Trouble at the Academy

Prodigal spellcaster Kirk Falconer has his vacation cut short by a troubling message. Can he face the lurking horror that awaits him at his old alma mater?

* * *

Trouble at the Academy

by C. H. Watson
© Copyright 2012 to 2015 C. H. Watson. All rights reserved.


October 22, 2012



Chapter 1

An Elemental Interlude



Kirk Falconer was sitting at the foot of a stone dais in his father's house and listening intently to the ancient and powerful air elemental Rozrak, whom he and his brothers called Dad, recounting tales of the many long ages of his existence. Floating serenely, Dad looked down through his great white eyebrows at his second son, the celebrated Professor of Transmutation at the Kallistari Gate Arcane Academy. Magister Falconer was a man of middle age, though well preserved, and still possessed of that vigor which only magic or youth can provide. He had silver hair and gray eyes set in a kindly, if somewhat wry, squared oval face. He was of average height and dressed impeccably in silk and satin of blue and gold with black silk shoes of fine embroidery.

All about the person of Kirk Falconer were the trappings of a magic-user and academician. Upon the middle finger of each of his hands were heavy and ornate rings; and an etched and graven amulet hung about his neck, a gift from his father. Orbiting the wizard's head somewhat lazily was a blue and scarlet stone that cared nothing for gravity. Resting on a nearby stair was a tall, lustrous staff carved along its length with feline shapes, and close by was the handy haversack that carried his various arcane paraphernalia.

Dad had watched Kirk's life from his remote prison for many years, studying the silver-haired son of Judith as he labored in his studies in the arcane arts. Rozrak was himself an accomplished practitioner of magic and delighted in asking Kirk's opinion on the subject, doting on his answers and flattering him with the fatherly praise that he had been prevented from giving during his long imprisonment. Many hours slipped by as the two wandered from subject to subject, interested more in enjoying one another's company than plumbing the depths of the arcane mysteries.

     “Tell me, boy,” boomed Dad like the wind before a thunderstorm, “Why did you leave the college? From what I saw over the years, it had become a true home for you.” The giant air elemental seemed an unlikely father for a human, but there was an unmistakable resemblance.

    “I found my brothers, Dad, and I needed a holiday anyway. Grading papers and keeping my students from turning each other into small animals takes its toll.  I found myself longing for an adventure, and that's just what I got when I happened across Morbo and Gorbo.” Kirk smiled wistfully at the thought of his boisterous and energetic comrades.

    “Ah yes, my young green rascals, how they ran poor Judith ragged. The one of them with his noisy toys and the other always tippling some noxious concoction. Still, she loved them greatly, and they have made me mightily proud!” bellowed the elemental, his great blue eyes flashing like wet hailstones.

    Kirk was idly fingering the alexandrite jewel set in a large ring on his left middle finger when a shimmering disturbance in the air drew his attention. His father, noticing his distraction, cast his gaze upon the growing phenomenon, frowning slightly and looking mildly puzzled. After a moment, the shimmering stopped and a distinctly dwarven face was revealed, floating awkwardly in mid-air. Kirk recognized instantly the face of Master Kharzalak, a bureaucrat and trustee of the Academy and one of the more useful and competent members of its staff.

    “Ah, yes, ahem,” began the floating head, “I'm sorry to disturb you, Magister Falconer, but it's really quite urgent.”

    “It's alright, Greggan, please go on,” said the wizard, craning his neck and casting a reassuring glance at his father. Kirk had seen a fair number of magically broadcasted messages in his time, and was not uneasy in talking with disembodied heads.

    “We're snowed in, sir, quite terribly so. A most unnatural and persistent blizzard is upon us - the few of us that are here at any rate - and the headmaster has gone missing!” The ruddy dwarf furrowed his massive eyebrows in genuine concern.

    Kirk thought for a moment, gazing into his ring briefly. “Why, school isn't even in session for another month. I have never known Sirrelus to haunt the halls during the off season. This is most irregular. And why have you contacted me? I left my position almost a year ago now.”

    “Yes, sir, it is indeed most irregular,” said the dwarf, “but upon Headmaster Olavan's disappearance, we scoured his quarters for any clue or sign, and it was your name that turned up last in his journal. He seemed very concerned about something, and lamented the lack of your counsel in the matter. An ill wind is upon us here, and we would be surely grateful for your aid.”

    Kirk stood and smoothed out his silken surcoat. Turning to face his father, he was about to offer an apology, but Dad sensed the gravity of his son's mood and held up a huge hand.

    “It's alright, boy!” said Dad. “I have heard you make mention of Headmaster Sirrelus Olavan, and I know you were fond of him. It is clear to me that you are needed, and I have all of eternity to await your return.”

    Kirk smiled at his father, and returning his gaze to the dwarven apparition, took a step forward. “I shall come at once, Master Dwarf. Please prepare my quarters and expect me this very evening.”

    A look of relief grew across the trustee's face. “Most excellent, Kirk, er, Magister Falconer, we shall be ready for you.” After a stiff bow, the image faded away and was gone.

    “Well, Dad, I've got to see what this is about. I was so looking forward to speaking with you on the subject of spells of the middle spheres, but that will have to wait. Can you provide conveyance for me? My brothers have that marvelous book you gave us, and I am quite stranded.”

    The great air elemental drifted slowly from his place upon the dais toward his son. The unnatural light of the room dimmed, and a crackling and scraping cacophony arose as Dad raised his braceleted hands high. Kirk stepped back as a great oval portal sprung into being before him. A bitter and inclement wind blew through the portal, depositing a few snowflakes upon the ground.

    “Incelsia!” incanted Kirk in a practiced tone, making his hand into an arcane shape. The Endure Elements spell grew over his body and with a quick bow, he stepped through the portal and vanished. Dad looked after him for a moment before returning to his spot upon the dais, and sighed gently.




