Vicious Magick (7 page)

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

“Just tryin’ to lighten the mood, man.”

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

“Actually, I think the most vicious and
loathsome creatures in Upper Kleighton are these 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?”

“Hear what?”

They’d passed the treeline, and are now
surrounded by what look like giant, dead hands reaching into the
sky.

“Hear what?” Zanther repeats, “I didn’t hear
anything.”

“That’s the point. 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 come this
way.”

“It’s the fastest way.”

“Fastest way to what? An early grave?”

Madra is walking. She’s dirty and tired. She
has to pee. She relieves herself behind some bushes and continues
walking.

I should have gone with him
, she
thinks.

The Two True Gods

The names of the Two True Gods are Life and
Death. Life is a woman, and Death is a man. When the world was
young, they lived together peacefully. They fathered children, the
ancestors of today’s modern Kleightonians. However, with all of
these fine-looking women scurrying about, Death was tempted, and he
slept with one of his children. This enraged Life, and she withdrew
her namesake gift from her children, the gift of her protection
from her Husband, rendering them mortal. In their ensuing feud,
Life and Death would fight for custody of their children. Death,
being slightly more powerful, always wins—after a struggle.

As they get deeper and deeper into the grim,
dead forest, gingerly stepping over bleached bones and skulls, the
pervasiveness of the silence weighs upon them. Zanther draws his
longknife.

“Why’d you do that?” Novanostrum asks.

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

Terrible things do not attack the hapless
protagonists, and continue to not do so for a while. Periodically,
Zanther feigns relaxation, then swings his long knife reflexively
in random directions.

“Maybe,” Zanther says, “all those stories
were made-up by the locals to keep the tourists away. Or, maybe
this place is so depressing all the horrible monsters killed
themselves. What do you think, Nove?”

“I think the sun’s still up.”

Madra walks along the path to Claustria, with
birds cheerily chirping in the occasional trees that line the green
meadowed lands in every direction. Aside from a few huts visible in
the distance, there’s not much to see out here.

After a while, she can spot her castle town
in the distance.
It doesn’t appear to be on fire
, she
thinks.
That’s a good sign
.

As she draws closer, though, she can see that
things don’t seem quite right. For one thing, there are an awful
lot of soldiers about, and they aren’t
her
soldiers.

She draws up close to the gate to find it
closed, with two soldiers posted as sentries.

“And just who in High Hell do you think you
are?” she asks them.

“This town is temporarily under the
protection of the Grand Pontiflex,” one of them answers.

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

“Well, we’ve been here since this morning,”
the other one says.

“You can tell the Grand Pontiflex,” Madra
says, “that his protection is not required. I’m the queen of these
lands, and I’m allowing you to take this opportunity to shove
off.”

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

Madra 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 her.
“Nobody goes in or out. Those are the orders.”

“Un-bonking-believable,” she says.

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

“I can understand your frustration, young
Miss,” he says, “I’ve been trying to reason with these gentlemen
all day, but to no avail. I’m what you might call a professional
purveyor of preventative potions, 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 motions to the wagon
behind him, the side of which bears the 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, what with all the soldiers milling
about, 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 heading to the
Universitorium?”

“Sure did. One of the finest institutions
around. Just something about books and lectures and learning that
makes people want to drink tonick.”

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

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