The Lost Land of Loradil

By Neville G. Wort

The Lost Land of Loradil is a comic fantasy. A clumsy witch opens the way for an evil invader. A reluctant hero, a small dragon, and a large ogre combine with the witch and a cranky man in armour to save Loradil and chase down the evil one before he can reveal the location of Loradil. Helped by the fabled guardian, the heroes must fight for their survival on their own world then continue the battle on another.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: May 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503505308

Neville G. Wort

The author lives in the tropical north of Queensland, Australia. He wrote the story for his children when they were young, reading aloud each chapter as it was completed. He’s just waiting now for his grandchildren to age a few more years. The story should suit young children to older teens.

Book preview

Chapter One

Witches are like ordinary people in most ways. It is not a condition of membership of the Witches’ Guild that they all have hooked noses, straggly hair, jutting chins, and hairy warts. Take Margaret the Witch for example. A young woman, olive-skinned, with wide green eyes and flowing locks of thick black hair, Margaret resembled the unfortunate caricature of the classic Witch in only one respect – her short temper.

At this moment, Margaret was more than merely angry. She was foully, frustratingly, kick-the-nearest-dog cranky. Her failure to weave this particular spell at her first attempt did not sit well with her belief in her own ability. Her flashing green eyes were vicious slits of cat-like intensity. Witches far older and more experienced than Margaret had tried this spell and failed, including her own mother. Which was why, on this still, quiet night, Margaret had been taking the utmost care to weave her spell with restraint. ‘Excitement leads to sloppy work,’ her mother had said repeatedly, as she watched Margaret’s childish spell-weaving leave a trail of spluttering sparks dancing down the steep stairs of their Tower.

With an elegantly controlled flick of her wrist, Margaret’s mother would gather up the sparks and set them spinning in a flickering circle in the air before Margaret’s entranced face.

‘Real magic is elemental, Margaret,’ her mother would smile. ‘It is drawn into you for your shaping and then released with restraint. Always restraint. When you have mastered the art of restraint, we can move on to more interesting topics.’

Yet a few short years later, Margaret’s mother forgot her own advice when fashioning the very spell her daughter was now attempting, and disappeared from the Lost Land of Loradil. Thus began Margaret’s unceasing search for the spellcraft necessary to duplicate her mother’s feat: preferably more successfully.

Now a young woman, Margaret was the essence of the self-taught Witch: a danger to herself and everyone around her. Why? Simply because she never did learn the art of restraint. With no one around to clean up the fizzing sparks she always seemed to trail behind her, the Witch’s Tower was a permanent fireworks display. Yet failure only made her angrier and more determined to succeed. Which was why, on her second attempt tonight, deep beneath the Tower, Margaret unleashed the most thunderous detonation the Lost Land of Loradil had ever experienced and opened the Portal to the ‘Other World’.

Margaret was beginning to wish now that she hadn’t opened the Portal at this particular time of the night, or at least that she had waited for a stormy night to cover the discharge of her spell.

What matter! Now the deed was done. At last the Portal was open and she would see what lay beyond the boundaries of the Lost Land of Loradil. Margaret drew her cloak close about her and watched as the wall nearest her bubbling brew pot shimmered with light. It began as a bright white glow, which slowly revolved, like water going down a drain. Still revolving, the glow changed to a darker, more reddish hue.

Then the revolutions stopped. The reddish glow remained, yet now it was possible to discern the shape of a man seated at a table. The top of the table was covered with wires and plugs and held a keyboard. As the image cleared, Margaret could see that the man possessed thinning blond hair, vainly swept across a balding forehead. He was dressed all in black, with a red lightning flash stitched over his heart. He was also quite plump.

The man reached out to flick a switch in front of him and turned to face Margaret. ‘Hi there,’ he said. ‘I’m Dicky and you have reached the Portal Switchboard Operator. How may I help you?’

Margaret didn’t know what to do. A Portal Switchboard Operator? ‘Ahhhh …,’ was all she managed to say.

‘Oh, very good, madam,’ said the man in black, slowly clapping his hands. ‘Here you’ve woken every living thing in six dimensions, this call is costing an absolute fortune, and the best you can do is Ahhh …? I suggest you hang up and call back later when you have a number you wish me to connect for you.’

Dicky reached out, flicked another switch, and the picture began to fade.

‘Wait, wait!’ Margaret cried, suddenly aware that she was in danger of losing her connection. Who knew when she might be able to concoct another potion over which to mumble the correct incantation? After all, newt’s wings and bat’s claws didn’t exactly grow on trees.

‘I’ve never done this before,’ she wailed, clasping her hands together. ‘I need some assistance.’

Dicky smiled. ‘Certainly, madam, just one moment please.’

The picture faded to reveal the red lightning flash logo. Margaret waited helplessly, wondering what would happen next. She wasn’t so far gone in wonderment, however, not to realize that the smell from her brew pot was becoming overpowering. A touch too much of the powdered Wasnir giblets, perhaps?

