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A smattering of stars had appeared in the sky, as the clouds that once hid them from view dissolved into faint wisps of water vapour. They were twinkling and arcing over the far heavens above, a welcome source of light on this dark night. The moons were in their fixed positions, too distant to bounce back much of the sun's rays as it warmed the far side of the world. Of this world. There were others out there, apparently. What a turn up for the books. He'd learned a lot in a relatively short space of time since meeting The Dragon. About the universe, and fractal dimensions, and magic.

His travelling companion wheezed on the other side of the campfire. It was not a healthy sound.

"Shall I make the fire bigger? Pity we don't have a blanket..." he patted uselessly around him, as though that alone could will one into existence.

"Come closer," the frail creature begged.

"Oh! Of course." He obliged, rising and stepping round the crackling blue flames before perching on the wooden box that his friend had claimed as a seat. He gently placed his hand upon its scaly shoulder.

The touch invigorated it instantly, a great breath was drawn in and its ridged spine straightened out, wings rustling.

"Will... will you always be like this?" he asked gently.

The long, monstrous head swung, negatively. "In time, I will replenish my power enough to survive alone. As long as you stay with me while I recharge, that is. It could be days. It could be weeks."

"I'm hardly going to leave you now, am I? You didn't leave me. Have I thanked you again for that, recently?"

A vibrant orange eye slid into his view. Before the calamitous events of yesterday, those glowing orbs could have done some serious damage, but in the creature's weakened state, they just glittered like fireplace embers. "Your aid is all the thanks I need."

For a while they sat, The Dragon feeding from the aardvark's close contact, as bats flitted by, and owls hooted around them.

He uncurled his free hand. A bright blue light grew above his outstretched grey palm, writhing and swirling like a storm held within a raindrop. He flicked it towards the fire, and it roared higher and burned brighter. Hotter.

Point and zap.

He'd not had much exposure to the arcane arts, being a soldier. He was a sword and shield man through and through. Magic was for mages, who wore flowing robes with big hoods, and waved long, fancy sticks around with mystical gems bound at the top. Instead, he wore a red leather jerkin, and thick, warm, black twill trousers with plenty of padding for cushioning during scraps.

Not that he had his scimitars and shield with him at the moment. He'd searched the battlefield high and low, but some jumped-up Lieutenant had probably swiped them. He'd get them back, around the same time he gave Nisgarant what was coming to him. Bastard rat.

If he was still, he could feel a bubbling in his blood. The Dragon's magic. The Dragon hadn't meant to transfer the majority of its magical power to him, it had been an error. A mighty big one, at that. One minute it had been in disguise as the warlord rat's treasurer, keeping watchful eye over the spoils of war as they travelled around the kingdoms, adding to the groaning pile of wonders and priceless artefacts on a daily basis, and then the next it was a trembling, gasping mess, kneeling over his body as it brought him back to life, all illusion stripped away to reveal its true form.

If they'd known there was a dragon in their midst, things could have been very different. It made sense that it had used its powers to blend in and hoard treasure. That was what dragons did. They were also a source of useful ingredients in various potions, and dragon scales could be used in the staffs that the magic users wielded, or in amulets around their necks. You often found bits of dragon in marketplaces, not all of it real and authentic. What you didn't find, was a real living one.

The scales began to brighten beneath his fingertips, and he slowly drew his hand back. The Dragon was sufficiently restored for the time being, but he needed to be ready for when it was weak again. He was going to have to be prepared to defend it at a moment's notice; if it was spotted - and it was going to be spotted - it would be a prize kill worthy of any warrior or bone dealer.

He held out his hand again and let the magic pool within his grey palm. He had power; pure, raw power. He just didn't have any skill in using it yet. Mages spent their lives dedicated to learning their craft, using magic to heal, to hurt, to create and destroy. So far, he'd managed to start a small fire and then make it bigger. He couldn't attempt to do much more at present, though, because he didn't want to draw attention to their presence in the woods. It was all very frustrating. He wanted to follow Nisgarant's army, to confront the rat and blast him into cinders, take that Tri-horn sceptre from the ash and hide it far away from sight where it could no longer spread terror throughout the realms. He rubbed at the spidery wound beneath his clothing. The Tri-horn had pierced his flesh, and the foul essence within had seeped in to drain his life force away. It had been so sharp, so sudden, so inevitable.

Nisgarant had always been a bit unpredictable with his outbursts. He'd claw at his own skull sometimes and foam at the mouth as it twisted in unnatural ways. He was a troubled rat. Quite how he'd managed to get hold of that infernal weapon was anyone's guess. The Tri-horn beast was from fables and fantasy, its three spiral horns capable of unthinkable things, and yet he'd turned up one day at the palace with it, threatening war unless the Royal family passed the crown to him.

He'd been a Captain then. It had been a nice, handsomely-paid position, with a beautiful black horse of his own that he missed dearly. His armour had been polished up nicely, and the townsfolk would touch their forelocks as he trotted past on his way out to the city boundaries with his men. No-one caused any trouble on his watch, the cells were always full, and the market traders would tip them for their services.

The rat had murdered the King and Queen on the palace steps, a public execution before kicking their lifeless corpses down the marble and announcing himself their new ruler.

