

It was a different story at the Devil Lair Keep where Stanverital and Devligrate were making their report in the tiniest of detail to the Council. They explained how they had tracked the pair with little difficulty. They told of their skill and cunning, omitting that they had piggy-backed on the hard work of Mifal’s men at The Black Bear.

They described everything they had observed at the place where the trail had disappeared. They shared their observations and thoughts about the evidence of spell use. They boasted about their cleverness in spotting the flying men and the incredibleness of their long distance thunderball shot. They concluded by telling the Council that Gravalar had been at the site at the same time so the White Wizards also knew what they knew. The Council pondered everything carefully and, unlike Mifal they did not jump to any hasty conclusions.

Their deliberations went something like this. There had been multiple instances of magic. That fact was indisputable. The scroll user in the ‘chicken incident’ was clearly an untrained imbecile. That fact was even more indisputable, if that was possible. No one who was as stupid as that could possibly gather up more than one scroll. Therefore, it was distinctly possible that, what he had in his possession was indeed the fabled Spell Spell scroll. There were clearly two renegades and, to make up for the buffoonery of the ‘chicken maker’, the other must have had some training in the use the magic.

They debated the issue for many hours and could not find a reasonable alternative to their original theory. The Spell Spell existed and they needed to find it. Something as powerful as that could not be left in the hands of an idiot.

“This threatens the very fabric of the universe,” declared the Black Grandee. “We must track it down. There is no time to lose. I believe this is too important for us to handle on our own. I recommend we offer a truce to the Whites and pool our resources so we can remove this danger from the planet.”

“A pact with the Whites, surely that goes against everything we believe in?”

“It does, but once the Scroll is secured we’ll terminate the truce and seize the Scroll for ourselves. This plan could be the foundation stone for our final victory over the Whites.”

And so it was. The Black Grandee, accompanied by Stanverital and Devligrate, set off on the short journey to the Sorebun Academy. Sadly for the White Wizards, they arrived long before Gravalar returned from the original quest.

The bumpy crash-landing shook both men to the very centre of their bones. They jumped to their feet and started to run, but before long they needed to stop for a rest. Being shot out of the sky had dented their confidence, and their butts, and they were sure they had little time for the luxury of sleep. They didn’t know that their pursuers had temporarily given up, so they could have taken a decent break to charge up their energy and their spirits.

They were just outside a town which lay nearly ten miles away from their crash site. This gave them a decent start over their hunters, but was it enough for their trail to grow cold?

Their big worry was what had knocked them out of the sky? It was clearly some demonic magic, but how had Mifal’s men deployed it? Had Mifal employed a new court wizard and was this magic-user now part of the hunt? That would be a worrying development because magic was the only thing which had kept them ahead of the pack. If their trackers were now using magic as well then that could neutralise their advantage.

Madrick had some idea about the local landscape and he knew they weren’t too many miles from the boundaries of Mifal’s kingdom. He reckoned it was twenty miles at the most. He believed that once they crossed into the adjoining land they’d be relatively safe. Mifal could still send spies to track them, but why would he bother? They weren’t particularly important, given he didn’t know about the Scroll. Some of his logic was spot on, but some of his conclusions were completely wrong.

Tung wanted to get some sleep, however Madrick wanted to plan their next steps. All in all they’d been very lucky so far, but extreme care had to be the order of the day if they were to stay ahead of the chasing pack. Madrick was sure that Mifal was still after them so he would have been delighted had he known that the king had actually called off the hunt. He would however have been horrified to learn that it was the infinitely more dangerous wizards who were now on their tails.

“Create another spell, Tung, we need more distance between us and Mifal.”

There was no reaction whatsoever because Tung was fast asleep. This was becoming a very annoying, recurring situation. Madrick was talking to a comatose Tung. Eventually, with a lot of hard shaking, he managed to rouse him from his stupor.

“Create another spell,” he repeated. “We need to get more distance between us and Mifal.”

