Beyond The Vicious Vortex (Book Three of the Nebilon Series)

By John Gorman

When punk brat Count Billiswami Jr. deserts his crumbling estate to become a glorified sparring partner for the Knights of Kron, he opens the door for a major upheaval. Meanwhile, Luma and her dragon slip through a portal that takes them three hundred years into the past and traps them in the middle of nowhere. This gives the evil mage Veldish his golden opportunity to overtake control of the magic cities in Nebilon.

Luma’s challenge to get back in time to thwart her old nemesis seems hopeless, but she is determined. Zanier than ever, Book Three of the Nebilon Series is filled with mystery, magic, and plenty of high jinks. Lovers of Humorous Fantasy are in for a real treat.

SPOILER ALERT:
We finally get to meet the infamous mage from antiquity who has all of those cheesy statues of him spread throughout Spork, Spawn, and Spore.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Gorman
• Release date: Jan 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005737467

Book preview

Beyond The Vicious Vortex

John Gorman

Copyright © 2021 John Gorman

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Design by BetiBup33 Design

To my two dears Martha and Emily, You didn’t believe me when I told you, so I wrote about it. It’s out there, the magic. It’s bigger than any of us could hope to imagine. All you need to do is jump in.

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One- The Dream

Chapter Two- Castle Quandary

Chapter Three- Buyer Beware Of Bottle Imps

Chapter Four- Billiswami’s Blues

Chapter Five- Back In Spork

Chapter Six- The Horn

Chapter Seven- Great Opportunity

Chapter Eight- Gary Griffinslayer

Chapter Nine- Welcome Back, Imp

Chapter Ten- Vicious Vortex

Chapter Eleven- Yes, That Malcolm

Chapter Twelve- Stuck In Skiff

Chapter Thirteen- Door-knocking

Chapter Fourteen- Pop Goes The Acorn

Chapter Fifteen- Stone Cold Revenge

Chapter Sixteen- Shoptalk With Benny Feldspar

Chapter Seventeen- Bending The Truth

Chapter Eighteen- Ambush

Chapter Nineteen- Nebiolo Berries

Chapter Twenty- Passion Project

Chapter Twenty-One- Mystery Guest Plus Time Machine

Chapter Twenty-Two- To Catch A Thief

Chapter Twenty-Three- Back To The Sorting Table

Chapter Twenty-Four- Launch And Lost

Chapter Twenty-Five- Good Old Griffster

Chapter Twenty-Six- The Stranger

Chapter Twenty-Seven- That’s No Bear

Chapter Twenty-Eight- Realms Collide

Chapter Twenty-Nine- Chicken Fights And Squirmies

Chapter Thirty- Team Effort

Chapter Thirty-One- Pitstop Gwilp

Chapter Thirty-Two- Duty Bound

Chapter Thirty-Three- The New Master

Chapter Thirty-Four- Rather Tall And Lumpy Stacks

Chapter Thirty-Five- Face The Mage, Face The Music

Chapter Thirty-Six- Back To Nebilonian Normal

Epilogue

About The Author

Other Books By The Author

Connect With The Author

Special Preview of From Here To Burmidia

Prologue

Here’s something to consider. What’s more astonishing, a handmade machine for time travel or a natural portal, which lets you slip into another dimension? Do you need to flip a coin?

Perhaps you are one of those super lucky kids, the envy of the multiverse blessed with unlimited access to interdimensional travel. Bully for you! Maybe you’ve even made it to Nebilon. That's where all the mages and mischievous-makers go to sling their magic.

This story takes place in Nebilon, and a couple of other nearby realms, and a couple of further-flung, unmapped realms. This is a story about ambition, undermining, slacking off, bravery, cowardice, corruption, purpose, and partnership, although not necessarily in that order.

There’s a weird horn that keeps popping up and a wonky time machine that seems barely functional (a brave concoction dreamed up during some crackpot’s catnap). There’s also a portal. Let’s not forget about that. It happens to be the biggie, goes by the name of Vicious Vortex. It didn’t get its name by handing out milk and cookies, although few can actually verify this.

But seriously, the Vicious Vortex is the glimmering door to unchartered interstices. It is something above and beyond most mortal’s ruminations, but it is indeed real, and not very well documented.

