Vicious Magick, Page 3

  Chapter 3: The Deathstretch

 

  Varello lands his dragonic steed in front of the megadoor to the Deus Palatium. Two Crucifer guards part to allow him entry. He takes long strides down a long hallway before passing through another set of double doors and finding himself in a large chamber where the Pontiflex Minor is seated.

  Massive skylights fill the room with natural light, illuminating immense frescoes which are reflected in the mirror polish of the marble floors. Varello approaches the Pontiflex Minor, who is seated comfortably on a gilded throne with velvet cushions.

  “Your Holiness, I was able to locate the target, but it seems the map has passed to a certain Zanther Maus. I followed his trail as far as Claustria Castle, but that was where he eluded me.”

  The Pontiflex Minor nods. “I’m aware. I have soldiers arriving in Claustria as we speak. As for your failure, I know you will be honored to be expaled as a sacrifice to the Two True Gods.”

  “Expaled, your Holiness?”

  “Yes,” the Pontiflex Minor says with a flourish of his hand, “guards--if you will.”

  “So...you’re not going to allow me another chance?”

  “No, you’re to be expaled straightaway. I have others who will do my bidding with more loyalty and success.”

  Varello shakes himself loose of the grip of the two Crucifers holding him in place. “Indulge me, your Holiness, and imagine that I just damned you with a really clever threat.”

  “Hm?” the Pontiflex Minor raises an eyebrow.

  Varello pulls something from his sleeve and smashes it onto the ground, filling his immediate vicinity with a cloud of smoke. When it clears, he’s gone. The two Crucifer guards rush down the hallway to the megadoor to see a dragon flying off toward the horizon.

 

  Zanther and Novanostrum walk towards the ominous storm clouds hovering over the Deathstretch. The trees are skeletal, devoid of leaves and flowers. Zanther starts to whistle as they draw closer. Novanostrum shoots him an angry look.

  “Just trying to lighten the mood.”

  “You do realize that these woods are filled with fell beasts, filled with the most vicious and loathsome creatures in all of Upper Kleighton, right?”

  “Actually, I think the most vicious creatures in Upper Kleighton are the girls from this brothel I visited in New Kestle. You wouldn’t believe these women, they were covered with scars and burns and some of them were missing limbs, and they had the most saggy, dangling--”

  “Shush!” Novanostrum hisses, “Did you hear that?”

  As they walk pass the treeline and find themselves within the Deathstretch, Novanostrum turns his head left and right, scanning the trees, each of which looks like a giant, dead hand reaching to the sky.

  “Hear what?” Zanther asks.

  “That’s the point,” Novanostrum says, “This place is supposed to be filled with a hundred kinds of unimaginable foulness--but I don’t see anything.”

  “Remind me again why we decided to go this way?”

  “It’s the fastest way.”

  “Fastest way to what? An early grave?”

  Madra walks the road back to Claustria. She places a hand over her growling stomach. Feeling a sudden urge to empty her bladder, she relieves herself behind some bushes and continues walking.

  As she walks, she surveys her bruises and the state of her clothes.

  “I should have gone with him,” she says quietly to herself.

  A network of birds communicate with each other between trees, using their melodic, singsong chirping. A thin rainbow stretches across the sky, seeming to terminate within the walls of Claustria Castle. Madra turns her head, looking back over her shoulder at the Deathstretch.

  It’s far, but at the edge of the horizon she can just make out black clouds writhing and boiling over tiny dots barely recognizable as dead trees.

  “No. No, I shouldn’t have gone there. Those two are suicidal idiots,” she reassures herself, pulling her black leather top down to straighten it out.

  “Still, I hope they’re okay.”

 

  As Zanther and Novanostrum get deeper and deeper into the grim, dead forest, they step gingerly over bleached bones and skulls. Most of the skulls are large and bestial, still managing to inspire fear even long after the deaths of the creatures to which they once belonged. The pervasive silence weighs upon them.

  Zanther draws his longknife, springing into a fighting stance. Novanostrum looks around, confused, seeing no immediate threat.

