Category: Pulp Arrealica

  • Issue 6

    Pearls at Caerdonel Academy

    Two weeks ago, classes recommenced at Caerdonel Academy. The final days of spring usually marked the time to make the journey out of the mountains and back to the riverside capitol city of Phan. What a city! No street is empty of people, and the low houses across the landscape resound with joyous sounds. Nearer to the centre, neon signs and western office buildings share real estate with local temples and alchemy shops. Then, in the very midst of the city, situated atop, beneath, and around the river Zhaoqing, is the magnificent campus of Caerdonel. Its most majestic building, a castle of stone and brilliant metal surrounded by gardens, sits proudly on an islet on the river. The castle’s red roofs and bronze defences are reflected perfectly in the clear waters of the river, and the thin, needle-like tower that rises from its central court can be seen throughout the city.

    At the base of this tower sits a handsome black pedestal with five sides. Carved into each side is a fearsome dragon clutching a pure white pearl, iridescent with silver light. While the claw of these creatures did not seem to grasp the pale spheres tightly, it was practically impossible to unfasten them from their position. You see, each year, the Archwizard of the Eastern Council and Headmaster of Caerdonel Academy, Tseten the Unbreakable, set five puzzles for the students to decipher – with the first to solve a puzzle being the claimant of the pearl. There was one puzzle for each school – mystica, arcana, alchemy, diplomacy, and philosophy. Possession of such a pearl would grant potent magical benefits for the entirety of the academic year, so naturally, the entire castle was swarming with students at that time. I typically chose to avoid it altogether – my skills were barely enough to pass classes, let alone solve riddles!

    Fifth years at Caerdonel were allowed their own dormitories, so my home in the city was a small apartment on the western bank of the river overlooking a dirty plaza with a thick-rooted tree. On my first day of classes, I fastened my little brown neck scarf and made my way to meet my mentor.

    As a novice mage, my scarf was barely long enough to be fastened around my neck, its brown colour signifying my vocation in kinetic magic. Meanwhile, the scarf of my assigned mentor of magic, Dr. Simon Albumen, a westerner with a thick beard that covered his ugly face, had a brown and grey scarf that was about a metre long. Apparently, before the revolution, the emperor had a scarf of hundreds of colours that was fifty metres in length!

    When I first met Dr. Albumen, he welcomed me into his office, a small space in the main castle with an odd-looking writing desk and a small window. “Please, come in, Dua Huang.” His accent was strange and slow. “I will be instructing you and overlooking your progress in energetica this year. Now, I have no intention of spending laborious hours honing your mana skills. Instead, you will spend your time reading what I assign you. Each week you will report what you have read, and I will assign you more reading. If you wish to practice casting spells, do so in your own time. Understand?”

    I nodded and soon found myself in the castle gardens surrounded by more books on arcane theory and movements of mana than I had ever read before – and only one hour into the new semester! My other classes were more forgiving. On Monday, my two-hour lecture on arcane theory only ended with a single book to read, and geography’s homework was to simply bring in a jar of soil for the next class on Ielenday afternoon.

    It was after that (rather dull) class on soil composure that I first heard the news: Xiao Wei, two-time claimant of the arcana pearl, had gone missing!

    “His entire house was ransacked!” My friend, Meishi exclaimed. “All of his projects and heirlooms were stolen… who would do such a thing?”

    “The real question is, who could do such a thing?” I responded. “Xiao Wei is a pretty good mage, even by graduate standards. This couldn’t have been just any two-bit thug.”

    Indeed, I had shared a charms class with Wei before. His projects were unimaginably complex, imbuing those cheap bronze sheets with mana in masterful ways. For last year’s charms class, he produced a white-banded bronze wand that could refine the output of a spell to produce the most appropriate response to a given situation. He’d used it to solve the arcana pearl’s puzzle about a month into fourth year, which was a fairly astounding speed given previous attempts.

