rare librams and scrolls by means of which I have gained mastery of a number of spells and incantations of varying degree. While there I discovered a copy of Prendil’s Encyclopaedia of Myth and Legend and from it learned of Quadesh and the Oblate Tower in which it is said are the means to unlock the riddles of being. This then became my dream, to find Quadesh, enter the Tower and uncover its secrets.”
Khal sighed. “Do you imagine that you are the first to attempt this?” he asked. Others have tried, many of them perhaps better equipped in occult law than you and all have failed. Some have lost their reason and some their lives. The tower holds dark secrets which are not to be disturbed. I would dissuade you as strongly as it is possible to forget this foolishness and abandon your goal”
Zozimos shook his head. “No, no,” he replied. "My mind is made up. I have come so far and suffered such deprivation that not to try is unthinkable.”
The hermit gave a grim smile. “If that is your decision then on your own head it is. You may sleep on that couch in the corner and tomorrow we shall see what fate has in store for you.” With that he bade him a goodnight and withdrew to an adjoining study.
In the morning Zozimos awoke having spent a somewhat restless night, disturbed by troublesome dreams inhabited by shadowy phantoms and plagued by indistinct mutterings of foreboding. Khal had prepared a meagre breakfast of gruel, perhaps unwilling to provide largesse for one he considered unlikely to return and while they ate again tried to persuade him to change his mind but to no avail. Shouldering his bag and taking up his staff Zozimos bade him farewell and set out for the city. The sun had not yet risen high but already the heat was becoming oppressive. He pulled the hood of his cloak further over his head and shaded his eyes as best he could from the growing glare reflecting from the rocks, tortured into bizarre twisted fingers by erosion from countless sand storms. Within a short space he found himself treading a half obliterated road which led towards the city gates which as he approached he saw nor only to be open but sagging on their immense bronze hinges. Cautiously he entered and had his first glimpse of the interior of Quadesh. His immediate impression was of decay and desolation. The streets were overgrown with thorn bush and scrub, the buildings empty and in places had collapsed into the streets in piles of jumbled masonry and bleached timber. As he made his cautious way towards the centre small lizards scuttled away into the shelter of the ruins. More worryingly, from some of the dark windowless openings he had the impression that half-glimpsed eyes were studying his progress and the occasional soft sound of rustling from within did little to calm his nerves. Grasping his staff more tightly he tried to dismiss his fears as being no more than the effects of Zhal’s doom-laden tales and pressed onwards to the Tower, now looming ever closer before him.
His steps led him onto a wide avenue which in short order brought him to an immense plaza and there in the centre, rearing high above him was his goal. Zozimos eagerly made his way to its base and looked for some means of entrance but to no avail. Its smooth exterior, unblemished by the passage of time stretched to his right and to his left. No flight of steps, no discernible concourse gave any indication of a possible way to gain access. Resolutely Zozimos set off to circle the edifice, confident that somewhere around its circumference there would be some grand entrance-way. By now the sun was high in the sky and the heat was becoming uncomfortable. He ventured a few sips from his water bottle, conscious of the need to ration his supply and munched on a few morsels of dried meat. He had perhaps travelled a little less than a quarter of the way around the circumference when he came across the somewhat disturbing sight of three bodies, spread-eagled across the paving stones, their limbs abnormally twisted as though in torment. By the degree of desiccation Zozimos guessed that they had been lying there for quite some time; the scattering of chisels, picks and sledgehammers surrounding them clear evidence of their intention of breaching the tower’s wall. His spirits rather dampened by his discovery he continued on his way, occasional stains and unpleasant fragments of indeterminate origin contributing to his feelings of apprehension.