  “What are you doing?” Novanostrum asks.

  “This seems like the point in those stories where terrible things start attacking the hapless protagonist.”

  Terrible things do not attack either of them, and continue not attacking them for a while. As they walk, Zanther periodically feigns relaxation before snapping back into his attacking stance.

  “Maybe,” Zanther says, “all the stories about the Deathstretch were made up to scare tourists away. Or, maybe this place is so depressing that all the horrible monsters killed themselves. What do you think, Nove?”

  “I think the sun’s still up.”

 

  Madra draws closer to Claustria. She is now able to see where the road terminates at the gates to the castle city.

  “Well, at least it doesn’t appear to be on fire,” she says to herself, “that has to be a good sign.”

  The closer she gets, however, the more she sees that doesn’t seem right. The shields of the soldiers guarding the gate do not bear the Claustrian royal crest-- they each bear the black X denoting them as Crucifers. In front of the closed gate, a line of disgruntled Claustrians are milling about, murmuring to each other about their discontent at being unable to enter the city. Madra walks right up to the two Crucifer soldiers, her eyes burning with fury.

  “And just what in the High Hell do you think you’re doing?” she demands.

  “This town is temporarily under the protection of the Grand Pontiflex,” the soldier on the left informs her.

  “Since when has the Grand Pontiflex taken it upon himself to ‘protect’ sovereign lands?”

  “Well, we’ve been here since this morning,” the soldier on the right replies.

  “You may inform the Grand Pontiflex,” Madra says, “that his ‘protection’ is not required. I am Madra, the Queen of these lands, and I am allowing you one chance, one opportunity to shove off.”

  The first guard looks her over and chortles. “A queen? You look more like a cow-milker, and you stink like a yafbeest. Besides, you can’t be the queen. Our troops are scouring the area for her as we speak, and they will find her.”

  Madra’s face turns red. “I demand entry! I demand to be taken to whomever is in charge of this insanity!”

  The second guard takes a step closer to Madra. “Nobody goes in or out. Those are the orders.”

  “Un-bonking-believable,” she says, storming away.

  It’s now when an old man approaches her and taps on her arm. He wears spectacles and a white suit. His hair and beard have long turned white, presumably to match his long coat.

  “I can understand your frustration, young Miss,” he says, “I’ve been trying to reason with these gentlemen since my arrival here a short time ago, and these fellows have steadfastly refused me entry that I might allow these fine Claustrians the opportunity to purchase and enjoy my patented tonicks.”

  As he says this, he gestures toward the wagon behind him, the side of which bears the painted words ‘Professor Sogbottom’s Good-tyme Tonick’.

  She nods, confused. He continues.

  “There’s nothing for it. It’d take an army of wizards to get into this place, and I seem to have misplaced mine. I’ve decided to continue on to the Universitorium to refit and relax and get reacquainted with some old acquaintances of mine. I wish you a good day, young Miss.”

  “Wait, did you say you were going to the Universitorium?”

  “I certainly did. One of the finest
institutions around, in my opinion. Just something about books and lectures and learning that instills in people the desire to drink prodigious amounts of tonick.”

  “Would it inconvenience you too much if I tagged along?”

  “Not at all; I would consider it a privilege to travel in the company of such a beautiful lady.”

 

  Back at the Deathstretch, the sun starts to dip dangerously close to the horizon, or it would dip dangerously close to the horizon if it were visible through the dark storm clouds perpetually occupying the sky above.

  “We should probably make camp soon,” Novanostrum says.

  “Are you out of your bonking mind? No way am I stopping until we’re out of this accursed place. I’m not even tired.”

  They continue walking. Almost at once, the Deathstretch transforms itself. The trees sprout white leaves, white flowers, and chalky fruits of various shapes. Beneath their feet, white grass sprouts along the edges of the path.

  “Uh..Nove, what’s happening?”

  “I’m not quite sure. I think we need to walk a little faster.”

  They walk faster. They hear the buzzing of insects in the distance, the rustling in the trees. They hear the calls of beasts.

