The Chimera's Omen

By Andrew Hunt

Where have all the adventures gone? There are no more quests. No more dragons to slay. No more world to explore. No more Godly artifacts to uncover. Gareth Emberneed, a trained Fire Mage, is in a world without a need for his skills. All the treasures have been long plundered, all the realm has been explored and all the dragons have been either slain or held in zoos. With the threat of monsters long gone, and with every citizen within the city of Tearlines having all their needs met with their monthly stipends, everyone was free to explore their lives however they pleased. But, how free were they really? In the haze of the city's celebrating revellers and the atmosphere of apathy, Gareth feels a deeper desire to explore, and find something more to this life. He remembers tales of a time long past, where adventurers would venture into the unknown with nothing but the packs on their back and the swords at their side. But those stories are a relic of the past and have now been swirled aside and into the mists of myth.
Unable to find purpose, and unwilling to accept a life of directionless existence, Gareth embarks on a hike into the wilderness with his partner, Faren Horatio of Deepthorne, in search of anything that could be considered adventurous. It is after a chance encounter with a Chimera - a beast of legend, and a creature last seen many cycles ago - that the pair finds themselves propelled into a realm of myth, prophecy, beasts and denizens of the underground, pushing them into a secret world they were never meant to see.
The Chimera's Omen is the debut novel from Andrew Hunt, and is about finding purpose when the world tells you that there is nothing worth achieving. With this trek, Gareth and Faren will see the reality behind their romantic perceptions of the plane on which they live and the fantastical nature of their ideals. Joined by Marathiel the ranger Forest-kin, Penrose the priestess of Renamusses, and the cursed warrior-turned-farmer going only by the name Wrong, the party will learn of their place in the world, about each other, and discover the thin and brittle veneer of peace that is layered over their lives and the entire world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Hunt
• Release date: Sep 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781370894574

Andrew Hunt

Andrew Hunt is a former public servant of two decades, having liaised and collaborated with all levels of Government. He has been instrumental in the implementation of several Government policies, including greening initiatives and working with people with disabilities. He has been an avid writer for over a decade, having had articles published in various outlets covering topics as diverse as automotive, food and travel, videogames and even martial arts. He now turns his energy and passion into being an author, ghostwriter and freelance editor, performing background work for media outlets.

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The Chimera’s Omen

Copyright 2019 Andrew Hunt

Published by Andrew Hunt at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1 – An evening walk

Chapter 2 - The trodden path

Chapter 3 - A Royal endeavour

Chapter 4 - The next hike

Chapter 5 - A day's review

Chapter 6 – On the trail

Chapter 7 - Staring into the eyes of killers

Chapter 8 - The debuntante

Chapter 9 - Field of Realisation

Chapter 10 - A Royal decree

Epilogue

About the Author

Other books by the Author

Connect with the Author

Acknowledgements

Thanks to friends and family for all their support and help. Thanks to Kristy, Rebecca and Greg for their beta-reads of this story, their continued feedback, and for tolerating my constant talking about writing. Thanks also to my wife, Michelle, and to my sons Joshua and Daniel for their constant understanding, patience and support.

Chapter 1 – An evening walk

Amid his drunken haze, the fire mage stared at the Eldritch Papyrus in front of him, a single cursor blinking rhythmically back at him. It was a mocking wink that Gareth disdained, but always found within himself an inability to conjure a retort. This was his latest attempt at trying to create something that he felt was worthwhile, but within the jolting poke of hiccups and the permeating fog that were symptomatic of the brew he drank, Gareth struggled to find any momentum in the task.

He glanced a menacing eye at the glass that was sat beside him on his desk, containing an amber ale that, through Millenia of craft combined with the wizardry of mages, had an enriched potency. Gareth had called the fluid his inspiration drink. It was conflicting philosophy, he knew. He had always felt that an extra kick was warranted in order to start his mind’s percolation, but the potential rising creativity was always stifled by a malaise as the brew’s side-effects began to usurp his motivation.

