Myths and Magic Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Trolls and Tribulations

  Endnotes

  MYTHS & MAGIC

  A HUMOROUS FANTASY

  KEVIN PARTNER

  Myths & Magic: A Humorous Fantasy

  Copyright ©2018 Kevin Partner

  All rights reserved

  Note: the first edition of this book was entitled "Stryke First"

  The characters, organisations, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious (obvs). Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, are coincidental and not intended by the author. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written per-mission from the author.

  First Edition, First Impression

  Published by Trantor Press

  www.kevpartner.co.uk

  For Peta

  and Terry Pratchett

  Note: this book contains footnotes. When you see a number, tap it to see the (hilarious) note, then tap again to go back.

  Hey little human, what do you see?

  Three ugly goblins hang from a tree.

  Hey little human, what will you do?

  Tonight when the Faerie King comes for you?

  Preface

  What if, when bringing a world into existence, the creator's hand slipped? Where there had been one, now there are two worlds in neighbouring dimensions, overlapping at a weak point in reality.

  This is the Tworld.

  And through a gap in that hinterland, jealous eyes look out on green and fertile lands. A petulant mind, used to getting its own way, builds an army and sets in motion events that will open the fracture wide and pour darkness on the world of light.

  All that stands between the Faerie King and complete domination is a young man with a penchant for blowing himself up. We're dooooomed.

  Chapter 1

  Bill Strike raised himself onto his elbows and ran his fingers over his forehead. Eyebrows intact, if a little warm. He felt down his smoking tunic and sighed with relief at confirmation that the crown jewels were still there, though somewhat bruised. The fireball had thrown him backwards and dissipated almost instantly, leaving a curiously quiet forest, the only sounds being the chuckling of the woodpeckers. Smartarses.

  “Son!”

  Gods, of course his father was here.

  The face of Blackjack Strike appeared above him, and he was hauled to his feet. Blackjack scanned him from top to bottom and patted out a couple of smoking spots on his jacket.

  “Are you okay, boy?”

  Bill rubbed his eyes again and nodded.

  “I think so,” he pointed across the clearing. “The pile collapsed just as I was checking for leaks.”

  “And how many times have I told you to take care when the heat’s up? What would your mother say if you got hurt?”

  Blackjack led his son over to the foot of an oak and sat him down beside his pack. “Now, you have something to eat and drink while I patch it up.”

  Bill watched as his father strode confidently over to the smouldering charcoal pile and examined the fracture. What would his mother say, indeed? But, as she’d disappeared when he was a baby and hadn’t been seen since, he couldn’t ask her. Blackjack took a spade and stirred the bucket beside the mound before shaking his head and stomping off through the woods to where a thin wisp of smoke could be seen between the coppices.

  A few swigs of scumpy and a bite of pasty had revived Bill somewhat by the time his father returned, carrying his own bucket which he set down beside the pile. Blackjack used the spade to stir the mixture and, clearly satisfied, shovelled enough into the hole to plug it.

  “Your muck was too wet,” he said, before sitting on a root next to Bill.

  “Sorry, dad.”

  Blackjack shook his head slightly as he looked over his son, before brushing the front of Bill’s jacket. “You’ve got a face like a badger’s arse and that coat’s prob’ly ruined. Bloody hell, lad, how are we ever goin’ to make a burner out of you?”

  “Sorry, dad.”

  Blackjack Strike sighed, took a swig of Bill’s cider and leant back against the trunk of the tree next to his son.

  “You know, there’s been a Strike in these woods for as long as there’s been trees here. You see that tree over there?” he said, pointing at a stubby trunk from which masses of whip-like branches grew. “That were first cut by your great great grandfather Vinegar Strike and it’s been harvested by every Strike since. Soon enough, it’ll be your turn.”

  “Don’t talk like that, Dad,” Bill said.

  Turning to him, Blackjack looked into his son’s eyes. “I just want you to pick up the trade so’s I can pass it on without ‘aving to fret about you blowing yourself up. Your head’s in the clouds, boy when you need to keep your eyes on the ground.”

  They sat quietly as the sounds of the wood returned.

  “Mind you,” continued Blackjack after some time, “it’s Master Vokes who I blame. You spend too much time with him. Learning.”

  Bill couldn’t help noticing that his father gave that last word the sort of intonation typically used by priests warning of the dangers of education.1

  “I like learning, dad. There’s no harm in it.”

  Blackjack shrugged. “There’s no point, neither. Not for a collier’s son. You need to know how to build a clamp right, how to fix it and how to plug it.”

  Bill’s father paused for a moment. “And how to care for it without gettin’ blown apart.”

  Silence fell between them as they sat, one of them emitting wisps of smoke in the cool evening air.

  Bill peered sidelong at his father who was staring into the heart of the woods. Blackjack Strike had drawn his knees up and was resting his chin on his hands looking for all the world like a wise old ape contemplating the nature of reality. And bananas.

