The Wizard Of Trope: A Sinking World Novel

By S. Markem

Disaster! The mythological kind.
And it all started so innocently—capture a faerie princess for the local wizard. Standard stuff for any second rate adventurer. But... one thing leads to another, and now an entire city teeters on the brink of destruction!
The lives of thousands are in the balance, and their salvation falls to Blagre the Magnificent, a powerful wizard with a few—er— eccentricities, and his ragtag band of journeyman heroes. Ok, they may have caused the whole sorry business, but they’re determined to put things right again.
Join Blagre, Art, Lance, Susan, Paltrow and Princess Havfrue as they cavort across the (soon to be) sunken kingdoms of Europe in search of the elusive Beastie; the only thing that can save the city.
What a line up it is!
A story guaranteed to be free of child protégées, boy wizards, ‘chosen’ ones, halflings, lovesick vampires, conflicted assassins and dreary Catholics. Everything is—albeit narrowly—on the right side of cliché—oh, apart from a magic ring of course.
Tall tales of daring, magic, beer, monsters and faerie logic fill the pages of this novel—and mercifully, there’s no poetry you need to skip past. An affectionate romp through the very best fantasy tropes— with a pinch of parody and a sprinkling of satire.A story for everyone who loves classic fantasy and wildly inaccurate historical fiction. So, come on in and meet your new friends. Welcome to Trope. Everyone is drinking beer and you, dear purchaser-of-this-novel, are picking up the tab.

• Language: English
• Publisher: S. Markem
• Release date: Dec 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781916288379

S. Markem

S. Markem is a writer, programmer, professional procrastinator and author of the new humorous fantasy series, The Wizard Of Trope.After a long time in the trenches as a technologist, Markem has spent the last few years crafting a collection of novels, each with a wry, affectionate and occasionally dark sense of humour. His most recent works take place in The Sinking World fantasy setting, but he’s also authored Wage Slaves: Pat Parker’s Fairytales From The Workplace, and the dark comedy, The Murderpreneur.Markem lives in the southwest of England, and is a lover of walking dogs, drinking beer and taking naps (usually in that order). He has a pathological fear of commas, as every reader or writer should.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

It Always Starts With A Ring

EUROPE— THE MIDDLE Ages.

After the real King Arthur but before the made-up one.

***

Everyone was dismayed.

‘What disaster can have befallen the city?’ said the wizard. ‘We have only been gone a few days.’

‘It’s awful,’ said Lance, the warrior, ‘who can have done such a thing?’

‘Wizards?’ said Susan, the priestess, grabbing the last flask of wine from the pony. ‘Who else could it be?’

‘Oh bloody hell,’ said Art L’Wart, gentleman adventurer, as he fiddled with his moustache. ‘Twenty years and no one finds the Questin’ Beastie, and then three come along at once!’

He pointed to a hill, some way off in the distance, that rose out of a forest. ‘I suspect they have something to do with it.’

Right, that’s the obligatory foreshadowing out of the way, We’ll come back to that later…

Dear Reader-Of-This-Tale, I think you would like Trope, the second largest settlement in Lethowsow.i Most, who visited, did.

Lethowsow (where our story is set, mostly), had that charming air of pleasant poverty, rural idioms, faerie magic and wild historical inaccuracy that people seem to appreciate.

It, Lyonesse, Brittany and to a lesser degree Cornwall were all that remained of the truly Pagan peoples. The Catholics had gobbled up the rest.

Beer was the second most important thing in life, and because of this borderline addiction, the good folks of the island enjoyed pleasant and relatively trouble-free existences.

There was food and work for all; there were no deadlines; the weather was always seasonally mild, and there was no typhus, plague, smallpox, gonorrhoea, syphilis or even crabs.

In fact, the complete lack of venereal diseases, combined with the absence of any church, meant that people had a great deal of fun and were, generally speaking, well-adjusted.

