If the first chapter was to poorly done for any of you to read, don't worry. I'm posting a revision of it soon to replace the one below. With any hope, I'll be able to keep pumping out these chapters until I have a small novelisation complete.And again, remember that some details may be different than in the game.

Enjoy.

*
Chapter 2

Optomkiptum found himself humming a tune he didn’t recognise.
‘Hrm, hrm. Don’t recognise that do you?’ he asked a nearby guard. The Special guard simply shrugged, his helmet unable to hide the grumpy look on his face. The weather had turned sour recently and long sunny days were giving way to shrouded, gloomier ones. Far from dampening Optom’s mood, the clouds actually improved it. He had a need to protect his over-sensitive eyes with magical alterations and there was nothing like seeing the world ‘au natural’ for a change. The ocular enhancement spell had the habit of making his vision sharper while draining the colour from his surroundings. His race were not much accustomed to having environments rich in colour but they did have a keen eye for gems and had evolved a sort of higher perception when it came to spotting particularly colourful objects amongst the grey. Right now, the grey sky was only making the rest of the world appear brighter - as if the overcast city was one vast gem itself.

Optom took in a deep breath, and sighed out of the open window before closing it once more. Floating down, he set his feet on the floor and began the long, arduous walk out of the Galadon map room and up to the Spire’s top. Situated on the second floor, he’d have many flights of steps to walk before he reached the place where he could sign off with the head Executioner. He could have easily floated himself up but it was his belief that for a body to maintain its suppleness it had to be stretched now and again. More than anyone, a Transmuter should know you only get one body and you have to take care of it. Well, assuming a priest hadn’t resurrected you recently. Which did seem to be very popular these days.

Within the centre of the Spire was the long, triangular shaft that led directly to the roof. Coloured light was filtered down through the stain-glass roof that sat 30 feet above even the highest floor. On each floor, the triangular tower had two triangular rooms that took up different corners. At the fourth floor, Optom peeked out of a small window next to the Libraries archway to see he’d already risen above all but the tallest Temple steeples. From where he was, the Temple of the Sun sat glumly as rain began to patter off its roof. The next floor, he could see right out along the western expanse, to where the Feawynn Weald stretched out to the logging camps up river. In the distance, a mist was rising up as if the forest was steaming under the rain. Finally, he found himself near the top where the stair well opened out at last to a grand chamber. This was the Blood Tribunal altar room, where the Scales of Justice themselves were kept.

In times past, the Altar had also been used to hold the fabled young tree Sapling that gave the Sylvan Warders, the Tribunal’s greatest enemy, their mysterious powers over nature. Towards the end of the War there had been raids back and forth to keep such items of power out of the possession of the other side. Sometimes, the Warders would find holes in the cities defences and whisk away the Scales in well-organised raids. With the winds at their heels, they could easily outrun the City Guard. At better times, the Tribunal war parties would return triumphant and have the Altar bless them as it closed its marble folds around the Warder’s Sapling. All this continued until at last the Tribunal found victory over their foes by burning their sacred grove and all it contained in a fiery storm cast down from the Heavens. Kelrizza herself had overseen the final spell that sealed the doom of the Warders. Using Arcane magic and a pair of blessed holy Symbols, meteor-sized fireballs had been called down to pound the forest for days. It was historically known as the Ritual of Fire. The bright display that filled the sky had signalled the end to the Sylvan Warders, and the war, as their home was reduced to ash.

To Optomkiptum, all of that seemed so far away now that the cities were peaceful again. He himself had served as a supporting mage in the war, and had earned himself a comfortable seat in the city as one of Galadon’s Magistrates.
‘Yes, yes… so much to be proud of, yet so much more to do.’ He thought to himself as he approached the Altar. The evening ritual that signified the changing of shifts also broke a Magistrates mental link to the Altar. Those on night-duty would be linked instead, to allow citywide communication through its power. Off to one side, amongst a huddle, he spotted an old friend.

‘Delrami!’ he shouted ‘I demand its good to see you.’

Two priest-knights dressed in Tribunal armour marched over to him, smiling warmly in greeting.

‘And Daemer! My, my. What a pleasure.’

‘Aye, blessin’s upon ye, Optom.’ Uttered Delrami, as she gentle touched his forehead. A warm tingle spread over his body and down to his toes. A priests blessings were a quiet reminder that the Gods were always nearer than you thought.

Delrami and Daemer were two priests of opposing faiths that held similar goals. Warrior-priests were not uncommon in Galadon and these two belonged to the Paladins guild that lay just opposite the Spire’s base, on High road. Daemer had earned a Provincial’s badge during the Sylvan War, making him a Magistrate of all four cities, while Delrami had served with Optomkiptum behind the front lines. It was there he’d seen her doll out fearsome prayers of both retribution and protection in the name of Lord Vynmylak, patron of War and Honour. It was rumoured that herself and two dwarven kin had been asked to scout ahead of a raiding party one eve, only to be found standing over the corpses of a dozen Sylvan rangers holding up the Sapling with such casual indifference that the Vindicator leading the main force scolded them for impatience and snatched it from the priests hands jealously. However, dwarven rumours were hard to substantiate. They’d often vary; depending on how much ale was in the Spire’s stock.

