Forward the Mage
by Eric Flint & Richard Roach
Forward the Mage
by Eric Flint & Richard Roach
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
PRELUDE.
In Which We Introduce the Gentle Reader to Our Tale Through a Most Cunning Usage of the Ancient Narrative Device of The Plunge Direct Into the Turbulence of the Times. Taken From the Autobiography of the Notorious Scapegrace, Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini.
Autobiography of Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini,
Episode 1: Police, Potters, Pedants and Plunderers
I arrived in the city of Goimr upon the most wretched ship imaginable. The CSS Lucre, it was called, a name which was as inappropriate as possible. The CSS Pigsty would have served better; the Shipwreck-in-the-Making, ideal.
Yet, upon my first glimpse of Goimr, I was almost sorry to disembark. The sight which greeted my eyes was even more disheartening than the ship. I had expected, without really giving it much thought, to find Goimr’s harbor a smaller version of my native Ozar’s great port, the Horn of Surfeit. At the very least, I should have thought Goimr—which is, after all, the chief port of southeastern Grotum—to be a match for any of the smaller harbors of the Philistine at which my ship had stopped on the voyage from Ozar.
Not so. I was encountering my first taste of that reality which has given rise, throughout Grotum, to the expression “grubby as Goimr.” Upon the oily, sluggish waters of the harbor bobbed a variety of vessels, which seemed to compete with each other in their disrepair and desuetude, not to mention their antiquity and obsolescence. Numerous dilapidated warehouses dotted the quays, most of them boarded up, if not burnt and gutted. Everything was covered with a deep layer of grime. Roofs sagged, doors were unhinged, steps were cracked and broken. The very stones of the quays seemed corroded by some foul reagent.
The sole exception to the general miasma of decay was the building in front of which my ship was docked. The building was gigantic, stretching a full two hundred yards along the center of Goimr’s waterfront. Above it, facing the waterfront, rested a huge sign announcing to the world:
GREAT GROTUM NORTHERN, EASTERN,
SOUTHERN, WESTERN,
CENTRAL AND ENVIRONS EXPRESS
AND TRAVEL COMPANY
(a subsidiary of the consortium)
“At least there’s a trace of Ozarine energy in this miserable place,” I muttered to myself, descending the gangway. And indeed, the Consortium building—though it shared the general aura of squalor—was bustling with activity. Numerous barges, skiffs, scows and hoys plied the waters adjacent, bringing cargoes to and from the several ships moored nearby. A constant bustle of men and wagons carrying goods, supplies or passengers swarmed about the quayside in front of the building.
The moment I stepped ashore, I was delivered into this seething frenzy of commercial and maritime activity. Wending my slow way past oxen teams drawing huge loads, dodging gangs of stevedores, I left the docks and entered the relative calm of the building. After some inquiries, I eventually made my way out of the labyrinthine edifice and into the passenger area on the far side, from which transportation into the city proper was available. There I rented a large locker, into which I placed my traveling sack and my easel. It wouldn’t do, of course, to visit the King of Goimr with luggage under my arm.
As I was heading out the main archway to the plaza beyond, I stepped aside to let a man hurry by. Strange-looking fellow! Strange, not so much in his features—for he was normal enough in that regard, aside from the excessively severe look on his bearded face. But his clothing! A long, shabby, flowing robe, covered with obscure and cabalistic symbols. A wide-brimmed, floppy pointed hat. In his hand he bore a long staff, carved with runes. I realized that I was actually face to face with one of that legendary breed of sorcerers which are peculiar to Grotum.
As I stepped aside, I heard the mage say: “Make haste, wretched gnome, make haste! For even as I speak, time wanes!”
I looked to see the person to whom he was speaking. My jaw dropped with astonishment. Wizard indeed! For behind him—as if transported by levitation—loomed an immense sack, bulging at every seam, from which protruded the snouts and extremities of weird instruments too bizarre to describe.