Dream Magic

by Joshua Khan

  Text copyright © 2017 by Joshua Khan

  Illustrations copyright © 2017 by Ben Hibon

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney • Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  Cover illustration © 2017 by Ben Hibon

  Lettering by Russ Gray

  Cover design by Marci Senders

  ISBN 978-1-368-00246-2

  Visit www.DisneyBooks.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Map

  Cast of Characters

  Castle Gloom

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Malice

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  The Dreamtime

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  The Cloud Ship Tempest

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Joshua Khan

  About the Author

  This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine.

  —From The Tempest,

  by William Shakespeare

  CASTLE GLOOM

  Lilith Shadow, the young ruler of Gehenna and a necromancer

  Ying, the Eagle Knight and member of the Feathered Council, a suitor to Lilith

  Baron Sable, a nobleman and adviser to Lilith

  Tyburn, the executioner

  Old Colm, the weapons master

  Dr. Byle, a physician

  Ongar, the stable master

  Lynch Tenebrae, a squire

  Wade, a squire

  Thorn, a squire

  Dott, a servant

  Kath, a widow

  BONE-TREE FOREST AND MALICE

  Pitch, a farmer

  Milly, his wife

  Alfie and Sam, their sons

  Mary, a townswoman

  Jared, a village headman

  MERRICK’S TRAVELING PLAYERS

  Merrick, owner of Merrick’s Traveling Players, a minstrel of little talent

  Weaver, a conjuror

  Hurricane and Firestarter, his companions

  Gabriel Solar, a refugee from Lumina, fiancé to Lilith

  Mr. Funny, his fool

  THE UNDEAD

  Iblis Shadow, once ruler of Gehenna, father of Lilith

  Old Man Husk, a zombie

  Custard, a ghost puppy

  Tom, a zombie

  Gart and Mal Shade, two ghost brothers

  BEASTS AND MONSTERS

  Thunder, a warhorse

  Zephyr, a gift from Sultan Djinn

  Hades, a giant bat

  Jewel spiders, a plague…

  “Trolls did this,” said Wade. “Anyone can see that.”

  “Can they?” Stepping lightly on the snow, Thorn picked his way over the rubble that had once been a farmhouse, his bow ready with an arrow nocked. He breathed slowly and deeply, ignoring the white mist emerging from between his lips, scanning ahead for any troll-sized trouble.

  But the closer he got, the more he realized they were too late.

  The morning’s snowfall sprinkled the broken wooden fence and the trampled chicken coop. A feeble thread of smoke still rose out of the chimney, but there were two other big, fresh holes in the thatched roof.

  The rest of the patrol, all squires like him and Wade, were cautiously spreading out across Pitch Farm. Twenty boys, with hands tight around spear shafts and bows, and thickly wrapped in their black wool cloaks and whatever armor that fit. A few searched the shed at the edge of the trees; another was poking his head into an empty dog kennel.

  Wade pointed to the roof. “Give me a leg up.”

  “Get up yourself. It ain’t high.”

  Wade gave a long, theatrical sigh. “I’m not a forest-born sprite like you, Thorn. And how long have you been a squire, exactly?”

  Thorn knew where this conversation was going. “Three months.”

  Wade grinned. “I’ve been a squire three years, and I was a page for the three before that. Remind me, how old are you?”

  “Twelve,” Thorn replied sullenly.

  “A mere twelve?” Wade stroked the few strands of hair on his chin, which he proudly referred to as his “beard.” “I, on the other hand, am thirteen. Face it, young Thorn, I’m superior to you in all things, ways, and matters. So you have to do what I say.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Sadly, it is. I don’t write the rules. And even if I did, you couldn’t read them, could you?”

  Thorn glared at his roommate. His lack of progress in learning his letters was a sore point. “You know I’m gonna snip those chin hairs off when you’re asleep, don’t you?”

  Wade laughed. “Anyway, you’ve got that brutish strength all peasants are famous for, and a flat head for me to rest my foot on as I climb.”

  “My head is not flat!”

  Wade waited. “Well?”

  Thorn scowled, then leaned against the wall and cupped his hands. “Just get up there.”

  Wade grabbed the edge of the low roof and pulled himself up, using Thorn’s shoulder—not his head—as an extra step. He grunted with the last push and knocked a slab of snow right onto Thorn. “Oops.”