Daemer, on the other hand, was a Paladin of peace. Following the tenets of the Kara Chal, he believed the Law was a tool for exercising peace and serenity amongst Thera’s citizens. He often refused to raise his blade against his foes but would guide his allies with healing prayers and raise his shield to stoutly defend the fallen. Many a person had been retrieved by Daemer for resurrection and he’d earned the respect of the whole Spire.

‘I hear you had a disturbance, I’m saddened to hear another citizen has fallen out of line.’ Said Daemer. To him, it likely wasn’t a surprise it was a dark necromancer.
‘Aye, laddie. Ye alright now? No curses on ye?’ asked Delrami, offering forward her calloused dwarven hands with a helpful gesture.

‘Fine, fine. Not even a scratch upon my person!’ Optom replied cheerfully.

The old friends soon entered a friendly conversation of how quiet it had become of late. Crime was at an all-time low as bandits and thieves were heading north to where rumours of War were drawing in all the mercenaries. It had reached Optom’s ears that Udgaard, a mighty city led by a cruel Baron, was trying to extend its control further north. The Baron was notoriously cruel and had an army of trollish beings called Jaette’s at his control.

‘Feh, like we’d be wantin’ more o’ his kind in them Lands. If he be marchin’ on the Giants, I dinna doubt the Guild’ll take their side and give the Baron somethin’ tae remember.’ Said Delrami, her thoughts lying on the banishment of all Paladins from Udgaard’s walls.

Daemer raised his hand, in his famous gesture of Peace.

‘We can only hope he feels sated by his new trade negotiations with the Gnomes. Perhaps rumours are not as bad as they seem.’

Optom himself wasn’t sure, it was little over a century ago that the Baron had tried to extend his control south. Reinforcements from the Tribunal cities had quietly entered Tir-talath and supported its rebellion. It was all they could do to stop such a power-monger expanding over all of Thera without open aggression. All this, had been before Kelrizza’s own reign and at present she seemed disturbingly unconcerned with Udgaard at all.

‘Well, ye kin bet I’ll be in there if they’re movin’ even just a wee bit out o’ line. Dishonourable dogs! I’ll give some o’ them Jaette scum a good smashin’ wi’ ol’ Titus ‘ere.’ said Delrami, tapping the hammer that was tethered to her portly waist. Her fellow Magistrates just lowered their gazes, neither ready to think another war might be on the horizon. The silence was broken only when Kelrizza herself came marching in. The High Priest of Order moved swiftly from behind the Altar to greet her and even the Head Executioner inclined his head in a gesture of respect. Her powerful, charismatic voice boomed out over the small crowd.

‘Gather! Magistrates! There are new recruits to announce!’

Eager to see whom the Provost had recruited, everyone moved forward until a semi-circle had been formed in front of the Altar’s steps. Kelrizza rolled up the sleeves of her arcane robes and motioned for two figures to move to the front.

‘I have ordained both as Magistrates, they’ve earned my blessing and sworn themselves to the service of the Spire, the One-law and protection of Order in Thera. Here, we have Baendra, of the Hamsah Necromancers guild. She will be patrolling her home under your supervision, Magistrate Grurk.’

A young lady, dressed in plain black robes moved forward and bowed to the crowd. A cloud giant, towering a few feet above the crowd at the back, grunted in recognition and motioned for her to join him. Somewhere high above them, thunder rolled across the skies and the rain intensified.

‘And to you, Provincial Daemer, I’m giving trust of… this one.’

Kelrizza’s face rarely gave signs of emotion in public but her reluctance to introduce the priest was a clear sign she didn’t approve of his ideals. Despite such conflicts, the Provost was oath-bound to do the best they could by the Spire and the One-law.

‘Greetin’s ta ye’ said a young dwarf, as he moved forward and turned to face Optomkiptum and his friends. He was short and portly, much like Delrami but his face lacked any wrinkles and his beard was much shorter than hers. Instead of the normal Tribunal garb given to initiates, he was dressed in light, silver armour. Across his breastplate, a blazing figure that looked like a winged-horse was painted in vivid colours. Those who had served in the last war recognised it as Lord Velkurah, the Spire’s new ally - and patron to Order and Law itself. Little was known of him or his god-like race but he had gifted the Spire with one of the two holy symbols used in the Ritual of Fire at the end of the war.

‘I’m bein’ Odrirg, of Gorimm clan. Nice ta meet ye… all.’ He said, addressing the crowd in general. There was a general murmur of greeting as Daemer stepped forward and stooped to shake the dwarf’s hand.

‘Welcome, Odrirg Gorimm. You are, indeed, welcome here. What city are you to watch over?’

Odrirg took the time to puff up his chest proudly. ‘Ah, the Provost bein’ kind enough ter give me the Ruined city. It’s me home, closer ta the Dwarves than any, an’ it be needin’ me help.’

Demonic forces had torn apart the city Odrirg had spoken of. Optomkiptum had not been around to witness it himself but it was said when the two towers, the White tower of Magic and the Warlock stronghold, had exploded it had taken the city with it. Despite this, the pride of the people that lived there would not be shaken and they’d been toiling ever since to rebuild it. So far the effort had been unsuccessfully lead by a dwarven architect called Kurden. The support he’d received so far had changed little in the city and rumour had it he’d in fact caused more damage over the past month. It’s a well-known proverb that you can give a dwarf a stone and he’ll build a tower. However, give him gold and you’ll only ensure the local pubs front you the repair bill. If you’re really lucky, you’ll get the dwarf back too.

