The Accidental God (A Pygmalion Fail Book 1)

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The Accidental God (A Pygmalion Fail Book 1) Page 4

by Casey Matthews


  Big Bret gave me a boost onto their cart, which had two wheels and was drawn by a six-foot-high horse with hooves as wide as paint cans, and I wound up seated on the inside of some orc’s breastplate. Big Bret led the beast and Little Bret hopped into the cart across from me, crouching with an impish gleam in her eyes. “Time to split the treasure,” she said.

  “Sorry?”

  “You took their rucksack. Sure, it has your stuff in it, but it probably also has orc stuff in it. Let’s say we go halfsies on the loot and someday when I’m an Akarri warrior, I’ll let you come on adventures with me.”

  “I thought you were going to be Queen.”

  “When I retire I’ll be a queen, but you can’t be a queen until you slay some dragons.”

  “Is… is that seriously a thing?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder at Big Bret. Was there a dragon-slaying requirement to public office here?

  “No,” Big Bret groaned. “It’s all them damn stories! What we get for living near a tavern.”

  “Queen Adelestrei slew fourteen dragons in the High Era,” Little Bret said matter-of-factly.

  “And Eliandra’s Queen now and she’s slain zero,” gruffed Big Bret. “Besides, you can’t be Queen unless you’ve got pointy ears. It’s the law.”

  I did remember that. The ruler of Korvia was always elven. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time, figuring that elves were older and wiser, so of course they’d make better rulers. Little did I realize I’d locked poor Bretta out of her career.

  But she just smirked. “I’ve got that part figured out. There’s magic all over the realm. Got to be girl-into-elf magic somewhere. I don’t mind the pointy ears that much; it’s finding the magic that’s the trick.” She gestured at the sack. “Now c’mon, open it up. I’ve never had treasure before. You think anything survived the water?”

  “It’s stiff material and the stitching is incredibly tight,” I said, fighting with a wooden cap that covered the drawstring portion. “This plug here protects the strings, keeps it watertight. At least I hope, since my gear is paper.”

  Little Bret prodded the sack. “It’s made of animal gut. Sheep, maybe.”

  “Do orcs have a lot of sheep?” I asked, finally snapping the cap off.

  Her eyes widened. “I bet it’s made of people.”

  “Bretta!” her dad barked. “It’s made of sheep and that’s that.”

  I winked conspiratorially at Little Bret. “See that mark? Looks like a tattoo.”

  She examined the blotch while I rummaged and drew out my wristwatch, backpack, sketchbook, pencil set, and erasers. There was also a yellow No. 2, which for doodling I liked better than the fancy, expensive pencil sets. I stuffed my wallet into a back pocket before Little Bret could see photo ID and try to confiscate the “magic.” Instead, she snatched my sketchpad and paged through my work. “They’re beautiful. Oh! You drew an Akarri! She looks like she might jump right off the page.”

  “Uh, yeah,” I said, snatching it back. The picture of the Akarri—I realized it was the order she wanted to train for—featured a gorgeous woman in a steel bikini top and chainmail skirt. Yes, I sometimes drew beautiful women in less than totally full dress, but I had no desire to share those sketches with a ten-year-old.

  “Have you ever seen the Akarri?” she asked. “They protect Queen Eliandra and fight dragons. I’m going to join their academy when I turn thirteen, and that’s how I’ll get my start.” She swished her stick around.

  “Sounds like a dangerous line of work,” I said.

  “Better than being a farmer’s wife or a barmaid or whatever else is back home,” she said.

  “Nothin’ wrong with honest work or marriage,” Big Bret said. “Suited me and your mother just fine, gods rest her soul.”

  Little Bret dug through the rest of the bag and found more moldy bread, jerky that she immediately tossed from the wagon with a feigned retch, and two smaller pouches. One jingled and produced two fistfuls of oval, silver coins and a smaller stack of copper triangles. Little Bret’s eyes widened. “Must be thirty chits here, Dad! And some coppers.”

  “What!” He wheeled and stared at the coins.

  I realized that was a lot of money. In my notes on Rune’s economy, a silver chit would buy most mundane things—give or take some coppers—but to common folk, it must have been a lot. Indeed, thinking about how much food it would buy made my mouth water.

