The Tale of Townley : Chapter One

Monday the Ninth of Solstheight

All my life, I’ve been Por. As in, Por is the surname given to me by my father. Don’t get me wrong, we were poor too. Double poor. Desperately poor. So poor that old man Por dumped poor little Townley at the doorstep of a similarly poor hedge wizard.

Old man Por passed away a few years ago of plague, leaving me with his debts. I was of an age to take on work and sought to study magic under the hedge wizard, Sprague. He pays me, teaches me, and that’s how I met his nephew, Winston…



“You must be Townley and Braith,” said a portly man, glistening with sweat, entering the Oldstone Inn from the blazing humidity outside.

Braith sat on Townley’s left side, testing a dagger’s edge on a carrot. “That’s right,” she said with a smirk. Her dark eyebrows arched. She let her boots drop with a thud from the chair she’d been resting them on and sheathed her blade.

“Ah, thank you,” he nodded at the now vacant seat and sat, prying a kerchief from his pocket to mop at his face. “I won’t be long.”

Townley smiled at the man and set his journal and quill on the table. “You must be Erstun Till. We’re so happy you could meet us.”

Erstun waved a hand dismissively in the air. “Don’t be too excited, lad. I’m only stopping by to tell you in person, so I don’t have to waste the parchment. But, unfortunately, the Questing Guild has denied your application. Well... I denied your application.”

Hope sank within Townley’s stomach.

“Why!” Braith exclaimed — perhaps it was a statement or question. Whichever, she could use that singular syllable with the efficacy of a blade. Her chair clattered to the floor as she shot to her feet. A tall woman, curvaceous and solid with muscle under dark skin, the fighter wore curly hair cut into a mohawk.

“Braith,” Townley hissed.

“Please, Miss… uh... Quimbleston, correct? Miss Quimbleston, please don’t overreact,” said Erstun, sweat beading his upper lip. “I really do hate running,” he breathed.

“Explain,” Braith demanded, crossing her arms over her chest, her steel bracers clattering against her breastplate.

The large man blinked at the towering woman, whose mohawk added at least six inches to her already imposing form.

“I’ve only rejected this application. If you wish to apply in the future, you are welcome to—with more experience. You are young for adventurers...” He stated, looking over her and Townley. He shook his head. “And fairly new to this business, yes? Well... These things are expensive. If I am to be your agent, I need to know you will not run off into a den of kobolds and get yourself killed, see?”

“Experience? Everyone has to start somewhere. I’d wager Kaladin the Paladin and Brogdar the Bold had to start with kobolds,” Townley said, leaning back.

The corners of Erstun’s mouth dimpled in a tight, unamused smile. “Kaladin is a chosen representative of the Skyfather to walk this earth. The shpeal about healing the land where it’s barren and leading the people from their sin? Brogdar, however. Brogdar’s mother gave birth to him on the battlefield. Literally. He’s wielded a sword since drawing his first breath. Can either of you claim to have such prestige over your disciplines? Can you guarantee revenue for the guild by completing contracts efficiently and safely? I think not. Now, if that’s all.”

The pair gulped audibly.

Erstun bowed his head in the slightest but pointedly polite way before he grunted and stood, waddling towards the Oldstone Inn door.

“Well, there’s that,” Townley said.

“Hush, you. You’ve got your lover boy and your shop job.”

Townley frowned. “Oy, don’t use that against me. It’s not getting me closer to becoming a Tower Mage. That’s what I really want. I’ll be stuck in Oldstone forever if I can’t figure out how to make my way.”

“We can find a way, Townley. Stick with me. You’ll forget about the Tower and all those mages when the money pours in from adventuring.”

Townley sounded an unsure chuckle. “That’d be great, Braith.” He admired yet feared her stony assertiveness.

Leaving the inn, they meandered the sunny main street of Oldstone. Humidity clung to them. Fragrant smoke from cook fires rolled from chimneys and mixed with the saltwater smell tossed into the air by waves thundering against cliffs nearby. This ocean breeze softened as it swept through a copse of trees between the hamlet and the sea, carrying the perfume of loam and tide. Houses, shops, and hovels clustered on the road that led north to Evergrym, domiciles, and farmsteads dotting the hills further inland.

Walking through Oldstone Square, they passed the stone, the town’s namesake. Being an unremarkable boulder of gray coloring, it bore no markings. Nothing of its origin could be eked from townsfolk, as none could know. Over the stone, the locals erected a gallows from which a rotting body dangled. Circled by flies and crows, the carrion offended sight and smell. Its sex or race was indeterminable, as a brown sack covered its face. But the victim’s robe was of fine make (before whatever horrors occurred before them winding up here). A placard hung from the person’s neck reading: WARLOCKS BEWARE.

Townley averted his eyes.

Sprague’s magic shop stood tucked behind the town’s main buildings, by the tree line that hugged the coast. Walking into the dusty storefront, they dodged bundles of hanging herbs—Braith needing to stoop to even enter the door. Sprague sat at the trading counter and stared from under leathery eyelids.

“Ah, the great Townley Por graces me with his presence,” he said dryly, dramatically throwing a thin hand into the air.

Winston Smith stumbled in at that very moment as well. A rounder boy about his middle than Townley, he sported days old blonde scruff and ruddy cheeks. Dirt smudged his wrinkly tunic, probably from gathering the turnips that filled his arms. He’d neglected to put them in a basket; thus, some tumbled and rolled about the floor.

“Confounded, nephew, you’re clumsy as a drunken ox,” Sprague sighed.

“Hey, Bunny,” Winston excitedly said to Townley, as his rooty vegetables thudded to the ground.

“You lot look busy enough,” Braith said. “I’ll be off.”

Townley touched her arm and raised his eyebrows in a begging look. “I won’t be long.” Eliciting a glare from Braith.

“Bah!” Sprague spat. “Your chores are stacking up, young Master Por. Your studies aren’t progressing at a viable rate, either.”

“I’ll get the chores done,” Townley said, rolling his eyes. Winston came up to Townley and put a kiss on his cheek.

“Sure, you will. And don’t do chores for him,” Sprague instructed Winston, wagging a finger in the air. “Have you been practicing your third circle spells, Townley?”

Townley frowned, “Er….”

Sprague pounded a fist on the counter. “Boy, do you really want to become a Tower mage? Huh, do you? Do you?”

Curiously, a booming crash caused the bundles of herbs to rustle from the rafters and the jars of potions to tinkle on their shelves. Each of them looked confused at the other.

Another resounding crash caused them to jump. Worried screams pierced even the thick oak sides of the shop from outside.

Sprague jumped to his feet.

“Everyone, get to the cellar—it’s a gian-!!” The wall behind Sprague gave way, falling on top of him, crushing short his warning. Timbers cracked, and rent plaster rained the whole of the room. In the void clearing of dust now open to the world–stood a hill giant, glaring at them all.