‘Speakin’ o’ which, I be havin’ me own announcement ta be makin’.’

As Kelrizza moved quietly aside, the new Magistrate ascended a few steps to the Altar and turned once again to the crowd.

‘As me patron be guidin’ ye all in this time o’ peace, he sent word fer me ta begin a fund. The Ruined city fund, so that we might be enjoyin’ a restored city. In his vision, he’s set out a greater city than we’d ever had and with everyone’s charity we’ll be getting’ done!’

The crowd broke out into general murmurs and rumblings of conversation. Up until now, it wasn’t known if they Spire would withdraw from the city or not. Only now it was clear they were to stay.

‘The city that once stood there were one of great power, an’ history. Ter be losin’ that would be detrimental ta our cause, aye? So in the name o’ Velkurah, I’ll be takin’ any gold, silver or coppa ye kin spare fer it. Thankin’ ye fer yer time, lads.’
It was clear he was nervous and it was a big step for someone so young. Optomkiptum couldn’t help but admire the young priest for his work. Maybe he’d make something one day.

There was some brief shuffling as the Priest began the ritual – breaking the Altar’s link to those that had been on-duty. Once it was done, Kelrizza stepped up once more to offer some words of encouragement to her flock.

‘We’ve all had hard times but let us see this less as just another chance to rebuild and more as a time to expand . Extend your welcome to all outsiders, Magistrates, for this is a time we shall be looking to our neighbours, and their cities. Already they accept our death warrants as their own. Perhaps soon, they shall invite us to guard their cities as we do our homes now. Magistrates of Galadon, of Hamsah, of the Ruined city and of Seantryn Modan… I urge you to do whatever you can to ‘earn’ our allies trust. Good eve.’

*

Rain was still pattering off the window when Optomkiptum woke in the night. The dormitory halls were built in the shadow of the Spire, giving Magistrates who worked the nightshift a dark place to sleep during the morning. It was also there that many higher-ranking Magistrates had private chambers and that the mess hall dished out its meals. Optom had once been offered his own bedchamber but upon finding it was made to ‘gnome-sized standards’ had refused it. Being just half the height of human’s such as Daemer, he seemed to continually find himself on the receiving end of ‘special treatment’ that he did not enjoy. The fact he was stronger and more Magically adept than most of his human peers was a source of great pride to the little Svirf. The charity only served to belittled him. Besides, the public dorm was closer to the Spire itself and the seemingly endless grey of the wall made him feel more at home. It served to remind him of his own faith in the ancient Stones that guided the Svirfnebli.

On the surface world, Gods were the most common focus of churches and cults. Their presence was well felt and they would even visit the High priests of such religions personally. Such appearances kept mortals from being unfaithful or insulting towards the Gods but there was still cause for many to suspect such Churches and Cults. Most had secret agendas that were being carried out under their God’s instructions. All of this made Optom feel immensely uncomfortable about such beings and the appearance of Lord Velkurah during the Tribunal’s war had nearly put him in the Infirmary. No, for him the Stones were all he needed to praise. Singular in their ways, they represented structure, dependence and above all solidity in their values. Right now however, something about them felt distinctly wrong.

The Spire’s design had been not been the whim of some great architect. It was created by the founders of the Blood Tribunal themselves and was made with protection in mind. Its shape, its very structure, was made to protect the city from vast magical rituals such as the Ritual of Fire, or the curse that sundered the famous Tower of Five Magic’s. In times of need, it would absorb and flare off any magic that was directed at the city in general. It was said that the Altar at its peak, where the sacred Scales were held, funnelled the energies into the Skies. What effect this had, no one knew, as its mere presence had deterred any attempts to strike the city. From where Optom was lying he could vaguely see what was a magical aura building around its base. More than anyone, the Svirfnebli were in tune to magic itself. Without any aid, they could see through magical barriers and even vaguely detect its presence and quantity in one place.

Rolling off his over-sized bunk, Optom quietly floated towards the window on a spell. The storm had not ceased since it had started in the early evening, the rain coming in like thick sheets of water from the sky. Through it all, he could see whirls and eddies about its base. They were like leaves in the wind and moved in and out of the space around the Spire. Little movements, like flickering lights in the corner of his eye, could be seen gathering and separating all about it. The already crinkled skin on Optom’s forehead furrowed in worry. Throwing his red robes about himself and pausing to check his wiry hair in a mirror, he headed out into the well-lit hallway that lead back outside. The wind was battering the door and it was surprising the noise hadn’t woken anyone else. Poking his head into the guardroom, he saw several people playing a game of Heroes in the firelight. A quiet cheer, followed by a short scuffling erupted behind Optom as walked by.

‘Lets see’ he thought ‘It’s late… I should slow myself. Got to be fresh in the morning.’

