Thrum

By Ronan Frost

Thrum is an out-of-work dropout from magic university, frustrated and alone in a world ruled by sorcery and where landlords are backed by eviction ogres. His fate changes the day he happens across a scroll with an Archmage trapped within. The fate of the entire land is at stake as the Archmage struggles for his freedom and demands resurrection.
Driven from his home clad in dressing gown and rabbit shaped slippers Thrum is pursued at every turn by a sect of dark wizards that want the scroll for their own evil ends. He must battle against his innate and finely tuned sense of self-preservation (more commonly described as cowardice) to take up the quest and bring the scroll to the very heart of the enemy stronghold.
From a chance encounter he befriends an affable muscle-bound adventurer who becomes his staunch ally, and together they face bar brawls, magicians on uncontrollable supercharged broomsticks, battles with frog-like elves and seemingly immortal wizards.
Feats of strength and acts of cowardice, words of truth and of deceit; all come together as they journey across the land. All is not as it seems, and Thrum must confront a startling revelation as they discover the truth of the scroll.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ronan Frost
• Release date: Nov 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465910080

Ronan Frost

In another life, RONAN FROST worked for the British Ministry of Defence. During the last year of the Cold War his main duties involved liaison with intelligence operatives working behind the Iron Curtain, and after Glasnost and Perestroika changed the geopolitical face of the Eastern Bloc he found himself working mainly with the Royal Navy during Operation Granby during the first Gulf War. After leaving, he worked alongside economic experts developing a plan for rationalization and centralization of the British Royal Navy which was presented to the House of Commons. Now retired from that career, he lives in Europe with his wife and dog, enjoying a much quieter life. White Peak is Ronan Frost's first novel.

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Thrum

By Ronan Frost

Published by

Ronan Frost at Smashwords

Copyright (c) 2012 by Ronan Frost

Chapter One

Long fingers of a rather ordinary dawn crept over the sleeping city of Hamontoast, the beginnings of a day that was to be the worst in Thrum’s life. To this he was blissfully ignorant, the strengthening light bleaching through thin bedroom curtains rousing him slowly from his stupor. Still half asleep he swung his feet to the floor and balled fists into his eyes and long moments passed before he found the strength to stand. He fumbled the length of the hallway. In a moment of carelessness his feet caught on one another and, fighting overbalance, he careened dramatically into the kitchen. Dressed in his pink dressing gown and fluffy rabbit shaped slippers nobody could have guessed he was a magician.

Well, almost a magician…

His failure was partly due to a lack of coordination (his mother had told him she had once dropped him during a chariot race – baby Thrum had never been the same since.) His early expulsion from the Magic University didn’t help either; caught red-handed executing a daring campus bet involving a pair of false teeth, a ripe banana and the Head of Occult Studies. The University flung him hexed with curses onto the street, his dreams and future ruined.

He swung a battered kettle over the fireplace and puffed upon the glowing ashes, trying not to think about the upcoming day. Recently fired from his job at the local circus he was penniless and, more depressingly, did not have a single soul to turn to for aid. The rent was overdue and the pantry held only dust.

With his last slice of bread toasting over the fire Thrum busied himself with a brew of tea. He cursed to the empty house, discovering the bread had turned to charcoal black with supernatural speed. Gathering up and balancing his tea and toast in one hand, he plunged the other into an open chest filled with rotting scrolls. The scrolls contained a few simple spells and records of novices’ experiments into the world of magic. Thrum had amassed his collection from scavenging at the rubbish dump, sifting through piles to find these minor treasures. He read them because he had a natural burning desire for the arcane and longed to master a spell. Despite his ambition he had absolutely no aptitude; his visions of being a fully fledged magician garbed in an ink black robe and grey beard sprouting from his jaw a mere dream. Doggedly Thrum collected any old scroll he could find in the hope one day he may be able to cast a single spell.

With a swing of his hip he bumped the back door open sat on his stoop in the bright sunshine. He ate both pieces of toast before beginning his morning’s study, the sleeve of his gown serving as a convenient cloth to wipe the crumbs from his lips and whiskers before he picked up the first scroll. Although battered and dog-eared Thrum knew right away something was different about this scroll. He broke the ribbon seal and pulled it open carefully, his eyes flicking over the fancy and barely legible script.

A sudden wetness washed his right ear and shoulder, his body recoiling in shock, limbs flailing at an unseen assailant. Bringing his hand to his shoulder he found a bird had taken him for a target, depositing what must have been a planned shot of guano. Wiping his hand upon his robe he hastily rose, unconsciously stuffing the scroll into a pocket as he went in search of a wet cloth.