All too soon he realised with a sinking heart that he had regained his starting point. There was to be no easy way of gaining the Tower’s interior. He approached the stonework and cautiously stretched out to feel its smooth surface. The immediate sensation was unpleasant, an oily, repellent slipperiness and he hastily snatched his hand away. There had been more he realised. Magic of some description permeated the structure. He considered his options and determined to try the effects of a modest spell. Striking the wall with the butt of his staff he pronounced Stimple’s orison of The Opening of the Way. The result was not at all as he had anticipated. There was a flash of crimson light and he was hurled backwards, wisps of smoke curling from the tip of his staff. Somewhat shaken he regained his feet. The defences were rather stronger than he had imagined. Standing well back, he carefully prepared for his next attack. Firstly he invoked Brodgly’s Inviolable Armour of Defence, then drawing deeply on his reserves of occult strength he focussed his mind on the exterior of the Tower and prepared to hurl the spell of Material Dislocation. Before he had time to utter the first few syllables a twisting of the intervening space warned him of a counter attack and he was enveloped in a choking miasma which threatened to overcome his defences before finally dissipating. His senses swimming Zozimos collapsed to the ground, blood trickling from his nose. As he lay there in a semiconscious daze he felt a distant faint presence probing at his thoughts. It was a vile sensation, a sucking and pulling at his brain which threatened to unhinge his sanity. It reeked of magic of the most depraved and malign quality, far beyond anything he had previously encountered. Scrabbling on hands and knees he scuttled as best he could away from the accursed building, desperately clutching hold of his damaged staff. Levering himself to his feet he hobbled as quickly as his quivering legs would allow back the way he had come, a faint malefic sensation of laughter speeding him on his way.
His nerves in shreds, his head spinning, he finally managed to gain the shelter of the hermit’s shack. Pushing open the door he staggered into Zhal’s study and collapsed onto the couch, indifferent to the collapsing piles of books and impedimenta which he dislodged in his passage.
Khal rose from the desk where he had been working and gave him a grim smile of welcome. “I gather your expedition was not a success.”
Zozimos shuddered. “My senses are reeling. I judge myself no mean practitioner but I can only admit that the forces within that Tower are far beyond my capabilities.”
“It gives me no pleasure but what can I say, only that I gave you due warning” his host rejoined. It should be a matter of some consolation that you have escaped with your life and only your ego damaged. Others have tried before you and few have returned to tell of their experience.”
“So I now realise” Zozimos agreed. “I saw evidence of their failure staining the stones around the Tower. Within that building is an entity beyond normal comprehension and the spells that bind it can only have been woven by a mighty magician. You must have some knowledge of these circumstances. I ask you in all humility, give me understanding of what has happened here.”
Khal sighed. “If you so wish. It is a long time since I have recounted the tale. Perhaps it is best that the facts are more widely known and then perhaps there might be an end to the needless loss of life and sanity. Let us have some food and while you eat I will tell you the history of Quadesh and the curse of the Oblate Tower.”
He spooned out two bowls of a stew which had been simmering on the stove. They seated themselves at the rough wood table and he began.
“In time gone by,” he began, “Quadesh was ruled by the Voivode Barracht in fief to King Avalth of Gheeb. He was a stern but just ruler who on the whole was respected by his subjects rather than loved. In those days it was far from as you see it now. The land was lush and green with extensive farmlands. The city lay across the caravan route to the
Samarte Sea and enjoyed a rich income from trade. On Barracht’s death he was replaced by his only child, Prince Khandive who from an early age had nurtured a passion for the arcane and on assuming the Purple Mantle this passion developed into an obsession. He squandered his wealth on accumulating occult manuscripts, ancient books and obscure grimoires, striving to gain mastery over the secrets not only of this world but of other realms where the forces of magic ran more freely. To aid him in his studies he began the construction of a large tower, designed on a whim as an immense egg lying on its side. Its exterior was crafted in purple and mauve porcelain tiles infused with pink quartz. Within, it encompassed a grand chamber, its floor the finest travertine, brought at vast expense from the quarries of Sastama on the Aborian coast, set about with mosaics depicting scenes from the lives of the great magicians. It was encircled above with a mezzanine floor shelved throughout with ironwood and desert oak, stained in black and red to house his growing library. The top floor was devoted to his private chambers and a museum for the esoteric objects which