Christopher G. Nuttall's Blog, page 35

OUT NOW – THE TRUTHFUL LIE (The Unwritten Words III)

Sorry for the delay.

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How can humans stand up to the Old Gods?

Reginald, now King, is struggling against the rising tide of the Old God entities. He knows that his army alone cannot defeat them, even with cold iron that can contain them and free enslaved humans. But as cities burn and farmland is devastated, the people have been easily convinced by cultists to turn to the Old Gods.

In a neighbouring kingdom the weak young ruler, fallen prey to an entity that promised him the world, starts his campaign to fulfil that promise, adding to the threats heading towards Andalusia.

Reginald’s best hope is that Isabella, his sorceress Queen, and Princess Silverdale, his talented sister, can learn enough about the entities and their relationship with the human realm to find a magical way to defeat them. But, as time is running out, shattering news arrives from the Golden City…

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SIM: The Magical Community

Another piece of background …

The Magical Community

The magical community does not have, despite the efforts of some political figures, a coherent existence in any real sense of the word.  There is no overall unifying authority and, given the nature of magical society, it is extremely unlikely that any will arise.  The handful of magical aristocrats who remember the days of the empire, when they ruled magic, are heavily outnumbered by the remainder, who prefer to savour what independence they have from the rest of the world.  Magical society, therefore, tends to be touchy, challenging and insistent on respect, even when such respect is undeserved.  It is also, in a curious paradox, an association that stretches right across the Allied Lands and beyond.

Geographically, there is no magical ‘country.’  A map of the magical community would look like flecks on paint, scattered over the rest of the Allied Lands.  The majority of magicians live within estates – often centred on a nexus point – magic-heavy towns and beside their mundane neighbours.  The magical community is more of an collection of bloodlines and schools – and a handful of townships – rather than anything else.

The community rests on four poles.  First, the magical families and their bloodlines, carefully tended to ensure newborn magicians add their diversity to the whole.  Second, the quarrels – associations of magicians linked together in blood-brotherhood.  Third, the guilds, which serve as alliances and unions of magicians in a specific line of magic.  Fourth, and finally, the schools, which impart a degree of shared community and cultural understanding into the ever-growing community. 

The sexism so prevalent in the remainder of the Allied Lands is rare amongst magicians.  Female magicians have full legal rights.  To treat a sorceress as somehow lesser, or to assume her husband speaks for her, is to court death.  The magical society is also quite accepting of homosexuality, although there is an expectation that powerful magicians will have children to ensure their genes are passed down to the next generation. 

As a general rule, magicians are prideful and touchy.  A magician is entitled to demand respect within his domain, even from more powerful magicians (who, in turn, are expected to refrain from deliberately undermining their host).  To enter a magician’s home is to commit oneself to behaving; the magician, in turn, must extend formal guest-right to his visitors.  (A magician is legally within his rights to do whatever he likes to an intruder.)  Magicians may enter employment, apprenticeships and patron-client relationships, but only under very precise contracts that detail precisely the obligations of each party to the other.  The idea of outright servitude is abhorrent to magicians, at least when they’re the ones in servitude; it is rare, to say the least, to encounter a magician willing to become a servant. 

Navigating magical society, therefore, is quite difficult for an outsider.  Magicians are often achingly polite, but also willing to push and jostle people to assert their strength and test the newcomer’s strength.  It is quite easy to give offense and quite hard to apologise.  A magician can issue a challenge to a duel at any time, although the challenged party has the right to determine how the duel is fought.

Magicians rarely admit, openly, that anyone has the right to judge them (unless in very specific circumstances).  There are few magicians, therefore, willing to enforce the rules outside their domains, let alone serve in a magical police force.  (The White Council’s Mediators are the closest they get to an outright law enforcement body.)  Those who openly break the rules, from bad manners to meddling in dark magic, are normally shunned by the remainder of the community, rather than stopped.  A handful of magicians believe dark wizards – as opposed to necromancers – should be stopped, but the remainder of the community fears setting precedents that might eventually be used against them.

Magicians assert, if pressed, that they mature slower than mundanes.  This may or may not be true.  It is also a reflection on their society, an acceptance that a childish mistake need not haunt an adult for the rest of their live.  If a child – or someone legally a child, such as an apprentice – commits an offense, they don’t have to face the full consequences.  Cynics assert it is a way to keep children and apprentices under control for longer than mundane communities, but it serves a valuable purpose.  Newcomers to magical society can learn the rules before it’s too late. 

As a general rule, magicians are highly educated.  They could generally read and write well before the New Learning reshaped the world.  They were also told horror stories about what happened to young magicians who made mistakes, including ‘The Magician Who Made a Foolish Oath’ and ‘The Witch Who Got What She Wanted,’ both warnings of the dangers of entering obligations with other magicians. 

The magician community exists slightly apart from the mundane one, under the terms of the Compact (actually a collection of agreements between magicians and aristocrats).  Magical families enjoy near-complete independence from the mundane governments, as long as they refrain from any kind of political interference.  Magicians who do interfere, directly or indirectly, are regarded as having broken the Compact and can therefore no longer claim its protection.  Just how far this goes has never been truly tested, with both magicians and mundanes careful not to put too much pressure on the relationship.  As a general rule, magicians who are closely involved with mundane affairs – Queen Alassa, for example – are not considered part of the overall community and therefore free to honour their obligations to their people.

Magicians generally look down on mundanes, even the newborns and those dependent on the mundane community.  The belief in magical superiority is not altogether unfounded, given the use of magic to make life easier for magicians and mundanes alike.  The average newborn, moving from a village to a magic school, will move from poverty to what might as well be a wonderland; hot and cold running water, magical lightning, etc.  It is unusual for mundanes to have any legal rights in magical communities and homes, although magicians who prey on mundanes are generally shunned by their fellows.  A magician who kept enslaved mundanes in his home would be looked down upon, which wouldn’t always translate into freeing the slaves.  In general, few magicians within the greater community care enough to bother.

Politically, there are three different factions within the community.  The Isolationists believe that contact between magicials and mundanes is bad for both sides and therefore they should separate themselves as much as possible, for their own good.  Given the power, they would seal off magical areas and encourage the development of a parallel society.  The Integrationists believe that magicians and mundanes should live and work together, on the unspoken assumption there are no real differences – besides magic – between the two.  The Supremacists believe that magicians have the de facto right to rule mundanes, on the grounds of superior power, and magicians should become (more of) an aristocracy.

Given the absence of any real government, and the pressing need to fight the war against the necromancers, the political strife has been largely muted.  Now the necromancers are gone, that may be about to change …

Stuck In Magic CH3

Chapter Three

I would have gone mad, if it hadn’t been for Jasmine.

She understood, to some extent, what I was feeling.  She was always happy to chat, even when she was doing her bit for the clan.  She explained what I was seeing, told me how the clan worked and, often, answered questions I hadn’t thought to ask.  We might not be close friends – we were just too different – but she was, in her way, as isolated from the rest of the caravan as me.  The rest of the clan kept their distance.  It was hard not to feel a little offended, even though I knew I should be grateful.  I’d had enough of that back home.

Jasmine explained it, when I asked.  “They’re not sure if you’re going to be hanging around for much longer,” she said.  “They don’t want to get close to you if there’s still a chance you might leave.”

I frowned.  “Where would I go?”

“You’re not the first person to come stumbling out of the Greenwood,” Jasmine said, as we sat on the edge of the campsite.  “Some try to make their way back home, even though hundreds of years might have passed since they were lost.  Others find new homes and wave goodbye to us.  It happens.  We don’t open our hearts to newcomers unless they’re committed.”

“They don’t seem to like you either,” I said.  “I thought you were one of them.”

Jasmine’s mouth twisted, as if she’d bitten into something sour.  “I went to school,” she said, softly.  “They don’t know if I’ll come back, after I graduate, or make my life elsewhere.  If I don’t … my parents won’t disown me or kick me out, but I won’t be one of them anymore.  A friend, perhaps, yet … an outsider.”

I winced in sympathy.  I understood the feeling.  “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Jasmine said.  She smiled, rather wanly.  “I haven’t decided yet.”

She waved a hand at the caravans.  “There are two circles,” she said.  “The inner circle consists of those who are committed to our lives, who would sooner die rather than surrender the freedom of the open road.  The outer circle consists of those who travel with us for a time and then go on to make their lives elsewhere.  They’re welcome, in a way, but they’re not truly us.”

“I see,” I said.  “What should I do?”

Jasmine looked me in the eye.  “Follow your heart.”

I changed the subject and tossed question after question at her, trying to get the lay of the land.  Or the lie of the land, as my old sergeant had put it.  Jasmine didn’t know that much, although I had a feeling she knew more than the average peasant.  I’d met tribesmen in Central Asia who hadn’t known anything beyond their villages.  They neither knew nor cared who ruled their country, let alone what side they were supposed to be on in the forever war.  I had the feeling the Diddakoi paid as little attention as they could to such details.  It left me feeling more than a little frustrated.  How was I supposed to decide where to go, let alone what to do, when I didn’t know what the options were?

