Vicious Magick (8 page)

A few hours pass, and 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 gray storm
clouds occupying the sky.

“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 place. I’m not even tired.”

They continue walking for a while longer.
Almost all 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.”

So they walk faster. They hear the sounds of
insects in the distance, of rustling in the trees. They hear the
calls of beasts.

“The dead forest is come alive,” Novanostrum
says, “brace yourself.”

The sun paints a glorious multi-colored
horizon as it makes its escape. Sogbottom’s horse looks older than
its owner, but still manages to clomp along at a decent pace, each
footfall an obstinate affirmation of its refusal to die.

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

“Actually, I know a little shortcut that
involves going around it.”

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

“You have to think of time in relative terms.
Going
around
the Deathstretch takes about two days, going
through
it and dying takes an eternity.”

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

The attack comes from all directions.
Tentacles slither out of nearby ponds to grab their feet. Winged
reptiles swoop down upon them. Furry, clawed animals of various
shapes, some like scorpions, some like spiders, materialize in the
shadows, their outlines and glowing eyes the only parts of them
visible in the muted light.

As the animals close in, Novanostrum does his
time dilation bit and Zanther is able to see only the blood in the
veins of the beasts as he starts hacking and slicing his way
indiscriminately through the fell flesh of the monsters in the
immediate vicinity.

After what would seem like a few seconds to
an outside observer, Zanther collapses to his knee, gasping for
breath. Bloody limbs fall and splatter to the ground almost in
unison.

Novanostrum draws his pipe. “That wasn’t so
bad, was it?”

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 then that the second wave comes,
hundreds of nightmares charging them from all angles and
directions. Even the trees seem to be stretching their dead grasp
towards the two of them. Novanostrum tosses down his pipe and
Zanther springs into action, hacking and attacking everything he
can.

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

Novanostrum laughs like an overexcited six
year-old banshee and reaches inside the sleeve of his robe. He
produces a five-foot long wooden staff with a knobbed end, leaving
Zanther to wonder just how in the hell he’s managed to conceal this
thing upon his person.

He slams the end of his staff onto the
ground, sending a shockwave outward in all directions. Zanther
falls on his ass, and the beasts take a few paces backwards.
Novanostrum waves his staff around in a circle and their perimeter
is lined by flames. He then points it towards various points in the
sky and lightning bolts start to rain down upon the beasts.

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

And just as quickly as they started, the
fireworks are over. The lightning stops, the flames go out, and all
that remains are some chunks of smoldering flesh and charred
branches.

Zanther nods and says, “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.”

Sogbottom has parked his wagon, and he and
Madra are inside, each wrapped in a blanket on the two bunks
folding out of the wall. While Sogbottom snores melodically, Madra
stares at the plank of the bunk above her.

It takes time, but sleep eventually comes for
her.

Finally out of the Deathstretch and into a
decent pub on the outskirts of the Universitorium, Zanther regales
a young woman with tales of his and Novanostrum’s exploits.

“There were all these monsters, fiercer than
lions and uglier than Novanostrum, if that’s possible, and he was
all like ‘zap!’ and ‘ka-pow!’ and shooting them with lightning. But
they kept coming! So I had to step in and cut them down.”

She rolls her eyes and takes another pull of
the wine in her glass. There are four sitting at their table.
Novanostrum and Zanther are joined by the girl and by a bookish
fellow just past middle-age. He’s studying the map, crinkling his
eyebrows, scratching his head, and stroking his beard.

“It looks like it’s written in characters
used by the Nasonic Monks who live deep in the mountains.”

“Can you read it?” Novanostrum asks.

“Few can read it. Only the most revered
Nasonic Monks are allowed to read and write the sacred text.”

“Well, this is supposed to be an institution
of higher learning, is it not? There’s nobody here who can read
it?”