Midwest Magic Chronicles Box Set

by Flint Maxwell

  Until now.

  If the young witch possessed Anwyn’s sword, that meant she possessed his power. Hex had not seen what she could do firsthand, but he had seen the aftermath—five Dragon Tongue slain as if they were nothing but lowly commoners, and not the practiced dark magicians they truly were.

  “Master?” Hex said again. Beneath Hunter’s facial tattoos, his skin had gone pale.

  It was only then that Hex noticed that most of the workers had stopped doing what they were supposed to be doing and were now watching the two of them with morbid curiosity.

  Hunter must’ve seen Hex taking in all of the workers, for he whirled around, his eyes burning brighter than before and anger etched across his face, and screamed at them. “Back to work, or I’ll have all of your heads!”

  They quickly returned to their tasks, rolling the barrels toward the fishing boats while the others lifted them into their cargo holds.

  “Master, I know, it cannot be true—” Hex began only to be cut off by Hunter.

  “Where is he?”

  “Who?”

  Hunter growled. “Who do you think? The one who has seen the young woman and her sword. Was it Macran?”

  Hex shook his head slowly, looking downward. “No, I’m afraid Macran was murdered.”

  “Good. I never liked him.”

  “It was Lance,” Hex finished.

  “I never liked him much, either. Where is he?” Some calm started to return to Hunter’s voice. Somehow, this was just as frightening.

  “He is still in the prison keep. Some of my men—”

  “My men,” Hunter interrupted.

  “Yes, Master, your men— are back at the keep, investigating the situation. It seems the young woman came in from sewage pipes.”

  “What of the Gnome?”

  “Gone, my lord.”

  Hunter ground his teeth so hard that Hex could hear his master’s molars turning to bone dust in the back of his mouth. He cringed at the noise. It was one he could almost feel.

  “I told Macran to dispose of the Gnome if he wouldn’t talk! No matter, I’ve gotten the information I need, and the plans are in motion. We light the lake on fire in less than half an hour. It’s amazing what one can find if they search in their own heart.” He tapped his chest with a fist.

  Hex didn’t think there was much of a heart inside there. Just as it should be. He spoke up again. “Perhaps they were just here to break the Gnome out?” His voice was hopeful.

  “No, no, if it were that simple, this young witch wouldn’t have Anwyn’s blade. No matter. There will be no stopping the resurrection now.” He turned toward the men and shouted, “Fuel it up!”

  “But sir—” one of the soldiers said.

  “No ‘but’s. Move out! Now!”

  The soldier nodded and the skin around his burning eyes bunched into a pained stare. “As you wish.” He motioned to the men near the boats, who nodded in return. Those on the decks hopped down and began pushing, guiding the small ship into the lake.

  “Now,” Hunter said, turning back to Hex. “Take me to the wounded soldier.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  They arrived at the prison keep not long after the ships made their rounds around the surface of the lake, dumping the contents of their barrels into the water until the lake shimmered with oil and gasoline. Hunter told them to round up the prisoners they had left, which now was not many. Some of those that had escaped from the keep had been recaptured, but it would still prove a small meal to Odarth. Pitiful when compared to the feast the queen deserved.

  When Hunter walked into the keep’s courtyard, his black robes trailing out behind him, the soldiers that were streaming in and out of the building and milling about the spotty grass stopped dead in their tracks.

  Hunter was used to this reaction. His men feared him, as they should.

  He stomped up the walkway and into the keep. It stank of magic fire and scorched metal.

  “Just through there, to the left, my liege,” Hex said behind him.

  Hunter entered the small room. It was the guards’ headquarters, now littered with broken stone and singed robes; a guard lay on a bedroll, a bandage over half his face. Hunter did not recognize him. A healer was kneeling next to him, her hands half-hidden in a bowl of bright purple paste—healing compound for the burns the guard suffered.

  “Get out,” Hunter commanded the woman.

  He was not overly excited about keeping women in his army, but they had proven useful when it came to the properties of healing. The problem with them was they often dared to oppose him.

