Vicious Magick, Page 2

  Chapter 2: The Flatlands

 

  After the river emerges from its underground tunnel, Zanther, Madra, and Novanostrum float for nearly a whole bellchime in silence, shivering as the panick-sweat covering their bodies meets the cold, predawn air. Madra is the first to speak.

  “My kingdom...it’s gone.”

  “You’re overreacting, your Highness,” Novanostrum says, “I don’t think the bard isn’t interested in you or your kingdom. I think he just wants that damned map.”

  “What map?”

  In the light of the rising sun, Zanther is inspecting the map in question, running his fingers over the cryptic runes denoting landmarks and what he assumes are directions. The paper is worn and tattered, covered with various stains and even a few small burn marks.

  “Hey, Nove,” Zanther asks, “what exactly do you know about this ‘Nexus Sketch’ and those deadders back there?”

  “The deadders were merely the puppets of a powerful sonomagus named Varello. He’s an assassin who uses powerful songspells to manipulate people, animals, corpses, et cetera.

  “As for the Nexus Sketch, let’s just say it’s not just some rare piece of artwork--it’s supposedly one of the most important objects in the world.”

  “And Zanther’s map leads to it?” Madra asks.

  Zanther shakes his head as he puzzles over the illegible characters. “It’s not leading us anywhere if we can’t read it. Nove, can you read this?”

  Novanostrum studies it carefully. “It looks to be a map of Upper Kleighton, but I don’t see a big X or an arrow pointing to the location of the Nexus sketch, and I can’t read the place names or the writing on the back.”

  “I thought about that,” Zanther says, “if it’s in code, I think we can use the names of places we recognize as a cipher to decode all the text on the back.”

  Novanostrum stares at the inken scribbles for a moment before shaking his head. “It doesn’t look like a code--it looks a completely different language, one I don’t recognize.”

  Zanther gives a disappointed nod.

  “However,” Novanostrum says, “the Universitorium is about a day north of here, surely someone there can translate this map for us.”

  Kragnar dips his clawed toe gingerly into the pond and immediately recoils at the chill of the water. He takes a deep breath, filling his powerful lungs. He exhales a plume of flame, blasting the surface of the pond with fire until bubbles form in the water. He dips his toe again, testing the water and finding the temperature satisfactory.

  Lowering his massive dragonic girth into the makeshift hot tub, Kragnar snatches up a boiled fish, savoring its delicate flavor. He spits the head and bones onto the bank and repeats the process with a half-dozen more fish, forming a small pile.

  Halfway through his eighth fish, Kragnar’s ears perk up at the sound of voices being carried down the nearby river. Water slides off his scales, dripping onto the grass as he slinks toward the edge of the river and submerses his massive, steaming, scaly body.

 

  “I’m just saying, Claustrian women are a bunch of b--” Zanther says before being interrupted by the appearance of a dragon popping out of the water and slamming the boat with his anacondesque tail, smashing the vessel into planks and splinters and sending Zanther, Novanostrum, and Madra flying in different directions.

  Zanther and Novanostrum land on the riverbank, the lush grass breaking their fall. They hear a shriek and look up to see Madra in the dragon’s grasp.

  “Well, heroes, what are you waiting for? SAVE ME!”

  They look at each other.

  “You heard her, Nove, save her. Do some of that wizard junk you do.”

  “Wizard junk?”

  “You know--fire, lightning, meteorites, whatever.”

  Novanostrum looks at the dragon, then at Madra, then back at Zanther. “Wizards follow a strict code. We try to ‘do no harm’ as it were. Who am I to accost a dragon merely trying to survive in a cold, hard world? He’s done nothing to me.”

  Zanther blinks in surprise. “Well, your sleeve is torn.”

  “My what?” Novanostrum inspects the damage. “Son of a...okay. Here’s what we’ll do: I’ll slow time, which will allow you to run on the surface of the water and cut the beast down before it even has a chance to react.”