Hopefully, the adventurers will make it through their quest in one piece. If they don’t make it out alive, then it’s incumbent upon you to spread the word about this seemingly elusive gateway to the unknown.

Chapter One

The Dream

The sweet sound broke the stillness as a meadowlark found its lift in the horn’s warm call. A red newt scampered across a log. Elms swayed to the tune, so did the tall grass and the dandelions. A deep, haunting goad seemed to stir everything in the wild, and with a simple waft of purple cloud, a hint of mystique filled the dawn, an ode to what never was or what almost came to be, a kind of cheerful mourning dappled with whimsy.

Its sweet song lingering, fragrant with possibility, an edge to it too, like a great lost track of Bop or some other catchy ditty meant to jazz things up. It caught a wayward gust, whisking all the way up to the heavens, and woke Nilo from his nap. It made a plea for company, a lonely ear to let it settle into.

Nilo stirred from his dreams, the Head Honcho of the Mighty Trifecta, the chief god of the cloud realm pulled a pillow over his ears, but he still felt the music all over, brilliant and beguiling it made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. The beautiful song invaded his soul, which, unfortunately for him, had become eternal, and so was the sweet sound of the elusive horn. It gave him goosebumps.

That noise, Nilo groaned. I know it, but from where?

He scrunched his brow in contemplation though he couldn’t recall.

That horn hadn’t been played for years, or maybe its music hadn’t streamed up above the Gulbous Mountains. A stubborn set of ears has a way of shutting out what ought to ring true. It tests the limits of the imagination. Had it been muted all that time, or had it been completely hibernating? One might say a little of both. It seemed to have been forgotten.

An old song from a new player is supposed to exude tranquility, so the stories have been told, but that was pure myth. Anybody who waxed poetic about the afterlife had never actually been there, never seen its squalor.

A little ways from that lofty but misunderstood place, down on the shores of Gwilp, that mellifluous tune purred. It tickled the fancy. It tickled the nose. It played its heart out, but oddly enough, nobody seemed to be playing any kind of instrument. Nobody was around except the Seer and the dragon, and they were both sleeping.

Dawn just broke.

Sunshine spilled onto the shore like a toppled jar of honey, swilling past the barnacle-flecked jetty and melted over the row of swaying palms. Its golden gleam rustled through the heart of Gwilp and woke the dragon from its deep slumber. Something only the elements could get away with. A dragon’s yawn could torch a whole mango grove if its pilot light was on. Good thing it was set to dim.

His tail was a different matter, lashing out at its invisible enemy.

No such enemy loomed, although the brunt of the leathery whip rocked Luma awake. No rest for the wicked, no rest for the wizards. Luma often said this to the dragon as an inside joke. Oliver didn’t find it funny. He didn’t really get it. Dragons’ heads were filled with many things. Humor wasn’t one of them.

Dreams, though, had a special place. What did dragons dream of? What do any of us dream of? Piles of gold, pools of crisp cider, fluffy pillows, flying kites, how to get over unrequited love, mastering multitasking, tying the perfect knot, becoming invisible, escaping from infinite mazes, and of course, giant spoons splotched with cookie dough.

Now a special dragon could dream of anything its cold-blooded heart desired, anything old, new, or in need of discovery, anything that needed creation. Oliver was that outlier whose myriad musings made sleep more than a feckless night of reprieve, more than a state of bliss, more than the flavorless limbo between the next big stretch and another great yawn.

Sometimes his clever mind churned merrily long after he zonked out and traipsed into his dreams. He was having a particularly juicy one. The Sacred Horn of Cor appeared to him in its pristine state, the way it once held sway hundreds of years ago. Its mellifluous sound, as delightful as ever, filled the dragon’s siesta with rising jubilee in C sharp.

It led him toward a winding path, where he chose the least-trampled prong in the road’s fork. His scaly snout, pursuing the shiny brass beyond the bluff and the brambles way out into the wayward slope.

He rounded the slope, trudging through a verdant outcrop of rolling hillocks, where the sweet sound of the horn reached a crescendo. The giddy dragon got close enough to seize the horn, grasping it delicately so as not to scratch the surface with his talons, a futile task for almost all firedrakes, except for the one in question.

Dreams had a way of accentuating the positive, no matter how implausible it might be.