The ideas were there, but finding the energy to transfer them to the Eldritch Papyrus felt a gargantuan task. He continued staring at the magical device before him on his desk, as though his will alone would begin to pen the thoughts immediately, but still the cursor pulsed at him, gaily ignorant of the would-be creator’s desires. For a moment, Gareth contemplated a spell that could take his somehow take his inner monologue and enter them into the Papyrus, but he grew frustrated at his limitations. His magical expertise was in the element of fire, having discarded telekinesis and telepathy after his first year in Mage school. Fire had seemed much more useful to him at the time. Fire created heat, which could smelt the lead and iron that the dwarves needed on their production lines. It was also the lineage of his family, although he’d never been actively encouraged by his parents to pursue that specific element.

Telekinesis, for all Gareth could determine during his youth, just helped kids cheat at dice games. Telepathy seemed only helpful for those working in the field of mental health, which was a pursuit that didn’t really appeal to Gareth.

Besides, there was something much more versatile and powerful with creating fire, he felt. Historical theatre productions and Eldritch plays he had watched on his Papyrus had always portrayed Fire Mages in such reverent means, swirling flames that could lick the skin from monsters as they attempted to lay siege to the towns. The various Mages of all elements, according to history, had all been instrumental in keeping the people safe during the past wild Times of Turmoil.

Nowadays, Elemental Mages had their uses, but they were far less dramatic, and had far less pomposity. There was perhaps the rare use of explosive magics on Royal holidays, but only select few Fire Mages were allowed to conduct fireworks. Those Mages were hand-selected, after having their mental state assessed by Telepathists; a policy that was introduced after the New Cycle’s Day Celebration and Arson incident a decade before. Fire mages who grew to love the flame a little too much, on this particular occasion, proved to be quite destructive.

Fire Mages mostly went into the mining sector these days.

Whenever a vacancy arose.

Which seemed to be almost never.

Evening was setting in. Gareth slumped back in his seat, before reaching again for his brew. He sighed in exasperation, resigning himself to another night of empty Papyrus and unpublished thoughts. He closed the screen of his Eldritch Papyrus before massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Gareth turned his attention to the window to survey the advancement of night, and the slow growth of glow as the Electric Mages began conjuring the lights of the city into life. Each night, after the time of evening-feast, the Electric Mages would set about ensuring that the city lights were given their night’s energy. If Gareth sat on the roof of the building – a century-cycle-old stone apartment in an outer suburb of the city – he could see the lights of the city emerge in their glow, spreading out like a ripple of water from the centre of the metropolis. The Electric Mages were well-regimented, with remarkable synchronicity and the kind of discipline to which Gareth could only aspire.

Tonight did seem like a good evening to sit on the roof to watch the night metropolis come alive, but in Gareth’s brew-addled mind, he could still assess the risk of standing on a high roof while in such a state. He didn’t need a visit to the local Cathedral for a Priest’s healing, should he even survive any fall. He had exhausted what remained of his monthly Royal stipend.

Faren, Gareth’s partner, was in the other room, watching her favourite show on the Eldritch Panel. It was a comedy show featuring many of her favourite bards, who dressed up in various apparel to lampoon the favourite target of the week, be it the Royals, the other bards who sought political gain, or the thieves who hadn’t exercised their craft particularly well, and had fallen afoul of the law. Those instances were always amusing. Pickpockets who weren’t adept were quickly discovered by the Wardens, and their misdeeds were communicated across all the Eldritch communication avenues for the population to view. Particularly unlucky pickpockets were captured by their potential prey, who typically brought upon them their individual form of justice, whether by physical assault or by open public humiliation through unusual means.

From these stories, Gareth found that a surprising number of Warrior class people still owned stocks and chains – probably heirlooms handed down from the generations who had lived during the Times of Turmoil.

Despite the massive risks in performing the craft of thievery, there were still many rogues in the city. Faren herself was a reformed rogue, although she hadn’t managed to secure any other role in the city. Many rogues who ignored the call of the alleys - or the various forms of skullduggery - often found themselves in the Bank district of the city, where they plied their trade in a means that seemed to not only benefit local businesses, but was also highly regulated by law. It had always amused Gareth that rogues had managed to turn their lawless trade into a regulated market. Their greatest accomplishment, however, was the notion of Perceived Value – abbreviated colloquially to Perval – in where they could convince rich people that something was worth more than it really was, such as a share of a store’s profits or from a stake in some development project for the city. It was through this system that the rogues could garner gold coins for offering seemingly nothing but promises, while their prey seemed satisfied with the transaction. Of course, any potential losses in Perval was simply the system correcting, as the rogues typically explained away to angry donors.

