War of Flames

By James Dwyer

With their dying breath, the Prae’surlas would breathe glory to their god. But their god is dead, their usurper defeated, their sanctuary desecrated, and their homes burned beneath a demon’s flame. Godless and lost, the Prae’surlas are a broken people and they are about to be invaded by the Fureath’i hordes. The barbarians of Furea march with the sole desire to burn every last Prae’surlas to cinder and ash, but Surlas is a land of Demi-gods who stand ready to defend, Demi-gods such as the mad Iceborn: Frind’aal, the former Champion Above.
Griffil and Krife are in Mordengrav, far away from the Fureath’i war, and safe in the capital city of the great Mordec Empire; but the empire is not safe from them. Death and destruction follow these two thieves wherever they travel, having already brought ruin to Amidon City and the Thorann Web, and while it might appear that Krife and Griffil are only interested in hunting treasure and spending it on whores, there are powers in the Mordec Empire who know better than to allow these two to wander free.
And then there’s Lord Thisian Flameborn, who’s not allowed to wander anywhere anymore, free or otherwise. Enrolled within the Amalgamation of Sorcerers, Thisian feels he has become trapped in that damned tower, tricked into his situation by a sexy witch. Torn between trying to learn magical powers (which he’s already bloody got) and helping Zavi breach a new world of power (which he wants nothing the rut to do with), Thisian laments his old life as a Fureath’i, and almost considers adding his power to help with the war against Surlas. After all, he is an almighty Flameborn – possibly the most handsome and powerful one that’s ever existed. He’ll have to think about it though, and until then, someone else will just have to fight that flaming war for him. Maybe Frehep will do it; he never bloody does anything else.
The sun god sees you, Surlas, and he sees you burning in a war of flames.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Dwyer
• Release date: Dec 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463413487

James Dwyer

Born in the 80's, and lived the 90's, brothers James and Brendan Dwyer live in Cork and Dublin, Ireland.Cult Fiction is their first published novel.

Book preview

Exile

Frind’aal the Exile arrived at the Surlas border and dropped to his knees. He longed to taste the clean crispness of Surlas air, to take a single breath and lift him Higher, but he was forbidden to enter, so he would wait. He would kneel beside the Road of Five, by the ditch where melting snow was little more than muck, and he would wait as a Lower should. Another Prae’surlas would eventually come, and Frind’aal would beg them for mercy. He had no better plan, nor should he. He was an Exile. He was the Lowest among the Prae’surlas; almost as Low as a Fureath’i.

The comparison made Frind’aal drop his head further and he would not think back to the day when he had fallen. He would not think of the usurper who Exiled him. To give thought to that creature’s blasphemous name was to breathe to him a glory of which he had no claim. Even if the rumours were true, and the false god was dead, Frind’aal would not think his name. Even if what he had heard brought a soaring joy to Frind’aal’s heart and the usurper had indeed been killed, and by the Lowest of all beasts – a Fureath’i female – still, Frind’aal would wait. It was not his place to rejoice in the death of false gods. It was his place to kneel in the muck and wait.

The first travellers to come across Frind’aal were not journeying in the direction that he wished, and they were not Prae’surlas. A band of Foreigners, eleven of them – a hideous, unholy number – were raucously making their way by foot on the Road of Five. Their foul number, and their proximity to the border, was likely what gave them the audacity to appear so openly in Surlas lands. Frind’aal assumed they had not journeyed this brazenly all the way from the Chaos Gate. More likely they had scuttled and crept like filth-bathing insects, and only dared the road now because they thought they had already left Surlas behind. Frind’aal should chastise them for their transgression, but it was not his place.

It took surprisingly long for the first of them to see Frind’aal, and it took even longer for them to realise that he was not a corpse, frozen in place. All Frind’aal wished was for these parasites to leave him be.

‘What oh what do we have here, me laddies?’

Frind’aal did not look up to see which of the filth was speaking.

‘He looks like a northern hoar, but it’s hard to tell while he’s got all his blood on the inside. Who wants to kill him? Will we take turns?’ The Foreigners brayed with laughter and Frind’aal did not move.

‘Wait, wait, hold up. Doesn’t anyone else want to know what the rut he’s doing out here? Hey, hoar, why are you kneeling at the side of the road like that? Aren’t you worried some disreputable ruffians might do you harm?’ The animals once more honked and snorted with their obnoxious noises, and Frind’aal accepted the degradation of witnessing such a display.

‘Probably doesn’t speak king’s tongue. Any of you boys speak Rut-my-ass? None of you got friendly with your guards back in the cells?’