    Meishi and I were sitting at the base of Master Bai Delan’s wizard pagoda – one of many that littered the riverfront in this part of the city. We sat chatting for a while, watching the fishing boats go under the bridges on the river. Meishi had decided to specialise in harming curses – a well-sought specialty in Phan – and had been assigned Bai Delan as her mentor. Apparently, Bai was a better mentor than Albumen, offering actual instruction and training. Meishi reported she had managed to kill a mouse by the end of the lesson. Meanwhile, I could only manage some weak telekinesis or a good old fashioned boiling spell before becoming exhausted.

    After a while, Meishi paused to look out over an argument down by the riverbank where two fishermen argued. “I suppose it’s a simple case of qui bono, isn’t it?” She eventually said.

    “Huh?” I responded, unfamiliar with the phrase.

    “It’s a legal term. Whoever benefits from Xiao Wei’s disappearance should be under suspicion of guilt. My money’s on whoever was hoping for his spot on the dux board, but I guess we’ll see in time.”

    After that, we parted ways. I returned to my apartment and cooked myself some rice. I practiced boiling the water magically, but I could hardly maintain the heat level required to cook it properly. As I ate my undercooked rice, I thought about Xiao Wei.

    How haven’t the authorities found him yet? Even if he’s been killed, they should have advanced enough scrying to locate his approximate location…Whoever’s taken him must have access to some fairly advanced warding schemes.

    I shook my head, letting the thought go. The authorities are on the case; they will find whoever has done this. Putting my bowl back on its shelf, I went to sleep.


    The next morning, I attended the large training hall where my energetica classes were held. More practical than other classes, these kinds of magic classes had a fairly traditional organisation, modelled off old martial arts guilds. A single arcane master instructed a class of about 100 students who silently followed their directions on the correct movements and incantations for a spell. Then, each student was assigned a sparring partner with whom they would practice their magic on the bamboo mats. The environment was highly disciplined, and always under the control of the hall’s master, who had total awareness of every mote of mana in the room. If any accident were to occur, the master was always able to react without delay, being perfectly attuned to the entire space.

    I had signed up for Master Long’s course on the hex spell, which would be shared with the warding class. The first hour was spent practicing the movements, our wands tucked safely away. Then, we were assigned sparring partners. The hexers would attempt to break through their opponent’s wards – whichever opponent could take a hold of the stick in the centre of the sparring circle would win.

    “My name is Telian Jia. You would do well to remember this moment.” My opponent introduced himself. He was a tall boy with long black hair and a silvery novice scarf. We both were wearing the white academy training uniform, but his seemed to fit him much better, his strong physique filling the thick cloth garments well.

    I nodded at him, then assumed a sparring position with my wand. Telian Jia did likewise, his rosewood wand poised for combat. We eyed each other coolly as the student referee moved to place the wooden staff between us. Holding it out in front of him, the referee looked to me, then to my opponent, then dropped the staff.

    “Begin!”

    Before I could even let off a hex, a mighty and invisible force threw me off my feet. Suddenly, my wand was spinning across the floor, and I felt the unmistakable strength of a warding spell binding me flat on my back. Telian Jia walked smugly across the room and picked up the wooden staff before dropping the ward.

    “Well done, young man!” Master Long announced as the boy twirled the staff with ease. “You may have a serious shot at top of the class at this rate.”


    The days passed by.

    Charms class was quiet and boring without the energising brilliance of Xiao Wei. The workbenches which lined the courtyard where we trained our skills were growing warmer in the early summer sun. A swooping river bird flew by overhead and landed on a nearby roof as the bronze plates were passed around. We were about to continue into the second half of the lesson on levitation platforms when the instructor was loudly interrupted.

    “He’s claimed the arcana pearl! Telian Jia did it!” The boy bounded into the courtyard through the circular arch at the south end, his arms waving about.

    The entire class raced out into the street, dropping their bronze plates and tools in the hopes of seeing this legendary feat. When we reached Caerdonel castle, its mighty red roofs glistening in the midday sun, the crowd was already spilling out onto the bridge over the river. I stopped to clamber onto a great stone statue of a square-looking lion, peering over the heads of the crowd to see further into the castle.

    Through the bronze gates of the ancient riverside castle, I could see Telian Jia standing on the pitch-black pedestal in front of Tseten the Unbreakable’s front door. The boy’s pale robes swung wildly as he tossed the pearl up into the air with his left hand then summoned it back to his open palm to the cheer of the crowd. And in his right hand, clutching it with smug pride, was a black-banded bronze wand.