Chapter 2

Trouble at the Academy



It was early evening, though it could hardly be told under the stormy sky, when Kirk stepped out from the portal upon the deep snow, sinking slightly and raising his arms for balance. The wind and snow were a white blaze before his eyes as they adjusted to the natural light of the Prime Material plane that he had called home since his birth. After a few moments, he looked about his surroundings, consulting his ring for orientation, until his eyes settled upon a dim outline in the distance: the academy. With a quick motion, Kirk Falconer drew a wing feather from his belt pouch, and by intoning the words, “Cholug Vayii,” he cast the Fly spell upon himself. Straightway he rose into the air, his blue and yellow clothes whipped and whitened by the wind and snow. Such a storm would have quickly frozen the marrow of any other man, but the wizard's protective spell kept him as warm as though it were a soft evening in early summer. An owl in a nearby pine tree cocked its head at the sight of the airborne figure, but stirred not.

    The snowy ground passed quickly under the wizard as he flew, arms before him, toward the massive stone edifice. The Kallistari Gate was a nexus of trade for a vast region, and the Academy was its jewel. Beings from the furthest lands and most distant planes came to it to further their grasp of magic, and few left unenriched. One day long before, Kirk had come to the great college, a fatherless boy with a keen mind for learning and a keen nose for trouble. His mother had been pained at the departure of her son, but she knew it was for the best, for Kirk had become errant without fatherly guidance, and she knew that he must refine his talent or be lost. She never told him about his father's nature, and he had not asked, but she assured him that the academy was his key to acceptance, and he respected her will in the matter.

    After a flight of no more than a dozen minutes, the great college loomed high. Kirk selected a landing that had not been buried in snow and descended gently. A great stone door stood before him, which he struck hard and repeatedly with his carved staff. After several minutes of standing in the winter blast, the door swung open with the scraping of stone upon stone, and a braided black beard thrust out, with two beady dwarven eyes following it.

    “Well, well! If it isn't the man himself!” exclaimed Greggan Kharzalak warmly, ushering the returning spellcaster into the halls of his old alma mater. Greggan was short even for a dwarf at barely three feet tall, but he was as wide as a barrel and dressed richly for one who spent his days in offices and archives. His black hair was meticulously groomed and his skin was a rich, dark brown. He smiled at Kirk for a moment, but concern weighed upon him, and it was plain that he had not had enough rest. Down the great stairs and halls he led Kirk Falconer, waddling as quickly as he might. Soon they reached the offices, and Greggan plopped into a chair and regarded the wizard as he collected himself.

    “It's just the few of us here this time of year, as you know. The headmaster's return was most unusual, and we had to scramble to make ready for him. You and I both know he's a man of few words, and we're still not sure why he cut his travels short, but so he did,” said Greggan. As he talked, his eyes strayed to an opaque brown bottle on a shelf.

    “I could use a drop of that myself,” said Kirk. “No, no, let me,” he said as the dwarf was about to rise. Kirk walked to the shelf and put his hand to a pair of stone mugs, quickly uncorking the grod burloch and pouring out the contents into the mugs, favoring the dwarf's measure by two fingers. “Here you go, old friend.”

    The two sipped for a moment. Kirk winced noticeably, much to the delight of the dwarf, for whom the drink's bite was barely perceptible. “Smooth,” lied Falconer, but the dwarf only smiled, forgetting for a moment his burden.

    “It hasn't even been two weeks since he returned, and he's gone off and vanished. One day he was writing his spells and such, and the next he was gone. Something's not right at all, Kirk. Something's been hanging over this place, and this ill turn has given us quite a stir,” brooded the dwarf.

    Kirk set his mug down on a shelf. “I'd like to see his chambers, Greggan, and my own afterward.” The dwarf hopped off his chair and the two began the walk through the wide corridors and winding stairways that led to the headmaster's office. As they walked along a mezzanine, Kirk noticed a workman far below.

    “How many are there? Workmen, I mean,” he asked. Their footsteps echoed dully as they walked, and frozen window panes dimly lit their way. The howling of the wind could be heard through the many windows.

    “Well, there's me and the kitchen staff, Norgil and his lads who look after the repairs, and of course you remember Nylus the librarian. Stays here year-round since his wife died, always reading in the dark and walking the stacks at odd hours, poor fellow. I suppose that makes about ten of us, now eleven with you here.” The dwarf had been counting on his fingers and seemed satisfied with his tally.

    At last the two came to a large carved door at the end of a remote corridor at the top of one of the college's many towers. “Here were are,” said Greggan, looking expectantly at the door that he rarely had occasion to enter. Kirk sensed his hesitancy and pulled it open, entering the dark room beyond. The room's opaque green window had been thoroughly caked in driven snow and cast only a dim, gloomy glow.

    “Oxilox,” chanted the mage, and the magic of the Light spell illuminated the lavish and cluttered office. Kirk had seen this room before, albeit rarely, and a thrill rushed through him as he gazed upon the varied artifacts, relics and oddments that Headmaster Olavan had collected over his many journeys. Upon one shelf was a skull carved in jade, a crystal inkwell full of scarlet ink, and a fat pouch of onyx runes. Another shelf held spellbooks, paint brushes and a delicate glass jar full of colorful candies. Kirk could have easily been lost in the study of these arcane trinkets, but the dwarf's movement toward a massive stone desk reminded him of the present. A large journal lay spread out where it had been left, covered in a nearly mechanically perfect array of hand-written arcane symbols.

    Kirk spent several minutes reading the journal, frowning slightly and consulting his ring from time to time. “Has anyone else been in here, Greggan?”

    “Not that I know of. No one has any business in here but the headmaster, not even me,” was the answer.

    After a few more minutes, Kirk closed the journal and stashed it in the handy haversack that he carried across one shoulder. “I've seen enough here. I think it's time I found my quarters.”

    “Of course, of course,” said the dwarf, and the two departed.

    The man and the dwarf walked silently through the halls of the rapidly darkling chantry, each lost in thought and concern. After a time, they passed through a hall full of statues of men at arms, archers and men of the wild. Kirk noticed a statue of a large boar, the very image of his brother Boris' porcine comrade Tusk. A large metal plaque was attached at the base, but the dim light did not illuminate it enough to read, and Kirk could not tarry, so they passed out of the hall into the faculty chambers beyond. At last they came to the richly furnished dormitory that had been Kirk's home for nearly a decade. Some of the furnishings had been moved and the floor bore a new carpet of elf-make, but it seemed largely unchanged. It was late evening when Master Kharzalak led Kirk Falconer to his old chambers, spoke a few words of parting, and departed for the night.

