Midwest Magic Chronicles Boxed Set

by Flint Maxwell

  Harry bent down and stared at the Jewel of Deception. It was enchanting. How could someone wear it around their neck and not constantly stare into a looking glass at its beauty?

  He picked it up.

  He was a young man again, in love for the first time—the first of many. Her name was Alicia, and she was the fairest maiden in all of the village. Harry was sweet on her the moment he laid his eyes on her silky hair and almond colored eyes. There was a time behind his uncle’s barn when Harry and Alicia were alone. The two moons had shone down on them like spotlights, and they were the players on a stage, acting out true love.

  The rest of the memory was distorted.

  Harry went in for their first kiss, and Alicia slapped him, calling him a pervert at the top of her lungs. Her father heard her from their house at the top of the nearest hill. He was a burly wizard with a burly magic. In this new ‘memory,’ which came to Harry as clear as day, Alicia’s father came out with his wand in his hand and a snarl on his face. A bolt of magic struck Harry’s chest, sending him backward into the wooden wall of the barn.

  Screaming in the middle of the clearing, Harry saw his own death. He saw his robes catch fire, then his hair; his wispy beard singeing away, his skin dripping off like melted candle wax, his eyes catching and going up like fireballs.

  Harry dropped the ruby, and as quick as the false memory had come, the reality flooded back. He and Alicia had kissed that night. It was the first time he had ever kissed a woman, and the first time Alicia had kissed a man. They fell for each other then, and shared many happy years before time pulled them apart—changing them, seeing them want different things in life—though they were both all right with their decision to separate.

  Now here he was, accompanied by a corpse in a dirty sheet. The pile of dirt. The unconscious bodies of two wizards and three Arachnids. There was Harry, still alive, still breathing—somehow.

  “Well, it really lives up to its name, doesn’t it?” Harry said, his voice coming out as a whisper. Reaching into his robes to pull out a handkerchief, he eyed the Jewel of Deception with caution. “Not gonna fall for that trap again.” He picked the ruby up with the handkerchief, wrapping it tight, and placed it in his small travel bag.

  Standing up, he surveyed the clearing that had turned into a battlefield.

  “I’m sorry, all. Nothing personal. If you can hear me, you giant spider-freaks, know that I’m gonna bring this thing back to you in a jiffy. Got some people to save from that world in between. You know, gotta be a hero and all.”

  He chuckled, turned, and opened a portal. Gold sparks lit up the darkness, and through the portal he saw Austin, Texas and the hotel where he would do his heroic business.

  It was only a few moments after Harry left that Jinxton woke with a pounding headache and a few loose teeth. He could taste blood in his mouth. The other Arachnids were dead. Jinxton noticed Ignatius Mangood nearby, unmoving. Beneath the Widow’s decapitated warrior was the other wizard, Salem. He also seemed dead.

  What happened?

  Jinxton had lost time. If Ignatius was knocked out…then who had knocked Jinxton out? Certainly, Ignatius wouldn’t have done it and then knocked himself out. What am I missing? He brought up one claw-like hand to his head and rubbed. He felt hungover, like he’d had a rough night at a bar—but Jinxton hadn’t had a drink since the Great Spider Wars.

  He turned around, and the bright moonlight blasted his eyes, causing the pounding in his head to increase. He saw the shallow grave and the mound of dirt. Near that, he saw the corpse wrapped hastily in an old canvas sheet. It all came flooding back.

  Harry. The damn scavenger. Where is he?

  Jinxton turned around and scanned the clearing for the half wizard, half Elf, but didn’t see him. The only other plausible solution to the scavenger’s whereabouts was…

  Jinxton looked up to the sky and let out a deep, rumbling growl, so loud he thought he saw the moons shake and cower behind the dark clouds floating by. Of course, it was only the Arachnid’s imagination.

  The damn scavenger. He had stolen the Jewel of Deception, and with it, Jinxton’s life. Surely the Widow would kill him as soon as she heard the news.

  Unless…

  He looked back to the clearing. Ignatius Mangood’s chest rose and fell with ragged breathing. He was still alive.

  An idea flashed through Jinxton’s brain, and he pulled out his blade.

