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Cugel’s Calling ¦ Droke Wood ¦ Storm in a Follicle ¦ The Black Queen ¦
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Droke Wood
Day languished, and all through Droke
Wood creatures of many kinds and temperaments were seeking to acquire last
meals before separate evening shadows merged into the one shadow of night.
Brown
bears sipped from hives, uncaring of angry bees; iridescent hummingbirds licked
last drops of nectar from somnolent flowers; green leaf lizards launched
orange, viscid, tongues at beetles; indigenous Droke harriers plucked terrified
sparrows from the sky; pied mice, nervous of predators, chewed warily at
bluebell stems; and Droke cats —another indigenous species— dined
on those mice that had kept an inadequate vigil.
Droke
Wood's faerie folk also knew night's advent, and for those that cavorted during
the day the coming darkness signified, as it did for the mortal creatures of
nature, that it was suppertime.
Groggel,
a resident giant, ate his traditional supper of crushed goblin and elf ears
before retiring to his warm —if flea-ridden— mattress of troll hair;
grebs, with their peculiar rods and lines, cast at dragonflies over the queerly
tainted waters of Droke Pond, consumed two of their gossamer wings, freed the
maimed insects, and watched with malicious glee as they attempted the air with
only half their former power; wylphs stole acorns from squirrels' winter
hordes; packs of mushroom elbs, hiding in the
shadows provided by their fungal homes,
pounced upon any unwary passer-by unfortunate enough to pass by; black nymphs seduced
mesmerized elves (fornication being the black nymph's sustenance); and dragons,
not quite faerie, but certainly unnatural, skimmed sedately above the trees,
roasting winged salamanders to nibble at during the long return flight to their
eyries atop distant Vecole mountain.
Eventually
then, stomachs contented, all the creatures that spent their waking lives in
the warm autumn sunlight came to rest, letting night-time pass its perilous
course unimpeded.
Baloradon al Dralodon disliked night at
the best of times, and a night lost in Droke Wood did not bear consideration.
However, this was indeed his present situation, and he could think of nothing
else.
Darkness
lay thick about him, totally obscuring the farther trees, softening and
remoulding the closest to produce terrifying shapes within his mind —
horrors of wood and sap whose leafy claws seemed perpetually poised to toss him
into gaping wooden maws.
And
these chlorophyll carnivores were not the only fancies created by Baloradon's
frightened brain. Many times he was certain he heard footsteps behind, but, on
stopping to listen, only the sound of branches did he note — tapping and
scratching against one-another as if employing some queer code to hatch
fiendish stratagems of unknown, but probably evil, consequence. There were
lights, too: small, wickedly formed glows that seemed to stare with nefarious
intent; large, elliptical illuminares that blinked slowly in and out of
existence; and peculiar little clusters of brightness that flitted and flipped.
Voices also, he caught (low, sinister intonations, high pitched gibberings,
tormented moans), but tried to ignore, calling them winds and breezes.
Five
days ago he had been at the academe (where he taught known faerie law and
history), sat his desk on the top floor of Penultimate Tower, and gazing
through his open window upon a group of attractive young ladies conversing in
the quadrangle below. Before him was a sheet of blank vellum, and littered all
about his feet were similar sheets bearing different variations on the title
"Encyclopaedia Faerie — A Complete Study Undertaken by Baloradon al
Dralodon the Magical People and Creatures Related." There had been a knock
at his door, a young boy from the conservatoire with a missive from the arch
deacon. It informed Baloradon that he was to be sent on a sabbatical into
nearby Droke Wood. "I feel," wrote the arch deacon, "That you
have too long neglected this potentially lucrative and readily accessible
source of material. Do you not judge, as I, that the disquieting rumours
associated with the area are as nothing compared with the information it may
yield to the advancement of your field? I will expect a report on your return.
Tarry at least a week there. You have three days to make your
preparations." All that was written, however, was not all that was wrote.
