The Warlock and the Church of Bells (Ward: Book Two)

By Will Perks

Ward dug out the Duke’s letter, now much dog-eared from travel, and handed it over. Frowning, she read it in silence.
“Who is Ward?” she said at length.
“I am.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s my name. Ward Ramsden.”
“Ward? That’s the name of a temple orphan. What about your true name?”
He shrugged. “I don’t have one. Ward suits me fine.”
She stared at him for a long moment, one eyebrow arched. “You’re telling the truth,” she observed. “But how can you not know or claim your name? In all my life I have never met a magic user who would willingly be separated from their name. Names have resonance for us. Names bind us, names empower us. We may hide them or embrace them but we never forget them. Even your Duke Cassowy would not dare change his, though he sought to change every other part of his being. Your magic is in your blood, and your blood must sing at the invocation of your name... you must... you must...”
She stopped. She touched his cheek.
“Oh, you poor, poor child,” she said. “You must be very lost.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Will Perks
• Release date: Jun 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463548356

Will Perks

Imaginary.

Book preview

The Warlock and the Church of Bells

Copyright 2018 Will Perks

Published by Will Perks at Smashwords

Cover art by Rob McCue

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Table of Contents

Getting Ahead in Namaran

In a Cottage, in a Wood

The Liar

The Greatest Sorcerer Who Ever Lived

Heart of Napaldi

Monsters in the Dark

Temple of the Dark Goddess

A Pilgrimage of Persethys

Foreword

All heroes’ journeys have many witnesses, but no one of them--not even the hero himself--should be left to tell the story on their own. They will miss some things; they will choose to neglect others; they will add their own twists and turns. Some may even invert the roles of hero and villain. A hero’s journey is never just the story of one man, it is a record of a city, of a place, of a time. The only way to tell a tale truthfully is to look upon it from all sides, from multiple perspectives.

Getting Ahead in Namaran

THE BATTLE OF THE THREE HEADED DRAGON

The magician stood on the first grassy hill before the coast and looked again toward the oddity that had been concerning him all morning. In the distance, a stranger in a black cloak rode across the desert. He or she—it was hard to tell at this distance—drove a grey chariot pulled by four golden-haired horses. The horses’ hooves, and the wheels of the chariot, never dipped into the sand but appeared to skim lightly across the top without leaving any tracks.

The stranger in the chariot had first appeared to the magician at daybreak, visible only as a flickering black dot against the yellow sands. At first the magician dismissed the sight as a trick of the light. It was almost unthinkable that anyone would try to cross the Namaran desert without, at the bare minimum, a dozen camels laden with provisions and water. Even then, it would be madness to attempt the journey alone. The many routes to the coast were littered with the dried corpses of explorers who had tried and failed to best the desert on their own.

The only kind of people who could make the journey unaided were Exiles.

The magician regarded the chariot and considered his options. He could go back to town and tell someone about the stranger… but who, exactly, could he tell? The old community of look-outs, sentries, guards and desert-watchers had long been disbanded; only the magician was left. It had been over five years since an outsider had dared come to the coast. Their little town was so shut off from everything even the Chief seemed to have forgotten about the world beyond the desert.

It would be better, the magician decided, to wait and see who the stranger was.

He sat down and waited. The sun climbed higher. The stranger rode on. The magician ate his lunch and smoked a cigar of rolled herbs. By this time he could see the stranger’s face was hidden behind a cream-coloured mask. The mask had three slots in it: two for the eyes, and a rectangular slot for the mouth. He remembered seeing lepers and plague victims wearing masks like these to hide their ruined faces.

A little after midday the stranger’s chariot reached the foot of the hill. The horses drew to a halt, tossing their manes. The magician cast an illusion of duplication—he always felt naked without it—then got to his feet. The stranger climbed down from the chariot and began to walk up the hill. Behind them, the chariot and the horses began to crumble away. By the time the stranger reached the magician, nothing remained of the chariot and the horses but three slight lumps of sand.

The magician stared.

What are you looking at? said the stranger.

The voice was male. The body, or at least what the magician could see of it, was covered in bandages and bone-thin. The stranger was also very small. His head barely came up to the magician’s shoulders. He wore a black hood, pulled low over the mask, but long strands of blond hair spun out over his shoulders. He smelled pungently of sweat.