With the words ‘Kunesarol tranozq’ and felt his heart beat slow in his chest. It was a good trick and was used often when people were needed to take long watches in quiet areas. By slowing themselves, they could go entire days without sleep or half the amount of food and water they consumed. The greatest advantage of the spell was that the mind wasn’t slowed almost as much, meaning anyone under its influence could remain alert even if his or her movements were sluggish. Just encase, Optom threw up a bone-calcifying spell and pulled an armouring wand from inside his robes. The added weight should stop him blowing off and the ‘armour’ spell, though weak, would shield him from the rain. Being soaked to the bone would only make him irritable the next day.

The wind buffeted him about gently as the rain dribbled down over his protective shield in a wobbling sheet, distorting all he saw in front of him. Despite this, he could see the base of the Spire was still in serious magical turmoil. The currents were getting stronger and beginning to pull in Magic from other parts of the city in flowing, drifting streams. What could be drawing in such power at this time of night? Optom knocked on the door and heard a bolt reluctantly forced back. A guard ushered him in before forcing the door shut once more against the wind. The Spire inside was the same as it ever was – quiet and grey. Only the sounds of the storm echoed about inside its hollow stairwell as Optom began floating towards the top. ‘No need for stairs this time’ he thought. Half way up he paused in his ascent to observe another figure climbing the stairs.

‘Kaplanov! What’s going on up there?’

A young Felar, a member of a cat-like race once enslaved to the Wizards of Thera, turned to look at Optom. His angular, feline face was soaked. In fact, his entire body looked drenched despite the poncho of water-resistant leather draped about his shoulders. The Felar were not a very tall people and were about the height of a dwarf. Their wiry limbs lacked strength but within their fragile looking bodies there was an amazing resilience few understood. They were crafted from large cats and exposed to great amounts of Magic under their sorcerous masters. Whether it was the Magic or their ancestry, no one knows, but they found they could take three times the beating of a human and still bounce back. He growled a greeting reluctantly through his teeth.

‘I was smell magic in air, like of old time.’ He said, in his low, guttural voice. ‘Something big is happen, that is all know.’

Optom nodded and offered to join Kaplanov on his ascent. While not the smartest of Magistrates, right now Optom would have take even an abrasive Giant for company.

‘Come, come. We’ll see if its serious.’

Kaplanov tapped his furry skull, between his ears. ‘I no hear alarm from Altar. But is feel… odd.’

Again, Optom simply nodded. Perhaps it was just some priestly ritual, or the storm reacting with the Altar but he had to admit that there was a familiar feeling to it all.

As a pair, the pair rounded the final turn into the grand Altar hall. A dozy looking priest perked at their approached and narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

‘Yes?’

‘I demand we’ve noticed something odd happening, about the tower. Seems to be drawing in great amounts of Magic.’

The priest groaned slightly as he stood, turning to the Altar and closing his eyes. He began humming to himself in a low, constant tone – a common technique for communing with the Gods. As if his prayer was answered, the priest looked back at them both and shrugged.

‘I can divine no abnormalities. What did you see, Magistrate?’

‘Hrm, hrm.’ Said Optom, reluctant to describe the Magic flowing from the cities Temples. Many didn’t believe that Svirfnebli sensed as much as they do. This was because on the grand scale of things they didn’t make very good Mages - they were, in fact, some of the slowest learners amongst Mage classes. What few understood is that this didn’t stop them sensing more than the average Theran. The Stones had blessed them with a great ability for understanding Magic’s flow like no other. Kaplanov stepped forward, his whiskers twitching in irritation.

‘I smell Magic, it thick in air.’ He said, growling to himself. ‘It smell like Mage’s hut, something strong - much, much strong - brew here.’

The Priest paused, measuring up the two Magistrates with his eyes. His face spoke what his lips did not but he could hardly pass off their testimony as jittery. Not only were they sworn-in Magistrates but both the Svirfnebli and the Felar had a history of being sensitive to Magic.

‘Very well, leave it with me. I shall summon the High priest.’ And with that, waved the Magistrates away.

‘I should think you’ll be doing more than that, Priest’ said a figure from behind them all. Turning, they saw Provost Kelrizza was coming towards them. She strode sharply out of the Vindicator hall’s archway; a quiet light spilling out from behind her, as her silk robes billowed about her slender figure. Her timeless features were as cold and unemotional as ever.

‘I’ll need you to summon some of the Magistrates. And have the Executioner woken from his bed. Now!’

The Priest turned to the Altar and began invoking its power. It was at this point that the Provost’s brow furrowed worryingly and she turned to Optomkiptum.

‘Things are… on the move. We must meet tonight.’

*
Chapter 3

Within every community, there is always the elder. Wise beyond their years, the history of the village or town will live in their memories and be passed on to the next generation in their stories. As places grow and their history lengthens, so to must the vessel of its memories. For the Blood Tribunal, the hall of Memory replaced whatever need for an elder they had and allowed objects of great value to be immortalised. As the assembled committee descended the stairs and filed into the hall, a curious Lorekeeper poked his head out of the library, his mouth open and an agitated look on his face.

‘Evenin’, miss Provost.’ He said nervously as Kelrizza shot him a glare that could shatter walls. Something in his head was telling him venturing more would mean fewer books and more brooms in his future. Scuttling back into the library, he pretended to browse an old record as the party disappeared from view.

