The Brutal Time Special Edition

by Christina Bauer

  Ah, there you are.

  A moment later, a cacophony of screams fill my head, a noise that only I can hear. A million terrified voices screech at once. Normally, only the dark igni yell their little guts out. This time, all of them are upset. Very clear statements of rage and fear echo over the din, namely:

  “You’re not our Great Scala!”

  “NOT OUR GREAT SCALA!”

  “NOOOOOT OOOOUR GREEEEEAT SCAAAALLLLLAAA!”

  “AAARRRRRRGH!”

  Once my igni start doing pirate impressions, I know it’s time to cut them loose. “Ok, little dudes,” I exclaim. “Forget I said anything. Sheesh.”

  With a burst of brightness, the many lightning bolts vanish. I’m glad to have my sanity back, but the no-igni-help thing is a downer. My supernatural powers would have been useful.

  At least, that wagon is still approaching. That said, it’s rather far away. Thanks to Allimari, I’m now an expert in slow-moving entities. This will take a while. I plunk down by the side of the road.

  Guess there’s nothing to do now but wait, and hope whoever drives that wagon is friendly.

  24

  Lincoln

  I can only stare at the place where Myla once stood. Moments ago, my wife snapped her signet band. Afterward, she vanished in a swirl of purple smoke.

  Gone.

  For my part, I attempted to break the ring while speaking the correct incantation. Yet no matter how hard I tried, my ring stayed annoyingly whole. Instead of snapping, an electric charge of magic would skitter across my fingers.

  No question what the issue is here. I know when an otherworldly power is fighting me. Something or someone doesn’t want me journeying through time.

  Well, this isn’t my first round of dealing with quirky supernatural items. I’ll get the spell to function. I always do.

  The Archdemon of Lust steps closer, his pale face turning purple with rage. He may not be the snappiest dresser, but at eight feet tall, he doesn’t really have to be. Behind him, Lester’s minions move nearer as well. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy a nice battle—and these dancing demons would be an interesting fight—but the fact remains.

  Leaving Myla alone in time is simply not an option.

  Focusing my energy, I pull deep into my soul, tapping into my angelic power. A chill pools behind my eyes. No doubt, my irises now glow blue. Channeling my inner magic, I grip the ring once more and speak the incantation.

  “World and care

  Take me there”

  Crack!

  This time, the band breaks in two. Excitement and relief wash through me. Purple smoke appears everywhere. An electric sense of power tightens my skin. Violet lights flash. The world fades away under a colored haze.

  My body floats upward. More mists swirl around me, creating a wall of cloud that I can’t see past. Deep rumbles shake the air. A woman’s voice sounds in the mists. her tone is familiar and not all at once.

  “I tried to stop you from following, yet if you insist…”

  Although I don’t know the speaker, there are some rules of magic that never change. Whoever is speaking, she’s casting a powerful spell.

  The haze vanishes. Violet lights fade. One moment, I’m floating in a cloud of mist and power. The next, I stand outside a familiar spot, even though it’s one I’ve only seen in books.

  Pendragon castle. This is the seat of King Arthur’s father.

  Turns out, the illustration in Maxon’s book is rather accurate. The castle is a blocky structure with thin windows and wide moat. Reaching out, I touch the familiar pattern of dark and light stone.

  I can’t believe it. I’m actually in King Arthur’s day.

  Or am I? There’s one way to be certain.

  I step around to the castle’s front. The red drawbridge is pulled up against the building’s facade. A pair of tattered pennants hang from nearby window-holes. Both show a grey dragon sewn on a black background. Latin words appear at the bottom: the king is gone, the castle sleeps.

  That confirms it. After the Pendragon died, his home was closed up and all serfs were turned into freedmen. I’ve definitely been transported to the time of King Arthur. More specifically, I’ve arrived about twenty years after the Pendragon’s death. My thoughts spin through everything I know of this era. By this point, King Arthur has locked up all the archdemons under this very castle. Colossus lies in a dungeon under Camelot.