It was a wonderful sleight of hand, and Gareth sometimes wished that Faren would apply her trade to that sector of the city. However, she seemed intent on changing her class to Bard. It was an odd pivot for her, but not an unknown action, as many other rogues had used their agility and deftness to perform tricks for an audience. She had a long path ahead of her, Gareth knew, but he was happy to support her in her goals.

He was a Fire Mage, though. At least, by training. The blank Papyrus before him was a sign of a hobby that he thought would keep him sane, or perhaps even an attempt for himself to turn to the bard class, however through the mist of his drunkenness, he still feared that it was a dead end. All that effort for so little gain.

Gareth heard Faren laugh in the other room. It must have been a good episode she was watching, as she was doing that belly-laugh that only occurred through an escalation of amusement; snort, chuckle, laugh, and uproarious bellow. She did appreciate a good comedy, and frequently enthused over a desired the life as a bard. That call of a laughing crowd, she’d say, gave her energy and when at gatherings, she seemed to revel in being the amusing person in the room, captivating people through story, anecdote and punchline.

She had signed up for the Open Night at the local theatre, The Bardery, where various hopeful entertainers could present their shows, doing what was known as the hard yards before they either succeeded as performers, or wallowed away as forever performing in minor venues. The industry of Bards was riddled with the figurative animated career corpses of aspiring, hard-working, but ultimately mediocre performers.

He sipped again from his brew, savouring the circulation of the fluid as it warmed his extremities. He idly snapped his fingers and muttered a brief incantation, causing small sparks to flare and sputter from the edges of his digits. He drew breath in a sharp pull as the minor explosion burned his fingertips.

No work was getting done tonight, he surrendered.

He raised from his chair to turn away from his papyrus, shaking his heated hand and swigging the last of his brew before walking over to the next room to see Faren. She was looking comfortable on the couch, her dark robe wrapped around her figure loosely. She wore comfortable slippers and clutched her own cup of brew, from which she also sipped. Her dark hair was up in a half-kept bun, with wisps straggling down either side of her face. She chortled at yet another punchline from the performance she watched on the Eldritch panel. The robe she wore was from her training days as a rogue, now sporting the tell-tale signs of a reformed thief – rumpled sleeves and crumbs upon the chest. Her awareness instincts must have been unsullied by her sabbatical from rogue work, as she immediately turned to face Gareth despite the darkness of the room. She welcomed him in with a warm smile.

Finished writing? Faren asked.

Barely started. Gareth half-lied. Sitting with an open papyrus could be charitably called a sign of having started.

It’ll come to you, I’m sure. Faren said, lacing her encouragement with a playful tone, You just need inspiration. She curled around on the couch, circling the tails of her hair around her finger.

I know, you’re right. Gareth said, But I was thinking of going for a walk. He noted Faren’s twirling finger. Typically, he’d have joined Faren on the couch, but tonight there was an undeniable pull from the outside, demanding he escape the confines of the home. He did enjoy seeing the city coming to life at night time, much like staring at the tendrils of electricity and power as he sat on the building’s roof. The city of Tearlines was a vastly different place once the electricity had fully charged the lights, and the people hit the streets for each evening’s festivities.

Okay. Faren said, Enjoy. If you get time, maybe get some milk on your way back. We’re out. She smiled at Gareth through the room’s darkness, her face flickering in the light of the screen she was watching.

Gareth nodded, despite the dimness. Faren was probably aware of his gesture, the rogue still attuned to the darkness, If I’m not back in a few hours, you can assume I’ve been mugged. Gareth joked.

Rogues these days are losing their touch; you can hear them from a league away Faren said with a critical air, You should be able to run away. She chuckled.

Gareth smiled at her humorous jibe. She knew he could handle a few brigands, although he was still bound by the land’s laws for fire magic: Startle, but don’t hurt. No spell greater than a flare.

He bade Faren his farewells, vowing to return with the groceries – if he had time. He blew her a kiss, from which she replied with a mock kiss to the air, turning back to her screen and sipping her own brew. As he crossed the door to leave the home, he heard her belly-laugh yet again at the jokers on the Panel.