    Kirk closed the bound metal door and cast a Light spell upon the poster of his bed. The room was just as he had left it, albeit somewhat tidier, and had clearly been cleaned and freshened for his return. He dropped his haversack on the desk and kicked off his black silk shoes. Sighing with some slight relief, he took his spellbook from his pack as well as the spellbook that his father had given him. Under the magical light, he spent the last of the waning evening studying his spells and reading what he could of the headmaster's journal while the blizzard howled unabated at his window. Despite the power of his Ring of Sustenance, he eventually grew tired, and turned down the embroidered satin sheets and fell fast asleep.




Chapter 3

A Nocturnal Sojourn



It was late in the night when an odd shuffling sound intruded upon Kirk's dreams of finding a large keg of sulfur and a barrel of black dragon's blood. Annoyed at having his prizes evaporate before his waking eyes, Kirk stirred, slipped on an oversized robe of blue and gold, walked gingerly across the cold stone floor and listened briefly at his door. Hearing nothing, he wondered if he had imagined the incident. Looking within the jewel of  his ring, he knew that he had slept for about four hours, which is an eternity for one who enjoys the magic of a Ring of Sustenance. Suppressing a yawn, he edged open the door and peered out into the hall. A chill came upon him, and he could smell something foul, though his eyes were balked by the near pitch blackness. Quietly he closed the door and stepped back to his desk. Conscious of the late hour, he decided to prepare himself before venturing out to investigate. Having not had the opportunity to memorize his trusty Light spell after his rest, he fumbled about on his desk for a tindertwig and lit one of the fat beeswax candles. For the next hour, he memorized his favorite and most useful spells, such as Windy Escape, which he had learned from his father; Scorching Ray; Fireball; Magic Missile; Greater Darkvision, which he purposed to use this very night; Invisibility; Levitate; and Fly. At last he had finished, and with the pronunciation of the words, “Giarkarin Vorfeles,” cast the Greater Darkvision spell upon himself.  Straightway his eyes were changed by the magic of transmutation, and the world grew stark and monochromatic before him, and no shadows could hide anything from his sight. Next, he spoke the words, “Ialor Contaro Nokiri,” and the Mage Armor spell covered his body in a magical shell of protection. Lastly, he cast the Lesser Age Resistance spell upon himself with the words, “Hokka borakka,” and the burden of his middle age was lifted, leaving him spry and vigorous as though he were a youth in his early twenties. Having completed his rituals of self-perfection, he took a magical stone from his pocket, set it orbiting about his head and felt his faculties sharpen, and then stealthily he opened the door and stepped out into the hall.

    The foul reek still hung in the air, and looking down, Kirk quickly noticed something slick and wet on the stone tiles. Frowning, he bent down to see it more clearly, although it appeared only as a desaturated ichor before his magical eyes. Rising, he became aware of a sense of dread, and looking this way and that nervously, was aware of being utterly alone. The wind outside had set a distant window tapping against its frame, and the wizard wondered if he had ever seen such a relentless storm. After a moment of contemplation, Kirk decided that he could not discern from which direction the thing responsible for the slime-trail had come or gone, and deciding on a gamble, set off toward the arcane armory that was the faculty dormitory wing's remnant of a more martial era.

    Down the corridor he passed, walking beside the slime-trail, which passed many shut doors and  frozen windows. Kirk listened for any sound and looked over rails and down long staircases for any sign of Greggan or the other few inhabitants of the sleeping chantry. Detecting nothing, he redoubled his pursuit of the grim trail and at last came to a place where it turned, stopping short before the door of the arcane armory. Annoyed, and without a key or the Knock spell memorized, he decided to return to his chambers and await the natural light and the rising of his dwarven friend with whom he might consult on the matter. Retracing his steps, he quietly started back toward his room.

    Suddenly, something sprang from an alcove in the wizard's path! A huge, wet and grotesque shape had found the lone man, and Kirk stepped back in horror at the sight. Eight feet tall, with only the rough outline of a man, the thing had risen to its full height and extended a half-dozen tentacles in its victim's direction. Kirk could see its bulk clearly in monochrome, his heart surging in his chest and his mind searching for some possible explanation of the terror that was unfolding before him. Was he still dreaming? Was this some magical beast that had escaped from the conjurers?

    The wizard was interrupted as he gaped at the monster. The creature had raised its tentacles to cast some sort of spell! Horrified, Kirk felt his body stiffen, and became utterly paralyzed, falling to one side and striking the floor hard. Though his body was as stone, his mind was alert and reeling. Vainly, he struggled against the foul dweomer. Slowly, the hideous creature gurgled and shuffled toward the helpless figure, gloating in its black heart. As it neared, one of its mouths opened wide, and a gout of black acid spewed out, soaking the incapacitated mage to the skin in steaming, boiling poison.

    As the acidic filth washed over Kirk Falconer, he should have been burning in agony, but a warm feeling from his amulet washed over him. Good old Dad! His gift had proved itself against the magical attack! Kirk became aware that his limbs were softening, and although his clothing was reduced to tatters, his body was hail and intact. At the last moment as the diabolical beast approached for the kill, Kirk kicked away and managed to roll back, poised on one knee, heart racing.

    “Sinoxis!” he shouted, aiming two fingers at the vulgar enemy. Two rays of magical fire leapt from his fingers and found their mark. As the deadly beams cut and seared the beast's flesh, a foul smoke rose from its burned body and a horrible shriek rose from all of its mouths at once. “Vionok Katora!” he shouted again, and a volley of magical missiles arced unerringly toward the injured nightmare, a blaze of violet and green motes. The missiles struck their target, which fell backwards messily and crashed in ruin upon the cold floor.

    Shaken and befouled with ichor, Kirk sidled past the bloated wreckage of his fallen foe, and broke into a run toward the lavatory near his quarters. Moments later, with many a backward glance, Kirk had torn off his ruined clothing and activated the magical shower, stepping quickly inside the basin. In the unlit room, Kirk's Greater Darkvision spell was still active, and he watched the black slime wash off his body and down the drain. Once he was clean, Kirk stepped out of the basin and wrapped an ill-fitting robe around himself. Peering cautiously out of the lavatory's archway, he broke into a run, reaching his chambers and shutting the door fast after himself. After dressing from a large armoire, he faced a chair toward the door and sat vigilantly, planning his next move. Surely he must venture out in a moment to warn Greggan and the staff, but not until he had regained his composure. How he wished his brothers were here!

