Magic Underground: The Complete Collection (Magic Underground Anthologies Book 4)

by Melinda Kucsera

  “This way,” a familiar voice ordered the newly freed troops. King Ase waved the men on, to chase Raynor.

  At the sound of Ase’s voice, Margaret leapt from the shadows, forgetting her suit of armor.

  Twenty swords swung to greet her, each pointing at a different vital organ. Ase’s sword, Gwrinhan, took aim at Margaret’s throat.

  Chapter Six

  James took a moment to steel himself before placing a trembling hand on the ornate puzzle box. He ran each finger along the seams, tracing the golden filigree crosses etched there. When he was certain he’d gotten the pattern correct, James pressed the metal replica of Thor’s hammer adorning the lid. Under his breath, he recited the secret oath to Odin and waited for the pewter hammer to warm. Then, he closed his eyes and ran his thumb across the hidden compartment beneath the box.

  With a flash of blinding light, it slid open. Inside, a small metal horsehead waited, smiling up at him.

  James slammed the box shut and stepped back. Ancient charms were notorious for misfiring. Could he risk opening a portal on the wrong end of Valonde, or worse yet, a different realm altogether? James knew the answer before he finished the thought. What choice did he have? The rune, still calling him from the other room meant swearing fealty to King Ase... again. It meant never coming home.

  James checked on the lad one last time, told him he loved him and he would bring their beloved Margaret home. Then he went solemnly to the kitchen and picked up the telephone.

  “Wilfred?” James asked into the receiver.

  “What time is it, Sir?” Wilfred asked back.

  “I dinna ken. I’m sorry. I need ye to keep watch over the lad fer a spell, please.”

  Wilfred, though woken from sleep, did not hesitate. “I’ll be right over.” Then, before hanging up, he added, “Is this about the other day? The... whatever you did to... Believe me, I’m truly grateful but... The men said you’re magic, James.”

  “Na, I’m no magic.” James almost left it at that, but not knowing what was to come, added, “I ken people who are, and one of them’s got Margaret. I hae ta...” James broke off.

  “I’m coming,” Wilfred answered and the telephone clicked.

  James replaced the receiver and waited. He took a calming drink of water, which didn’t work, and paced the room, which did. When he heard Wilfred’s boots on the porch, James looked to his lad once more. “I’m doing this fer you, lad. Please dinnae be angry.” At Wilfred’s insistent knock, James wrapped the horsehead charm in both hands and disappeared.

  Chapter Seven

  “Ase, either ye remove that sword, or I’ll remove yer hand.” Margaret grinned inside the plate helmet as she watched the shock flit across her king’s face.

  The sword fell and Ase dropped to his knees in a regal bow. “My Queen?” he said, more as a question.

  Margaret extended a metallic hand. “I need a weapon.”

  Still stunned, Ase hesitated before offering Gwrinhan.

  “Oh, no. I ken how unruly that thing is.” Margaret looked past Ase as he stood. “Anyone else?”

  From somewhere in the back, a long thin sword rose into the air. Margaret nodded and took it.

  Ase spread his arms to hug Margaret, an awkward display in any circumstance, made more uncomfortable by the plate armor clanking between them and the crowd of shocked troops surrounding the pair, some still with swords drawn.

  “How?” he asked, after giving up on the futile attempt at physical contact.

  Margaret shrugged. “He didna want me, that’s for sure.”

  Ase hung his head. “’Tis all my fault. I called your James forth, and then...” King Ase motioned around the room. “Raynor took the rune and tossed us in here.”

  Margaret raised her new sword in the air. “Aye, let’s make him regret both those decisions.”

  The men all yelled in agreement and charged down the hallway.

  Margaret, held back by the heavy armor, marveled at how safe and fearless she felt inside the contraption. Raynor’s quest for the elusive metals under Elnar made more sense. Yet she couldn’t help but wonder how Raynor compelled Sabadtein to pillage another dragon’s final resting place. It was a magic she had never seen.

