The Journey Of The Rat-Mage, Part Three.

Nugget leaped from the pile of what-used-to-be-a-padlock, scampering up the iron bars and thrusting himself into the gap between the door and the frame. With a heavy shove he forced the door open, letting the little girl run to...

Where could she run? The door opened with a loud shriek of rusty metal and the sound of bootsteps stopped.

"I hear you, little girl." A deep, gravelly voice boomed from the stairs. "How you opened the cage is of no matter. You will not escape." There was a hint of amusement in his voice, but Nugget recognised it instantly. Drake!

The soft padding sound had stopped as well, now replaced by a low rumbling growl that shook Nugget and his new friend to the core.

"Relax my friend," Drake said, "you will have all you can eat in a moment. For now, I must feed - savour the fear."

His terrified mind racing, Nugget remembered a few months ago, at the turn of the New Year when he (for he was a young rat) had first seen fireworks. He recalled the bright, flashy lights and the loud rattles and bangs and thought 'make it so, make it happen'.

Suddenly, the room was full of brilliant colour and deafening noise. Sparks erupted from Nugget's paws in startling shades of blue, green, red, purple and every colour imaginable. Drake threw up his hands to shield his eyes, and Ashleigh saw her chance. She leapt, trying to shove her way past him. Her fingers caught on his amulet, tearing it loose from his neck...

(TO BE CONCLUDED...)

The Journey Of The Rat-Mage, Part Two

Nugget did not see what the beast did, he was too scared to watch. All he heard was a ferocious roar, a thud and a loud whoosh. When he had plucked up enough courage to leave his hidey-hole, he saw Mister Thompkiss lying on the floor, huge claw-marks in his shoulder, and... fire! A ball of flames had started in the corner of the shop, quickly spreading through the swatches and rolls of cloth. Nugget suddenly sprung into action, diving across the floor and grabbing Mister Thompkiss by his apron. Though he was tiny, Nugget found incredible strength in himself, feeling the magical power from his new cloak coursing through his body. He pulled Mister Thompkiss, tugging his body out through the door and into the street, where people were already gathering to stand and watch and cry out in alarm. Nugget was barely aware of someone shouting "Did that rat just pull that man out of the shop?" and someone else replying "don't be stupid, that's impossible!" and other people saying "that's Mister Thompkiss! He made my coat!" - "quick, someone get a doctor! I think he's still alive!"

Nugget left the people to their confusion and running, dodging the bootheels of the City Guard as they arrived to take charge of the situation and organise a bucket chain to put out the fire. Scampering down the road and following the unmistakeable smell of the black beast and its leather-clad owner, Nugget paused at the end of the street, sniffing first one way then another to track down his friend's attacker.

At this moment, Nugget hopped up onto a bench and looked round. He was angry. Angry at the tall man named Drake, at the black flame-eyed creature that had nearly killed Mister Thompkiss, but mostly at himself for not having done anything to stop it happening, even though he didn't know if there was anything he could have done. It is a well-known fact that in the Realm, birds can speak. It is less well-known that rats can too - they just don't often have anything to say. Nugget sniffed the air again, picking up the tall man's scent - and he spoke one word. "Revenge."

An hour later, the trail was growing cold. The tall man's scent had faded, even the sooty stench from the black beast was almost gone. Nugget stopped running somewhere half-way down Ramding Way, by a terrace of houses and rested awhile by a pot of geraniums. As he tried to gather his thoughts, he heard something. Cocking his head toward the source of the noise, it sounded like sobbing coming from the basement of a nearby house. He scampered to the small window of the house next door, and peered inside...

The basement was dark, lit by a single small oil lantern on a stand in the corner. In the other corner, shrouded by gloom was a cage, three feet wide by about the same high. In the cage, a small human girl clad in grimy rags shivered. Nugget had never been in a cage before - he had always been a rat free to do as he wished - but he knew it was not a good thing to be. Steeling himself, Nugget grabbed at the bottom of the window - he noticed the latch was only half-on - and tugged hard. With a tiny creak, the window jolted, shifted a little - and the latch fell closed, locking the window solidly.

