Gregor The Cripple

Wurmburg was taken by night, its warehouses pillaged and its great alchemical factories burned. As judged by the condition of the innumerable dead and the devastated structures, the attack was certain to have multiple sorcerous perpetrators, with mundane assistance quite likely.

Apparently, nobody had any idea who did it.

It was Zimmer’s opinion that this was an economically motivated attack intended to destabilise the Empire, orchestrated by political foes. Gregor was inclined to agree.

Wurmburg was a significant fiscal asset, affording the state an effective monopoly on alchemical exports. Its destruction meant the complete death of an entire industry and a great blow to alchemy in general – most of the continental alchemists had resided there, and now they were all dead. Who would train more? Who would pass on the methods of the trade?

Solherz would never regain what was taken.

Suspicious eyes went to the new Republic in the west, with whom many wars had been fought, and also up to the fattening northern states who enjoyed a wealth born of sea-trade, and who would profit from blunting the competition of their southern neighbours. These were the obvious adversaries, but others were possible. It was quite a headache for those who were unlucky enough to care.

Despite the careful diplomatic meddling of the Golden Queen across the sea, tensions between the continental powers were very strained at the moment.

“The trouble out east is escalating too – has everyone on edge.” Sighed Zimmer, anticipating a long-term border post in his semi-distant future.

“Trouble in the east?”

“For a wandering wizard, you don’t seem to know much.”

“I know things that could liquefy the world.”

The soldier knew better than to dispute this claim. “…Well, the merchant states are all at each other’s throats after the Sine assassination. As you can imagine, a lot of big players are being drawn in. Everyone’s allied with someone who hates someone else’s allies, it’s that kind of mess. Probably going to turn into a proxy war between us and the Republic, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

Sine assassination? Oh.

It seemed that Gregor’s failures had grown in magnitude once again. Thinking carefully, he realised that this was the first time he’d ever started a war. How novel.

Lieutenant Zimmer had given him some valuable information, so, in accordance with his principle of service requiring payment, he decided to lend a hand. “You said that they pilfered the warehouses. Did they take everything?”

“They did.”

“Then, your problem is fairly simple. To find the perpetrator, you need only pay attention to significant sales of potions and alchemical reagents, or to the stockpiles of your enemies.”

“Easier said than done.”

“The method is sound, it will discover your culprit at the cost of mere difficulty.”

A faint hint of ambition began to glimmer in the soldier's eye. “…I suppose so. Thank you then, Wizard Gregor. I’ll remember the favour.”

***

A Wizard in grey ambled down the hard-packed road, muttering to himself, thinking, scheming, suffering. Around him was a land of rolling green pasture, where grazing livestock and red-faced tenant-farmers were a roadside fixture.

The country was pleasant, though not so pleasant that Gregor could enjoy the scenery through the haze of his discomfort.

It had been a day since meeting Zimmer, and something like a week had passed since he last touched opium.

Gregor’s condition was declining, but it wasn’t as bad as his previous bout of withdrawals. A fever had been with him then, and he had been too delirious to consider improving his condition. This time would be different.

He wasn’t yet facing the worst of it, but already he found the walking too extreme a task to bear without reason. Thus, Gregor was feeling his way north according to the directions of a half-remembered verbal itinerary given by one of Zimmer’s men.

His immediate goal was now the City of the Sun, where he planned to board a west-bound train.

Unlike the far-off backwater Sine, where the only railways that existed were the private property of massive logging and mining associations, this place was a land of plenty. Here, the state had the capital to establish and maintain their own railways, as well as the principled and economically motivated civil imperative to facilitate ease of movement between their cities and areas of commerce.

The current rail lines were from the pre-empire days, and many of the member-states still used track of a non-standard gauge, making the current system exceedingly inefficient. As such, there was currently work underway to construct a modern empire-spanning railway network, much like that of the neighbouring Republic.

The civil imperative was the public-facing reason for the modernisation project, but Gregor suspected another motivation.

The wizard, who had a professionally relevant fascination with all things violent, naturally turned his mind to war.

In conflicts between players on the wolrd stage, victory is decided not by numbers, or firepower, or by strategy, but by supply lines and logistical tenacity. An army marches on its stomach, and guns bleed bullets.