This, Baloradon knew, was not a venture to expand knowledge - it was the arch
deacon's revenge. Some weeks ago, Baloradon had jestingly initiated, amongst
his peers, a rather damning lie concerning the arch deacon's erotic
inclinations, which, due to certain actual peculiarities in the subject's
conduct, rapidly spread as truth throughout the academe. As retribution for
this, the arch deacon, unable to expel Baloradon as he may have wished (such
things being decided by a senate, Baloradon's consistently excellent work and
popularity would weigh heavily against his knavery), had obviously decided that
uprooting him from the comfortable academe for one of the area's wildest
regions would be a fitting
punishment.
So
Baloradon found himself at Droke Wood's outskirts, intending never to go deeper
for the allotted week (and, knowing the unlikelihood of witnessing significant
events from such an un-enterprising position, he was already phrasing a report
emphasizing the clandestine ways of the faerie). Yet, this morning, he found
some trick of the woods had turned his perambulations inwards, leaving him
lost. Contemporaneously, he discovered that his pack containing purse, food,
and bedding had somehow been stolen, without his awareness, from his very back.
And
now it was night.
There
came a sudden feather-light tickling within his left ear.
He
was about to insert a finger into the appendage and clear the irritation when a
voice abruptly spoke, directly before his tympanum. "Please, do not suffer
consternation; I weave neither wrong nor evil. I wish only a single boon of
you, one I think you will grant readily enough. I desire the accumulated wax
within this ear — the removal of which will take but a moment's instant."
So
saying, voice's owner went on to perform curious movements across his acoustic
meatus, as if using some minute scraper to dislodge the glutinous earwax.
The
act over, the voice, said, "Doubtless you wonder at my actions, they would
seem strange to me were our positions reversed. But I will not explain them,
that duty falls to another — my beloved. He finds considerable pleasure
in it. So I say goodbye, and thank you!"
There
was but the merest flicker of pink light before his eyes, and Baloradon knew
the wax gatherer had gone.
Too
amazed to have spoken during the whole strange episode, Baloradon had hardly
drawn his wits back together when he felt a further tickling in his right ear.
Once again came the scraping sensation, before a voice, deeper than the
first's, thanked him and, with Baloradon's permission, proceeded to account for
his weird behaviour:-
"Our
race, the U, value monogamy above all else, and we have a custom, as old as
Droke Wood itself, some say, that if two U desire one-another then they are to
perform together some task of extreme tedium —censuring the number of
oxygen molecules found within the wood in a given decade; counting leaves that
grow with their tips curling just so toward the sun every day for an age—
to ensure their mutual adoration is strong enough to bind them together
throughout this mind-numbing period. Thus there are few broken relationships in
our communities, the couple concerned having successfully steered a path
through the most terrible thing known to us immortals — ennui."
There
came a pause, then, "When I, and my beloved, two hundred and fifty seasons
ago, approached our king and confessed our ardour, he informed us —as it
is the right of each U king to select the task to be undertaken— that we
were, for three hundred years, to build a bridge constructed from the residue
of each ear of each creature deeming to pass betwixt the trees you yourself are
bracketed by. It spans above your head, and I consider it a great pity you
cannot see its artful arches and graceful columns, its apexes and convolutions;
but, most of all, its beautifully wrought brickwork, carved, as our king
decreed, from the multicoloured cerumen of Droke Wood's residents. Green from
the wylph; mazerine from the elb; ebony from the black nymph; and two major
keystones are fashioned from the indigo wax of Groggel himself! But I have
spoken overlong on a subject I perhaps find more interesting than was intended.
Thank you again for your wax, by the substances unction, I wager it will make
fine bricks. Now, goodbye!"
With
a blue flicker of intense brightness, the creature departed.
Baloradon,
shaking his head in wonder, walked bemusedly on, noting as he did some hearing
improvement.
After another two hours of twisted trees
and unexplained lights, Baloradon suddenly came upon a small clearing
(affording a rare glimpse of the night sky), centred by a thick-limbed,
moss-covered oak.