"Ah." He had not expected that, though on reflection it did seem one of the more likely outcomes of his action. He paced quickly up and down on his back legs, trying to think of what he could do. He stroked his chin, scratched his head, then put out a paw to lean on the window as he thought. Suddenly, he stumbled and nearly fell. Looking around, he realised that the window was on his other side - that somehow he had managed to transport himself through the glass without even noticing. He looked at his cloak; the material shimmered and glinted, even though the basement was dark. Well, that's handy, he thought.

Nugget clambered down the assortment of boxes, trunks and cases that were conveniently stacked by the window and across the floor to the cage. It was a dirty looking cage, to be sure, tall thick bars of solid iron, held secure by a large padlock. Nugget had seen padlocks before, Mister Thompkiss had one on the cash box he had in his shop. A few times, when Mister Thompkiss wasn't looking, Nugget had toyed around with the padlock and discovered, much to his cheeky delight that he could pick the lock with his tail. He decided that one padlock could not be too much different from another, so climbed up the bars and seated himself atop the large black iron padlock.The little girl looked up in surprise, to see Nugget raise his paw and put a finger to his lips. Recognising his gesture, she nodded slowly, wiping tears from her eyes and sniffing quietly.

Taking the tip of his tail in his paws, Nugget thrust it into the key-hole and started feeling around. There was a sudden click, which initially gratified Nugget, until he realised that the click was the sound of his tail snapping. Biting back the urge to let out a loud yelp, he withdrew his tail, nursing it sadly.

Well this is a fine how-do-you-do, thought Nugget as he tried to painfully click his tail back into shape. I only wanted to open this blasted lock and...

Suddenly, the lock disintegrated, diffusing into a small pile of iron filings on the floor onto which Nugget fell with a flumph! noise. The girl let out a stifled giggle from behind her hand, which was cut short at the sound of heavy bootheels coming down the stairs. Heavy bootheels, and the soft padding sound of a large animal...

(...To Be Continued...)

The Journey Of The Rat-Mage, Part One.

Once upon a time, as good stories usually are, there was a little tailor shop in the city of Realmhaven. In this tailor shop was a man, the tailor mister Thompkiss. Also in this tailor shop was his friend, a small rat which had no name. He had sleek brown fur and little black eyes which glimmered like nuggets of onyx, so we shall call him... Nugget, because Onyx is a silly name for a rat.

Mister Thompkiss was good to his friend Nugget. He would share his lunch with him every day, telling him tales of the Mages, the wizards who held control over the Realm and all its magic many many years ago. Nugget, who understood every word he said (obviously; he was a rat, not an idiot) sat and listened intently, a small lump of bread or cheese grasped in his little paws, sometimes a candied nut. Then, after they had eaten, mister Thompkiss would stroke Nugget on his little furry head and smile pleasantly saying  "...but that'll be for another time", as he always left his stories in the middle of something exciting so that he would have something exciting to come back to when they next sat down.

One day, as mister Thompkiss finished telling his story for the day, he gave Nugget a knowing smile. "You see, I've been doing a little thinking, and I wanted to make something for you, for all the times you've sat here listening to me going on and on about wizards and things." He reached into his lunch bag and brought out a small piece of black cloth. "Very special, you see. A few years ago, before you were born probably, the Ravenlord himself visited this very shop." The Ravenlord was master of the Realm, the keeper of the magic since the Wizard Wars had nearly destroyed everything. "He asked me to make for him a robe for him to wear at his new-born baby son's first public appearance. And he had brought with him a swatch of cloth, very special cloth for me to make his robe. Well I did, you see, and it was a most magnificent robe, black as the blackest night but soft as the softest silk. When I had finished, and the Ravenlord had worn his robe, I found I had some of that special cloth left over. I've kept it all these years, and last night I made this for you. Your very own wizard's robe."

Nugget was surprised, flattered and honoured that his friend mister Thompkiss would do such a thing for him. As mister Thompkiss held out the robe for him, Nugget took it in his paws and slipped it over his head. It fit perfectly, as Nugget knew it would, the sleeves not too long and the cowl not too loose. He sat back on his haunches, admiring his reflection in the small hand mirror mister Thompkiss held out for him.

"My my," said mister Thompkiss, "you look every bit the wise and powerful wizard."

Nugget had to agree; the robe was magnificent, with fine silver stitches round the cuffs and hood and a delicate motif in the shape of a raven emblazoned in gold across the back. He hopped, looking over his shoulder so he could see it properly. Filled with thoughts of mighty wizards and powerful magic, Nugget started throwing his paws round, pretending he was casting spells in some tremendous battle of wits between Mages.

