Red eyes stared at her from the shadows, but she hardly took notice. She backed up, her boots sloshing through the gray water. She needed the extra running space to get a good head start. She was magic, sure, but she wasn’t exactly the most athletically gifted person in any universe. Kickboxing was one thing, but her jumping without landing awkwardly and twisting her ankle was an entirely different story; one that rarely had a happy ending.
“Stop this madness!” A familiar voice rose above all the others. “What are we, barbarians?”
Maria recognized the speaker as the one called Hunter, whom she’d heard just before she and Castro had plunged into the bowels of the town. He was, judging by the crowd’s sudden silence, the head honcho. “We do not kill before Odarth breathes anew!”
The Dragon Tongue all let out a soft groan. That crowd wants blood more than they want anything else. They crave it. Maria could sense that easily enough.
“Free these prisoners from the stockades and take them back to the dungeons NOW!” Hunter boomed.
Two of the Dragon Tongue on the platform didn’t hesitate. They lifted the upper half of the wooden enclosure, and Gramps fell hard to the platform, slumped over and practically dead. Frieda wasn’t so bad off, and she put up a slight fight. Maria noticed she wore heavy metal gloves—probably to keep her from conjuring fire.
The other guard hog-tied Sherlock, wrapping the rope around his paws so they bunched together, and he lay on his back, bucking wildly.
Just able to see this through the opening where the grate was, Maria prepared to lunge again, the madness in her eyes.
Just as she took off, Castro whispered, “Maria!”
She wheeled around. “What?” she snarled.
“This way.” He was pointing to the right. There, built into the bricks, was a small slot, just big enough for a human to fit through.
“I’m going to save them right now,” she snapped. “I don’t have time to play James Bond. No more sneaking around.”
Though, somewhere in the back of Maria’s mind, a voice was telling her she did have time to play James Bond. Sneaking around and sticking to the shadows was a much better plan than to go headlong into a firefight, when the chances of coming out alive were next to nothing.
“This will take us to the dungeons,” Castro said pointedly. He stood near the slot in the brick, peering in. One glance at that small space made Maria’s muscles tense. What if I get stuck in there? What if the brick suddenly thinks it’s the perfect time to cave in while I’m crawling through the bowels of the bowels of the town?
No, can’t worry about it. Gotta play this smart.
She took a deep breath, ignoring the rotten smell the best she could—which wasn’t much. That calmed her a bit.
By this time, Sherlock, Gramps, and Frieda were being dragged from the platform. The only one who seemed to put up much of a fight now was Sherlock, but he wasn’t getting very far. Still, Maria would catch snippets of what he was saying. Get your scaly hands off of me! I’ll rip you limb from limb! I’ll make you wish you were never born—
Hearing his mental voice weighed heavy on her heart, but then they were gone. Taken to the dungeons. That weighed more.
She looked at Castro, being careful to stay out of the shifting moonlight that was streaming into the open sewer.
“Fine, fisherman, I will follow you to the dungeons,” she whispered
Castro gulped. “ ‘Follow’?”
Maria glared at him. “Yes. If you say that is the way, then you must know where to go.”
“Actually…I was planning on waiting here until those bastards up above were gone, then I was gonna crawl out before the smell of this place kills me, and get out of Ashbourne as quickly as I can.”
Maria shook her head. “Haven’t you run all your life, Castro?”
He nodded slowly. “Yes, ma’am. That’s the reason I’ve lived so long, and I mean to keep it that way.” He pointed to the small opening again. “I ain’t never been down this way; a man who plays in the sewers isn’t a man who’s right in his head. I’m judging this to be the way on instinct, and the fact that you don’t have much else of a way to go unless it’s aboveground—and we both know that probably won’t end well.” He bent and squinted to look into the slot. Neither of them could see much of anything besides the shadows and the little of the exposed brick that was lit up by Maria’s magic. “I say, there ain’t much room for error in there. Looks to me like you can only crawl one way. You won’t need me, Maria Apple.”
