Showdown at the Sorcery Skills Center

Parodic short fiction (1 of 3)

‘Doors are strange things, are they not?’

The doorkeeper, haggard and sandblasted by seeming centuries of wear, was apt, as bores very often are, to expound at length upon his occupation — in his case, doors and the keeping thereof.

‘Doors are portals that act as separations between one state and another — so much is clear even to hicks like youself, young man.’

Above where the old man conversed with the youth seeking entry, a wizened harpy looked down from the massive blocky lintel above the door, feathers moulting with each flap of her ancient wings. A thick accumulation of harpy guano encrusted the carved stone and gave it a charming patina of antiquity.

‘On this side of the door you are ignorant, unknowing, whereas on that side of the door you partake in occult knowledge collected arduously over the aeons. Entirely different states, you see?’

Rykart Flynt stood there indifferent to this harangue, yawning in the old doorkeeper's face without even covering his mouth. He was a short stocky young man with hair grown out in a bubbly brown halo of ringlets, clad in forest-green tunic and cloak, quite unadorned with any flutings and embroideries. A pleb, in other words, no more than a grubby oikish yokel. It was his place to be impressed by such ornate discourse, yet he was clearly failing to comply with his social obligation.

‘And yet doors are also spaces that unite these two differing states,’ continued the doorman. ‘They are a unification as much as a division, a paradox which untold philosphers—’
‘Are you gonna let me pass, or what?’ Rykart demanded with blunt directness in his crude country dialect. ‘I been accepted here on a scholarship.’
‘Well... you see...’ said the doorkeeper, evidently put off his stride by this interruption to a discourse which he'd taken such trouble composing.

Overhead the harpy cawed in discontent. The doorkeeper composed himself and continued: ‘Custom dictates that I pose riddles three to all who seek passage within,’ he said. He looked down at the ragged teenage newcomer.

‘Riddle the first: what is the color of the puzzlement that overcomes one when one gazes within the unbroken shell of the hazelnut?’

There was an expectant pause as he awaited either the answer or an admission of defeat.

‘Fuck this for a game of mages,’ said Rykart, and pushed his way past the old man towards the door.

The harpy scuttled along the lintel and began to hiss and squawk at the intruder. But she wasn’t very nimble, and so only managed to shimmy over about half of the huge doorframe before Rykart had shouldered open the enormous oaken door and stepped inside.

‘OI!! YOU THERE! Stop…’ cried the doorkeeper. But as the heavy door swung closed, his voice now sounded only faintly from outside.

Rykart was inside the entrance hall of the Sorcery Skills Center, the most prestigious, and certainly the most expensive, advanced magic school in all of Great Plate Plain. Which in turn meant it was the finest institution of mystical learning in all the spinning world of Mighty Discus as it frisbeed in its saucery unknowable way through the thin misty ether of The Great Kosmos.

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In the main hall, an induction session was taking place, and dozens of not hundreds of young inductees crammed into the space. Addressing the new students from a dais was Mastermage Pharleus Fantangles, emeritus professor of Trickery and Shenanigans, and at present interim proctor of the Sorcery Skills Center.

He — or rather she, as Professor Fantangles had just recently changed her personal pronoun in order to magnify the chagrin of the institution’s undead founder Jorkas Rolando Kindling, now dwelling below in the SSC crypt as a perennial presence — combed her fingers through her luxuriant beard and jutted out her magnificent new breasts prominently over the lectern.

‘Beloved students — thoroughbreds and mulish ordinaries alike, pedigree pure-bloods and mongrel mixed-races all — I welcome you to induction day at the Sorcery Skills Center. Welcome to this first unsegregated semester of study, in which we have been obliged to admit those of impure but still very respectable breeding to gain knowledge of the mystic practices of magic. We exhort those of you with a natural right to be here, those descending from the ancient magic bloodlines, to look kindly on those less fortunate whose blood may be tainted with ordinariness but whose heart beats with love of the Great Art!’

There was a scattering of appllause here and there, but clearly less than she had hoped. She adjusted the Enchanted Jockstrap of The Chief Mage where it had been pinching at her crotch, and went on with her harangue:

‘In a moment you will proceed to your subclass selection, a process that until recently has been entrusted to a mage’s hat. Following complaints from, er, certain parties, the protocol has been adjusted, and now the selection will be made by an advanced Artificial Incantation subagent whose algorithms have been enhanced by certain ritual conjurations.’

Groans arose from the assembled crowd. ‘Here too?’ cried someone.

She went on: ‘Please collaborate fully, and answer the questions put to you, no matter how intrusive or apparently in breach of data security laws they may be. In effect you will be sorted into four subclasses: Sparkle Subclass, Roughcut Subclass... uh... and two others, whose names escape me right now. Please note that is is not true, repeat NOT, true that only those in the first two classes have any significance and that the other two classes are just there for filler. Indeed, all of us here, pureblood or debased, are of equal significance in this place of learning!’

Less applause than at the start. She spread her hands wide in benediction. Time to close it out while she was still ahead.

‘Welcome, then, one and all, to the liberating world of sorcery! May you each realize your dreams to the best of your innate limits. Don't forget to pass by the Bursar's Office to finalize your tuition payments before you move on to your subclass selection process. Once you have a subclass assigned, you will be assigned a thrallpixie according to your subclass and your designated rank within that subclass.’

Fuck this for a game of hierarchs, thought Rykart, and slipped out through an unwatched side passage into the bowels of the venerable old building…

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TO BE CONTINUED…

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COMING UP NEXT TIME

In episode two, Rykart penetrates deep into the ancient institution, frees a thrallpixie’s head, and comes face to face with an old adversary — will a duel to the death ensue?

Read on here…

Showdown at the Sorcery Skills Center

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