Tung, although only half awake, obliged. Here we go again. Read the Scroll. Say the incantation. Collapse to the ground. Madrick catches the head.

This time, it was a great example of exactly how it should be done. This time, it was nearly perfect.

“What do you see? What is the image?”

“Aaagh, my head is full of flames. My brain’s on fire. Make it stop. Do something, get this out of my head. NOW.”

He started slapping the sides of his head with his hands.

“Don’t panic. It will be the Fireball Spell. Just say it, but point your arms at that ring of trees. Where you point is where the flaming ball will hit.”

With some difficulty Tung fought through his head fire and found the words. He ‘spoke’ the letters and an enormous ball of fire crashed from his hands and engulfed five of the twelve magnificent oak trees which had dominated the landscape for nearly a hundred years. The five trees burned vigorously and crashed to the ground in a smouldering heap. It was horribly awesome. Tung regained his senses in time to see the last of the trees vanish in the super heated firestorm.

“Wow, scary or what? That fireball is definitely not something you want to keep in your head any longer than you have to. I’m ready for the next spell. I need to put that last one a long way behind me.”

He went through the routine again. The new spell materialised and he stared into the depths of his head and saw water. He tried to focus more, but no matter which way he looked at it, it was just water; lots of water.

“I see water,” he said rather sheepishly, “lots of water.”

“Water,” pondered Madrick. It was either the simple ‘water to drink’ spell which had been created to help travellers parch their thirsts as they crossed some of the vast deserts which used to cover the landscape. Or it was the spell which caused a great expanse of water to part so there was a safe and dry passage through it. He had no way to determine which one it was; not without the words. Worryingly, he wasn’t sure what would happen if the sea-parting spell was used when there was no water around. It might be extremely dangerous, so he didn’t want to find out. The best thing to do was continue to travel south, directly away from Mifal’s men and only use the spell when they came across a decent sized body of water. That was wise and sensible. So they set off, at a decent pace all things considered, heading south.

Hours later the villagers congregated to stare at the semicircle, as it now was, of trees. Seven trees was all that remained of the great circle of oaks which had been there longer than anyone could remember; certainly much longer than the village. The elders agreed they would have to rename their town. ‘Twelve Oaks’ no longer made sense.

Tung and Madrick eventually came to a small lake. It was serenely beautiful and well secluded, being completely surrounded by a forest of luscious pine trees. This was the right place to find out which spell they had so Tung spoke the spell and, unspectacularly, a small cup of crystal clear liquid appeared. Tung was disappointed because he’d wanted to feel the power of parting the lake. They were, however both very grateful when they started to sip from the magical cup of the cleanest, freshest, sweetest water they’d ever tasted.

Rested and refreshed, they set off again on their southerly journey, making the short detour around the lake, because the magical shortcut had unfortunately failed to materialise.

“Create another spell,” Madrick demanded as they set off. “You should be able to do it on the move now that you’ve had so much practice.”

The saying ritual was repeated over and over again on their journey southward. Many, many spells were created and used. A few helped them a little, while others had the unfortunate consequence of leaving behind magically created landmarks which would act as pointers for their pursuers. The ever burning camp fire and the giant pillar of salt were two good examples of the signs which would tell informed observers that magic had passed this way.

They’d been on the road for more than six days and, as each day passed, they both felt slightly safer. The longer they travelled, the more likely it was that the pursuers would give up, particularly as they were now approaching the boundary of Mifal’s kingdom. Once they crossed into the adjoining kingdom, surely they’d be safe?

They eventually reached the town which lay at the edge of the kingdom. It was a small settlement built around a substantial wooden castle which nestled beside the river which marked the southern boundary of Mifal’s lands. A ferry took people across the river, but the ferryman charged a high fee and the villagers resented paying it. What could they do though? The man had a monopoly so he could charge what he liked. The villagers had no choice other than to accept his prices, but they hated him for his greed.