He smiled to himself.

****

The city of Tearlines wasn’t a sprawling metropolis like Montreya – the home of the Royals, but it still heaved with people at most hours of the day. The city was squat near two large bluffs, both of which exhibited the odd anomaly of having a series of creeks, falls and rivers gushing down their sides, despite no lake being at the top of the hills. As the sun set each day, the light would catch upon the water falls from the bluffs, sparkling brilliantly in a golden hue. It was though the hills themselves were weeping golden tears – and it was this anomaly for which the city had been named upon its founding many cycles ago. The strange phenomenon was a source of pride for the city’s residents, as the landmarks were truly unique, with not a single mountain in the entire realm exhibiting the same behaviour. It was through the natural wonder, along with the local entertainment scene that some travel herald had named the city as third most visitable on this plane of existence. It was a mantle the residents wore with pride, although Gareth felt it was a title that no one beyond the city’s old and worn walls cared about.

The evening’s festivities were just beginning, and various taverns had groups of revellers already spilling from their innards and into the street, hoisting tankards of ale aloft as they greeted any strangers who dared to walk within a certain radius of their frivolity.

Gareth didn’t particularly care for people like that. They were all bluster and posturing, and offered very little other worth in such a state. Why Faren would even seek to be a bard to entertain masses like this was a question he could not answer, but he was not one to be unsupportive of his partner. She was dedicated to becoming a performer, and she supported his endeavours with writing.

He strolled past The Bardery, where Faren had signed up for an Open Night. The waiting list for performing at the Bardery’s Open night was quite long, with Faren’s night of performance still some weeks away. The queue for audiences to get into the club this early evening was already quite long, but was equalled by the length of the queue of willing performers at the back door.

It seemed as though everyone these days was a willing performer, either through comedy, poetry or song. On a moment of reflection, even Gareth knew he was participating in the same system by attempting to be a writer or even a herald, vying for attention on his work. But the thought of getting on a stage to perform for an actual audience seemed like an alien impulse.

His training in Fire magic had taught him that restraint was a virtue, as big shows of bravado with fire often resulted in quite large scale destruction. Getting up on stage seemed like the kind of bravado he was taught to avoid. Such extroversion can be addictive in a way, Gareth figured, almost as intoxicating as the brew he had been drinking.

There was a distant roar that reverberated and peeled through the streets, bouncing from each stone-walled tavern and theatre. The reveller’s noise dimmed a little before gradually resuming the normal enthusiasm. It was feeding time at the zoo, and the dragon’s roar always caught peoples’ attention. Even though dragon attacks were eliminated hundreds of cycles ago, it was ingrained in people to pique their attention whenever a dragon roared. It was a reaction written into every person’s body, be they dwarf, halfling, Kin or human, to remember the distant call of a dragon as a precursor to panic. Passing of time had dulled that instinctive response, but it still laid there, asleep in everyone until around eveningfeast, when that roar was heard.

The laughter in the streets resumed, and the music nary missed a beat. A group of fellows bellowed their appreciation for a passing group of women, before turning back to themselves to resume whatever banal conversation that had interested such brew-enfeebled minds. Gareth cared little for the small talk of everyone else. At these taverns, he found a lot of discussion involved those of a warrior lineage who talked of the glory days of their ancestors, older fellows who spoke of their times as they vaguely tried to remember what they could of the Times of Turmoil, even though many were likely mere babes, and had been born upon the tail-end of these apparent halcyon days.

It had only been a couple generations ago that it had been decreed by the Monarch at the time that the era of dragons and beasts were over. It had been well over a century since the last dragon attack, and many of the creatures now resided in zoos, alongside other monsters who had once scoured the land. Many, if not all dragons’ lairs had been plundered, and their riches were on display in local museums, with the more magical and powerful items confiscated by the Royals.

With the absence of the marauding monsters, weaponsmiths, armourers and archers had to either close shop, or move to the Royal Defence Force, or the city’s justice system and their Wardens.

The days of the band of Adventurers was over. Every monster slain or kept. Every cave dwelling explored. Every quest fulfilled.