    Less than a minute had passed when Kirk Falconer suddenly rose and took his carved staff in hand. The eyes of the cats that adorned the weapon were glowing softly. Kirk started for the door, and throwing it open boldly, stepped out into the dark hall, wary and ready for danger. Looking down, he noticed that the trail of slime had vanished, although the floor where it had been deposited was visibly etched. The wizard headed for the nearest stair, intent upon making his way to the servant's wing. Downward he hurried, looking around furtively. Outside, the snow had piled up over five meters high.





Chapter 4

The High Price of Satisfaction



It was a mild mid-winter's day at the Kallistari Gate Arcane Academy. The concourse was bustling with students of every race, species and creed, some walking alone and others in small groups and cliques. The sun was shining across the tall towers and spires of the impressive edifice and casting long shadows across the surrounding lands. It was the first month of the new semester and the students had settled into their studies.

    Hurrying out the wide double doors from the student dormitories came a fair young woman, still rosy-cheeked with the first flush of womanhood. Her skin was tan and clear, her eyes brown like powdered nutmeg and her hair was dark auburn bound back in a braid. A skirt over loose trousers she wore, made of magically woven material, and her blouse was simple but elegant. No smile adorned her face, but she was not dour. Those who did not know her would think her serious, but it was the barb and scourge of heavy responsibility that drove the joy from her countenance. No necklace or bracelet was upon her, only a heavy satchel of books, under which she was slightly bent, like a sapling that bears a heavy Wintertide ornament.

    Eyes cast down, she hurried to her first class, the growing bane of her existence: Transmutation. She had no love for the subject, but her parents had insisted that she master it, having designs on the wealth that it might bring them to make thrall the forces of the material world. Dutifully, Lorelei Ravenhelm had set her mind to the study, but her love of music and enchantment was ever a distraction, and she struggled lest she grow despondent. Her hard shoes clacked as she raced up the stairs and into Magister Falconer's classroom just in time. He smiled briefly at the last to arrive to his class and began his lecture.

    “Good morning, students,” Kirk began stiffly. It could not be seen easily, but he was laboring under a hangover after an evening of drinking with his dwarven friends. Professor Falconer was not a shining example of discipline or regularity, but he was competent enough and fair with his students. “Today, we will study the arcane properties of matter that is solid at room temperature. I have written the Read Magic spell on the board behind me; please memorize it and we will begin.”

    Dutifully, Lorelei was memorizing the spell as she had been instructed; but another part of her mind was composing a melody for the dulcimer; and as the other students were casting their spells, she found herself tardy and aware that her teacher's gaze was upon her. Hurriedly she finished the spell, but her distraction had not gone unnoticed. After the class, Professor Falconer took her aside, a sheaf of papers in his hand.

    “Lady Ravenhelm,” he began, “Your work in this class has been most satisfactory, and your examination scores are amongst the highest; but I've noticed a far-off look in your eyes, and well...” He held up a test from the previous week bearing her sigil. In one of the margins, musical notes had been scrawled but not erased, and the score at the top of the page showed that her distraction had come with a price.

    Though he had not been harsh in his reproach, her brow burned with shame and within her grew a resentment, even a dislike, for her teacher, whom had become for her like the gardener who thwarts the growing vine.

    “I would ask that you save the musical daydreaming for Lady Hollyberry's class, Lorelei. That's all, you may go now,” he said patiently, and the young woman made a terse curtsey and departed quickly, surer than ever that she had been slighted by her parents and their material aspirations.

    As Lorelei Ravenhelm proceeded through her day, a thought grew in her mind that there must be an enchantment spell that could free a part of her mind to wander while she endured the boredom of Professor Falconer's interminable lectures. At first a mere fancy, the thought of such a dweomer eventually became a tangible desire, and she resolved to search the archives in earnest at the end of the day.

    It was late afternoon when she was released from her last class, and as quickly as her legs would carry her, she clattered down the stone steps into the windowless depths of the archives. Few other students did she pass along the way, until she was quite alone among the massive, shelf-lined vaults. The air had taken a chill and no sound did she hear from the world above. It was here that she began her search for a tome or scroll that might suit her purpose. For hours she searched in vain, wrinkling her nose if she happened to come across a volume by a certain professor of transmutation. As she labored, it occurred to her that she was neglecting her studies; and reluctantly she ascended back into the eventide world, casting a forlorn glance behind her as she departed. She did not see as she fled that there were eyes upon her from behind the darkest and most remote of the dusty shelves.


* * *


Lorelei's studies at the academy passed into days and weeks, and her struggle never abated. Though she was a bright student, and honest, she at times lost that internal battle and fell to distraction. Day after day she returned to the archives, and day after day she left without the peculiar enchantment that had become what she imagined to be her salvation from woe. As the winter passed to earliest spring, Lorelei was in the archives again, her face buried in the pages of a massive vellum grimoire as heavy as a small anvil. Suddenly, a voice startled her, and she turned round.

    “You should be more careful,” came the quiet and hissing voice. A handsome man had appeared behind her, though she had not heard him, and she was startled. In his hand was a scroll. It seemed to her as she turned that he had been stooping to pick it up. The man was dressed in a garment that seemed to her to resemble that which the custodians and workmen wore. No doubt this was a servant, and her ire rose slightly within her at being chastised by one beneath her.

    “You have dropped this, my lady. You should not become so distracted,” he said, his voice lingering on the last 's' of his last word; and he handed her the scroll with seeming politeness, but Lorelei had become genuinely angered at his mention of distraction. Looking down, she noticed that the scroll was written in the mode of the enchantment school of magic, and she was sure she had not dropped it.
    
    Lorelei raised her head to speak a sharp word at the man, but he was gone. For a short time she peered through the books and stepped around the shelves to catch a glimpse of him; but he was gone without a trace, and good riddance thought she. Her eyes returned to the scroll; and finding a secluded desk, she began to read it. Soon, a thrill of discovery had overtaken her, and all memory of the ill-bred servant had departed from her mind. This was the object of her search: a spell that would divide her mind, letting the free half wander while the enthralled half dutifully recorded the tedium of her classes. It seemed too good to be true, but as her eyes wandered the maze of glyphs and sigils, she knew that her purpose was fulfilled. Out of the archives she fled; and though she knew it not, she was to return to the deep parts of the academy, never to flee again.