‘I speak Prae’surlas,’ one man grunted from the back.

‘Well ask him how much farther until Amidon City. And ask him why he’s kneeling there like that. And if he’s got any food or coin, and if he doesn’t mind me taking them both away from him, and those nice boots he’s wearing too.’

‘Just leave him be,’ another man growled. ‘Prae’surlas don’t talk to Foreigners, so stop wasting time and let’s keep moving. Don’t know many bloody years I was in that shit-hole Lae Noan, but I’m sure as rut not spending any more time out here in this snow.’

Frind’aal could understand their animal words fine, and the man was right when he informed the rest of the herd that Frind’aal would not speak to them. Neither was Frind’aal particularly concerned that these Foreigners might try to kill him, spearless as he was. Yet, try as he might, Frind’aal could not ignore them completely and he failed to refrain from reacting to those last spoken words.

It was true then. Lae Noan had been violated, and these criminals had been allowed to escape.

Frind’aal’s head lifted from where he knelt, and all eleven men jumped back in panic.

‘His bloody eyes!’

‘He’s a rutting Iceborn!’

‘Run!’

‘He’ll kill us if we run!’

‘He’ll kill us if we stay!’

Rather than attempt to argue the virtues of fleeing or remaining, several of the felons ran the instant they had seen Frind’aal’s spiral eyes. This spurred the others to follow them with haste and Frind’aal made no attempt stop them. Surlas was only elevated by their absence.

Their passing had not left Frind’aal unblemished however, and in recompense, he allowed himself a rare pleasure. The moon was visible today. The first quarter, floating proud against a cloudless sky; Frind’aal had felt its questing gaze regarding him all morning. It was not his place to lay eyes upon so High a glory, yet after tolerating the polluted presence of such beasts, Frind’aal felt he had earned this reward. So he lifted his eyes and a moment of peace was added to Frind’aal’s depths. Lowering his gaze again, Frind’aal could still feel that peace beneath, the cold comfort of its purity resting solid below his shame, ready to be released if ever such a day may be allowed.

Frind’aal had no further interruptions to his penance that day, and it was close to noon of the following day when he heard the cart approach. A respectable male sat in command, his clothes marking him as a farmer or a holder, and a younger male held the reins for the two Surlas ponies hauling the cart. The mounts looked of moderate stock, short and muscular, with a thick shag of hair to shield them from the snow. As soon Frind’aal identified the men as Prae’surlas, he stood up from his repentance and stepped onto the road to bar their way.

The older man gave no commands to slow or stop, and quite rightly it would be up to Frind’aal to move or be ridden down, but when Frind’aal did not move, the man must have given him a more thorough appraisal and the cart was called to a panicked halt. They could be forgiven for not recognising Frind’aal as a Prae’surlas sooner, since his head was shaven as an Exile’s should, so the purity of his blond hair was difficult to see. Also, Frind’aal was dressed in the tatters of a Foreigner, perhaps acceptable by their standards, but to a Prae’surlas they were abysmal rags.

Frind’aal did not raise his eyes, since it would not be right, yet by the man’s gasp, he must have seen.

‘My lord!’ the man cried, and both he and his son swiftly jumped down from their elevated position so that they could be Lower. Two more youths leapt out of the back of the cart to join them. ‘Forgive us! We did not see!’

If they had remained so disrespectfully positioned above a Demi-god, they would have been chastened. The boys would perhaps be killed to remind the man to be more attentive in the future. Frind’aal, on the other hand, was more inclined to kill the man for not apprehending how Frind’aal was dressed in rags, waiting in contrition outside Surlas as an obvious Exile. It should have been clear to even the Lowest of eyes. No matter.

‘I am not a lord, good master,’ Frind’aal patiently explained. ‘I am an Exile, as you can plainly see.’

The man and his sons were all bent double, their bows held at a precise half-moon as if that would have spared them, and much to Frind’aal’s disdain, they appeared not to have heard his generous warning.

‘Lord Frind’aal,’ the man said. ‘It draws joy from my deepest self to see you returned! With everything that we have heard, about Dowrathel and Aerath, and most sacred Lae Noan, to have you once more at our Highest … it is too much for words!’

Frind’aal thought about returning to his penance and waiting for someone more intelligent to arrive. His path would be difficult with this man, yet it had already been far too long since Frind’aal had walked it, and despite the impropriety of his address, the man’s words also held some truth. Their nation was in need of healing and Frind’aal wished to become one with that process of convalescence.