Yet, those very trades were still kept, but used in different applications. Electric mages powered the streets. Warriors kept security, or moved to vocations where their supreme size and strength was of value to the Crown. Rogues had found alternative avenues to pickpocket. Bards now turned their charisma to either being a public representative, or freelance performers – both of which were short-lived but very lucrative career options, if lucky.

Gareth continued walking, feeling the night air swirl around his neck. He buried his hands into the pockets of his cloak as he noticed a nearby verge, meticulously groomed with even grass, coloured flowers that blended from one colour to the next. Gareth admired the handiwork and wondered about the skill of the Earth Mage who had crafted the garden. The grass was even, like a green carpet that was expertly laid and hammered flat. The flowers were graded in colour that one row almost imperceptibly changed into the next, starting with yellow and flowing to blue.

This was art, Gareth thought. This took a skill that had been honed to mastery, and applied it to something as everyday as dirt. Earth Mages during times gone were used to summon elementals; creatures of great size and ferocity, and they would wield them with expert puppetry to defend themselves or their party. Such golems were now used in menial landscaping tasks, or lifting heavy objects in construction.

It seemed like such a waste. All these trades, fighting, skulking, wielding the elements, all were being used for everyday menial tasks that very few would appreciate. Sure, Gareth did think for a moment that wishing for the return of the Times of Turmoil was foolhardy and wrought with risk, yet there was something about his observations that did not gel with him. A roar of laughter from one of the myriad taverns nearby pulled Gareth from his musing as a Water Mage summoned a geyser of fluid that arced from his body away from his crotch, mimicking urination. The vulgar parabola only made Gareth detest others on the plane more.

There was no glory in the trades anymore. Everyone’s skill was reduced to entertainment, consumption or construction.

The dragon’s call resonated again through the stone streets, causing all the taverns to again pause their jubilations for the merest of moments before cautiously resuming. It wouldn’t take much, Gareth mused, for one dragon attack to rend the city of Tearlines to ashes and molten stone, and no one would be prepared. Except maybe the Wardens of the city, however their profession in recent times had been focussed upon minor breakages of rules and petty infractions, rather than a full siege or attack.

But dragon attacks would never happen again. The monsters were caged and tethered, with their glands for fire, ice or acid tempered by muzzles and magic.

Lights along the alleys flared brighter, fending off the descent of the night’s dark blanket. The sole tower in the middle of the city – a giant building for Royal workers – lit itself as a beacon despite no people being inside the building.

He looked to a tavern and for the slightest of moments contemplated entering its walls for a brew, however his mood overwhelmed such notions, along with his exhausted monies for the month. Faren had also used her routine stipend by getting materials for her costume that she was making for her performance.

Gareth’s fingertips grew warmer as he rubbed them together. It was a nervous tick that he had, and the mild embers that glowed on the end of his digits did give him some comfort. Bunching his hand into a fist he extinguished the warmness, knowing he shouldn’t let the fire linger upon his hands too long. The loud and obnoxious crowds combined with a growing sense of futility gave Gareth a sensation of frustration in the pit of his gut. No ideas for writing were forthcoming, and while the monthly stipend was enough to keep himself and Faren sheltered and fed, he felt he should be doing something, anything, to improve his lot and help Faren out.

He just needed a chance. He needed to do something new. The Heralds who spread news each day were often replete with stories of the pauper-to-statesman variety, and Gareth was always envious of the success of these individuals. However, with each story Gareth heard, and each time he viewed the pictures of the successful individual, he remarked to himself that they did not seem that remarkable. They were just average people who had just used their skills in the right way, at the time when everyone needed that skill. They were lucky.

Gareth just needed some luck.

****

Upon returning to their apartment, Gareth was met at the door by a bright and pleasant Faren. But Faren was always a bright and pleasant individual, with an adeptness at having a room positively change upon her arrival. It felt like such a bizarre trait for someone who was trained as a rogue, and for someone with a long lineage of thieves. Her mother and father had transitioned seamlessly from the world of skullduggery to Perval trading and had made rather lucrative careers for the Crown in doing so.

The fact that Faren was getting a monthly Royal stipend didn’t gel well with her parents. They had mentioned on more than one occasion that to accept money from the Royals was to benefit from the hard work of others who were contributing something tangible to the Monarch.

The irony of these statements coming from reformed rogues was not lost on Faren or Gareth.