Maria was surprised Castro had decided to give up so quickly.
“What about your family? What about getting revenge on those who’ve taken them from you?” Maria was pushing it. She didn’t want to bring up the man’s murdered family, but she also didn’t want to go about this alone. Castro had, so far, proven to be a fine companion. One who knew the ins and outs of the town better than Maria ever could. And she felt for him, too; the man whose family was killed in cold blood. She wasn’t much for revenge before arriving in Ashbourne, but the Dragon Tongue deserved much worse than death, as far as she was concerned.
“My family is gone,” Castro said. “Not much I can do about that, is there? If I go and do a boneheaded thing, like rush into a fight I’m not ready for, it ain’t gonna do much for them at all. I’ll just be another casualty. I got alotta life ahead of me. I may not look it, but I do. I think I’ll travel west until I hit the Kingdom of Virgo. Always wanted to see it…”
Maria saw there would be no convincing him, and she also saw that his nerves would cause him to talk until his tongue fell out of his mouth.
She raised a lightly glowing hand and put on her most professional leader voice, which was a new one she had found upon learning that she wasn’t a normal Earthling, but a witch from Oriceran. “Very well, Castro.” She stuck out her hand and looked the fisherman in the eyes.
Castro took her hand reluctantly, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze. He looked at his wet moccasins instead.
“It has been a pleasure serving with you,” she said diplomatically. “I wish you the best of luck on your journey.”
Castro nodded. “Thank you, thank you.” Still, he wouldn’t look at her.
“Be safe, Castro, and know I will avenge your lost family for you, as well as avenge all those who have been lost from this fine town since the Dragon Tongue showed up.”
Castro’s lips parted as if he was going to say something, but all that came out was a wordless stammer.
She turned away from him, moving toward the opening, and took a shaky breath. She was nervous, wondering what kind of creatures lurked inside of that nook.
Can it be worse than rats? Can’t be worse than an undead Arachnid, that’s for sure, and you’ve bested one of those already. And now you’re even stronger than you were when Malakai fell to your sword. You have better control, you’ve seen a lot, and you’re Maria Fucking Apple.
Psyching herself up seemed to work initially, but a rational part of her mind kept reminding her that if she wanted to save her family before it was too late, she really didn’t have another choice but to travel by way of the tunnel.
She accepted that.
Then she went into the small space headfirst.
Hunter was in charge of the Dragon Tongue by default. No one had elected him, but no one had opposed him either. If he was being totally honest to himself, he knew he was, in fact, the best person for the job. Many feared him wherever he went, Dragon Tongue or otherwise, and ever since the long, dark night he’d suffered through almost three years previously when the Rogue Dragon, Odarth the Bright, had contacted him through a fever dream, he knew he was the only one who could actually raise the dead.
But how?
As if reading his mind, his second-in-command, Hex, spoke up. “We should’ve executed them, my lord. Odarth would welcome a blood offering.”
“Do not tell me what Odarth will and won’t welcome. Are you the one who speaks to her?”
“No…I—”
Hex began.
“Besides, the blood spilt when we took this town did nothing to wake our dragon, did it?”
“I’m sorry, Hunter. I—”
“You’d better watch your tongue, or else I will cut it out and stitch it to your eyeballs, Hex.” A headache was brewing just below the surface of Hunter’s consciousness. It felt like it was going to be a big one; an almighty thunderstorm in his head. That meant Odarth might be trying to contact him.
How long has it been? Two weeks? A month? He could not remember. Ever since the headaches had begun, time was obsolete. Hours, days, and weeks blended together into one long, endless block of existence.
“What of the Gnome?” he asked Hex. “Has he talked?”
“If he’d talked, my lord, you would’ve heard of it by now. You would be the first person the interrogators would report to.”
“They are not doing us much good, are they?”
The two Dragon Tongue leaders walked from the town square, their dark boots kicking up the dust that covered the paved road. They turned left down a market district street. Crooked tents and merchants’ stands were scattered among the ruins and dead bodies, which they hadn’t yet moved from their spots—nor would they ever. Hunter liked to think of them as final resting places.