To
Baloradon, in his tired state, it looked like the perfect place to safely
—if that word had meaning in Droke Wood— spend the rest of the
night. He wasted no time in selecting an especially attractive branch and
stretching out thankfully upon it.
Sleep
was just about to claim him when sly rustling sounds, accompanied by an
insidious utterance, brought him speedily awake.
"In
my considered opinion, sir, you would be unwise to a decidedly fatal degree to
rest here much longer. You see, good sir, this particular tree has further
occupants that would consider you, amongst other things, as an impostor, and
therefore a potential meal. Noteworthy amongst said occupants is a day gibberer
slumbering upon a branch not far removed from your own."
The
voice went on to mention that it was only through kindness of heart that it
warned him thus, though kindness would not be enough to stay the sneeze it felt
tickling its nose from bursting forth and surely waking the 'gibberer, who
would consequently rip Baloradon's throat from its surrounding neck in the
belief that it was he who had disturbed its sleep. "But," ended the
voice, "A small carnal favour would very likely prevent such a
discharge."
Baloradon
flung himself from the branch, landed heavily, and fled blindly from the
clearing. Shouted pleadings and cajolery, culminating in a frustrated screech,
followed him.
Later,
exhaustion clouding reasoning, Baloradon sought sanctuary from another tree,
within a split in its hollow trunk. He quickly vacated his position, however,
when his earlier arboreal nightmares were realised. The tree had shuddered and
rasped, and the aperture through which he had entered began to close with
disturbing swiftness — seeking to trap him inside.
On
then, amongst more shadowy forms. On, past more queer lights. On, on, and ever
on, stumbled Baloradon, feet dragging, back bent, head low. Another weary hour he
walked, until, tripping over some unseen protuberance, and finding himself too
tired to rise, he finally slept.
It seemed only an instant passed before
he was awakened by voices. Close voices.
"Gorganzo,
you leggy loon! If you continue to caper about so I shall be forced to abandon
my benevolent attitude and beat you with the greatest severity!"
In
a wickedly gleeful tone came the reply, "You would have to catch me first,
my heavy-footed old oak! For I am Gorganzo Fleetfoot, fastest of the
fast!"
"Cease
your mindless bantering, you hapless fool! Our quarry is close now."
With
intensified glee, Gorganzo answered, "Close is it? Close? Listen! Did you
hear?"
Baloradon,
intuitively knowing what they were "close" to, had attempted to
conceal himself behind a trunk. Learning his actions had been overheard, he
took to his heels.
"He
flees! He flees! Quick, before he escapes us! Substantiate your boastings and
catch him!"
"Worry
not, my stout-limbed friend, for I, Gorganzo Fleetfoot, shall ensnare him within
the second!"
Baloradon
could run quite fast at need, and —the need having arisen— was
doing so now. But Gorganzo was in close pursuit, commenting as he ran,
"Your feet carry you well, but not well enough. You'll run only a little
farther."
Yet,
as time went by, and in complete contradiction to Gorganzo's presupposition,
Baloradon, barely dodging tree trunks, drew steadily away. Noting this,
Gorganzo forced himself to better efforts... Without result — aided by a
fear and desperation that negated recent hardship, Baloradon continued to widen
the gap between them.
After
a final, unsuccessful spurt, Gorganzo slowed his pace, realising Baloradon was
uncatchable. But he did not stop. Some disaster might possibly befall his
athletic prey, for their race would not go unobserved in Droke Wood. The only
governing factor deciding an intervention was a spectator's mood.
Baloradon,
knowing that he was out of Gorganzo's reach, was slightly easier of mind. He
could still hear his antagonist behind him, but instinct suggested he had
enough time to stop, hide, and, after both bandits had passed, backtrack and be
lost to them forever.
He
leapt to the base of the nearest tree and proceeded to conceal himself with
dead leaves.
Shortly,
Gorganzo drew level with his hiding place, paused a moment, then with a curse,
jogged on.