‘Good master,’ Frind’aal said calmly. ‘You are not to call me lord, and I will not remind you of this again. But neither can I remain as Exile. You will tell me of Dowrathel, and Lae Noan, but first, confirm to me from purer breath … has the false god truly been slain?’

The man remained bowed, yet looked up in his confusion. How Low must a man’s mind remain that he could not comprehend a simple fact? Did his father teach him nothing of what it meant to be Prae’surlas? Fortunately, the man at least seemed capable of answering a direct command.

‘Yes, my … ah, that is, Lord Aerath is dead.’

‘Good,’ Frind’aal said and closed his eyes to begin his path. When he opened them, he held his eyes Higher and signalled the four peasants to stand up straight. None of them were a match to Frind’aal’s height, so under other circumstances, they should not fear that they might stand above him. ‘Tell me your name.’

‘My name is Holder Solvej, my …’ he said, only just managing to trail off rather than finishing the false honorary.

‘Holder Solvej, my name is Frind’aal the Exile. You will take me as your slave,’ Frind’aal commanded. ‘And you will instruct me to enter Surlas, rightfully, as my Higher. However, as you know, as an Exile I had no right to address you, so it is now imperative that I be punished as soon as possible, at your convenience.’

To Frind’aal, those instructions could not have been made any plainer. He had in fact spoken in a deliberate and almost obtuse manner, since he appeared to be dealing with some manner of functioning idiot. And still, at those words, Holder Solvej just stood gaping like a startled goat and seemed to find it difficult to breathe. It was only the prospect of being moments away from breathing pure Surlas air that allowed Frind’aal to tolerate this man’s simple mind for another instant.

‘You will return to your cart and I will travel by foot at your side. We will return to your holding, and as we travel you will tell me all that has befallen our beloved nation during my Exile. But you will treat me as a slave should be treated, and if I decide you are being too lenient in your treatment, I will be greatly displeased.’

‘Yes … ah…’

‘Slave Frind’aal,’ the Iceborn corrected for his master.

‘Of course, as you say,’ Holder Solvej agreed, yet refused to say the words. He did begin a nervous climb back into his cart though and that would have to be enough.

Now elevated from Exile, Frind’aal felt comfortable to look upon the man anew and assess his worth. Holder Solvej was short, barely over six feet in height, and he was fat, Frind’aal spotting the slightest bulge from beneath the man’s grey woollen tunic. He wore a trim of black fur around his head, but Frind’aal could see that the man’s hair was not braided, and neither was his beard. Frind’aal the Slave was not impressed.

‘What are you waiting for!’ Frind’aal demanded.

‘Yes, ah, of course. Unnur, go!’ Solvej told his son, and although the boy seemed just as dazed, he managed to whip the horses forward and Frind’aal followed.

‘A slave should not be allowed to speak to his master so,’ Frind’aal said absently as he took his first steps into glorious Surlas. He heard Holder Solvej mutter something about of course beating him later, but Frind’aal was not listening. The man would break his hands trying to strike Frind’aal’s flesh, yet the beating must take place. Frind’aal gave it little thought. He was already lost within his first pure breaths of Surlas glory.

There was no outward difference in his surroundings, yet Frind’aal could feel it as deeply as if he had been plunged into a lake of ice. The welcome of the land felt different than how he had remembered, but Frind’aal would contemplate on that at a later time. Right now, he had taken his first step to becoming Higher and there were many more that he intended to take. Yesterday he was an Exile, but today, the Iceborn Frind’aal, the former Champion Above, the Demi-god who had known no equal until his humbling by the false god, had just risen to become a slave.

Frind’aal the Slave took another deep breath of Surlas air, and it made him feel … glorious.

Chapter Two

Rutting Magic

Being a magician was bloody boring.

Now, this profound statement was not one which Thisian made lightly either, lashing out in his frustration to do something (anything!). No, this was an unavoidable conclusion, painfully reasoned through long hours of excruciating work. In fact, every moment of every hour when someone tried to teach him magic, Thisian attentively dedicated that time into reinforcing his argument that being a magician was bloody useless and rutting boring. He also liked to think that he made this sage-like proclamation from a position of considerable wisdom and experience. He had, after all, been forced to suffer through numerous acts of extreme tedium during his long and handsome life, and being a magician was easily the most tedious.

‘Thisian, you’re not concentrating.’

‘I am concentrating. I’m concentrating on how there’s nothing to bloody concentrate on,’ Thisian muttered back. ‘Can’t you just put me under a spell to make me concentrate?’ She never put him under bewitching spells anymore, or at least, he thought she didn’t.

