The Warlock's Curse (The Syrane Chronicles Book 4), page 1
Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
1. The Void.
2. Outsider.
3. Death and Taxes.
4. Crime Scene.
5. Class is in.
6. Help.
7. Meanwhile, in the wilds of Syrane.
8. Answers. And more questions.
9. that’s a pretty big ogre.
10. Warlock.
11. But Xiphos is dead.
12. Ogre Problems.
13. Nowhere.
14. The outsider.
15. The periphery.
16. The journey to Torun.
17. The journey to enlightenment.
18. The journey to damnation.
19. In pursuit of the Warlock.
20. Things may go pear-shaped.
21. Stuck in the periphery.
22. Stick it in.
23. The many layers of ogres.
24. Into the Demonpeaks.
25. Another ambush.
26. Rebirth.
27. He removed the grid.
28. Gwidion being Gwidion.
29. On the trail.
30. Aggressive negotiations.
31. Torun.
32. The plan.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Warning: This book contains descriptions of violence, innuendo, occasional coarse language and some attempts at humour.
This work is copyright. Apart from any use permitted under the Copyright Act 1968 (Australia), no part may be reproduced by any process, nor may any other exclusive right be exercised, without the permission of the publisher.
Peter Diggins asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Visit us at www.syrane.com
Map adapted from an original artwork by Tad Davis.
Copyright © 2024 Peter Diggins
All rights reserved.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to my friends who were the inspiration for many characters and passages in this book.
Many thanks to those who gave help and advice;
Derek Fails, Craig Wright, Josie Tyrrell.
And thanks to Garin Dadson for not reading it.
Or the first three, either.
And thanks as always to my wonderful family.
1. The Void.
Neither sound nor light pierce the void. No reference point exists in emptiness. The senses are useless. It smothers, suffocates. A sense-less purgatory.
This is the periphery.
Time exists, but with no means to measure its passage, the sensory deprivation became more acute.
How long had he been here? It could be minutes, days, months … Years.
Time passed.
The total absence of anything, overwhelmed. Panic surged. It crashed against his spirit like churning waves in the stormy sea.
Then, a voice. A young male; perhaps on the verge of adulthood.
“Where is he?” the voice murmured.
He brought his focus to the speaker, the timbre of the voice. He sounded young, but the words conveyed an ominous undertone.
Confusion.
Where is who?
The speaker must have heard him, although he did not speak aloud.
“Hawkwind,” he replied. “The outsider.”
Oh, he remembered.
Duncan.
2. Outsider.
The doors of the Temple of Mergoth were still askew from the party’s rapid exit a year ago. Duncan threw the great double doors wide open and let the sunshine in behind him. Daylight illuminated the empty corridor with dazzling radiance. Sunlight glinted off the thin wire line that was strung at head height across the corridor in front of him. Strange clothing hung from the wire, now decked out like a clothesline; a Geelong Cats 2011 Premiers t-shirt and several plain linen tunics. The tunics were old, almost rotten. The dried blood on the floor beneath the clothesline was a mute testament to the brave washer person. They must have risked death hanging the washing up in the forbidding temple.
I thought I cut that down?
Nearby were the ghouls Duncan had defeated, their bodies strewn across the floor. They lacked tunics; Duncan assumed it was these that hung from the clothesline.
Curious black marks adorned the sumptuous cushions that were dispersed across the ancient tile floor. Looking closer, Duncan realised they were scorch-marks; the after-effects of Derek’s clerical ability to destroy the undead.
Duncan moved forward with caution and ducked under the clothesline. He stumbled and became entangled in a large tunic. For the briefest of moments, panic welled in his throat. But soon, he found his way clear.
As he walked over the bodies, he stepped with care to ensure he walked on the cushions. This kept noise to a minimum. He stopped and chuckled to himself. When he pushed the door open, he made more noise than any steps he could take on the hard tiles.
“That’s right,” said Jongus the dwarf. “Don’t let the zombies devour you.”
“They’re ghouls,” corrected Derek.
His friends faded into nothingness as quickly as they’d appeared.
A stairwell materialised in front of him; Duncan gritted his teeth and advanced down the stairs with caution. He’d observed several discussions between Jade, Derek, and Jongus about the temple, and their descriptions had been precise.
Hang on? Maybe Ezekiel had lied to me?
Ezekiel said he’d killed Derek.
How could Derek be here?
Duncan looked about.
Derek was no longer there.
Duncan shrugged.
I’ll worry about it later.
Once he reached the bottom of the stairs, Duncan needed to go in a straight line along the hall until he reached the set of double doors there. Once through the double doors, he would be in the chapel that contained the hideous granite altar that started this whole mess.
“Yes,” Jongus said. “A good place to rest, I think.”
“Good idea,” replied Duncan. “I’m about to make blackberry pie. Would you like some?”
“Oh yes! That would be lovely,” replied the affable dwarf.
“Derek’s not here?” Duncan asked, as they sat on the comfortable and cheery cushions that were conveniently spread throughout the hideous and evil temple.