Those invited to the meeting arranged themselves carefully on the benches. Like all rooms in the Spire, the Memorial hall was triangular. Three long, grey benches carved from the same stone as the Spire were the only furniture that could be seen. Upon the two main walls, behind two great seals on the floor, were tributes to the previous cabals of Order. The Justice cabal to the west, with its commemorative poem and the Arbiters to the east, where a portrait of their patron Lord Stellyx was hung. Each had been the Law enforcers of Thera, as well as champions for the cause of Order, in times past. As one had fallen, another had taken its place until the Tribunal had been formed. Balancing the Aribters book of Law that both protects and serves its citizens with the Justice’s sword that carves apart those who oppose it, the organisation had yet to fail. In their first great war, they defeated the Barons of Entropy and destroyed all traces of their twisted, lawless ways. They had overcome the Sylvan threat with their might and now that everyone was seated, it was clear something was not right once more.

‘Where is the mark?’ ventured a dark-robed Magistrate, turning his rounded human face to inspect the northern tapestry wall where it once hung.

‘Moved to a safer location, to be kept secret for now.’ Replied Kelrizza. The air began to sharpen as her gaze met each of those present. Optom shuffled gently on his seat, his legs dangling above the floor. He was still unsure why he’d been invited and Kaplanov held back but he couldn’t help feeling excited, despite the glum look of his associates. He placed his long-fingered hands under his thighs in an attempt to keep them still. His slowing spell was failing to keep down his fidgeting.

‘There have been developments elsewhere, an old ‘friend’ has returned and begun a rebellion out in the Emerald forest.’

‘Bloody wood-elves.’ Muttered Odrirg into his beard. Optom was experimenting with an ear-enhancing spell and it seemed to be picking up more than he’d anticipated.

‘Voronil Flivi, once an important figure amongst the Warders has founded a new faith. He’s begun recruiting apprentices from around the forest to perform rituals in the name of this new God and it’s become clear to our spies that his power is increasing at a worrying rate. Given his recent movements against the logging camps and the goblin outpost, we expect him to be within striking range of Galadon in just two weeks.’ Announced Kelrizza, as she circled the benches. Optom felt momentarily distracted by the echoing noise of a whimpering librarian.

They all knew a Priests power depended much upon their Patron and new gods often had little power. How powerful mortals’ attained god-hood was unclear but there were a few key things one would need. Moving beyond mortal reach, they would need great artefacts to shield them, a weapon attuned to their purpose and a cult of followers to give themselves the greatest chance of survival. Even then they’d be bargaining into a realm no one on Theran understood, where the Gods had an uneasy alliance and orchestrated their plans through mortal hands. To Optom’s left, he thought he heard someone break wind. He was thankful he hadn’t enhanced his nose, too.

‘Then what does the mark have to do with this?’ asked the High priest edgily.

‘Since the destruction of the Sylvan Warders, its power has been nearly non-existent. We believed it was spent in the ritual but recently I’ve noticed some activity from it. An ally of our cause has informed me it may have to be destroyed. Its forger has the power, but we are unable to find him… or ‘it’ at present.’

Kelrizza paused, glancing at the Executioner. Optom had the feeling something was not being said.

‘I’ve called this committee as there are actions we must take to make sure he gets no closer. There are still rogues such as Flarkle alive, that could flock to his aid should he gain enough momentum. None of us want this to happen as it could undo all we’ve done so far to crush the scum.’ It was uncharacteristic of Kelrizza to sneer but the curling of her lip did not seem voluntary. She quietly clenched her fist and moved silently back into the middle of the benches. She began turning on the spot, glaring coldly at each Magistrate in turn. A time passed, before she turned to Odrirg, who nodded quietly at her and was the first to stand up and leave briskly. At last, she turned to Optom who jumped up when a cool, calm voice entered his mind.

‘Take Magistrate Grurk of Hamsah, assume civilian status and leave the city to the west. Guard the Western road, provide reports on enemy movement and keep an eye on the forests. These are your orders, keep them secret until notified.’

The voice broke off and left Optom feeling both excited and worried. It was clear to him now only trusted Magistrates had been invited but what did it all mean? Could they be on the edge of another war? Shaking his head, as if to dislodge something, Optom regained his senses and followed the small line of people out of the room to leave only the High priest and Executioner with the Provost. His ears could pick up no signs of conversation but he thought he could hear the tinkling of something, in the background. Amongst the noises of the wind and the rain, there was something almost like… a child, giggling. Optom shook his head once more, and took a deep breath. The air was still somewhat static and had a sharp, sulphurous tinge.

‘Perhaps there won’t be war.’ He thought to himself.

The Provost had acted unusually fast and maybe it would avert disaster. Optom stopped suddenly in his tracks. He didn’t know if she intended for him to leave now , in the middle of the storm, or if he could wait till morning. Finally, deciding a good nights rest and a hearty mushroom breakfast would be wiser, Optom headed quickly back to the dormitories through the pouring rain.

That night, in his rain soaked robes, he dreamt of finding an enormous sapphire in a cave. Surrounded by small flecks of gold, it looked like a brilliant burst of blue against the darkness. It was beautiful to behold and yet something about it’s appearance disturbed him, deeply. He awoke the next morning to find himself soaked with sweat.

