Thrum

By Manfred MacCallum

Thrum, an out-of-work dropout from magic university, is happily bumbling through life in a world where sorcery reigns supreme and landlords have the backing of eviction ogres. However, his carefree existence takes an unexpected turn when he wakes up one morning to discover a powerful scroll containing the spirit of Taukin, a legendary wizard with a past shrouded in mystery.

As Thrum grapples with this unexpected burden, he quickly realizes that his day just got a whole lot more complicated. Driven from his home clad in dressing gown and rabbit shaped slippers, Thrum is pursued at every turn by a sect of dark wizards that want the scroll for their own evil ends. He must battle against his innate and finely tuned sense of self-preservation to take up the quest and bring the scroll to the very heart of the enemy stronghold.

From a chance encounter he befriends an affable muscle-bound adventurer who becomes his staunch ally, and together they face bar brawls, magicians on uncontrollable supercharged broomsticks, battles with frog-like elves and seemingly immortal wizards. Together, they stand against the encroaching forces seeking to exploit Taukin's powers—though Thrum often wishes they could just sit down and have a sensible chat over a cup of tea.

In this enchanting tale of magical mishaps, reluctant heroism, and the unlikeliest of alliances, Thrum's determination to avoid the textbook Hero's Journey at all costs will determine the fate of the land. Can the light of hope pierce through the darkest of sorcery when your hero is more likely to trip over his own robe than strike a heroic pose? Join Thrum and his motley crew in a journey where courage comes in all shapes and sizes—even in a fluffy dressing gown.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Manfred MacCallum
• Release date: Jan 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224897148

Book preview

Chapter One

Long fingers of a rather ordinary dawn crept over the sleeping city of Hamontoast, the beginnings of a day that was to be the worst in Thrum’s life. To this he was blissfully ignorant, the strengthening light bleaching through thin bedroom curtains rousing him slowly from his slumber. He had never known his parents, but as he lay ensnared in the cocoon of his warm bed, he reflected that it was the kind of morning that a father might come blustering in, bellowing about the best bit of the day slipping away. Pulling up the covers over his head against the intruding sunlight, he almost fancied hearing the resonant echoes of an imaginary paternal voice.

He resisted the call of responsibility, determined to prolong his stay in the realm of dreams, but those echoes continued to twist oddly through his mind, and coupled with the growing light, both intruders persistent and unforgiving, he at last shook off the cozy embrace of his bed.

He swung his feet to the floor and balled fists into his eyes. Long moments passed before he found the strength to stand. He fumbled the length of the hallway and in a moment of carelessness his feet tangled and, fighting overbalance, he careened dramatically into the kitchen. Dressed in his pink dressing gown and fluffy rabbit shaped slippers nobody could have guessed he was a magician.

Well, almost a magician...

He swung a battered kettle over the fireplace and puffed upon the glowing ashes, trying not to think about the upcoming day. Recently fired from his job at the local circus he was penniless and, more depressingly, did not have a single soul to turn to for help. The rent was overdue and the dusty pantry held only a single piece of rock-hard bread that he had been saving for emergencies.

Thrum took the bread and mused for some time. He at last broke it in two and set it toasting over the fire and then busied himself with a brew of tea. He cursed to the empty house, discovering the bread had turned to charcoal black with supernatural speed. Gathering up and balancing his tea and toast in one hand, he plunged the other into an open chest filled with rotting scrolls. The scrolls contained a few simple spells and records of novices’ experiments into the world of magic; Thrum had amassed his collection from scavenging at the rubbish dump, sifting through piles to find these minor treasures. He read them because he had a natural burning desire for the arcane and longed to master a spell. Despite his ambition he had absolutely no aptitude; his visions of being a fully-fledged magician garbed in an ink black robe and grey beard sprouting from his jaw a mere dream. Doggedly Thrum collected any old scroll he could find in the hope one day he may be able to cast a single spell.