Thrum turned as a dark shape caught the corner of his eye. He was in the busy city square scouring the market for cheap food when he saw it, the crowd parting for a jet black horse moving silently closer. Thrum could have sworn the horse was floating as it drew nearer, a figure shrouded in shadows walking beneath it. The horse stopped and was lowered to the ground, a man beading sweat appearing from the underside.

Thrum strode to the horse’s side, tilting his head to peer beneath. Curiosity mixed with unease as he took in the man’s body entwined in bulging muscles that writhed when he moved.

Welcome to Hamontoast. May I ask... Thrum jerked a thumb towards the horse. ...what you were doing beneath that mount?

Greetings friend! Ahh, you see, I have made a pact with my horse. Whenever there is travelling to be done we take turns in bearing the load.

I see, Thrum said, not seeing at all.

Do you know to the way to the Wobbly Weasel? the man inquired.

The Wobbly...? Oh yes, the pub. Go down that road and take the first left and second right.

Thank you, sir.

Thrum.

The man looked slightly offended. I beg your pardon?

I'm Thrum Bolgan.

I'm sorry, I thought you swore at me.

Thrum's brows furrowed and he looked blank for a moment before he shook his mind back into action. No, yes, of course. He patted the horse’s flank. I suppose I'll be seeing you Mr...

Archendorf. I must attend some business so I’d better get going. Nice talking to you.

Archendorf lifted the horse with a grunt of effort and moved off, the horse floating into the crowds.

With a heavy sigh and shoulders set in their habitual slump, Thrum resumed his scavenging.

It was late afternoon by the time he returned home. Lairn, Thrum's landlord, was at the front gate to greet him. Judging by the short sword thrust through his belt, it seemed he was not here for a cup of tea and a chat.

My my, fancy seeing you here! Great to see you on this lovely fine day. The wicked gleam to Lairn’s eyes belied his light tone.

S-sir. About the rent…

Rent? Oh yes, it had slipped my mind. You are going to pay it aren’t you? Let's see... Lairn flashed a scrap of parchment from his pocket. Two silvers should just about cover it.

I… Urgh… If you can just hold on another week?

The smile dropped from the landlord’s face. No more games. Cough up, or I get my price from selling your gizzards to the witches. Lairn raised a hand and clicked his fingers.

Two heavily muscled ogres emerged from the bushes behind Lairn, a broad swathe of shadow accompanying them. They approached, thumping crude maces in callused hands and grinning as only ogres can.

Given the situation, and briefly pausing to consider his years of wizardly training, Thrum did the only thing he could do.

Run.

He fell gasping to the ground as rubbery legs gave way beneath him. If there were anything he was good at, it was fleeing, and he was sure Lairn was far behind. Picking himself up he stumbled across the wide cobblestone road, staggering to avoid oncoming traffic. Practically dragging himself by the fingertips, he crawled up a set of splintered stairs, his watery vision blurring.

The swinging sign proclaimed the building to be the Wobbly Weasel. For the benefit of those who could not read, a crude caricature of a bent-legged and half-bald rodent downing a large tankard was etched alongside.

Thrum noticed one of the horses tied to the nearby railing looked a lot like Archendorf’s. Knowing that local adventurers enjoy the local tavern Thrum thought he might be able to find fortune through the swinging doors.

It was dark and smoke hung low in the room. As his eyes adjusted, he saw it filled with men, some slumped onto tables and others in loud conversation. Towards the back a large fire moodily brewed, casting flickering orange light and sharp shadows about the interior.

He had made it halfway to the bar when he realised he had no money. He stopped, made a show of just remembering something important, and turned to make back for the street.

As chance would have it a certain pair of eyes alighted upon his slumped form.

Mister Thrum! Over here.

Thrum’s gaze picked out a face in the flickering light and shadow, Archendorf sitting at a table with a mug before him, motioning in a friendly manner. It was with trepidation that Thrum approached, noticing that this man’s bull-like muscled body put even the ogre’s to shame.

Hello, said Thrum in an altogether too high pitched and squeaky voice.

Drink? Archendorf inquired.

I don’t have any money.

Archendorf shrugged this off and raised an arm, calling in a voice that carried over the hubbub. Bartender! A drink here.

The bartender nodded and took a greasy glass from the shelf behind.

I want to thank you for your directions this morning - they were most helpful. Archendorf intertwined thick fingers and cracked his knuckles. Everyone else just seemed to ignore me.

