Midwest Magic Chronicles Boxed Set

by Flint Maxwell

  The two Gnomes exchanged a confused look, and the hatless one shrugged. “At least they didn’t pee on us.”

  “You’re sick,” the other Gnome replied.

  “What? I’m just saying—”

  “Enough. Keep an eye on them and make sure they do not try any funny business.”

  Hatless nodded gravely.

  “Here it is,” Salem announced loudly. He was shushed in seconds by a nearby Gnome, who was studying the spines of books in the love potions section—a part of the library that had proven popular.

  “Sorry,” Agnes said to him.

  Salem was so engrossed in the book that he hadn’t even noticed the Gnome shush him. On the torn and tattered pages, the legend of the Rogue Dragons was hastily scrawled in red ink. The ink wasn’t the least bit faded, surprisingly; it was as stark and bright as fresh blood.

  Claire squinted, trying to read the writing, but she was unsuccessful. It was written in a language reminiscent of Tolkien’s Elvish, with dots over letters and elegant curves and swells. Tabby didn’t have much luck in the way of reading it, either, so the two girls were resigned to hearing Salem’s rendition of the words.

  “The Rogue Dragons. Ah, this brings me back to the days of my youth,” Salem said, a gleam of tears in his eyes.

  “That was long ago,” Agnes said with a smile on her face.

  “Easy, there,” Salem replied. “Your own youth wasn’t much closer.”

  “Cute,” Tabby mumbled, nudging Claire.

  “Yeah, yeah, go on. We’re short on time, remember?”

  “Right.” Salem licked his finger and flipped the page of the large book. The sound the old paper made was what Claire imagined a mummy rising from its sarcophagus would sound like. Salem read, “ ‘The Rogue Dragons roamed Oriceran long ago, years before the rise of Rhazdon, so the legend goes’.”

  Agnes grimaced at the name ‘Rhazdon’.

  “Who was that?” Claire asked.

  “Evil,” Salem answered matter-of-factly.

  “Beyond evil,” Agnes echoed.

  Salem put his hand on Agnes’s shoulder. “It’s okay. Rhazdon is gone now.”

  Agnes put her hand on top of his, looking longingly into his eyes. She nodded. “Go on.”

  “Right, right.” He flipped the pages again. “Let’s skip to the downfall.”

  “The rumored downfall,” Tabby said. She was still skeptical about the concept of dragons. Large spider-like man creatures, sure. Witches and wizards, yep. But dragons? No way. That’s the stuff of fairytales. So far, her time in Oriceran was nothing like a fairytale. She had the fading red line around her neck from when the Arachnid had attacked her to remind her of that.

  “Ah, here we go!” Salem said. “Odarth the Bright.”

  Claire looked at the page. There were no words on it that she could understand, but the drawing below the words was universal. It was a large dragon, like the ones she’d seen in movies and on the covers of her father’s epic fantasy books. From its mouth came a stream of fire, dusting the tops of a village below. The art caused fear to strike Claire’s heart. If that thing is real…then we are in way over our heads.

  Salem turned the page again, mumbling to himself, “The downfall, the downfall…Ah! There.”

  Downfall? Claire thought. How can anyone bring down a beast like that?

  Sure enough, there was another drawing. This one showed a man with a sword, and the dragon, its wings spread wide, hovering over him and breathing fire. The fire had struck the sword, and seemed to be absorbed by the blade.

  “Here we go. ‘Anwyn, the Dragon Slayer’.” Salem began to read from the passage next to the picture. “ ‘Odarth the Bright, after nearly destroying the city of Tonicia, was chased by a legion of dragon hunters, who’d already taken down the other six. A great battle was fought near the Cave of Delusion, nearly resulting in the entire destruction of the hunters. All of them perished except for Anwyn, a lowly warrior only brought into the party for his telepathic abilities. Anwyn had been known to converse with animals and beasts alike, and it was rumored that Anwyn would be able to talk with the Rogue Dragon—perhaps even negotiate with it. This, of course, is just speculation, but it is known that the Rogue Dragons walk the world no more’.”

  “Anwyn, the Dragon Slayer,” Agnes mused, her eyes hazy with remembrance. “That is a name I haven’t heard in a long time.”