  “The dead forest is come alive,” Novanostrum says with a demented smile, “brace yourself.”

  The attack comes from all directions. Tentacles slither out of the black ponds to grab their feet. Winged reptiles swoop down upon them. Furry, clawed animals of various shapes materialize in the shadows, joined by giant scorpions and spiders. The outlines and glowing eyes of the beasts are the only parts visible to Zanther and Novanostrum in the muted light.

  As the animals close in, Novanostrum reaches for his Ristwatch, dilating time. Zanther is able to see only the blood in the veins of the beasts as he begins hacking and slashing his way indiscriminately through the fell flesh of all the monsters in the immediate vicinity.

  After what would seem like a few eyeblinks to an outside observer, Zanther collapses to one knee, gasping for breath. Bloody limbs and torsos and fanged heads fall to the ground almost in unison. Novanostrum reaches for his longpipe.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he says as he lights a pinch of smokeweed and draws in a breath.

  Covered with blood and sweat, Zanther glares at him. “I feel like I just killed every damned thing in this damned place.”

  “Heh. No, not by a long shot, I’d wager.”

  It’s now that the second wave comes, hundreds of nightmares charging at them from all angles and directions. Even the trees stretch their dead grasp toward the two of them. Novanostrum tosses down his pipe and Zanther springs into action, slicing and attacking everything within the reach of his blade.

  It’s a noble effort, but there are just too many of them. Zanther withdraws and stands close to Novanostrum, trying desperately to fend off the beasts. The creatures are unfazed, choosing to pause dramatically and close in on their quarry.

  Novanostrum laughs like an overexcited banshee child and reaches inside the sleeve of his robe. He produces a wooden staff as long as his body is tall, the end of which is knobbed and curls back on itself, leaving Zanther’s mouth agape in wonder.

  “Where were you keeping that?” he asks, temporarily forgetting their impending death.

  Novanostrum ignores the question and slams the end of his staff into the ground, sending a shockwave outward in all directions. Zanther falls on his back, and the beasts are knocked back a few paces. Novanostrum waves his staff around in a circle, lining the perimeter of cleared space with flames. He then points the staff at various points in the sky and lightning bolts immediately begin raining down upon the beasts.

  The fell creatures, that is to say, the minority of the creatures which are still alive at this point, flee whimpering into the night. Even the trees lean back as much as they can.

  And just as quickly as they began, the fireworks are over. The lightning stops crashing down, the flames burn out, and all that remains are chunks of smoldering beast flesh and charred branches.

  Zanther nods as he stands, brushing the dust from his pants and sheathing his longknife. “I think I know why you wanted to pass through here.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re bonking crazy and killing a bunch of things is therapeutic for you.”

 

  The moons light the road, giving the trees and the grass a bluish tint. Sogbottom’s horse looks older than its owner, but still manages to clomp along at a decent pace, each of its footfalls an obstinate affirmation of its refusal to die.

  “I’ve heard it’s faster to travel through the Deathstretch,” Madra says.

  “And from whom did you receive such terrible advice?” Sogbottom asks.

  “Some friends of mine.”

  “While that is technically true, I actually know of a shortcut that involves circumventing the Deathstretch altogether.”

  “If we’re going around it, how is that a ‘shortcut’?”

  “One must picture time in relative terms. Going around the Deathstretch takes about two days, going through it and dying causes one’s arrival to be delayed indefinitely.”

  The horse gingerly lifts his tail and lets Madra and Sogbottom know how he feels about them through song.

  Madra grimaces at the stench, but Sogbottom appears unbothered.

  “What do you plan to do once we reach the Universitorium?” he asks.

  “I suppose I will try to find my friends and travel with them for awhile. Claustria’s not a safe place for me right now, and I have nowhere else to go.”

  Sogbottom nods as he listens. “If, in fact, your friends were foolish enough to travel through the Deathstretch, I don’t expect they shall make it to the Universitorium alive.”

  Madra dismisses his comment. “They’re not exactly what you’d call ‘ordinary’ people. I have a feeling they won’t have any trouble.”