‘No, Thisian. Now try again.’

Thisian mimicked Zavi’s words to mock her infuriatingly calm voice, and had to risk a swift opening of his eyes to make sure she hadn’t seen him do it. Her eyes were still closed, as his were supposed to be, so she hadn’t caught him, and thank rut for that. She could find surprisingly imaginative punishments for Thisian when he merited the need, and as depraved as Thisian was, he would freely admit that he enjoyed very few of those decadent punishments. Well, maybe not very few, but he absolutely didn’t take enjoyment from all of them. There was at least one that he would never do again. Twice was more than enough.

‘You’re still not concentrating.’

How did she bloody know? Thisian peeped one eye open again to make sure she wasn’t cheating, but Zavi’s eyes were still firmly closed. She was sitting across from him on the floor, her legs folded beneath her and her tiny purple skirt somehow managing to cover an obscene amount of bare skin. She wasn’t wearing her stockings or boots though, and Thisian found himself staring at her beautiful pink feet. He had never really obsessed about feet before he met her; it had always been hands. But he loved Zavi’s feet beyond all reasonable desire. Damn sorceress. She was clearly bewitching him.

‘Thisian?’

His head snapped back up to hers, but her eyes still weren’t open. The closed lids displayed her eyelashes to stunning perfection, and her heart-shaped face was as serene as ever. Her raven hair caressed the skin of her jaw as always, her plump red lips parted slightly...

‘Yes?’ he asked.

‘Stop fantasizing about my feet.’

How did she rutting know? Thisian thought about protesting his innocence and then gave up. ‘But this is so bloody boring! Can’t we at least do this naked?’

Zavi finally opened her eyes and gave him a level stare. Those eyes were so big, so brown, and so beautiful. Frehep’s balls, he loved Zavi’s eyes.

‘You are doing this naked, Thisian.’

Thisian looked down at his unclothed body and nodded with approval. As usual, he and his cock were having the same great idea.

‘Yes, but wouldn’t it better if we were both doing this naked?’

‘If we were both naked, then I somehow doubt that this is what we’d be doing.’

She smiled at him, but for some damn reason, she wasn’t taking off her clothes. And, to make matters worse, she was also behaving as if she wasn’t impressed at all by his wildly impressive nakedness. Zavi closed her eyes again and resumed the nothing they had just agreed to stop doing. Part of him understood how Zavi felt that nothing was more important than what they were currently doing, but the rest of him had absolutely no idea what exactly he was doing, apart from sitting still and being quiet, and how often in Thisian’s life must people insist that he do that?

Zavi did try to explain it. On many occasions, she had chattered on in great detail about how she wished to form a connection to his Connection, even though she wasn’t hoping to become a mighty Lord Flameborn or anything so grand. Apparently, all Zavi needed was to use the path of that Connection to find all the other paths that may be available, and then, once she had located the correct route, all she had to do was open the door. Easy. So Thisian’s job was to try opening his Connection to allow her inside and use all his energy to concentrate on that. What she neglected to say, of course, was how the rut he was supposed to concentrate on doing something that he had no idea how to do!

It was no good. The provocative sight of Zavi’s bare feet was just too distracting for Thisian, and since Zavi currently had no intention of distracting him from this distraction, Thisian would just have to go back to that Fantaven House in Amidon City. Not physically though, good gods Zavi would kill him, but mentally he was going to have to spend the rest of this ritual back in that wonderful room.

The two fire-haired women had been first, and then Thisian had asked for all the others, of every skin and hair colour that fine establishment could provide. Thisian was a man comfortable enough in his own masculinity to freely admit that he had been a bit overwhelmed. He had only so many hands, mouths, and cocks, after all. But those women had been professionals. They knew that even if he wasn’t touching them, he’d still enjoy watching them touch each other, and burn his balls but he’d enjoyed it. He enjoyed it all over their—

‘You’re thinking about whores again,’ Zavi said with a sigh.

Thisian snapped back to the present and offered her a guilty smile.

‘Zavi, my love, you know you’re the only whore for me.’

Zavi fought valiantly for a moment and then broke down into a tired laugh. Thisian watched her as she took a patient breath and massaged her eyes before sparkling them at Thisian.

‘My name in the Amalgamation is Fia, remember. And I’m not sure you grasp the importance of what we’re doing here.’ Zavi stood up, and Thisian eagerly joined her, happy to be finished. He knew he was supposed to use her sister’s name, but sometimes he forgot. It was a flaming weird and confusing situation after all, that somewhere out there her sister Fia was wearing Zavi’s body, while Zavi wore Fia’s.