I’m… I’m just… What? said the magician. It was not the kind of greeting he had anticipated. He paused and took a breath, turning to his duplicate. We are Eric and Santher Lyffen, he said firmly. We’re the greatest illusionists on Ash Island. Maybe the whole world. In crossing the desert you have entered Pangborn territory. Please state your name and business with the Exiles of Namaran.

"Oh, you’re being twins, said the stranger. That’s novel. I’ve never seen that before. Which one are you really?"

Shocked, the magician and his duplicate backed up a step. The only other person who’d ever caught onto the magician’s twin illusion was the Chief. The stranger, whoever he was, had to be a sorcerer or a warlock. Sorcerers, with their tainted bloodlines, had a natural ability to pick up the magics which radiated from illusions. Warlocks, gifted with the power of demonic sight, could see straight through them.

I’m both of them, said Eric.

I’m complicated, Santher agreed.

Different sides of the same coin.

Two mouths speaking one truth.

It’s who I am, and who I am.

So don’t be so rude, Santher finished.

The stranger sniggered and began to poke Santher in the stomach. His bandaged hand passed through Santher’s body and out the other side.

Stop that, said Santher, slapping uselessly at the stranger. Good grief, what in Divella’s name is wrong with you?

Could you tell us your name, please? Eric asked again, trying to keep the peace.

Ward, said the stranger, withdrawing his hand.

The magician was familiar with the Ash Island custom of naming all temple orphans Ward. Coming from a temple explained, in part, the stranger’s bad manners. Why are you here? Eric tried.

Because I was told to come.

It was like pulling teeth. By whom?

Duke Cassowy. Does it matter? You won’t know him. He’s a Napaldian noble. Used to be King Napaldi’s best friend until the magic ban. Ward yawned. I’m supposed to talk to your leader. Do you have a leader? A King? A Lord? A High Priest? I don’t know how things work in Namaran.

Eric frowned. We have a Chief.

That will do. I’ll see him, then.

You can’t just— Santher began, then thought better of it. Ward was a sorcerer from outside Namaran, and a powerful one at that—it would have taken great skill to charm the desert sands into such elaborate shapes. There was no doubt that the Chief would be very interested to meet someone like Ward. Santher sighed. Please, he said. Come with me.

***

Pangborn town nested in the grasslands that ran parallel to the beach. Its few buildings were shacks and tents constructed from fabric, driftwood and, in one or two cases, entire hulls of shipwrecked vessels. The rest of the town was made up of flat, grassless areas around cooking fires. At this time of day, half of the town’s three hundred citizens were out at sea, catching fish. Those that remained sat in circles in the dirt, smoking, eating and talking, their feet bare. Some kids played in the shallows of the tideless Namaran Sea, kicking water at each other.

I like what you’ve done with the place, said Ward. Absolutely nothing, right?

You’re the most awful person we’ve ever met, said Santher.

As they walked, the people of Pangborn town stopped what they were doing and stared. Some pointed; others recoiled. The town’s children started following them, and dared each other to get close enough to touch the stranger’s cloak. Ward scratched his blond hair underneath the hood.

How long has it been since you’ve had a visitor, Santheric? he enquired.

Five years, said the magician, in unison.

Great, said Ward. This is great.

Really?

No. I am not enjoying myself at all.

They came at last to the mouth of the biggest hull. The ship the hull had once belonged to had been an ancient Hamelwillian warship, one of many that met its end during the brief wars between Ash Island and Lapis' coastal cities. Its prow towered over them, four times the height of a man, and cast a shadow all the way to the beach. A wooden carving of a four armed mermaid sat atop the structure. Once a figurehead, it was now a gargoyle.

The broken side of the hull, where the ship had been snapped almost in two, was covered by a patchwork roll of cloth. Santher gestured for Ward to stand beside him, a discrete distance from the entrance. Eric stepped forward and knocked on the cloth.

Who is it? came a voice from within.

"It’s the Lyffen twins, sir. We’ve got an Exile with us. A new Exile. His name is Ward. He rode across the desert in a chariot made from sand."