  • Issue 5

    Flesh is Red at Vodov

    CLASSIFIED 36/7/1922: The following transcript is copied from writings on the padded walls of Officer D. Arkady V___ at Kozhy State Mental Asylum in the excellent capital of Gorod. Comrade Arkady had been stationed as an educational officer in a fishing town called Borku-Dorov to the far north when extenuating circumstances caused him to be returned home and admitted to the hospital. He did not share his experiences until the following text was found today written on the walls of his cell along with his corpse hanging from the ceiling by a makeshift rope. I leave this on your desk as a reference for further dealings with the people of Borku-Dorov, Captain. May you heed its warning.


                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

                These words are burnt into my mind. Chanted and sung and stomped into my conscience like a school motto from the State Academy – instinctual, cultural, primitive. I cannot escape them, even now.

                Borku-Dorov haunts me. When I was first given the assignment, I was eager to prove my blood ran red. The East Thelenic Socialist League or E.T.S.L. is still young. The people in the provinces are still learning about what’s been happening in the cities the past few years. Still hesitant to trust the new government after so many years of imperial oppression. It was my job to go and share with them the value of our new Communist ideology. In the early days of the revolution, the people had been starving. Whether one wore red or white, he would go hungry. The children, forced to work the fields while their parents were away at war, were banned from taking food out of the villages, lest a stray soldier keep it for themselves. Some people are still mistrusting of working under the red flag. It is the committee’s position that a proper education would fix that.

                I caught the train as far north as I could with the other state missionaries – young men and women from the city who could read and write. Most of our mage comrades had left to join the revolution against the despots in the West, but most of us knew one or two spells. Loseva Sofiya Yurievna was one of these, and she had given me a black, needle-like trinket which I attached to my watch fob. She had explained to me that if I were to break it, I would find myself back at her side for her to help me. I scoffed at the time, as I did not realise how dearly I would be in need of the help.

                 “AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN.” That was the first phrase I heard upon entering the town. It was quite small and was notable for its complete lack of a Wizard or a church – a fact which expressed itself in the flat skyline of the shore of the North Sea. I had stumbled alone into town on foot, clutching my thick, military issue coat about me as the icy polar winds blew in unimpeded. The first person I met was a beautiful young woman with dark, sunken eyes and thinning clothes. She posed the evil phrase to me like a question, but when I stared at her quizzically, she simply turned back to her work at the loom. I was puzzled, to say the least. The words were of no language that I recognised, but they sent a chill to my spine, nevertheless. I was sure the people of this region spoke the mother tongue all the same – I had read some reports from tax officials that had visited which, though brief, outlined conversations they had had with the locals.

                “AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN.” The conversation with the next fellow, an old fisherman with a fur cap, began much the same. When I asked him, “Do you speak Odiin, comrade?” He harrumphed, then responded, “Of course, young man. What other language could I speak?”

                Naturally, I pressed him for further answers about the strange phrase of greeting, but he gave no information, simply saying he remembers no such words being spoken. As I went about greeting others, accompanied by the man, Ivan, I did not hear the phrase spoken again.

                I met many townsfolk that first day, most of them greeting me with mute neutrality, cautious of my presence. Although Ivan seemed pleased to introduce a visitor to his peers, he turned sour whenever I mentioned the Red Army or the League, so I resolved to bide my time.

                Ivan allowed me to stay in his home while I stayed in the town, explaining that he was the closest thing Borku-Dorov had to a government official. The man’s home was a two-room wooden shack on the edge of town near the water, constituting a small cot, a stove, and a table with chairs. A small frame on the table showed a photograph of a strong-looking woman posing severely. “My wife.” Ivan explained, saying nothing more on the matter. After some discussion, I conceded to the old man’s generous offer to sleep in the cot while he fashioned a bed space for himself on the floor.