Being a feudal society meant, of course, that there were fabulously rich people in Lethowsow who were in charge of the common folk; the usual medieval celebrity roster of barons, lords, dukes and the odd king or queen. These overpaid, oversexed overlords filled their leisure time doing useful things like building castles, training troops, buying obscure art, holding festivals and digging large underground tunnels to carry people’s shit away, and so, on the whole, nobody begrudged them their privilege.

But in this regard the Town of Trope was unusual. There were no barons, no dukes, no defensive walls, no moat, and there was little in the way of what you might call an army. You may wonder how such a town maintained its safety? The simplistic and rather unsatisfying answer was: magic.

Magic, and the happy accident that it was located on a plateau nestled (conveniently) against imposing mountains (the impenetrable kind, of course). There was only one way up, and that was a winding road that led right through the middle of the plateau and into the centre of the town. At the entrance to the town stood a handful of guards, who ate apples, played cards and enjoyed their job thoroughly. Trope was easy to defend. What the master-at-arms referred to as, a doddle.

The road itself was barely one cart wide with sheer cliffs to each side. A handful of men could hold up a small army, especially if they chose to bring down the iron portcullis that straddled the entrance.

All in all, it was pretty solid. And of course, as previously noted, there was magic.

It’s also fair to say that Lethowsow (and thereby Trope) was pretty peaceful by medieval standards. War was an uncommon thing due, in part, to the unbalancing and unpredictable nature of wizardry. Magic was the weapon of mass destruction of its day. You never quite knew what the other fella might have up his sleeve, and as a result, the various barons and lords avoided picking outright fights with each other.

Faerie magic, scientific magic and entirely mythological magic were in great abundance, as were all manner of strange, wonderful and unpredictable creatures. As you might imagine, therefore, (and rather conveniently for this novel), adventuring types were enjoying a real renaissance period, a kind of golden age.

And that’s enough history for now— let’s get on with it.

There was no castle in Trope. Instead, Trope had an inn, The Green Pixie Tavern—right in the middle, situated atop a motte.

By the standards of the day, it was a whopper. One hundred people could stand along the length of the bar and still have enough room to enjoy their beer without fear of spillage from stray elbows, pushy customers or drunken dwarves.

There were over fifty rooms jammed into the higgledy-piggledy building, and for the most part, they remained in constant occupation. A wide range of beers, produced locally, lined the back-bar, and a huge sign across the top guaranteed:

No magic is used in the making of this beer.

A well-known fiction that everyone was happy to buy into.

The landlord of this popular hostelry and also the self-appointed Ruler of Trope was a wizard called Blagreii. He was a popular ruler and an even more popular landlord, and he was, without doubt, the tavern’s best patron. He was well known for his hospitality and equally well known for never refusing a drink. I should imagine both you and I would enjoy his company. He was never drunk of course because… well, magic.

Yes, Trope was a haven. A haven for adventurers and a haven for procrastinators.

It’s also fair to say that Blagre was a wizard who was more than a few slates short of a roof. He held some strange beliefs and was, in many ways, an example of medieval thinking at its finest.

He felt certain he knew the exact date of his own demise (and it was destined to be a Thursday afternoon), he was utterly convinced the earth was shaped like a chicken leg and, after years of pondering the matter, he had come to believe that he was a character in a novel... and so was everyone else.

Another of his fancies was that due to his advancing years (he was forty-sixiii) he decided it was time to retire and (having no relatives) he would divest of his wealth by trial— thus ensuring the appropriate distribution according to logiciv.

A brave adventurer could lay claim to any magical item that Blagre might possess on condition that they must complete some quest, adventure or household chore of his choosing. It was a pretty thin premise by his own admission, but straightforward swashbuckling stuff none-the-less and, as you can imagine, this attracted a certain type of visitor to Trope.

On this particular day, the person in question was a likely lad called Art L’Wart, a minstrel of sorts, a bit of a thief, a devil with a rapier and most certainly an adventuresome chap…a borderline cliché. He was a man of modest stature, but handsome-ish with short dark hair and a thick moustache of which he was extremely proud. Not a young man by any stretch, but still just about dodging middle-age.