Two
minutes went by before the second ruffian approached, and plodded clumsily by,
muttering curses directed primarily at Gorganzo.
Baloradon,
pleased to see his plan efficacious, was about to rise and retrace his steps,
when he felt a sudden weight at the small of his back and heard an
accompanying, jovial, voice cry, "My friends! My friends! You have missed
him! Indeed, good sirs, you have overrun his secretive position by a
considerable fraction! Will you not turn about and entrap him?"
It
was a greb, a faerie that lived for devilment.
Twisting
around with admirable agility, Baloradon reached for the faerie's neck
(thoughts directed towards throttling the creature), but, with surpassing
agility, it leapt to one side and next into the wood's dark depths, giggling as
it ran.
Realising
he had wasted precious time in this murder attempt, Baloradon got up to run.
But, before one foot could be set forward of the other, he was knocked back in
place with enough force to send breath surging from his lungs.
It
was Gorganzo's accomplice.
"Ah,
so we have you at last, eh? You have led us a merry chase and no doubt. Now,
where in all Hell's fiery corridors is that dimwit Gorganzo?"
Gorganzo
soon returned, and, with the aid of a freshly aroused firefly lamp hanging from
his hip, bent down to examine Baloradon.
"So
you have him then? Well done. Even though you required foreign aid, I still
congratulate you, for that is my way. Of course, I would have caught him
earlier, but I was set upon by a gang of marauding imps, and their clawing
hands and pin-prick teeth stayed my feet. But it is of little consequence. The
usual procedure?"
"Aye,
the usual procedure, you lying dung worm. But this time no torture. I have a
headache."
Gorganzo
was aghast. "No torture? My friend, torture is one of the few perks of our
profession! Why, my life would hardly be worth living without causing some
pain!"
His
partner considered, then, "I relent. But on the first cry that escapes his
lips you are to desist immediately. Understand?"
Gorganzo
nodded, motioned for his companion to remove his foot from Baloradon's neck,
and knelt to gag their captive with a yellow and pink stocking. But even before
it touched his face, Baloradon, previously prevented by a mouthful of humus,
released an ear-splitting scream.
"Stop
him before my head explodes!"
Gorganzo
placed a hasty hand over Baloradon's mouth, clamping it shut.
"Take
his purse, strip him, and then let us be off. My skull feels as if an ogre
seeks liberty from it!"
"He
has no purse."
"What?!
All this and no purse! Tonight has not been economic, Gorganzo. The means
outweighed the ends! Strip him, then."
As
Gorganzo was about this, he spoke to Baloradon. "Be thankful, sir, that we
are not invert. For putting us through this purely for clothing we would then
surely rape you as recompense."
The
criminals departed, leaving Baloradon with nothing but his undergarments and
fear.
Having
no better course, he arose and began to walk, shivering in the cool night
breeze.
However, it seemed luck at last walked
with him, for only a few minutes passed before he glimpsed the glow of many
firefly lamps between the tree trunks. On approach he saw that the lamps shone
from and upon a villa of considerable size and beauty fashioned from pink
marble and ivory.
Surely,
he thought, looking down at his bare, goose-pimpled flesh, the master of such a
house would help one such as me in a predicament such as this.
He
approached the building, and at its great oaken front door was disconcerted to
feel light pricking sensations deep within his brain, and grew frightened when
these sensations resolved into a low, infinitely calm inner-voice. "What
do you seek here... Teacher? Oh. Assistance. Then you have it, all that you
need. Clash the cymbals — my familiar will answer."
Baloradon,
certain he had little choice, reached out and brought two tiny bronze cymbals
hung by the entrance together. There came the softest of chimes, and
immediately the door swung silently open.
Before
him fluttered a stunted hobgoblin, bulbous eyed and leathery skinned. Hovering
ungainly on asymmetrical wings, it took in Baloradon's near-nakedness, and
said, "May I enquire, sir, at your reason for this nocturnal
percussion?"
