Bad Unicorn

by Platte F. Clark

  “Max Spencer,” Robo-Magar said, repeating the name that hadn’t been spoken for so long. “That seems rather unlikely.”

  Robo-Princess gave an electronic snort. “The Gimbal does not lie.”

  Robo-Magar considered the possibility of Max Spencer showing up more than a thousand years after the trail went cold. “The only logical explanation is the Codex—the boy used it to escape into the future. You remember we thought it possible when we were stuck in the Mesoshire?”

  “I remember perfectly,” Robo-Princess said, her voice growing excited. “Truthfully, I hadn’t dared to think it was even possible. But we’re back on the great hunt—the one that started it all! And if he’s here, that means he has the Codex with him.”

  In his hiding place, Max felt as if the entire world was unraveling. Everything Cenede had told him was true—he was being hunted by a crazy killer unicorn. But it wasn’t something new. They’d been hunting him for a very long time, and they knew about the Codex. Max couldn’t understand what he’d done to get a unicorn and her wizard so riled up.

  “However the boy managed to get here, we owe him some payback, don’t we? For all those years spent trekking around the three realms looking for him and his book.”

  “And don’t forget about the umbraverse,” Robo-Magar added. “That was totally messed up.”

  Robo-Princess would have shuddered if it were possible. In fact, she’d allow herself to die before setting hoof in that place again. “I’ve told you not to mention that.”

  “My apologies,” Robo-Magar replied, secretly delighting in the fact that the conversation had given him a chance to bring it up again. The umbraverse was the only thing that truly frightened Robo-Princess.

  “So all this time he simply jumped ahead of us. Little does he know that the Destroyer is alive and well!” Robo-Princess’s processor executed evil laugh number five for added effect.

  “Maybe not technically ‘alive,’ ” Robo-Magar added. “Or even technically ‘well.’ In fact, what if he doesn’t even know who you are?”

  “How could he not? What other reason could he have for fleeing into the future? No, the human knows. He found out the most powerful unicorn of all was hunting him, and he decided to come here and hide. And for all he knew, I should have been long dead. He’d have no idea the machines granted me immortality. So now’s my chance to finish what I started, Magar. Of all the billions of humans that I’ve destroyed, it began with hunting this one boy—the boy who could read the book. Now it will end with me finally killing him.” Robo-Princess silently commanded the arm to place the Gimbal back into its secure compartment.

  “You’re putting the Gimbal away? I thought we were going to finish this? He can’t be far. Switch to thermals and you might even catch a glimpse of him.”

  It was tempting, but Robo-Princess had larger plans forming in her CPU. “No, Magar. To kill him now wouldn’t be . . . dramatic. And worst of all, it would be free.” Robo-Princess said “free” as if it were the most distasteful word that could form in her mouth.

  Magar had to remind himself that Robo-Princess had always been evil. But now she was a holo-star, and that meant everything came at a price—even the vile and monstrous acts she used to commit just for fun.

  “It must be a spectacle—a holo-event for the millions of inhabitants of Machine City to watch. Just think of it, we have the last human with the most magical book ever written. The audience will be terrified—you know how magic frightens them.”

  Robo-Magar wished he had the ability to sigh, but it was just one of the many things he’d given up when he’d accepted the offer to have his consciousness transferred into the machine. Or maybe it was his soul, he couldn’t be sure. In any case, Robo-Princess the Destroyer had found a new project to occupy her, and given her current status as an entertainment superstar she would make sure this final hunt was the biggest and most elaborate event ever. Maybe that would keep her busy enough to give Magar a few moments to himself. He could always hope.

  “Plus,” Robo-Princess continued, “my artificial taste buds are far superior to the original.” She opened her mouth wide so that her razor-sharp metallic teeth glistened. “I’m going to enjoy this human, Magar. First as an adversary—then as dinner.” Her programming suggested ending with maniacal laugh number seven, but it felt a tad too much at this point.

  “Back to Machine City, then?” Robo-Magar asked.