  A cry rang out. Margaret ran to catch up, using the dim green glow from the dragon’s fire to guide her way.

  In an open, damp, cavernous room, stood King Raynor, holding a sword to Ase’s neck. Behind him, Sabadtein towered over both men, with a sword to his own neck. And brandishing that sword, was James.

  Chapter Eight

  One minute James was standing in his bedroom, whispering to his Grandfather’s horsehead charm, and the next minute he was flat on his back in a dark room. All around him, torches burned black, pulling wayward strands of light up and away.

  James expected to smell smoke, from the torches, and from any direction which could lead him to Raynor’s dragon. Instead, the familiar scent of electrically charged air caught him off guard. He was instantly transported back to the memory of the pit. His skin began to tingle and his soul felt lighter. The sickening pull of separation radiated from his center.

  The InBetween. As the realization dawned, James felt the last of himself blink out. He was nowhere and everywhere. Tendrils of his self floated down every tunnel at once.

  Somewhere deep in the part of him that stayed him, he knew one led to his dear Margaret, one led home to his traumatized lad, and oh so many meant certain death.

  James let the mist of himself go, tentatively feeling out every possibility. More than once, a piece of him disappeared, lost in the haze of nothing.

  Dead ends.

  He wouldn’t know which parts of himself he’d sacrificed until he was whole again... if he was whole again.

  Eventually, after near infinite simultaneous journeys, James’s self came upon two promising passages. Both felt ominous and wrong, which could only mean evil lurked on the other side. But which kind of evil? The kind that would lead to the man holding his wife? Or the kind that would leave his family to always wonder what happened to him – if he had been killed in the rescue attempt, or worse.

  James took a moment longer to say a quick prayer and gathered his self at the doorway of his choosing. A large, wooden slatted slide-bolt latched what had to be a dungeon cell.

  His hand, which felt foreign to him – how long had he been mist – brushed against something metal when reaching for the bolt. Cool steel and warm leather. His fingers curled perfectly around the hilt of a long sword. An omen or blessing? Only one way to find out.

  James flung open the door onto a maelstrom of swords and bodies and blood all moving and churning as one. The air smelled of iron and ozone and...death. None of it made sense. All James knew for sure was his Margaret was not one of them.

  Part of him wanted to turn back, choose the other door, but these men needed help. Which men, however, was the question. Until he heard his name.

  “Sweyn! Sweyn!” In the middle of the chaos stood King Ase, smiling at him as blood dribbled into the man’s eye. One hand raised in the air, Ase signaled for James to come fight at his side.

  James waded through the crowd, still unsure who was safe to attack. Before he made it to Ase, a long writhing neck rose out of the distance. A flash of green light and intense heat filled the room, followed by the choking smoke he’d expected when first transporting to this realm.

  Where there was a dragon, there would be Raynor. James charged toward the flames, sword drawn. As he did so, King Ase let out an awful noise. James turned to see King Raynor raising a bloody sword to deliver another blow to his rival.

  Raynor caught sight of James and faltered long enough for Ase to roll out of the way. But Raynor quickly recovered and held the tip of his sword to Ase’s throat. The dragon roared and opened his mouth to let out another rain of fire when James leapt onto its back.

  “Raynor!” James growled, his sword at the jawline of the bucking dragon. “Where’s my wife?”

  King Raynor�
��s lips widened in what could not be considered a smile. “Gone,” he hissed.

  “As will you be.” James pushed the tip of his blade under Sabadtein’s scales.

  The battle raged on around them, except for the small radius where they stood, locked in an armistice.

  Then, out of nowhere, a hulking metal man came marching toward them. In its hand, James saw a long sword, a near perfect match of the one he now held at the dragon’s throat. Since when did Raynor’s magic work on metal?

  James didn’t know whether to keep his sword trained on the dragon or point it at the knight coming his way. When the dark knight began swiping down men left and right, clearing a path directly to him, James raised his sword.