He'd come back from another routine sweep of the farmsteads, to a scene of sheer chaos. It had been a pivotal moment. If he charged full-pelt with his boys, he just might have got to the furry menace through his newly-appointed lackeys, but he didn't fancy his chances. Uprisings happened. New people popping up to give out orders was a part of life.

The beady-eyed rodent had clearly taken his city, and he'd stayed his charges to live to fight another day, under a different banner.

Nisgarant had promoted him to be his General. Had pored over maps in a mad fervour, jabbing his claws at far-off empires and kingdoms, setting his sights on them.

He'd discarded the shiny breastplate and gauntlets when he was gifted with the garb he was currently wearing; the long-sleeved, draping, chain-clasped jerkin of softest calf leather, dyed in a shade of blood red. His scimitars had been just for show when the King had presented him with them all those years ago. There'd been a grand presentation as he'd been promoted to Captain. He'd been so proud, and felt so indispensable. Now it was all he could do to keep them on his belt. And clean.

Nisgarant wasn't the only monster out on those battlefields.

He'd done things he'd never thought he was capable of.

And then, when he'd been pushed to the absolute limit, when serving the warlord for the grace of staying alive had meant throwing away every remaining shred of his morals and his dignity, he'd come to accept that he could not do it anymore, and that would mean death.

He'd turned to that dark, whiskery face, with the matted fur and the specks of spit that flecked it, and he'd said 'no.'

He'd turned to his legion, to the masses that hung on his every word, and he'd told them to stand down.

His breathing was quickened. His chest hurt. The memory of dying so fresh. It was a moment he would never forget.

Like a phoenix, he'd risen from the ashes of his own fate, and been given another chance to tread the soft ground, and be once more. He would not waste it. Could not waste it. This was his time. His world. His.

Blue sparks spat as his nostrils flared, as he turned his hands this way and that, letting it flow, letting it find its purpose.

"Concentrate."

The Dragons voice, sounding strong and noble momentarily, caught him off guard. He whipped his head up, his long ears pricking, alert.

"The magic will follow your will, not your thoughts. You can be saying 'heal', but if your soul is screaming to hurt, then that is what will happen. It is now part of your body. Like a virus, thriving inside. It has its own agenda. It will do anything to manifest itself; it lives to serve, wants to be put to use, needs to escape its prison. If you're feeling overwhelmed with its presence right now, I might humbly suggest you try to create something. Make yourself a useful tool, a weapon or item that can aid you on your journey to Nisgarant."

He nodded, solemnly. A lesson in magic from a dragon was not to be ignored! They were the masters. But what could he make? A massive broadsword that took two hands to wield? Impressive but impractical, and just unnecessary. He could make armour; but again, he was a mage now, not a soldier. What he really wanted was a blanket. And something to eat. Lots of little things that you took for granted on a campaign, but soon missed when you struck out on your own. How did you magic a blanket anyway? Did you weave with your hands, like threading yarn? He'd struggled to sew on a button back in his cadet days!

His mind was a jumble. A mess of half-formed ideas. Shapes flashed before him, mingling up together chaotically.

The Dragon watched, a sympathetic look upon its long, scaly face. It was desperate to step in, but knew its aardvark friend had to work this out on his own. There was no better way to learn, than to just do.

As the night grew colder, his temper grew shorter and he himself began to shiver. Some mighty mage, he was, not even able to conjure up some wool! He could picture what he wanted so clearly in his mind's eye, but the process to get there was baffling. Back on the marauder's carts, there would be hessian bags full of bedding, and sack-cloths containing dry biscuit and crackers.

The faint blue outline of a bag materialised before him, suspended in the air. He held his breath. It hadn't transformed into anything else, it was there, complete, a basic framework to build upon. He followed The Dragons prompt and let the power flow from within, finding its purpose. It knew what it wanted to be, even if he hadn't a clue.

The sumptuous velvet was weighty in his palm. There was a drawstring at the neck. It was real, and tangible, and he had created it. More of a sack than a bag, it had grown as the magic had fed into it. He dipped his hand inside, knowing what he wanted to find within, and hoping with all his heart it would be there. Fingertips touched coarse wool, curled around a sewn hem, and withdrew a large, flat mass of finely woven fabric. A blanket. It was dense, clean, and warm.

He looked at his dragon friend, who was beaming like a proud parent. "Very well done! You knew you didn't have the skills to make a blanket, so you made something you could pull a blanket from."

"Is that what I did?' he squeaked, amazed.

"You can get anything from a bag, can't you? They store everything you could need. Your conviction in this fact made it true."

His conviction? So, because he believed it enough, it was made reality? He dipped his hand inside again, and this time found a crust of fresh bread. He set upon it in an instant, crumbs scattering as his sturdy teeth ripped it up. Everyone had bread in their travelling pouch! And drink...

His blood bubbled continuously, the magic still seeping from within as his mind raced. Never again would he worry where his next meal was coming from, or if he could find a source of fresh drinking water. Their journey may be hazardous, but now the need to rush had gone. They could take it one day at a time, The Dragon growing stronger, his own magical prowess increasing, never needing to reach a settlement before supplies ran out.

Nisgarant would be waiting, and they would be ready.

If only he had his horse, there were some things that you couldn't pull from a bag, no matter how magical they were.

General Warlock was on the warpath, and there would be a reckoning.