With a swing of his hip he bumped the back door open and sat on his stoop in the bright sunshine. He ate his precious piece of toast before beginning his morning’s study, the sleeve of his gown serving as a convenient cloth to wipe the crumbs from his whiskers before he picked up the first scroll. Although battered and dog-eared Thrum knew right away something was different about this one, as if something were whispering in his ear. He broke the seal and pulled it open carefully, his eyes flicking over the fancy and barely legible script.

A sudden wetness washed his right ear and shoulder, his body recoiling in shock, limbs flailing at an unseen assailant. Bringing his hand to his shoulder he found a bird had taken him for a target, depositing what must have been a planned shot of guano. Wiping his hand upon his robe he hastily rose, unconsciously stuffing the scroll into a pocket as he went in search of a wet cloth.

Thrum turned as a dark shape caught the corner of his eye. He was in the busy city square scouring the market for cheap food when he saw the crowd parting for a jet black horse moving silently closer. Thrum could have sworn the horse was floating as it drew nearer, a figure shrouded in shadows walking beneath it. The horse stopped and was lowered to the ground, a man beading sweat appearing from the underside.

Thrum strode to the horse’s side, tilting his head to peer beneath. Curiosity mixed with unease as he took in the man’s body entwined in bulging muscles.

Welcome to Hamontoast. May I ask, Thrum jerked a thumb towards the horse, ...what you were doing under there?

Greetings friend! Ahh, you see, I have made a pact with my horse. Whenever there is travelling to be done we take turns in bearing the load.

I see, Thrum said, arching one eyebrow.

Do you know the way to the Wobbly Weasel? the man inquired.

The Wobbly...? Oh yes, the tavern. Thrum drew himself up, puffed out his chest, and his voice took on a tone of authority. You will want to sally forth down that street until you reach a vendor selling pots, you’ll hear him before you see him. As soon as you pass his shop, take the first left - a narrow alley but the short cut will save you a long walk. When you reach a larger street swing right, walk to until you reach a crossroads and follow the scent of the fishmonger until you reach a courtyard. Turn right, head steeply downhill a cobbled path for a block and then it will be on your left.

The man blinked. After a considerable pause, he nodded. Thank you, sir, he declared with a solemnity he judged appropriate.

Thrum.

The man, visibly affronted, straightened up, the bulging muscles bridging his neck to his shoulders tensing indignantly. I beg your pardon?

Thrum.

Now look here, I’m not sure that’s appropriate, given the circumstances.

Confusion and panic crossed Thrum’s face. No, that’s my name. I’m Thrum Bolgan.

Then my apologies good sir! I’m sorry, in our dialect back home that words means something very different.

Thrum's brows furrowed and he looked blank for a moment before he shook his mind back into action. I see. What does it, no never mind. But again, welcome to our city.

And my thanks again. Archendorf lifted a massive arm and scratched at the back of his neck, his oversized bicep popping as he did so. You’re a city official, I presume, Mr –ahem- Thrum?

Not as such, no.

You certainly know your way around.

I’ve lived here all my life.

Archendorf’s lower lip jutted out and he nodded in what he hoped was a show of admiration. That really is impressive. He looked right and left and an awkward silence grew between them, Thrum all the while drilling his foot into the pavement. Archendorf shifted uncomfortably.

For a silver coin I could show you around, blurted Thrum suddenly, looking up. All the sights of the city.

No, thank you. I have a pressing appointment.

Five coppers? Three?

I’m sorry, I really must be getting on.

Of course, said Thrum, giving a sad smile and a pat to the horse’s flank before taking a step backwards out of the way. Nice to have met you, Mr...

Archendorf. Nice talking to you.

Archendorf lifted the horse with a grunt of effort and moved off, the horse floating into the crowds. Thrum followed it with his eyes until it vanished from sight and with a heavy sigh all the air that had inflated his chest expelled like a popped balloon, his shoulders falling back into their habitual slump, and he resumed his scavenging the markets.

It was late afternoon by the time he returned home. Lairn, Thrum's landlord, was at the front gate to greet him. Judging by the short sword sheathed at his belt Thrum decided Lairn was not here for a cup of tea and a chat.