  Thorn gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the freezing snow now sliding down his back. “No problem. We peasants are famous not just for our brutish strength but also our hardiness.”

  Anyway, Wade had no right acting all high-and-mighty. His mom was a fisherwoman, making him just as common as Thorn.

  Still, Wade had been a squire a long time. He could use a knife and fork properly, vault onto a horse while wearing armor, and read and write more than just his name.

  And Wade could dance. Really well. Thorn danced like he was trampling spiders. The dancing master had burst into tears and sworn to kill himself if Thorn dared to attend another lesson ever again.

  None of this stuff—the jousting, the dancing, the reading and writing—mattered back in his home by Herne’s Forest. What mattered there was being able to shoot a bow and trap a rabbit and knowing the difference between wolf tracks and those left by sheep.

  But this was Gehenna.

 
Gehenna. A country of nightmares. How many nights had his parents told him stories about the ghosts and ghouls that walked the bleak moors of the land of darkness?

  Stories that turned out to be truer than he could have possibly imagined.

  Sometimes Thorn felt really useless and far from home.

  Maybe I should have gone back.

  He’d had his chance to sail all the way to the village of Stour, with its pond and apple trees and the endless Herne’s Forest beyond.

  Best you forget about it.

  He wasn’t going back. He’d run away, and his dad was a wanted man there. Thorn’s future—his whole family’s future—lay in Gehenna and in service to House Shadow. His parents and five siblings would be here by spring, and like him, they would swap the earthy hues of Herne’s Forest for the black of Castle Gloom.

  A snowball thwacked his ear.

  Wade stood at the ridge of the roof, another ball in his hand. “It wasn’t me.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “Quit daydreaming,” said Wade, “and get busy.”

  Thorn inspected the farmhouse. Made of moss-clad stone and with a log pile stacked against it, the building sat half-sunk into the earth. The thick oak door lay shattered at the doorway, its iron hinges torn out of the frame.

  Yeah, it does look like trolls.

  Thorn ducked under the icicles dangling from the lintel and entered.

  He immediately recognized the lingering, moist smell of earth, people, and animals mixed with the bitter bite of smoke. It stung Thorn’s nostrils and reddened his eyes. Herbs hanging from the roof beams scented the air with thyme, parsley, and sage. His mom dried hers the same way, and the thought made him homesick.

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Winter sunlight, pale and watery this early in the morning, lit the interior through the pair of big holes that had been smashed through the roof. Snow drifted in, forming two white patches on the floor.

  His family lived in a place a lot like this—crowded, smelly, and full of heart.

  The blankets had been tossed off the straw-stuffed mattresses. At the foot of one bed was a rough bundle of old clothes, covered in gray hairs and saturated with the friendly stink of dog. Clay shards from a broken jug crunched under his boots; its spilled water was now a sheet of ice. A crusty loaf sat on the chopping board and, lined up alongside, a row of jars. Thorn picked one up and inspected the dark red sludge within.

  Strawberry jam, his favorite. He and his siblings would spend long summer days collecting the berries. They’d be out till dusk and come back only when every basket was overflowing and each face smeared with juice. He put the jar down. It wasn’t right, handling other people’s stuff. This was someone’s home.

  He’d met the family on a market day at Castle Gloom. Farmer Pitch; his wife, Milly; and their two boys, Alfie and Sam. They’d brought their scraggy wolfhound, Devil. Thorn remembered showing the boys how to trim its nails, and swapping a jar of flea powder for a basket of apples.

  They were just everyday folk who’d lived their lives in accordance with the seasons, like generations before them, probably in this very farmhouse. And now this. He doubted anyone would live here after today.

  A bulbous cauldron hung over the smoke-blackened stone fireplace, a ladle dangling from a hook beside it. Thorn laid his hands on the iron.

  “Still warm,” he muttered, enjoying the heat entering his frozen fingers.

  “What did you say?” Wade leaned down through one of the holes in the roof.

  Thorn scanned the room one last time. He’d seen all there was to see. “Make room. I’m coming up.” He jumped onto the trestle table and clambered out.

  The solidly built roof held them and the six-inch snow cover without a problem. Yet something, or someone, had smashed through it as easily as Thorn cracked his morning egg.