*
Prologue

Like all beginnings, there was nothing before. And then there was light.
For Gods, there is eternity but for Mortals there is only the here and the now. For Thera, a world of Swords, Magic and Gods, their time had come. Seated opposite each other, were two Gods known as the Lord of Order and the Lord of Chaos. They arrived as friends, to experiment with life itself. Sprinkling the Lands with their new creations, each gave unto his followers a gift. The Lord of Order bestowed his own with the gift of Magic, the ability to take the flows of Mana and bend it to their will -much like the Gods learned to bend reality. Followers to the Lord of Chaos were given the Shadows, where the darkness could be used to bring forth new energies of a powerful yet untamed nature. The mortals mixed and the gifts spread until two factions emerged and began to War. The Gods, no longer content to create, drove their followers towards destruction. Order against Chaos, each used Magic and the Shadows to fight on the physical plane. No bloodier a war has since been fought and within it the seeds of the Mortals end were sown. The Mages of Order came together to create a new weapon, an army of men immune to the Magic that created them. In turn, the Mages of Chaos reached into the Darkness and brought forth Demons to fight by their side. As Chaos saw their spells flung aside and Order saw their friends massacred by dark creatures, both sides saw they could not meet the might of the other without losing their own lives.
The world grew quiet, the Mages separated and new factions began to form. The Gods, forgotten and unwanted, disappeared from Thera and left in their place two thrones. One of the Light and one of the Dark, where champion Gods for Good and Evil would oppose each other to stop the Mortals made in Order and Chaos from destroying each other. This history, known as the First age, has long since been forgotten to many. The origins of Darkness, of Magic and the Gods no longer concerns the Theran mortals and so they continue their petty fights, oblivious to the greater struggle that is being enacted over their heads… in the Heavens.

*
Chapter 1

A Svirfnebli is a small, wrinkly sort of creature that lives deep within the bowels of the earth. Down there, they exist as an almost ghost-like, dwarfish people. Their grey hair is thin and wispy, their skin gnarled like the bark of a tree and their features oversized - as if someone had tried to put too many organs onto too small a face. Blessed with great strength but cursed to be as colourful as a lump of coal, little is known of their society at all. They’re generally thought live out quiet lives away from the eyes of outsiders and enjoy appraising stones, gems and mushrooms. At least, according to rumour. The reality is that they praise the Stones – with an intricate church of devoted priests and boulders. They raise large gems to a status normally reserved for Lords or Ladies with entire shrines devoted to the greatest gems of the Stonehood. And, well, they like mushrooms. They make good soup.

Far away from the caves they call home, lit not by glowing fungus but by the great burning Sun, is Optomkiptum. Possibly the most mismatched Magistrate that has ever existed. He is wandering down an alleyway, in the grand city of Galadon and is accompanied by two human guards with disgruntled looks. Their destination is a small, darkened entrance into the world-renowned guild of Necromancers where an unnaturally still man guards its doorway.

‘I demand entrance!’

Optomkiptum wandered sharply up to him, taking broad steps for a man only 3 feet in height, and kicked him in the shin. The figure barely reacted, swaying slightly in the aftermath of the blow.

‘Now! I demand it!’ he said, raising his axe-shaped badge above his head so that whatever light there might be in the gloomy alley shined off its surface. It was only then, as if in reply to an unheard command, the figure jerked its foot to one side and with a crude stepping motion lurched out of the way. Optom took his chance, and swaggered down the stairway unchallenged. If there was one thing Optom had, it was pride. He was full of it no matter where he was.

The inside of the guild was nothing more than a run-down hostel with a bar and few chairs. A servant dressed in dirty clothes swirled an equally dirty rag about inside a tankard. It seemed only the flies respected this place, and their absence was a very deep sign of respect indeed. Like many guilds, the hovel housed the current guild-quota of studying apprentices and, occasionally, handed out spell-books to those who become well-versed enough in Magic not to turn a spell for making things invisible into the untimely combustion of their left hand. The guilds were well funded by their students as each paid a hefty price ‘per lesson’. However, the entire intake went to the already wealthy patrons of the halls and rarely into their upkeep. While the communal bedrooms, the bar and the guard service were all kept loosely organised by a few underpaid servants, the Guildmasters were free to revel in their wealth. For the Necromancer’s guild, this meant a large number of Immortal mages were siphoning revenue into secret laboratories somewhere else. Immortality in the form of Undeath came at a cost, but in the end it was the ultimate goal for everyone of the guild. Though almost all but a few would fail in their task and find themselves on the ‘Golem construction’ pile, many were still drawn to the guild by rumours of untold power. Only the richest could afford any of the Mages’ guilds and so it was odd that Optom was himself a member of one. Long ago he’d managed to bluff his way into an apprenticeship with the guild of Transmutation for a few coins. From it, he’d acquired the basics of Magery, a spell-book rich in biological details and some rather nice red robes with gold trim. Real gold trim too, which was gently buffed every day before work. Quite a good taking for a foreign race in a human city. Of course, it wasn’t free to remain a guild member. His pay right now depended upon proving that this scrawny servant was hiding a very dangerous individual. Optom approached the bar.

‘I demand I greet you! Magistrate Optomkiptum Bo’sundinni of Galadon, if you please-sir!’