                In my sleep, I found myself knee-deep in the shallows of the North Sea, looking out over the grey seascape that stretched into oblivion. The water was frigid at first, but when the phrase          AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN boomed out from beyond the horizon, it turned warm, welcoming me deeper. I hesitated, and the current began to tug at my ankles as the phrase repeated, simultaneously loud yet soundless:

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

    Like a fawn caught in a trap I began to thrash, the white water bubbling up with acidic steam around me. Some unimaginable force began to pull me to those words.

                I woke in fright, a small face peering at me from the twilit doorway of the house. Seeing that I had noticed her, the little girl blushed and disappeared into the kitchen.

                She soon returned with a small cup, leaving it on the windowsill.

                “Excuse me sir, for waking you. Papa has already left to fish. I brought you some tea.” The girl bowed slightly, her black plaits swinging in front of her timid face.

                “It’s alright,” I said, rising. “You must be Nochka Ivanovna. I am Arkady.”

                Nochka simply nodded.

                “What do you know about the East Thelenic Socialist League.”

                “Not much, sir.” The girl averted her eyes to the floorboards.

                “Well—”

                “Please. We cannot talk about these things in the town.”

                “Oh? Why not?”

                That fateful question would be the one to lead me to my doom. Nochka seemed to think for a moment, then grinned childishly.

                “Ask Papa to allow you to come to Vodov tonight. Insist to be allowed to attend. Perhaps they will let you speak then. Do not tell him how you know of it, just that you must go there to speak. Excuse me now, sir. I must go.”

                Eager to fulfill my duty, I resolved to do as she said. I spent the day inquiring around town about Vodov, whatever that was, but nobody seemed to know what it was. Without a church or a school or even a town hall, there was no central place for me to go asking, but a few stalls had been set up down near the docks where I was able to speak to the townsfolk. I also asked some of people of Borku-Dorov what they do on the weekends without a church to attend. Most of them shrugged and told me they slept the day away.

                Eventually, Ivan returned on his boat dragging it up the shore to the door of his house. Procuring an immense fish, he began to prepare it for dinner. Nochka appeared soon after, building a fire on the sand. When at last we sat, sucking the soft meat from the bones of the fish, I began to inquire once again.

                “I would like to speak at Vodov tonight.” I spoke simply.

                Ivan did not respond. His thick hands were incredibly deft at efficiently stripping the entire fish of its meat. When he finished, he threw the bone into the dying fire with a hiss.

                I tried again. “I have been sent from the capital to educate the people about the new state. I understand Vodov is where I will be able to do this.”

                “Vodov is not for you.” He did not turn his head when he spoke, instead keeping his eyes fixed on the fire. “You cannot attend.”

                “The people of this town must be educated! Surely you see that. Soon, the Red Army will come north. They will be recruiting. Wouldn’t you rather know what your men will stand for when they enlist?”

                “They will not enlist. We fought in the Great War already. For the Tsar. You are not so different.”

                “!! You will learn not to say such things, old man!” I stood up. “When the Red Army comes, the men of Borku-Dorov will enlist because they will see that it is right! You would do well to listen to me before then.”

                I went to the bed space Ivan had prepared on the floor and went to sleep.

                That night I dreamt of the voice again.

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

                I had been speaking to a faceless townsman at a stall when he opened his blackened mouth and the words gushed out of his unmoving lips. Turning to flee, I found myself at the edge of the wooden pier, staring out at the impending storm coming from the sea.

                With a crash of lightning, the sky thundered: AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN. I turned back to flee, but found that the land had gone, replaced with an unending plain of grey sea. The dirty surface of ice formed and cracked in a dance with the roiling waves. The small wooden pier was all that remained. The storm overhead approached with supernatural speed, carried along by a hot wind that swept up the boards beneath me, cracking them. As I fell into the water, my skin burning from the hot air and freezing from the water, I heard the storm shouting with black lightning:

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

                I woke to Ivan’s face looming over me, his dark eyes reflecting strangely in the candlelight. “Follow.” He said, then walked out of the house. He had changed his clothes, now wearing an odd black robe like the ones Wizards wore (in the movies). I quickly followed him, watching the candle move towards the boat. Ivan motioned to it, then snuffed out the candle.

                “Your daughter—?” I began.

                 “Children do not belong at Vodov.”