  This healer was no different.

  “But, my lord,” she protested, a twisted look of surprise on her face, “he will die without me.”

  “So be it,” Hunter said. He flicked his head in Hex’s direction. If she would not go willingly, Hex would drag her out by her braid; if she fought back, Hex would kill her.

  She went willingly enough, giving Hunter a scoff on the way out. He noticed, but was too focused on the soldier on the floor to retaliate.

  Tonight was a joyous night. Sure, there had been mishaps and obstacles for them to get through, but Hunter would let nothing else stand in his way.

  He knelt down next to the soldier. The soldier’s good eye searched Hunter’s face. It didn’t look like the man saw him, though.

  “Describe the sword to me,” Hunter said. Heat radiated off the man in waves. This Dragon Tongue would not survive the night, no matter what potions and healing spells were used on him. Poor fellow, Hunter thought, Not able to see the most glorious moment in the Tongue’s recent history.

  “The s-sword?” the soldier asked.

  “The one possessed by the young witch.”

  The man moaned.

  “Perhaps we should come back when he’s feeling better,” Hex suggested.

  Hunter snapped at him. “Get out!” he shouted. “Get out and leave us.”

  Taken aback, Hex nodded and offered a half bow in Hunter’s direction. He left the room, closing the door behind him. As the door shut, Hunter noticed the healer peeking in.

  She must have some personal investment in this soldier. Another reason he didn’t want to admit females into his ever-growing army—love complicated things. That was why Hunter never took a wife, though he’d had many, many chances throughout his long life.

  The man coughed. Flecks of blood sprayed out of his mouth and landed on his bare chest.

  “The sword, my soldier, the sword,” Hunter said again.

  “Do the moons still rise?” the soldier asked.

  What?

  “Give Anton my best,” he continued, the delirium setting in.

  That’s it. Hunter conjured up his flames. They extended from his fingers and brushed across the soldier’s face. The soldier cried out in pain, his one exposed eye bulging as far as the bridge of his nose. Once the screaming stopped, however, the soldier’s delirious state seemed to subside.

  “The sword, soldier, and remember who you are talking to,” Hunter demanded.

  “The sword…the sword. It was long and silver, seeming to go for miles. The hilt…was wrapped in shiny leather, accented with golden brass, and it…ended in a circle. Just like Anwyn’s.”

  “The carvings?” Hunter probed. He now feared the worst.

  “The carvings…” the soldier moaned, slipping back into semiconsciousness. Hunter snapped the flames from his fingers again. The cracking sound resounding through the air was enough to make the soldier come back into the now. “The carvings were…of the creature.”

  He snarled and let the dark magic explode out from his hands. The flames consumed the soldier. Flesh burned. Hair singed and disintegrated. The man fought and kicked, even managing to get halfway up from his prone position. That was as far as he got before death took him.

  The smoldering corpse behind him, Hunter opened the door with a wave of his hand. The woman rushed in with tears in her eyes, for the smell was thick in the air and had und
oubtedly drifted out into the corridor.

  Hex stood, looking on with his mouth agape. Hunter’s gaze found his.

  “Come, Hex. The fire must be lit, and the words must be spoken.”

  Chapter Nine

  Maria was just a few feet from the water tower when Gelbus and Sherlock stormed through the town’s streets. She had not seen Sherlock move that fast since his run-in with the Milkbone box back on Earth.

  Gelbus screamed at the top of his lungs. “Death to the Dragon Tongue!” while Sherlock barked his head off.

  Yeah, the Dragon Tongue sucks balls! Sherlock added.

  The Dragon Tongue working on the beach stepped away from the prisoners they had just lined up —Don’t worry, I’m coming for you guys, too, Maria thought—and looked at one another in utter confusion. They were taken aback by the sudden outburst.

  One took off after Sherlock, and the others soon followed. But there were still the ones on the boats in the lake to worry about, as well as those that had stayed behind to guard the prisoners, which were about a dozen prisoners in all.

