Acclayne Book 1: The Game Begins

Methyn did not like what he was hearing, not one bit. The royal messenger stood in front of the two school masters wringing his hands. Methyn suspected that the boy did not fully comprehend the magnitude of the situation he had been sent to alert them to and was, in fact, rather more preoccupied with his current situation.

“Well this is a pickle isn’t it?” Cartaisey’s voice rattled and wheezed from slightly above him. Methyn had decided that it was probably best to ignore the fact that his master had suspended himself and his chair upside-down from the ceiling. Ignoring the magical, and often inexplicable antics of the old coot had become almost second nature; although the long beard that was now brushing the tip of Methyn’s left ear was becoming increasingly hard to overlook. Methyn folded his arms and subtly shifted his weight to the right.

“I’m afraid it’s impossible.” Methyn remained stone faced while a little voice inside of him was quietly sobbing for his mother. He enjoyed a relatively peaceful existence at the school; when not stopping the students from trying to blow each other up, and did not wish for it to be jeopardised by involving himself in the affairs of the royal family. Besides, the whole thing sounded far too dangerous. How the King expected Cartaisey to contribute, Methyn couldn’t fathom. Cartaisey’s unstable state was common knowledge; though he was still unquestionably the most powerful of Corthus’ Sorcerers. The young messenger fidgeted.

“Impossible? How so dear boy?” Cartaisey gasped from above him, his chest rattled. Had Methyn not always known his master to be this way then he may have been more concerned- as it was he merely sidestepped from beneath him as Cartaisey succumbed to a prolonged coughing fit and fell promptly onto a pile of cushions that Methyn was able to conjure in the nick of time.

“My point exactly.” Methyn replied once the coughing from beside him subsided. “Master Cartaisey is simply not well enough to accompany you back. And certainly not well enough to go off on any ridiculous quest to Cortharen.”

The messenger had been afraid that this may be the case. He was aware that The Great Cartaisey of Corthus had seen better days but he was not aware until that moment that the ‘better days’ had been last seen so long ago that everyone had given up hope of them ever being seen again. The Cartaisey that sat in front of him now, still coughing, was the epitome of frailty. Methyn was right, it was unlikely that if Cartaisey did accompany him that he would be able to make the long arduous journey to Cortharen; let alone be of any help if he got there in one piece.

“I s-s-see.” He stammered. Methyn’s cold face was fixed on him in such a way that made him want to hide. The school master’s hard reputation preceded him and the effect that his carefully structured façade had on the boy in front of him was apparent. This pleased Methyn, with any luck the boy would return to the King with his tail between his legs and his peaceful life would remain just that.

Cartaisey had other ideas. “Now then, don’t stammer lad. It’s hard enough to understand you with my hearing.” Cartaisey wheezed from his pile of cushions. He rocked back and forth as he tried to untangle his feet from his long beard. “There is no need to worry, I am sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.” The two younger men held their breaths as Cartaisey slowly heaved himself up off the floor.

“With all due respect master you are in no fit state to travel to the palace, let alone travel all the way to Cortharen. The trip is dangerous even for more able bodied people…”

“Able bodied you say?” Cartaisey fixed Methyn with a stern look. His face sagged around the jaw and his brow was permanently creased, but time had not effected his eyes which still held the sparkle of youth. They remained a sharp, bright blue.

“Well, yes sir. Surely you can agree that…”

“Able bodied? Like you?” Cartaisey’s eyes were unblinking. His face unreadable.

“Ah,” Methyn glanced down at his now slightly protruding midriff, the podge of middle-age had firmly established itself but he remained, for the most part a healthy man. “Yes? Though even for someone like myself the trip would be rather dangerous.”

“But doable?” Cartaisey slowly and deliberately raised an eyebrow, the sagging skin of his forehead crinkled ever more deeply.

“Certainly doable, but still…” Methyn did not like where this was going.

“Then it’s settled.” Cartaisey clapped his hands together quickly and sharply turned to face the young messenger. A smile had already formed on his face. “Methyn will accompany you back.”

“Excuse me?”

“In my place of course.” The old sorcerer continued to smile, both at the messenger and then at Methyn.

“Sir I don’t think I’m qualified to be your stand-in.” Methyn’s peaceful existence was crumbling before his very eyes. He had not ventured into the main city of Corthus for many years. The trip itself was a simple one but the city itself was rife with danger. The crowded streets were riddled with crime, or at least they would have been if any of the so called criminals could find the willpower to strike out and actually make something of themselves. Essentially all they ever accomplished was to ponder the idea of breaking the law. The mere thought often proved too taxing and thus nothing much was ever accomplished- but the potential was there and this scared Methyn.

“Oh pish my boy. You are my second at this school and as such are more than capable of filling in for me.” Methyn could not dispute this fact; especially since he had been practically running the establishment on his own for quite some time now. It was, for the most part, a thankless job so it was a welcome change to be acknowledged. “You’re still in your prime lad.”

Methyn hid a satisfied grin with a cough, “Well I suppose…”

“Able bodied. Wouldn’t you agree young man?” The messenger nodded emphatically in response. “Then you shall go in my place.”

“Ah, now wait a moment.” Methyn desperately tried to buy himself some time, there had to be a way out of this one. Cartaisey couldn’t be allowed to go; not in his condition. He was a danger to himself, and a danger to those around him for that matter. An unexpected sneeze from Cartaisey could cause half of the city to become some form of processed cheese. And Methyn certainly couldn’t go. The King had requested Cartaisey specifically, no one else in Corthus wielded his kind of magical ability- not even Methyn. Besides that, he really, really didn’t want to go. In his own mind this was a good enough reason as any but probably wouldn’t sound quite so persuasive to the other two men in the room. Instead he settled for a different approach: “The King specifically requested the presence of master Cartaisey, did he not?” He addressed the messenger directly who seemed unable to look him in the eye.

“Yes s-s-sir.”

“And he would be quite disappointed if he was unable to meet with him, would he not?”

“Yes s-s-sir?”

“So he might get quite… angry?” The messenger fidgeted and gulped loudly, he sensed where Methyn was going with this. “Have you ever heard of the phrase ‘don’t shoot the messenger’?”

“Now now Methyn, don’t scare the poor boy.” Cartaisey smiled warmly. Methyn folded his arms in front of his chest. The messenger whimpered and wet himself a little. “You will go in my place.” The warm smile remained on Cartaisey’s face but a stern edge had crept into his voice that neither man could ignore. Externally Methyn sighed and shrugged; internally he mourned for the sudden death of his comfortable existence and tried to prepare himself for what he was sure was going to be a rather painful demise. Cartaisey was not going to be swayed when he had set his mind to something. Physically he was as helpless as a child- mentally he was as stubborn as an ox.

And so Methyn found himself getting ready to leave the Corthus Institution for the study of Magic and Wonderment later that day. He took very little with him as he fully expected his bag to be stolen from him at some point when they reached the city- he would later come to realise that he had given the criminals of Corthus far too much credit. The most he was going to get were some half-arsed looks of intent. He packed only some spare clothes, a cloak, some sandwiches and a bundle of his Cortharen tea bags. The trip would take them the best part of a day and he was sure that when the King saw that he was not, in fact, the great sorcerer that he had requested he would promptly be sent home and would be back the following day in time for dinner. Methyn could not have known how wrong this presumption was; for he was not going to see the institute again for quite some time.

Not only that, but he was definitely going to run out of tea bags.