Cohost writing prompt: @make-up-a-wizard — wizard who makes miniature replicas of magical artifacts and embues them with a miniature amount of magical power
“Underlord’s sweaty taint,” Girana breathes, looking out over the massive underground chamber.
The early works of Kofton the Miniaturist were peculiar marvels; marching stringless marionette soldiers, one-half the size of a real man, who could follow simple orders to march! Turn! Parade rest! and were in all respects toys. His scale model of the estates of the Mondsknecht von Skife, within the mansion house itself, which every day cycled through a year in the life of the estate, tiny model crops growing taller and then vanishing back into the recesses of the huge and obscenely magical plinth that powered and housed the entire thing, tiny model trees unfurling tiny, tiny cloth-scrap leaves in model spring and retracting them in model autumn. His one-tenth scale lifelike golem menagerie for the court of Gevik VI.
He attracted the attention of many when, commissioned by the battle-barons of the Clashlands, he built an arena in which his much-improved model soldiers, now knee-tall, could be pitted against each other, the tactics of war examined in the abstract by their struggles. Under scrutiny by nations and spymasters for creating this dangerous aid to military training, he retreated, as so many wizards do, to a mountain tower; introspection and silence, for many years.
“He’s been busy,” Girana says.
It took many years for anyone to notice, but beneath the tower, the wizard has hollowed an entire mountain into a single vast chamber. In the peak of the great room, a facsimile sun cycles through day-bright and night-dark; far below it, the floor is a gigantic relief map of the known world. In the air between, tiny models of the flying things of the world whistle through the air, between levitating cotton-wool clouds; birds and bats and dragons.
“He could be running battle-drills against the entire world,” Llund the rogue says, appalled, looking down at lush hills of green flocking, towering mountains almost as high as a real man’s head.
“Assuming there are model people on it,” Girana says.
“I can see some,” Llund says grimly. He points down from the ledge, where they’ve infiltrated the cavern through long and painstaking caving. “This outcrop below us is meant to be the Shatterhorn, and there below it, a model of Smarburg. See the people?”
Girana glances back at their own wizard, who looks sickly pale from claustrophobia. “Should we get a closer look? For intelligence purposes.”
“Yes,” Balajar says instantly, obviously just wanting out of the tunnel for a minute. Girana quells any snide observation the rogue might make with a glance, and they let down a rope and scale down to the model hillsides below.
“This is, honestly, a little disturbing,” the wizard says plaintively, under the cheery light of the model sun, as tiny model shepherds and their fluffy little model flocks panic and run about on the model hillsides at the sight of them.
“He’s mad,” the rogue says dismissively. “That’s how wizards — no offence — that’s how they go.” With a swooping grab, he plucks up one of the little rushing models. “Nice work, I suppose,” he adds, peering close at its tiny, flailing wooden limbs, and prods at it with his other hand. “Are they — oops.”
“Llund!” Girana hisses, and rogue hastily flings the now-still and headless figure into a tiny model forest, out of sight.
“Didn’t mean to!” he says defensively.
“And what if the wizard can sense that?” Girana demands. “Come on, let’s get a look at what Balajar needs and go.”
The wizard, already ahead of them and kneeling by the nearest model town, makes a noise of astonishment. “Underlord vore my soul!” he says. “Look at this, look at it, they’ve all run in the buildings to get away from me, and they’re casting spells in there — or I suppose I shouldn’t say that; the model is set up to cast little spells which gives the appearance of them doing it, like their appearance of all this other stuff — but spells! They’ve got a tiny little teleportal, I think, to other towns; communication spells—”
“We’re leaving,” Girana says sharply.
“But this is fascinating—”
“What would happen if some vast giant appeared by the real Shatterhorn, started pulling the heads off peasants, and alarmed townsfolk started calling other cities?” Girana says.
“Well, I suppose they’d ask for help, and — oh, you don’t suppose,” Balajar says, and hops to his feet.
“What, little model — well, us?” Llund says. “What, little adventurer dollies are going to hack at our ankles with teeny-tiny swords?”
“They cast spells,” Girana says. “Balajar, out.”
“I’m coming,” Balajar says, and then the first wave of tiny adventurers boil out of the model town hall where the tiny model teleportal is, and start flinging tiny purple warlock death-beams at Llund.
It’s a rout. It’s a gauntlet. The tiny model people mean murder, and there are so fucking many. Girana realises, halfway back to the rope, that they’re walking into the jaws of a real strategy jointly held by the Six Kingdoms specifically to deal with apocalyptic monstrous threats, and yanks Balajar away in the nick of time; Llund walks into the tiny scintillations of teleporting adventuring parties at ankle height, the combined godslayer arsenals of the Six sending the diamond-glitter light trails of titan-felling magic arrows arcing into the rogue’s thighs and flanks, setting him afire from inside, screaming as he dies. The little swarming bastards are everywhere, they have all the tiny, tiny artifact weapons that the world above has in its defence, and they’re organised.
“Wizard!” Girana yells. “We have to do something that’s never been imagined that invading gods could do to evade us!” and seizes hold of the skinny little man.
The wizard goes first on the exit because, if it comes to it, the wizard’s understanding of the intelligence gathered is indispensible. Girana and Llund were only here to deliver the wizard here and back. The wizard will have to manage back alone, Girana thinks, heaves him up, and throws the man bodily through the air toward the ledge. “Cut down the rope and run!”
The first burning pinprick stabs into the back of Girana’s calf. “Cut down the rope—” and Girana crashes to the model ground, crushing and scattering tiny warriors beneath him, filled with terrible visions of tiny model adventurers, faced with a massive rope leading to a hole out of their very world, deciding to follow it and kill whatever’s at the other end.
The last thing Girana sees, wedged among the model boulders of a far model hillside, is a time-scoured skull, the impact craters of magical weapons pocking its bony face.
That’s how they go, the spy thinks. Mad, and turned upon—