“Nope,” Jongus replied. “He’s dead. Wraithknight cut his head off.”
“Oh,” said Duncan. “So, Ezekiel was telling the truth.”
Jongus nodded wisely, before fading away to shadow once more.
Alone again, all was silent. Duncan continued his journey and reached the bottom of the stairs. Before him, a grand hallway stretched off into the darkness, with support columns placed an even distance apart on either side of a central pathway. Above, he could just make out hideous frescoes that depicted scenes of unfathomable evil. In them, families frolicked at the beach, while in another a young woman lay upon her bed, reading a book.
Wait, that’s hardly unfathomably evil…?
Along each wall, open archways led away from the hall, but the outsider ignored them all. His focus was on his goal, at the end of the hall, shrouded in shadow.
Xiphos.
Bright pinpoints of hate-filled crimson light burned in the empty sockets of the hideous skull perched atop its emaciated shoulders.
“I have you outsider. Soon you will serve your purpose.” Its eerie voice was a soft but guttural, rasping sound. The words it spoke were almost mechanical-sounding, as no air was used to form them. It spoke in a slow, deliberate manner. The abomination was a gaunt and skeletal humanoid with dried, withered flesh stretched tight across horribly visible bones. The undead fiend still wore tattered robes; once rich and stylish, now rotted and decayed.
“Oh, you only think you do,” said Duncan with confidence. “You can’t kill me.”
“Oh,” said Xiphos, faltering. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I know,” Duncan replied. “You’re stuffed now,” he said with a smile.
Duncan smirked again and moved toward the lych. The undead monster had yet to move. Duncan held out a plate to the lych.
“Blackberry pie?” he asked.
“What?” cried Xiphos. “Blackberry pie?” The ancient undead arch mage shook his head. “You’re weird,” he muttered.
“That’s big, coming from you,” said Duncan. The outsider reached into his backpack and withdrew a grenade. He drew out the pin and rolled it across the floor. Luckily, it avoided the comfy cushions.
KABOOM!
###
Duncan woke with a start.
What a strange dream.
Duncan’s deep sigh turned into an enormous yawn. He was exhausted, but sleep would not properly claim him. He lay in bed next to Jennifer, his wife. They’d returned home last night and put the already-asleep children to bed. They’d sat for hours and discussed what happened to him. Despite her best efforts to understand, Jen could not comprehend the tale her husband told.
Duncan understood. It was wild. It was out there. He did not believe it himself. He lived in a fantasy world for over a year and had the sword, the statuette. It must be real.
He attempted to be patient and understand her perspective. She clearly didn’t believe what she heard. He could not put into words the situations he’d been in, the friendships he’d formed. The loss, initially, of Jen and his daughters, and now, the dear friends he’d made in Syrane.
After more than a year in another world, trying desperately to return home, Duncan’s patience reached its limit, and he’d lost his temper.
“How do you explain I lost twenty fucking kilos in ten minutes? How about the clothes? I’m wearing armour! The stupid fucking statuette? This sword? It glows! I’m not making this shit up!”
Duncan regretted his words immediately, but they poured out after a year of emotional turmoil in his quest to reunite with Jen.
Jen, of course, had burst into tears. This was extremely difficult for her. Duncan himself had cried, and had held Jen for a long time afterward, whispering to her of his sorrow. He chose not to be mad. He’d spent so long trying to get home, he’d not even considered that she would not believe his tale.
But when he thought about it, he wondered what he’d do in her place? Would he believe her, if she’d told this fantastic tale of other worlds, monsters, dead gods, and wizards?
He snorted. Probably not.
For a while, he’d even doubted himself. But before bed, he’d picked up a family photo on Jen’s dresser and just stared at it. They had only taken it last week (last week, Earth time). He’d placed it back and then looked at himself in the mirror. He was considerably smaller than the man in the photo. Not to mention he actually had the armour, sword, and statuette.
Rolling over, he glanced at the time.
5:30.
It was almost time to get up. He wouldn’t go to work today. He did not know how he would explain the changes to himself to anyone. It was hard enough explaining it to Jen. He’d need some time off. And he would need to avoid seeing anyone. He sighed and carefully got out of bed.
I’ll have a shower and then make Jen a coffee.
He slipped into his bathrobe and paused as he moved toward the ensuite. The sword leaned against the wall where he’d left it. The sword Ezekiel had used to kill his friend Derek. Ezekiel thrust the sword through Duncan’s own midriff a few short weeks ago, stripping him of the archmage’s power. A few days ago, Duncan had faced the wielder of the sword in deadly combat, facing off against Ezekiel in the Temple of Mergoth, in a mighty battle for the Sphere of Corruption. Duncan had used the sword to destroy the sphere, and with it, all the undead in Syrane. He reached out his hand to the sword, but stopped.
Duncan sighed again. He’d done a good thing. He’d rid Syrane of the threat of Mergoth, the undead, and Xiphos. Now he was home. He didn’t know what to do.