The wizard listened to petitions in the morning (afternoons were reserved for drinking) and on this particular morning, Art L’Wart was waiting for his turn.

He sat on a small wooden stool, alongside half a dozen other adventurous types, outside the wizard’s office. A gnome, a small fellow with a perma-smile and a green jacket, came out from the office; he was leading a young woman by the arm. She was upset and he offered her a handkerchief.

‘There, there, my dear— don’t cry. Side effects are not unheard of. I’m sure it will clear up by itself. Try not to scratch. Next?’ he cried. ‘Art L’Wart of Ys?’

‘Here!’

‘Come this way then, lad. Follow me. Good trip?’

‘Weather was terrible. Got stuck behind a caravan coming up the hill.’

‘They really should widen that entrance,’ said the gnome.

He was shown to a chair in Blagre’s office. He sat down and waited for the wizard to arrive. He expected to see all manner of wizardly trappings—scrolls, books, a messy desk, perhaps even a gargoyle—however, the room looked suspiciously like a broom cupboard, minus any brooms.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Blagre, who appeared in an instant behind the desk. He was a tallish man, in good shape for his age with a long beard and a balding head. He wore a simple, green tunic with tan coloured breeches and a leather overcoat that looked as if it was intended for a man about to go fly fishing. Keen eyes sparkled as they looked at Art.

Art said, ‘Good morning, sir. It is an honour to meet you. I have heard much about The Blagre.’

‘It’s just Blagre.’

‘Beg pardon?’

The wizard frowned. ‘My name, sir, is Blagre— just Blagre. The adjective is erroneous.’

‘ THE is an adjective?’

‘Um… Let’s not get into that, shall we? Grammar is a tedious subject at best.’

Blagre said (aside): ‘Dear reader, I do hate a pedant. I hate pedants almost as much as I hate being called THE Blagre.’

Art stared at the wizard— scratched his chin— looked around— opened his mouth to speak— and then, thinking better of it, closed it again.

‘Now,’ continued Blagre, ‘what brings you to me today? I assume you have come to Quest?’

‘I have, sir.’

‘Pray tell?’

‘Well, I am led to believe that er, Blagre, that is to say you, sir, have in your possession a Ring of Invisibility, handed down from the ancient elven smiths from a time when—’

‘Ah yes, the old ROI What of it?’

‘Well, sir, I should like to obtain this item and would have you present the terms for its acquisition.’

Blagre said (aside): ‘My dear reader, you may be interested to know that from a statistical point of view, the Ring of Invisibility is the second most requested item from my collection. Very popular, and let’s face it, it’s pretty nifty. The only snag is I can’t find the damn thing. I put it down somewhere but… well, it’s invisible, you see. Bathos, I’m sure you’ll agree.’

Art scratched his chin again, looked around the room, and raised an eyebrow, ‘Who… Er… The ring is available?’

‘Yes, yes, a fine choice, sir,’ said Blagre, ‘but of all the things you might ask for, are you sure this is the item you want?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘There is Gideon’s Horn of Disruption, said to be capable of razing a whole castle with one blast.’

‘Quite sure, thank you.’

‘The Giant’s Belt! A fine device that might make you as strong as, um, well, a giant. One size fits all, magic, you know.’

‘No, I still think the ring is the thing.’

‘Enchanted stones. Everyone loves enchanted stones. Useful for all sorts of cunning magic. I’m happy to do three of those at a time!’

‘Nope.’

‘Potions of floating, pack of six? Drink one, and you can hover three feet above the ground for a full half-hour.’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘Rod of Litigations, then? It has a crystal handle and gold inlay. Handy in perilous cases of divorce and other such matters.’

Art thought for a moment, ‘Tempting… but no.’

‘Confound it, but what is it with that damned ring? Did you know that statistically speaking—’

‘Sir, I have my mind set. After all, what could be better than invisibility? Even a fool could dream up a hundred ways in which they might make their fortune!’

‘It has its drawbacks.’

‘Really?’ said Art, unconvinced.