With every ounce of his dragon being, Oliver reached out. It was right before him and ripe for the taking. His spirit swooned as he lurched ahead. A spark shot off like a firefly flitting from an open jar.

Something mystical had overtaken him; a sudden warmth filled his scales. His emerald green eyes narrowed, and he peered into the dark hole of the horn. He brought the funnel-shaped cup to his mouth and shaped his lips into the proper embouchure. As he blew into it, a single note peeled out. It hung in the air for the moment, shimmying, then it slowly drifted to the edge of the sand and poofed off to the nape of the sea.

Then the music stopped.

A slice of light cut into his fantasy. The dawn of Gwilp beamed into his dream and stirred the dragon.

All beings long for more sleep, and therefore more bliss. It’s only natural to loath anything and everything that breaks the sleeper from his peace. Oliver set his left wing free as he turned over. A full night’s worth of gunk speckled the rim of his eye socket.

The dragon stared at Luma. No use drifting off. The brassy sun put an end to that. The dragon permitted a wan smile as he looked up at his companion and wondered if he should share his dream.

They were far removed from civilization out on the remote Isle of Gwilp, where they had stayed for several months, trying to form their bond as dragon and mage away from all of the chaos and the hullabaloo of the great Nebilonian cities. Much had been accomplished, but there was still a long way to go. At times, Oliver still behaved as a hatchling even though his impressive size seemed to contradict this detail.

The sacrifice of civilization and the full immersion into island life sped up the progress of their bond, though both had moments of weakness, that is to say, moments where they dug in their heels to the cavernous ravine of unparalleled stubbornness. The buddy system of dragon and mage sometimes interrupted by Luma’s pet, the sage yet feisty wugwump. On occasion, Wumsy had to cast the deciding vote when Luma and Oliver were too stubborn to compromise.

Oliver craned his neck to keep the glare from his eyes before he spoke.

I was having the most amazing dream.

Not the endless stack of pancakes again, Luma said.

No. Why do you always mock my appetite?

We’re buddies, Oliver. Don’t you get that by now? I’d never mock you. Your appetite still amazes me.

Well, I guess I shouldn’t be so thin-skinned. But still.

Luma held her tongue. When she mentored under Glanzing, she was careful not to bug him before he had his coffee. Mages needed their morning boost, preferably a dark roast with a silty bottom of dregs.

Dragons were the same but different. Luma’s bond with Oliver had improved significantly but still needed some work. Even the wugwump, Wumsy had warmed up to the precocious dragon, which was no small fete, considering the long and tempestuous relationship between the creatures. The wugwump curled beside Luma, cocked its spindly ear to hear from the dragon.

The Seer brooded. She didn’t seem to care all that much about the dragon’s silly horn. Her mind’s eye fixed on a new image, one wafting in all the way from the wispy shores of Pōg, a message from the Archmage Belpatha. She shuddered at this unexpected contact. The Seer hadn’t been in touch with the Archmage for quite a while, and it caught Luma off guard. It roused a bit of angst in the young mage. Was she being checked up on, and, if so, for what reason?

Luma had to brush Oliver aside because he’d grown too smitten with the silly dream. The dragon seemed miffed by the Seer’s apparent lack of interest. Oliver was more sensitive than most dragons and began to mope, although only for a little while.

He perked up at once as he tuned into Luma’s private message. A spark of enthusiasm filled the dragon as he learned the identity of its sender. Oliver had never scried with the legendary Archmage Belpatha and couldn’t pass up the big chance to chime in, a cheeky move for sure, but Oliver lucked out because Belpatha had a soft spot for dragons.

Luma, however, didn’t find Oliver’s play so amusing. Dipping into somebody’s scry was the equivalent of thumbing through a diary. She eyed the gutsy dragon, and Oliver shrugged it off.

Belpatha had an interruption of her own. One of her undermages tried to pull her aside, but the Archmage waved him off. Managing the flow of magic was often cumbersome, a logistical nightmare, which needed its own special magic potion #17, sometimes called Cobweb Away, a nod to its ancient roots and its unglamorous job of always keeping things neat.

The Archmage was kind of a tightwad when it came to expending her energy on frivolous stuff. While she had the strength and know-how, she’d risen the ranks to the top post of the Pōgist Order, where she doled out the grunt work and the undesirable challenges. At her lofty level, she had to be on the constant lookout for talent. She got good at delegating and called on the right mage or monster for a given task.