We kept moving, never staying in one place for more than a day or two.  I slowly grew used to the limits of my new home, to the simple absence of everything I’d taken for granted.  We cooked dinner on a fire, not in a microwave; we washed in streams, when we could, rather than fancy showers.  I’d hoped to impress them with my knowledge of ‘little devils’ in water – and the importance of boiling the water before drinking it – but it turned out they already knew it.  Martin Padway had known enough tech to ensure that darkness never fell on the Roman Empire … he’d come from a less advanced world.  I knew a lot, but I didn’t know how to build crap I’d taken for granted a few short weeks ago.  If I’d known …

If I’d known, I would have crammed the car with supplies, I thought.  The toolkit and first aid supplies were useful, but they wouldn’t last for very long.  I had only a limited amount of ammunition and no way of making more.  I could have brought enough arms and supplies to build a whole kingdom for myself.

The thought sobered me.  Jasmine had shown me enough magic – parlour tricks, she’d insisted – for me to be very aware there was an unpredictable element in my new world.  She might imagine herself to be performing tricks, but I … I now knew how primitive tribesmen had felt when they’d come face to face with the wheel, guns and every other piece of technology that was light years ahead of them.  The gulf was so wide I feared I couldn’t begin to cross it.  Even Jasmine’s assurances there would be work for someone like me, if I was willing to work, fell flat.  How could I learn to use magic?

“You can’t,” Jasmine said, when I broke down and asked.  “You don’t have the talent.”

I gave her a sharp look.  “What happens to people who can’t do magic?”

“They don’t go to magic school?”  Jasmine shrugged.  “Seriously, there are places for everyone.”

I sighed and resigned myself to asking more questions as I struggled to learn the language before it was too late.  I’d always been good with languages, but this one … Jasmine’s spell was a hindrance as much as it helped.  She wasn’t that good a teacher either.  I found it hard to believe that everyone spoke the same language, with some slight local variations, but … the more I thought about it, the more it seemed true.  Back home, there was an entire industry built around teaching people to speak foreign languages.  There were people who knew what they were doing.  Here … there didn’t seem to be any need.  I forced myself to learn, trying to come to terms with the underlying grammar.  It didn’t help that there seemed to be a higher and lower language, as well as a written script that made no sense.

They always leave this part out of the books, I thought, grimly.  They wave their hands and overlook the problem so they can get on to the meaty part.

It grew harder, as the days wore on, to remember that I had children.  The boys … I wondered, grimly, if they’d ever guess what had happened to me.  They’d report me missing, right?  I’d certainly be listed as AWOL when I failed to show up for duty.  And then … and then what?  They’d never find my car, let alone my body.  Cleo would probably insist I’d gone underground to avoid paying child support.  And when they realised I hadn’t cleaned out my bank accounts … I made a face.  Cleo would get the money, along with my army pension and everything else.  She’d push to have me declared dead as quickly as possible. 

I felt a pang.  I loved my sons.  I’d even loved her.  And I’d never see any of them again.

“You’re brooding,” Jasmine said, when she found me on the edge of the clearing.  “It doesn’t really make things better.”

I glared at her.  “What do you know about loss?”

“Too much.”  Jasmine didn’t sound angry, merely saddened.  I’d told her I couldn’t stop thinking about my family.  “They’re not dead.  They’re just out of reach.”

I stared into the trees.  We were a long way from the Greenwood, but I’d been warned – time and time again – never to go out of the clearing after dark.  The urge to just walk into the woods and keep walking, in the desperate hope of finding my way home, was almost overpowering.  Jasmine had told me that there was no guarantee of going anywhere – and I believed her – and yet it was hard to stay where I was.  My father had deserted me when I’d been a child.  I’d promised myself I’d always be there for my sons.  And, through no fault of my own, I’d broken the promise.

The stars mocked me, every night.  They were so different.  I wasn’t on Earth.  I was … I was somewhere else.  It was good news, in a way; I could tell myself I wasn’t in the past, years before my children had been born, or so far in the future that my great-grandchildren were nothing more than dust.  And yet, they might as well be.  I had no hope of ever seeing them again.  I glared down at my hands, wondering if there was any point in going on.  Who knew what would happen when we finally reached the city?  Would I stay or would I go?

Jasmine touched my shoulder, lightly.  “They’re not dead.”

I rounded on her.  “They might as well be.”

She stood her ground.  “You can remain lost in memories, if you wish, or you can look to the future.”

I shook my head, slowly.  There were times when it was impossible to forget that we came from very different worlds.  Jasmine had grown up in a world where the slightest scratch could mean certain death, if the cut got infected.  There was a fatalism in her attitude I’d seen  in the Third World, but not in America.  Death was her constant companion, despite her magic.  She’d learned to accept death in a manner I found impossible …

She’s never had any children, I thought, sourly.  She doesn’t know what it’s like to lose a child.

I knew I was being unfair, but the thought refused to fade.  Jasmine was young.  It was hard to be sure of her age – Jasmine herself didn’t seem certain – but she couldn’t be any older than nineteen.  She didn’t seem to have any suitors sniffing around either.  That surprised me.  Jasmine was strikingly pretty as well as a gifted magician and singer.  But then, it was also unclear if she’d stay with the clan.  If she left, her partner would either have to let her go or leave the clan himself.  There weren’t many people in tribal communities who’d make that choice.

“I had a wife,” I said.  Cleo and I would probably have gotten divorced – I couldn’t trust her again, not after she’d cheated on me – but … it hurt.  “Don’t you have anyone?”

Jasmine shrugged.  “Everyone here is related to me, in one way or another,” she said.  “If I stay, I’ll meet prospective suitors when the clans assemble for the winter ceremonies.”

I reminded myself, again, that Jasmine was young.  “You don’t have anyone at Hogwarts?”

Jasmine blinked.  “Hogwarts?”

“Whitehall,” I corrected.

“No.”  Jasmine shook her head.  “How many of them would want to live out here?”

She waved a hand at the caravans.  I shrugged.  Her description of Whitehall had made it sound like a boarding school from hell, where you couldn’t walk down a corridor without someone zapping you in the back and turning you into a frog.  The whole idea was utterly terrifying.  Jasmine seemed to take it in stride, but … her attempts to explain magic to me had been incomprehensible.  Nothing she said made sense.  It all boiled down to trying to explain things like the whichness of the why and … it made me think of the song about the dancing centipede.  She’d lost the talent as soon as she’d tried to figure out what she actually did.

“They might see it as a step up,” I pointed out.

“A step down,” Jasmine corrected.  “None of them grew up here.”

We stood together in companionable silence.  It struck me, suddenly, that she was oddly relaxed in my presence.  I liked to think we’d become friends over the last couple of weeks, but … it was odd.  I was a big beefy man and black besides.  I was used to people eying me with concern, even with fear.  Sometimes I understood and sometimes they were just assholes.  And yet, Jasmine didn’t.  She neither learned towards nor away from me.  It was curious …

It clicked, suddenly.  Jasmine wasn’t nervous, around me, because she didn’t need to be.  She had magic.  She could protect herself.  I’d known women in the sandbox who’d been able to rely on their relatives to protect or avenge them – such protection had a price, up to and including complete submission – but Jasmine was different.  She wasn’t a defenceless girl, she was … my head spun as I realised she was strong in her own right.  I’d known some female soldiers who were just as tough as the men, women who’d earned their spurs, but this was different.  The world seemed to turn upside down as I glanced at her.  I was wondering why Jasmine wasn’t nervous around me?  Perhaps I should be nervous around her!

She let out a breath.  My paranoid mind wondered if she could read my thoughts.  The concept made my skin crawl.  What if she could?  What if … I tried not to think of her naked and promptly thought of her naked.  I told myself, sharply, that I was being silly.  She’d told me enough about magic to convince me she couldn’t read minds, although it was possible she was lying.  Or simply accidentally misleading me.

“You can make your own choice, here,” Jasmine said.  “Be what you want to be.”

I laughed as we made our way back to the caravan.  The clan was moving out again, heading down a road that looked as if it had seen better days.  I had the feeling it had been trodden down by thousands of people, over hundreds of years.  The air grew warmer as we picked up speed, inching our way out of the woods.  I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw, for the first time, hints of real civilisation.  I could see tiny villages in the distance, half-hidden amidst the fields.

My heart sank as I took in the sight.  I was no farmer – I knew very little about farming – but I could tell the peasants were working desperately to scratch a living from the soil.  The land looked almost painfully dry, the plants seeming to droop as they fought to draw nutrients from the soil.  The handful of workers in view looked tired, utterly beaten down.  They were all men.  I couldn’t see any women at all.

The air seemed to grow even hotter.  I felt sweat trickling down my back.  Jasmine seemed unbothered.  I couldn’t tell if she was using magic to shield herself or if she was simply used to it.  I kept my eyes on the countryside, my eyes trailing over row upon row of sickly-looking crops.  A dry ditch marked the edge of the fields.  It looked to have dried up years ago.  The ground looked as hard as stone.  I couldn’t believe the farm would last for much longer, no matter how hard the peasants worked.  They looked permanently on the edge of starvation.