  The sky turns black, and the grass and water turn different shades of gray and white. Zanther draws his longknife, his footfalls pattering across the surface of the solidified water. The air is still, with birds overhead stalled in mid-flight, and Zanther springs toward the dragon.

  With his free hand, Kragnar swats at Zanther. The force of the dragon’s blow knocks Zanther’s longknife from his hand and sends him flying into a tree. The dragon snatches the longknife from mid-air and flicks it at Novanostrum. The weapon sails through the air, narrowly missing Novanostrum’s head before becoming lodged in the trunk of the tree.

  The wizard is stunned. “It...didn’t work?”

  “Enough!” Kragnar bellows, shocking time back into its normal flow, “I’m not going to kill you two; malice isn’t in my nature. I am going to eat the virgin, though. Hunger, you see, is in my nature.”

  “I’m good with that,” Zanther grumbles from the tree.

  Madra pulls off her shoe and launches it at the dragon’s eye. He drops her, and she swims between his legs. A split-twitch later, the dragon shrieks out in debilitating pain, sending a blast of fire about a hundred man-lengths into the air. Madra pulls herself onto the riverbank and starts wringing out her clothes.

  “What’d you do that for, woman?!” the dragon yells.

  Madra brushes her hair from her face in defiance as she directs her regal glare of displeasure at the beast.

  “Dragon! These are Claustrian lands over which I am queen. I do not require a lot from my dragon subjects. You do not have to pay taxes, nor are you required to present for the moonthly deference, but I do ask that you not lunch on my royal person. However--you are free to eat that one,” she says, pointing at Zanther.

  “Blecch. No thanks, I don’t eat men. Well, your Highness, I’m sorry I smashed your boat.”

  “It’s okay, dragon. There is something you can do to make it up to me.”

  Back on the ground, Zanther whispers in Novanostrum’s ear. “Did you hear what he called her? Heh. As if.”

 

  Varello walks the deserted road, his lute slung across his back. He whistles to himself, dejected by his failure. In the distance, he can still make out the outline of Claustria Castle.

  Grassy hills stretch to the horizon in every direction, the monotony broken only by a few trees scattered here and there. Varello sees a slight movement by his foot--a pebble, shaking almost imperceptibly. He bends down to inspect it closer and hears a whooshing sound. Squinting at the glare of the sun, he can make out a dark mass projecting itself towards him at many handspans per eyeblink per eyeblink.

  He just barely manages to dive behind a tree as the dragon impacts the ground with the force of a meteorite. Varello scrambles into a ditch, the tree exploding into flame and cinders behind him.

  Kragnar looms large over Varello, hiding him in the cold expanse of his shadow. In desperation, Varello unslings his lute and starts plucking a soft lullaby.

  The dragon sways on his thick haunches for a moment before toppling backwards.

 

  Zanther, Madra, and Novanostrum are walking along a small path which cuts through the Flatlands. The midday sun beats down upon Madra’s blouse, which is almost dry. Zanther absentmindedly rubs a bruise on his shoulder.

  The path from the river connects with the main, dusty road, forming a fork. The left path leads to a gloomy, overcast horizon. The right path leads towards sunshine and a rainbow, and the sound of chirping birds can be heard.

  “So...which way is Claustria?” Madra asks.

  “Well, we’re going to the Deathstretch,” Novanostrum says, “which is this way,” he points at the gathe
ring stormclouds. A sickly crow circles around for a moment before falling out of the sky, dead.

  Zanther turns to Novanostrum. “Wait--what?

  “Claustria is that way,” Novanostrum says, indicating the sunlit road and ignoring Zanther, “if you walk quickly, you might even make it back before sundown. You’re sure you don’t want to come with us?”

  Her eyes linger on the dead crow. “No, I think I should be with my people.”

  Zanther shakes Novanostrum’s shoulder. “The Deathstretch? Are you insane? Let’s just go around it.”

  Novanostrum raises his hand authoritatively. “You’re a hunted man now. Nobody will be crazy enough to follow our trail into the dead forest.”