Midwest Magic Chronicles Boxed Set

by Flint Maxwell

  “He looks so old,” the Widow mused. “Oh, how time gets to us all.”

  “Not you, my Queen,” Jinxton said. “You haven’t aged a day. In fact, you look younger and more powerful as the seconds tick on.”

  Fangs bared in what seemed like a sickening smile. “Oh, Jinxton, you are too good to me.”

  Jinxton got on one knee and bowed his head. “I am not worthy.”

  Fangs still out, the Widow said, “You may rise.”

  He did, and then waved the guards away, also now on their knees, out of the lair. With a large claw at the end of a massive leg, the Widow picked Ignatius up by his hair. The wizard moaned in pain, but remained unconscious.

  “Oh, Ignatius Mangood. What shall I do with you?” she asked him.

  The wizard didn’t answer.

  A green eye settled on Jinxton, causing him to jump. It had gone an even darker shade of green since he’d arrived. Something was happening, something beyond the scope of Jinxton’s imagination. He almost didn’t want to know for fear of it driving him mad. The Widow was losing it more so than normal. Madness belonged to those in power, to the kings and queens of the world, the ones crazy enough to allow themselves to lose their minds. Jinxton wanted to keep his mind intact. He would need it. He’d become king, yes, but he would not act like any mad king so common in Oriceran. He’d rule with an iron claw. Power would not get the better of him, nor would any rival race. The Arachnids would rise again, then bend their knees as they looked up to their king, and there, Jinxton would be at the top of the mountain.

  “Smart to subdue his magic like that, Jinxton,” the Widow said.

  He bowed his head again in thanks. Yes, his life would go on…for now. All thanks to Ignatius Mangood.

  “Shall we drain his blood now?” the Widow asked. “The tree looks thirsty.” With the sacrifice, the Blood Tree might show them the way to Harry, and to the Jewel of Deception. At that point, Jinxton did not care about the Jewel as much as he cared about revenge. He would gut the scavenger the moment he found him. Then he would cut off his eyelids, and make sure Harry watched himself bleed to death. That was better than the traitorous bastard deserved.

  Rule with an iron claw, Jinxton thought again.

  "I'm not sure, my Queen," Jinxton answered. "It is your call."

  “No, Jinxton, not yet. We shall use Ignatius as a bargaining chip. With the old wizard in danger as he is, the young witch shall come, and she will come with the music box. It is as much a part of her as her heart or her lungs. She dare not leave it in any other’s possession, unless it was Ignatius Mangood himself. And we both know that will not be the case; not when we have Ignatius all to ourselves.” She brought another clawed leg up and stroked Ignatius’s beard.

  Jinxton smiled. “Yes, my Queen. You are so wise.” He knelt again.

  Suddenly, the green eyes flared as if a fire boiled beneath them.

  “Cut the flattery, Jinxton. You have done well, that is true, but you have still lost the Jewel of Deception. You are lucky I do not kill you where you stand for your incompetence. If it were not for you bringing me the wizard, I certainly would have. And I certainly will, if you come back without the Jewel of Deception again. Bonus points if you also bring me the scavenger’s head.”

  “You can count on me, my Queen.”

  “Can I? It seems I couldn’t before.”

  Jinxton casted his eyes downward at cracks in the stone that didn’t seem to be there until the Widow stormed down her web from high in the shadows.

  Good, Jinxton, he thought. You made it out of here alive. You have another chance. All part of the plan…

  Ignatius stirred, and the breath of both the Widow and Jinxton hitched. Amusement danced in each one of the Widow’s eyes.

  Moaning, Ignatius said, “Ooh, what the hell? I need to lay off the Firejuice.”

  The Widow laughed.

  Jinxton was at the perfect angle to see the old wizard’s eyes shoot open, and his beard shift as his lips parted.

  “No, Ignatius Mangood, this is not a nightmare. This is real,” the Widow said. “Unfortunately for you.”

  “You,” Ignatius said, his voice calmer than Jinxton expected.

  He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but the calmness of the wizard’s voice irked him. He’d wanted the wizard to beg and plead for his freedom, only for the Widow to deny him.