We drove through a town, the locals paying very little attention to us.  They didn’t show any sign of interest, or fear, or anything.  I’d been in places where the locals greeted American troops with sticks and stones – at least partly because they knew the local insurgents would kill anyone who wasn’t insufficiently unwelcoming – but this was different.  The locals didn’t care about us or anyone.  I saw a woman making her way down the road, just as we left the town, and stared.  She looked ancient.  It was hard to believe she was still alive.

I heard a galloping sound and looked back, just in time to see a line of horsemen cantering past.  The hooves kicked up dust, which the wind blew into our faces.  I reached for my pistol, then stopped myself.  Who knew who the riders were?  What would happen if I killed one or more of them?

“Local toffs, out for a ride,” Jasmine explained.  She waved a hand, the dust fading from the air.  “They’ll own the estate for sure.”

I glanced at her.  “Who owns the land?”

“The local lord,” Jasmine said.  “That” – she said a word her spell couldn’t or wouldn’t translate – “is probably his son.”

She sounded indifferent.  I had the feeling it was a matter of great concern to the peasants.  Land ownership was a major issue right across the world.  The people who worked the land could find themselves displaced, or enslaved, if the land was sold to someone else.  And it would be perfectly legal.

“Asshole,” I commented.  I didn’t know the brat, but I disliked him already.  “Why don’t the peasants revolt?”

“It happens,” Jasmine said.  “They all get killed.”

I put my thoughts aside as we drove down towards the city.  The land looked like a chessboard, patches of cultivated land rubbing shoulders with fields that had been left fallow and ditches that looked as if they’d dried up years ago.  An irrigation project would probably have done wonders for crop yield, I thought – I’d seen it work in Afghanistan – but I doubted anyone was interested in trying.  It looked as if no one was even thinking about helping the peasants.  The riders I’d seen cantering past had been doing them harm simply by existing. 

And they keep the peasants so downtrodden they can’t even think of a better life, I mused.  It made sense.  I’d seen it before.  It was just sickening.  They’d sooner keep their power than make life better for everyone, including themselves.

The wind shifted, blowing an unholy stench into my face.  “What the fuck …?”

Jasmine giggled.  “Do you know what we call cityfolk?”

“No.”  I forced myself to breathe though my mouth.  The stench was appalling, the scent of piss and shit and too many humans in too close proximity.  “What?”

“Stinkers,” Jasmine said.  She sobered.  “Believe me, it fits.”

I nodded as the city came into view.  Somehow, I didn’t doubt it.

Snippet – The Cunning Man’s Tale

Hi, everyone

The Cunning Man’s Tale is a short story/novella for Fantastic Schools III, set in Heart’s Eye.  It takes place at roughly the same time as Little Witches (more or less.)  It should be more or less stand-alone.

I’m trying two different things here.  First, this story is written in first person (rather than third person).  I’ve done that before, but this is the first time I’ve done it for SIM.  Second, I planned this novella with the intention of eventually filling it out and turning it into a more serious novel.  If you have any suggestions for expansion and suchlike, please feel free to pass them to me.

Chris

PS – If you read, please comment from time to time.  It encourages me.

PPS – If you want to write yourself, check out the link below.

Chapter One

I had barely rested my head on the pillow when I was awakened by a terrific banging.

I jumped awake, half-convinced I’d overslept and my master was furious.  Master Pittwater was decent and easy-going, as masters went, but he had every right to be upset if I’d overslept.  The apothecary didn’t run itself, as I knew all too well.  If Master Pittwater had to work the counter himself, he was going to be mad.  He needed to restock on a dozen potions before the rush began …

My head spun as I sat up.  Where was I?  It wasn’t my garret above the shop.  It wasn’t the bedroom I’d shared with my brothers, back in Beneficence.  It was a small room, bare and barren save for an uncomfortable bed, illuminated by a single glowing crystal.  My bag lay in the corner, where I’d left it … I blinked as memory returned.  I’d been so tired, when I’d finally reached Heart’s Eye, that I had very little awareness of being shown to a room and collapsing into sleep.  Master Pittwater had warned me about portal lag, about the body being convinced it was in one time zone while actually being in another, but I hadn’t believed it.  Not until now.  The clock on the wall insisted it was ten bells, but it felt like the middle of the night.

There was another hard knock on the door.  I cursed as I stumbled to my feet and staggered towards the sound.  I honestly had no idea who was out there.  Master Pittwater had promised he’d make the arrangements, and advised me to check in with Master Landis as soon as I arrived, but I couldn’t remember if I actually had.  Everything – the portals, the train – was a blur.  I wondered, as I turned the doorknob, if I actually was in Heart’s Eye.  It was quite possible I’d been in such a state that I’d gone to the wrong place.

“Well,” a feminine voice said, as I opened the door.  “It’s about time.”

I blinked in surprise.  A girl – young woman, really – was standing on the far side of the door, eying me as if I was something particularly unpleasant under her foot.  She was striking, in a way that most female magicians are striking, and yet the sneer on her face made it hard to like her.  Her eyes narrowed with contempt as she looked me up and down.  I looked back at her, noting the long red hair and magical robes.  Her skin was unmarked by life, her hands lacking the scars on mine.  She looked like a person from another world.

“I trust you have been getting ready to attend upon us?”  The girl sounded as though she didn’t believe it.  “Or have you been lollygagging around in bed …?”

She looked past me, as if she expected to discover that I wasn’t alone.  I felt my temper flare.  I didn’t know who she was, or who she thought I was, but I didn’t like anyone talking to me like that.  I was a free citizen of Beneficence, not a serf or a slave or a runaway peasant.  I might be an apprentice, but I had rights.  They didn’t include having to take such … disdain … from someone who was clearly as immature as someone half her age.

I cleared my throat.  “Who are you?”

“Lilith,” the girl snapped.  “Don’t you know me?”

“No,” I said, in honest bemusement.  I was supposed to know her?  She wasn’t a customer at the shop – my former shop – and I was fairly sure she didn’t live in Beneficence.  Even the snootier magicians at least tried to be polite.  Mostly.  “Am I supposed to know you?”

Lilith gave me a nasty look.  “I am” – she paused, clearly rethinking what she was about to say – “I am Master Landis’s apprentice.  And I have to take you to the lab.”

She looked me up and down.  “And you’re not even appropriately dressed!”

“I only got in last night,” I said.  The urge to just slam the door in her face was overwhelming.  “You woke me up.”

“That won’t do at all,” Lilith said.  “Get dressed in lab robes and meet me there in ten minutes and …”

“I don’t even know where the lab is,” I said.  “I can’t …”

Lilith scowled.  “Get dressed,” she ordered.  “I’ll wait outside.  Hurry.”

I scowled back as I closed the door, opened my bag and dug through it for the apprenticeship robe.  Master Pittwater had given it to me as his farewell present, along with a handful of printed textbooks and tomes.  I felt grimy as I shucked my trousers and shirt, taking time to change my underwear before pulling the robe over my head.  I had been far too long since I’d had a proper shower, let alone a bath.  Master Pittwater had been insistent I shower every day, if I lived above the shop.  I’d grown used to the luxury.

Gritting my teeth, I dug out the letters of introduction and slipped them into my pocket.  Master Pittwater had assured me that everything had been sorted, that Master Landis would give me a fair shot at an apprenticeship.  He hadn’t mentioned another apprentice, a girl no less.  I wasn’t sure what to make of that.  Female apprentices were rare, outside the magical community.  And Lilith clearly had a massive chip on her shoulder.  If I’d shown that sort of attitude, I would have been in deep trouble.

“You’re not an apprentice,” Lilith said, when I opened the door.  “You shouldn’t be wearing those robes.”

I glared at her, feeling pushed to breaking point.  “I came here for an apprenticeship,” I said, sharply.  “Shouldn’t I be dressed for the part?”

“You’re not a real apprentice,” Lilith countered.  She held up her palm.  A spark of light danced over her skin.  It was a trick magicians often used to identify themselves.  I tried not to wince as I looked at the reminder I would never be a magician.  “All you’re good for is preparing the ingredients.  Menial work.”

She turned and marched down the corridor, then stopped.  “Did you even think to have something to eat?”

“No,” I said.  I was used to hunger – my family had never been wealthy enough to be sure of putting food on the table – and I could have gone on for quite some time without making mistakes, but I wanted to irritate her.  Just a little.  “Is there something to eat?”

Lilith snorted and turned to walk down a staircase.  “Follow me,” she snapped.  “And stay a step or two behind me.”

I ignored the insult as I peered around with interest.  Heart’s Eye was big, easily larger than anything I’d seen in the city.  The corridors seemed like giant mazes, although someone had helpfully hung signs and markers everywhere.  There were no paintings on the walls, save for a handful of strikingly-realistic portraits.  I frowned as I ran my eye over the names below the portraits.  MISTRESS IRENE.   LADY EMILY … the Emily, I assumed.  CALEB.  MASTER LANDIS … I stopped to study his face, wondering just how closely the painting matched reality.  He looked very different to Master Pittwater.  A pale face, neatly-trimmed goatee, green eyes … I couldn’t help thinking he reminded me of someone, although I wasn’t sure who.