Surprised
at the creature's appearance, Baloradon took a moment to gather his words.
"I have just been informed... I think I have just been informed, that
succour is available here. To me. Were you not made privy to my arrival?"
The
hobgoblin closed its eyes, screwed up its face in an astounding manner, and
cursed. "He is not listening. Still, I know his ways by now. Please
follow.”
The hobgoblin bobbing through the air
before him, Baloradon was lead down a long shadowy corridor, down a wide
shadowy stair, and into a brightly lit chamber with walls of green-veined
marble and a floor and ceiling of obsidian. Upon one table stood wine, fruit,
and various cold meats; on another a bowl of hot water and soap; in a corner a
bed of soft elf hair; upon the bed, well cut garments in differing shades of
green.
The
hobgoblin, after telling Baloradon to make himself comfortable, departed,
saying as it went, "Pull the silken cord above the bed if you desire
something. I will come. My master will see you when you wake."
Blessing
his change of luck, Baloradon washed, then set upon the food.
The
meal completed, he climbed upon the luxurious bed and sank into deep slumber.
Waking (much refreshed), he found more
food on which he breakfasted. After, he pulled the cord the hobgoblin had
indicated. The queer creature quickly arrived.
"Am
I to meet your master now? I would surely like to thank him for the food and
accommodation."
The
hobgoblin closed its eyes, before nodding. "He is indeed ready to see you,
sir."
Baloradon
again followed the disfigured faerie through the villa, this time ascending.
Eventually the pair came to a tall ebony door covered in curiously convoluted
runes. The hobgoblin knocked, and a voice bade them enter.
Baloradon
found himself in a large, darkened room housing objects of such weirdness and
impossibility that he feared for his sanity.
Globes
of glowing yellow fluid flew speedily about the chamber, dive-bombing cubes of
green slime that crawled slowly across the stone-paved floor. Small lamps of
intricate design emitted only darkness. Orange and indigo ellipses swiftly
orbited about a brazier burning in a colour Baloradon had never seen before.
Continually fighting over the long-dead corpse of an imp within the tight
confines of a fluted flask were two bright green jack-o'-lanterns. In a tank of
golden water swam a blue trout that, with the aid of an ingenious head-affixed
tool, etched pictures of arid deserts on its confine's walls. A small,
circular, paneless, window in the centre of the high ceiling opened out onto a
scene bearing Droke Wood little relation — devils and daemons of horrible
appearance committing disgusting acts upon one-another and upon other, less
definable things, on a twilit purple plain. As Baloradon watched, his jaw
slack, one of the daemons attempted to reach through the window, but was
immediately beaten back by a crystal whip floating before it — ever ready
to stay such unwanted access.
Standing
beneath the window, in the room's centre, was a giant copper caldron with
bubbling achromatic fluid of no particular concentration spilling over its lip.
Winding up the vessel's side was a gilded stairway, atop which stood a tall,
robed figure whom, looking down at Baloradon, said, "Ah, so it is the
naked man of Droke Wood, eh? Are you well rested after your ordeal?"
Baloradon,
shocked at the sights before him, took a moment to find his tongue. He was
obviously in the presence of an accomplished magician.
"I
am much refreshed, great thaumaturge, and in your debt."
"You
owe me nothing, my friend. Indeed, our positions could well be reversed. And
cease the honourifics — they mean nothing to me."
He
descended the gilded stair, and, side-stepping an almost suicidal swoop from
one of the liquid globes, seated himself in a high-backed chair.
"Now,
to business. If you wish, I can quickly transport you to the wood's edge. If
you wish. But I have a further choice to offer. Please sit."
Baloradon,
feeling as he had when the magician first spoke to him – that he had
little choice, sat upon a cushion that had not existed previously, and
listened.
