The Book of Warlock

The Book of Warlock 1. We start with death.

A cluster of bright stars had appeared in the sky, as clouds that once hid them from view now dissolved into faint wisps of water vapour. They were twinkling and arcing over the far heavens above, a welcome source of light on this dark night. The moons were in their fixed positions, too distant to bounce back much of the sun's rays as it warmed the far side of the world. Of this world. There were other worlds out there, apparently. What a turn up for the books. Anar had learned a lot in a relatively short space of time since meeting The Dragon. The mystical, magical creature had talked about the universe, and fractal dimensions, and magic.

His scaly travelling companion wheezed on the other side of the campfire. It was not a healthy sound.

"Shall I try to make the fire bigger?" he asked. "Pity we don't have a blanket..." he scanned the ground around him, as though that alone could simply will one into existence.

"Come closer," the frail creature begged.

"Oh! Of course." He obliged, rising from his log seat and stepping round the crackling blue flames, before perching on the wooden box that his friend had claimed as a seat. He gently placed his hand upon its scaly shoulder.

That touch invigorated it instantly, a great breath was drawn in and its ridged spine straightened out, wings rustling, colour returning to its skin.

"Will... will you always be like this?" he asked gently.

The long, monstrous head swung negatively. "Thankfully not. In time, I will replenish my power enough to survive alone. As long as you stay with me while I recharge, that is. It could be days. It could be weeks."

"I'm hardly going to leave you now, am I? You didn't leave me. Have I thanked you again for that, recently?"

A vibrant orange reptilian eye slid into his view. Before the calamitous events of yesterday, those glowing orbs could have done some serious magical damage, but in the creature's weakened state, they just glittered like fireplace embers. "Your aid in returning my life source is all the thanks I need."

For a while they sat, The Dragon feeding from the aardvark's close contact, as bats flitted by in the dark, and owls hooted around them.

Anar uncurled his free hand. A bright blue light grew above his outstretched grey palm, writhing and swirling like a storm held within a raindrop. He flicked it towards the fire, and it roared higher and burned brighter. Hotter.

Point and zap.

He'd not had much exposure to the arcane arts, being a soldier for most of his life. He was a sword and shield man through and through. Magic was for mages, who wore flowing robes with big hoods, and waved long fancy sticks around with mystical gems bound at the top. Instead, he wore a red leather jerkin, and thick, warm, black twill trousers with plenty of padding for cushioning during scraps.

Not that he had his scimitars and shield with him at the moment. He'd searched the battlefield high and low, but some jumped-up Lieutenant had probably swiped them. He'd get them back, around the same time he gave Nisgarant what was coming to him. Bastard rat.

If Anar was still, he could feel a bubbling in his blood. The Dragon's magic. The Dragon hadn't meant to transfer the majority of its magical power to him, it had been an error. A mighty big one, at that. One minute it had been in disguise as the warlord rat's treasurer, keeping watchful eye over the spoils of war as they travelled around the kingdoms, adding to the groaning pile of wonders and priceless artefacts on a daily basis, and then the next it was a trembling, gasping mess, kneeling over his body as it brought him back to life, all illusion stripped away to reveal its true form.