“That’s your new boss,” Lilith said.  She seemed in no hurry, all of a sudden.  “We don’t want people forgetting who runs this place.”

I gave her a sharp look.  “Do you even want to be here?”

Lilith looked thoroughly displeased.  “I have no choice,” she said.  “You do.  Why don’t you leave.”

She turned and strode down the corridor before I could think of a reply.  I glared at her back as I started to follow her.  I didn’t have a choice, not if I wanted to be something more than an apothecary’s assistant.  Master Pittwater had made that clear, when he’d told me I could go no further in his employ.  I could either accept being a lowly assistant for the rest of my life or take a chance on Heart’s Eye.  He hadn’t promised me it would be easy.

I heard people talking as we reached the bottom of the corridor and stepped into a large hall.  It was crammed with people, ranging from students to older men and women wearing worker’s overalls and protective outfits.  The tables seemed to be scattered at random, although I could tell there were dozens of groups and subgroups already.  I glanced from table to table, noting youngsters who were clearly magicians and men who looked like proud craftsmen.  I felt a tinge of envy.  I’d thought about becoming a craftsman myself, but I hadn’t been able to get an apprenticeship.

Lilith pointed to the table at the front of the hall, raising her voice so I could hear over the din.  “Take what you want,” she said.  “Don’t worry about paying for it.”

“Really?”  It sounded as if she wanted to get me in hot water.  “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Lilith said.  She walked beside me, the crowd parting in front of her.  I couldn’t help noticing that she – and I – were getting wary looks, even from the magicians.  “Right now, the food is free.”

It was also very basic, I decided, as I filled a bowl with porridge and dried fruit.  Oats were easy to grow, if I recalled correctly; they were probably shipped in by the ton through the portals.  Or something.  Heart’s Eye was in the middle of a desert, but I’d been told the land was slowly becoming fertile again.  I put the matter aside for later consideration as we sat down, Lilith nursing a mug of Kava.  I couldn’t help thinking we were in a bubble.  The others gave us a wide berth.  Even the magicians seemed wary of her.

“Eat quickly,” Lilith said.  She didn’t seem pleased with her seeming unpopularity.  “We don’t have much time.”

I nodded and tucked into the porridge.  It tasted bland, but I knew I should be glad to have it.  My stomach growled warningly, suggesting I should go back for seconds.  There was dried fish too, as well as meats I didn’t recognise.  I wanted to go, but Lilith was clearly impatient.  I drank my Kava – stronger than anything I’d had back home – and stood, carrying the plates and bowls to the collection point.  It looked as if the staff had a full-time job.

“Who does the cooking?”  I asked, as Lilith led me out of the hall.  “And everything else?”

“Depends,” Lilith said.  “The cooks do the cooking” – she wasn’t looking at me, but I could hear the sneer – “assisted by students who are working their way through the university courses.  They do the labour and, in exchange, are allowed to attend courses.  It is quite the arrangement.”

I stared at her back.  “What’s wrong with it?”

“They cannot use it,” Lilith said.  “What’s the point?”

I couldn’t put my feelings into words.  Lilith didn’t seem to notice as she walked down two flights of stairs and along a long corridor.  I felt a tingle passing through me, my hair threatening to stand on end, as we crossed the wards.  Silence fell, noticeably.  I hadn’t really been aware of the background noise until it was gone.  A pair of young girls walked past us, going in the other direction.  They both gave Lilith a wide berth.  I frowned.  Lilith wasn’t that bad, was she?  I’d met people who were worse.

“This is the lab,” Lilith said, as she pushed open a door.  “Master Landis will key you into the wards, once you prove yourself.”

“I proved myself to Master Pittwater,” I protested.  “I know …”

“An apothecary,” Lilith said, in a tone that suggested Master Pittwater was one step above a gutter rat.  “This is an alchemical lab.  The rules are different.”

She muttered a word as she stepped inside.  The air glowed with light.  I felt a thrill, despite myself, as I looked around.  The chamber was massive, a dozen wooden tables – neatly spaced, in line with the rules Master Pitt water had drummed into me – dominating the room.  The walls were lined with shelves upon shelves of potion ingredients, alchemical textbooks and everything an alchemist needed, from cauldrons to glass vials, jars and bottles.  I stepped closer, admiring the collection of ingredients.  A number were so expensive that Master Pittwater had rarely, if ever, used them.  I couldn’t help shuddering as I saw a pickled frog in a jar.

“That was a boy who tried to kiss me,” Lilith said.  I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.  “I turned him into a frog and pickled him.”

I felt sick.  “Do you think that’s funny?”

Lilith shrugged.  “There’s a washroom through there,” she said.  “I take it you know how to wash your hands and put on a proper apron?”

I didn’t bother to dignify that stupid question with a stupid answer.  I hadn’t worked a day in the shop before I’d learnt the dangers of cross-contamination and injury.  It was very easy to get seriously hurt, even if one couldn’t brew the more dangerous potions.  I’d helped Master Pittwater clean the wounds, after one of his previous ancestors had splashed himself with cockatrice blood.  It wasn’t as lethal as basilisk or manticore venom, but it had still done enough damage to terminate the poor man’s career.  I had no idea what had happened to him afterwards.  I hoped he wasn’t starving on the streets somewhere.

Lilith rattled around in the lab as I washed and dried my hands, then donned a apron.  It wouldn’t provide much protection, if a cauldron exploded, but it might give me a few seconds to tear it off before the boiling liquid burned through to my skin.  I tested it lightly, making sure I could pull it free, then headed back into the lab.  Lilith had laid out a set of ingredients, and a small collection of tools.  I felt a thrill when I looked at them.  I knew how to use them all.

“To work,” Lilith ordered.  She jabbed a finger at the pile.  “Ready these for use.”

I frowned as I stared at the pile.  Some were common, so common a child could prepare them properly.  A couple required almost no preparation.  The remainder were tricky.  I couldn’t prepare them unless I knew what we were going to brew.  The Darkle Roots needed to be sliced one way for a sleeping potion and quite another way for a purgative.  The Candy Seeds needed to be left intact for a shape-change potion and crushed for a healing potion.  And the daises … Master Pittwater had joked about a vile old witch who found daises soothing, but – as far as I knew – they had no real magical applications.  They were useless.

“Interesting,” I said, as neutrally as I could.  “What are we going to brew?”

Lilith sniffed.  “A simple painkilling potion,” she said.  She hadn’t said which one.  There were over fifty different recipes, with varying levels of potency.  “Prepare the ingredients.”

I kept my face under tight control as I considered the recipes I’d memorised.  There were only four that involved all, but one of the ingredients.  The daisies were a mystery.  I shrugged, resisting the urge to ask about them as I started to work.  I chopped up the Darkle Roots, being very careful to avoid mixing them with the Hawthorne Thistles.  They didn’t go well together unless they were blended in a cauldron.  The Jigger Stems were of too poor quality for two of the four recipes, so I angled my work towards the remaining two.  Lilith watched, occasionally tossing in a question.  I was almost insulted.  I’d covered most of them within the first two months of my time in the shop.

“I’ve done everything, but the daises,” I said, finally.  “What are we going to brew?”

Lilith snorted.  “We?  I’m going to brew …”

I felt my temper snap.  “I just prepared the ingredients for you,” I said, sharply.  A thought struck me.  “Did I just help you with your work?”

“It’s your job,” Lilith snapped.  “You prepare the ingredients.  I turn them into potions!”

“I came here for an apprenticeship, not to be a servant,” I snapped back.  I didn’t mind preparing ingredients.  It was part of the job.  But I didn’t want to be just a preparer.  “I need to learn to brew and …”

“With what?”  Lilith turned to face me.  “You have no magic.  You can toss this lot into a cauldron and get what?  Sludge!  You cannot do anything with this.  All you’re good for is preparing the ingredients!”

“I can learn,” I said.  “I can …”

Lilith jabbed a finger at me.  My entire body froze.  I could neither move nor speak.

“I learnt that spell before I went to school,” Lilith said.  She tapped me on the head.  It sounded as if she’d rapped her knuckles against solid metal.  “You are powerless against it.  You cannot defend yourself against even the merest touch of magic.  You have no place here, save as a servant to your betters.  And the sooner you learn it, the better.”

I struggled to move, but I couldn’t.  My entire body was locked solid.  I couldn’t even move my eyes.  I watched, helplessly, as Lilith took the ingredients I’d lovingly prepared and started to turn them into a potion.  She was good, I admitted grudgingly; she was far better than the other apprentices I’d met.  Her fingers moved with easy skill, her magic sparking with life as she worked.  And yet she thought of me as a servant …

My heart sank.  How the hell did I get into this mess?

Now Accepting Stories for Fantastic Schools, Volume 3!

Stuck in Magic CH2

Chapter Two

“Can you understand me?”  Jasmine was eying me, worriedly.  “Can you …?”