Sometimes a hefty mission arose, which required an adept, somebody with crackerjack written all over them, at least on their palms or somewhere behind their ears.

They had the niloput index to rank mages, which was a rather archaic and nebulous system for quantifying qualifications, but all things considered, it usually did the trick and made it much easier to find out who had the most juice at any given time. Picking the right mage for the right job was a delicate business. A bad choice on a ripe task led to a glitch, and glitches had a way of snowballing into gaffes. Once you hit the rickety plank of gaffe, a snafu was not far off.

She got right down to business since time was of the essence and the revised niloput index tabulations were pouring in. Measuring magic metrics made mages more meticulous. It also got some fusspots antsy since nobody knew, for sure, who would end up where on the chart. Everybody needed to be on their toes.

Way back when the tabulations were still scrawled down by hand and quill, there was time to ruminate and speculate over who would rise and fall where on the chart. That time had gone away along with most of the chimeras and wugwumps. On top of everything else, there were more categories now. Everything from highspeed mending to offshore weatherworking was considered in the greater spectrum of mage skills.

Rankings were no longer merely vertical posts on a chart but had what seemed like infinite girth into the horizontal realm of statistical superfluousness, a macrocosm of micro skillsets to help appraise and differentiate subtle advantages in the art of magic. There was a lot more to keep track of now, and since movable type came along, more copies got doled out, so everybody considered themselves a pundit.

The Archmage let out a big sigh. Soon she would need to devote her full attention to the new list. Wonky rankings led to plenty of snafus, and she wasn’t about to let the peanut gallery of pundits play prognosticator.

Settle this score on your own time, kiddoes, Belpatha admonished. I’ve got something perfect lined up for you. In fact, I cannot think of anyone better suited for this particular task.

Luma’s cheeks beamed as apple skins. She wiped a moist palm on the side of her cloak.

Well, that’s a huge vote of confidence. Thanks for your kind words.

By way of dragon, you should get to your destination in no time. The flight is the least of your worries. You’ll be in for a hefty challenge.

Not as tricky as the Hope Box.

Yes, that was a rather cumbersome task, but I’m afraid you’ll find this to be every bit as tricky, perhaps even trickier.

You didn’t mention what we must do, nor where we are headed.

Hmm. That’s odd. I thought I had made it clear. Must’ve been that interruption from my assistant. You will be in pursuit of the Sacred Horn of Cor.

Luma glanced over at Oliver, and a mercurial expression washed over the dragon. She ignored his dream only to receive a pressing assignment from the Archmage, regarding the very instrument the dragon had been fixed on.

Why the sudden concern over the Horn? May I ask?

It’s a perfectly fine question. Your curiosity, for one, will work in your favor. As far as the impetus behind retrieving the Sacred Horn, well, that’s simply because it’s long been neglected. Actually, you can thank Oliver for intercepting my scree. That dream of his was no dream at all. We had known for some time that the horn has warped over the years as many players have vied to usurp control of it. You might say it needs a tuneup, but we didn’t know we needed to retrieve it immediately or run the risk of losing it forever.

So I guess it’s off to Cor to get it. Will we bring it back to you in Pōg?

"Not quite. The Sacred Horn no longer resides at Cor. Hasn’t been there for ages. Over two centuries ago, after it had been stolen and returned to its rightful home, the people of Cor decided to give it up.

They didn’t believe that such a precious instrument should remain in their land. The Corians were never a musical people, and their tribal lord insisted that the horn would better serve the Fleen Chamber Music Society since they had many talented musicians.

A generous thought except that the horn was not an instrument in the narrow sense. It had been made by magic, and its beguiling music could leave its listeners in a trance-like state. Some even perished in its presence. The legends surrounding it are numerous and often contradictory.

It is said that even an ungifted person could use it to great advantage. A mage could wield incredible power from it, and depending upon the intentions of the user, the power potential is vast and unpredictable.

The people of Fleen were terrified by its effects and gave it away. From time to time, it had surfaced, and more legends proliferated.