    Returning to her dormitory, she closed her door and lit a large beeswax candle. The scroll was clutched in her hand as she sat upon her bed, and quickly she had transcribed the spell into her thin spellbook. She was desperate to memorize and cast the spell; but she had spent her long day casting magics in her classes, and her mind was recalcitrant. Reluctantly, she set the pages aside and fell into a deep sleep. That night she dreamed of swarms of rats of all sizes, furtively gnawing at books and scrolls; and in her dream she began to covet the taste of the pages, and wished in her dreaming heart that she, too, were a rat.

    The next day she rose, fresh-minded, with no memory of her night-vision. As soon as she had risen, she descended upon her spellbook, memorizing first and chiefly the odd spell that she had copied the previous night. With the words, “Hekritel Vulemkor,” she cast the spell on herself, and a part of her soul departed from her, though to her it seemed as though she had become the master of two minds: one free, the other a slave. Early that morning before her classes, she sat with two books open before her. One was her transmutation textbook and the other was a treatise on composition for strings, her heart's delight. Dutifully her slave-mind read from the tedious tome while with her other eye, she coursed and flitted across a florid path of musical notes. Though the enslaved and ensorcelled part of her mind toiled in isolation of her conscious mind, what it learned was made aware to her consciousness, and she felt that at last she had accomplished the thing that would let her serve both her parents and her passions.

    Through the remainder of that day, she attended her classes and seemed to her teachers to be listening with rapt attention, though it was her slave-mind that was listening. In her own mind, she was daydreaming freely; and her heart was full of joy at her deception and cunning, feelings with which she had hitherto been unfamiliar. A change had come over her, though she did not perceive it, lost as she was in her newly found intellectual freedom.

    Day after day she went on in such a manner, quickly becoming the most respected student in her classes for her diligence and studiousness; but as she learned to rely on her secret new spell, she perceived that her slave-mind had grown an appetite; and she was inclined to indulge it, as she had no more fear of the tedium of study. Down into the archives she scampered, her satchel full of poetry and music and her heart light and gay. In the most remote corner she sat, hunched over her books, two at a time. With one eye she traced the exploits of warrior maidens and ancient bards, and with the other she learned of subjects so dull that they would have bored a stone wall; but her slave-mind drank deeply, and she grew into a great genius. The few students who wandered past her beheld only the round of her back, for her head was bent, always bent, toward her studies. The few friends she had made in her first months at the academy had become distant, though they thought her delightful at first, and wondered at the change that had come over her, albeit from a growing distance.

    
    Day after day Lorelei returned to her nest in the archives, until one day she decided that she should not return to her room, having mastered her classes long before their culmination. Long into the night she fed her minds, until at last she heard a laughter from behind the shelves, and curiosity got the better of her. Rising, she suddenly caught a glimpse of a scroll on the ground, and one a few meters beyond it. Stooping to pick up one and then the next, she noticed that another scroll lay just beyond. Gleefully, and with much curiosity, she picked up scroll after scroll, her nose twitching with delight, until she came to a corner of the archives that was unfamiliar to her. A few more scrolls beckoned to her, and then she noticed a very low arch in the wall. It was so low that she thought it must be for dwarves or gnomes; but it had no door, only a rough-hewn edge; and within it she saw a final scroll, and she knew she must have it. Stooping upon her forearms, she crawled into the dimly lit place beyond; and having grasped the final scroll, sat back against the wall on her haunches and regarded her new possessions. The place beyond the hole in the wall would have seemed unearthly and frightening to her had she not been busy scratching at her new manuscripts, which now seemed as big to her as bedsheets. It was no proper room that she had found her way into, but the lair of something monstrous.

    “You should not let yourself become so distracted, my pet,” hissed a creature that she had once before heard; and before she knew it, she had climbed upon his shoulder, her whiskers twitching and her murine eyes looking sadly at the satchel that she was now much too small to carry.




Chapter 5


A Grim Discovery



Kirk's mind was racing as he made his way through the labyrinthine halls and wings of the great academy. Moving stealthily so as not to raise a clatter on the stone stairs and tiles, he searched for any signs of life. He sniffed the air for the smell of candle smoke, he searched with his dark-attuned eyes and he listened hard for any footfall, but to no avail. Morning was approaching, though it was still pitch black outside and the heavens were still venting their frozen fury upon the land. After a time he reached the vast student dining hall, where at this time of morning the bakers might be found. With no reassurance from his olfactory sense, he began to doubt that any bustle was occurring at the ovens, and upon investigation found it was indeed unlit and unoccupied. The kitchen was not only deserted, but in a shambles. Crocks lay shattered and vessels spilled. It was then that a crash of metal came down behind him! The great metal racks that clung to the ceiling to hold pots, pans, skillets and cauldrons had collapsed under a great weight, and the noise echoed far and wide throughout the hall.

    As Kirk reeled and stepped away from the crash of fallen metal which now covered the floor between himself and the only means of egress from the kitchens, he began to hear a series of squishy thumps. Heavy masses were dropping from the ceiling! He could see them clearly now, and he knew they were the same sort of creatures that he had faced earlier in the night. Four of them he saw, one still partially clad in the raiment of a kitchen servant. As the hulking fiends began to advance upon the wizard, he acted quickly, and with the words “Inijmos Corriscil,” he wove about himself the magic of the Levitate spell. Suddenly, his feet rose off the ground, just beyond the reach of the shambling terrors. Clinging to the ceiling, he began to propel himself quickly toward the wide arch that was his only escape.

    Groaning and shrieking in rage, the things below him turned to follow as he moved along the ceiling, and Kirk became aware that the creatures were very close to one another. A thought was realized in his mind: the Fireball spell could strike these abominations all at once. From out of his pouch he took a small ball of bat guano, which he had previously infused with a bit of sulfur. With the spell component held between his fingers, he was just about to intone the words of power, when a small but heavy closet door was flung open, and screaming from within its depths and carrying a heavy cleaver in each hand burst the enraged figure of Master Kharzalak!