“Yes,” I managed.  “What … what was that?”

“Magic,” Jasmine said.  She sounded slightly reassured.  “A simple translation spell.”

A simple … my mind seemed to stagger in utter disbelief.  Magic?  Impossible.  I was dreaming.  I had to be dreaming.  I’d crashed the car and fallen into a coma and any moment now I’d wake up in a hospital bed, facing an enormous bill.  Or I might die.  The road had been empty when night had become day and … it was unlikely anyone would see the crash in time to save my life.  It had been very dark.  A car might drive past, the driver unaware there was anything to see.  I could die at any moment.

Jasmine stepped forward.  “What would you like to be called?”

I blinked.  It was an odd way of asking my name.  “Elliot,” I managed.  “I’m called Elliot.”

“Pleased to meet you.”  Jasmine bobbed what looked like an old-fashioned curtsey.  “You came out of the Greenwood?”

My incomprehension must have shown on my face, because she pointed to the car and the trees beyond.  It did look as though I’d driven through the foliage and straight into the ditch, although it was clearly impossible.  There was no suggestion I’d crashed my way through the trees.  They were practically a solid barrier.  The handful of chinks within the foliage were barely big enough for a grown man.  I felt claustrophobic just looking at them.  I’d delved into enough tight spaces, during the war, to feel uneasy about going back inside. 

I found my voice.  “What happened to me?”

“Some people walk into the Greenwood and come out in a different time and place,” Jasmine said.  She walked past me, her eyes narrowing as she saw the car.  “I’m afraid there’s no way home.”

“I have a family,” I protested.  “I …”

Jasmine turned to look at me.  “I’m very sorry,” she said.  I didn’t doubt her for a moment.  “But there’s no way home.”

“You can walk back into the Greenwood, if you like,” the older man said.  “I just don’t know when and where you’d come out.”

I pinched myself, hard.  It hurt.  It didn’t feel like a dream – or a nightmare.  Cleo and the boys were … where?  When and where?  Was this the past?  Was this a time when magic had actually existed?  Or was I on another world?  Jasmine and her family looked human enough, but … they were such a strange mixture of races I found it hard to believe they lived and worked together.  They looked like gypsies.  Maybe they were travellers, moving from place to place.

“I’m Grandfather Lembu,” the older man said.  “And we are the Diddakoi.”

“He doesn’t know anything about us, Grandfather,” Jasmine said.  “He’s in shock.”

“I don’t know anything,” I said.  It wasn’t the first time I’d been abroad, but … if magic was real, the world would be very different.  Right?  “Where am I?”

“You’re in the Kingdom of Johor,” Grandfather Lembu said, calmly.  “Does that mean anything to you?”

I shook my head, wondering – too late – if they understood the gesture.  It was possible it meant something completely different here, if they had had no contact with my world.  Or … I looked around, feeling hopelessly lost.  What was I going to do?  Where could I go?  I was as ignorant of this new world as a newborn child …

“You are welcome to stay with us, at least until we reach the nearest city,” the old woman said.  “As long as you honour our ways, you will be welcome.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Jasmine said.  She shot me what I thought was meant to be a reassuring look.  “He won’t know how to behave.”

It was hard not to feel a twinge of panic.  I tried not to show it on my face.  I had no idea of the rules, or how to behave … for all I knew, smiling at someone was a grave insult.  Or something.  It was terrifyingly easy to give offense if one didn’t know the rules and the offended rarely bothered to give the offender the benefit of the doubt.  If I’d managed to get in trouble when I’d moved from state to state, just by not knowing what I was doing, it would be far worse here.

“First, we bury that … thing,” Grandfather Lembu said, waving at the car.  “We can’t leave it lying around for the peasants to find.”

Jasmine nodded.  “Take whatever you want from it,” she said to me.  “And then we’ll bury it here.”

I didn’t want to leave the car behind, but there was no choice.  Even if I could get it out of the ditch, the engine was fucked.  There was no hope of driving down the road and out of the nightmare.  I turned and walked back to the car, going through it to recover everything I could.  I’d known operators who crammed their cars with their kit, on the grounds they might be called back to duty at a moment’s notice.  In hindsight, I should have done the same.  I just didn’t have anything like enough supplies to last for more than a few days, if that.

Jasmine sat on the ditch and watched me calmly.  Her eyes seemed to skim over the car, as if she couldn’t quite see it.  I glanced at her in puzzlement, then looked away.  She was stunningly pretty, yet meddling with the local women was a pretty universal to get into trouble.  I’d known a guy who got into deep shit because he’d fallen in love with a girl from the sandbox.  And besides, Jasmine looked to be around nineteen.  She was practically half my age.

“I should have brought more,” I muttered.  Was the remnants of the car any use?  Could I tear out the windows for trade goods?  What about the gas in the tank?  Given time, I was sure I could figure out a way to drain it safely.  “If I’d known …”

“You’re not the first person who walked into the Greenwood and came out somewhere else,” Jasmine said.  She had very sharp hearing.  “All you can do is make the best of it.”

I straightened.  If this was real, a single mistake could get me killed.  If it wasn’t … I pinched myself again, just to be sure.  It still hurt.  The wind shifted, blowing the scent of arid sand into my nostrils.  It felt … wrong.  I picked up the bag and clambered out of the ditch.  I’d go through the bag later, in hopes of determining what I could use for trade goods.  I had no idea what was worth what, not here.  For all I knew, the small toolbox was nothing more than a curiosity.

Jasmine stood beside me.  “Are you sure you have everything?”

“Everything I can carry,” I said.  “Do you want me to help bury the car?”

“No need,” Jasmine said.  “Watch.”

She raised a hand.  My hair stood on end as the dirt and sand started to rise of its own accord and cover the car.  I stumbled backwards in shock, my head spinning in disbelief.  Magic was real?  I’d seen one spell already, but … I thought I understood, now, how the Native Americans had felt when they’d seen European guns and technology.  It was so far beyond their comprehension that they must have felt they could never catch up.  The first contact between the two worlds had been an outside context problem … this was an outside context problem.  Jasmine, a girl so slight I could break her in half with ease, had enough power to shake the world.

I forced myself to watch the tiny whirlwind as it covered the car completely.  The ditch looked ruined.  I couldn’t help wondering if someone was going to be very annoyed about that, one day.  The ditch didn’t look to be in good condition – I could see patches where the sides had caved in – but the hump hiding the car was a great deal bigger. If it rained heavily, it was going to reveal the car …

Jasmine lowered her hand.  The storm faded away.  I felt a sudden sense of loss as I looked at the mound.  The car hadn’t been a good car, but she’d been mine.  I’d bought her, I’d refurbished her, I’d repaired her … I felt as if I’d been completely cut off from my life and world.  I wanted to jump over the ditch and run into the trees, but Grandfather Lembu was right.  There was no guarantee I’d get home if I tried.  The sense of unseen eyes looking at me grew stronger with every passing second.

“Come on,” Jasmine said.  “I’ll show you around.”

I followed her numbly as she led the way back to the caravans.  They seemed to be an entire mobile village.  A cluster of women were lighting fires and boiling water, while the menfolk fed their horses and the children ran and played.  I stayed close to Jasmine, doing my level best to ignore the stares.  They didn’t feel hostile – I’d been in war zones, I knew the difference – but they didn’t seem very friendly either.  It wasn’t uncommon, in isolated communities.  A newcomer couldn’t walk up and demand admittance.  He would have to work long and hard to earn their trust.

And I’m the newcomer here, I thought, sourly.  They don’t know me.

Jasmine motioned for me to sit by the fire.  I sat, watching the travellers watching me.  They were a very diverse group, far more than I’d realised.  And yet, there was something about them that made them look alike.  I studied them, drawing on my years of experience.  The men and women seemed separate, but equal.  There was no sense the men were automatically superior or vice versa.  The children were certainly playing together without any sense of separate worlds.

“Drink this,” Jasmine said.  “It’s safe.”

“Thank you,” I said.  The mug looked like something out of a bygone age.  The liquid inside looked like soup.  I sipped it carefully, tasting hints of chicken and vegetables.  My stomach growled, reminding me that it had been a long time since I’d eaten.  Thousands of years, perhaps.  I couldn’t help smiling at the thought, even though it was a grim reminder I’d never see home again.  “I … I don’t know anything about being here.”

“I understand.”  Jasmine’s eyes darkened, as if she was remembering something unpleasant.  “I had to go away too, for a while.  It’s never easy.”

“No,” I agreed.  “Where did you go?”

“Whitehall School,” Jasmine said.  She held out a hand.  A spark of light danced over her palm.  “It was very different.  Being in a room … ugh.”

I had to smile.  “What did you study there?”

“Magic,” Jasmine said.  She sounded wistful.  “I have to go back at the end of the summer.”

My head spun again.  A school for magicians?  A real-life Hogwarts?  It wasn’t a pleasant thought.  I’d read the books to my kids and I’d been unable to look past the multitude of unfortunate implications.  Jasmine seemed nice enough, but … for all I knew, pureblood supremacism was a very real thing.  If there were people dumb enough to think they were superior, just because their skin was lighter than mine, I was sure there were people who thought magic made them superior.  My skin crawled.  What could magic do?  What could it not do?  The teenage girl sitting next to me might have the powers of a minor god. 