  And that’s where I need to go. Camelot. The other eight archdemons are nothing without their king. Fortunately, Maxon isn’t the only one who obsessed about King Arhur. I followed all things Arthurian as well. I even kept detailed maps of this area, so I know Camelot is a few days’ journey from here. I can certainly walk the distance, but not in a modern suit.

  What a situation.

  My life has been one long Renaissance Faire with every kind of medieval trinket at my royal disposal. Now I travel to the actual middle ages and I’m wearing a business suit.

  Nicely played, fate.

  At least, there are a few fashion changes I can quickly make. My jacket and tie get tossed into the nearby moat. Next I roll up my sleeves and untuck my shirt. With any luck, I appear like someone wearing an oddly-shaped tunic.

  Bang!

  An explosion rocks the air. The ground shimmies. Smoke pours out from every window-hole in the castle. My pulse speeds. Kneeling down, I touch the earth. No question where the blast itself took place: below ground. Which means the dungeons were the target. Did the other eight archdemons get loose?

  Before, the drawbridge rested silently against the castle’s facade. Now it shivers and creaks. My eyes widen. A realization appears.

  Oh, they’re loose alright.

  I steal around to the castle’s side. Careful to keep my body hidden, I peep around the wall’s edge. Perfect. This spot affords me an excellent view of the front drawbridge.

  The rattle of chains sounds as the drawbridge lowers. The massive wooden plank hits the ground with a thud.

  A figure in a red fur cloak trots out on a white mare. A roughly-stitched leather hood is pulled low over the rider’s face.

  Memories appear. Myla described one of the quilts the wrath coven made. It showed a figure in a red cloak who rose a white horse. The Crimson Scourge. Could this be the same mage? Myla had sent out request after request for any background on this witch or wizard. No one could find a thing.

  More figures march out behind the cloaked rider. Sure enough, all eight archdemons file out onto the drawbridge.

  There are Null and Rage, the pair that look like knights. Plain and Vain, who wear long cloaks. The skeleton figures of Skyn and Bone. Even Lester’s here, wearing his puffy shorts and a wide hat while carrying a lute. And finally, there stands Ximena. She’s the Archdemon of Lust and Wrath. Although Ximena can shift into dragon form, she now appears as a petite woman with cocoa-colored skin and long brown hair.

  I brace myself, waiting for the wallop of power that comes from being near a greater demon. After all, Armageddon packed a major hit. It’s true that Lester didn’t have any unsavory side effects from being near him, but these are all eight archdemons at once. Some of them should surely force emotions through me.

  Fear.

  Rage.

  Lust.

  Yet nothing happens. I always knew the archdemons got super-charged once Colossus possessed them. After all, that’s why they were imprisoned separately from their king in the first place. Seems that solo weakness stuff is even more dramatic than I expected. This fact shines as a ray of hope in an otherwise bleak day.

  Back on the drawbridge, the archdemons bow to the rider. Ximena rises first and speaks. “Crimson Scourge, we praise you for giving us our freedom.”

  A knight in rusted armor speaks next. It’s Null, the Archdemon of Sloth. “We are incomplete without our king.”

  Ximena rounds on Null. “The Seven are incomplete without Colossus. I suffer no such limitations.” She focuses on the Crimson Scourge. “We shall meet again at Camelot
.”

  No question what they plan to do there. Free Colossus. I picture all the images I’ve seen of that archdemon king in action. He revels in any kill that’s particularly bloody.

  At least, Colossus isn’t free yet. I take that as another ray of hope.

  The Crimson Scourge takes off at a gallop. Meanwhile, Ximena rounds on the other archdemons. “Who remembers what happened right before we were all imprisoned?”

  Lester plucks out a tune on his lyre while singing to the refrain from Greensleeves.

  A blonde wench was all my joy

  Her bosom was my deliiiiiiiight

  “Quiet, Lester.” Ximena shakes her head. “Seems I must remind you, after all. We angered the Almighty by appearing too often to humans on Earth. Now we’re free. But if we use magic or kill wantonly, then the archangels will—” Ximena rolls her hand, encouraging them to think.

  My chest tightens. Ximena is a lust and wrath demon, just like my Myla. That hand movement is something my wife does often.

  Please, let Myla be safe, alive, and nearby.