  “Yes, me. It’s been quite some time, hasn’t it?”

  “Fuck you,” Ignatius said.

  Jinxton’s heart dropped, so he couldn’t imagine how Ignatius’s felt. Probably normal, the cool, calm son-of-a-bitch.

  The Widow looked past Ignatius’s shoulders, toward Jinxton. “What are you waiting for?” she boomed. “There is a Jewel to find and a scavenger to kill.”

  “You’ll never win, she-bitch,” Ignatius said.

  Drool slid down the Widow’s fangs. Her grip on Ignatius got tighter, causing him to groan. Still, he continued to talk.

  “Maria will make you bleed. Your reign of evil ends soon.”

  Jinxton then saw something like fear in the Widow’s eyes. Not quite, but something like it, for sure.

  “Go!” she yelled at Jinxton, and go he did.

  As he left the lair behind him, he heard the Widow’s low, rumbling growls. She may not kill Ignatius, but she certainly was going to make him miserable.

  But, much to Jinxton’s displeasure, he did not hear Ignatius scream.

  He wound through the tunnels in the pitch-blackness, up and up until he hit the surface of the Dark Forest, where the earthy smells of moss and tree sap hit his nostrils—plus the smell of the blood that some of the trees leaked.

  Of course, that was nothing but legend from the local people. No trees leaked blood; parents just used to tell the tales to frighten their young ones. Apparently, it worked to keep most people from straying into the Dark Forest, but Jinxton would’ve just told them of the great big Widow and her mucus-green eyes. That would surely keep even the bravest of warriors out of the forest.

  He chuckled as he took in the fresh air and yelled for one of the guards before he was beyond the threshold of the lair’s entrance. The guard didn’t respond. This oddity caused Jinxton to stop; the guards sucked up to Jinxton almost as much as they did the Widow.

  “Guards?” Jinxton called again.

  No answer.

  He drew his sword, holding it tighter. Easing himself around the corner into the darkness, he saw—

  Nothing. The guards were gone.

  The heart inside of his chest (if you could call it that) hammered inside of his armor.

  “Guards?” he called again. He took the path; stone, weathered and old, covered in leaves. His footfalls betrayed him as the leaves crunched under foot.

  He came upon the guards and stopped. Slowly, he lowered his blade. He wasn’t sure whether to be angry, or to throw his head back in laughter. So he settled for both.

  In front of him, tied on each side of a great tree with its branches hanging low like twisted arms, were the two guards. They both had gags in their mouths, and Jinxton was not surprised to see one boot removed from one of each guards’ feet, and those boots jammed into the Arachnids’ mouths. They mumbled unintelligible curses.

  “Who did this?” Jinxton asked. He was honestly perplexed. Could it have been the young witch, come back to save her grandfather? He doubted it, but he raised his blade again as he scanned the trees and the surrounding area for signs of movement. His eyes, so accustomed to the darkness, saw nothing but the shapes of trees and the glowing pupils of creatures in their branches. He sniffed the air deeply. No smell. Whoever did this was good, too good.

  Jinxton walked over to the guards and removed the boot from the maw of the one of the left. He spat out clumps of dirt and a spray of dark saliva.

  “Oh, moons!” he yelled.

  “Who did this?” Jinxton demanded. “Are they still here?”

  “Scavenger,” the guard said. “Around the tree.” He jerked his head in that d
irection, his long braids swinging. “There’s a package for you.”

  Scavenger. Harry, that bastard, had come back. How dare he show his face in my country, my future kingdom? Jinxton thought to himself with a snarl on his face. It seemed there was always a snarl on his face these days.

  Holding his blade out in front of him, just like his weaponsmith had taught him, Jinxton rounded the trunk of the tree. It was as wide as a boulder, allowing enough time for whoever was hiding there to prepare for an attack.

  Jinxton sprang forward, landing with an audible crash; his blade held high, ready to come down on any head standing in his way.

  There was nobody.

  But there was something.

  It was a box. An old, wooden crate with letters on it that Jinxton could not understand. Then in the script commonly used among the Arachnids—at least, among those who could read and write—Jinxton’s name was scrawled in black paint.