                I helped him push the boat into the water. The sea was calm in the darkness. Ivan rowed in silence. Feeling uneasy, I removed the black needle from my watch, clutching it in my hand.

                After some time, I began to notice other boats in the night. Without any light, I could hardly see them in the unbroken darkness. Compared to Gorod at night, Borku-Dorov was impossibly dark, especially since the sky completely overcast. However, voices could be heard from the other boats, travelling quickly across the water like birds before a storm.

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

                My eyes opened wide. The phrase was not imagined. I turned to ask Ivan about it, but I noticed he was singing too, deep and resonant.

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

                Soon, the singing stopped, and I realised the water was becoming shallow. “Vodov,” Ivan spoke. We beached the boat in a small cove. I could just see the others close behind.

    “Follow,” Ivan said again.

    He grabbed me by the sleeve with a rough grip and began to lead me in the dark. It was impossible to see anything, but somehow, he navigated this new wilderness with ease. Soon, I realised we had passed into a cave, since the air had changed. It became denser, and the scent of charcoal hung low. Ivan let go of my wrist.

    I could hear him nearby in the cave as more people began to enter. No words were spoken, but a thrum could be heard reverberating off the rock walls.

    Then, flash!

    A brilliant flame erupted in the centre of the cave, blinding me. Suddenly, I felt the grip of many hands tighten around my limbs and torso, pulling me to the ground. I let out a yelp, but I could not muscle free.

    Once my eyes had adjusted to the light, I found myself being held down on the floor by four large men in black robes. Behind them, I saw a small crowd of similarly dressed people, some of which I recognised from the town. Standing atop me, his feet astride my waist, was Ivan, his silver hair framed by a black crown.

    “Please!” I shouted. “I only come to teach you about your country! Please, let me speak!”

    “Only the initiated may speak.” Was Ivan’s response, his face suddenly cold and ceremonial.

    I began to struggle and protest but to no response. The men around me tore my old clothes off me with ease, exposing my malnourished body to the cold. The fire at the centre of the cave provided no warmth. Strangely, I even felt as though the fire was radiating cold rather than heat.

    A woman with incredibly long black hair approached carrying a silver pitcher. She began to walk around my supine body, holding up the pitcher and chanting:

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

    Then, she began to pour the contents of the vessel onto my naked body. I immediately recognised the scent of oil and began to writhe in fear. I had heard of Pyronic Oleionism before, an extreme variation of the traditional baptism which involved oil and fire. My cousin’s husband had been baptised in this way. Reportedly, the fire was enchanted to have no effect. Still, I feared for my life. Typically, the oil was only applied lightly to the forehead, not poured on the entire body.

                Despite my writhing and screaming, the men at Vodov did not move. Nor did a single drop of the oil touch them, somehow. Instead, they stared unemotionally down at me.

                When Ivan returned from the throng, he was holding a bronze cup with a tall tongue of flaming oil in it.

                The singing continued:

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

                Then, he stepped towards me.

                And upturned the cup.

                The oil on my body caught fire immediately, and my skin began to melt. Every inch of my body was tortured with a thousand scarping combs of white-hot flame. The cave became abstract to me, my mind only knowing pain.

                In that writhing, burning state, I saw an image. Riding down from the dark clouds above the sea, a dark skeleton with a red-hot spear came forth on a horse. Its presence turned the rain into vapour and the sea into ice as its exposed heart emanated a sphere of bluish light.

    “I am VOD. I am coming. You will love VOD. Or you will die.”

    In a moment of painful and belated clarity, I remembered the needle Sofiya had given me. Suddenly and with great force, I clenched my fist tightly, snapping the needle.

    I remember not what happened next.

    Apparently, I appeared at Sofiya’s side in a church classroom in Solitsk, fully naked and writhing as if in pain. No flame or blemish marked my body. All I could bear to say was that phrase.

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

    I eventually came to in a hospital bed in Gorod, my limbs and torso tied down to the white mattress with straps.

    I have tried to explain what happened to me to all that will listen.

    I have been told there is no Borku-Dorov. Government officials have even been sent to investigate the matter and found that no town by that name or location has ever existed.

    No academic or mage can explain that evil phrase to me.