  “We split it,” Little Bret said. “You promised.”

  “That sounds fair. How about it?” I asked Big Bret.

  He nodded, staring at the coins a while longer, and then took hold of the horse again.

  Little Bret pried open the second pouch and poured into her palm a few grains of black sand that I’d seen the orcs use at the campsite to summon Dracon’s face. It was coarse and peppered with diamond-bright sparks.

  “Magic,” Little Bret whispered. “Dad! There’s conjurer’s dust!”

  Big Bret wheeled and snatched it from his daughter’s hand. He hurled the pouch deep into the forest like it was a grenade.

  I gaped. Shaking my head, I asked, “Was it dangerous?”

  “Black magic,” Big Bret growled. “Only Lord Dracon’s forces use black magic anymore.”

  “Anymore?”

  They stared.

  “I’m from a far-off land. This is my first time in Korvia.”

  Big Bret let out a held breath, body trembling. “Long time ago, plenty o’ humans used conjurer’s dust, witch’s wands, and black magic. My wife… her family were witches in a time when it was needed. We cast those ways aside when we found the rune stones in the great cities. Our giving up black magic has made Lord Dracon… angry.”

  I remembered drawing the rune stones and the magitech they powered. Each magical stone was inscribed with symbols that programmed it with unique powers. But conjuring dust and black magic didn’t sound like my world at all. “Why does it matter that Dracon’s angry?” I asked.

  “All black magic comes from Dracon. And as we started following the new ways, Dracon’s magic has only gotten more twisted—just like the man. Once, a pinch of that stuff, a few words, maybe a deal with the local faeries, and you could mend a wound or ward off the orcs for one more night. Today? The world’s more civilized and only the desperate or the wicked use it. The cost for us normal folk… it’s too high.” He shuddered. Then he went back to the horse.

  Little Bret watched him, and there was something sad in her eyes. When we were moving, and beneath the sound of rolling wheels, she whispered, “I got sick when I was seven and they couldn’t get me onto the boat for Amyss in time to reach the healing stones. Mom used conjurer’s dust and spoke to devils to get me better. They took her, though.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “My mom died when I was little too.” I didn’t give her the pity eyes. I had never liked it as a boy. Instead, I asked, “Do you remember what she was like?”

  “Big as a house!” Little Bret said. “Dad says I’ll get that big someday.” She flexed her skinny arms. “My mom used to slaughter cows. Bam! One shot of her pickaxe, straight into the skull. One-armed! Then she’d drag it to the hoist and sometimes she’d let me ride on the carcass.”

  “Reminds me of my Uncle Scott.” Glancing over at Big Bret again, I plied him for information. “So you’re no fan of Lord Dracon.”

  “No. Once, a long time ago in my great-grandfather’s time, he was a hero. But now he’s a warlord, a killer.” Big Bret spat angrily into the dirt. “Cavorts with orcs n’ devils n’ dragons. He’s got a thousand wyrms circling that Sky Keep of his. Calls himself the Dragon Lord.”

  “Just how old is this guy?”

  “Older than all the kingdoms,” Little Bret said. “Stories say he’s older than mankind, older than time itself.” She leaned forward. “The old stories tell of him saving maidens, slaying armies of orcs, and rescuing us from dragons. He beat the elder horrors back to the Far Wastes. Then after the Cataclysm, it all changed.”

  I hadn’
t drawn any cataclysms. “I’ve never heard of that.”

  “Where are you from?” Little Bret asked, skeptically.

  “Ohio.”

  “You made that word up.”

  “I totally didn’t.”

  She rolled her eyes. “The Cataclysm changed everything about a hundred years ago. Dad! What happened a hundred years ago?”

  “How old do you think I am?” Big Bret asked. “My great-grandpa lived through it. From what my own father told me, it was a time when the gods hated all mankind. But instead of destroying us, they set out to fix us. Continents moved and mountains rose from the sea. Rivers carved the earth and forests grew overnight. The wickedest cities with their slave markets and coliseums vanished, and whole nations were swallowed by the ocean. The people didn’t so much die as… just found themselves living somewhere new all of a sudden. Moved across the world, from one place to another.

  “After the Cataclysm, things got better. The cities were like fortresses, full of rune stones and wonders, and we didn’t need Dracon no more. He left for the outlands and made an empire among the orcs and what barbarians were left.”