  “Yes. We have a lot of work to do. And let’s hope this Max Spencer can at least put up a little fight. It would be a shame to wait all this time just to gore him once and have it be done with.” And with that Robo-Princess turned and disappeared back into the woods.

  Max never moved. Not even when the shadows slipped away and daylight broke through the forest.

  Later, it turned out that the Boy Scouts had been right. A band of frobbits found Max curled up at the base of the tree. After giving him some water and helping him to his feet, Max simply followed them without saying a word. The frobbits seemed content to just take the human boy by the hand and lead him safely through the woods.

  On Dragons and Public Relations

  LIKE MOST GIANT, FIRE-BREATHING, flying reptiles, dragons are often judged based on first impressions. And although certain dragons have had fairly nasty dispositions—they’ve burned villages, abducted maidens, and expanded treasure hoards—most modern thinkers feel it’s unfair to judge all dragons based on the actions of a small few.

  In an effort to improve the reputation of dragons everywhere, the dragon king decided to engage a public relations firm to help improve dragonkind’s image. After reviewing several candidates, the contract was awarded to Hornswoggle, Nobble, and Bunco—a PR agency headquartered in Onig. The firm had previously run the highly successful “Don’t Hate, Regenerate!” campaign to improve troll awareness.

  Hornswoggle, Nobble, and Bunco immediately went to work by launching the wildly unsuccessful slogan, “So what if they breathe fire? Dragons—there’s lots more to admire!” As it turned out, reminding the citizens of the Seven Kingdoms that dragons shoot fire out of their mouths did little to win people over.

  As a result, the dragon king called the creative team together and ate them. This became just one more reason people dislike working in marketing.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  WRANGLING WITH A BARBARIAN

  (THE MAGRUS—PRESENT)

  REZORMOOR DREADBRINGER HAD DRAGONS ON HIS MIND AS HE walked the long hall leading to the royal court of Aardyre. Colorful banners hung from the sides of the marbled hall, interspersed with murals detailing the history of the various kings and their conquests. It hadn’t taken long for court messengers to descend upon the Tower and deliver the royal summons. Rezormoor was asked to return with them immediately, and to leave his zombie duck at home, thank you very much.

  No matter how many projects Rezormoor had under way, being the Tower’s regent meant that the various affairs of state would always bring unwelcome intrusions, and he sometimes wondered if the office was worth all the politicking it required. So after surrendering his blades to the sergeant at arms (who recoiled a bit at even having to touch the things), Rezormoor was ushered through the main doors and to the waiting king.

  Kronac the Barbarian was slouched on his throne, his dark features creased into a permanent scowl. The king, his once coal-black hair now flecked with gray, remained an imposing figure. He wore black leather decorated in gold, with heavy bracers, and a ruby-encrusted band around his head. His arms were the size of most men’s legs, and his favorite war hammer, Migraine, was, as always, within arm’s length.

  “Rezormoor,” Kronac said, letting the word spill from his mouth as if he were chewing on lemons. “They say I no gut you and dance around entrails.” It was the kind of thing barbarians liked to do, especially at their children’s birthday parties.

  Rezormoor bowed, just deeply enough to satisfy royal decorum. “But why? I simply enforced the king’s laws and saved his city from a dragon.
” As the sorcerer straightened, even he felt a twinge of uncertainty as the imposing barbarian stared down at him.

  “You make big boom boom,” the king continued. In the long history of royal figures that had sat upon the throne, Kronac was considered to be one of the most articulate. “Set nice wizards on fire.”

  “I simply chastised an illegal guild,” Rezormoor interjected. “And they aren’t wizards—they’re unauthorized spell casters.”

  “But they give shiny coins,” the king continued, holding up a gold piece given to him by one of the tax collectors. “Me like gold—good return on investment.”

  “The Tower pays its taxes as well, My Liege.”

  “Then you make dragon appear. Plus boom boom, all in one day. Seems like Tower getting full of itself.”

  “I saved your city from a monster,” Rezormoor countered. “Certainly you didn’t want me to just let it run loose down the streets?”