  Blackjack’s face was as dark as his name; a deep black that had been carried from father to son through generations of Strikes. It was as if charcoal flowed through their veins. Bill looked down at his hands; they were black alright but beneath the encrusted charcoal dust he knew that his skin was lighter than the froth on a beer. And not just any froth on any old bitter; when it came to beer comparisons, Bill Strike was a whiter shade of pale.

  Presumably, in this at least, he took after his mysterious mother. Aside from his skin colour, build, demeanour and general awkwardness around burning wood, Bill was his father’s son. Both had bright blue eyes and a mop of dark hair on their heads, but whereas Blackjack’s thatch merged naturally with his dark skin, Bill looked like an anaemic matchstick.

  Blackjack raised himself with a grunt and picked up his bucket. “You tend to your clamp and, once it’s settled, come and find me. The nights are starting to draw in, and I wan
t to be in my own bed tonight.”

  Bill nodded automatically, but his mind was elsewhere. He got up and brushed the cold ash from his jacket. Yes, he was safe in these woods, although he couldn’t necessarily say the same for his eyebrows.

  Bill shook his head and ambled over to the kiln. He spotted the new mud added by his father and looked for a very long branch to prod it with. Satisfied that it was dry and secure, he went back to his pack and sat down beside it.

  The forest settled into its former watchfulness although it now possessed just a hint of nervous tension, as if it wasn’t quite sure what might happen next. Despite this, birds began dutifully chattering and singing - though from a distance - and a gentle breeze stirred the stiffening autumn leaves as Bill thought.

  It was now so quiet that he could hear his father tending his pile some way away but, while Bill’s ears felt as though they were smothered by the unchanging eiderdown of eternity, his mind was in the middle of a pillow fight. There was something very wrong with his father’s behaviour. His protectiveness had become close to an obsession. In fact, come to think of it, he’d been acting pretty strangely for weeks now. It was almost as if he was waiting for something he dreaded.

  Reaching into his pack, Bill pulled out his half eaten pasty and chewed on it. There was no doubt about it, a mouthful of tendon and gristle did wonders for settling the mind. Bill felt he had little to fear in a world where an artisan baker like Richard Sole (“We put R Sole in every pie”) could make a technically honest living.

  He forced the last mouthful down, leant back, shut his eyes and let the sounds of birds, leaves and the tick-ticking of the charcoal clamp soothe the voice of uncertainty echoing in the back of his mind.

  Chapter 2

  Nomenclature Vokes was, by any measure, an odd man. Despite the obvious dangers, he cultivated a reputation for magic and was particularly well known for his ability to control fire. Fortunately for him, this gift was seen as useful by the local nobility - the Moredits - who held that his ability to function as a one-man artillery unit outweighed any piffling religious reasons to have him suspended upside down beneath a bridge. There was also the fact that, if the rumours were to be believed, he could incinerate any platoon sent to apprehend him.

  It was dark by the time Bill arrived at Vokes’ cottage, having seen his father safely home. He’d left Blackjack staring into the fire sipping on a tankard of stocky, the black beer he favoured. Unusually, Blackjack had spurned the offer of a pint in the Cock and Bull, and Bill had used the opportunity to call in on Vokes on his way into town. The old man had almost jumped out of his beard when he opened the door and had only calmed down when he realised it was Bill who was standing on his doorstep. It was another puzzle to add to the compendium. After all, who else would be visiting Vokes after dark? It was almost as if the old man was living in fear.

  Bill now watched as Vokes rummaged amongst the scrolls in the section of his library labelled “Mappes”. He was presently standing, one-legged, on a milking stool and straining to reach to the farthest depths of the highest shelf where, by laws that have yet to be explained by even the most esteemed of Physik professors, everything useful ends up.

  “Got it!” he said.

  Vokes stepped back, forgetting that he was standing on a stool, and his left leg, the one that had nothing but a foot and a half’s air beneath it, slid sideways taking the old man with it.

  Bill leapt out of his chair and caught the wizard as he fell backwards. Momentum being what it is, Bill ended up pinned beneath the wizard desperately trying to keep his mouth shut as his face disappeared into a mass of greasy locks.

  “I’m so sorry,” Vokes said as he struggled to disentangle himself. “Be a good lad and pass me my staff, will you?”

  Bill wiped his face and sprang to his feet. He took the wizard’s ancient staff from its place by the fireside and held it down to Vokes as he lay on the floor.

  “Oh, just drop it, if you don’t mind,” Vokes said.

  Puzzled, Bill laid the stick beside the old man who grabbed it and hauled himself to his feet.

  “Did you find the map?” asked Bill, opting to go with the flow.

  “What?”

  Bill suppressed a sigh. Vokes was a genius, but he was also forgetful, especially if distracted. “The map you were looking for, of the nine realms.”

  Vokes looked around, spotted the scroll in his hand and looked surprised. “Oh yes, of course. Something to do with your mother, I believe.”