  “Why didn’t he stay?” I asked.

  “In the old days we worshipped him like a god. He was the one who kept us safe.” Big Bret shrugged. “Once we got the new councils and governments running in the cities, once Korvia came together, we didn’t need gods like Dracon. The Cataclysm pushed the worst of the monsters into far-off lands. People weren’t scared, and we had the rune stones—you ever seen them?”

  I nodded. Those stones powered everything: sky ships, floating temples, and fireball-shooting cannons. “I’ve heard of them.”

  “They’re bright, colorful gems,” Little Bret said. “There’s a whole secret magical language inscribed on them.”

  Secret magical language, my ass. It was just kanji. Thanks to my laziness, Japanese was now a secret magical language.

  “So no one knows where the stones came from before this Cataclysm?” I asked. I’d never included setting notes on how they were created, so I was intensely curious.

  “No,” Big Bret said. “And we don’t know where they come from now. We just found them lying around in the cities, ready to use. Dracon’s been rounding up as many stones as he can, destroying them.”

  “Some hero,” I said.

  “You best steer clear of Lord Dracon,” Big Bret said. “He might not rule in civilized lands, but there’s no one man in the realm more powerful.”

  And he wanted to torture me. Terrific. My stomach in knots, I wondered where I could possibly go to get away from the lunatic. I brooded the afternoon away and near sundown Big Bret called out, “Astor’s ahead, stranger. Don’t think we caught your name, by the way.”

  “It’s Grawflefox,” I said, grinning at Little Bret. If Dracon was looking for me, a new name seemed wise.

  “Hope you don’t plan to blend in with a name like that,” Big Bret said.

  Good point. “How about… Clint Eastwood?” Damn my love of 1980s science-fiction movies.

  “Very prestigious family,” Big Bret said. “They own half of Astor. It’s a woodcutting town, after all.”

  “I could be from a different family of Eastwoods.”

  “What, the criminal Eastwoods? Pig thieves who cheat at cards,” Big Bret said. “Maybe Grawflefox is for the best.”

  We rounded a bend and Astor appeared above the next rise, its four- and five-story buildings ignited by the glow of street lamps. At the heart of the city a massive spire jutted into the sky, on scale with the Washington Monument, except with wooden docks protruding from its four sides, staggered in a spiral that went around and around to the very top—each one for loading sky ships. The spire, Astor’s air station, bristled with lightning turrets. The station and the surrounding buildings were made from handsome, white stone and cast in electric blues.

  The lamps caused the unusual blue lighting. Each one was fitted with a blue crystal that illuminated the streets. I’d planned for different cities to be lit with different-hued crystals to give my nighttime skylines some variety. As our wagon trundled through the echoing, empty streets of Astor, the azure glow gave it a haunting quality. The city’s architecture was dressed in eldritch scribbles along its ancient columns. All these things pleased me as an artist, but every movement of the shadows made me jump and then curse my own aesthetics.

  The city was composed of stone and strong timbers. Rune stones could be designed to alchemize mundane materials, granting stone superior tensile strength and wood greater load-bearing capacity. Thus, the city was not built from modern materials—merely from alchemized versions of whatever was in abundance. The streets were paved with cobblestones, rising and falling with the contours of the earth. The buildings and streets followed the shape of the land, unlike the plowed-flat quality of some U.S. cities. I knew from my first breath of the city air that Astor was unlike most of my own culture’s pre-modern cities. There was no stench of human waste, which indicated the sewer systems I’d jotted into my notes were functioning; the air wasn’t chalked with coal dust as it would be in Victorian England, since the chief fuels used for heating and locomotion were rune-powered steam engines.

  The road still had horse manure, though, which I hadn’t anticipated. Some had been swept up, but when everyone’s main mode of locomotion ate and crapped all day, I figured government services could only do so much.

  I felt a glow of pride seeing the aboveground steam pipes running alongside every major building. Each city block had a steam engine buried near its center, since the high-pressure pipes could only transfer heated water so far before it cooled—even pipes enchanted for greater durability and insulation. As a power source, it didn’t have the citywide range of electricity, but it was a lot more fun to sketch a steam-driven power grid.