It was an interesting coincidence that Tung had the Bridge Spell in his head when he arrived. He decided he would gift it to these people. He said the spell and watched as a fantastic bridge snaked its way across the river. Tung and Madrick were afforded the privilege of being the first to walk across the bridge as they made their way out of Mifal’s kingdom and continued their journey south. A small group of the locals watched the whole amazing scene and they clapped loudly as the pair crossed the bridge and walked away.

Hours later, all the villagers congregated to stare at their wonderful new bridge. The elders agreed they should rename the town… from this day forward it would be called Tungbridge.

Everyone in the town was happy except, of course, the ferryman. His business had been destroyed in one magical fell swoop. However, as is the way with greedy men, he found a way to buy the bridge from the village elders and within a month he’d established a toll booth on it and was charging even more than he’d charged for the ferry crossing. One way or another, you always end up having to pay the ferryman.

Madrick knew the river was an important milestone in their journey because they were beyond Mifal’s jurisdiction. They’d done it. They’d escaped his clutches and now they were free.

Five days earlier, the Black Grandee, accompanied by Stanverital and Devligrate, had arrived at the Sorebun Academy. Initially the White wizard guards had panicked, they had no idea why the supreme Black Wizard would be approaching their headquarters with only two men and a white flag. Was it an evil deception, or was it a genuine surrender?

After much discussion and debate, the Black Grandee was eventually granted permission to meet the hastily convened assembly of the White Order who listened suspiciously to what he had to say.

The Black Grandee recounted the story of what Stanverital and Devligrate had done and seen. He explained the conclusions of the Black Council and the potential catastrophic danger of the Spell Spell scroll being outside the control of the Orders. He freely admitted that he wanted the Scroll in the arsenal of the Blacks, but he shared his belief that he’d prefer it to be with the Whites rather than in the hands of the common folk.

“The elite must remain the elite,” he concluded. “We must unite to ensure the common man doesn’t get powers beyond his station. Otherwise, they may rise up and threaten our privileged existences. It is our collective duty not to allow that to happen.”

After careful deliberation, the White Council reluctantly agreed. Almost unanimously they decided to accept the Black proposal to create a small joint force of their best men to hunt down the Scroll. It was to be Stanverital and Devligrate joined by Gravalar, if he returned within the next day. The Whites would also send Nextar, he was their finest young scroll finder and his skill of distance hearing would be invaluable to the team. Four junior wizards would reinforce the magical contingent of the task force.

Gravalar arrived a few hours after the momentous treaty had been agreed. He was too late to affect the decision, so he didn’t try. He knew that if he’d reported to the Council before the Black delegation had arrived, then this dangerous pact might never have come into existence. Had he arrived sooner, he could have revealed the overheard whispered conversations between Stanverital and Devligrate; converstaions which didn’t bode well for the pact. He could have advised them of his observations which showed the treacherous nature of these bad seeds.

He remained silent however, because he didn’t want to admit his theft of the golden wine goblet. He didn’t want to tell of his weakness for the endless supply of fine wine. He didn’t want to tell them he’d partaken of this red nectar all along the journey home. In fact, his partaking had extended his return journey by a good day and a half. Most of all, he didn’t want to give up his treasured goblet. He wasn’t going to share anything with the Council, not his story nor the goblet. He therefore accepted the decision in silence and prepared for the mission which had been assigned to him.

The next day the joint task force assembled midway between the Lair and the Academy. Stanverital, Devligrate, Gravalar and Nextar eyed each other suspiciously as they shook hands. These four senior wizards had each been given some carefully selected spell scrolls; spells which would help them with their search and ultimate capture of the fugitives. They also had at their command four junior wizards and about fifty scouts and serfs. Under their direction, this small army would scour the ground for clues as to the whereabouts of their prey. They would question those they met, and trade threats or small rewards for useful information. They would find the thieves.

Let the hunt begin.