  Salem nodded and continued. “ ‘From the account of the survivors of Ash Town where Odarth fell, Anwyn had taken refuge in the Cave of Delusion where he was tasked with the Trials of Antenele, a series of challenges posed by a dark entity who inhabited the cave. The challenges were said to be nearly impossible to beat, and most failed, being sent from the mountain without their sanity. Some say that though Anwyn survived the Trials, he still didn’t escape with his sanity, which could be the only possible explanation for how he beat Odarth single-handedly, sending the beast to the black depths of Ash Lake.’ ”

  “So he was crazy,” Claire said. “That’s how he beat a dragon.”

  Tabby nodded. “Makes sense.”

  “All we have to do is enter this Cave of Delusion of whatever it was and have some dark entity rob us of our sanity. Sounds like a plan.” Claire made a circle by her temple, signifying the absurdity of the idea.

  “Hold on,” Salem said, raising a finger, “there’s more.” He flipped the page, the old parchment wheezing out its age. “ ‘It is also rumored,’’ Salem continued reading, “ ‘that while inside the Cave, Anwyn was gifted a blade from the Man of the Mountain; one infused with magical properties. Below is an artist’s rendition of the sword—believed to have been lost in the Dark Forest a few years before Anwyn’s death.’ ” Salem turned the page and Claire’s mouth dropped open.

  “That’s—that’s Maria’s sword.”

  Agnes and Salem’s eyes both shot open at the same time. “Why…it is, isn’t it?” Salem asked.

  “No way,” Tabby said. “That can’t be. How long ago did this take place?”

  “Millennia,” Agnes answered.

  “Exactly. No way that sword wouldn’t have rusted to dust,” Tabby said firmly.

  Claire pointed at the drawing. “Look: the hilt, the cross-guard, all of it. I don’t think it’s a coincidence, Tab.” She shrugged. “What? I’ve read a lot of fantasy novels.”

  “Anwyn is a folk hero, isn’t he? Maybe it’s a replica. You know, kind of like King Arthur’s Excalibur.”

  “What’s that word right there, under the drawing?” Claire asked.

  Salem squinted and leaned closer to what looked like hash marks to Claire. He nodded. “Ah,” then he spoke in a language that Claire and Tabby were vaguely familiar with from Ignatius.

  As to what the word meant, neither Earthling girl had the slightest idea.

  “English, please,” Claire requested.

  Salem nodded. “Right, right. The term,” he spoke in the alien language again, “means, ‘The Wretched Guardian’. ”

  “That doesn’t sound too good. I hope Maria’s not wandering around the planet with a sword called ‘The Wretched Guardian’ on her belt,” Claire said.

  “She’s not!” Tabby said. “There’s no way. I’ve taken archaeology classes at Akron. There’s no way something like that would last this long unless…”

  A confused look crossed her features.

  “Unless it wasn’t actually lost, and someone had been taking care of it," Tabby said.

  Agnes and Salem nodded. “Someone like Ignatius Mangood,” Agnes said.

  The travelers eyed each other, mutual understanding unfolding between them.

  “Go on,” Agnes said to Salem.

  “ ‘On the shores of Ash Lake, it is rumored that a great battle was fought between Anwyn and Odarth the Bright, but it was not one of physical violence. Once Anwyn thwarted Odarth’s fire breath by absorbing it into the sword, it was a mental battle. It is rumored that Anwyn’s telepathy was so strong when he came out of the Cave of Delusion
that he was able to convince the Rogue Dragon to fall on his sword, stabbing herself right in the heart.’ ”

  “Her?” Claire asked.

  “Yes, it is rumored that all the Rogue Dragons were female,” Salem told her.

  “How did they reproduce?” Tabby asked.

  “They didn’t,” Agnes answered. “The Rogue Dragons were said to have been born from the moons.”

  “They were also said to have been born from the Underworld,” Salem added. The women grimaced. “Yes, I know, that’s not as beautiful as being born from the moons. But these beasts were not of this world; that much I am sure is true.”

  “Why didn’t they extract the body from the lake, and, I don’t know, burn it or something, instead of letting it taint the water?” Claire asked.

  “I’ll get to that,” Salem said, “but the short of it is that this is all legend, remember? Many people, even after the Rogue Dragon was slain, didn’t believe it had happened. Those living in Ash Town were wiped out or forced to leave to other settlements and cities.”