The servant leaned forward over the counter, to stare down into the large, black eyes that were addressing him. His posture would easily suggest to anyone that he was happy to cooperate and was offering his full attention. Anyone, except Optomkiptum. To him, this was another human that was going to smugly imply that anyone under 4 feet tall should be treated like a child. If there was one thing he hated, it was people that treated Gnomes and Svirfnebli like ‘special casses.

‘Right, ’ he thought ‘time for some real action.’

Quickly, he intoned the words that would weave an enchantment of flight about his feet. Being small has its advantages, and one of those is that a flying spell designed to float a mere human could catapult you half way across the room, if aimed right.
The barman drew back sharply, the quick rising figure grasping his collar and rolling forward over the bar with him. A gasp escaped his lungs just as his head hit the shelves behind him and Optom’s eyes drew level. The human guards by the stairs grinned quietly to each other.

‘YOU, sir, I demand you hand over your fugitive NOW!’ screeched Optom.

‘I… dun-dun-dunno what you mean, leggo!’

‘A few minutes ago, black robes, nervous… ran down those stairs and likely tossed you some silver.’

Optom’s grip shifted so that he could comfortably stand on the bar while interrogating the now shaken man. The servant’s wide eyes clearly showed some fear but still seemed mostly surprised.

‘There’s tons in like that, boss! It’s the bleedin’ Necro guild.’

‘This one had a different face.’

The servant gulped.

‘I dun’t ever see their faces, all got hoods on, ain’t they?’

‘Ha! This one would need a big hood to hide his beak. He’d need torn robes, too, for his wings.’

Generally, Arial’s were rarely seen in the city but a recent outbreak of winged demons had brought their interests, good and bad, into it. Rumour was that the birds were trying to mingle as humans, using hooded robes to mask their identities. Although many guild members styled themselves with appropriate robes, such as heavy brown ones for the Clerics or dark, coarse ones for the Thieves, the Arial’s could only make use of the lighter mages robes. Being smarter than the average human meant they could pick up Magic quicker than most. Nearly all of them had some handy magical training, whether it was spearman with potions or conjurers with wands. This, coupled with the empty-pocketed staff, made the Necromancers guild a great hide-away for criminals. The servant took in a sharp breath, and gulped again.

‘H-he’s back there! Leave off!’ he stammered, desperately trying to break the Magistrates iron grip. Despite his size, Optomkiptum had enough strength in one arm to send the entire bar into the opposing wall.

‘Second room on the left, don’t be disturbin’ the Guild! Urk, please! Quiet!’

It was too late. In the time it had taken the servant to protest Optom had stormed off around the corner into the dormitories and signalled his guards to follow. Apprehensions were never smooth; they always fought to the end. The apprentices that had their wits about them had cleared out when the stranger had arrived, the ones that were left had likely taken anything illegal they’d got with them and were currently hiding with it in one of the laboratories, hoping it wouldn’t try to escape. Optom swung his body round to face the doorway and glared into the unlit bedroom.

‘Hrm, yes, yes. There he is.’ It took barely a second to spot the bird-mage, huddled in the darkest corner under his black, silk robes. Where a human would need a torch light and a minute, a Svirfnebli needed nothing but a second. Optom took a sharp step forward, his dagger singing in unison with the guards own weapons as they slid clear of their sheaths. Realising he’d been found, the figure moved sharply.

‘No-seclari!’ screeched the Mage, throwing a twisted curse out towards Optom in an attempt to blind him. It rippled in the air, like heat off a stove, and threatened to fill Optom’s vision with an inky blackness. Magic can create wonders with some skill and belief but it can do little against a set mind and an iron will. Not only was Optomkiptum bolstered by the latest Magic-deflecting chain mail but unknown to many his very blood, bonded to the Stones, gave his body the inherent ability to absorb Magical blows like a shield. The curse struck Optom’s face, make him blink a few times before he thrust out his own hands and shook his clenched fists threateningly.

‘Piwwihtam!’ he shouted, bringing his thoughts into reality as long, cold looking chains that bound themselves to the bird-mans wrists and rapped themselves tightly about his legs. Optom lowered his hands.

‘I demand you surrender to the One-Law!’

Another wisp of Magic curled up about the Arial. His beak opened to utter arcane words but his now bound hands could do nothing to direct it. Forced to slump back as he lost his balance, the spell he intend to hurl at Optomkiptum brought about a terrible transformation to his own self. ‘Grawwwhk! Noooo!’ he screamed, as his legs became afflicted. The feathers on his thighs were falling away to reveal skin that was bubbling like boiling water, each pustule swelling and bursting rapidly as the plague spread down his limb. With a pained look, the last thing he saw was the guard as he drew up his axe – executioner style – and let it swing down upon his skull. *Thud*

*

Optom dusted off his hands, letting the energy from his flight spell drain. The corpse dropped heavily onto cobbled alley as the guards came up the stairs, wiping their blades clean with oiled rags
‘Another deed-done, boss. What was he wanted for, anyhow?’
Optom grumbled quietly to himself, as he often did, and turned solemnly to face the guards.
‘Loitering in front of the Spire.’ Optom shook his head slowly ‘He had his warning, and I demand he out-stayed it. Shame, shame.’
It was well known in Galadon what the Laws of the Blood Tribunal were but for foreigners it was unfortunate that knowing these Laws was not a prerequisite to being punished by them. The One-Law was not called so because it was a single ‘rule’. It was so called because it had a single punishment.
‘I demand such things are never worth death. Come, come.’