  He took the scroll over to a table already full of papers and simply rolled it out on top of them so that it covered almost the entire surface, the objects beneath suggesting an entirely false topography.

  “Now then, where are we? Ah!” Vokes stabbed his finger onto a small cross around a third of the way from the scroll’s left-hand edge.

  Bill leant in and squinted. “Upton Moredit. If that’s where the town is then this clump of trees represents Clancy’s Wood, and so Dingly Dell must be near its northern boundary.”

  The wizard watched closely, perching his spectacles on the end of his nose and squinting at the tiny legends on the map. “Indeed, although you mustn’t take the map too literally. Recording the less, shall we say, valuable areas was entrusted to the Agents of Estate, and many of their measurements were taken from the roof of a speeding coach. Broadly speaking, however, the proportions and relative positions don’t stray too far from the actuality.”

  Bill stood up and surveyed the full extent of the map. Not for the first time in his life, he felt utterly insignificant although not, on this occasion, because of his occupation. “And is the whole area ruled by the Varmans?”

  The wizard shook his head. “The Varman Empire is the largest in this part of the world, and this map shows only its north-westernmost corner, but there are independent kingdoms on its periphery. However, your mother couldn’t possibly have come from any of them, she was far too educated. I knew her, you see - she used to come and visit me when she was married to your father.”

  “You knew my mother?” squeaked Bill, who’d just swallowed a mouthful of hot tea. “Why haven’t you ever told me? You’ve been teaching me for years!”

  Nomenclature Vokes took the cup of tea out of the shaking hands of his pupil and gestured to a pair of armchairs in front of an unlit fire. With a snap of his fingers, flames sprung into life.

  “Perhaps we had better sit down. I believe it’s time.”

  Bill settled into the chair, relieved that his legs no longer had to support him.

  “I must begin by telling you that I don’t know where your mother went or, indeed, the land she came from, at least nothing definite,” Vokes said, handing Bill a tumbler of brandy before sinking back into his chair and sipping at his drink. He cultivated his reputation by wearing red and orange clothes and was now wrapping his deep scarlet cloak around his knees.

  “She was certainly clever. I’m glad to see, incidentally, that you have inherited her wit rather than your father’s.”

  “My father’s no fool,” said Bill, not appreciating the malevolent glint in the wizard’s eye as he talked about Blackjack, “he knows more about his business than any man alive.”

  “I meant no offence. Within the borders of his own world, your father’s knowledge is, indeed, peerless. Your mother, however, was of a different breed. She was a creature of the wider world. Indeed, it’s hard to see what she saw in your father at all,” Vokes said.

  “Or, indeed, any ordinary man,” he added as Bill opened his mouth to object.

  There was silence for a moment as the old man and the boy thought. It was Bill who broke it. “What can you tell me about her? All I know is that she was called Astria, and she was beautiful.”

  “What? Oh, yes. Astria, that was her name.” The old man’s face fell as if his mind were wandering in regretful memories.

  “As for beauty, I couldn’t really say. She would certainly have seemed exotic to those who haven’t travelled widely. Her skin, lik
e yours, was pale and flawless, and she possessed a clear, fragile, voice that belied an inner power I could perceive, even if others couldn’t.”

  Bill leant forward, catching the wizard’s glance. The old man’s eyes were wet. “Where did she come from?”

  Vokes looked into the fire. “I can’t say, for sure. Somewhere west of here, I think. She never said. Your father said she appeared out of the darkness one night and enchanted him. In a good way, at least so it seemed.”

  “Was she some sort of witch then?” asked Bill, beginning to feel lost in a sea of confusion and revelation.

  “What? A witch? No, of course not. The very thought!”

  Bill slumped back in his chair, surprised again by the emotional force of the old man’s answer. Every question seemed to touch a nerve.

  Vokes sighed.

  “Not a witch,” he said, his voice regaining its regular, wheezy, character, “but perhaps there was a little of the faerie about her. Perhaps.”

  The old man turned to the fire, but his eyes remained fixed on the boy’s face.

  “Faerie? Are you serious?” Bill said, trying hard to keep a lid on the maelstrom in his mind. “There’s no such place! They’re called fairy stories for a reason, you know. Because they’re just stories.”

  “Have it your own way, but remember that there are fairy stories, and then there are Faerie Stories,” the wizard said, somehow emphasising the capital letters. “After all, is Faerie any more ridiculous than an old man who can shoot fireballs from the palms of his hands.”

  As a purely defensive measure, Bill’s mind decided to stop canoeing upriver and to get out of the water entirely.

  “Okay, so when did you last see her?” he asked, parking the matter of the magical realm for another time.

  The wizard sighed. “On the day she left your father. He had no idea at that point, she’d said she was walking into town for supplies but, instead, she came here. She told me that she could no longer stay, although she wouldn’t explain why. She seemed to be in a hurry, and she was nervous about something. I offered her my protection, but she claimed that even I couldn’t help her. Odd.”