Bloody heck, said the voice. I suppose I’ll have to see him. Give me a minute.

Yes, sir. Eric dropped back to join Santher and Ward.

Presently a huge man emerged from behind the cloth, rubbing his hands against his shirt. A piece of rope was tied around his head like a bandana. His skin was completely grey, his head bald. His smile, when he laid eyes upon Ward, was filled with very sharp, triangular teeth like those of a shark. This was Chief Rafal Pangborn, the town’s namesake. He was not truly a man but an echo, one of the many strange races native to Lapis.

He did not approach Ward but instead sat in the dirt outside the hull. He dug in the pocket of his trousers, pulled out a small bag of waterweed, and began to press it into a cigar-shape in an unhurried way. He did not seem to be paying much attention to Ward, but now and then his gaze moved over the stranger’s mask and robes. Evaluating him.

Sorcerer, said the Chief eventually.

Warlock, said Ward.

The Chief nodded, lit his cigar and shifted into a cross-legged position. What’s under the mask? he asked.

My face.

Why don’t you take the mask off?

I don’t want to.

What if I made you take it off?

I’d set you on fire.

The Chief laughed without humour and raised his hand. His fingers were spread as if about to cast a spell. Then he stopped and seemed to reconsider. You must be powerful, if you’d dare challenge a warlock in his own home, he said. Well, either you’re powerful or you’re an idiot. I’m not sure which you are, yet. I expect time will tell. Now come on, Ward. Tell me why you’re here?

A Duke of Napaldi and a shadowy court of his weird friends have secretly declared war against King Napaldi. They seek to dethrone the King and overturn his magic ban. The Duke wants you and your followers to fight alongside them. He’s sent me to convince you to come.

The Chief smirked. So convince me.

Please, Ward tried.

That’s it?

I’m a sorcerer, not a diplomat, said Ward, folding his bandaged arms. You tell me what I need to do to.

The Chief laughed again, and this time his mirth was genuine. He lit his cigar and patted the ground before him, inviting the others to sit. Eric and Santher obeyed immediately, flumping down in the dirt. Ward brushed vainly at the ground with his boots to clean before he also sat. The magician could just make out the tight line of Ward’s mouth through the rectangular hole in his mask. It must be a shock to find yourself in Pangborn town, the magician thought, after living for so long in the big cities of Ash Island.

The magician had been born in a city in Ash Island—at least he assumed he must have been—but he didn’t remember anything about it. His first memories were of travelling through the desert with a caravan. In those days Pangborn town was just one or two huts by the coast. Not a town, and barely a village. The place did not even have a name; Rafal Pangborn had not yet arrived in Namaran. Now the town could hardly compare to places like Napaldi and Ank-Khephut-Amuna… but under the Chief’s guardianship it had become somewhere the magician could call home.

The way I see it, said the Chief to Ward, is that your business with Faine Napaldi has nothing to do with me. Don’t misunderstand me, I know about his magic ban, but I also know the nobles of Ash Island tend to lose their interest in upholding the law the closer they get to the coast. We’re all magic users here, but Faine has left us alone for over a decade. I doubt he’ll ever send his armies this far west.

He will, said Ward.

And how do you know? Did your friend the Duke tell you that?

Ward shrugged. I’ve seen how Faine operates. He hasn’t forgotten about you. He hasn’t decided to let you off because you’re a few miles out of his reach. He just hasn’t gotten around to dealing with you yet.

I used to live in Napaldi, said the Chief. I’ve met Faine many times before. He’s a firm man but a fair man. He was always open to negotiation. I’m sure if he had a problem with me and my people he’d let me know.

The Duke was his right-hand man. He and Faine were close friends since childhood. After the magic ban, Faine had the Duke dragged screaming into the street and bound him.

The Chief puffed cigar smoke. I’d warrant your Duke—if he really is a Duke—is telling you fibs. Faine’s right-hand man, back in the day, was a sharp-tongued noble girl. The pair were practically joined at the hip. She was a clever little thing, I won’t deny it, and a fairly powerful empath, in as much as empaths can be powerful. I remember her name. Cassowy. Miranda Cassowy.

That’s the Duke, said Ward.

