Black Crypt: The Sorcerer's Tower, #3

By Ian Irvine

Over a million copies of Ian Irvine's fantasy novels sold.

Meadowhythe has lost its magic, but Kym has a plan to get it back. 

She and her friends Mel and Tamly must creep into the heart of the mountain, then down a crevasse deep enough to swallow them forever, to the crypt where Shardax the sorcerer buried his enemies. 

They had better not be afraid of dead things though…

Fantastically illustrated by DM Cornish

Reviews and Honours for The Sorcerer's Tower

Shortlisted for the 2008 Aurealis Award, Best Children's Series

"A new series by two of Australia's best. It has all the things that turn reluctant readers into avaricious readers – fast moving plot, big gribble monsters and really cool illustrations." Reading Time

"A thrilling bedtime chapter book for parents to read to children five years and older." The Courier Mail on Thorn Castle

"Fast moving fantasy adventure, brought to life by Cornish's distinctive illustrations." Good Reading

"A fast-paced, easy reading book for middle primary school." The Ballarat Courier

"This exciting story is likely to appeal to young readers who like their adventures action-packed, but also to slightly older, reluctant readers." Sunday Tasmanian

"Children as young as six will enjoy this fast paced novel. Non-stop fantasy action with humour and colourful detail." The Courier Mail on Black Crypt

"Beautifully crafted with magic, excitement, surprises, chases and fights all the way." Aurealis

"From one of Australia's masters of fantasy, this action-packed series is a wonderful introduction to the genre for readers aged nine and over. Perfect for the reluctant or younger reader." Aussiereviews.com

• Language: English
• Publisher: Santhenar Press
• Release date: May 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393038733

Book preview

1

The Death of Magic

The town had its magical red stone back and, because they’d nearly lost it for good, the townsfolk were using magic all the time – even Tamly’s stern great-uncle, Rafe. Every lunchtime this week he had gone flying around his broom workshop, pretending to dust the rafters but, when he thought no one could see him, whooping like a ten-year-old boy .

Tamly watched Rafe whizzing above his head. ‘Everyone can use magic except me!’ he muttered as he swept up with his boring, non-magical broom. He spent hours sweeping every day, and half the night trying to learn magic, but it never worked for him.

Uncle Rafe rides his broomstick.

His brilliant friend, Kym, knew a hundred spells, but she couldn’t teach him a thing. Neither could Mel, the blacksmith’s son, who was learning metal-magic. Tamly was so frustrated that he got a sick, dizzy feeling whenever he thought about magic, and the pressure built up until he was afraid his head would explode.

Tamly’s Birth Foretelling had said that he would be a great danger to magic, so the town council had ordered his talent be taken from him. Instead, his parents had worked a Charm of Forgetfulness over baby Tamly so he’d never know he had a talent, but the charm had backfired and killed them. His one tiny gift was that he could sense when strong magic was being done nearby.

He swept so furiously that he couldn’t see his flying great-uncle for dust, then suddenly Tamly’s skin prickled and the hair stood up on his head – someone was doing magic! A yelp echoed down, a shadow flashed past him and Rafe crashed to the floor, groaning and holding his wrist. The town’s magic had gone dead, just like that.

‘It was working perfectly this morning,’ said Kym’s father, Van, the Town Conjuror, that afternoon. ‘Then I tried to cast a Cloaking Spell so the tax man would bypass Meadowhythe, and pfft! Our magic was gone.’

Van and Rafe were sitting in a corner of the broom workshop, drinking tea. Tamly was sweeping quietly so he could hear what they were saying.

‘The tax man cost me a fortune,’ Rafe snapped. ‘You might have given us some warning.’

‘I didn’t get any – the red stone just burst apart, and it can’t be mended. We’ll have to find another source of magic. What happened to your arm, anyway?’

Rafe rubbed the bandage on his sprained wrist. ‘Slipped,’ he muttered. Looking up at Tamly, he scowled as if to say, ‘Don’t mention my flying or I’ll tan your hide.’

Tamly smiled to himself; he knew Rafe didn’t mean it. As he swept the other way, through the front door he saw the small figure of Kym outside, waving. He slipped out into the misty rain. Her dark hair, cut as short as a pixie’s, was netted with raindrops like little diamonds.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Tamly.

‘Come on. This is big!’

‘If I sneak away without finishing the sweeping I’ll be in trouble.’

‘There’s always sweeping to do.’ Kym put her hand on her hip and stared him down.

Tamly buckled. ‘Oh, all right. Where are we going?’

‘Mel’s place.’

They splashed down the muddy path beside the broom workshop, around the back then along a track through the wet grass towards the river and the blacksmith’s shop,