"I
am a sorcerer. I dabble in the arcane arts, so to speak. Many well-known spells
and potions have I devised and concocted to sell to the various creatures of
Droke Wood — such as my Faeces Infinitum, a favourite of the greb; or my
Fantastic Conflagration (much liked by the dragons of Vecole — it gives
them attenuating and amplifying powers over their naturally more ungovernable
fires); a popular potion is my Synthetic Elf Ardour, enjoyed in the main by
lazy black nymphs. But my supreme magical achievements lie in the art of
interdimensional portal construction, a field of sorcery I consider
unmarketable due to its extreme volatility. I am an acknowledged expert in this
field, having opened many an aperture to the myriad of universes that lie
adjacent to, yet infinitely distanced from, this. Some portals are easier to
create than others, good examples of which you see here," he indicated the
window and caldron beneath it, "That daemonic world above took but a
week's labour to breach, whereas the universe sprawled on the other side of the
copper taxed me greatly before I opened its door."
The
magician hesitated momentarily before going on. "Now my dilemma. Though I
speak freely of opening doors, I cannot —as I so fervently wish—
pass through them, for to do so could result in the destruction of a whole
universe — the deaths of countless trillions. Consider that each
dimension is governed by what may be simply known as a force — one
utterly different from any other. If a denizen well-steeped in his native
energies were to leave his macrocosm for another, there would be an unnatural
contact, and then conflict, possibly ending —as I have said— in devastation
on an unimaginable scale. Dearly do I now wish to traverse these other realms,
but my very learning prevents it."
Again
he paused, gazing up at a three-legged devil that had narrowly avoided having
its wrinkled buttocks whipped when it endeavoured to defecate through the
window. Baloradon had also noticed this, and asked, "If what you say is
true, sir, and I have no reason for disbelief, why did that creature almost
commit an abominable act without this or that dimension coming to abrupt end?
And what stops a being entering our universe via the caldron?"
The
sorcerer smiled, "You are perceptive, my friend. To answer your first:
those of that place are inherently forceless. This being the case, they can
travel inter-universally at will (if, of course, a door is available), neither
suffering nor causing impairment in the process. And your second: that
particular gate is unidirectional, once through it a traveller could never
utilise it for return. It leads to a world comparable to this, force-wise
— increasing greatly the chance that one possessing enough energy may
attempt passage and...", he gesticulated meaningfully. "Perhaps you
now understand that before I can safely penetrate parallel universes I must
purge myself of all my magic — the basis of which is our dimension's
force. I am now eager for this — the urge to explore completely new
civilizations, study new magics, new conceptions on the grand order of things
has become undeniable. But I would not have my knowledge wasted, I would have
it passed on. This, then, is my proposal: I ask you to be the recipient,
Baloradon al Dralodon. Only last night did I finally decide to surrender my
powers, and only this morning you arrived, sparing me the inconvenience of
searching out a likely candidate. A wise observer may say I rush this matter -
perhaps
so, I am indeed in a hurry to be off.
However, I can detect no evil within you, save perhaps mischief (a minor
detraction that even I am influenced by, as my familiar would inform you), and
that is the main concern. What do you say? All I have ever learned could be
part of you instantly. Will you accept this offer to become a Master Magician
in my stead? Lord of this villa? The choice is yours."
Visions
of the academe flashed through Baloradon's mind — his normal life, his good
life, in spite of the vindictive arch deacon. But he was being offered was
something infinitely greater than that. From unfortunate wanderer in the woods
to sorcerer! How strange were the fortunes of life!
"I
choose to accept."
After
a penetrating stare and slight nod, the magician gestured and said, "It is
done. Wield the powers I have given well and thoughtfully. Perhaps we may yet
meet again, until such a time, my thanks and farewell!"
With
that, he climbed the stair and gracefully dropped into the caldron. He was
gone.
Power
writhed and reared within Baloradon, trying to overwhelm. But he knew a spell
to counter that.
Suddenly
there was a voice from behind:-
"Would
you like me to show you about your villa, master?"
It
was the hobgoblin. "Yes, my friend. Yes, I would."
Feeling
his capabilities waxing but controllable within, Baloradon followed his
familiar out of the room.