  He edged closer to the box, still wary of what could be inside. But it was a small box. What could possibly be in there that could hurt him?

  “That scavenger left it for you,” the guard explained while the other mumbled, probably begging for his own boot to be removed from his mouth.

  Jinxton didn’t think he would ever remove it. He would kill the two guards for their stupidity and unpreparedness, which was actually a favor to them both, considering what the Widow would do once she got her claws into their flesh.

  Jinxton hunched down and poked the box with his blade. It weighed next to nothing. Then he took the sharp edge and sliced the rope wrapped over the top. Pushing the top off, he saw what was inside; his heart, already pounding, did another great leap in his chest, as if trying to get out.

  The first thing he noticed was the Jewel of Deception. It was almost impossible not to notice. Its ruby-like quality shone bright in the darkness, despite there being no light for it to reflect. The second thing he noticed was the note. Jinxton bent down and picked that up, unfolding it. In the dark Arachnid speech, hastily written, the note said,

  “Hey, man, sorry I had to do you like that. I completely understand if you hate me and most likely want to kill me. I’d want to kill me, too, if I were you. But, as promised, here’s the Jewel of Deception I helped you get. And don’t think to yourself that I wasn’t much help. Without me, you’d be dead, Jinxton. Know I could’ve killed you after I knocked you out, or when I knocked you out, for that matter. Lucky for you, I like treasure, and the Widow promised me some. She’s a woman of her word, so I expect my reward. Send a man to Ves Ielan. I’m sure you know where that is. Seems your kind like to frequent that dreadful place. No funny business, either. I got eyes everywhere. Oh, and know if you don’t bring me my treasure for all the hard work I’ve done, I’ll just steal it myself. I can do it, you know. Anyway, have a good night, friend. Sorry about the guards. I figured they needed a breath mint so I stuffed their own boots in their mouths. Ha-ha.

  Xoxo,

  Harry.”

  Jinxton growled and crumpled the letter in his upper hand while the other arms picked the box up. He knew not to touch it. The Jewel was not friendly to one’s mind, and Jinxton had enough problems already.

  Still, as angered as he was, this was a relief, a weight off of his chest. He had gotten the Jewel back, and though he didn’t have the scavenger’s head along with it, the Widow would be pleased.

  He strolled past the guards. The one barked at him for help and the other continued mumbling with his boot in his mouth.

  Jinxton stopped. The thought of killing them crossed his mind, but he remembered Harry’s note.

  “Breath mint,” Jinxton said, chuckling. Setting the box down, he picked up the boot and shoved it back in the guard’s mouth. The guard’s eyes ballooned. “Better than death, my friend,” Jinxton said. “I’ll deal with you when I come back.”

  He walked down through the entrance, taking the winding, dark corridor toward the Widow’s lair. Still he heard no screaming, and that upset him deeper than it should’ve.

  “My Queen?” he called before he walked into the sickly light of her chamber. He did not want to catch her by surprise.

  “What?” she spat, anger in her voice, and Jinxton didn’t think it was because he interrupted her, but because Ignatius Mangood was turning out to be quite the dull captive.

  Oh well, not my problem, Jinxton told himself. I got him here. Whether he screams or not, I don’t care.

  “I have the Jewel of Deception, your Highness.”

  “You do? My, my, Jinxton, that was fast. And the scavenger?”

  “Actually, my Queen,” Jinxton said, stepping forward into the chamber.

  He saw Ignatius Mangood hanging upside down from a strand of web that branched off from the Widow’s own larger one. The wizard was still wrapped in the magic-blocking rope as he swung back and forth. One eye was swollen shut and gravity brought blood rolling off his forehead, drip-dripping to the ground below. The Widow was beating him, using him as a punching bag, like Jinxton had used in his military training all those years ago, and yet the wizard made not the slightest mutter of a cry. All he did was breathe raggedly.

  A leg came up and steadied the wizard as the Widow’s eyes lit up.

  “Yes? ‘Actually’ what?” she asked.

  “Harry brought the Jewel back.”

  “Out of fear, I suppose,” the Widow mused.

  ‘No, not at all out of fear,’ Jinxton wanted to say. He didn’t think a mutt who made his living stealing artifacts from beings more powerful than himself was afraid of anything, but Jinxton dared not say this.