The stipend was not excessively generous, but Faren did wear the robes of someone of a higher family. Her parents might have bristled at Faren’s new career choice, especially considering how adept she was during her thieving training days, but they still remained supportive, albeit somewhat begrudgingly. That she had elected to live with a Fire Mage was also to contribute to their raised eyebrows, but that was a broader cultural stigma than anything specific to their distaste of Gareth. Rogues and mages, despite being at peace since the end of the Times of Turmoil, still retained an ingrained scepticism for each other; those who command the elements versus those who would command the shadows.

Good walk? Faren asked brightly.

The usual. Gareth replied with an even cadence. Faren was familiar with his distaste for groups of loud people.

I don’t know what you were expecting, but I hope you cleared your head. Faren replied.

Cleared about the usual. Gareth said seeming to reference the word usual as a well-defined metric, I just get lost in my thoughts a little, and then I just depress myself.

Good fodder for writing? Faren asked, always keen to see the silver lining in any of Gareth’s dark moods.

Perhaps. Gareth conceded, But I fear that anything I write now would be too autobiographical. I don’t want to put too much of myself in the words.

Write what you know. Faren said, nodding and gripping her chin with a thumb and forefinger in a stance of philosophical meandering.

That’s probably a problem. Gareth lamented, but offering a weak smile to Faren. He never wanted to discount her attempts at encouragement, although sometimes it felt futile, I actually don’t know all that much. Fire has been in my life for so long, I don’t know much else. And without work, I feel that if I lose touch with the Fire, that I won’t have much at all.

There’s not much work you can do with fire these days. Faren conceded, Not unless you get into doing some street performance. She said with a teasing tone, knowing that such theatre wasn’t Gareth’s cup of mead.

He shrugged back at her, trying to find a punchline to counter her tease, but his mind conjured naught.

How long until your performance at the Bardery? Gareth asked, pivoting the topic elsewhere.

Not for a few more weeks. She replied, turning to walk back to the room in where the Eldritch panel beckoned. Gareth followed behind.

Do you feel prepared? Gareth asked Faren’s back.

I think so, Faren replied, but my skills have always been in improvisation and dealing with things as they happen, you know? She flopped down onto the deep sofa, retrieving a tumbler of brew from a side table before resuming her viewing position in front of her screen. She snorted with amusement as someone on the large panel performed a quick trick before stumbling a little, the water droplets they had conjured falling to drench them.

So you’ve got a bit of free time, then? Gareth asked. He didn’t mean to make the question seem accusatory, but the tone of the sentence reverberated around his ears, and he immediately felt regret. Faren had never been one to read ill-intent into any phrase, unless she was certain that there was malice. She was good at reading people.

A bit, I guess. Why? She asked.

No reason. Gareth replied dishonestly. There was reason behind his asking, but the thought of burdening Faren with his musings and errant thinking made him uncomfortable. He’d probably had too much brew, and the walk had done nothing to dispel the effects of the drink.

What? Faren probed, dissatisfied with his answer.

There was a pause as Gareth tried to wrangle his thoughts through the fog of his mind in order to align them into something that could be considered a cogent thought. He looked to the ceiling, as though the answer were etched into the timber beams that held the roof aloft. The uncomfortable sentence in his head was there, but there was little way to properly deliver it.

So he said it.

What if we fail? He asked.

Faren looked at him in curiosity, a single eyebrow curling upward in a subtle tweak.

What we’re doing. Gareth explained, It’s against our training and against our lineage. We’re both preparing ourselves to do something in which success is rare, and the fallback position is nothing. We’re grooming skills in something that has no value until it is successful, and that time may never come.

Well, that’s what the Royal stipend is for. Faren informed.

Everyone gets that stipend. Gareth said, It’s done nothing but flood the streets with performers who have too high a regard for their ability.

Faren recoiled with an exaggerated pull, Wow, harsh. She said, the tease obvious in her smile. She knew where this was coming from, as they had often both lamented that quality of performer did not necessarily run parallel with the level of that performer’s success. A lot of the time, the performer relied upon shock value to stand out, such as self-flaying of the skin by accident (with a priest on standby for healing) or saying things that were counter to the culture’s broad sensibilities. If the performer were really lazy, they’d just insult the Royals for a cheap laugh.

They both had outlined