Mister Thompkiss clapped his hands in glee, watching his little friend play-act. Then, the shop bell rang as the door slowly swung open. "Oh, I have customers. I shall have to tend to them, my little friend." With that, he turned and made his way into the front.

Standing in the middle of the shop was a tall man dressed all in black leather, a large sword sheathed by his hip. He had long black hair and his face was a crisscross mess of scars, curling the edge of his lip upward in a fierce snarl. Mister Thompkiss bowed slightly when he saw the man, trying to show his politest face even though Nugget (who watched from the doorway into the back) could tell he was terrified.

"Mister Drake, you've come for your travelling cloak. I have it right here." he rummaged around in an assortment of boxes, flipping open lids until he found the right one. With a triumphant "Aha!" he whipped out a long black cloak with gold and scarlet hems, holding it up so that the tall man could see it.

"Excellent." The man said, taking the cloak up in his hands and examining it closely. Indeed it was a fine cloak, heavy and warm. "And you used the exact material I requested?"

"Oh, it took me a while to locate Metallisian Thoth-velvet, especially in the colours you wanted, but it is precisely as you ordered sir." Mister Thompkiss bowed again, nervously. The man nodded his head in approval and swooshed the cloak around his shoulders, fixing it with a small gold clasp-and-chain.

"It is good. As strong as a set of full-plate armour. Perfect." His lip twitched in a grotesque parody of a smile.

"...now there is just the matter of payment. As it was such a task to acquire the materials, I'm afraid I will have to." Mister Thompkiss had his notebook in his hand and was scribbling in it with a small stub of pencil.

The man took half a step forward. "I believe there will be no charge for this."

Mister Thompkiss trembled. "I'm dreadfully sorry sir, but I have my overheads to consider. I can't just..." His words were interrupted by the jingling of the shop bell, and Nugget instinctively dived behind the curtain, watching with his heart pounding in his little ears.

"My companion will be able to discuss terms more fully..." As the tall man turned from Mister Thompkiss, he stepped aside to reveal his companion - a massive black dog-like creature with fierce glowing red eyes.

"...but sir," Mister Thompkiss pleaded.

But the man was gone, the only sounds the jingling of the shop bell and the beast's hoarse raspy breathing...

(To Be Continued...)

Novadis, the Seem-Witch...

    Her name was Novadis, and she was a Veyen Seem-Witch. She sat surrounded by crystals in tiny metal frames in one of the more obscure and hidden chambers in the Citadel. Like all members of her ancient race, she had no eyes: the space where they should have been covered by a patch of smooth skin. The Veyen, almost unique among the many different races and breeds of the Realm, had absolutely no capacity for sight, relying instead on their uncanny ability to foresee the future to tell them what was about. She turned slowly in her large chair, rotating it first to one side, then to the other. She enjoyed the privilege of  being Ghazen’s chief psychic, with her network of Veyen spies, secreted in towers about the city, all reporting telepathically directly to her. And when she saw fit, she allowed Ghazen to see what she could see. She span her chair to face the door just as Ghazen entered, causing him to jump mid-stride. Taking a moment to regain himself, he closed the door carefully behind him.
    “You wished to speak with me?” He said, straightening his vestments.
    “Boychild.” Was all that she said. She spat the word ferociously, flecks of spittle flying from her lips onto her black sackcloth robes, the traditional garb of her kind. While a Veyen acolyte, one not truly versed in the ways of her people, would wear a pure grey robe to demonstrate their purity, their not having chosen a path, those that followed the ways of light as they graduated were clad in lighter and lighter robes. And those that followed the path of darkness, well Novadis was a prime example. Her robes were blacker than black, and seemed to shimmer with an impossible ebon sheen.
    “Boychild? What’s that supposed to mean? ”
    “In this city.” She replied. “Soon. And he will be your downfall, Son of Master Kindly as he is.”
    Ghazen frowned. “But that’s impossible.”
    “Impossible is nothing. Miracles take longer. Nevertheless, he shall arrive and he shall be your downfall.” She smiled, revealing a set of gnarled and crumbling yellowed teeth.
    Ghazen drew close to the old crone, his face mere inches from hers. “How will he get here?” He growled.
    “Unsure, that much is clouded. But here he will arrive... soon.”
    “What do I do to stop him?” He licked his lips anxiously.
    Novadis laughed expansively, rocking in her chair and coming perilously close to headbutting Ghazen. “He cannot be stopped. He will not be stopped.” She laughed again, an infuriating noise. “But there may be a way…”
    “...to stop him? Then tell me, witch!” His eyes frantic, Ghazen glared at the eyeless woman, trying to find a way to enter her mind, to drag her secrets from her.
    “As it always is, the future is malleable, flexible. It is not rigid and cast in stone. The boychild can be defeat, but it will take great sacrifice and tactic on your part.” She cackled quietly to herself as she opened up her mind to Ghazen, allowing him to see the other futures she could see.
    Ghazen bent over the old woman, his back beginning to ache. But the pain was a diversion, one he shut out as he watched in his head the wonders she was showing him. When she had finished, Ghazen stood up straight, placing his large hands on the small of his back as he did. “Do you know,” he said, “someday I intend to find out a way to force you to give me a straight answer?”
    Novadis smiled enigmatically. “Yes.”