‘When I say I’m building a connection to your Connection, Thisian, you do realise it begins with a pathway into your heart. Every part of you is Connected to the world of power, not just your body or your magic, but also your mind, your soul, your thoughts, and your feelings – although maybe I’m being too generous by saying feelings, since you only ever seem to have one, and I’m not even sure if perpetual arousal even counts as an emotion.’

In what world was arousal not an emotion? If anything, it was the king of emotions. It was the feeling that inspired a whole nation of other feelings to obey its bidding. Now, what was that other thing she said?

‘Wait, you were inside my thoughts?’ Thisian was horrified. Not at the intrusion but at what the poor girl might have witnessed. That scene in the Fantaven House had disturbed even Thisian and he was an absolute scoundrel.

‘Yes, Thisian, I’ve explained this to you already.’

‘So … you were able to see what I was thinking?’

‘Not see, no.’

Frehep’s balls, thank rut for that!

‘But I could feel what you were feeling, and hear what you were thinking.’ Zavi curled her lips down in distaste. ‘And I think I need a bath.’

Thisian was an intelligent man, tall and muscular too, but definitely intelligent. And he knew Zavi wanted his company in that bath right now about as much as she wanted a horse to piss on her face. But Thisian was also an optimistic man, and a devout warrior-priest of Di Thorel, the god of fortune. Or did he change his mind about that? He couldn’t remember. Either way, Thisian was a true believer in the age-old saying: If you don’t ask for sex; you can’t bloody get sex, can you.

‘Well, my lady, may I humbly suggest—’

‘No, you may not,’ she said and threw his clothes at him. ‘I have a day full of meetings ahead of me to support my candidacy, and you have your lessons with Rootla to attend.’

Thisian collapsed into despair and threw his head back in soul-screeching woe. ‘Not Rutla! Please, don’t make me spend any more time with that strange bastard. He talks weird and he’s always touching my hair and my face and I hate him!’

Zavi sat down on their apartment bed and began slowly slipping her legs into white thigh-high stockings. She had to be bloody doing that on purpose. There was absolutely no need to put those on in such a damned sexy way, and she was far too sneaky and clever not to know how much she would unman Thisian with a move like that. But this was one time when Thisian was not going to be swayed. He was bloody sick of Rootla. No more!

‘Need I remind you, Thisian, of the risks I took to have you accepted into the Amalgamation of Sorcerers after you were previously arrested and convicted of treason against this tower.’

‘How could it be treason when—?’

‘After you colluded in allowing the infiltration of the assassin Valhar into our halls.’

‘I had nothing to bloody do with—!’

‘And after you personally destroyed the Thorann Web, unleashing countless armies to attack our walls, and decimating our main source of power by which to defend ourselves.’

Thisian took a breath.

Zavi had finished lacing her little ankle boots, and she purposefully crossed her legs away from Thisian so he could see nearly all of one thigh, the bare flesh grinning at him from between the white stocking and the purple skirt. Her hands were placed stoically on top of her lap and she was waiting for Thisian to respond. He certainly had a few responses he could bloody well give, like how Zavi was the one who told him to destroy the Thorann Web, and how Valhar had come for that shitting Wolf Mask, and how Krife and Griffil were the sheep-rutters who got him arrested, but she already knew all of that. So maybe this was some new game. Maybe she was trying a new spell on him, to see if she could make him believe things that weren’t true, or maybe this was her way of telling Thisian that the other sorcerers might be listening.

Thisian let his clothes drop to the floor and knelt down by Zavi’s legs. He never felt quite right during other times, and he didn’t want to force the words either, but there were things that he needed to say. Thisian took Zavi’s hands and held her eyes.

‘Fia,’ he said. ‘I appreciate everything you have done for me, but most of all for simply being in my life. You are all I have in the world, but you are also everything I want or need. I love you, and I never want you to doubt that.’

Thisian was surprised to see moisture glistening in Zavi’s eyes, and he felt more relieved than overjoyed. Zavi being moved with genuine emotion let Thisian relax some of his paranoia that everything he had said or thought for these past weeks was all part of some sorcerer’s spell. She lifted her hands to his face and leaned forward to kiss him. Her lips were soft and wet, and her tongue slipped into Thisian’s mouth with delicious ease. Thisian passionately kissed her back and began to ease her down to the bed.