Somewhere along the line, it ended up in Count Billiswami’s hands. It is highly unlikely the Count had any idea of its capabilities, otherwise, he could’ve quadrupled or even quintupled the size and scope of his estate. As such, the horn remained a mere prop on his grand estate for at least the past two generations. Until now."

The Seer stirred at the Archmage’s jarring news. She waited, dutifully, for Belpatha to continue, but the Archmage fell into a trance of her own. Her furrowed brows brooding over some revelation or perhaps a vision had lent itself to her inner eye.

Luma’s curiosity took charge, and she inquired, So does this mean we must set out for Spork again?

Perhaps. Perhaps elsewhere. Tracking it down will not be easy. Might be easier to find a sunflower seed along your shoreline. The new heir of Castle Billiswami is finding his role more than he bargained for. The horn is probably no longer there, but you might as well start somewhere, and the Billiswami estate is a good place to begin.

If it is as you say, that Oliver’s dream was no dream at all and that instead, he scried something, then he might very well have seen who swiped it. Have you Oliver?

No. I only saw the horn. I was, actually, imagining myself playing it.

Then not a full vision. Part dream.

The Archmage insinuated herself into the discussion to lend some clarity. He may have inserted himself into the vision. It is not unheard of. Your dragon found his way into our private exchange. You are lucky to have him on your side. You are bound to each other now, and your pooled energy and combined inner sage will serve both of you well.

Luma still wore an expression of puzzlement.

What about this tune-up? I gather it is not a regular mend-job. Does this mean we will eventually seek out a master mender in Pōg to restore the horn’s form?

I think you misunderstood. The tune-up is far from any acoustic enhancing or surface polishing. When the time is right, we will remove some of the layers of dark magic, which have left a pernicious stain on it.

The Seer nodded, realizing that at this juncture, no more questions would be answered.

Chapter Two

Castle Quandary

A chatty dragon who remains quiet is either sizing up its prey or plotting out its next move. Oliver was doing neither. His smug reticence had I told you so written all over it.

The Seer wouldn’t give in to his ego. She was still miffed about his apparent blatant disregard for boundaries. The fact that his vision of the Sacred Horn preceded her awareness of its current significance didn’t even matter to her.

She considered it poor etiquette breaching the sanctity of her private scry with Archmage Belpatha. Without common decency and respect for boundaries, civilization devolved into a savagefest.

Luma clearly had respect for boundaries and had hoped her dragon did.

She was wrong. How would she be able to trust him again? With his cavalier attitude, she might as well carry on separately.

That wasn’t going to happen. Not with such an important assignment on the docket. Besides, the Seer had at least two important chores to complete before leaving Gwilp. First, she had to finish the scope she’d been working on. She hadn’t gotten around to it for days, not since that last storm tore in from the lagoon.

She gripped the rim of the glass between her thumb and forefinger, careful not to smudge the lens. It had been a parting gift from her astronomer friend, Stan. He’d given it to her months ago before she left Nebilon.

At night, she often thought of Stan as the stars scattered across the heavens. The gargoyle had instilled a deep appreciation of the cosmos and made it clear that there was much more to astronomy than locating the twinkling Corbilia on a night’s stroll.

She set the lens inside the tube of her scope and tested it out, picturing a glittering formation of stars, the Golden Griffin, which she actually believed she had spotted the other night sprawled out on a cool bed of sand.

There was also another more intricate task in need of completion, the saddle and reigns. After a long and torturous ride to the island, she refused to suffer again on the way back to the mainland. Scabs and calluses still ran the length of her inner thighs. Two fingernails had not grown back, not to mention the abrasion to her palms.

She had gloves now but needed to improve her shabby saddle. She kept pushing it off since other things kept creeping up, and they didn’t have any excursions planned.

Belpatha’s request made it imperative to speed up. Luma wove a new layer into her saddle. She used a heavier scrap of leather this time, draping it over the whole saddle. The stitch work didn’t come out pretty, but it got the job done.

Not bad, a decent start, although another sheet of leather couldn’t hurt. It might even make it cushier. That was a stretch. A dragon saddle only got so cushy. She also had to tie an expert knot to fasten the reigns. Then, she gave it a test.

***

Meanwhile, back in Spork, Count Billiswami Jr. lamented his good fortune. He appeared to have everything under the honey-dripping sun, everything anybody could ever want, hope, or dream of, although there was probably