  It was simple: He would cut the famous wizard’s head off and bring it to the Widow as a peace offering. That would surely save him from her rage. She may even like this gift better. Ignatius Mangood had brought too much death and destruction and turmoil to the Arachnids over the years. They’d laud Jinxton as a hero. Perhaps he could rise up the ranks. Overthrow the Widow. Take his rightful place on the throne. He was meant to be a ruler, not to be ruled.

  Yes, yes. Yes! A perfect plan.

  It could only be better if he brought Ignatius Mangood, intact, to the Widow herself. She could kill him, mutilate him, do whatever she pleased to the old wizard. Jinxton would gain more of her trust; perhaps he could rule by her side. Then, when the time came, he could overthrow her. Kill her in the night while she slept in her large web, when those green eyes were closed. Yes, I can do that. That would be the better decision, wouldn’t it? Gain her trust then stab the massive black heart beneath her armor. Then he could rule as long as time itself. Isn’t there a rumor or a prophecy that says whoever kills the Widow will take her place on the throne? He thought so, but he wasn’t sure. He did know, however, that something had to be done before the Widow ended the entire race of Arachnids in her crusade to rescue the old king from the world in between. She had killed too many already. Jinxton remembered, many years past, when he was but a young spider, how the kingdom had thrived, how the Arachnids had been feared among wizards and Elves alike. But not anymore.

  Yes, that is what he would do.

  He put away his blade and instead reached into his pack, pulling out the ropes. His father had gifted these to him many years ago in the hopes he would catch his own witch or wizard. These ropes were said to keep a wizard or witch’s magic at bay.

  The Arachnids were not a naturally magic people, but they did possess the abilities to ingest magic and use it for a short time. Too much magic to an Arachnid’s brain would cause delusions and mild craziness, like it had for the Widow. But her craziness translated to an odd sort of power that evoked fear amongst her people—well, the few remaining ones at least.

  With the ropes, Jinxton wouldn’t have to worry about Ignatius breaking free and killing him with magic; though Jinxton’s dead father would be disappointed in the fact that he wasn’t keeping the wizard’s abilities for himself. But Jinxton liked being sane and levelheaded, and draining a wizard’s blood for its magic didn’t sound very good. He’d never developed an appetite for tainted wizard blood. Leave that to the crazies. But he could use the ropes for his own personal gain.

  He eyed the wizard warily. The only problem would be slipping them around Ignatius’s wrists without waking him. The wizard lay there, unmoving except for the slow, hitched rising and falling of his chest. Beneath his eyelids, his eyes etched a dream with all the rapidity of a man deep in sleep.

  This helped calm the Arachnid.

  “Flip him over,” Jinxton ordered himself.

  He hesitated for the slightest of moments, then put a snarl on his face and did as he was told. Maybe I’m losing my mind already. He flipped Ignatius over without a problem and grabbed the ropes. The closer he got to the wizard, the more the restraints glowed a dim orange.

  They still work! After all these years, they still work.

  Tying them was simple, especially when one possessed six arms. He wrapped them around the wizard’s wrists then looped them back around his ankles.

  Right before Jinxton’s eyes, Ignatius’s skin drained of color. The Arachnid silently thanked the spirit of his father, who had been killed in battle, for having bestowed such a gift on hi
m all those years ago.

  Ignatius didn’t even wake up over the course of the tying. If he had, the wizard would’ve been useless.

  Just as Jinxton began to lift Ignatius up, an explosion and a scream rocked the ground behind them. Jinxton’s muscles tensed. He whirled around, and there was the other wizard, trying to get the headless body of the dead soldier off of him.

  Not dead, Jinxton noted.

  The thought of killing the second wizard crossed his mind; how sweet it would be! But there was no time. Jinxton could hear the ghost of his father telling him to take his wins while he could, and having Ignatius Mangood neutered of all magic was definitely a win.

  So Jinxton ran like the coward he secretly was.

  Through much struggling, Salem cleared the dead Arachnid from himself. When unconsciousness was about to take him, the crystal around his neck lit up and buzzed against his skin.

  Maria’s voice filled the air, the loudest thing in the clearing except for Salem’s pounding heart.

