The Book of Warlock

The Book of Warlock 12. A portent of doom.

  Unaware of the offensive taking place upon the goblin city of Everdwell only a few miles beyond them, General Warlock and his group of adventurers plodded along in the morning sun's warmth.

The Dragon was walking steadier now. Its scales gently shimmering with rainbow colours, a clue to its shape shifting and disguising capabilities. It looked comfortable wearing its odd looking clothing. It was deep in conversation with Brook, discussing the implications of mirror worlds and alternative timelines. The simple idea of anything and everything imaginable becoming a reality lead to some bizarre possibilities. What if it had never accidentally come to this particular simple magic universe carrying the Sceptre? Would they still be in their old towns and cities, living a peaceful life; or would other calamitous events have transpired to plunge them into war?

General Warlock was sat upon Bromor's back, busy with his cape project, trying to avoid eye contact with the lovely Lucinder. He had made the mistake of offering her the needle and thread and had been met with a mouthful of abuse that summed up to him being accused of rampant sexism. She had puffed out her chest, which was gloriously ample, and tossed her beautiful golden curls that caught the light just so, telling him he was old-fashioned and outdated in his attitude to women. He'd mumbled his apologies, not quite sure what the patriarchy was, but now very much aware that Luci did not approve of it. Sisters, it seemed, were doing it for themselves. He stabbed his thumb for the hundredth time and decided to try a little magic instead. He'd had another successful lesson with fire and emerged unscathed. His confidence was bolstered. Magic was based in belief. He just had to believe that his sewing project was done. It wasn't... it was sat draped over the Nightmare's strong black shoulders in danger of falling to the mud any moment, still tacked with pins to keep its shape. He took a slow breath. That intake of air was to clear his mind. The blue glow radiated from his palm. The magic was ready to follow his will, all he had to do was give it clear and precise orders. Giving orders luckily came to him naturally after all the years of his service in the city guards.

Thread. Sew. Finish. It is finished. It is done. My cape is ready. This is truth.

As his eyes glazed over with concentration, he missed the group coming to a sudden stop and The Dragon's urgent pointing to the sky.

"What is that?" Lucinder gasped.

"That is the first sign that the Sceptre has been here too long. Its power is being sought out, like white blood cells hunting a virus this universe is attempting to purge the Dark Magic, to eradicate it, even at risk of destroying itself in the process."

It was as if the clouds were on fire. Streaks of blazing crimson raced through them, flashes of light following. It was a sign of destruction. A portent of doom. Inky blackness surrounded it. A gaping wound in the sky with a terrible nothingness beyond.

"Yessss!"

They turned.

The General was running his grey hands down the hem of his cape as it flowed down his back, clasped at the neck with a rough uncut chunk of sapphire embedded in gold. "What do you think?"

Luci jabbed her thumb to the drama going on above them. "I think we're in trouble, Anar."

"Ah."

At the word 'trouble' the MagiMetre in her robe pocket began shrilling.

Brook frowned. "Never good when that thing goes off."

Whipping it out and eyeing the screen, Lucinder agreed. "It's a cluster. Enough combined magic to trigger the sensor."

"In front of us? With the rat?" Asked The Dragon, visibly concerned.

She shook her head, "no, it's behind us and closing in. At home we might think Pixies, but here..."