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“Aren’t sorcerers and warlocks the same thing?” I said. “I mean, they both do magic, right?”

“To some extent yes,” said Bibler. “It’s how they do it that separates them. But I am a mere amateur when it comes to these matters. I just fiddle with knobs.” He waved the box in his hands at me. “There are other people who can explain the intricacies of the dark arts far better than I.”

“Like this guy from our world?” asked Maurice. “What’s his name?”

“We call him First,” said Bibler, “because he always acts before anyone else—it’s very impressive. As for his real name, I should probably leave that to him. He’s very sensitive. Doesn’t like people talking behind his back. And always seems to know when you’ve been doing it. The power of a warlock.” He rolled his eyes dramatically.

It was all very mysterious. And possibly a bunch of lies.

“Shall we go?” said Bibler, like we were all the best of friends. Mind you, he did have the only ride in town (or just outside of town).

“Do you really expect us to get in another of those boxes?” Everything was healed up, but the memory of the crash landing was enough to send a twinge down my spine. Imagined or not, the warning was clear: don’t fly in magic boxes until they at least invent the seat belt.

“Oh, we’re too close to the city to fly. If we’re spotted, it will only make it easier for those who are looking for you. No, we’ll have to walk from here. The exercise will do you good!” He slapped his large belly, setting off a series of jiggles it was hard to take your eyes off.

Bibler set off at a brisk pace, confident we would follow.

We didn’t really have much of an option. Yes, he could be leading us into a trap, and we had little chance of winning any kind of fight, but the city was the only place we knew about, and as he had said, it helps to know a few a shortcuts.

We formed a train behind the Fat Controller and stomped through the tall, yellowing grass. Still no signs of birds or even insects.

Claire and Maurice were in the rear. I could hear them discussing something. Eventually, Maurice pulled out his notebook, ripped out a few pages from the back and gave them to Claire, along with a pencil. Apparently, he carried spares.

“She’s really taken your suggestion to heart,” said Jenny. “She’s going to have a list of question for this guy we’re going to see.”

“Great,” I said. “That should annoy the fuck out of Gul’dan, or whatever his name is.”

“Gul’dan was a shaman, not a warlock,” Maurice shouted from the back. How did he hear me? Never underestimate the ears of nerd. “Although he did later become a warlock, so technically you’re right.”

I stopped and turned around. “What do you mean, he turned into a warlock?”

“So a warlock is someone who makes a deal with demons? The guy we’re going to see is in cahoots with the masters?”

“Did you seriously just use cahoots in a sentence?” said Jenny.

“I can assure you,” said Bibler, “First is definitely not in cahoots with the masters.”

“Oh, you can assure me, can you? Because ‘warlock’ means he’s in cahoots with someone. Right?” The last bit was posed to Maurice for confirmation.

“I believe so, although my WoW lore is limited to the now defunct trading card game. It was quite good, as I remember. I never played the video game.”

“We aren’t talking about WoW,” I gently shouted at him, “we’re talking about warlocks. Stay focused.”

“What the fook is wow?”

“Not now Flossie. Bibler, where does First get his power from?”

Bibler shrugged. “I don’t know, but he uses those powers to fight the masters, not serve them. The masters don’t share their power with anyone.”

“You said he killed sorcerers. How does that hurt the masters?”

“It would be best if you asked him yourself.” Bibler turned and set off again.

“I’ll put it on my list,” said Claire, scribbling it down as she raced after him.

Jenny shook her head at me. “Cahoots.”

And they got back in line, like I hadn’t uncovered a massive reason not to go anywhere near this guy.

“Where are you all going? Can’t you see it’s a trap?”

“We don’t have anywhere else to go, Admiral,” said Maurice. “It’s a guy from our world. He’s probably just using the word incorrectly.”

“Ah’m hungry. They’ll have food, won’t they?”

“Has everyone gone nuts?” I said to no one, since they had all left me standing there.

Jenny turned as she walked. “No, they just think if it comes down to a fight between you and him, you’ll win.” She spun around again and carried on walking.

Where had this confidence in me come from? They hadn’t even seen the other guy. He could be able to summon balrogs, while I could put on a nice light show.

On the other hand, they probably would feed us before sacrificing us to Mephistopheles, and I was getting a bit peckish.

After about an hour of trudging, we arrived at the city. There were no wall, not even a gate. Tall, crooked and precariously stacked, the buildings looked like they might fall over any minute. They also gave the impression they would wait until you were within reach before they did it.

The sound hit me first, and then the smell. Raucous and unrelenting, the noise was like a wall you had to walk through. There was so much of it, you couldn’t tell where it came from, you were just in it.

The smell, on the other hand, was easy to identify. It was everything bad. Sweet and sour to damp and unsanitary. If you’ve ever been to a rubbish tip, you could sell that odour as a perfume here.

I pulled up my shirt to cover my nose. Flossie was gagging and retching. Everyone else was randomly naming things they recognised like they were at a particularly horrific wine tasting event (so, any wine tasting event).

“Bananas in vinegar!”

“Oh, oh fish. Do they have fish here?”

“That’s not fish. I think it’s a rotting corpse.”

“Yes, the rotting corpse of a fish.”

“Cheese! Oh dear lord, I believe it’s Limburger.” Only Dudley could be that specific. He took in a deep breath through his nose, savouring the rancid aroma.

“Smells like feet,” said Flossie, hardly able to speak.

“Of course. That’s how you know it’s the good stuff.”

Fortunately for the rest of us, the worst of the miasma seemed to hang around the city’s edges. Once we passed through it, the rest of the city settled down to a typical third world city with open sewers. Almost pleasant in comparison.

The city itself was a maze of narrow alleys that were little more than dirt tracks; gaps more than streets. Overhead, the buildings leaned against each other in a beautiful display of mutual support, and the inescapable threat of imminent collapse.

The people matched their city—they made a lot of noise and they smelled bad. There was also a lot of them and they all had somewhere to go. 

Bibler stood out from the crowd, his girth and richly coloured clothes in stark contrast to the thin and shabby people swarming around us in their ragged garments.

Any area larger than a sandpit was cluttered with stalls selling food and drink and various unidentifiable baubles. Money exchanged hands quickly. They were using coins which meant some kind of economy was in place. All I had to do was invent body deodorant and I’d clean up.

Claire came bustling up from the back and tapped Bibler on the shoulder. “Where does all this food come from? We didn’t see any farms.”


“Yeah,” said Maurice, eyes narrowed. “Or like he'd seen it happen before.”

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