‘No!’ Zavi said and rolled away.

Most of Thisian’s body parts dropped with disappointment. ‘I thought we were having a beautiful moment? Shouldn’t we celebrate our love with some thorough love-making?’

‘We were, we should, and we will,’ she conceded. ‘But not now. I know how thorough you can be, and neither of us has that kind of time. Your tutelage by Rootla was part of the concession to allow you admittance by the High Sorcerers, and don’t forget that your behaviour reflects on my chances of filling that empty seat.’

‘I still can’t believe Amadis killed poor Hane.’

‘Lahr,’ Zavi corrected. ‘Hane just pretended to look like Lahr, remember? And you must tell me more about your travels with that devious cur sometime, but when we’ll have that time, who knows.’

Thisian nodded glumly. With the death of the High Sorcerer Lahr, the entire Amalgamation was in a tizzy about who should be elected to replace him. Zavi felt that this was not an opportunity she could waste, especially since she seemed to be making no progress towards finding her new path of power through Thisian. He knew he should be trying harder to help Zavi with that, so she wouldn’t suddenly change her mind and just get rid of him, and on a lesser thought he should probably be trying harder to succeed at becoming a magicker as well, so the Amalgamation wouldn’t change their mind and get rid of him too. But helping Zavi came first.

The entire basis of destroying the Thorann Web had been so she could find the new paths of magic, and that the High Sorcerers would have no choice but to support her studies, yet so far they had shown very little interest. They were more concerned with choosing a new High Sorcerer first, oh and also dealing with all the ceaseless attacks from the Thorann Web that bombarded them every single day. It was almost a blessing that Amadis had decided to barge his way in and murder a whole load of people because it forced the Amalgamation to boost their defences just in time for the Ruling Pieces of the Thorann Web to begin their assaults.

So, when Zavi wasn’t out helping to defend the tower from relentless attacks, she was busy securing political alliances to support her candidacy as the next High Sorcerer. She didn’t think her chances were great, since she was still too new – or more correctly, her current body was – but that didn’t mean Zavi wouldn’t do everything in her power to make sure she won. And this meant that what little free time Zavi did have, she spent pursuing her passion (entering Thisian’s Connection to the world of power) or allowing Thisian to pursue his passion (entering Zavi).

Accepting defeat for now, Thisian reluctantly began to put on his Neophyte robes. Zavi smiled at him as he decked himself in his degrading white, and she gave Thisian one last kiss.

‘I thought you were taking a bath?’ he asked her as she headed for the door.

‘I can wait until tonight and we can take one together,’ she said and blew him another kiss with her fingers. And then, like magic, she was gone.

Thisian continued getting dressed, but he did so slowly, trying to use that time to think up some brilliant excuse to avoid going to his lessons with that strange rut Rootla. In the end, Thisian decided it would be best for Zavi if he behaved himself, and it had nothing at all to do with not being able to think of an ingenious way out.

He would just have to go to his lessons with weird bastard Rootla, but burn his balls did Thisian hate that guy!

Chapter Three

Lord of Power

‘I hate you, Rootla … so much.’

Thisian watched Rootla’s injured reaction to those words, hoping that perhaps his perpetual hand waggling might cease for a moment, but if anything they became more animated. Putting on his best strange bastard voice, Thisian continued the conversation.

‘Oh, yes, well, I see. Do you see, Rootla? Hmm, oh of course I do. Should you ask him, Rootla? Ah, very good, could you, perhaps, tell me, what it is, you hate?’

The woman Rootla was speaking to lowered her head to contemplate her response. She was wearing the over-large white robes that all Neophytes were forced to wear, and she had her hood pulled mysteriously low as commanded. When she lifted her head, Thisian resumed his husky feminine mimicry.

‘There is so much to hate, Rootla. Please don’t make me choose just one! But if I must … then I think what I hate the most is your … stupid face. You look like you have been stuffed up a whore’s arse for a year, and not in a good way. It must be why your face is so pale and your hair is so dark. Perhaps you should wash?’

Rootla nodded and pressed his hands together with solemn regard.

‘I cannot. No? No. Ah, because then they would see, Rootla. Yes, they would. They would see that Rootla, in fact, has no hair! None. So that black stuff on your head? Yes. Ah. It is shit.’

The Neophyte woman nodded again, perhaps to vomit down the front of her robes, and then she left. She had started in the direction Thisian was standing, but upon seeing him she nimbly found another path to follow. Luckily, Thisian’s feelings were too handsome to be easily hurt. Zavi had explained how he made the other Neophytes uncomfortable. She thought it was because of all that treason-Valhar-Web-destruction business, but Thisian knew better. It was because he was Powerborn, a mighty god of flame and power, a lord of all he beheld, and these Neophytes were simply fearful of being so spectacularly beholden.