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

                AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

    Nor can they recognise the name VOD.

    The worst of it is that Sofiya tells me she never gave me that black needle. She never even had anything like that.

    She explained to the Board that I was meant to join her in Solitsk but disappeared somewhere along the journey.

    Nobody remembers any of it.

    But I do.

    I remember it all.

    The faces. The cold. The heat. The pain.

    VOD.

    I am turning to God now. If he exists, I pray that he will still accept me.

    And I pray that when VOD comes, he will destroy you all!

  • Issue 4

    House Avis

    In the darkness of the Arctic winter, a light shone upon a dilapidated manor for the first time in fifty-two years.

    “In its prime, House Avis had been mighty and majestic,” explained the bearer of the electrical lamp to her companion. “They were probably one of the richest noble houses in Apsia before the Grey Year. Easily the richest in the Arctic Circle.”

    “I don’t know about this. I really don’t wanna get cursed… I heard that after they got ashed, all the gold-eyes put a pretty hefty hex on all their junk.”

    These were the worries of the other person arriving at the manor, a little man in a dusty fedora.

    “How would that even be possible, Jim? If they got ashed, how could they do any magic unless they were crazy good with the quick-chant? Anyways, anything cursed is probably dead mana now… Probably.”

    Our other speaker was one Sarah Beverly, a wizard’s apprentice whose long black hair was tied into a neat bun. Her silvered wand coolly reflected the lantern’s light as she pointed it in front of her.

    “What’s this trinket even look like?” Asked Jim, glancing around at his dim surroundings. “I wanna hustle outta here quick smart. Place gives me the slimes I say.”

    “Prof. Wilkins said to look for a broken gold coin. Presumably, it will also be inert, but honestly? If the charm is still active, we may get some extra change for it anyway.”

    So, the pair began their search. Outside, a cold wind blew sleet in through the shattered windows and collapsed walls. The old 19th century wallpapers, peeled back from old age, shivered with an eerie scuttling sound that set Jim’s nerves on edge. The weather did not otherwise bother them, even though neither wore a winter coat. On Jim’s lapel, a golden pin in the shape of a clarinet emitted a comfortable warmth at a distance of a few metres. The ground, once covered in a layer of snow due to a distinct lack of a roof, was now revealed in all its dilapidated grandeur, the snow having evaporated upon their arrival. So, Sarah and Jim were quite comfortable, thermally at least, as they scanned the exposed ground for the glint of gold.

    Still, Jim began to complain. “Old Master Wilkins couldn’t have waited until summer to retrieve his trinket? I hate the cold…”

    “Couldn’t risk it getting nicked by some candlestick mages before us. Besides, the main passage into this valley is sealed off by ice in the winter. We’re less likely to run into trouble this time of year.”

    “Sounds to me like I coulda stayed home then if there’s no goons to blast. This isn’t my idea of a perfect New Year’s festival, let me tell you.”

    “And what if I just wanted some company? Now, zip it and get searching.”

    They searched in silence, having now passed from the foyer into the salon. Most of the old furniture had disintegrated, but a brass bookshelf still stood, the ruined remnants of books still rotting on its shelves. Indeed, there was a significant amount of rot and grime, and Sarah even spotted a corpse, mummified by the frost, impaled upon a lamp-sconce. The head, still suspended upon the carved lamp which extended from the open mouth, had separated from its body, leaving a gruesome mess of gore and blood-mould on the wall and floor. A mithral badge with an old imperial crest identified the body as a guard to House Avis, and an important one at that. Sarah made the sign of the cross, then picked up the badge, pocketing it. Clearly, whoever had looted the house before them had been more superstitious than she was. At least enough to leave the precious metal behind.

    They moved on, now passing into the ballroom. The grand chandelier had fallen long ago, evidenced now only by the large crack in the marble floor of the room’s centre, the metal and crystal long since stripped away. There was little else of interest in the room except the large vault door on the innermost wall. Sections of the wooden wall either side of the door had collapse, revealing the entirety of the vault had been built out of pure isthra, a metal impervious and immune to magic and identifiable by its dull, greyish-yellow hue. A nearby skeleton with a smashed in skull and a heavy-looking tool indicated that the thirty bolts along the door’s edge had sealed in whatever was inside. Finally, like any good vault, this door had a large and complex mechanism attached to its front.

