Chapter 11
Madra sits across the table from Varello as he bites into a steaming leg of goat. They are alone in the small, plain dining room traditionally used by Claustrian royalty when they wish to avoid ceremony. She watches as the juices from the meat drip down his gray stubble.
“How can you eat at a time like this?” she asks.
He gives her a puzzled look. “A time like what? Any time is a good time for eating.”
“Novanostrum and Zanther are braving untold horrors battling a goddess and we’re just sitting here, doing nothing.”
“Yes, well, it’s times like these when I usually play a little music to calm my nerves.”
“Could you play a little tune for me? I think it would help my nerves, too.”
He frowns. “I lost my lute when your skyyacht blew up. Besides, my magic seems to have left me.”
She claps, and a female servant appears. “Fetch us a lute, and a few glasses of wine.”
It takes but a moment for her to reappear with a dusty instrument and a few glasses of purple wine on a tray. Varello wipes his mouth and his hands on his napkin and takes a sip of wine before picking up the instrument and dusting it off. He plucks each of the strings, twisting the tiny metal knobs to make adjustments as he searches for a suitable tuning.
Madra takes a deep draught of her wine and smiles as he begins strumming a few simple chords. Varello sings a Paterlinguan lullaby, the lyrics describing horrific monsters abducting children and eating them. The song is filled with nonsense words, and Madra giggles as he plays. The climax of the song involves a child daring to fight back against his captors and being torn into pieces. He finishes, and sets the lute against a table leg.
“That wasn’t so bad,” she says.
Varello smiles. “I can feel it! My musical mojo has been restored. I’m not sure what happened, but I’m sure it has something to do with Zanther and Novanostrum’s efforts.”
Madra sighs. “Do you really think Novanostrum would kill Risma? She saved us once, you know. And I do believe he has feelings for her. Despite everything that’s happened, I can’t help but feel a little sorry for her.”
Varello reaches across the table and gives her hand a reassuring pat. “Despite his age, Novanostrum possesses no small amount of wisdom. He will do whatever he feels is necessary.”
Zanther and Novanostrum exit the Knot via a service entrance leading to an alley. The screams and occasional explosions of the pandemonium gripping Arcania have settled down to a dull roar as Novanostrum reaches into his sleeve.
“It’s...not here,” he says.
“Where else would it be?” Zanther asks, “we’d have noticed if you dropped it.”
Novanostrum blinks as he has a small moment of clarity. “She must have snatched the globe and the compass when she embraced me.”
Zanther nods for a moment and starts walking.
“Where are you going?” Novanostrum asks.
“I could use a drink.”
The two of them walk a few blocks through the bedlam. A few soldiers and wizards halfheartedly exchange blows, and plumes of smoke rise from many of the buildings. While a small number of random citizens engage in looting, most of the populace remains hidden. Novanostrum and Zanther watch as a Paterlinguan, recognizable by his grammatically correct outfit, rushes by while screaming alphabetized curses.
Zanther pauses in front of a small doorway, looking inside a window. There’s a sign above the door that says ‘Pocalypse Pub’. Zanther opens the door and steps inside, gesturing for Novanostrum to follow.
The people inside the establishment seem so preoccupied with their eating and drinking and conversing that they take no notice of the small war taking place outside. Novanostrum blinks in disbelief as he observes the strange clothing of people he guesses are from many different lands, with nearly every table speaking a different unintelligible language.
A short, plain-looking girl approaches them and shows them to a table.
“Don’t tell me,” she says, “a giant mug of beer for you,” she says, pointing at Novanostrum, “and a Mongovian Brain Buster for you,” she says as her finger lands in front of Zanther.
They both nod, stunned, their eyes following her as she walks away.
Novanostrum shrugs it off, regaining his ire. “I still can’t believe she stole my Globotransmitrix and my Compassitor.”
Zanther laughs. “Guess she wants to spend her mortality travelling in style. She won’t be able to create any portals like she did back in Darrinia. I mean, it does explain why she brought us here to begin with.”
Novanostrum shoots him a glance. “What do you mean by that?”
Zanther shrugs. “Don’t you think it’s odd that the ship happened to crash in the immediate vicinity of the one magickal object needed to activate that globey thing? Don’t you think it’s odd that Varello happened to stumble across that particular prophecy?”
“Well, it could simply be the machinations of fate.”
Zanther shakes his head. “Seems too much like a deus ex machina to me.”
“With a goddess involved, that should come as no surprise.”
Madra walks through the dead woods, the chalky forest losing only a tiny portion of its foreboding ambience in the foggy haze of what passes for daylight in the Deathstretch.
Not a sound can be heard for a thousand man-lengths in any direction, save for the soft patter of her footfalls on the dusty earth beneath her feet. She approaches a fork in the path and chooses the left fork. After a short time, she spots a small cabin. She opens the front door and steps inside.
He’s sitting in what might have once been a plush chair, its stuffing peeking out seams and tears. He holds a long pipe in his hand and smoke emerges from inside the shadow of his hood.
“Well, you have it, do you not?”
She smiles. “That I do. It was where you said it would be.”
“And it appears you have kept up your end of the bargain as well,” he says, pointing at a copy of the Kleighton Gadabout sitting on a small table, “which begs the question, what are you here for?”
“As if you don’t know,” she huffs, “you conveniently forgot to mention anything about a ritual being required to use the idol.”
He blows out another puff of smoke. “I wanted to see if you’d really be able to pull it off. Were he or any of his friends harmed?”
She gazes into the black void of his hood. “I’m sure there were a few scrapes and bruises...and bite marks, but they’re no worse for the wear.”
As she speaks, he gazes at her face, gauging the truth of her words. He hesitates for a moment before he replies.
“I...as you know, one of the tricks I’ve picked up is the ability to be able to tell if people are lying to me. However, I have my doubts about how well that would work on someone of your ilk. Do you have any proof you are telling me the truth?”
She pats her belly. “I wouldn’t hurt the father of my future child, nor would I want to upset him by harming his friends.”
The man’s pipe falls to the floor as he suddenly stands in shock. “The...father?”
She smiles and indicates her stomach again with her pointer finger. “Yes. Looks like you’re going to be a grandfather.”
He blinks a few times in disbelief. “So...that ritual. I believe there’s a book somewhere which describes it in detail--once I find it, we can make the preparations.”
Books in the Vicious Magick series:
Vicious Magick
Livid Steel
Seductive Silence
The Legend of Zanther
Mystickal Melody
Knives and Needles
Toil and Trouble
Dearly Detested (coming soon)
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Livid Steel Page 11