  “Yes, my Queen. So it seems. Regardless, the Jewel is now yours.” Jinxton bent down and held the box above him.

  “Now all we need is the music box,” she said.

  Spitting blood as he spoke in an oddly calm and steady voice, Ignatius promised, “You’ll never get the music box.”

  “Oh, we’ll see about that, my wizardly friend.” She swung out, catching Ignatius in the stomach. More blood sprayed—from his mouth, his nostrils, and even the corners of his eyes.

  Chapter Ten

  What’s our next move? Sherlock asked.

  He surprised Maria by not sniffing around or chasing after any Raffins. The Bloodhound was maturing, it seemed.

  On the heels of Sherlock’s question, Frieda asked, “Where shall you lead us, Maria?”

  Maria, still kneeling by the bald patch of land under which her mother rested, had thought about these very questions for a long time. The answers, she was not so sure of, but there was one thing she knew.

  There would be another battle, worse than the one in Ashbourne. She may even call it a war.

  A war needs soldiers, she thought.

  The trees swayed behind them, branches gnashing together. Leaves crunched underfoot, as odd creatures stepped to the edge of the forest and watched the wanderers with malicious eyes. Maria felt them all, but was not worried. If it were Arachnids, Maria would’ve sensed them, and Sherlock would’ve smelled them.

  The first step of her plan came into place as she thought of her grandfather, and what he would do.

  “Frieda,” Maria said, “are you still in contact with your tribe?”

  The witch shied away from the question. Maria supposed that was not good.

  Wait a second, Sherlock said, can’t she see the future in her flames? Why can’t we ask her what the hell is going to happen to us? The Bloodhound sounded scared, despite Gelbus being nearby, petting him on the scruff of his neck.

  Maria wanted to answer, ‘If she can, I’m not sure I want to know. It might be a matter of knowing exactly when, where, and how we’re going to die. Sure, that might be useful, but I think we’d just worry for the rest of the time we had left—so much so that we’d forget how to live in the here and now.’

  She took a deep breath.

  Gotta remain calm, levelheaded. Gotta show you’re the right witch to lead this band of wanderers, as odd and underdog-ish as we might be.
r />   She asked the witch Sherlock’s question.

  “The flames do not work like that, I’m afraid. I see what the Gods intend me to see, and they do not intend me to see if we are victorious or not.”

  “So you’ve tried?” Maria asked.

  Frieda snorted, a guilty smile on her face. “Of course I’ve tried.”

  Maria nodded. She would’ve tried, too.

  Gelbus spoke up then; it seemed to have been a long time since the Gnome said much of anything. Maria knew he was biding his time, taking in the situation. He may not be a warrior by heart, but he was damn smart. Especially when he was sober and his mind was clear—his words.

  “I think Maria may be on to something, Frieda,” he said. “Your tribe could possibly help us. You’ve said they don’t like the Arachnids—”

  “I don’t think anyone likes those dreaded spider lords,” Frieda mumbled.

  True, Sherlock added, though no one heard him besides Maria.

  “But your tribe is nearby,” Gelbus pressed. “Well, closer than any other allies we may have.”

  “I suppose I could try,” Frieda allowed.

  “Good,” Maria replied, leaning forward and putting an arm around her. “We must hurry. Time is short.”

  No, Gelbus is short, Sherlock chuckled. The Widow won’t kill Ignatius, we know that. She is using him as bait.

  “Wow, Sherlock, never thought I’d hear a mostly serious response from you,” Maria said.

  I even surprise myself sometimes, the Bloodhound said.

  “Sherlock and Gelbus are right,” Maria said to Frieda. “We must forge as many alliances as we can.”

  “Ooh,” Gelbus said, his ears perking up almost like Sherlock’s sometimes did. Maria thought maybe they were spending too much time together, and smiled. “We can ask the Light Elves. I may not have much clout with the Gnomes in the library anymore, but your grandfather was quite close to E’olin.”

  She nodded. She remembered the two of them bantering back and forth. If she could convince just a few of the Light Elves to join with them, they’d be much better off than they were before.