    “All of you at once, it matters not!” shouted the dwarf; and Kirk saw that he was fey, and would fight to his death rather than hide in cowardice. Straight at the closest monster Greggan hurled himself, his left cleaver sinking into its bloated leg and the right severing all the tendrils of its left side with a sickening wet thud. The beast fell into a writhing mass; but the others advanced, and soon Greggan would be surrounded.

    “Back, you fool of a dwarf!” cried Falconer from above, and the dwarf looked up in amazement. “Back as far your legs can carry you!”

    Greggan stirred from his battle frenzy, and with agility that even an elf might have envied, he rolled himself away and put his back against the far side of a massive oven. Having spent much of his life around wizards, he knew well the wisdom of heeding their warnings. Seconds later, he heard the wizard speak again.

    “Xolvhesir Vor Tazon!” intoned Kirk from his place against the ceiling, and downward streaked a little glowing mote. As it approached the three standing monsters and the shattered wreckage of the fourth, it exploded violently, a blaze of intense flame that was the Fireball spell. The room was lit for a moment as at noontime, and the explosion dissipated in an instant, but in its wake was left the flaming debris of garlic wreaths, dried sausages, herbs of all varieties " and four blackened aberrations. The monsters were reduced to writhing, charred husks, and were soon still.

    Having made his way across the ceiling, Kirk had at last reached the arch, and was lowering himself down to inspect his handiwork when Greggan came bursting through the burning debris, still clutching his cleavers. Stopping just beyond the kitchens, Kirk joined him, and together they put distance between themselves and the dying flames of the cremation.

    “So this is what has befallen the poor servants of this place!” exclaimed Kirk Falconer, visibly distressed at having destroyed what were once human beings. The smell of smoke had followed him, and the sickening mixture of burning foodstuffs and diabolically altered flesh was playing havoc with his senses.

    “I told you something dark was over this place, though I had no idea it was so vile and unnatural!” said the dwarf, black slime dripping from his weapons. “The things chased me through the night, cornering me at last where you found me, and I heard their shifting and rattling upon the ceiling as I hid. I know they knew I was in there! I think they were gloating, or toying with me. We must find the others!”

    Kirk nodded quickly, and looked around himself to see if the ruckus had raised any attention, but only stillness greeted his senses. From the direction of the kitchens a few flickers could be seen from the last burning vestiges. “Let us find refuge, and quickly,” he said.

    “The bursar's vaults!” cried the dwarf, and the two were off in an instant.

    The halls raced past, and the dim light of dawn was breaking above the storm clouds. Though the corridors and chambers of the chantry were still nearly pitch black, the great stained windows were perceptible as dimly glowing shapes high above. Past the great arboretum they hurried, and Kirk thought briefly of his friend Rusty Cutlass and the curious flower pot that he carried. How Kirk wished that his reticent friend were here to aid him with a clever summoning spell!

    Soon the two night runners had turned a final corner, and the dwarf thrust his hand into a deep pocket for a large set of metal keys. With a loud click and thud, a giant vaulted door swung open, and the two were quickly safe inside. “Oxilox,” quoth the mage, and the vault was illuminated.

    Although nearly empty now, this great vault stored the valuables of the academy through the school year. Kirk threw himself down against a wall, knees raised, and buried his head in his hands for a brief moment. After rubbing his eyes for a time and running his hands through his hair in frustration, he retrieved Archmage Olavan's journal from his haversack and opened it upon his now crossed legs. For some time he read, and Greggan brooded quietly as he cleaned his makeshift weapons with a rag.

    Turning the pages in the journal, Kirk had been reminded of the disappearance of his star pupil, Lorelei Ravenhelm, and he recalled with a heavy heart the exhaustive search that he and Nylus had undertaken in vain. Turning the pages, he quickly came upon the entries that were dated after he had left his teaching position to join his brothers' life of adventure, and he saw that a number of irregular disturbances had been noted. Here, a piece of school property had been vandalized by vermin, despite the magical wards, and there a scroll or tome had gone missing from the contraband locker, which was usually used to keep necromantic tracts and indelicate letters that might serve to embarrass connected families. It wasn't until he read further that he recognized a dreadful glyph: a reference to the demon that had imprisoned his father Rozrak! Had the foul creature come to the academy? And why? Kirk was struck breathless for a moment, and his heart stuttered.

    After reading up to the last entry, Kirk flipped through the blank pages that remained in the journal, looking for any further clues, and noticed a few loose leaves that had been flattened and thrust within. Removing them, he found that they were scrolls, written in the hand of Headmaster Sirrelus Olavan. Cone of Cold and Passwall they were, spells of the fifth sphere, though Kirk had only recently been able to make head or tail of such powerful magic. He quickly tucked the pages into his own spellbook and put both books away, determined to try his hand at learning them if he should happen to survive his ordeal.

    “The archives, Greggan,” said Falconer suddenly, and the dwarf looked up from his slump.

    “What about them? Haven't you had your fill of books?” said the dwarf plainly. A lack of strong drink had not improved his mood.

    “I recognized a name in the journal - a name I had hoped never to see again. I have to finish what Sirrelus started,” said the wizard, and the dwarf rose quickly and unlocked the great door. The two departed their silent haven, making their way across the halls and down the stairways out of the frozen morning light and back into darkness where they were soon surrounded by the endless ranks of tall shelves to which Professor Falconer had so often banished his students for their assignments.



Chapter 6

Crafting a New Vessel



Books and scrolls were literally flying as Kirk tore through the archives in his search. Red vellum, black leather, tattered paperbacks and wrinkled scrolls were piling up at his feet, the sound of rapidly turning pages filling the air. Greggan stood nearby, nervously keeping watch and occasionally muttering at the wizard to quiet down. Hours passed, and Greggan had gone from standing guard to sitting guard, and looked visibly exhausted.

    From shelf to shelf Kirk wandered, stopping once to recast his Greater Darkvision, Read Magic, Detect Magic and Mage Armor spells. He would leave nothing to chance after the encounters of the previous night. Though his dwarven comrade had begun to complain of hunger, Kirk had never a thought for food, being the bearer of a Ring of Sustenance. Taking pity for his ally, he interrupted his search briefly and produced a bit of trail ration and a filled waterskin from his haversack. The dwarf, not a water drinker when he could help it, was nevertheless delighted, and filled a small pewter mug that he kept on his belt as he munched. The water was clear and sweet, having been filled at a very special fountain upon an earlier adventure.