For a long time the Chief looked at Ward, and then out across the town and its ragtag structures. Faine bound Miranda? he said at length.

Yes. The Duke is understandably still quite angry about it.

Another lengthy silence. The sea winds rustled the patchwork curtain. Finally the Chief spoke.

There’s a giant water-dragon that lives in a reef a quarter mile off the coast. Every few months it swims up to our beach and attacks our settlement. We’ve lost many people to the creature. You kill it, and I’ll send my best magicians to fight in your war. The Lyffen twins will show you where the creature lives. You can eat with us this evening, and begin your travels in—

No, said Ward, rising to his feet. We go now. Get up, Santheric, and let’s get this rubbish over with.

He stomped off, heading back the way they had come. For someone with such small feet, he made a lot of noise. Eric and Santher exchanged looks with the Chief, then followed.

***

The magician often day-dreamed about adventure. Every night the people of Pangborn town came together by their fires to tell tales about the golden age of great warriors and powerful wizards. The magician’s favourite stories were those about Ash Island’s ancient heroes, half-Gods and part-angels whose epic journeys were foretold in prophecy. There were many heroes, but their stories all followed a similar and somewhat predictable narrative path: an auspicious birth, followed by the loss of their parents, the acquiring of powers (magical or physical), saving a princess, killing a dragon, falling in love, raising an army, defeating a demon or an evil tyrant (or both), and finally being crowned king.

The magician had never wanted to be a hero himself but he had wanted to be near heroic people. Of course, those were in short supply in Namaran. The closest he’d ever come to that was hanging around the Chief, and even then the magician had to admit Rafal Pangborn’s history as a highwayman wasn’t particularly heroic. Romantic, yes, daring, definitely, but not heroic.

Now there was Ward, the strange sorcerer. He was about to do some heroic things, or at least die attempting them. Somehow, by luck or fate, the magician had been drafted in to be Ward’s guide.

It might have been a dream come true if Ward had not been such a bad tempered and rude person.

They walked down to the sea together in silence. Ward walked in the middle. The magician walked on either side. Ward was muttering beneath his breath. Listening in, the magician heard curse words interspersed with the names Cassowy and Anveldt. He sighed and tried to put a positive spin on things.

You’re lucky you’ve come here during winter, Eric said. It’s not half as hot as it usually is. We’ll have great weather as we sail to the reef—

Shut up, said Ward. Just tell me about the dragon. How do I kill it?

It’s an impossible task, Eric admitted. The Chief tried to fight the dragon before, and didn’t even dent its scales. The creature is twenty times the size of a man, with three heads, and it can breathe fire. Normal weapons don’t work on it. Neither do magic bolts. The Chief tried fire, ice, even lightning.

The only thing that’s going to kill that dragon is old age, Santher agreed, sniggering. The Chief is going to have a lot of fun with you, Ward. When you come back, defeated—well, if you manage to get back alive—he’ll use it to prove just how weak the magic users from the rest of Ash Island are.

Ward shook his head. You’re wrong. Your Chief understands he has to fight Napaldi. He’d just prefer if he got a reward out of it.

Are you more powerful than the Chief?

I expect so. The Duke wouldn’t have sent me if I wasn’t.

Their journey to the reef faced its first hurdle when the magician discovered all the town’s fishing boats were in use. All that remained were wooden rafts. Eric put his foot against one of them and pushed down. The boards creaked, and the rope securing each piece of the next began to fray. Usually the rafts were used by the children to play on in the shallows. The magician doubted this one would make the distance to the reef.

He squatted by the raft (as Eric) and kicked at the sand (as Santher) and wondered what to do. The Chief had never charged him with such a big task before. He didn’t want to fail.

We should wait until evening, Eric said. The fishing boats will be back by then. I’m sure with both of us rowing we could make up for lost time—

Forget the boats. Let’s walk. You guide me.

Santher snorted. Are you mad? It’s a reef! In the ocean! We can’t walk!

Ward dipped his toe into the sea, then shook it off. He stared out at the horizon. The sea, as always, was as flat as the surface of a puddle. Ward raised his hands above the water and muttered again beneath his breath. The water by his feet began to crystallise.

Within seconds a two metre-wide section of the sea had turned into ice.