He was going to shower.
Do that first.
###
The mage watched.
In the still water of her scrying pool, Jade watched him. Duncan stood, frozen in time, as he always was. This time he wore an odd blue robe. His arm was outstretched; he reached for the sword that leaned against the wall in front of him. She shuddered. It was Ezekiel’s sword. The decorative but functional cross-guard of the sword spread out like a serpent. She knew without seeing it that runes ran the length of the blade.
He had shown no signs of aging. He looked the same as he did fifteen years ago when he’d returned home. She missed him, as always. The ensuing years had helped to dull the pain of his loss. A little.
Well, it wasn’t really a loss. He was alive and well. But he had left, he had gone home to his wife and children. She finally saw him again after years of searching. The elation Jade experienced a month ago when she finally found him was euphoric. Each time since, when she scried him with the pool, he had barely moved. The first time, he appeared asleep. In bed with his wife. Jade sniffed. His wife was beautiful, even while asleep.
An image in the room had attracted her interest. It was a very lifelike painting; she guessed. Within a small frame, it showed Duncan, his wife, and presumably their two children. It depicted Duncan as he had first come to Syrane, much larger than he was now.
Two weeks ago, he was awake and moved in the bed. He looked at something nearby that showed bright red digits. 05 and 30, separated by two dots, one above the other. She could not imagine what it meant.
Today, he was upright. He reached for the sword. She could only guess at the feelings he had when he saw the weapon. She had seen it up close, thrust into Duncan’s back by its wraithknight wielder.
He looked sad. She hoped he was well.
“Duncan,” she whispered.
She waved her hand over the water, and the image disappeared. She would scry again later in the week.
###
The mage watched.
He wasn’t meant to be here. But he did not care.
He spotted Jade through the crack in the door. The scrying pool held her complete attention, as always. He strained to hear, strained to see. The object of her gaze was barely visible to him. He knew who it was she scried. She did it every night, after the students had gone to bed. He was confident she found what she sought. The mage behind the door leaned forward, to hear the words, to hear the name she whispered…
“Duncan…”. The sound barely carried to him.
He nodded in the darkness before turning away from the door.
The outsider!
###
A short while later, a timid knock at the door roused Jade from her reverie. She smiled, knowing full well who awaited entry.
“Come in, Margaret,” she called.
“I’m sorry that I bother you,” Margaret said as she bustled into the room. “I tried to sleep but couldn’t. The sound of the rain kept waking me.” She looked tired. “I came upstairs to see if you were still up, and noticed your light and your door ajar, so I knocked.” She paused. “I hope you don’t mind?”
“Oh, of course not, don’t be silly,” said Jade. “In truth, I’m glad for the company.”
Jade frowned. I thought I closed the door?
Margaret smiled, then closed the door. She seemed not to notice the flicker of a frown that crossed Jade’s face. The newcomer moved to a comfortable leather chair and sat down.
“How did you know it was me? Was it the tower telling you I was at the door?”
Jade laughed aloud before she replied.
“No,” she said with a mischievous grin. “It was nothing quite so mysterious. How you knock. It’s always the same!”
Margaret giggled and blushed.
“I didn’t realise I did that. I’ll have to change next time,” she cried in mock embarrassment. Jade laughed again.
“Were you in the middle of anything?” Margaret asked.
Jade nodded in affirmation.
“I was. I had used the scrying pool to see Duncan again.” She stopped and looked up at Margaret. The guilt of her spying must have been obvious on her face. “I was just checking in on him to ensure his well-being.” Her cheeks burned. Margret waved her hands back and forth in front of her in a reassuring manner.
“Oh, no, you don’t have to apologise or anything. I know why you seek him out.” She stood and moved to kneel in front of Jade’s chair. She took the older woman’s hands in her own and patted them kindly.
“I know we haven’t spoken of it for a while, but not talking about something doesn’t make it go away. I know you miss him.”
Jade nodded and smiled again.
“Thank you Margaret. You’ve been an amazing friend all these years.” She paused and considered for a moment. “Oh, I think it’s fifteen years, almost to the day!” she exclaimed.
“It’s tomorrow,” Margaret said, and nodded in agreement. “Fifteen years tomorrow since Duncan rescued me from that awful state I was in.”
“Fifteen years,” Jade whispered. Margaret stood and released her hands. She walked to the desk nearby and poured a cup of water from the ewer.
“How far we’ve come in those years,” Margaret mused.
“Yes, we have!” exclaimed Jade. “Look at you, training apprentice mages and creating new uses for spells of your own.” Jade beamed with pride. “All the while, raising a wonderful fourteen-year-old boy.”
Margaret smiled.
“He’s a little devil, isn’t he?”
“He is,” Jade replied. “And he will grow to become High Mage one day, you mark my words!”
Both women laughed. Fourteen-year-old Malin was an earnest young lad and took his role as son of a mage seriously. His solemn demeanour hinted at the promise that he would indeed grow into a formidable mage in the future.