And without her, you couldn’t talk to anyone here, I thought.  You need her.

I forced myself to think.  “The spell you put on me, how long will it last?”

“I’m not sure,” Jasmine confessed.  “I can keep renewing it, you see.  Without renewal” – she frowned – “it’ll last around six months, at best.  It also has its limits.  Focus on learning the language before it wears off.”

“I’m good at learning languages,” I said, although I wasn’t sure it was true here.  There’d been teachers who’d taught me how to speak and write a handful of different languages.  I’d had multilingual friends who’d helped me to develop my skills.  “I’ll do my best to learn.”

Jasmine nodded.  We fell into a companionable silence as we drank our soup.  I couldn’t help noticing that Jasmine seemed as isolated as I, although she was one of them.  I’d wondered if I was treading on someone’s toes, if Jasmine had a partner or admirer amongst the travellers, but … she seemed too isolated for it.  I didn’t understand it.  In my experience, beauty made up for a lot of things.  Maybe she was just too closely related to the rest of the clan.  There’d been tribal societies with strict rules to prevent inbreeding.

“I need to pay my way,” I said, as the travellers started to pack up.  “What can I do to help?”

“You can help us set up the campsite when we reach the crossing point,” Jasmine said, mischievously.  “There’s a lot of fetching and carrying for all of us to do, when we arrive.”

I smiled.  If there was one good way to integrate yourself, it was through being helpful.  And I did want to pay my way, even if I didn’t have the slightest idea what I was doing.  Jasmine stood and escorted me towards a small caravan, so small it looked like a children’s toy.  I glanced inside, half-expecting it to be bigger on the inside.  It wasn’t.  There was barely enough room for a single person.  I had the feeling I’d break my bones if I tried to sleep inside.  I’d probably be sleeping under the caravan.  The horse – no, donkey – gave me a bored look as Jasmine scrambled up and took the reins.  I sat next to her, put my bag in the rear and watched as the traveller convoy lurched back into life.

“You have magic,” I said.  I tried to keep my voice casual, but it was hard.  “Does everyone have magic?”

“No.”  Jasmine looked pensive.  “A lot of us” – she waved a hand at the caravans – “have a spark of magic and know a few simple spells, but most people don’t.  The really talented magicians go to school and learn how to do far more advanced magics.  They don’t always come back.”

I winced, inwardly, at the pain in her voice.  It was never easy for someone to leave a traditional community, learn something very different and then come home and try to fit in once again.  I’d seen it happen back home, to kids who might have been great if they hadn’t been dragged down by their peers; I’d seen it happen in Iraq and Afghanistan, where religious fanatics had no qualms about murdering educated women and blowing up schools for girls.  Jasmine might not be facing death – I had the feeling she was still part of the clan – but she didn’t quite fit in any longer.

“Magic,” I repeated.  “How does it work?”

Jasmine launched into a long and complicated explanation I couldn’t even begin to understand.  There were too many things that didn’t make sense, too many words I didn’t know … I lacked too many concepts, I guessed, for the translation spell to work properly.  I wasn’t even sure how it worked.  The military had messed around with universal translators, but they’d never been particularly useful.  They’d been too many dialects and too little time.

I shivered, again, as she talked about her schooling.  The students were dangerous … I recalled my earlier thoughts about pureblood supremacism and cursed under my breath.  It was impossible to believe magicians didn’t have a superiority complex.  There was no real difference between whites and blacks, but magicians and muggles?  I didn’t want to know what they called muggles in this universe.  It was probably something just as insulting.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do here,” I said.  “This place is so … different.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Jasmine assured me.  “It’ll take us two weeks to reach the city.  After that, if you want to stay with us, you’ll be welcome.  Or you can strike out on your own.”

I hoped she was right, as the sky started to darken.  The caravans came to a halt in a clearing, Grandfather Lembu snapping out orders to hew wood and fetch water.  I jumped to the ground and helped, carrying water from the stream to the campsite.  The young men said little to me as I worked, although I caught them giving my clothes sidelong glances.  I made a mental note to find new clothes as soon as possible.  I looked like a stranger, someone who didn’t fit in.  And yet … I thought I saw glimmerings of respect as I helped set up the fire and a dozen other tasks.  Perhaps being here wouldn’t be so bad after all.  And yet …

“Don’t go out of the clearing after dark,” Jasmine advised, after dinner.  The food had been surprisingly tasty, following by singing and a dance.  I’d sat and watched.  “You don’t know what might be out there.”

“No,” I agreed.  “I … where do I sleep?”

Jasmine pointed me to the space beside the caravan and tossed me a blanket.  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

I lay back on the ground and stared into the dark sky.  It wasn’t the first time I’d slept out of doors, but … this time, the constellations were different.  I swallowed, hard.  Wherever I was, it wasn’t Earth.  I was a very long way from home.  I was never going to see Cleo and the boys again.  Cleo I could do without, after everything, but the boys … I tried not to sob openly as I realised they were gone forever.  They might be as well be dead.

It was a very long time before I fell asleep.

SIM: The Kingdom of Tarzana

Another bit of background.

The Kingdom of Tarzana

Tarzana sits at the eastern reaches of the Allied Lands, separated from the remainder of the former Empire by a combination of mountains and arid deserts.  It is not as isolated as many of its aristocrats might prefer – there are roads through the mountains and the kingdom has a number of ports that link it to the Southern Continent – but it does maintain its distance from the White Council.  Tarzana has not sent any troops to join the common defence against the necromancers and has only reluctantly paid its dues to the White Council. 

The kingdom is best described as a mixture of arid countryside, dominated by hot and humid summers, and cold to mild winters.  The fertile regions of the country are bracketed by farms that barely produce enough to keep their workers alive and deserts that are effectively impossible to farm.  Rainfall and thunderstorms are not uncommon, but completely unpredictable.  The farmers have made some attempts to irrigate their fields, using aspects of the New Learning, but such efforts have floundered against aristocratic resistance.  It is perhaps unsurprising that a sizable percentage of the country’s population is desperately poor.

On paper, Tarzana is a kingdom roughly akin to Zangaria.  In practice, this isn’t true.  The country’s aristocracy had deep roots within the local government and, when the king started trying to increase his power, revolted against him.  The king lost his life and his son, the current King Jacob, was put on the throne.  As he was barely an infant at the time, he was unable to exercise governance and the aristocracy were able to effectively strip the monarchy of most of its power.  The country is effectively divided into aristocratic estates and city-states that maintain a precarious independence.  The Warlords – a title they stripped from the King and distributed to themselves to symbolise his powerlessness – hold most of the power, as long as they act in unison.  Each of the warlords, however, has dreams of taking the king’s daughter – Princess Helen – for his bride and becoming a true king.  This would, naturally, come at the expense of the other warlords and they can be relied upon to unite against anyone who tried.   

The five major warlords, with many aristocrats bound to them through oaths of blood, are Aldred, Cuthbert, Eldred, Hlaford and Renweard.

King Jacob and his daughter would love to regain effective power – or, at the very least, break the power of the warlords – but they face a number of serious challenges.  The crown is banned from deploying more than a few hundred soldiers, nowhere near enough to challenge even one of the warlords, while the tax base is very small.  The warlords have exempted themselves and their supporters from most taxes, while the city-states, temples and nearly everyone else pays as little as possible.  (The crown doesn’t have the manpower to collect taxes, even ones that are still legal.)  The main tax burden falls on the peasants, who are unable to pay even if they wanted to.  Practically, the king rules Roxanna, the capital, and very little else.

The city-states maintain an uneasy balancing act between their ancient rights – they claim their rights pre-date both the monarchy and the empire – and the simple fact that their neighbouring warlords are powerful enough to storm the cities or simply blockade them into submission.  This is bitterly resented in the cities, leading to a steady stream of anti-noble riots that rarely get anywhere.  The cities have a range of different governments, from a limited form of democracy (men with property alone, naturally) to semi-aristocratic or mercantile systems.  It is generally believed that uniting the cities would give them a chance to shake themselves free of the warlords, but the city governments refuse to back any such attempt.  They believe it would result in certain destruction.

Merchants and trades – and the travelling folk – are normally allowed to move freely within the country.  However, they can be harassed by local authorities – some of the nastier warlords see traders as agents of change (and thus enemies) – and sometimes beaten or robbed by bandits.  They’re also banned from recruiting outside the cities or providing transport to the peasantry without a permit.  The only real exception to this are magical traders and talent scouts, the former being regarded as too dangerous to challenge and the latter providing a useful service.

The peasantry, as a class, is ground under by the problem of raising crops in the arid environment and the constant demands from the warlords (and their subordinates).  The warlords consider the peasants to be property, one step above slaves, and take most of the produce for themselves without so much as investing in the land (such as irrigation).  It is unsurprising, therefore, that famines are frequent; peasants often take to the hills and become bandits, or flee to the cities, in hopes of making a living there.  This is, naturally, forbidden and the warlords will often threaten war to force the cities to return them, even though this is pointless spite.  Violent resistance is not uncommon and the peasants tell of a legendary warrior who will return to save them, but – so far – most peasant revolts have been brutally squashed. 