  Chapter Nine

  Margaret stood in mute shock at the sight of James atop the dragon, sword drawn, jaw clenched in fury. She hadn’t seen this side of him in ages. She wondered how much of him missed the thrill of battle. How much of him regretted fleeing his post with her and the baby?

  A sharp blow glanced off the side of her armor, bringing her back to the here and now. With ease, Margaret sliced down the man at her side. She realized, after delivering the blow, that the devious king had dressed his army in her kingdom’s leathers.

  Margaret swiped at the camouflaged soldiers to her left and right. Then another, and another. Raynor’s soldiers would not get the chance to harm her husband or her king.

  “James, oh James. I thought I’d never see you again,” Margaret called to him over the cries of battle.

  As Margaret cut through the last man between her and James, she watched in horror as his sword turned from the dragon’s neck to her.

  “Please, James!” she yelled, but it was no use. He couldn’t hear her.

  It all happened so fast.

  James soared through the air, sword raised over his head in both hands.

  Ase cried out a strangled warning from somewhere unseen.

  Margaret lifted her helmet to show her face.

  And the sword sliced through her flesh.

  Up next in “Dreams of Valonde,” James and Jim are left alone to fend for themselves without their dear wife and mother, in a realm they only came to for Margaret. When both keep having strange dreams about a battle and dragons, James starts to wonder if the horrible world he’s built for them is a mask of something worse. Find out in the finale in Forgotten Magic now!

  About the Author

  Toasha Jiordano has been writing most of her life, as far back as she can remember. She still has many of her childhood notebooks filled to bursting with magical tales and daring escapades. She loves the smell of old books and the comfort of old furniture. That’s why most of her novels are written at an antique roll-top desk, which may or may not have a quill and ink set waiting for its next adventure.

  For more information about the author, please visit: www.toasha-jiordano.com

  Don't forget to grab your copy of the next anthology, Forgotten Magic, for the thrilling conclusion!

  Better the Devil You Know

  S. Wallace

  Sometimes magic drifts away, or its user is possessed of a capricious nature. What if the source of your magic— which you most need was least reliable? This is not just a tale of battle and death but of magic that must be wrestled and bartered, magic that may not serve and the consequence if it turns away from the good.

  S. Wallace

  Al’rashal and Urkjorman have served the Baron of Wings for ten long and bloody years. Now that time has ended. They have but one simple task left them. But is any task for the baron ever simple? They will be tested by steel and spell and have to decide which is more important, family or integrity?

  Chapter One

  Obligation

  “Execute them.”

  The words were cast into the air with such mirth and ease that at first no one realized they had been spoken. Then, moment by moment, realization filled the chamber with horror and silence. Al’rashal looked about the dark chamber, first to the soldiers obscured in shadow, then to her husband, Urkjorman. No one moved; no one spoke. Finally, her gaze fell on the disheveled man bound in chains before their master.

  “W-what?” said Borden as the words sank in.

  The Baron of Wings leaned forward. The column of light at the chamber’s heart cast most of him into shadow, so he looked less like a person and more like a collage of darkness that smiled. Black eyes that seemed equal parts mirth and malevolence transfixed Borden with their scrutiny. “My dear Borden, you have failed me, and failure comes with a price.”

  “That’s madness!” exclaimed the condemned. “I did everything you asked for. I—”

  “Almost everything,” the baron interrupted. “You had but to bring the Bloom of Kaylisis to Honored Gyn, and you failed. You failed, you lied, and you ran.”

  “This is ridiculous! I did what you demanded for seven years! Seven years! And now, when you must pay what I am owed, you give me an impossible task?”

  “Was it not you who said, ‘I swear on my life I will carry the blossom to its final resting place’?”

  Silence and anger were Borden’s response.