  Maria unsheathed her sword and took a step toward the rickety water tower. Her plan was to cut the support beams down with her blade and push the water tower toward the beach, drenching the fire before it could spread.

  There was no fire yet; the wanderers currently had the upper hand.

  Across the street, Gramps and Frieda stood in the shadows, waiting for Maria’s word. Penelope and the escaped townspeople had gone to the other side of the beach, where they were waiting for the distracted Dragon Tongue with the weapons they were able to scrounge up. Maria didn’t like the idea of them fighting and potentially losing their lives, but they had insisted.

  It seemed that if there was to be any death, there would not be much. Thankfully.

  Maria pointed to herself, across to Gramps, and then to the beach, signaling that they would move forward and take the rest of the Dragon Tongue down.

  Across the way, Ignatius nodded, raising his wand. White flames glowed serenely in Frieda’s palm as she stood next to him. This was not as dangerous a mission as going back to the prison keep to free the townspeople when he had felt so weak and drained, but he was still not at his maximum capacity, and a stark feeling of dread settled into the pit of his stomach upon learning that the fire had not been lit.

  Is it a trap? No, I can’t think like that. Not now.

  Instead, he leaned forward to whisper in Frieda’s ear, asking if she was ready. Her long, full hair smelled like the woods, like the leaves…like home.

  How can I be falling for a dark witch? Frieda was a member of a small group of magic users who’d been a problem to the villagers of Dominion so long ago.

  He shook his head to clear his thoughts as Frieda replied, “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  She turned around, her beautiful eyes finding his, and leaned in to kiss Ignatius full on the mouth. Her lips were soft, her taste sweet. Youthful resurgence hummed though his body, and he gawked at her, floating on that kiss.

  “For luck,” Frieda said, and the flames from her hands burned brighter and darker, edging on red—the color of love.

  Maria saw all of this, of course. At first, she was shocked, and perhaps a little offended that Frieda would do such a thing in front of her. Her grandfather had never been one to have girlfriends. He often talked about the love of his life—Maria’s grandmother, who had passed away many years previously—but Ignatius Apple, as Maria knew him, did not often talk of love or relationships.

  At least, not to her.

  What little lovey-dovey stuff he did talk about was exclusive to the many soap operas he had watched from sunup to sundown during simpler times, before they hopped planets and decided to take down a dragon.

  Yet, as Maria knew so well, stranger things had happened. And once she saw the big, goofy grin on her grandfather’s face, she wanted nothing more than for Frieda to end up as her new step-grandma.

  They just had to get through this task first.

  It is often said that the first step is always the hardest. This was true for Maria. Sure, she was growing more powerful by the second, and her confidence grew along with her powers, but each new challenge brought a new set of fears, too.

  What if I trip and fall in my mad dash to the beach, and it alerts the remaining Dragon Tongue to our presence? What if Sherlock and Gelbus are already dead? What if Penelope and the other townspeople are burning right now?

  No, Maria, you can’t think like that, she scolded herself. You were raised by Ignatius ‘Ferod’ Apple. He taught you all there is to know about being a good person and doing the right thing, and you’re not going to disappoint him or yourself. You’re going to save the fucking day.

  With that, she took off toward the beach. Her footsteps were muffled by the sand, though she kicked rocks in every direction. Gramps and Frieda were right behind her.

  The Dragon Tongue turned around, but it was too late. Maria thrust out with her sword, catching the nearest one along his arm, then she kicked up with her left leg and caught him in the throat. He hit the sand, unconscious.

  By this time, Frieda’s white and red flames licked at the remaining Tongue, driving them backward. Some tried to deflect the magic with their swords, only to scream out in pain as their fingers and forearms roasted in the heat of Frieda’s power.

  Gramps’s voice boomed with spells, and the fleeing Dragon Tongue fell over as ropes manifested out of thin air to bind themselves around their wrists and ankles.

  “Nice!” Maria shouted.