The New Learning spread into Tarzana largely by accident, brought by merchants who intended to use the innovations – reading and writing, as well as primitive gunpowder weapons – for their own advantage.  The warlords didn’t see the possibilities – or the dangers-  until it was too late, although they were quick to ban the peasants from learning to read (on the ground it would only give them ideas).  The city-states have embraced the New Learning, although it will probably be years before they manage to develop any further.  However, it is quite likely that the new concepts will bring change in their wake.

OUT NOW – FANTASTIC SCHOOLS V.2, FEATURING A NEW SCHOOLED IN MAGIC NOVELLA!

Have you ever wanted to go to magic school? To cast spells and brew potions and fly on broomsticks and—perhaps—battle threats both common and supernatural? Come with us into worlds of magic, where students become magicians and teachers do everything in their power to ensure the kids survive long enough to graduate. Welcome to … Fantastic Schools.

Follow a mundane teacher striding into a world of magic, a spy on a mission, a guided tour of a magical school, a school dance for monsters, a dangerous reunion … and many more.

Follow us into worlds different, magical …

… And very human.

Featuring a new Schooled in Magic novella – Nanette’s Tale – and stories by J.F. Posthumus, Christine Amsden, James Pyles, Becky R. Jones, Morgon Newquist, Tom Anderson, Lauser, James Odell, Misha Burnett, Audrey Andrews, Paul A. Piatt, L. Jagi Lamplighter and David Breitenbeck

Download from Amazon US, UK, CAN, AU

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OUT NOW – The Halls of Montezuma (The Empire’s Corps XVIII) + FREE BOOK!

An all-new story of The Empire’s Corps!

Earth has fallen.  The Core Worlds have collapsed into chaos.  War is breaking out everywhere as planetary governments declare independence, entire sectors slip out of contact and warlords battle for power.  The remnants of the once-great Empire are tearing themselves apart.  And, in the shadows, the Terran Marine Corps works to save what little they can to preserve civilisation and build a better tomorrow.  But now they might have met their match.

The marines have beaten off a desperate attempt by the corporate worlds to recover Hameau, but the war is very far from over.  The corprats remain powerful, gathering their strength to resume the offensive, locate the marines and impose their society on the ruins of empire.  To stop them, the marines will have to stake everything on a desperate gamble to tear out the heart of the enemy empire and slay the fascist beast in its lair.

But the enemy are equally desperate to win …

Read a FREE SAMPLE, then download from Amazon (US, UK. CAN, AUS) or Draft2Digital.  And read the Afterword HERE.

In addition, The Empire’s Corps, the first book in this long-running bestselling series, will be available free through Kindle Unlimited between 5th October to 9th October.  If you haven’t picked it up, why not click here to download a free sample, and then buy it from Amazon here!

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OUT NOW – The Halls of Montezuma (The Empire’s Corps XVIII)

An all-new story of The Empire’s Corps!

Earth has fallen.  The Core Worlds have collapsed into chaos.  War is breaking out everywhere as planetary governments declare independence, entire sectors slip out of contact and warlords battle for power.  The remnants of the once-great Empire are tearing themselves apart.  And, in the shadows, the Terran Marine Corps works to save what little they can to preserve civilisation and build a better tomorrow.  But now they might have met their match.

The marines have beaten off a desperate attempt by the corporate worlds to recover Hameau, but the war is very far from over.  The corprats remain powerful, gathering their strength to resume the offensive, locate the marines and impose their society on the ruins of empire.  To stop them, the marines will have to stake everything on a desperate gamble to tear out the heart of the enemy empire and slay the fascist beast in its lair.

But the enemy are equally desperate to win …

Read a FREE SAMPLE, then download from Amazon (US, UK. CAN, AUS) or Draft2Digital.  And read the Afterword HERE.

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Snippet – Stuck in Magic

I just had this scene going through my head. I’ve got a vague plan to do a chapter or two a month, as a serial, but I don’t know how it’ll go. Any comments and suchlike would be more than welcome.

Chapter One

I shouldn’t have been on that road.

I should have been safe at home, in bed with my wife, but …

I cursed savagely as I drove down the interstate, cursing my wife and her lover and the schools she’d chosen for the kids and everything else, including myself.  It should have been so wonderful.  I’d been given permission to go on leave a day early and, fool that I was, I had driven straight home to see my wife and kids.  I’d walked in on her in bed with the neighbour, a fat fool who had nothing to recommend him beyond an even fatter bank account and a wife too in love with her social life to make a fuss about her husband’s infidelity.  It had taken all the willpower I could muster, growing up a poor kid who’d decided the army offered him the only chance of a decent life, to keep from killing the pair of them.  I honestly wasn’t sure why I’d hesitated.

My fingers tightened on the wheel.  Cleo and I had said some pretty horrible things to each other, as soon as the fat fool had fled.  She’d screamed that I just didn’t have any ambition, that I could have moved up in the army or left for a high-paying civilian job somewhere … somewhere I’d be bored out of my skull within the week.  I’d shouted back that she’d known what she was getting into, back when she became a military wife.  God knew she’d coped well, in our early years of moving from post to post.  It was only when the kids had come into our lives that she’d insisted on putting roots down somewhere permanent, somewhere the kids would have stable lives and schooling.  And then the kids themselves had entered the fray …

They’d known.  They had to have known.  And they’d said nothing.

I pushed down on the accelerator, the car surging forward as if I could outrun my demons.  I sure where I was going.  I just wanted to get away.  A hundred ideas ran through my head, each one more outrageous than the last.  I could drive to a red light district, meet up with a few of my buddies and get insanely drunk.  Or I could put in for BUD/S training or something – anything – that would get me away from my life.  Or … I felt a wave of self-pity that would have surprised the men under my command, on my last deployment.  I’d put everything into the marriage.  I’d done everything right.  And it hadn’t been enough.

My fists clenched again as I peered into the darkness.  The interstate was empty.  I hadn’t seen another car for miles.  I wasn’t even sure where I was.  The stars overhead seemed to mock me, reminding me I was small in the eyes of the universe.  Nothing I did would ever matter, in the long term.  Nothing … I knew I should be thinking about divorce, about getting a lawyer to sort out custody and shit like that and … despair threatened to overwhelm me as I remembered an old teammate who’d gone through a very bitter divorce.  He’d put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.  I understood, now, how he’d felt.  Everything he’d worked for had vanished in the blink of an eye.  And there was nothing he could have done that wouldn’t have made matters worse.

Fuck, I thought, numbly. 

I frowned as I saw lights in the distance, flickering lights.  The police?  I forced myself to take a deep breath, slow down and drive sensibly.  I didn’t want to be pulled over, not when I was in no state to handle it.  There’d been too many horror stories about people being shot for me to want to risk it.  The cops were jumpy these days.  Everyone was.

My eyes narrowed as the lights rose up in front of me.  For a moment, I stared in disbelief.  A helicopter?  A light aircraft?  Was I driving towards an airfield?  It was possible … the lights darted and twisted in a way I would have thought impossible.  A UFO?  I snorted at the thought.  It was insane.  The lights were flickering … maybe they were fireworks.  Some dumb kids, living in flyover country, letting off fireworks for the sheer hell of it.  I’d done it myself, when I’d been a kid and thought I’d never amount to anything.  My past self had been a fool.  And yet …

The air flared with light.  I cursed, throwing up a hand to cover my eyes.  A nuke?  The car shook violently, as if I’d just driven into a shockwave.  I kept my eyes tightly closed, hours upon hours spent reading the manuals for WMD attack echoing through my head.  I slammed down on the breaks, feeling the car tilting … my head span so badly I was sure the car had been picked up by the shockwave and thrown back down the interstate.  Was the country under attack?  I’d heard the usual rumblings from Iran and North Korea, but … there’d been no hint they were going to throw a nuke at us.  Even if they had … I couldn’t think of anything near that merited a nuclear strike.  The closest major target was quite some distance away.

A loud crash echoed through the car.  I winced, my eyes snapping open.  Bright sunlight beamed down at me.  I stared, blinking stupidly.  Sunlight?  It had been near midnight, only a few short seconds ago.  Had I blanked out?  My fingers fumbled with the safety catch on my belt, trying to get free.  If the country had been nuked … I heard glass crashing behind me and knew I hadn’t blanked out for more than a second or two, if that.  The car was falling to pieces and my fingers were refusing to cooperate … I gritted my teeth, trying to open the door.  It wasn’t easy.  The car was at the bottom of a ditch. 

My head spun.  What the fuck?

I stared in disbelief as I forced the door open and stumbled into the ditch.  I’d been on the interstate, driving through the plains.  I wasn’t any longer.  There was a forest behind me, as if I’d driven out of it, and a roughly-made road in front of me.  The ditch reminded me of a trench I’d seen in Afghanistan, right down to the tiny trickle of water at the bottom.  It was bizarre.  I rubbed my head, wondering if I was delirious.  It made as much sense as anything else.  What the fuck had happened to me? 

