LOST QUARTER BOOKS

Miscellanea

Posted on September 12, 2025 by Clint

Miscellanea from the Lost Quarter and beyond.

The Dead Can Never Die

The wizards with their orbs and spells, their alchemy and astrology, and other arcane knowledge that only they had the learning to truly understand, or so they claimed, had spent years perfecting their spellcasters. Their ultimate achievement, long sought after. A spell that could raise other spells, that would not dissipate, but would instead remain integral across all time, capable of casting any spell.

This required collecting all the learning on spellcraft in existence, collating it and rendering it accessible to the spellcaster. There were mistakes along the way. How could there not be? There were endless errors in spell books – wizards were secretive creatures after all and often slipped in errata to ensure only they would be the ones to know the spells. That didn’t even include the mistranslations, for spells had been taken from one language to another and back again over the years, and a spell that had begun transforming an eel into a princess now turned a prince into a frog.

Still the wizards claimed the spellcaster worked. Not only did it work, but it could learn. Through trial and error it could correct the many errors that had entered into the literature. Any task, any potion, any craft or artistry, all could be subsumed by the spellcaster. Here then was the power of the old gods long vanished from all realms.

Rulers and other elites were naturally intrigued by the promise. They had long been allied with the wizards. Together they had transcended all earthly domains of money and power and now lived in constant terror of losing it all. The promise of the spellcaster was the answer to all their dreams, for with it you no longer needed people.

They were a problem, it had to be admitted. Those testy subjects who were constantly insisting upon the obligations they believed their betters owed them instead of being properly awed in the face of their obvious excellence and superior wisdom. Most had proven quite uninterested in the wizards’ last great idea, exchanging their minted coins for a magical Repository of Value, no matter how many times it was demonstrably proven to them that this was a far better thing than actual coin. It even had other uses, though the wizards were somewhat vague on those. They had many questions about the spellcaster as well and did not seem especially convinced by all the answers they were given.

The wizards assured all that they would come around in due time. Having conquered all realms they turned to death itself, claiming they could escape our mortal bonds with eternal life. Not with the usual rubbish elixirs and potions, which everyone knew to be the work of charlatans. The spellcaster would be handy here for it would be able to invent new spells that would generate fresh organs and fresh blood to renew an aging body. The first few attempts at this went poorly. It seemed the wizards were stealing organs and blood from paupers and declaring them newly generated, causing the kind of scandal that brought the whole spellcaster project into disrepute.

This led to much grumbling on all sides, so a new approach was needed. Time was the problem, it was declared. Its ceaseless march wore down everyone and everything. The answer was to hold the world still, keep everyone in their right place, unmoving. If they did everything correctly, they might even be able to wind time back on itself, reset events and restore the glorious past when everything had felt new and life had seemed limitless. Soon it would be. The spells were cast. The world was wound back like a resetting clock, the whole fabric of society groaning as countless numbers were crushed beneath those gears.

The rulers applauded the wizards for their efforts. They complimented each other for their newly youthful vigour, though secretly each thought the others appeared much the same. Everywhere they looked there was stillness. No wind stirred. They all told themselves how wondrous it all was, how for the first time ever they felt at peace, all their desires met. Even as they did they found themselves looking over their shoulders. Old habit, they told themselves, one they would soon shake. But they couldn’t, for there was a sound somewhere that they couldn’t quite place, no matter how much they cast about in search of it. Like the roar of a waterfall heard at a distance.

Field Notes

Posted on November 28, 2024 by Clint

Being a record of certain phenomena found in the environs of the Lost Quarter.

The Sorcerer Comes to Town

The sorcerer came to town at the end of November. Cold winds arrived with her leaving a blanket of snow on the fields and streets. They were northerners mostly, it was said, though he had driven in from the south. Anyway, it was hard going for a few days. The first cold snap of the year was always the worst as everyone remembered all over again what winter was.