  The baron leaned back so he was almost completely wrapped in shadows. “You should not have promised a thing you could not deliver, Borden.” Finality echoed in those words. The baron looked up, his dark eyes settling on the minotaur. “Urkjorman, execute him.”

  “Me?” asked Urk. “We agreed to his retrieval, not death.”

  “And you agreed to serve at my pleasure. And this would please me oh-so much. You do intend to honor our agreement, do you not?”

  The sound of swords sliding an inch from their scabbards circled the room.

  “Yes.” Urk grasped Borden by the chains binding him and pulled the man to his feet. He gave the human a moment to compose himself and glare defiantly at the Baron of Wings. Urk lifted his ax, and the baron raised a hand.

  “Any last words?”

  “Yes,” said Borden, but he turned his gaze from the baron to look up at the minotaur beside him. “Never make a deal with the Auvithia.”

  The baron dropped his hand, and Urk dropped his ax. The head came away cleanly and rolled across the floor. The baron stepped from his throne to reach into the light and lift the severed head from the ground. “Never break a deal with Auvithia.”

  “Is there anything else you want of us?” asked Urkjorman.

  “No,” answered the baron with a dismissive wave as he retreated completely into the darkness. “Just be away with this mess, if you would.”

  They felt more than heard the baron and his retinue leave the chamber. Once she felt they were alone, Al’rashal turned to her husband. “Was that what we signed up for?”

  “Service demands sacrifice.”

  Al’rashal helped her husband carry the body of Borden through the castle halls. Urkjorman didn’t need the help—in truth, either of them could have easily carried the body—but it somehow felt right to share the burden. She had worked as hard as Urk to bring the man before the baron, so his death was as much on her as her husband. The pixies, sprites, and all manner of fairies flitted about the Aerie, giving the two a wide berth but otherwise ignoring the bleeding corpse they carried through the halls. Are they too afraid to acknowledge it, or too indifferent? Which is worse?

  Her thoughts were washed away by the chill afternoon air and the scent of wildflowers as they exited the castle and stepped onto the Mourning Field. The setting sun painted the sky violet as gold-orange rays washed the field and left deep swaths of darkness between the trees. Soon the sound of gentle laughter entered the air as the dryads caught the scent of fresh blood. Feminine things, with hair the color of grass and flesh the hue of wood, prowled forward as large, fang-filled smiles spread across their faces. They approached like a pack of hungry wolves. Al drew her lance and waved it at the dryads, causing the things to recoil as though the steel polearm were made of fire.

  One of the dryads came forward, with arms outstretched to accept Bo
rden’s body. “Flesh for the soil, blood for my roots, let us bury this mortal that trees take root.”

  Al and Urk handed over the corpse, and the dryad took the body back to her sisters. The earth hollowed as they sank into the ground, their hands turning into roots, their teeth sinking into flesh.

  “Borden,” said Urk as he handed them the severed skull. “Never forget the name. Borden.”

  “Borden, Borden, Borden,” they chanted repeatedly as the corpse was pulled under the earth and the dryads with it.

  Al shuddered. She understood they were doing as all plants do, reclaiming the bodies of the dead, but to see the glee and the hunger with which they did it disturbed her. Urk rested a hand on her shoulder, and she rested hers atop his to squeeze it. “How long before our bodies are pulled into the dirt?”

  “Many, many years yet,” said Urk as they began walking back to the castle.

  “I’m sure Borden thought that, before the baron changed the deal.”

  “Borden failed. Borden failed and ran from that failure. We have never fled our failures.”

  “Instead, we’re rewarded with greater challenges and more dangers.”

  “Nothing beyond us.”

  Al’rashal stopped, grasped her husband’s face, and turned his head so she could look in his good eye and not the eyepatch covering his left. “And how much longer can we do that? Tracking down Borden almost killed us both; the last two years almost killed us a dozen times.”

  “Have faith, Al, for a few days more.”

  “A few days, and somehow I feel even further from our dreams than I did ten years ago when we agreed to this.”