Thrum nodded. Is this your first time in the city?

It is and I can’t say I like it much. I smile at every person I pass but so far, he raised an index finger, not a single person has said so much as a ‘cheerio.’ I thought it wasn’t being sincere enough, so I tried to shake some hands, you know, introduce myself, but that didn’t go down so well. He shook his head ruefully. And I haven’t even started talking about the stuffy air! I tell you what it reminds me of - sometimes when I was a kid my other brother used to hold me beneath the bedcovers after a night of cabbage stew and let loose these amazingly ripe -

I get the idea, said Thrum with a grin. But come on, it’s not that bad! And as for shaking people’s hands, well, I’m surprised you weren’t arrested.

Not for lack of trying - they did call the City Guard.

They called the Guard? Thrum’s grin broadened.

Funny for you maybe. I only just got away, you should have heard the things they were saying about me.

Ahh, well… you’ll get used to it all if you stay here long enough. For some reason the hostility and filth of the city he called home caused a feeling of pride to well in his heart. For the first time that day Thrum was able to relax, enjoying this man’s company. He thought of all the things confounding him and all seemed compensated for by this newly formed friendship.

So what brings you here? he asked.

Me? I’m waiting for a friend. He should be here soon - here's the letter he sent me.

Thrum took the offered paper and read it. He looked up. This is three months old.

What?!

Look, read the date on it yourself.

The bartender delivered a beer to their table. Taking hold of the flagon Thrum downed the contents. Archendorf ignored his companion as he coughed and spluttered. Thrum straightened, wiping the remains of lunch from his mouth. What are you going to do?

Archendorf hesitated for a moment. I must confess I’m not exactly a scholar, can’t read anything but my own name. He grinned a little sheepishly. So I’m late, eh? Well that would explain why Krakan didn’t turn up today, I’ve been waiting for hours. You know, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t too keen on the new scheme he’d cooked up.

Oh?

Yes, old Kraken is a good one for schemes. Last time I spoke to him, back in the mountains, he’d found some pirate gold map and set off to find himself a ship and crew to take on the mighty ocean and recover a vast treasure! I was to meet him now in Hamontoast but it looks like I’ve messed up.

The docks aren’t far away, just out of town, perhaps he is still there?

Archendorf nodded to himself. Yes, perhaps. In the morning I’ll go down and see what I can find out. Which direction do I head from here?

Just follow this main road east, it drops down the hill, you can’t miss them. Actually, I live... well, used to live down that way, just before you get to the docks, perhaps I can show you the way tomorrow?

I think I’ll be fine, but thank you all the same. So you’ve spent your entire life in Hamontoast?

Thrum made a half-shrug. Pretty much. Although recently things haven’t been quite working out. He fell into silence, knowing he now had no home to return to, no job, no food, and no money.

I’m sorry to hear it. Look, if you like, if I find my friend I’ll ask him if could use another hand on board-

Horrible memories of his short-lived stint as a hand on a fisher boat came to Thrum and he shook his head. No, thank you, I’m not great on boats. In fact, the mere thought of a boat in heaving swells, combined with the beer swilling in his empty stomach, made Thrum dizzy. He rested his forehead upon the rough oak surface of the table.

What’s this? he muttered to himself, feeling something in his pocket. He withdrew the scroll from his robes, recognising it to be the same one that he had discovered that morning while eating breakfast. He unrolled it, noticing with uneasiness that the paper felt like crispy chicken skin. Chicken, or human? a dark part of his mind though. An ominous shudder ran the length of his spine as he began to read.

Mortal child, I call upon you! From the grave I impart a quest to right what has been wronged.

What’s wronged? interrupted Archendorf.

What? Oh, I was just reading from a scroll I found.

Archendorf's pulse quickened. He knew a potential plot when he saw one and dragged his chair around so he could look over the small man’s shoulder.

Thrum continued. Forces gather in the wind and the time of reckoning is nigh. The pawn has been chosen; you must prove worthy of your task.

What are you talking about? interrupted Archendorf again. I admit that I can’t read myself, but even if I could, all I see is a blank page.

You don’t see it? Bemused, Thrum blinked hard to reassure himself the flowing writing was not his imagination. Do not read further. An ogre is about to bite your head off.

Thrum, his instincts of self-preservation finely tuned, ducked. There was an audible snick of jaws where his head had been moments before. He leapt from his chair and scrambled along upon hands and knees, looking about long enough to see Lairn’s ogres hot on his