With their superior railway network, the Republic would be able channel matériel quickly and efficiently from all over their country, and particularly from their east-facing ports which the Empire was unable to strike – thereby giving them an absolute advantage over the Empire, who were mostly landlocked and logistically inferior at present.

Thus, to him and others who were of a mind to consider such things, the as-yet incomplete railway upgrade was a clear sign of war-preparedness.

“Violent days are ahead.” He wheezed softly with a slight grin – his lungs had developed a gurgle at some point.

Maybe he’d finally have an excuse to cast war magic at the scale of whole battlefields. He had the requisite knowledge, which was a rare and valuable thing for a free agent to possess. It was a titillating possibility. Perhaps he could leverage his contact with Lieutenant Zimmer to find such employment?

Wandering along with such thoughts in his head, he came upon a village that abutted a swift mountain stream.

Of the houses here, few were old. Most were new, made of rough-cut planks yet to go grey with the weather. No bricks or plaster.

Over and behind their gabled roofs rose a haze of steam and smoke, emitted in thin, fast moving exhales by the nearby mill, which crouched gluttonous upon both banks of the stream.

Logs bobbed down the waterway to feed the stream-spanning building, and a keening wail issued rhythmically from within, increasing in volume as Gregor drew closer. This ugly mill was one of the many organs of industry that sustained the great might of the empire, and he expected to see many more as he approached its seat of power.

Shuffling into the village with the manner of a man who had walked for a week, Gregor found only a few pairs of eyes cast in his direction from windows. Most must be busy in the mill, he surmised, and went wandering to find someone who was out and about.

Unexpectedly, someone had found him first.

“Hey Mister!” Came a rather loud whisper from an alley between two ramshackle dwellings. It was on his right – the side without an eye – so he turned his head to look. “Are you a wizard, Mister?”

The speaker was a small boy, who had evidently been hoop-rolling up and down the alley.

“I am.” Gregor stepped into the alley and stooped down so that they could speak more easily. ”Tell me, which road would I take to reach Apfeloch?”

“Mister wizard, you're funny. We’ve only got one road.” The boy then shook as if struck by some great realisation and gasped, his tiny eyes going wide. “Mister, please wait here!” He whisper-shouted enthusiastically, before scampering further down the alley.

Gregor watched in mild bemusement as the boy clambered up into a nearby window as quietly as his tiny limbs could manage. Inside, he spent some time rustling about in search, before making a stealthy exit and running back to Gregor.

He held a large gold coin before him, which he thrust toward the wizard with both hands in humble request. “Is this enough?” He asked, still whispering. “Can you kill my Pa?”

This was an odd thing, even for Gregor, though not odd enough that he cared to ask for a reason.

“I’m busy.” He replied. “Kill him yourself.”

“But… I can’t… I’m small, and he’s a big log-hauler at the paper mill.” The boy reminded Gregor of Botman, his servant at the tower who was certainly dead.

“Is he human?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Then he must sleep occasionally.” Gregor reached into his robe and withdrew a magic-sharp pairing knife that he kept for cheeses and such. He held it out to the boy. “Here, payment for your directions.”

The brat accepted it with one of his gold-holding hands, but looked at the thing with a comically scrunched brow, mouth slightly agape. “…How do I do it? I ‘seen Ma kill chickens, but a man’s not a chicken.”

Extending his boney hand, Gregor stooped further to press his index finger into a spot on the right side of the boy’s neck, near to where his throat met the crook of his chin.

“Remember this spot. Slip the knife in there, then drag it hard across to the front.” He instructed, miming the action with his finger. “Calm and hard, you’ll do fine.”

“Gee, thanks Mister wizard!” The boy skipped away happily, mind full of murder.

Directions acquired, Gregor resumed his walk down the town’s only road. He passed through and out of the nameless village, observing pallets of product being tossed to float downstream on the rearside of the mill.

Wouldn’t the paper get wet? Surely the danger of leakage was great, no matter the quality of the container. Hmm.

Attempting to decipher the intricacies of paper manufacture, Gregor trekked on, though he was quickly distracted from his train of thought.

His stumpache flared, and he rubbed at it with his hand, in doing so, Gregor was reminded that he still wore the tower ring. He thought of how he had killed Kaius and taken it, and of how he had also taken Kaius’s hat.

Somehow, from the moment of the death of the tower until that point on the road outside some unknown paper mill, Gregor had not once thought to look inside the hat and claim the rightful spoils of his magistricide.