  “Geez, that’s terrible,” Tabby said.

  “Yes, it was a war that went on too long and was forgotten too fast, only to be turned to fables and tall tales,” Agnes said.

  “What happened to Anwyn?” Claire asked.

  “That is a story without a happy ending, I’m afraid,” Salem sighed. “It is rumored that Anwyn could not handle the fame that came with being a Dragon Slayer, and his sanity waned even more. Not long after he slay Odarth, he disappeared. Some say he went to Earth; others say he settled down in a small town, got married, and had kids, living out his last days as an ordinary farmer, letting his beard and hair grow out so no one would recognize him. There was also a rumor that Anwyn became the Rogue Dragon himself, only in human form. It argued that by slaying Odarth, he gained her voice inside his head—which I think would’ve been reasonable cause for total loss of sanity, if it were true.”

  An idea struck Claire; a terrible idea she was almost too afraid to say aloud. “You don’t think that Anwyn is related…?” Claire trailed off before she could finish the thought.

  Agnes and Salem knew what she was going to say, for they had thought the same thing as soon as they saw the picture of The Wretched Guardian.

  “It’s possible, I suppose,” Salem said. “But if Ignatius and Maria are of the bloodline of Anwyn, they would be so far down the line that it wouldn’t matter much.”

  “But it would explain a lot, Salem, don’t you think?” Agnes said. “Such as how Maria can communicate with Sherlock, and how she is more powerful than we all originally thought.”

  Salem brought a hand up to his chin, stroking his beard. “Yes, yes, I suppose that is true, but unless Anwyn’s blood cleared over the generations, then the odds—”

  “The odds, Salem, are unimportant. If Maria possesses the blood of Anwyn, there is a chance that the rising of Odarth the Bright will not leave us as hopeless as we originally thought,” Agnes pressed.

  “Hope,” Claire mumbled. “Yeah, hope is a good thing. I like hope.”

  Tabby nodded in agreement.

  “Yes, Agnes, you’re right,” Salem said.

  The Gnome came up from behind them, startling them all. He was hardly taller than the table.

  “Okay, your time with the book is up,” he said. His hand came up to adjust the hat that wasn’t on his head. When he realized what he was doing, mostly out of habit, he tried to play it off like he was brushing his thinning hair back from his brow.

  “What?” Salem demanded. “We’ve hardly had it.”

  The Gnome put his hands up in defense in a gesture that said, ‘I don’t make the rules, don’t shoot the messenger’. The other Gnomes watched from the circulation desk with sneers on their faces.

  “I’m sorry, it was requested by someone else, and like I said earlier, it is an ancient text, one of our more valuable assets here.”

  Salem rolled his eyes again, and Claire noticed how good he was getting at that. He closed the book with a loud slam!

  “Fine. Take your book back, and know that your lack of hospitality is noted, and I will remember it. There may be a time when the Gnomes need the help of my travelers and I; know that we will gladly help you because we have kind souls, but we will take no pleasure in doing so.”

  “So be it,” the Gnome said. He thrust his hands out for the book, and Salem snapped it up from the table, causing the Gnome to wince in fear; then Salem handed it to him gently.

  “Come on, we have a dragon to slay,” Salem said calmly to the others.

  The Gnome gave him a crooked look and mumbled, “Crazy old wizard,” under his breath.

  Salem curled his hands into fists, cracking his knuckles. It took everything he had not to turn the Gnome into a toad or something equally heinous out of revenge; they were in the Light Elves’ castle, and such vengeful magic might be frowned upon. Plus, Salem liked to think that he was above that.

  The Gnomes have been through enough lately, Salem smiled to himself, grateful that Sherlock had decided to lift his leg on them.

  His party left down the invisible stairs, each one manifesting itself right before their eyes.

  “It’s okay,” Agnes said, placing a hand on Salem’s shoulder. “I’m glad you showcased such control.”

  “Took everything I had,” Salem admitted gruffly.

  “Yeah, if that was me,” Claire said, “I would’ve kicked that Gnome in the nuts—wait, do Gnomes even have nuts?”

  “Well, you could always go back and ask them,” Tabby added. “Or, you know, ask for a book on the anatomy of Gnomes.”