Thrum! My friend. Lairn’s friendly tone belied the wicked gleam to his eyes. Are you well?

I'm well. Thrum decided to take the plunge. Look, about the rent...

Rent? Oh yes, it slipped my mind. You are going to pay aren’t you? Let's see... Lairn withdrew a paper from his belt. Thirty coppers and we’ll call it even, ten more and you won’t see me again for a month. And best of all, we remain good friends.

Thrum started hyperventilating and took small steps backwards. Lairn waited, his head cocked and jutting an ear forward as if to listen closely. When finally Thrum did speak only an incoherent syllable dribbled from his mouth.

Lair slowly shook his head. I really did try. No more games. Cough up now, or I get my price from the bag of your guts I drop at the witches’ guild. Lairn raised a hand and clicked his fingers.

Two rock ogres emerged from the bushes behind Lairn, casting a broad swathe of afternoon shadow before them, the fire-red sun at their backs. They approached, thumping the handles of crude maces in thick hands and grinning as only ogres can.

Thrum did the only thing he could do given the situation and years of wizardly training.

Run.

He fell gasping to the ground as his rubbery legs gave way beneath him. If there was anything he was good at, it was running away really fast. Staggering to avoid the late evening traffic he stumbled across the wide cobblestone road, practically dragging himself by the fingertips up a set of splintered stairs, his watery vision blurring.

The swinging sign above the door proclaimed the building to be the Wobbly Weasel. For the benefit of those who could not read, a crude caricature of a bent-legged and half-bald rodent downing a large tankard was etched alongside.

Nearby, among the number of horses tied to the railing, Thrum noticed one that looked a lot like Archendorf’s. Knowing that local adventurers enjoy the local tavern, Thrum thought he might be able to find fortune through the swinging doors.

It was dark and smoke hung low in the room. As his eyes adjusted, he saw it filled with men, some slumped onto tables and others in loud conversation. A large fire burned towards the back, casting flickering orange light and sharp shadows about the interior. A small part of Thrum’s mind hoped an awed silence would fall and eyes turn towards him.

Everyone ignored his bold entrance.

He had made it halfway to the bar when he realised he had no money. He stopped, made a show of just remembering something important, and turned to make back for the street.

As chance would have it a certain pair of eyes alighted upon his slumped form.

Mr Thrum! Over here.

Thrum’s gaze picked out a face in the flickering light and shadow, Archendorf sitting at a table with a mug before him, motioning in a friendly manner. It was with trepidation that Thrum approached, noticing that this man’s bull-like muscled body put even the ogre’s to shame.

Hello, said Thrum in an altogether too high pitched and squeaky voice.

Drink? Archendorf inquired.

I don’t have any money.

Archendorf shrugged this off and raised an arm, calling in a voice that carried over the hubbub. Bartender! A drink here.

The bartender nodded and took a greasy glass from the shelf behind.

I want to thank you for your directions this morning - they were most helpful. Archendorf intertwined thick fingers and cracked his knuckles. Everyone else just seemed to ignore me.

Thrum nodded. Is this your first time in the city?

It is and I can’t say I like it much. I smile at every person I pass but so far, he raised an index finger, not a single person has said so much as a cheerio. I thought I wasn’t being sincere enough, so I tried to shake some hands, you know, introduce myself, but that didn’t go down so well. He shook his head ruefully. And I haven’t even started talking about the air! I tell you what it reminds me of - sometimes when I was a kid my other brother used to hold me beneath the bedcovers after a night of cabbage stew and let loose these amazingly ripe -

I get the idea, said Thrum with a grin. But come on, it’s not that bad! And as for shaking people’s hands, well, I’m surprised you weren’t arrested.

Not for lack of trying - they did call the City Guard.

They called the Guard? Thrum’s grin broadened.

Funny for you maybe. I only just got away, you should have heard the things they were saying about me.