    It was only a few moments after Kirk had resumed his search that his hand paused on a stained brown tome and he grew still. Rocking the book gently from its place on the shelf, he brought it down and stared at the cover. It bore no title, but only a series of glyphs that the wizard knew instantly. Testing it for dweomer and finding none, Kirk confidently opened it, and beheld with horror the Symbol of Pain that had been cast on the frontispiece. Instantly upon being viewed, the symbol glowed brightly, and Kirk dropped the book with a howl of pain. Caught within the effect, Greggan dropped his waterskin and clutched madly at his temples. The remainder of Greggan's water spilled out upon the ground; but neither the man nor dwarf knew it, for they were lost in a blinding agony.

    The minutes ticked by as the two figures lay on the ground in their ordeal. The book lay open where it fell, the deadly trap still emitting its foul magic. It was soon after that a sickly fog began to spill in through the shelves; and within moments, the two were lost amidst an eldritch mist. From out of this mist stepped a terrible figure, clad in the tatters of the tunic that was worn by the academy's retainers, covered over in filthy black robes. His face was handsome and cruel, though he was stooped; and a pair of small, sharp horns protruded from his greasy black hair. At his side was a long, wicked blade that glowed faintly. Had Kirk been able to lift his head, he might have recognized one whom he had often seen about the campus, but had never seemed to notice. Upon the hideous neck of the creature was an oily black medallion; and upon his shoulder was a bedraggled, auburn-colored rat.

    “Fancy this, my pet,” he hissed, looking down at his prey, and the rat twitched and blinked its brown eyes. “A headache from reading! What a strange fate for our proud Master Falconer!” he said with an evil smirk.

    From the fog behind him lurched the figure of Nylus the librarian, his eyes rolled back and his face pale. With him were two other men, just older than boys. They, too, bore vacant expressions, and their faces were dirty and streaked with dried tears.

    “Take the Falconer brat to the slab, my pets,” he commanded, and the enslaved men picked up Kirk by the arms and dragged him off past a section of the archives that had been cordoned off for repairs. Before departing, the demonic figure pointed a translucent white hand at the prostrate Greggan and intoned, “Olmikardd Brikkyxx,” casting the Suffocation spell upon him, and turned on his heels to follow his prisoner. Greggan was stricken to his core as the air was torn from his lungs by the magic, and the symbol of agony still glowed brightly by him. Beside him, the empty waterskin had been trampled underfoot by the hapless minions.

* * *

    
Kirk Falconer was lying on a stone slab that had once been part of a large stone desk. Around him was an ancient section of the archive that had long ago been damaged by fire, although no sign of char nor wreckage remained. It was a very dusty place, and quite secluded, having been lost behind brick and mortar for centuries. He was not bound, but a foul magic was upon him, and all around him were unlit black candles streaked with red. The wizard's possessions had been thrown aside and his surcoat had been pulled open, revealing his aging and nearly hairless chest. His eyes were wide open and shot through with blood, but he was unconscious and lost in a dark dream of hideous geometries and impossibly hostile climes.
    
    Slowly, the horned man-creature approached his victim. Behind him, his slaves stood limply, their blind eyes vacant. “My master shall return to claim his due!” he hissed in the foul tongue of the abyssal planes. The rat on his shoulder looked down sadly at the helpless mage with a single eye. Suddenly, the semi-demon raised its long finger, and a small jet of blue flame issued forth, no longer than a candlewick. Touching the first candle, the creature began to intone a grotesque and profane ritual, occasionally dropping dried fungi and reeking powders upon the helpless man. A second candle he lit, and an infernal shape began to coalesce above the unholy altar. The form was lit with inky flames, and the room had taken on a sinister glow. With each candle lit, three now, the form grew more solid, and the inky flames grew brighter. Another candle was lit, and then several more. Some sort of course hair had been mixed in with the candles, which sputtered occasionally and gave off a stinking smoke. Only seven candles remained unlit. The betrayer drew forth his jagged blade as he lit the next, and held it up with his left hand in salute to his dark master. Behind him, a cold vapor was gathering, though he took no notice. One by one, he lit the remaining candles. His voice had risen to a shriek and his eyes had become mirrors that reflected the malefic flames. At last, chanting at a fevered pitch, only a single candle remained. Gloating, the demon above Falconer's supine body had begun to reach down, down toward the heart of his prize.

    All of a sudden, the rat on the fiend's shoulder bit hard into his cheek and launched itself toward the last candle, kicking it with its hind legs and knocking several of the candles to the ground, scorching its fur in the act. As the ritual was ruined, a roar like an erupting volcano cast into an endless ocean filled the room, which had become thick with the strange, chilling vapor.

    “Filthy b***h!” screamed the cambion demon as his master was rent and split into a thousand shrieking tatters, though he could not be heard over the cataclysmic ruination of his thwarted summoning. The frenetic rodent had dropped off the edge of the altar and was trying to make good its escape, but the beastly man-demon kicked it hard with a metal-shod foot, breaking its ribs and hurling it hard against the wall. Broken on the floor it lay, breathing hard and bleeding.

    “No help for you!” shrieked the failed ritualist, raising his dagger over Magister Falconer's heart. As he did, the vapor behind him coalesced, and the figure of Archmage Sirrelus Olavan appeared. “Vaxithril Tendarex!” he roared, and the Dimensional Lock spell struck the would-be murderer. “Azkareth!” was his next word, and the fiend wheeled round at the sound of its true name, dropping its dagger and looking to and fro in a panic. Kirk had begun to stir on the table, and he sat bolt upright as one who has awoken to a house fire.

    “Damn you, old man!” cried Azkareth, and he bethought him to flee the plane with a clever spell; but the archmage's magic was like a titan's shackle upon him, and hearing his true name had stricken him to the core. As he stood facing the mighty master of the Kallistari Gate Arcane Academy, he knew fear.

    “Seriglos Culvin Ophoron!” incanted Sirrelus, pointing with his left hand as his right hand held aloft a magnificent cyanite gem of seemingly infinite facets. The Trap the Soul spell reached out like a bird of prey and dragged the screeching Azkareth within the gem, and he was gone from the world forever.

    Kirk Falconer had seen his old master's work, and he sat in awe as he shook off the nightmares of his ordeal. Suddenly, he became aware that against a nearby wall, a young woman lay curled on the ground, bleeding profusely from shattered ribs.