  I thought about the huge water pumps that would be chugging along at the city’s periphery, feeding fuel into each block’s steam grid. I wanted to see the gargantuan pistons churning up and down, to hear the hiss of released pressure from their exhausts as they filled the sky with a hot vapor cloud. The brute power of each cycle of the five-story engine would fire rhythmic tremors through the earth. Maybe in the morning, I decided, when I can see them better.

  Before, I’d been thinking about Dracon and dying, but now I wanted to drink this world, some of which I’d drawn and some of which I’d only imagined. I badly wanted to see how closely it matched my vision.

  “This inn’s expensive, but it’s got folk from all over and you’ll blend right in,” Big Bret said, motioning to a building labeled Cross-Corners Tavern. I was pleased I could read the sign—that the common tongue was English—because it meant I was still literate.

  Cross-Corners sat at an intersection of the city’s major thoroughfares. Yellow lantern light came through the windows and blended with that of the street lamps. The indistinct chatter of a laughing crowd eased my anxieties.

  Big Bret helped me from the cart and I realized he and Little Bret were headed elsewhere. I smiled and shook hands with them both, taking half the orcs’ coins from Little Bret. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “Any time. You ever get out from under Dracon, come pay us a call,” Big Bret said. “We live in Tanesville, just south of Astor.”

  “Be off with you, Grawflefox,” said Little Bret. “You bore me.” But she hugged me anyway and hopped back into the cart with a frown. Their cart jerked to a start and turned the corner, and the Brets were gone from my life. For now, at least.

  The tavern was set two steps deeper than street level and I eased down, acutely aware of every obscure muscle a body uses to swim. The innkeeper charged me two chits for the room and five coppers for a plate of whatever filled the front room with a savory beef aroma. It turned out to be a rich broth thick with tender celery, beans soaked through with flavor, and chunks of roast that dissolved on my tongue. It was served with a hunk of hot bread the size of a softball and a sliver of butter melting into the fluffy white cont
ents of the crust. When I bit into the soft crumb, it stretched before snapping off.

  I ate to the dregs of the bowl, sopping up the last teaspoon of gravy with a hard chunk of crust. I sucked a few final molecules of salty broth off my fingertips and fell back, sated. The tavern keeper came around with a glass of drink and I winced at the dry bite. Wine. They didn’t card on Rune, then. Normally I’d abstain, but alcohol was the only muscle relaxant on tap. I drank half a glass.

  Content and imbued with the glow of wine, I fought my way upstairs and into a room hardly big enough for the bed, desk, and chair. There was a crystal attached to a metal pipe along the wall and I fumbled with it. I’d designed the concept: these crystals could convert ambient heat into light, and so it was plugged into a pipe that drew off one of Astor’s steam grids. It nevertheless took me a moment to figure out how to turn the device on. Flopping onto my bed, I stretched out—winced—and opened my sketchpad.

  I examined the Akarri warrior. She was part of the all-female honor guard who protected the Queen in the capital city Amyss, and her armor consisted of a chain skirt and a metallic bikini top on her taut, athletic build. While she wasn’t as stupidly busty as most women in this particular genre, I was always simultaneously impressed and embarrassed by this sketch. Tawdry, I knew. But she makes me feel things. It was hard to demand more of a pencil and paper.

  It wasn’t just the skimpy armor, though. I’d captured her ferocity in the eyes. Her dark hair was a tangle of barely contained curls, sprung with energy. I could imagine her pacing the floor like a caged tigress, irritated if she went too long without using that wicked blade of hers.

  I wondered if this warrior really existed somewhere. The skies and steam-powered cities of this world looked like what I had sketched and painted; the orcs and the road manure suggested it wasn’t totally mine. Had I created this world with my paintings? Or did this world somehow influence my imagination? I didn’t even know why I was here or whether I could return home.

  Home. I remembered my last Saturday morning before leaving for campus. Aunt Amy had woken me early to slaughter a chicken for dinner. As had been our tradition since I was eight years old and cried after she whacked off one’s head, I gave the eulogy. After lunch, Uncle Scott and I took some cans of gasoline over the hill to deal with a wasp nest. Uncle Scott and Aunt Amy had argued about whether gasoline was an organic pesticide, with Uncle Scott’s argument based mostly on the fossil record.

 

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