*

Before returning to the Spire, Optomkiptum had to face the Provost for a brief questioning. Infractions of the Law were not uncommon, but in bringing the Arial to Justice, Optom had injured some crowd members, made unwelcome disturbances in the quiet areas of the city and caused the Necromancers guild to pass the cleaning bill onto the Tribunal. Knowing them, it was likely the whole months bill. Of all the Guilds, they knew how to get out bloodstains.

The current Provost, known only as ‘Kelrizza’, was famous throughout Thera for her work in the Guild of Invokers. Elemental magic was notoriously difficult to control and even harder to master. Kelrizza’s devotion to finding ways of blasting criminals, without the hefty bills for cleaning them off shop fronts afterwards, had earned her a lot of favours. Optom had no idea how old she was and Dark-elves were notoriously deceptive when it came to age. Her skin was as smooth as steel and twice as sleek, with a dull grey shine that was beaten only by her glossy white hair. It made him wonder how she kept it conditioned and if it was Magical. His own wiry, grey hair gave him trouble.

‘Sit.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Optom took the chair in front of her desk. Outside, the street was quiet. She’d chosen the new Provosts office to be based in the city, along the same street as the Graveyard. Something the other Magistrates found quietly amusing. Often, the Provost would have her guards walk with her to the office then drag the cart of bodies from her patrols away to the caretaker after. Evocation of the elements was no power to be toyed with and she was rumoured to have over 400 years experience.

‘I see you caught him.’ She said, as the cart outside bumped across the cobbles and out of sight.

‘Of course, I demand I did as best I could given the circumstances.’

‘What circumstances?’ Her pale lips sneered as she spoke.

‘Well, well. He was found inspecting the forecourt to the Spire. When he failed to respond to our requests to leave, I had no choice but to apprehend him.’

‘Get on with it, Magistrate.’ Snapped Kelrizza. She rolled her eyes at the thought of having this dutiful Svirf actually recount every step he had taken over the past hour.

‘Hrm, hrm. Of course!’ beamed Optom ‘I demand the Market square was a problem…’

‘Yes, I have a request to replace two broken stalls. You did this?’

Optom paused before answering ‘Not exactly, when the zombie’s bones exploded it…’

‘Carry on.’

‘Right, right. And then down the Trade road, he got off a memory wiping spell.’

‘The Necromancer variety? ‘Forget’?’

‘Yes, yes. Only he hit a peddler’s donkey. Seems it forgot what it was.’

‘I fail to see how that could cause any…’

‘It was blocking the warriors guild and a donkey is stubborn enough when it knows what its doing. The peddler is claiming it was a rare breed, worth several times more than the butcher offered him. Though I’m surprised the guild didn’t charge him for disembowelling it.’ Kelrizza groaned at this, people could be devious when it came to drawing coin from the Spire. Thankfully, criminals tended not to use banks and had plenty of coins on their person when they were caught. With any luck…

‘How much coin did you find on his corpse, Optom?’

‘Hrm, hrm. 30 gold pieces, at least.’

A coughing sound came from the doorway, where Optom’s guards were waiting dutifully.

‘I demand it’s more like 25, if I think hard.’

A slow grin replaced Kelrizza’s scowl. It seemed to her everything was in order so far. Since the criminal’s possessions were of the Spire, Magistrates often took their cut straight from the corpse.

‘And the Necromancers guild? How did the subject get inside?’

This made Optomkiptum pause; he hadn’t thought of that. Guildguards, when autonomous, were carefully programmed with Magical instructions. While usually under the control of someone nearby, the guild often risked giving the Golems some minor mental ability of their own. This enabled them to handle their duties with no direct involvement from their master. The Golem in the alleyway was made of old corpses, stitched together and had been given an enchanted brain to carry out its tasks. One instruction that was very clear, was under no circumstances let a criminal enter the guild. It almost invariably caused the attention of the Spire and that was the last thing they wanted. Especially after midnight.

‘I… I don’t know. I demand the Golem was unharmed.’

Kelrizza’s eyebrow raised itself a notch, a telling sign she was quietly displeased.

‘Did the subject have a great mastery in Magic would you say?’

‘No, no. Young Arial, maybe 15 years. Too young for controlling undead.’

As smart as the bird-race was, they had short life-spans and dark Magic took years of devotion for even the most intelligent of students.

‘Your positive?’

Optom simply nodded, his investigations were always thorough when it came to corpses. The guild of Transmutation provided plenty of lessons on biology and Optom for the moment could afford them all. The victim’s flight feathers still looked like a fledglings and his beak had only malted once.

‘Then… it seems we have another quandary. Someone of the guild, wanted him kept safe.’

Kelrizza’s eyes widened slowly, a realisation crossing her face.

‘Someone high up is paying young mages for something very odd indeed…’

With a wave of her hand, Optomkiptum was dismissed. With his guards in tow, he walked down the Holy road towards the park. Thoughts of promotions and bonuses sparking behind his eyes.