The banishment of her tormentor had broken the terrible curse which had changed the young girl. Up sprang the wizard to her side, and Sirrelus Olavan gravely approached. The girl was in her young twenties, and had been one of the first victims of the demonic invasion of the college. Kirk recognized her instantly as Lorelei Ravenhelm, and his heart was filled with pity. Shaking off his stupor, Kirk ran to where his haversack lay and clutched at a handful of small vials, heedless as he dropped a few of them upon the ground. Rushing back to the dying young woman, he cradled her head and gently administered the healing potions to her, one after the next, and her wounds closed. Slowly she opened her eyes, but her face was grave and she had the look of one who has been soulstricken.

    “Professor... Falconer,” she whispered. “I have slept through my exams. Forgive me!” she cried weakly in her delirium, and her eyes closed as she lost consciousness from the ordeal. Sirrelus stooped over her, and he knew that the strain of such a curse was not to be dispelled with a mere potion; but he saw plainly that her life was saved, and his heart was nearly broken with joy.

    “Greggan!” cried Kirk, and his thoughts flew towards his comrade.

    “Right here, Kirk!” said the dwarf, staggering into the scene. Kirk had never seen a dwarf with a hangover, but poor Master Kharzalak might have been the first. Stricken with the agony of the Symbol of Pain and nearly killed by a barely-resisted Suffocation spell, it had been only for the sips of the enchanted spring water that he had lived. He would later swear Kirk Falconer to secrecy that a dwarf had ever been saved by a drink of water.



Chapter 7

Clear Skies Over the Frozen Chantry


    
Three days had passed since the cambion semi-demon Azkareth had been defeated. Almost as soon as the fiend was undone, the storm had abated; and a series of high magi had begun arriving at the academy by way of teleportation, summoned by the will of Archmage Olavan. The residual magics that had hidden the demon were abjured and the victims of his evil were purified and laid to rest.

    Kirk Falconer was lying in bed in the infirmary.  A chiurgeon had been teleported in especially to tend to those wounded in the ordeal. Kirk had insisted that he was fit and ready to stand on his feet, but Master Olavan would not hear of it; and so he made the best of it by pestering the healers for a nip or two of dwarven firewater for himself and his roommate, Greggan Kharzalak.

    “I'm not in a hurry to repeat any of this,” said the dwarf, though he looked twice at the thimbleful of alcohol that he had been provided, and thought it something he'd like to repeat as soon as possible.

    “Just as well, old friend,” quoth Falconer. “I'd rather not see you with a cleaver in your hands again if I can help it,” he chuckled. “I think even my brother Arelian would have been impressed by your ferocity.”

    Just then, the headmaster walked in, carrying papers under one arm. “Hello, boys,” he said tersely, but they knew he was relieved to find them well. Sirrelus was known to go whole semesters without a word, and Kirk felt privileged to hear two together.

    “I'm glad to see my bait was not bitten clean through,” he chuckled, eying Kirk over. “The thing in the basement hid itself from me, but I knew it could not resist having a try at you. I hope you understand.”

    Kirk had been too busy recovering to give it much thought; and though it made perfect sense to him now, the revelation carried a sting. “Well, I'm off the hook now, sir,” he mused, and then broke out in a soulful belly-laugh. His dwarven companion looked over at him with a smile, but he also lifted Kirk's drink as he laughed.

    “To the wriggling worm!” toasted Greggan Kharzalak. After the collected company had raised their glasses and taken a long, hard look at their friends for memory's sake, Archmage Sirrelus Olavan departed from the Kallistari Gate Arcane Academy; and Kirk Falconer did not know if he would ever see him again.


* * *


Another two days had passed, and Kirk was finally allowed to roam free. He had never been seriously injured, but the demonic magic had taken a toll. Kirk had awoken early and was availing himself of a bit of exercise. Greggan was up as well and couldn't be kept from his duties; workmen had begun to arrive the previous day and they needed supervision. Kirk had been standing on one of the high landings, admiring the sea of white that surrounded the chantry. He saw for miles the familiar sights of the Kallistari Gate region, catching glimpses of the great ships on the water and the towering pine forests that stood before the distant hills. He was turning to go when a familiar voice met his ear.

    “Professor Falconer,” said Lorelei Ravenhelm. “I... I came to thank you.”

    Kirk chuckled at the formal greeting. “After this, Lorelei, I hope you'll just call me Kirk.”

    She lowered her eyes demurely, and a smile came to her lips. “Yes, alright,” she said.

    Kirk regarded her curiously. “Tell me, though, how did you come to such trouble? As I recall, you had surpassed even the upperclassmen in your learning. Your disappearance was a terrible shock to us.”

    “I let curiosity get the better of me, sir -- um, Kirk,” she said softly, a touch of shame and stoicism in her contrite feminine voice. “It is not a mistake I shall make again. The curse made me a woman of two separate minds, though both were enslaved; and yet I was able to sequester a small part of my own consciousness, waiting for my chance to bolt from the demon and spoil his designs.”

    Until that moment, Kirk was unaware that it was she who had ruined the fiend's ritual and saved him; and he was nearly overwhelmed with a mixture of gratitude and awe for the young woman with whom he had emerged from the terrible and eldritch crucible of the demon's lair. Turning his head away from her to conceal a suddenly moist eye, Kirk touched Lorelei on her delicate shoulder with paternal gentility. “Well, I for one could use a sit by the fire. Will you join me?”

    And so they passed into the warmth of the great building, seating themselves close to one another at the hearth and speaking long into the evening as friends. No longer was Lorelei Ravenhelm hardened toward the Professor of Transmutation, for her heart had become light; and in time, she became both a powerful mage and a bard of great renown.




The End.
    

Author's Note

This was written for a small group of people in a Pathfinder run that I attended a couple of years ago. The writing style is idiosyncratic in that it was written specifically for a niche hobby audience, and therefore contains informalities that would certainly be absent in a more traditional narrative. The piece also reflects an earlier stage in my understanding of grammar, so I am slowly picking through it for errors (they're eternal). Those without experience in the culture of role-playing games and their nuances are encouraged to read the story as a piece intended for young adults.

edit: and the dang site turns m-dashes into quote marks. Grr.