    Jim whistled. “Blimey, this must be the most secure vault I’ve ever seen! Look at that construction! They don’t make them like that today…”

    “Well Jimmy, looks like I may need your skills after all. See what you can do about that, will you?”

    The man set to work immediately. First, he procured from his blazer a small jar of a thick pale solvent. Using a finger bone from the nearby skeleton, he spread the paste along the edge of the door, then stepped back. Smoke began to fill the room as the metal bolts began to bubble and hiss with a rancid smell. Sarah simply extended her wand, creating a safe bubble of clean air around her and Jim. Once the reaction had slowed and the smoke had been carried off in the wind, the man approached the door once more. Eying the mechanism, he began to turn the various handles, responding expertly and easily to the appropriate clicks and whirs from within.

    Eventually and with a satisfying gong-like chime, the door began to swing down, opening from the top … right towards Jim’s head!

    Sarah rushed to the man’s side, producing another ward that surrounded them both.

    Yet the isthra passed right through, cutting through the silvery sphere like water!

    Sarah felt the rush of air as the flat side of the door rushed to demolish her before… nothing.

    Looking around, Sarah reached out with her arcane intuition and detected against the very edge of her ward the presence of a metal. A single mote of iron, an impurity in the isthra, had caught on the surface of her shield, stopping the door just short of crushing them both. Shifting slightly, the apprentice mage allowed the heavy door to slide off the spherical ward and onto the ground with a crash.

    However, they didn’t have time to catch their breaths, as looming in the door now stood a hulking mass of blackened flesh. A creature of hellish proportions, with grey fur running up and down its chest and limbs and bulging horns in place of eyes, had lumbered up out of the vault’s threshold. The demon, clearly summoned from some infernal realm, huffed loudly and began to approach. Before Jim could fire a round from his pistol, though, it began to dissolve like wax into a dark puddle on the ballroom floor. The skin fell first, dripping in great globules off the creature’s inhuman frame. Then, as it screamed its death rattle, the tongue began to flow from its mouth in great pink blobs of melted flesh. Soon, all that remained were its claws and horns, which hissed and sparked when they met with the pool of inky gore on the floor, popping with a bright flash before turning into a hideous goop themselves.

    “What the devil happened?” Shouted Jim.

    “Whatever magic was used to summon that chalk-scum wasn’t designed to last this long.” Answered Sarah, sitting down. “Clearly, it was only strong enough to keep it corporeal until now. Once it started moving, the spell couldn’t handle the strain…”

    “Huh. Well, I’ll count myself lucky then! Drinks are on me.”

    The two of them sat for a moment, regaining their composure as they recovered from the interaction. Eventually, they stood, passing into the now unguarded vault. At the centre of the dark and compact room, floating in a jelly-like prism of air, was half a gold coin, lines of thin, illegibly small text decorating its every surface.

    “There it is,” Jim said, reaching out. “Let’s nab it and hustle!”

    “Wait!” Sarah called out.

    The man retreated his hand like from a fire, turning back to his friend sheepishly.

    “Don’t touch it you frog! The charm is still active. Those gold-eyed nobles that lived here must’ve had a strong wizard on their roster for this kind of protection. Who knows what that might do to you…”

    “Well, what does it do?”

    “Apparently, it creates a chronochoromantic field that replicates and sustains external essences in an internal environment.”

    “…”

    “It recreates the house in a pocket dimension.”

    “Oh.”

    “Anyways, it looks like I might not be able to move it without cancelling the charm, sadly. Give me a minute to record some measurements, then we can go.”


    “Mummy, how come we never leave the house?” Quentin asked, lifting himself into his mother’s lap on the velvet couch in the salon.

    “Well dear, the outside world is dangerous. Ask Julius if you really must know.” Replied Lady Aemilia Avis.

    “But Mumma! Julius scares me! His room is so high up…” Whined Quentin.

    “Well then, I guess you will never know, little Q.” The Lady returned to her book, a volume about the empire’s recent dealings in the East.

