The Book of Warlock

The Book of Warlock 3. In the presence of magic.

 Anar had slipped away at the first sound of hooves. Not far. He wasn't about to run and hide, just deep enough behind the scrub to spy on whoever had dared to approach their makeshift camp. It could have been Nisgarant's runners, scouting about for town survivors. It could have been some unlucky bandits, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Could even have been soldiers from one of the realms ahead of them, skirting around the warband, intent on capturing stragglers to tie down on their steeds and bring back for questioning. The kind of questioning that involved firebrands and sharp implements. By now, most of the large citadels were aware of their impending invasion, and not all of them were going to take it lying down.

Instead, he saw just about the last thing he was expecting; his beautiful black stallion Bromor, and one of the rat's Lieutenants, whose name could have been Brink. She was a very capable goblin soldier, regardless, and immediately his head swam with ever bizarre possibilities for her abrupt appearance at his hideout. Had Nisgarant been pulled from power already? Had his own dramatic death inspired one of the Majors to do the impossible, and cleave that twitchy, whiskery, crazed head from the warlord's shoulders? Was the goblin Lieutenant searching for his dead body, to loot it? To... dare he even think, bury it in the ground where it should have rightfully gone? Or was she on the run? Bromor was the finest horse in the fleet, and sharp as a tack, so she'd have made the right choice to steal him away.

As he viewed her from his vantage point, she dismounted and settled herself down on the log he'd been practising his new-found magical powers from only minutes before. She yawned and began to nod.

Bromor did likewise. Massive snores sounding from his cavernous nostrils, hot breath shrouding his muzzle in a localised cloud.

The presence of The Dragon did not seem to perturb them any.

In truth, he was pleased and relieved to not have been tested already with his power by a sudden urgent need to defend his new friend from trouble. Flicking forth random flames was one thing, actually causing injury to troublemakers was another, and most likely beyond his capabilities right now.

He trod softly back, his gut telling him that this was all fine. That the morning would reveal all.

The night phased gradually to dawn as he sat staring into the flames, twisting his grey hands idly to see what his magic would do. There was no urge to sleep for him, no desire to have the blackness of slumber overcome him. It was too close to the feeling of death. He shivered for reasons other than the early chill. If he closed his eyes, he remembered the fading away into nothing that he had endured at the piercing of the magical horns. He'd felt weak, his knees had buckled. His entire frame had tightened, as if caught up in a spider's web, restricted. Bound. His breath had left his lungs without an opportunity to draw it in ever again. It had been quick. It had been final. He'd heard of noble warriors giving out their last words to their squires, having them etched onto their headstones as a lasting reminder of their wisdom and gravitas. Chance would be a fine thing; he'd barely been able to utter a curse. A shame really, as there were a choice few words he'd like to say to that rat bastard when he finally caught up with him again!

The goblin Lieutenant snorted.

He whipped his head round, long slender ears pricked, hands already loaded with blue spheres of power and possibility as her green, pointed chin lifted and heavy eyelids fought to part ways. He was sat only a few feet away, on the end of the solid, organic seat.

Bromor was still in heavy slumber.

The Dragon likewise.

The goblin girl's head turned, and as soon as she recognised her bench partner, her small mouth opened to maximum width and the sharp intake of breath announced the arrival of a piercing cry of alarm.