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Flynn Giddach

"I should be pleased indeed if I, like Niven's Warlock, had actually been given a name which was both unpronounceable and unmemorable. But then, I'd rather enjoy having a live demon trapped in my tatoo, as well"

To begin with, there seems to be some confusion over the spelling of my name. I, myself, am partial to the above version, but you may feel free to employ any combination of letters that takes your fancy. I think they'll know who you mean. Anyway, it's a JOKE!
As for my real name, didn't your mama warn you about such things? I should be pleased indeed if I, like Niven's Warlock, had actually been given a name which was both unpronounceable and unmemorable. But then, I'd rather enjoy having a live demon trapped in my tatoo, as well (I have tried it; it won't stick).
And what of this pretentious designation, "Premiere Mage of House Gnosis?" Well, you know of the House Gnosis, do you not?
Sigh. Very well...

It began in the year of sickness, when the dark figure of death stalked the streets of my city. I saw him there, Death, amongst the alleyways of the moving dead, who did not know that life had already fled from their weakening bodies. He strode with a confidence befitting a harvester of souls, his form fading and wavering in the thick smoke of the funeral pyres. His back was to me, and the billowing of his cloak in the stench-filled wind made him seem a black and infinite shadow, sliding with ease through the borders of the universe. Some think of Death as an insubstantial caricature, designed to inspire poets and to frighten children.
I have met Death on many occasions. There is nothing insubstantial about him.
This was his time. Pestilence is the servant of Death, they say, thus I was far from shocked to see him there. In fact, I had been looking for him. I went to pay my respects.
"Good evening, foul and hideous shade of evil," said I, cheerfuly. He whirled to face me, and his first look of puzzlement was replaced by recognition. I have met Death on many occasions.
And in many forms. The one he now wore was tall, strong, and bearded. A gold torc glinted at his neck. A gold brooch fastened his cloak. But he still looked a little on the thin side. I shrugged. "You should have sent word of your visit. I would have prepared a meal."
"Huathe," said he, as was my sobriquet at the time. "Had I known of your presence here, I'd have sent more than a word." He grinned in the manner of a badger meeting a mouse which keeps escaping it. And, like the badger, Death will never give up. He drew his sword.
A being to be wary of, is Death. One to avoid, when you can. And he always wins in the end; there is nothing to be done about that. With this view in mind, I find it amazing that so many simply give in. If you feel hunger, do you not eat? Yet you know you shall be hungry on the morrow. If you feel weary, do you not rest? Yet you know you shall again be weary. What is the point of life but the struggle itself? I drew my sword.
And then ran. You do not defeat Death by playing his games. I had long ago learned games of my own. I bolted for the next alley, dodging the random objects in my path: here a cart, there a barrel, here a stumbling youth with an understandably haggard and desparate look. Death was not far behind, delayed only by an instant of surprise at my routing. I spotted a particular doorway, and ducked within, trusting in the ashes of burning bodies to obscure my motion. I heard Death's approach. He spoke out as he came, half to me, half to himself.
"Huathe, you are a mage. What make you of this plague? Is it not terrible and cruel? Is it not disgusting and most unappealing? Can you imagine, then, if I do this to those for whom I care not, can you imagine what I have in store for you?"
I could only imagine that his plan was to make me cry out, to betray my position. This I had no intention of doing. I had found my shadow, and was hiding in it as I worked my spell. The person of Death may be the embodied distillation of an omnipresent Force, but he is still a person. Some years ago, in our last meeting, I had managed to gain a piece of that person. It involved a political revolt, a storm, an onion, and a rather large rock. From the underside of that rock, I had removed one hair. It was enough.
Or, I should say, I hoped it was enough. I would soon see. Death crept closer, until I could smell his very armpits. He was a silhouette in the doorway, framed by the glow of the torchlight. I set the spell in motion.
Everyone has, in some form or another, been faced with the Zenlike question of what to wish for, if offered three wishes. Most of us have suggested the obvious: three more wishes. And, upon voicing this suggestion, we find that such a wish is not allowed. My spell was of a similar nature. I had thought, "With this personal hair to link the spell, what spell would I cast upon the person of Death?" And I had answered: "Make him go bald." One can always do with several hundred personal items of one's enemy lying around.
Unfortunately, the Fates must have seen some gap in my spell that I had not. For instead of shedding all his hair upon the wooden plank of the floor, Death was suddenly, and without theatrics, as bald as a bottle. A gold earring dangled in the breeze.
"Oops," I said.
I should mention that I had not chosen this doorway at random, but because of its relation to others. The room in which I stood opened on a courtyard, which opened on a well, which opened on a sewer (brilliant planning, these cities). In the sewer was a secret door. In the secret door was a Death-proof lock, another of my careful preparations. Beyond that lock was another well (are you beginning to see why there was a cholera outbreak?), which led to a courtyard across the alley from the first room. The room on the floor of which were now supposed to be a lot of Death-hairs, forgotten by Death as he chased me up to an impassable door...
I think you see my item collection plan now. It had the added benefit that if the spell should fail, I already had an escape route. But I had just betrayed my own careful planning. Instead of running for the sewers, I was standing around saying things like "Oops."