Young Master Kindly - Chapter One

Here is a little sample for you - the first chapter of Young Master Kindly. I hope you enjoy it.

Thirteen years ago.
Ustada. That was what it was called in the old tongue. But while new languages threw up new words, and since nobody spoke High Verek anymore, not since the Purge, pursuit would have to suffice. Rotok Miem counted his blessings, few as they were, as he clung tightly to the lean muscular back of the tonbunny as the giant rabbit thundered through the undergrowth. A loud crack issued from a rifle held by one of the pursuers, a thunderous sound that split the air. Burying his head in the tonbunny’s coarse fur, Rotok flinched as an arrow-tipped projectile zipped past his ear, parting hairs on the creature’s enormous head. The two pursuants urged their horses on faster, digging their spurred heels in. The smaller of the two took the long-barrelled weapon the other handed him and flipped down the lever that opened the breech, then slid home another arrow-pointed bullet and passed the gun back. Rotok guided his tonbunny through a violent zigzag that allowed another shot to miss him completely, much to the annoyance of the shooter, and turned his steed’s head towards the safety of the distant tree-line.
“Make this damned thing fire again!” The bigger man snarled, thrusting the weapon at his assistant. He did not understand firearms, and never would, so it was simpler to hand it to someone with the wherewithal to reload it. Grasping the rifle again, he loosed off another shot, which seemed to bounce off the air by the rider’s back, and the man cursed loudly, an act which made the other man wince. “What’s the matter, Forsythe? Lost the thrill of the chase?” Captain Ut’Arak snarled at his assistant.
“It’s just - language like that - I don’t feel it’s...  entirely necessary sir.” Corporal Edward Forsythe flushed red at the outburst. Ut'Arak snarled again, and cursed even louder.
“Sir, Vereks are known for their ability to turn aside arrows that are fired at them. I don’t think…”
“You are not paid to think, imbecile!” The Captain snapped with such ferocity that Forsythe was taken aback, and nearly dropped the bullet he was holding. Taking the rifle, he reloaded it deftly and threw it back.
Rotok waved his hand again, sending the incoming bullet off in a random direction. The pursuers were gaining, and with each passing second he was losing ground. He dug his heels in, and though the creature was starting to show the strain, he urged his tonbunny to draw just a little more on its reserves of strength. “Not long now, we’re nearly there.” He murmured, and the rabbit seemed to understand, and put on a burst of speed. Sitting up straighter, Rotok unslung his warbow, the half-double ended sword half-longbow that was a trademark of the Verek people, and drew an arrow from the quiver on his back. The fletches on the bow were raven feathers, and shimmered with a faint magical haze. He held the arrow up and whispered to it, giving it instructions. As he spoke, the fletches illuminated, as if they understood what the arrow was being asked to do. Then he notched the arrow to the bow, and sat up straight, twisting so he could fire.
The arrow streaked through the air with a sound like tearing paper, a sound well-known and feared by all enemies of the Verek people. And it flew directly towards Ut’Arak. A split-second before it hit his face, it exploded in a brilliant white ball of light and sound, knocking him clear off his horse and stunning Forsythe. And with that, Rotok was gone, his tonbunny dived through a gap in the underbrush. Safe in the midst of the forest, Rotok slowed to a gentle thumping trot, stroking the large creature between the ears.