  Gramps turned and offered her a wink, then pointed behind her with a look of alarm. She turned around and raised her sword quickly enough to deflect the blow from a Dragon Tongue’s curved black sword; the hit was strong enough to knock her back. She lost her balance and landed in the sand next to the recaptured townspeople. Gramps and Frieda were shouting their battle cries as they fought off more of the Dragon Tongue behind them. She would have to get out of this herself.

  She moved to grab her sword—

  Where’d it go?

  The Dragon Tongue’s shadow blotted out the light from the two moons as the man stood above her. He raised his own sword, revealing sharp fangs behind pulled-back lips.

  Maria reached out to her right, expecting the blade to be there, and grabbed a handful of sand and rocks instead.

  This is it. The end.

  Just as the wind of the hit came whirling toward her and Maria closed her eyes, the Dragon Tongue grunted.

  Maria opened her eyes. One of the townspeople, a young man with wiry blonde hair, had thrown his shoulder into the Dragon Tongue’s sternum, knocking him on his back and pinning him down. It bought Maria enough time to find her sword, gain her footing, and knock the guard out.

  “Thanks,” she said to the young man.

  He nodded. “Thank you for saving my family.”

  Maria cut his ropes and the ropes around the other townspeople. “Go,” she told them, “Run somewhere safe. Stick to the shadows and don’t come out until your mayor gives the order.”

  The survivors nodded, looks of gratitude on their faces.

  Two Dragon Tongue came forward, and Maria put herself between them and the townspeople. “Go!” she ordered again.

  The Dragon Tongue shot flames from their palms.

  “Big mistake,” Maria said as she thrust her sword out in front of her to block their combined fire. Like before, the blade absorbed the spell, and the power thrummed through her. She shouted out as she stabbed the sand, and the magic burst out from the cross-guard in an array or oranges, reds, and blacks. Like twin snakes, the flames rocked the Dragon Tongue, igniting one and knocking the other out.

  The flaming guard ran for the lake.

  “No!” Maria shouted. If he reached the water, he would ignite the surface, and their plan would be forced into motion. She couldn’t risk that.

  She brought her sword up, preparing to throw it. The distance between her and the guard was close t
o fifty feet; though her confidence was high, she didn’t think she’d successfully hit him.

  Not with that attitude, she admonished herself.

  Suddenly, the dangerous Dragon Tongue froze in mid stride. He was just a few feet from the water, and the flames still licked at his cloak, burning it to tatters.

  Maria, confused, looked to Gramps—he had his wand pointed in the direction of the guard, and the tip glowed an icy blue.

  “What do the cops say? ‘Freeze?’ ” Gramps shouted to her before mumbling another spell. This one hit the guard with a big burst of wind. The flames extinguished, and he dropped to the sand in a burnt heap, but still alive.

  Frieda screamed as she slugged a nearby Dragon Tongue in the face. Currently, there were no other guards around Maria, so she ran to Frieda to help her out. She got up behind the guard and whacked him on the back of the head with the hilt of her sword. He fell to the sand like a pile of bricks.

  Frieda smiled. “Thanks,” she said. “I needed that.”

  The bodies of the Dragon Tongue littered the beach all around them. Some were dead; some were alive but unconscious. Gramps rushed over, pushing his wand into the sleeve of his robe. Maria hugged him.

  “Great work, Maria. You continue to amaze me!” he gushed, and then he hugged Frieda, sneaking in a kiss on one soot-marked cheek. “As do you, Frieda.”

  “Never thought one of the sworn enemies of Dominion could be capable of kicking so much ass, did you?” Frieda asked, a smile on her face and budding love in her eyes.

  “Hmm,” Gramps replied, bringing a hand up to stroke his beard, which was also streaked with soot. “I assumed a dark witch would never help out a wizard such as me, but I suppose—”

  “Stranger things have happened,” Maria finished for them, smiling.

  “Yes, Maria, you’re right—”

  Gramps was cut off by the sound of cackling.