    Quentin seemed to think for a moment, weighing up his curiosity against his fear. Eventually, his curiosity won. So, he set off into the house, trudging up the long, winding stairwell into the tower above the house. Julius, the House’s Court Wizard, lived at its peak in a room that really should have been no larger than a broom closet, but was as wide as the ballroom.

    Finally, after what felt like years of climbing, little Quentin reached the door to Julius’ quarters.

    Before he could knock, the door opened and Quentin found himself looking up at Archwizard Julius the Grey, the greatest Chronochoromancer of all time. The boy knew Julius by such a title because he often announced himself as he entered a room. The man, an old, frail figure, was in his usual grey robe, his golden pocket watch gleaming unnaturally bright in the afternoon light.

    “Yes, boy, what?” Julius said at last. He seemed at once both eccentrically excited and frustrated.

    “Well sir, I… I wanted to know why we never go out of the house. I seem to remember going to a city but two years ago. Now we exit for nary a stroll!”

    Julius harrumphed, then led the boy into his rooms. A large salon, much larger than the one downstairs, stretched out before him. Magnificent, colourful windows let in the sun from overhead. They sat down at a couch.

    “I will begin by saying that your mother is a most extraordinary lady,” Julius said, pouring tea from a nearby pot. “She possesses certain senses which most cannot dream of. Have you ever noticed the Lady answer a question before it is asked? Or perhaps she has caught you just in time before you do something silly?”

    Quentin nodded, uncomfortable and already regretting his visit.

    “Well,” continued the Archwizard, “Lady Avis is in fact prone to premonitions. She can see the future, on occasion. Many years ago, she came to me in Eil. That’s the imperial city which you can remember visiting. She, like many, foresaw the imminent collapse of the empire. I dismissed her concerns – everybody feared a revolution, but the emperor was strong enough to protect us, no? She later wrote me a letter describing how exactly the emperor would die, the whole world would revolt, and the entire Deran nobility would disintegrate into ash – and all in the year 1870. She called it ‘The Grey Year,’ and she described it in such detail that I felt compelled to believe her.”

    Quentin stared with a confused expression.

    “The point is, young man, that something bad was going to happen. House Avis then employed me as Court Wizard to help you.” The old wizard poked his gnarled finger at the boy’s chest.

    “But… Excuse me sir but what does this have to do with the house?”

    “Why, everything!” The would was due to end. So, I, the greatest Chronochoromancer of all time, created this – all this – to escape it! Understand? Why can’t you leave the house? Because there is nothing outside the house! Everything is gone!” Julius was gesturing maniacally now, tea spilling on the walls and chairs across the room.

    “So… the whole world was destroyed in two years? How?”

    “No, dear boy, no. The world was destroyed in just one year. All the years that followed are just rot. Yes, years. Plural. Time is slower here in the manor.”

    “Time is slower?”

    “Indeed. In here, it has only been two years. Out there?” The old man counted on his fingers. “Fifty-two.”

    Then, the strangest combination of events occurred. First, the walls of the room stretched and then snapped like a whip, shrinking in an instant to the size of a broom closet. The young noble and the old wizard found themselves sitting on the hard floor, the furniture simply destroyed by the sudden change. Next, a shivering shriek was heard. The walls of the building were beginning to crumble, and dust was quickly piling up in the corners. Finally, a supernatural and terrible tragedy began to befall the members of House Avis. Julius was the first to go, his flesh turning pale and flaky as he let out a silent and ashy scream. Then Lady Aemilia Avis, her hair falling out in sandy clumps. She tried in vain to keep her ashen limbs attached as they dissolved. The rest disintegrated quickly enough, reduced to grey particles which the winter air then swept away in great, unprejudiced gusts.

    Inside the vault, Sarah Beverly was pocketing a gold coin. Her companion Jim’s ears pricked up.

    “Did you just hear someone shout ‘Mummy’?” He asked. Sarah shook her head, and Jim shrugged his shoulders in response.

    Then, Sarah procured a small stone from her bag, motioned for Jim to touch it with her, and teleported them both away, plunging the rotting manor of House Avis into darkness once more.