His usual amusement and satisfaction – which Thisian proudly felt after each successfully mimed conversation – was diminished slightly by the reminder of how much he was truly shunned within this tower, and then it withered up and died completely as Rootla spotted him and began assaulting Thisian with his awful voice.

‘Ah, Thisian, yes, you are here. He is here. You should have your hood in place. His hood is down, Rootla. Yes, again. Alas. Come.’ Rootla’s real voice, if anything, was even more irritating than Thisian’s mockery of it. The weird magician waggled his hands to indicate that Thisian should hurry, and then he disappeared back inside his study.

Thisian threw his head back and once again tried to drown himself in despair; anything to get out of spending time with Rootla.

‘What do you say, Frehep? If I dedicate myself back to you would you burn this strange bastard’s balls off?’

The god of the sun and fire deemed not to respond, but Thisian could tell he was thinking about it. That would have to be enough for now, so Thisian trudged down the remainder of the corridor to meet his doom. He hated the white robes he was made to wear because they always caught against his feet and made him bloody trip. Most outrageous of all though was that he was expected to keep the robe’s filthy white hood in place at all times, to criminally cover his magnificent hair and face. These people were obscene.

Thisian sauntered into Rootla’s study and did his best to ignore all the bizarre goings-on. The chamber was filled with tables and benches and shelves of every kind, and those in turn were filled with potions of every colour, books of every size, and peculiarities of every conceivably odd creation. There was always something bubbling or smoking in one of the damned corners, emitting some foul variation on the odour of burned vomit, and there was also an unavoidable cloud of multi-coloured steam that liked to drift around the bloody room, and it always, always, left a flaming stain on Thisian’s robes. Zavi killed him every time he returned to their rooms destroyed in some dubious blemish, and lectured him on how Neophytes were supposed to tend to their own garments and keep everything in pristine condition. Fortunately, her particular abilities were able to banish such stains with magical ease, but even if they weren’t, it was her own bloody fault that he got this way. She was the flaming reason he was doing all of this.

‘Ah, Thisian,’ Rootla said again, but with his back turned to him, busy fumbling with some trinket or another. ‘Thisian will put his hood up. Yes. Very good. And he will begin with the sands. Yes, Thisian, if you will, please begin with the sands. Rootla must just finish this. Yes, and I will be with you then. Very good.’

‘That’s Lord Thisian,’ he muttered to the man, grudingly moving to find the rutting sands, but not before he threw Rootla one more baleful look. Rootla didn’t have to wear his bloody hood in place, even though Thisian wished to all the flaming gods that he would, anything to hide the man’s short, fat, pale, and abominable visage from everyone’s view. The strange bastard’s red robes were immaculately clean too, despite this filthy room, and come to think of it, that other Neophyte had managed to keep her robes virginally white as well. Was there some trick to it? Thisian gave the roaming cloud a wary look, but for now, it wasn’t near him or the sands. Fine.

Flicking his hood up to avoid further whinging from Rootla, Thisian stomped over to the god-cursed sands. It always began like this. The sands were supposed to hone concentration, and once it was finished (once Thisian gave up) they would move onto much more humiliating experimentation. Rootla was supposed to be teaching Thisian how to prepare himself for a sorcerous touch with the world of power, yet instead, Rootla spent most of his time sorcerously touching Thisian, testing the various capabilities of a Connected Flameborn. He was made drink a brown-coloured swill, no doubt freshly squeezed from something’s rectum, which dampened Thisian’s flames in case he accidentally burned the whole place down, and then Rootla would prod and poke him, scrape and cut him, throw things at him, poison him, bloody sing at him, whatever took that weird bastard’s fancy, until he appeared to answer some unasked question, and it wasn’t as if Rootla was shy about asking himself questions, or muttering comments back and forth, or even holding entire bloody conversations with himself. Wasn’t anyone else alarmed at all that this man was clearly a demented lunatic?

Thisian continued grumbling to himself as he took his position over the tray of sand. He had never been able to do this properly, and he wondered if he just left it as it was, would he be able to pretend that he had finally succeeded. There was already an image of a white blob in the sands that he could pretend was Rootla’s awful face. Would pretending to have crafted that lunatic’s image be any less demeaning than engaging with these tests? After all, Thisian was permanently Connected to the world that they wanted him to touch and take from. It was like trying to teach a bloody bird how to jump up and touch the clouds while he was already flying miles above them!