So, while walking, he went about doing just that.

With surprise, he found that the hat held only one thing – a book bound in curious leather.

Though it bore the rough texture of hide, it looked as if it were clear glass holding back impossible gulfs of blackest space, replete with brilliant blinking stars. The hide was clearly thin with no significant volume, but as he moved it about, the stars within pivoted accordingly. What manner of creature could have skin such as this?

The tome bore no title and was heavy. Opening it, he found the following inscription on the inside of the cover:

My hat has been instructed to deliver this grimoire to worthy hands. If you are my apprentice, then you have likely killed me. Congratulations.

If you are anyone else, then it has likely taken many centuries for my hat to meet a wizard who approaches my standards of worthiness. I expect that much of the information contained herein will have become obsolete in that span of time. If this is the case, I suggest selling this tome to the Golden Queen for an exorbitant price. She hates me enough to pay well for the totality of my legacy.

– Kaius the Exile

Gregor walked on, telekinetically suspending the grimoire so that he might read it as he went.

***

The road had run up into the wooded bosom of a crag that held dreams of mountainhood. There, between jagged rock and yellowed tree, the wizard sat at camp, reading by firelight.

As the tome claimed, it really did seem to be the totality of Kaius’s material legacy, for not once had the elder wizard ever shared his gargantuan wealth of magical knowledge with the world, with the sole exception of his apprentice.

Most mages and wizards liked to participate in the realm of magical academia – publishing their work and forming expert consensus. It was primarily an act of vanity, a way for them impress their peers with their achievements, or to forever attach their names to discoveries of significance. But, additionally, it was a way to throw ideas to the magical community at large, borrowing their brains to reach a conclusion.

After his exile, Kaius had recused himself from this practice. He continued to benefit from it, certainly, but he did not otherwise participate. Instead, he opted to stick to the old sorcerous practice of secret-keeping, denying the world his wisdom.

Thus, there did not exist a single work younger than a century attributed to Kaius, who was undoubtedly one of the greatest wizards ever. That is, except for this newly-discovered grimoire.

The early passages began by detailing the results of Kaius’s experiments in body-artifice, which seemed to have originally been derived from his research into homunculus engineering – the very reason for his exile.

It was with rapacious fascination, rather than horror, that Gregor recognised most of the described procedures as things that had been done to him at one point or another. This research was the origin of his unconditional magical improvement at the hands of Kaius – a blueprint for his being, and a valuable resource for the raising of his own future apprentice.

What a boon!

Gregor sat there in the cold woods by his warm fire, with the silver moon bright overhead. He was thinking, mulling over the nature of his engineered existence, and the new ways he might be able to further improve himself.

There was a cave by his camp, and his fire swayed at the gusts of warm air that issued from its mouth.

The presence of such a geological feature wasn’t anything unusual, and the warm air probably emanated from some naturally heated spring, or from stone heated by such a spring.

But there was an abnormality.

Under the flickering light, and in the midst of his musings, Gregor spied an irregular grey protrusion in the dirt and leaf litter at the mouth of the cave. Upon leaning over to inspect the thing in idle interest, he found it to be a finger of stone.

Basilisks, being cold-blooded, are known to make their homes in areas of geothermal activity.

Thus, Gregor drew the obvious conclusion.

There was probably at one time a basilisk in his cave, which belonged to him only because he wasn’t in the mood to consider that it didn’t. It might still be in there, waiting to come out and sun itself upon the rocks at day.

Reaching into his handless sleeve, Gregor withdrew Randolph, who had been sleeping.

“I probably won’t die,” he said to the rat, quite calm despite the painful knowledge that he was now prone to failure, “but don’t come in to look for me.”

With those few words, Gregor stood unsteadily, making for the cave in spite of Randolph’s plaintive squeaks.

He didn’t need to kill the basilisk, but he was in a wizarding mood, and what kind of wizard walks away from a rare and exciting fight like this?

Unfortunately, he was soon to be disappointed.

The wizard entered the cave, eyes glimmering with darkvision. It was a shallow thing, and half a minute of wandering though scraps of shattered creatures found him at its end.

There, he met the skeleton of the basilisk. She was curled in death around a singular massive egg.

A lady of stone was posed mid-flight before them, miraculously having been petrified in a stable standing position.