And that should have been the end of me, but for another unseen factor. Unseen because it was hiding in the rafters. Unseen because it could move like the shadow of Death Himself, and with considerably less armpit stink. It dropped upon me, eager, as I later discovered, to cheat Death of his prize. Death was just not having a good night.
It locked its iron arms around my chest. It sunk its razor teeth into my neck. Thus encumbered, it leaped with slight difficulty back into the rafters. Death raised his head, and in a voice that shook the heavens, he howled his rage. Plus, I believe he had noticed his own lack of plumage at this point.
Not that I was paying attention. The world spun around me as I reeled from lack of blood. I had been spelled against cholera, yet my liquids were forced from me in any case. I felt like a wineskin at the end of a drinking match. My ears filled with cotton and thunder, my eyes pulled fainting tricks, my lungs felt heavy and useless.
And then I was born. That, I won't even try to describe.
When I awoke, I found myself in a dimly lit place. My brain eventually decided that I was examining the ceiling. Whereupon I sat up, and gazed around with some amazement. It wasn't that the room was especially rich, although it was. Not even in my own house were the furnishings so lavish, the decor so extravagant. It was simply that I had not expected to awaken. It was some time before I realized that I was too relaxed to bother breathing. I tried it, experimentally. It didn't seem to matter.
"It would appear," said a voice, "that you have defeated Death itself." A figure entered the room. "And, If I may add, with some finality."
I say a figure because that is all I recall. There is the suggestion of a face, the possibility of build, the guess as to sex, yet no firm memory of this person will hold in my mind. The reason for this shall become apparent. I cleared my throat, mostly to see if I could.
"I believe you have the distinction of that claim," I said. "Not to mention my own defeat. Unless I mistake the nature of my condition, I am yours."
The figure nodded. "A most observant young man. I see I was right in my choice." Shadows danced as the figure moved to the massive drapes that covered the window. "No, I would not let Death take you. Not in the usual way. You know what happens now?"
I did not know, but I thought it best to hazard a guess. This being seemed to like me for the amusing way in which I deduced things. "You test me," I shrugged, in as off-handed a way as I could manage. "You place upon me the demands of your kind, with no instruction, and see if I survive." It seemed the kind of thing this one would do.
My host blinked. I remember the blink. the eyes narrowed, and peered at me, then blinked, then released their tension. I can almost recall the color.
"I beleive I shall." There was a thoughtful pause. "That was not my original purpose, but you might survive, at that." A decision was reached. "Yes, I believe I shall. Come." The speaker turned sharply, and exited the room. I, with little hesitation, followed. The corridor was broad, and decorated with gold and marble. It seemed the palace of a king, and it might have been, once. There were no kings here now. Of that sort.
We came to a double door, as large as the passage, which opened at our approach. My Lord did not pause in stride. Beyond was a chamber of truly vast proportions, the floor a proud mosaic, the ceiling a gallery of friezes, every surface patterned in priceless stone, every stone cut and laid with precision. I had once seen the Chapel of the Medicee Princes in Florence. I cannot imagine the cost of such a place, yet this room must have cost a thousand times more.
I will not say who was present. I will not say to what bloody-handed Tyrant I bowed and chanted loyalty. I will not say what tortures were promised should I reveal this. I will say what happened next.
With a blur of motion, I was attacked. A shape appeared to my right and forward, where no shape had been. Without thought, I leaped backwards, into the air, flipping like a tossed coin to land in a perfect crouch by the door I had entered. There was a drawn out instant as my eyes locked on the body that had attacked me. Lithe, garbed in the livery of the Tyrant, claws gleaming in the light of a hundred reflected candles, touching the floor where I had knelt. Covered in fur, wolf jaws snarling, black eyes watching me land. It came up from its crouch, knees still bent in a battle stance. It was many yards away, but if even I could move so far in one leap...
"I swore allegiance, and will gladly die for you," I said. I did not need to shout; I knew I could be heard. "But who will clean this priceless floor?"
The courtiers laughed. The Tyrant said, "We have servants."
The wolf rushed at me again, and again, I leaped, over its back, toward another corner. This time, it was ready. I landed with a bloody gash in my side. I spun around, to see the wolf watching, from a closer distance.
"First blood, first kill," mumbled a courtier. I am happy to say that one eventually succumbed to a terrible accident. And I was nowhere near at the time.
I had no time to still the blood, faced then with the onrushing wolf. I called upon another of my powers, this one learned as a mage; I centered myself, focused my mental strength, and channeled it ALL into physical brawn. I thrust my left arm straight out, pointing it at the whirling mass of claws and fur as though a lance aimed at a charging knight. With much the same effect.
The impact knocked me back several feet, but the wolf came with me. My arm was buried to the elbow. A look of great surprise crept upon its face. It slowly turned to anger.
"Enough."
At the Tyrant's command, the wolf's eyes narrowed, regarding me with a fury that needed no voice. Here was one to keep a grudge. He pulled away, and with some difficulty and evidence of pain, unimpaled himself from my arm. I saw then that my arm had broken. I held it carefully with my other hand.
"This one will do," murmured the Tyrant to my Lord. "Train him."

Web Weaving by Argante D.H. © 1997-2005
Content Development by Argante D.H. © 1992-2005

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