Looking around the room again, Thisian decided he had delayed enough and had nothing better to do really, so he placed his hands on either side of the tray and the sands began to move. The white blob disappeared and the process started off as it always did, magically creating several swirling sinkholes of grey sand, but soon after that they began to change colour and grow more violent in their patterns. The objective was to settle the sands into a design of Thisian’s choosing and to do that he had to eliminate all distractions from his mind. However, slight problems would often occur, since Thisian just so happened to be annoyingly distractible, and Rootla happened to be maddeningly distracting! The end result was that Thisian had a greater chance of magicking himself back to the Fantaven whore house than he had of solving this puzzle of sand.

That didn’t mean he didn’t try. Thisian indeed spent a lot of energy trying to guide the chaotic sands into a picture of Am’bril’s tits, or Brijnok’s cock, or into any image that might offend poor pious Rootla, yet try as he might (and he was quite mighty) Thisian was so far unsuccessful. But the fire does not dwell on the ashes of yesterday and looks only to the fuel of today, blah, blah, so today Thisian summoned all of his godly power into creating an accurate depiction of Frehep’s flaming balls. He had certainly cursed them enough in his life, so he felt the connection should be sufficiently deep and meaningful to achieve success. Thisian watched the sands weave and flow, and remarkably, he began to see the beginnings of a pair of wrinkly old balls. Maybe today would be the day!

‘Thisian should enter the sand,’ Rootla said from behind him and Thisian nearly scattered the bloody sand from the fright he got from that sneaky little bastard. ‘You should feel yourself in its midst, yes. Rootla would suggest opening your mind and allowing the sand inside. Yes, I find it helps with quite a few to imagine the sand engulfing you and gaining entry by that means. Yes, very good.’

Thisian frowned and grit his teeth. The man was leaning over his shoulder as he spoke to him, breathing his bloody weird breath onto Thisian’s attractive face, resting his fat bloated head on Thisian’s muscular arm, and fiddling his damned disgusting hand in the back of Thisian’s long flowing hair! Resisting the urge to break the man’s neck, Thisian returned his focus to the sands and saw that all trace of Frehep’s balls had completely disappeared.

‘Rutla?’ Thisian asked softly.

‘It is Rootla,’ he replied. ‘Thisian continues to pronounce it wrong. Does the Fureath’i tongue prove too fiery for Vokharin words? I think it might, Rootla.’

Thisian closed his fiery eyes. ‘Rootla?’

‘Yes, Thisian?’

‘Get your disgusting goat-rutted head off my Lord Powerborn shoulder before I burst into flames and burn you to bloody ash!’

Rootla removed himself from Thisian’s personal space and tisked loudly as he pottered elsewhere. ‘Rootla is greatly disrespected by these uncivilised apprentices. Yes, perhaps I should have remained in Vokhar. No, never that. You are right, much too dangerous. Yes.’

Thisian would bloody kick that bastard all the way back to Vokhar if he didn’t shut his mouth and let Thisian concentrate. He had no idea where Vokhar was, but he heard enough to gather that it was the land of freaks where Rootla came from. Returning to the sands, Thisian tried not to think about how he had almost completed it before that hair-fondling bastard interrupted him with his inappropriate groping. Thisian was going to beat this damned magician’s test, damn it, and he would tolerate no more touching and no more interruptions.

‘Mage Rootla!’

Thisian turned to see another red-robed magician rush into the chamber, the man skidding to a halt to avoid crashing into Rootla who had been hovering by the door. Rootla settled him by placing his hands on the man’s arm and face. Thisian shuddered on the other man’s behalf. Did Rutla have to be so damned grabby all the damned time?

‘Another Ruling Piece has arrived,’ the messenger told him. ‘You are needed at the gates.’

‘Yes, yes, Rootla will come. I had a feeling that today would bring more. Very good. Let us go.’

Rootla threw up the red hood of his robe and hurried out of the room with the other magicker. Thisian waited for a moment, his hands still holding the sand tray, and then waited for another moment, before saying, ‘I’ll just bloody stay here then? Wait for you to come back? It’s not like a Lord Flameborn would be any help in a fight now, would it?’

He wasn’t expecting an answer to those intelligent questions. Thisian knew both magickers would have hiked up their skirts and scampered as swiftly as they could to fend off this latest Ruling Piece. Idly, Thisian wondered if it would be any of the ones who