‘It doesn’t make you silent, you know.’

‘I know. I will take care to be quiet.’

‘Or odour free? They can still smell you. That catches everyone out, I can tell you.’

‘Then I shall avoid strong perfume.’

‘Gak. Very well then. If it is the ring you want, then the ring you shall have… if, of course, you are able to complete my task.’

‘Ask away, sir Blagre. Dragons, demons, imps, laundry— it’s all the same to me, although I’d prefer to skip the laundry if possible.’

Blagre got up and went over to a small bureau in the corner of the room. He turned his back to Art.

‘What is that noise?’ said Art, craning his neck.

‘Just a moment, good sir.’

‘What on earth are you doing? Are you… are you rolling dice?’

‘Um. What of it?’

‘You are deciding my fate with dice?’

‘It is a perfectly reasonable way to do it. I am assured this method dates back to Troy. You object?’

‘It seems somewhat arbitrary, and not an especially good joke. Surely a good quest should befit the prize, be relevant somehow, is that not the usual way of things?’

‘Hmph, Very well then. Very well.’

Blagre said (aside): ‘Dear reader, you should try and come up with this nonsense day after day! It’s hard to avoid rehashing.’

Art squinted. ‘Who are you…? Oh, it doesn’t matter. Carry on.’

Blagre cleared his throat. ‘In return for the ring, which makes the wearer invisible, but not silent and certainly not odourless, just to be sure we are entirely clear on that point…’ he squinted at Art. ‘In return for this ring, you must capture the Faerie Princess Havfrue! Preferably in a bottle, although any appropriate receptacle will suffice.’

‘Very well,’ said Art, ‘that sounds reasonable. Is that all?’

‘Um… Yup, that’s all. Any questions?’

‘Where do I find her?’

‘The Forest of Versalle, naturally, where all the good faerie folk are to be found.’

‘The forest is rather large. Can you not be more specific?’

‘You could do worse than the Kingdom of Trippety Lea.’

Blagre said (aside): ‘Dear reader, why does that place sound so familiar? I have a suspicion the forest was appropriated from another novel— but it is a good name. I suppose it’s what they call homage.’

‘And pray tell, how will I recognise her?’

Blagre muttered (aside): ‘Oh good grief, at this rate I may as well catch her myself.’

‘’Tis simple enough. All the other faerie princesses in Trippety Lea are visible, she, however, is not.’

Art sucked his teeth and drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Very well, I can see where this is heading, I will take my leave. Do we sign something, to seal the bargain?’

‘I fear we must.’ Blagre fetched a scroll from a nearby shelf. ‘Put your name here, here and here. Initials just there, and there.’

Art signed the document and wrote, ‘RING OF INVISIBILITY’ in the space provided. ‘I will be off then!’ he announced.

‘As you will. Come to me before the week is out.’

‘Beg pardon?’

‘You have a week. There is a time limit to these contracts. You are not the only one interested in the ring. I can’t keep it on hold indefinitely. Did I mention that statistically it’s—’

‘Yes, yes, very well. It will not take me a week in any case. Farewell,’ and taking his scroll with him, Art L’Wart left the room.

Blagre said (aside): ‘Not especially inspired thus far, is it? However, the author seems fond of this sort of stuff, and who am I, to question it?’

Blagre put on his cap and headed out.

‘No more quests today, Bill,’ he said to his gnome, ‘please reschedule as best you can.’

CHAPTER TWO

Away With The Faeries

ART L’WART LEFT the Green Pixie Tavern feeling pretty pleased with himself. He had enjoyed a few beers (for breakfast), and his confidence was sky-high. What he had omitted to mention to Blagre was that a good friend of his, Lance, had attempted the exact same mission only a few weeks before.

Lance had failed in his attempt, and the unkindly faerie princess turned him into a tree stump for a full year, with no possibility of time off for good behaviour. Lance had, however, given Art what charioteers referred to as, the inside track and so between the two of them they were sure they had the ROI in the bag.