  “Ugh.” Ximena growls. “The archangels said they would fly down from Heaven and kill us all. Therefore, we must hold to the plan from the Crimson Scourge. We walk to Camelot and address King Arthur. There, we make our case that we’ve all learned our lessons. Along the way, none of us can appear to any humans. No magic. No gruesome deaths. Once the King Arthur is convinced, then we’ll hold our special party, right?” Ximena scans the faces around her.

  Blank stares are her only reply.

  “Damn.” Ximena sighs. “I can not be locked up with you lot again.”

  Clearly, outside of Ximena, these archdemons are not sharpest blades in the demonic knife drawer. No wonder King Arthur was able to slap all eight of them into a prison.

  It’s logical and yet … I’ve spent so much time reading the Arthurian legends. It seems impossible that Dalston Rusus the Bard could be so inaccurate.

  “Let me try this again,” says Ximena. “After we hold the special party, we can take care of the archangels and then free Colossus.”

  Rage, the Archdemon of Wrath, raises his fist. “COLOSSUS!”

  “I want to be Colossus.” That’s Plain, the Archdemon of Envy.

  “Will they have food at Camelot?” asks the Archdemon of Gluttony.

  Ximena claps her hands. “Attention!” The group quiets. “Here’s what happens next. We’ll break out into three groups so we don’t attract attention from humans. None of us will show our demonic powers. I’ll travel by road with Null and Rage. Plain, Vain, and Lester, you journey by river. Skyn and Bone, you take the mountain route. We’ll all meet at Camelot in two days.”

  Null raises his hand. “Why don’t we transport now?”

  “Because we’re repentant, remember?” asks Ximena. “No magic, no kills, no seductions. We follow the rules of the Almighty and do nothing to alert humans about our true nature. They are unable to see our demonic side unless we unleash it for them.”

  “We will heed your words,” says Vain.

  “Thank you.” Ximena waves to Null and Rage. “Let us set off.”

  All the archdemons tromp away from the drawbridge. From there, they do indeed split into three parties. No question what group I’ll follow. Ximena’s. She’s lust and wrath, just like Myla. I know how the Furor dragon mind works.

  A plan quickly takes shape. It’s a rough scheme, but it may be a way for me to officially join Ximena’s group.

  Careful to stay hidden, I follow Ximena, Null, and Rage. As I move along, fresh images appear in my mind. I see Myla’s eyes flashing red after we share a fierce kiss … baby Maxon giggling while clasping his toes … And my people lining up their boats on the Incaneda river, eager for a blessing. Right now, those memories never truly existed.

  My plan has to work.

  I can’t lose them.

  25

  Myla

  The wagon rolls along the twisty road. It’s heading in my direction, it’s just taking for-freaking-ever to get here. I spend the time picking lint off my Scala robes and trying not to freak out.

  At one point, there’s a boom that sounds a lot like thunder. But no clouds show up, so I can’t even get distracted by the weather. Unfortunately, the waiting gives my normally-hyper mind a chance to go into overdrive, imagining all the horrible things that might be happening to Lincoln right now.

  What I wouldn’t give for a deck of cards at this point. All this thinking is making me twitchy.

  At last, the wagon rolls to a stop beside me. An old man and woman sit at the driver’s bench. They’re both pale, stooped and white-haired with sparkly blue eyes and clothing that can only be described as rags. I quickly catalog the threat level.

  They’re cute.

  Definitely slow moving.

  In fact, I’m surprised they aren’t dead.

  All in all? Harmless.

  One drawback: I have no idea if my version of English will make any sense to them. So I decide to speak in small sentences and with over-the-top hand motions. Hey, it works for Tarzan. Why not me?

  “Me Myla.” I tap my chest. “Come from far away in future.” I gesture toward the horizon.

  There. That was perfect.

  The couple stare at me for a moment. Actually, it’s more like five long seconds, and I’m starting to wonder if I should do my Tarzan speech again. At last, the old woman speaks.

  “You were the one with the vision.” She elbows the guy next to her. “Why must we meet her at this moment? Who is she?”

  The old dude gestures at my head. “Look at her hair. This wench is none other than the Crimson Scourge, sent here to free Colossus and end the world.”