Ahh, well... you’ll get used to it all if you stay here long enough. For some reason the hostility and filth of the city he called home caused a feeling of pride to well in his heart. For the first time that day Thrum was able to relax, enjoying this man’s company. He thought of all the things confounding him and all seemed compensated for by this newly formed friendship.

So what brings you here? he asked.

Me? I’m waiting for a friend. He should be here soon - here's the letter he sent me.

Thrum took the offered paper and read it. He looked up. This is three months old.

What?!

Look, read the date on it yourself.

The bartender delivered a beer to their table. Taking hold of the flagon Thrum downed the contents. Archendorf ignored his companion as he coughed and spluttered. Thrum straightened, wiping the remains of lunch from his mouth. What are you going to do?

Archendorf hesitated for a moment. I must confess I’m not exactly a scholar, can’t read anything but my own name. He grinned a little sheepishly. So I’m late, eh? Well that would explain why Krakan didn’t turn up today, I’ve been waiting for hours. You know, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t too keen on the new scheme he’d cooked up.

Oh?

Yes, old Kraken is a good one for schemes. Last time I spoke to him, back in the mountains, he’d found some pirate gold map and set off to find himself a ship and crew to take on the Southern Ocean and recover a vast treasure! I was to meet him at noon on the first day of the new moon in Hamontoast, in this exact tavern, but it looks like I’ve messed up.

The docks aren’t far away, just out of town, perhaps he is still there?

Archendorf nodded to himself. Yes, perhaps. In the morning I’ll go down and see what I can find out. Which direction do I head from here?

Just follow this main road, it continues to drop down the hill, you can’t miss them. Actually, I live... well, used to live down that way, just before you get to the docks, perhaps I can show you the way tomorrow?

I think I’ll be fine, but thank you all the same. So you’ve spent your entire life in Hamontoast?

Thrum made a half-shrug. Pretty much. Although recently things haven’t been quite working out. He fell into silence, knowing he now had no home to return to, no job, no food, and no money.

I’m sorry to hear it. Look, if you like, if I find my friend I’ll ask him if could use another hand on board-

Horrible memories of his short-lived stint as a hand on a fisher boat came to Thrum and he shook his head. No, thank you, I’m not great on boats. In fact, the mere thought of a boat in heaving swells, combined with the beer swilling in his empty stomach, made Thrum dizzy. He rested his forehead upon the rough oak surface of the table.

What’s this? he muttered to himself, feeling something in his pocket. He withdrew the scroll from his robes, recognising it to be the same one that he had discovered that morning while eating breakfast. He unrolled it, noticing with uneasiness that the paper felt like heavily oiled and ancient chicken skin. Chicken, or human? An ominous shudder ran the length of his spine as he began to read.

Mortal child, I call upon you! From the grave I impart a quest to right what has been wronged.

What’s wronged? interrupted Archendorf.

What? Oh, I was just reading from a scroll I found.

Archendorf’s brow’s shot up. He dragged his chair around so he could look over the small man’s shoulder.

Thrum continued. Forces gather in the wind and the time of reckoning is nigh. The pawn has been chosen; you must prove worthy of your task.

What are you talking about? interrupted Archendorf again. I admit that I can’t read, but even if I could, all I see is a blank page.

You don’t see it? Bemused, Thrum blinked hard to reassure himself the flowing writing was not his imagination. Do not read further. An ogre is about to bite your head off.

Thrum, his instincts of self-preservation finely tuned, ducked. There was an audible snick of jaws where his head had been moments before. He leapt from his chair and scrambled along upon hands and knees, looking about long enough to see Lairn’s ogres hot on his trail. Disappearing with uncanny speed under the table he heard a fight break out overhead. A heavy black boot came down in his path. Thrum looked up.

Lairn stood with feet planted wide apart brandishing a wooden stool leg. Thrum rolled aside as the stool leg shattered into splinters upon the flooring he’d occupied moments before. The enraged landlord had another in his hands even before the larger pieces of debris rattled to the ground. Thrum did not wait to become a target - in that moment saw an escape route and leapt for it.