You should have conjured up a boat, said Santher. What use is ice?

Ignoring him, Ward stepped onto the ice slab. It slid down the sand and floated free of the shore. Arms outstretched for balance, Ward hopped up and down. The ice wobbled but held his weight. He beckoned Eric to join him. Eric kicked off his sandals, rolled up the legs of his trousers and waded in. With Ward’s help he was able to haul himself up. The ice bobbed lower in the water.

You’re lucky neither of you are fat, Santher observed from the shore.

Could you teach me that spell? Eric asked, putting his sandals back on.

Ward shook his head. "It wasn’t a spell. I just said, Please turn to ice a few times. I’m a sorcerer, not a wizard. We don’t need spells. For us, magic has a shape and a feeling and a kind of… pressure. We create with our willpower. Which way did you say the reef was?"

Eric pointed. Ward raised his arms again and thrust them forward in the same direction. The sea squeaked and cracked and threw up a dozen more ice slabs. Ward made a fist. The slabs rearranged themselves into a line.

Stepping stones. A path across the sea.

***

The seas of Namaran had always been tideless. The entire coastline was technically part of a very long lagoon. A mile from the beach lay a natural dam of sandbanks and reefs of bright red coral, most of it hidden well below the water’s surface. Here and there, small islands and wild eruptions of coral rose along its length, forming a broken line that ran all the way down Ash Island’s west coast.

The dam was seen as a blessing by the Namaran people. Their tideless coast was a fertile growing place for seafruits and attracted a bounty of fish, particularly during the mating seasons in summer and winter. It also created a barrier between the land and the terrifying sea monsters which lived beyond the dam: demon sharks, black leviathans and giant squids that could tear apart warships with their tentacles.

Instead of heading directly to the place the water-dragon had last been seen, the magician guided Ward’s ice-path to the nearest island on the dam. The island was a half-mile wide and its centre was green with vegetation. Three palm trees sprouted along its nearest shore. At the other end of the island, a tower of coral shot up like the frozen spout of a geyser and fountained out into red tendrils at its tip, which rose some twenty metres above the ground.

Ward waded up the shore and looked at the coral with his head on one side.

It’s the only place where corals like these grow, said Eric, joining him. There are even taller towers around here, if you can believe it. Sometimes they break off and wash up on our beach. You can eat them, if you cook them for long enough—

I really don’t care. Where’s the water-dragon?

I’m not its minder! Santher snapped. It often feeds in this area. We’ll have to look for it.

Eric sniffed. Why are you so mean to us, Ward?

Oh, I understand the rudeness, his twin advised loftily. He’s trying to make himself feel better about… well, looking like whatever he looks like under the mask. He’s a sorcerer which means he has a disfigurement. I bet he has no nose, or six eyes, or maybe he has no skin at all. It would explain the bandages.

I understand the twin-ness, Ward shot back. You want people to like you but you’re also a really bad person. So you split yourself in two. That way you can be rude to people’s faces and then comfort them afterward. You can be everyone’s worst enemy and their best friend at the same time. At the end of the day, you’ll never have to take responsibility for anything terrible you do. You’re manipulative in ways I couldn’t even dream of being.

The magician said nothing. It wasn’t true, except in all the ways it was.

I’m not going to play this game anymore, said Ward. Pick one. Either you’re Eric or Santher.

You can’t make me—

"Oh, I can make you. But now I’m asking you."

Half of the Lyffen twins vanished. You’re horrible, said the remainder. I hope the dragon swallows you.

So you’ll be Santher, then, said Ward. Not the choice I would have made in these circumstances. If you complain or curse or try to be clever again, I’m going to throw you into the sea.

Santher had a lot of complaints, curses and clever things to say to this. Wisely, he bit his tongue.

In stony silence, the pair made their way across the first island and then ice-walked to the next. This new island was covered in a forest of coral: it looked like a partially submerged hedgehog. They climbed through the coral and arrived at the edge of a large pool, encircled by more spines of coral like gigantic bird cage. A cliff face, also made of coral, rose behind it, its surface pockmarked with small caves and tunnels.

Within the pool squatted the water-dragon. It was, if anything, much bigger than