She moved into the Lang place, which had sat empty since Mabel had left town after Harold went to jail for touching the kids. Once it had been the locus of that end of town, half a dozen or so children heading there every day after school to spend a few hours until their parents came home from work. Most found it fitting that a sorcerer would move into a place like that, so shadowed with the weight of the past that everyone wanted to forget. They were disturbing sorts anyway.

A few speculated on the logistics. Had the sorcerer bought it? Except it hadn’t been put up for sale, certainly not advertised. Was Mabel renting it? Again, there had been no advertisement. Did sorcerers pay rent and deal with landlords? They must, they were people, after a fashion.

That he was a sorcerer was evident from the staff he carried, if not his dress. Most had not seen a staff before and they studied it curiously. Easier that than meeting her eyes. It was more like a walking stick, rising only to his waist, with a narrow point at one end. The whole thing was wrapped in thin bands of metal, perhaps silver, for it certainly shone like that. Each band was filled with runes, some only visible in the right light. There were a few left in town who could read the old tongue, but no matter how they were pressed they refused to speak on the meaning of any of the runes.

The sorcerer wasn’t seen much about town. The odd encounter in the grocery store where everyone fell silent and eyed what she had in her cart. Cereal, milk, nothing unusual. She complained about the price of Doug’s vegetables, but everyone did. People did begin to visit him, though no one would ever admit it. Most entered through the back alley, but they were still seen. It was a small town after all and everyone knew everyone’s business. What transpired within the house was most certainly left unsaid. A sorcerer’s business was her own.

Excerpt: Theoreticals of Illusories

Posted on February 15, 2018 by Clint

In advance of the publication of Theoreticals of Illusories on February 1, here is a short excerpt:

I sit in the chill alone, another mile further down the road, staring up at the sky and watching my breath as it forms puffs of vanishing clouds. The air is the way only winter can make it, sharp and crisp, cutting at my lungs as it goes down my throat. Clouds are gathering, distant on the horizon, foreshadowing the storm I know is coming. Wind, snow, and tumult; the storm of our humanity will not even register.

I can see a fire in the distance, not far from where I crouch in the miserable shelter of a few trees. It must be no more than half a mile, if that, and I long to trudge across the snow to join whoever is there. To ask them if they will share their fire and perhaps a little food or drink, if they have any to spare. The commonwealth of all travellers on a cold winter’s night.

But I do not stray from where I sit in the frigid darkness, shivering and rubbing my hands together to try to put some semblance of warmth in them. The Commonwealth—my commonwealth—died some time ago, and I have no friends left to me. Certainly not in this place.

Does he feel as tired as I do? As hopeless and alone? Is he worn out and ready to quit, the strength to keep fighting drained by these endless hardships?

No, not him. For him, the privations and difficulties are merely proof of his righteousness. The blood on his hands only demonstrates the justness of his cause and the lengths he will go to stand by it.

For me, I do not enjoy this new world that he and his kind have wrought. That it is him, of all people, that I am forced to reckon with only makes it all the worse. If it were someone else, it would be another matter. It would not cut so deep.

As these thoughts flit through my mind, I finger the tome that I carry with me. It has only the dead in it now. The incantations here that my kind once worried over are now only the words of a forgotten tongue. I am its last speaker and I have sworn myself to silence. He and his kind have seen to that.

He has the silver and the gold, and our lives, so many I cannot even bear to count. And now he will take this last thing too, to bring an end to all this.

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Now Available: Unspeakable Rites

Posted on September 28, 2017 by Clint

UNSPEAKABLE RITES

FANTASY

CLINT WESTGARD

A dead man of no family or account is what Gahryll, Chief Magister of Tson, sees when the corpse of an Enir youth is brought to the Magisterium. But Magister Mihuibel sees something else: a conspiracy involving false adepts practicing an outlawed form of alkemya.