  “Very funny,” Claire said. “You know what? Just forget I said anything about Gnome nuts.” She laughed. “ ‘Gnome nuts,’ that’s funny.”

  “Hilarious,” Salem said. “I’m glad you can all keep it so lighthearted whilst a Rogue Dragon gets closer and closer to resurrection. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m only speaking the truth.We must be on our way.”

  “He’s right, girls,” Agnes agreed.

  Claire leaned over and whispered, “Geez, they’re starting to sound just like my parents.”

  Tabby chuckled, and they continued down the stairs until it was time to be magicked down to the ground.

  Once they reached the same wonderful and wild field Ignatius, Maria, and Sherlock had stood in not long before their own trip to Ashbourne, Salem opened a portal, and the group stepped through to the lakeside town and the ensuing chaos beyond.

  Chapter Eight

  “I want all the prisoners right here. Close enough to have their eyebrows and beards singed by the flames!” Hunter shouted to the Dragon Tongue. The cloaked men moved back and forth, carrying large barrels of anything that was flammable.

  On the shore of the lake, where Hunter stood directing traffic with his blade, were five fishing boats. The Dragon Tongue sweated as they hoisted the barrels into their cargo holds.

  “Captain!” someone shouted nearby. A few of the men had stopped what they were doing. Hex ran up the small boardwalk, kicking loose stones in all directions as he rushed to meet Hunter. When he reached the Dragon Leader, he bent over and tried catching his breath without much luck. All that fire inside of him was proving detrimental to his lungs.

  “What is it?” Hunter demanded. “Speak while you still have a tongue!”

  “It’s…the p-prison,” Hex managed.

  Hunter’s eyes shot open. They burned brighter than they had ever burned before, and Hex knew it was because Odarth’s resurrection was nigh.

  But he was beginning to wonder if that was such a good thing.

  The Dragon rises, and then what? He wasn’t sure.

  “What of the prison?” Hunter demanded, spitting the words out of his mouth like they were poison.

  “They…they’re dead.”

  “Who? The prisoners?”

  “No, the guards. All of them are dead or hurt. They say it was a young woman with a sword who did it. She came through and be
at them with her magic.”

  Hunter’s hand shot out and gripped Hex’s throat tightly.

  A coughing fit overtook him as he tried to breathe. How unfortunate; he’d gotten his wind back, only to have it taken away by the cold fingers of the Dragon Leader.

  Straining for his voice, Hex tried to choke something out, but it came as a gurgle.

  “What was that?”

  “S-Something e-e-lseeee,” Hex said.

  “Speak it!” Hunter eased his grip around Hex’s throat, but jerked him forward, causing the hood to fall from Hex’s head.

  “One of the men…he said the sword that the young woman was using…” Hex was too afraid to finish the rest of the sentence, for he knew the rage it would bring to his leader. He also knew he was likely to be executed. The leader had a habit of ‘shooting the messenger’.

  “What, Hex!? What?”

  “He said…he said the sword was the same one Anwyn used to destroy Odarth, all those millennia ago.”

  Hunter let go of Hex’s throat.

  The man fell to his knees in the rocky sand, biting his tongue in the process. His mouth filled with blood as his heart filled with fear.

  Hunter looked away into the night sky, his mind seemingly elsewhere.

  “Master?” Hex ventured. A few moments had passed, and he felt it was enough to distance himself from Hunter’s rage—as if that would matter. Both men knew Hunter could turn Hex into a pile of ash in the blink of an eye—but Hunter was not one to use magic for that purpose. No, he enjoyed using his blade for that; he liked the way the life drained out of his victim’s eyes as his sword pierced their vital organs, and the blood fell from their wound, spewing out like water from a cracking dam.

  “That can’t be,” Hunter finally said in a low voice. “That’s impossible. The sword was destroyed in the great fires, during the fall of Rhazdon.”

  Or so it was said, Hex thought bitterly to himself.

  It was well known among the remaining Dragon Tongue—not the new recruits Hunter had picked up on their quest of raising a Rogue Dragon from the grave, but the original six—that Hunter spent much of his youth searching all over Oriceran for that sword, following blind leads and ancient texts. He had never found it, had never even gotten close to finding it. But in his travels, he had found the Dragon Rites, so all was not lost.