  “Salem? Salem?” Maria paused. “Should I say ‘over’? Is this really like a walkie talkie? Oh, who cares. I can’t get ahold of Gramps. I repeat, I can’t get ahold of Gramps. Is everything all right?”

  Using all the energy he had left in his body, he lifted his arm up and grabbed the necklace, then pulled it closer to his mouth to reply. The magic buzzed in his palm.

  His voice was weak, but he managed to speak nonetheless. “Taken…they took him. Send Agnes.”

  “Taken? Who? Salem, answer me!”

  “Arach…”

  Salem let his head fall back against the dead Arachnid, and his eyes closed. Before the wave of unconsciousness took him, he pushed a small button on the bottom of the communication crystal. The light inside blinked—on, off, on, off.

  The crystal would send his location to Maria and Agnes, the possessors of the other crystals.

  Then all would be good again.

  Chapter Seven

  After Gelbus had finished his Eggos—one of the most delicious breakfast items he’d ever had the honor of eating, by the way, especially drowned in syrup—but before Salem and Ignatius had gone to be ambushed by Harry and the Arachnids, Ignatius, Maria, and Frieda sat at the table and discussed their plans.

  Gelbus had decided that, since he was not going to be much help in recovering the Jewel of Deception (nor did he want to be; he’d heard the rumors of its dark powers), he would go hang out with his newest friend, Sherlock, in his so-called ‘office’.

  Sherlock had his back to the door when Gelbus slipped in. Gelbus cleared his throat, and the dog jumped at the sound, quickly spinning and trying to cover whatever he had been doing. Curious, the Gnome walked into the office, pretending he didn’t notice as Sherlock shook his head. After all, as far as he knew, dogs of Earth were not supposed to communicate with other species unless by barking. Normal human gestures, such as nodding, were lost on canines.

  Gelbus giggled when he saw what the dog had been hiding: a stack of magazines almost as high as Gelbus, each one titled something to do with felines, or ‘cats,’ as those on Earth commonly called them.

  Gelbus didn’t know much about cats besides the fact that they were often quite finicky and walked around like they owned the place. He supposed they were cute and cuddly, especially when they were kittens, but would he want to befriend one like he had befriended Sherlock?

  No.

  “No need to worry, Sherlock. I won’t tell anyone.”

  Sherlock looked up at Gelbus, his eyes gleaming.

  “There’s not much to be ashamed of, anyway. Nothing wrong with liking cats. A dog, like a human or a Gnome or a Light Elf, should like everyone for who they are,” Gelbus explained. He walked over to the dog crate and sat down on the bundled blankets that acted as a cushion. They smelled pretty bad, but Gelbus hardly noticed. Then Sherlock did his best impression of an Arachnid. Gelbus knew because the dog stood on his hind legs and growled almost exactly like an Arachnid would. “Yes, I know, I know. But just because one or a few Arachnids were bad doesn’t mean they all are. Same goes for cats and humans. Like people for who they are, not for their species or their looks.”

  Sherlock watched the Gnome with interest, cocking his head and letting his ears droop.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to wax poetic,” Gelbus waved a hand.

  Footsteps echoed down the hall. Frieda stuck her head in the door, surprising them both.

  “Hey, Ignatius is about to leave with Salem,” Frieda said. “To take our minds off of all the violence and war, Agnes, Maria, and I were going to do something fun, see the sights a bit. It’s not every day you get to see another world.”

  Gelbus turned to Sherlock and said, “See? Case in point.”

  Sherlock nodded.

  Frieda asked, “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, nothing. I was just teaching Sherlock a valuable life lesson.” He chuckled at the absurdity of the statement. “All those years spent in the library, and I think I’ve acquired the gumption to teach ‘life lessons.’ Oh boy.”

  Frieda smiled, obviously not invested in what Gelbus was saying. For good reason; the Gnome had the tendency to go off on a tangent until he was beyond lost.

  But there was truth in the example he’d pointed out to Sherlock. Frieda was a dark witch; her people were few, and mostly kept to themselves, enough for them to be largely unheard of across Oriceran. Gelbus had studied them in the library, however, and had found that they were not the nicest of people—never extending a helping hand to those who needed it in the northern Dark Forest. One of Gelbus’s old coworkers had said they couldn’t be bothered to piss on you if you were on fire and there was no water in sight.