  “King Kronac kill serpents just fine,” the barbarian exclaimed, grabbing the handle of his war hammer. “Barbarian parents throw babies into viper pits for fun. Where you think rattles come from?”

  Rezormoor had to admit he didn’t know.

  “So I make changes,” Kronac continued, motioning toward his advisor standing at the ready, causing the man to bow and hurry over to the dais. There he produced a parchment that he unrolled, cleared his throat, and began to read.

  “By order of the king, the Guild of Magic has been officially sanctioned as a magical brotherhood, and will be henceforth known as the Guild of Extraordinary Others.”

  “Oh, how droll,” Rezormoor replied, rolling his eyes. “You can’t be serious?”

  “Me serious as barbarian comedian, which there aren’t any because we hang them by feet over hot coals.”

  Rezormoor was starting to really dislike his visits to the royal court.

  “And no more dragons,” the king commanded.

  Rezormoor nodded. Of course he could always claim he didn’t know a dragon was masquerading as human, but an altogether different proposal was beginning to form in his head instead. “Might I offer the king a new alternative—one that I think will serve both the Tower and Aardyre equally?”

  The king leaned forward, resting his chin on his giant fist. “What you propose?”

  “I’m hunting dragons, it’s true,” Rezormoor said. “As they’re a constant threat to peace-loving humans everywhere. But my current research requires the acquisition of dragon scale.”

  “Ha! You want funny named dragon thing.” The king turned to his advisor.

  “The Serpent’s Escutcheon, Your Highness,” the advisor jumped in.

  “Yes, the Serpent S-ketchup-on. King have great spy network you know.”

  Rezormoor cursed under his breath. No doubt Brock had let it slip. He’d have to have a word with the slaver about that. “You are most well informed, Your Highness.”

  Kronac’s brow creased until his advisor leaned over and whispered in his ear. The king softened. “Me thought ‘informed’ was insult. Lucky advisor here or me hang Rezormoor’s head over city gate.”

  Rezormoor forced a smile. “If I may, Your Highness, I’d like to propose you dispatch your finest warriors to scour the land and root these dragons out. I’ll collect these Serpent’s Escutcheons for our ongoing academic research, and in return I’ll remove the Wizard’s Tower from Aardyre.”

  To the king’s credit, he didn’t act surprised. “You leave Tower and city, just to get dragon scale?”

  “The Seven Kingdoms are full of cities and towers,” Rezormoor answered. “I’ll simply find another. We’ve been at each other’s throats for too long. The world is big enough for the both of us.”

  The king smiled, but it was not the kind of smile that made Rezormoor feel a deal had been struck. In fact, it made him feel quite the opposite.

  “Now I know funny-named serpent things very important to you. Makes me not want you to have them,” King Kronac announced. He tapped at the side of his head. “You think northerner’s dumb, but we no need plumbing to be clever. And we very clever. I reject your offer in customary way.”

  King Kronac leaned forward and spat on Rezormoor. Around the hall, the king’s guard raised their crossbows and trained them expertly on the Tower’s regent.

  “A ‘no’ would have sufficed,” Rezormoor managed to say, wiping at his face with his sleeve.

  “I like customary way better—helps get point across. I also like idea of dragon hunt, except I will collect dragon scales and keep them safe. Then I have new guild tell me what they’re for.”

  Inside, Rezormoor fumed. To be outmaneuvered by such a simpleton was enough to make him want to bury the entire city under rubble. And maybe he’d do just that, when the time was right. But for now he had little choice but to accept the king’s commands. Not that he really needed the king’s permission in the first place. It just meant things couldn’t be done in the open. But that was fine, Rezormoor had plenty of resources at his disposal.

  Later, after returning to the Tower and entering his private chambers, Rezormoor let out a series of curses that shocked even the jailers who tended to the prisoners in the dungeon.

  The sound of padded feet announced the arrival of the zombie duck. It shuffled around a large chair before coming to sit at Rezormoor’s feet.