The sense of unreality grew stronger as I looked back at the car.  It was clearly smashed beyond all hope of repair, the front looking as if I’d driven her into a tank.  And yet … there was no hint I’d actually driven out of the forest.  I looked into the trees and felt a flicker of naked fear, something I hadn’t felt in years.  It felt like unseen eyes were looking back at me.  I hadn’t felt so threatened since I’d patrolled the streets of Baghdad during the Surge …

It made no sense.  I clambered out of the ditch and looked around.  The entire world had changed.  I could see mountains in the distance, mountains I could have sworn hadn’t been there a few minutes ago.  The road itself looked like a poorly-maintained dusty track, rather than the interstate.  I’d seen better roads in the Third World.  I looked up into the clear blue sky and saw nothing, save for a handful of birds.  There were no planes, no helicopters … nothing I would have expected to see, after a WMD attack.  There wasn’t any mushroom cloud either.  I swallowed hard as I realised that, whatever had happened, I wasn’t in Kansas any longer.  I’d read a book where a nuclear blast had tossed a homestead through time and space.  Had that happened to me?  I hoped not.  The future world had been nothing more than a dark mirror of the present.

It could be worse, I told myself.  Really.

The thought didn’t reassure me as I tested the air.  It was warm, although nowhere near as hot as Texas or Iraq.  I had the feeling it was probably going to get a lot hotter, judging by the dusty road and the absence of any real traffic.  The locals were probably trying to sleep through the worst of the heat, then resuming their business as the sun started to go back down.  If there were any locals … a shiver ran down my spine as I realised there might not be any locals.  For all I knew, there weren’t any locals. 

Hugh Farnham thought the same, I reminded myself.  And look what happened to him.

I snorted as I jumped back into the ditch and started to dig through the car.  My pistol went on my belt, the handful of clips I’d brought with me into my bag.  I’d packed a handful of things in the car, including a first aid kit and a bunch of ration bars, but I hadn’t expected finding myself … somewhere.  I kicked myself for not packing a rifle and … whatever else I might have needed.  If I’d known I was going to fall through time, or whatever else had happened to me, I would have brought along everything from a reference library to tools and gear to build my own homestead.  It would have been so much easier.

My smartphone felt oddly warm as I took it out of my pocket and pushed the power switch.  Nothing happened.  I stared down at the device for a moment, then sniffed it.  It smelt of molten metal and electrical fire.  I shook my head slowly, remembering all the dire warnings about what EMPs would do to our electrical devices.  Whatever had happened to me had been much more than a simple EMP, but it had clearly fried everything electrical in my car.  I tested the radio, just to be sure.  It was useless.  I hesitated, then pointed the pistol down the ditch and fired.  The gun, at least, worked properly.  So did my clockwork watch. 

Although I have no idea what time it is here either, I thought.  The sun suggested it was just past noon, but … that was nothing more than a guideline.  Fuck.

I finished searching the car, transferring everything useful to the bag.  There were wasn’t much of any use, save for the pistol … I looked up, wondering if I would have to shoot a bird for dinner.  The ration bars wouldn’t last very long.  I cursed under my breath, wishing I’d thought to pack a handful of MREs.  One of my buddies was a demented survivalist, stockpiling everything from medical supplies to MREs and enough canned food to feed an army.  He’d invited me to stay with him, if the shit hit the fan.  I wished he – and his supplies – were with me.  I had a feeling I was going to need help.

I clambered back onto the road and looked down at the car.  I’d never been very attached to it – the dealer had tried to screw me, damn him – but it still felt wrong to see the crumpled mess.  I hoped the fuel tank was intact … I couldn’t smell gas, yet that was meaningless.  A match in the wrong place might set off an explosion.  I might have been luckier than I’d realised.  The EMP might have sparked a fire instead, turning the entire car into an inferno.

Fuck, I thought, again.

I peered east, then west, trying to decide which way to go.  The air was growing warmer, the heat haze starting to blur my vision.  There was no hint of which direction led to civilisation, no hint of anything … if indeed there was a civilisation.  I told myself not to be silly.  The road might be primitive, but it was clear proof that someone was trying to make the world a little smaller.  And that suggested a unitary authority of some kind.  The tribesmen I’d met in Afghanistan had been reluctant to help build roads outside their villages, fearing they’d be used and abused by terrorists, taxmen and other undesirables.  They’d probably been right.

A movement caught my eye as I looked west.  Something was moving, coming out of the haze towards me.  I tensed, one hand dropping to my pistol before I forced myself to stay calm.  I had absolutely no idea what was coming.  If I’d had a platoon behind me … I banished the wishful thinking with an effort as I strolled back, trying to find a place where they could see me well before they got close enough to pose a threat.  I had no idea if they’d be jumpy, when they saw me.  I’d spent enough time in the Third World to know that travellers were rarely considered welcome, particularly in war zones.  It was quite possible the newcomers, whoever they were, would try to rob or kill me. 

I waited, as patiently as I could, as the newcomers took on shape and form.  It looked like a wagon train, right out of the Wild West, combined with gypsy caravans and … a shiver ran down my spine at the complete absence of modern technology.  I’d lived in trailer parks that had everything from satellite dishes to hot and cold running water.  These people … there were no visible automobiles or weapons or everything else even the poorest had taken for granted.  I had the feeling, suddenly, that I was about to come face to face with Laura Ingalls Wilder or someone like her.  This was no meeting of the SCA.  This was real.

The caravan started to slow as they saw me.  I held up my hands, uneasily aware that I didn’t look harmless.  I’d had to look strong on the streets, then as a raw recruit and soldier … it had been important, back then, to look like you wouldn’t tolerate any nonsense.  It was the quickest way to ensure there would be no nonsense.  But now … I kept myself still, studying them as intensely as they were studying me.  They didn’t have any weapons, but that didn’t make them harmless.  My Drill Instructor had been smaller than me, yet he’d never had any trouble kicking my ass across the field. 

They were a strange lot, I decided.  The first wagon had three people sitting up front: an elderly man who looked like a mix of African and Chinese, a middle-aged woman who looked as if she hailed from Mongolia and a young man who had a distantly Slavic appearance.   I wondered, despite everything, if I was being tricked, if a hidden camera crew were about to jump out of nowhere and laugh at me.  I’d seen enough tribal societies to know they were very suspicious of newcomers.  It was strange to see such an odd racial mix.

The rules might be different here, I thought.  Don’t let your preconceptions get in the way of your understanding.

The wagon train came to a halt.  The elderly man stood and peered down at me.  He had a vaguely grandfatherly face, the sort of person you would trust completely.  I knew at once he was no one to mess with, or to jerk around.  The other two held their places, but the younger man seemed to be shifting into position to attack … if necessary.  I didn’t blame him.  They had no way to know if I was friendly or not.  The man spoke …

I could have kicked myself.  He didn’t speak English.  Of course he didn’t speak English!  I should have expected it, but I’d met English-speakers right across the globe.  Here … it was anyone’s guess.  I didn’t know what language he spoke, but it wasn’t English or Arabic or any of the other languages I’d studied over the years.  I didn’t recognise a single word.  Not one.

“I don’t understand you,” I said, trying to convey a complete lack of comprehension.  “My name is Elliot.  Elliot Richardson.”

They stared at me with equal lack of comprehension.  The elderly man hesitated, then spoke again.  I guessed he was trying a different language, one he didn’t speak anything like so well.  It didn’t matter.  I still couldn’t understand it.  He tried a third language, then a fourth, both uselessly.  I tried a handful of languages myself – the army had turned me into something of a linguist – but he didn’t seem to understand them.  My heart sank.  If I was … somewhere else … their languages might have nothing in common with earthly words.  I might never be able to make myself understood.

The man turned and shouted a word.  “Jasmine!”

I blinked.  Jasmine?  That, at least, sounded familiar.  But they hadn’t understood my Arabic or my Farsi.  I knew I wasn’t a perfect speaker, but I wasn’t exactly incomprehensible.  And they didn’t look remotely Arabic.  It might be nothing more than a coincidence or a loanword from another language, something that had moved from culture to culture so long ago that everyone had forgotten its origin.

A girl – I guessed she was Jasmine – jumped out of the second wagon and landed neatly on her feet.  I stared.  She was stunning, with long dark hair, oriental eyes and a strikingly pale face.  I figured she was around twenty, although it was hard to be sure.  She raised her eyebrows when she saw me, then glanced at the elderly man.  Her grandfather?  The man said something to her, then looked at me.

Jasmine held up a hand, then moved it in a strange pattern.  I blinked in astonishment as I saw light flickering between her fingers.  What the … her hand straightened out and jabbed towards me.  I felt a tingle running through my body, a strange sense the world had tilted off its axis …

“Hi,” Jasmine said.  She spoke English!  But … her lips weren’t matching her words.  “Can you understand me?”

I felt my knees buckle.  What the fuck was that?