  Frieda shattered that stereotype.

  She was more than helpful. Gelbus had seen what she did in Ashbourne, watched her take out anyone who stood in the way of Maria Apple and Ignatius Mangood. He respected her for it. Heck, they had the same reason for being so eager to help them: they were good people who intended to do good.

  Gelbus owed the Apples (or Mangoods, depending on what planet you were on). Maria had saved his life.

  “So you’ll go?” Frieda asked after a long moment.

  Gelbus startled, snapping out of his reverie, and said, “Yes, yes, of course I will. It shall be fun.”

  Sherlock barked.

  “Okay, we’re leaving in fifteen minutes,” Frieda said, and disappeared back down the hallway toward the kitchen.

  Maria stuck her head in not thirty seconds after the dark witch had left and threw a zip-up hoodie into the room. It landed on the dog crate with a jangle.

  “What’s this?” Gelbus asked, holding it up.

  It was bright green, and on the back were ridges like those that ran up Odarth the Bright’s back, except where hers were white, these were yellow. On the front of the hoodie were small arms with long claws embroidered into them.

  “You’ll need a disguise,” Maria said. “Can’t have you walking around town and raising questions.” She looked to the Bloodhound and scowled. “No, I’m not going to say he’s an ugly midget, Sherlock. That’s not nice.”

  Sherlock whined, but exposed his teeth in a harsh smile.

  Gelbus scowled. “See if I let you take me anywhere, you cat lover,” he snapped, and Sherlock’s smile faded. They both stared at each other for a long moment.

  Gelbus burst out laughing, and Sherlock bounded over and licked him on the side of the face.

  “Gross,” Maria said, “Get a room.”

  They both glared at her.

  She put her hands up. “Okayyyy, but remember that Sherlock was eating a floor waffle earlier, not to mention the other gross things he eats, and that germy saliva is now all over your face.”

  Gelbus said, “Aw, no worries,” then used the hoodie to wipe his face clean.

  “Hey, buddy, that’s my hoodie.”

  “Hoodie?” Gelbus questioned. In all his studies, he had never come across a ‘hoodie’.

&nb
sp; “Yeah, you know what? You can just keep it. It doesn’t fit me well, anyway. Plus it’s a dinosaur face. I already have enough going against me, with this sword on my hip; the dinosaur hoodie isn’t doing me any favors.”

  “Dinosaur?”

  “Just put it on,” Maria urged.

  Gelbus did. First he put it on backward, and wondered why it was so uncomfortable. Maria had to come over and make sure he turned it the right way. She zipped it up after a few failed attempts by Gelbus, and had to cover her mouth to stifle laughter.

  “Why are you laughing at me, Maria?” Gelbus asked. He saw that even Sherlock looked livelier. If dogs could laugh, he expected Sherlock would be doing so.

  Wiping her eyes, which now leaked tears, Maria urged the Gnome to come into the hall. When he did—albeit, reluctantly—she opened a door, where a long looking glass stretched the length of the wood.

  Gelbus saw himself and couldn’t help but laugh with them. The hoodie made it look like he had the body of an upright lizard—or a ‘dinosaur,’ as Maria had called it.

  “Wait, wait, put the hood up,” she suggested between snickers.

  He did, and then jerked away when he realized that it covered his entire head.

  “Now look in the mirror.”

  Gelbus did. His laughter grew stronger and louder. Not only did he have the body of a dinosaur, but he now had the face of one as well. An elongated green snout, yellow eyes with a hole cut in the pupils so whoever wore it could see, and jagged teeth on each side of the snout. Oh boy, if the hoodie were white, I’d resemble a much, much smaller version of Odarth.

  “Yeah, yeah, he kind of does,” Maria said to Sherlock, and the Bloodhound bared his teeth in that awkward smile again.

  Gelbus didn’t even want to know what he had said about him. As silly as he looked, he couldn’t deny that he was comfortable.

  “This’ll do just fine,” Maria decided. “People will think you’re a kid in a cool dinosaur hoodie. Just don’t speak; that might ruin the illusion. Your voice is kind of gruff, compared to a youngin’s.”