Good riddance to all those who oppose the Dragon Tongue.
As Hex droned on about the Gnome, Hunter tuned out—mostly because the pain behind his eye sockets was now thrumming and pounding. As far as he was concerned, no news about the Gnome was important unless it involved the little bastard opening his puckered mouth.
Hex’s walk slowed. Hunter could feel his eyes boring into him.
The smell of old blood was in the air—Delicious.
“Hunter?”
“What?”
“I was saying that the interrogators were close.”
“Not close enough.”
Hex took a hesitant step back.
He knows I’m liable to blow up at him. He can read the frustration on my face. Good; I want him to fear me. I want them all to fear me.
“If the Gnome is not talking of the Rogue Dragons, then the interrogators are not doing their jobs properly. Do they know they are such a disgrace to their queen? Odarth will feast on them.”
“If she ever rises again,” Hex said quietly, but not quietly enough.
“What did you say?” Hunter demanded. He wanted to give Hex the benefit of the doubt before he killed him where he stood. He expected Hex to babble some false nonsense, rather than own up to what he said.
Surprisingly, that wasn’t the case.
Hex repeated, “If she ever does rise again, my lord. The Gnome seems to be a dead end. He is an obvious drunkard; he’s only been without the syrup for less than two nights, but you can already see it in his face. He is pale, his eyes are ringed black and blue as if he’s been punched repeatedly, and his mouth is so dry he can barely pronounce the words he speaks. I mean no disrespect to Odarth or to you, my lord, but what if the Gnome does not know the secrets to raising the Rogue Dragons from the dead? What if it can’t be done?”
Hunter disregarded most of what Hex said, except for one thing.
He brought a hand up to his face and cupped his chin, deep in thought. “Drunkard, you say? Perhaps we can use this to our advantage.”
“Gnomes are secretive bastards. Julian saw this one in Ves Ielan three days past; he’d had enough ale and wine to knock a full-grown Centaur unconscious, yet he spilled no secrets of merit—only things that everyone either already knew or had assumed…things that were not secret at all.” Hex went on, “I say we dispose of the Gnome. What good does wasting the interrogators’ time do us?”
Upon learning this new information about the Gnome, Hunter’s plan formed fully. He knew what his next step was, and it was a good feeling. He hadn’t had such a one since before the first fever dream of Odarth. Ever since then, it had seemed like the dead dragon was the puppetmaster, controlling his—the puppet’s—strings. Now that feeling was gone, thank the Flames!
He reached out and gripped Hex roughly around the shoulders. The young Dragon Tongue’s flesh paled beneath the intricate tattoos on his face. His eyes opened wider, and he gritted his teeth, no doubt expecting death.
But Hunter did not mean to deal death to his second-in-command. Not yet, at least.
“Speaking of the interrogators, Hex… I want you to dispose of them.” Hunter spoke the evil words as casually as someone asking about the weather.
Hex gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “ ‘Dispose of them’, my lord?”
“Yes, they have done us no good; they are practically traitors to the Dragon Tongue. We would be better served shedding them like a dragon sheds the dead skin from its tail. They have had their time, and now we must try something else.”
Hex stared blankly at Hunter. Hunter had never before ordered the killing of one of their own. Both of the cloaked men knew it.
But was it so odd?
No, it wasn’t. Evil was their business, and what was more evil than killing your own soldiers?
“Can you do that for me, Hex? Or will I have to promote someone else in your stead?”
He jerked and jittered, knowing full well what being ‘demoted’ meant.
“No, my lord, of course not. I will…dispose of them. Have no fear. You can count on me. May I ask what your plans are from here?”
“Yes, it’s only right that I tell you, I suppose. No secrets in the Dragon Tongue, is there, Hex?”
Hex shook his head, but his eyes told the truth. That much Hunter could see for himself, budding migraine or otherwise.