  Now that was a lot of blah-blah and hair shaming. Even so, there are two important pieces of info. First, if these two think I’m the Crimson Scourge sent to free Colossus, then the archdemon king is still locked up. Nice. Second, the lady said the guy got visions. He must be a mage. Maybe she is, too, but one thing at a time.

  “Let me get this straight,” I say. “Did you two have a premonition to roll over here and check me out?”

  The old guy now speaks in what I consider to be an exaggerated warble. “I don’t know what you mean, child.”

  That’s a yes.

  And that false voice raises a good question. If the old-guy accent is a fraud, then what else is bogus? An idea appears. I’ve seen my share of illusion charms at work. I even know a good trick for sussing them out. Tilting my head, I scan the edges of the wagon. Sometimes basic illusions can’t stand up to close inspection against direct sunlight.

  Ha! Sure enough, the top of the wooden wagon is semi-transparent.

  “You—” I point to the guy “—are a mage who’s sees the future. Ergo, you can understand me perfectly well. Let’s talk.” Let the record show I’m especially happy with my use of the word ergo. It sounds vaguely medieval.

  The pair stare forward in silence. So irritating.

  “Hey, I’ve got all day.” To highlight that point, I fold my arms over my chest. “Show me your true selves so we can have a real conversation. If you’re magical, then you know I am as well.” Never one to miss an entrance, my tail arcs over my shoulder to wave at the couple.

  “Fine.” The woman raises her hand while whispering an incantation. Within seconds, blue smoke surrounds both her and the guy. When the mist vanishes, the old couple are gone. The wagon is toast, too. Instead, I look upon a young couple. Both can’t be more than teenagers, although with magic users, it can be tough to tell.

  “I’m Nimue,” says the girl. Without the obfuscation spell, I catch the hint of an accent in her voice. I’m no expert in languages, but her cadence reminds me of Mandarin. Her face holds the permanent look of a smile. In terms of clothes, she wears a blue silk robe that’s tied at the waist. There’s no wagon anymore; now she’s riding a gray horse.

  And her name is Nimue.

  Huh. There was a water nymph by that name who lured Merlin out of Camelo
t. She’s a big villain in the stories of Dalston Rusus the Bard. Can this Nimue be the same person? I frown, considering. Then I come to a conclusion.

  It’s probably her. This is my life, after all.

  The guy beside her speaks next. “I’m Merlin.”

  Like Nimue, this Merlin is tall, lean and wearing a silk robe that’s tied at his waist. Both of them sport long braids that swing down their backs. Merlin’s robe is black, which is the same color as his horse. The big difference is that Merlin has flecks of gray at his temples, as well as a permanent squint to his expression. It’s like someone’s about to hit him in the face with a baseball bat, and he is forever awaiting the blow.

  “I’m Myla, by the way. And are you two the Merlin and Nimue?”

  “Do you mean the ones sung about by Dalston Rusus the Bard?” asks Merlin.

  “Bingo.” The pair eye me with what can only be called deadpan stares. “You do know what bingo means, right?”

  “We understand the modern way of speech,” says Nimue. “It goes with the power to see the future. There is something else that concerns my brother.”

  Getting his cue, Merlin points at my face. “You are not the Crimson Scourge! Even that fiend knows better than to listen to Dalston Rusus. That bard has twisted our sagas beyond repair.”

  Merlin may not be an old guy, but he certainly acts like one. I throw up hands. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.” I gesture to my face. “My name is Myla. My-la. Not the Crimson Scourge.”

  Merlin turns to the girl. “Come sister, let us depart.”

  “Whoa, there. You’re brother and sister?”

  In reply, Merlin and Nimue shoot me stares that can only be described as, are you freaking kidding me?

  “Okay, I take it back. Total family resemblance here.”

  “We are holders of truth,” states Merlin. “Unlike that bard.”

  “Hey, I get what it’s like when your story is warped. Case in point. Two months ago, I got this big zit on my nose.” Some part of me knows I’m babbling, but I can’t seem to stop. “I know, gross. But the Purgatory Enquirer ran a front page story saying I had an alien parasite on my face. It was a whole thing.”