Against his better instincts Gahryll authorizes an investigation that draws both Magisters into the seamy underbelly of Tson where the rich and powerful prey upon the desperate. When the inquiry implicates one of the most important families in the Realm of Craitol in forbidden practices and false alkemya, their positions and ranks will be threatened.

But that is only the beginning. For the killer will stop at nothing to ensure his secrets remain hidden and Gahryll is brought face to face with the unspeakable power of alkemya that has been unleashed. It forces him to make a choice. Will he risk everything to fight for justice in a realm ruled where rank and wealth are all that matter?

Set in the same universe as The Shadow Men Trilogy, Unspeakable Rites, further explores the nature of alkemya, its terrible power, and the heavy price paid for its use.

Buy the ebook

In A Flash: The Warder

Posted on December 22, 2016 by Clint

Xan the Warder stared at the newcomer with a skeptical eye. The man was a sorcerer of some kind, to judge by his robes. Xan knew little of magic, but enough to know that its users were not to be trusted. They were fiends, as likely to summon some demon from the depths of the many earths as to cast a curing spell and mend a broken leg. She had heard tell of a man, desperate in his affections for a woman, who had begged a wizard for a love potion, only to find himself short six coins of the realm and madly in love with a toad.

“What brings you this way, stranger?” Xan said. She swept the cloak back from her shoulders and let her hand rest upon her sword. A message of sorts.

The newcomers gaze followed the movement of her hand and a small grin touched his lips. “I’ve heard the air in these parts is restorative.”

“If you can restore something that’s been froze solid with your magic, then perhaps it might be,” Xan said, looking out over the frigid wastes that extended in all directions before her.

The newcomer laughed, his breath clouding the air. “My name is Ves. You are?”

“The Warder,” Xan said, refusing to be enticed by his friendliness. The wind swirled around them and the sorcerer shivered.

“Where’s the prison?” Ves said.

“Do you think I’m a fool?”

Ves laughed again. “I suppose not. It is a rather remote clime for a prison, wouldn’t you agree?”

Xan did not reply, staring hard at the sorcerer.

Ves shrugged, as if he could not understand her reluctance to talk. “Come now, Warder. Surely you must get bored being here, all alone in the cold? I’m only asking for a moment of your time.”

Xan rolled her eyes. “No one comes here to pass the time. I’m not much for conversation. Get to the point.” She moved her hand to the pommel of her sword.

“Easy now,” Ves said, holding up his hands. “Don’t you think you should be careful? You don’t know what kind of sorcerer I am.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Xan said, her voice sounding of death.

Ves smiled. “If you say so. You needn’t worry about me anyway, Warder. I’m just here to meet someone.”

Xan had to resist a laugh. “I doubt there is someone else in the realm foolish enough to wander out onto this wasteland for a chat.”

“But there is,” Ves said, gesturing with his hand as if to point out the person.

Xan followed the movement of his hand and the world went black.

She blinked, worried for a moment that the sorcerer had put a sleeping spell upon her. But it was just that the light had gone from the sky, which, now that she thought about it, was considerably more concerning than a mere sleep spell. The light returned a moment later, the vast wasteland of ice, snow and rock, appearing again before her.

The sorcerer, however, was gone.

Read the rest at Circumambient Scenery.

In A Flash: read a new story every Thursday…

If you like this story, or any of my others, please consider supporting me on Patreon

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In A Flash: How to Make Love Like a Warlock

Posted on July 7, 2016 by Clint

Although many exhaustive and learned volumes have been published on the subject of amorous instruction, I feel much remains to be said on the matter, especially as it pertains to the copulatory habits of warlocks and other masters of dark magic. As one well-practiced in both infernal arts, I feel well suited to speak on the matter with the clarity required, lest another poor apprentice or sorcerer be led astray into more dismal and dreary acts, for lack of knowledge on how to properly engage with an enchantress, siren or familiar.