  “For all his intuition, the king has no idea why the scales matter,” Rezormoor said to the duck, reaching down and petting the top of its head. It was a bit like stroking sandpaper. “But when the Codex is returned to me, I’ll put the dragon scale to its ultimate use. And Kronac will be one of the first I deem to visit.

  “Gwaawk,” the zombie duck said by way of agreement. Or perhaps by way of disagreement—Rezormoor could never really be sure.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  SARAH THE DETECTIVE

  (THE TECHRUS—FUTURE)

  DEEP IN THE FOREST, MAX WATCHED AS THE FROBBITS PLAYED TINY two-stringed instruments, pounded on primitive animal skin drums, and puffed out their cheeks and blew into seashells. It reminded him of country music, only more sophisticated. It was night, and the frobbits danced around the roaring fire as they slurped drinks from homemade jugs. They werewwcelebrating their survival after the hunt, as well as the fact that with humans around, maybe the machines wouldn’t be interested in frobbits for a while. The party that had found Max had taken him to their treeshire (a very long walk that had taken most of the day) where he was reunited with his friends. Sarah had been so worried that she actually hugged him, which left Max feeling odd. Exhausted, he had slept through the following day, and when he finally woke to the sounds of the celebration, he felt considerably better.

  Max found Dirk and the others and recounted the incident with the Robo-Princess. Sarah decided to check his head for bumps or other signs that he might have taken a blow; but, not finding anything, the group decided he must be telling the truth.

  The afro’d frobbit walked over and embraced Max warmly. “My friend, it’s good to see you again. You had us worried.”

  “Oh, uh, thanks,” Max muttered, not really sure what to say.

  “Welcome to our treeshire. But forgive me, my name is Yah Yah.”

  The others introduced themselves before Dwight hurried off to find something to drink.

  “My name is Max,” Max said when it was his turn.

  Yah Yah looked perplexed. “That is always an unfortunate condition, but you have been running through the woods and one should probably expect such things.”

  “Er,” Max added, not understanding what Yah Yah was talking about. “Max is my name.”

  “Oh,” Yah Yah said, smiling. “That makes more sense. You’ll have to forgive me, but in our native tongue ‘Max’ means to suffer from an itchy backside without having the means to scratch it.”

  “Dude, I totally know how that feels,” Dirk exclaimed. “Like when I went to the beach this one time—”

  “Ew,” Sarah said, raising her hand and stopping Dirk midsente
nce.

  “Seriously, my name means ‘one who has an itchy bum’?” Max asked, not looking too pleased about it.

  Sarah tried not to laugh, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “Well, it is a fairly common condition,” Yah Yah responded cheerfully.

  “Can we please change the subject?” Max pleaded. “So, back in the woods . . . I thought frobbits didn’t run from predators?”

  “It’s not in our nature to be afraid,” Yah Yah said sadly. “Some may call this a weakness, but to us, life is full of simple pleasures. We’re a peace-loving race, and that’s been our custom for as long as our recorded history goes back.”

  “And how far is that?” Sarah asked, trying to work out just where they were.

  “Last Tuesday,” Yah Yah answered after thinking it over. “That was the last time it rained. We should probably stop writing our history in the dirt.”

  “But now you’re afraid of that thing,” Max continued, “the unicorn.”

  “Killing us is a game to her,” Yah Yah replied. “We simply do what we can to survive.”

  “Yeah, it’s all making sense,” Dirk said, jumping up. “This is the future, right? So frobbits must be like mutated humans who grew up in underground shelters after the nuclear war. And because all you could eat was radioactive Spam and diet soda, it caused your bones to shrink.”

  Sarah gave Dirk a questioning look. “Radioactive Spam?”

  “Of course,” Dirk answered. “What other food can withstand the power of the atom? Certainly not tuna.”

  “Dirk, I don’t think that’s where frobbits come from,” Max suggested, knowing that he should probably stop him before he really got going. “They’re from the Magrus.”

  “The Magrus?” Dirk said incredulously. “That’s not in any of the games I’ve played before.”