On the dungeon wall, the logo faded to be replaced by Dicky, this time dressed in an orange fluorescent suit with a black lightning flash. His face was slightly flushed, as if he had been running. He turned to Margaret and smiled politely but without recognition.

‘Directory Assistance,’ he chimed. ‘How may I help you?’

Margaret thought swiftly. She sensed that if she were to say ‘Ahhhh’ again, it would earn her another sarcastic remark from the man she was certain was Dicky.

‘I wish to be connected to someone in authority in The Other World,’ she said bravely.

As soon as Dicky arched his eyebrows, Margaret realized she had failed to impress the Operator – again.

‘Well, that’s a big help, now, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Just how many Other Worlds do you think there are?’

Dicky gazed down from the wall as if expecting an answer, so Margaret said, very meekly for a Witch, ‘I don’t know.’

‘Fifty-six!’ Dicky shouted. ‘And that’s just in your dimension. I won’t bother telling you how many other dimensions there are, to say nothing of alternate dimensions, parallel dimensions, introverted dimensions and the like.’ He hesitated. ‘Then again, maybe I will bother.’

Dicky fell to mumbling incoherently. Making good use of the pause, Margaret plucked a figure from the air and said, ‘Excuse me.’ Dicky showed no sign of having heard her, so Margaret raised her voice. ‘Excuse me!’ she called. Dicky reached for a calculator and began punching in numbers, all the while muttering to himself. Exasperated beyond caution, Margaret stamped her foot and shouted, ‘Hey you!’

Dicky pressed one last button and looked up triumphantly. ‘. . . and carry the one, makes seventy-one million, six hundred and thirty-one thousand, four hundred and ninety-two, give or take a supernova.’

‘That’s very nice to know, I’m sure,’ said a by now fuming Witch. ‘I wish to be connected to someone in authority on Other World number forty-one,’ she said, using the number she had chosen.

‘Number forty-one? Let me see, I’m sure I have a listing for it here.’ Dicky tapped the keys on his keyboard. ‘Number forty-one, forty-one,’ he mumbled. ‘Ah yes, here we are, number forty-one. Oh dear,’ he said. ‘Him.’

‘Who?’ Margaret asked.

‘Number forty-one, otherwise known as The Dreadfully Evil World of Pain and Torture, and the home of Robert the Evil, called number forty-one for short.’

‘I’ll take it,’ Margaret laughed, her desire to be rid of the plump fellow in his ridiculous suit blocking her ears to the seriousness in Dicky’s voice.

The Operator resumed his business-like pose. ‘Is this to be a person-to-person call?’

Margaret thought swiftly. All she really wanted was information that might lead to the discovery of her mother’s whereabouts. ‘No,’ she said, ‘just give me someone in authority.’

‘Very well, madam. Could I have your number please?’

‘Number?’ Margaret was confronted yet again with an unanswerable question. Her notoriously short temper flared. ‘What number?’ she shouted. ‘How can I have a number? I conjured you up out of a special brew with the necessary incantation. How else do you think you got here?’

Margaret’s anger was wasted on Dicky. For the first time he seemed to look into the dungeon. His glance took in the damp walls, the barred door, the cloaked figure, and the large, still steaming brew pot.

‘Oh,’ he sniffed. ‘You’re one of those.’

‘One of what?’ Margaret demanded.

‘Would one be correct in assuming that you are a Witch?’

‘One would.’

‘Oh dear!’ Dicky seemed annoyed and disappointed. ‘I suppose that means you have no telephone?’

‘What’s a telephone?’ Margaret asked.

‘Oh dear,’ Dicky repeated. ‘That means no fee for the use of my services – again. I do wish the telephone company would hurry up and connect some of these out of the way places to the exchange. I don’t like working for free, you know.’

‘Tough,’ Margaret snapped.

‘Well!’ Dicky huffed. Then, after a short affronted pause, he asked, ‘Which world are you calling from?’

‘The Lost Land of Loradil,’ Margaret answered.

‘Ah yes,’ Dicky said. ‘It seems to me I’ve heard of that world before. I suppose you wish to … ah, unlose yourself?’

‘Precisely,’ Margaret answered shortly. ‘So snap it up, will you?’

‘Of course, of course. It’s not all that easy, you know. No telephone connection, no caller fee. What are the worlds coming to?’ Dicky’s voice faded away for a moment as he stabbed viciously at his keyboard. Finally he looked up. ‘Connecting you now,’ he intoned, and disappeared.

A rainbow of colours flashed across the wall. From within the colours, a deep, disinterested voice said, ‘You have reached the office of Robert the Evil, ruler of The Dreadfully Evil World of Pain and Torture. What do you want?’

For the second time that night, Margaret heard the name Robert the Evil, and this time some vague dread seemed to infuse her. Could it be that she had unwittingly chosen the worst Other World possible? It did not matter, she told herself angrily. She needed information if she was to