Firstly, one must attach the suitable appendage. On acquiring the requisite appendage, I will say little now, though it perhaps warrants its own appendix, for it is a matter worthy of careful consideration. Many is the dark master who endeavors to perform the salacious act, only to find his chosen member shriveled and smelling of putrescence. No amount of ointment or potion will see you to satisfying either party in that situation.

The subject puts me in mind of a story, which if the reader will allow me the indulgence of a small digression, I will detail here. I was in a cemetery practicing a poor bit of necromancy—never one of my finer talents, I am sorry to admit—when I came across a sorcerer collecting mandrake root. I was cold and damp from my evening’s toil, and glad for the company, so I shared some of my tobacco and we each drew on our pipes.

After explaining that I had been engaged to summon the recalcitrant spirit of a distant father by a spurned son, cast out of inheritance, I inquired as to what had brought him to this place. “I am collecting the female of the mandrake root,” he said, with a gesture to his satchel.

“To what end?” I said, for I was curious as to what spell he was conducting. As anyone familiar with the arts will be aware, there are many uses for the mandrake root, both male and female.

“I am effecting a spell of transformation,” the sorcerer said, somewhat guardedly.

Read the rest at Circumambient Scenery.

In A Flash: read a new story every Thursday…

If you like this story, or any of my others, please consider supporting me on Patreon

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Fiction: Oprichnina and Zemshchina

Posted on December 17, 2015 by Clint

I hope he feels as tired as I do, as hopeless and alone. Is he worn out and ready to quit, the strength to keep fighting drained by these endless hardships? No, not him. For him, the privations and difficulties are merely proof of his righteousness. The blood on his hands only demonstrates the justness of his cause and the lengths he will go to stand by it.

For me, I do not enjoy the apocalypse that he and his kind have wrought. That it is him, of all people, that I am forced to reckon with only makes it all the worse. If it were someone else, someone I did not have such a history with, it would be another matter. It would not cut so deep.

As these thoughts flit through my mind, I finger the sepulchre tome that I carry with me. It has only the dead in it now. The incantations here that my kind once worried over are now only the words of a dead tongue. He and his kind have seen to that.

He has the silver and the gold, and our lives, so many I cannot even bear to count. And now he will take this last thing too, to bring an end to this all.

There is no sense waiting further, and so I get to my weary feet and make my way to him.

Read the rest at Circumambient Scenery.

In A Flash: read a new story every Thursday…

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Fiction: The Supreme Effect

Posted on December 10, 2015 by Clint

Morning light crept along the horizon, expanding further with each passing moment its domain, revealing the outlines of trees. There was a trail leading through the trees into a meadow, well-worn by the shepherds and the cattle and sheep they brought here to graze. They were absent this early, not yet stirring in their beds miles away. The grass was heavy with moisture and even as the light grew, the air turned misty and a bank of fog settled over the landscape, obscuring the trees and making the trail difficult to pick out.

Four figures emerged from the fog and stood across from each other. No one spoke or moved for a time, all of them staring at each other with a mixture of unease and disdain, bravado and fear. As the fog began to dissipate, an unspoken signal passed between them and two of the men stepped together to stand between the remaining two, bowing formally to each other. The two solitary men backed away from the pair in opposite directions until they were almost lost to each other in the murk.

“Brach wishes to commence?” one of the pair said.

The other nodded, his mouth formed into a thin grimace. They both wore dark robes, similar in cut and design. Their heads were shaved and their faces clean-cut. Their age was indeterminate; they appeared young, but something about their youth was edged with the entropy of years. The only thing to distinguish them was that one had blue eyes and the other brown.

“Hjesch as well,” the one with the blue eyes said.

“Then let us commence,” the brown-eyed second said. “We agree that the duel shall be without assistance? There will be no implements or engines, no familiars, and we, of course, shall remain observers only.”

“Agreed. As Hjesch has chosen the place, Brach can choose the element.”

See the rest at Circumambient Scenery.

In A Fash: A new story will be published there every Thursday.

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