“It’s alright, Thunder. We’re safe now.” The rabbit wheezed and puffed, and for the first time Rotok noticed something was wrong. Dismounting, he saw a large ragged red hole in the creature’s side, just behind it’s front legs. The fur around the edges of the wound was matted with blood, Rotok let out a silent curse. “Come on Thunder, it’s not far now.” He placed a comforting arm over the animal’s neck, and walked with it for the next half a mile. The forest thinned out a bit, opening into a broad clearing, a small waterfall tumbling into a deep clear pool. Rotok’s face cheered a little as he turned to his rabbit companion. “Look, let’s rest here a while.” But it was no good. The tonbunny lay it’s giant furry head down, breath coming in a hard laboured rasp. Rotok choked back a tear, wading into the pool and untying his cooking pot from his belt, he filled it with the fresh limpid water. By the time he came back, Thunder, the tonbunny he had kept since it was a kitten, who he had ridden through the glory days of the Realm and into the darkest times of the Purge, looked up at him, large brown eyes glazing over. Rotok held the pot of water to the giant creature’s mouth, urging it to drink. It's tongue lapped out feebly as it tried to take in the water, and Rotok dipped his hand in the pot and stroked his steed’s forehead gently. “It’s all right Thunder. You’ll be all right.” Suddenly, Rotok felt very tired. The whirlwind of events recently had been breath-taking in its terror and ferocity, and with each new development came new horrors, fresh atrocities. Looking down, Rotok felt a tightening in his throat as a heavy shudder ran through Thunder’s body, and the wheezing stopped. Rotok slumped to the floor, his knees suddenly unable to keep him upright. The pot clattered from his fingers and sloshed its contents onto the mud. His mind spun, the force of emotions he had kept under tight check the past few weeks suddenly coming to the front with a giddying force. The murder of Master Kindly, cunningly staged as a public duel, the breathtakingly fast rise of that devil Arturis Ghazen to power, the Purge, the swift and absolute massacre of all Vereks and other ‘enemies of the Realm’ or as they really were, enemies of Ghazen, it all hit Rotok with such intensity he found it hard to breathe. At least his sons were safe. That he could be sure of, one little piece of knowledge he clung onto for dear life. He had ridden hard for three days straight to get them to safety, to a secret cell of supporters who would see to it that they were taken care of and raised in safety and peace. Then he thought of his wife - and her death at the hands of Realmsmen. Those swine had raided the village at dusk, and proclaimed all the inhabitants to be executed at first light. Then those villains had forced the village folk, at sword, spear and gunpoint through the night to build the very scaffold upon which they would hang in groups of five. Rotok had watched the scene from his hiding place with his sons, making himself leave before the killings started so that he could get his boys to safety. He had to leave his wife behind, to the mercies of the Realm’s Ninth Army Brigade. Now, his only trusted companion in this world had gone, killed by that scum Ut’Arak and his adjutant Forsythe.
Rotok tried to hold back his impotent rage: He wanted to lash out at the world, to hurt it back for all the pain it had put him through, but he knew that he could not make a difference, he could not take on the entire Realm Army all by himself. He would have to wait for his revenge.
And for the first time in nearly thirty years, he wept.

Young Master Kindly.

To the people of the Realm, he was the Ravenlord: a noble and wise ruler. To Lady Mira, he was a loving and generous husband. To the Ravens, protectors of magic, he was their friend and ally, their voice for the people. To Master-At-Arms Rotok Miem, he was a God in human form, the man he had sworn to protect. To Archer Kindall, he was the father he would never know.

Master Kindly, usurped and slain by the sinister Crowmaster Arturis Ghazen has been gone for fifteen years now; his wife Lady Mira in exile in our world, watching over their son Archer and his two brothers.

When Archer discovers his legacy, he uncovers a whole other world of trouble. Finding his way purely by accident to the Realm, he (literally) stumbles across his father's old Master-At-Arms, Rotok and an adventure begins that will take him from Realmhaven to the Dead city of Isul, from the magnificence of Ravenholme to the very Citadel where his father's murderer keeps court.

With magic, wondrous beasts and the dreaded magpie clan Kin Rah, Young Master Kindly is truly a unique work of fiction.

And watch out... the Shadows bite!