“I plan on raiding Ashbourne’s wine cellar and offering a glass to the Gnome in exchange for information. If he is as much a drunkard as you say he is, he will be unable to resist.”
“It’s only been two, going on three, days, my lord. We will have to sweat him out longer than that, don’t you suppose?”
Hunter gripped Hex again, this time a lot less gently than before.
“We don’t have any longer than that—the forces that oppose us have already come. They may be just three or five or however many, but that is just the beginning. Once word reaches the other kingdoms about what we aim to do and how close we are to doing it, an entire army, perhaps more than one, will come knocking at our gates, ready to blast us all to the world in between.”
Hex blanched. “The world in between. I don’t want to go there, my lord. Please—”
Hunter gave him a slight shake. “Then we must hurry, my friend! We must get the information we need before it is too late.”
Hex nodded.
“No worries, Hex,” Hunter said. “The Gnome knows what we need to do. Whatever it is, we will do it, and Odarth shall take to the skies again, her white wings blotting out Oriceran’s twin moons.”
“I hope so. But what if he doesn’t talk?”
Hunter let go of Hex’s shoulders and spun around. A smile was planted firmly on his face. “Oh, he will talk, my friend. He will talk indeed. An addict can never resist his temptation.”
Hunter knew that all too well. For he had devoted his life to the ancient Rogue Dragons of legend; he had become an addict, and now, with the resurrection of Odarth close enough for him to smell her dragonfire, he was already searching for his next high. And that high was destruction.
But I know Gnomes are secretive beings; I will search the Dragon Rites one last time for an answer to guide me forward, in case he doesn’t crack.
While the Dragon Tongue plotted ways to get the Gnome, Gelbus Cogspark, to talk, they had no idea they were being watched from afar.
A party of Orcs, summoned by the Widow, had made their way to the small, lakeside town of Ashbourne.
Urlik, the Orcs’ lead scout, stood on the same mountain pass that Maria, Ignatius, Frieda, and Sherlock had come from.
His troops, like the wanderers, had gone through the Trials of the Cave of Delusion. Urlik had expected the worst, knowing that the blasted
man of the mountain would be putting them through the wringer, and had mentally prepared himself to lose up to two-thirds of his army.
He did not blame himself, however. The Widow wanted the utmost haste in catching the witch from Earth and the fabled Ferod of Dominion, before they figured out what was needed to make the music box work its magic. So any lost soldiers would be pinned on the giant Arachnid bitch.
As if it will give her trouble falling asleep at night, Urlik thought bitterly. He raised the spyglass to his disfigured face, and looked out among the sleepy lake town.
Not much was happening there.
A few cloaked men congregated around a platform, prisoners in the stockades. He was too far away to make out their faces—not like Urlik cared much.
“They’re distracted,” he barked toward his soldiers. “We must strike now.”
“At night, sire?” Recneps asked. “They’ll have night watchmen on the walls.”
Urlik snarled. “Then we’ll gut them all and tear those walls down.”
A small murmur of agreement came from the crowd as they raised their weapons to the dark sky.
Urlik looked through the spyglass again. The cloaked men were dispersing. The prisoners due for execution had been dragged away with their heads. Two of the hooded figures broke off from the pack and disappeared down an alley full of empty merchant stands.
Urlik turned to face his soldiers head-on. “Remember,” he said, “we leave the Earthlings alive until the music box is ours.”
“Wut ‘bout everyone else?” Bomid asked. He was the stoutest Orc of them all, and Urlik thought he could bowl the fence down single-handedly.
Urlik grinned; his sharp, jagged teeth dripping with dark saliva. “Kill them. Kill them all.”
The Orcs cheered, and the small army moved toward the gates of Ashbourne.
Chapter Four
Maria’s prospects were looking grim.
The small duct she’d taken off the main sewer line was slowly proving to be a mistake. Damn you, Castro. I should’ve never trusted a fisherman.
Midwest Magic Chronicles Box Set Page 45