Art packed his belongings, his trusty rapier, his fine red leather tunic and his slightly foppish red hat and saddled his horse. It was a lovely day, bursting with sunshine.

He smiled; he knew exactly where he was going.

The edge of the Forest of Versalle was less than an hour’s ride from Trope, and he spurred his horse toward the business at hand. The way to enter Trippety Lea was well known to all. (Trope loved gossip, and such secrets were rarely kept for long). All one had to do was to go to the Standing Rock (it had fallen over a few centuries ago), ride around it three times, and then duck under the Old Willow. Art arrived at the rock. He wiped the sweat from his forehead.

‘Morning, Lance,’ he said.

‘Hullo, Art,’ replied a nearby tree stump, with a thick accent; an accent from the holy land.

‘How are you?’

‘Much the same as yesterday.’

‘Never mind old chap, the time will fly by. Plenty of naps, that’s the secret.’

‘Did you see the old man?’

‘I did, and in fact, I am on my way to capture the Princess Havfrue, as we speak.’

‘Good luck then! And remember what I said. Be careful. She’s a tricksy one, and no mistake.’

‘Do not worry about me, Lance,’ he laughed, ‘I do not fear trickery. I have been married five times.’

Lance shrugged, a difficult thing for a tree stump to do.

‘You were divorced five times as well,’ he said, quietly.

Art rode around the Standing Rock three times and then trotted under the Old Willow. As soon as he passed under its boughs, the world changed. Nothing changed position, nothing disappeared, nothing new appeared, but the colours were brighter, the wind still, and the noise of the forest more acute. He was in the Faerie Kingdom. He trotted along, whistling to himself and keeping an eye out for a suitable spot to enact his plan.

Eventually, he came to a clearing. It was bathed in warm sunlight that filtered through the leaves above, and down onto soft, undulating grass. There were fruit bushes, laurel, daffodils and daisies. Pretty blue dragonflies darted this way and that, and tempting mushrooms grew at the base of the trees. It was a perfect late summer scene (although it was actually the middle of spring).

He dismounted and settled himself against a nearby tree with the sunlight beaming onto his face. He nudged his cap forward to shield his eyes and arranged himself into a comfortable position. Perfect, he thought, a most faerie-like spot. He leaned back and waited.

As the sun drifted overhead and the shadow of the tree began to creep toward his boots, he peeped out from under his cap to see two small trolls pop out of a nearby raspberry bush. They were faerie trolls— bigger than a rat, but no taller than a rabbit— virtually naked, mostly hairless, snub-nosed, rotund— and decidedly ugly little cherubs. They were identical, but conveniently for the purposes of dialogue, one wore a little pair of red boots and the other had blue.

‘Hello there and good afternoon my little friends,’ said Art, ‘I am over here. I am sitting by the tree.’

‘Ooh. Hello. Hello,’ they both said.

‘Dearest friends, you are trolls of Trippety Lea, are you not?’

‘We are indeed,’ they both said.

‘Oh, how glad I am to have found you. Do not be alarmed, wait one moment.’

Art produced a small bag from his pocket. It contained flour. He proceeded to tip the flour over his head, covering himself in a dusting of white powder. ‘There, that is better, now you will be able to see me.’

The trolls looked at each other with puzzled expressions.

‘Do not be frightened,’ he continued. ‘Ahh, how I wish you could see my smiling, friendly face for then you would surely know that I am a man of good character.’

The trolls raised the parts of their faces that would have had eyebrows if, in fact, trolls had eyebrows.

‘I need your help, good friends,’ said Art, ‘I am hoping you know where I might find the Princess Havfrue? You see, I am afflicted with a terrible curse that renders me invisible to all, and I am led to believe that she can cure me.’

‘We cannot help you,’ said blue-boots, ‘for you are not Faerie.’

‘Can we not?’ said red-boots to blue-boots. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh, quite sure, dearest,’ replied blue-boots. ‘In fact, I am almost positive we should perform some distressful curse of our own. He is, after all, in Trippety Lea without formal invite!’

‘We know how to do curses?’ said