  “Trolls,” said Wade. “Knocked the roof in, reached down, and grabbed them right out of their beds. They’ll be in the stew pot by now, poor sods.”

  “But why didn’t they take the animals, too?” asked Thorn. A pig was snuffling at the tree roots. Chickens flapped about as squires tried to catch them.

  “They’re trolls. Who knows?”

  Thorn drilled the last of the snow from his ear. “I thought there was peace between the trolls and Gehenna. Ever since—”

  “The Battle of Ice Bridge,” finished Wade. “That was years ago, and you’re right, we’ve had no trouble ever since Lord Shadow killed the last troll king.”

  Thorn, like all squires, knew the story. “They say he summoned a black cloud of howling spirits. It blew over the troll army, and when it moved on, there was nothing but a pile of bones.”

  Wade sighed. “I’d have given anything to see it. Lord Shadow was the greatest sorcerer in all the New Kingdoms. With him gone, the trolls have regained their courage. They’re not scared of his thirteen-year-old daughter.”

  Thorn smiled to himself. “That’s ’cause they don’t know Lily.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Wade suspiciously.

  “Nothing.” Thorn changed the subject: “What’s bringing trolls so deep into Gehenna?”

  Wade kicked at some snow. “The ones from the Troll-Teeth Mountains must be getting hungry. They came down here for easier pickings.”

  Maybe Wade was right; there had been reports of attacks on villages at the base of the mountains. Most of the Black Guard was now stationed there, all the way up to Ice Bridge, which left the local patrolling of Gehenna to the squires.

  But something bothered him. “These trolls are big, right?”

  Wade stared at him. “What sort of dumb question is that? They’re huge!”

  “So how’d they get all the way down here without anyone seeing them? The Troll-Teeth are hundreds of miles north.”

  Wade shrugged. “Made their way down through Bone-Tree Forest. Easy enough to sneak down, even if you’re the size of a troll.”

  Thorn gazed at the trees on the other side of the farm. “Maybe in the summer, when the trees are covered in leaves. But look at ’em. All bare now.”

  “Someone made these holes, and someone took the farmer and his family. And I’ll bet you a week of stable cleaning it was trolls.”

  Snow clouds stretched across the sky, heavy, gray, and promising a blizzard. The wind stung; its freshness scratched Thorn’s throat, and he rewrapped his scarf. “It don’t make no sense.”

  Wade fished out a wrinkly apple. He bit out a chunk and handed it over. “You know what your problem is?”

  “Having you for a roommate?” Thorn took a bite and handed it back. That was their deal when it came to snacks.

  “Ha-ha. How my sides ache with laughter.” Wade tapped his brow. “You think too much. Think and think and think. It’s not healthy. It leads to a muddled head.”

  “A muddled head?”

  Wade chucked the apple core at one of the squires. “Leave the thinking to those above you, Thorn. Which, in your case, is everyone except the privy cleaner. Just do what you’re told, and life will become much easier.”

  Thorn glowered. “That’s how a sheep lives.”

  “Have you ever seen an unhappy sheep?” Wade spread out his arms. “And isn’t this better than slaving away in the stables?”

  Thorn nodded. “Them new horses are hard work. Never met animals that need so much pampering.”

  “That’s because they’re not just any old horses, but fire breeds,” said Wade, his eyes shining. “The stallion, Zephyr—made out of desert wind, he is. Lady Shadow’s been receiving some fine gifts these last few months.”

  Thorn scowled. “Sultan Djinn gave her them horses because she helped save his son, K’leef. Do you know who else helped save him?”

  “Oh, here we go again…” muttered Wade, eyes rolling.

  “Me. Right here,” said Thorn. “And what did I get? A box of mangoes.”

  “Anyway…” Wade continued, clearly not bothered by the injustice Thorn had suffere
d. “Have you seen the clockwork aviary the Eagle Knight gave her? Not a single spell required! All mechanical, they tell me. You wind the birds up with a golden key.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen it, and heard it,” said Thorn sourly. “And Captain Moray sent her a chest of black pearls.”

  Wade jabbed Thorn in the ribs. “And how do you know what’s in Lady Shadow’s jewelry box?”

  “Dott told me.”

  “You’ve got one of Lady Shadow’s maids spying for you?” Wade tutted. “You have to aim lower, Thorn. Way lower. Lady Shadow’s not for the likes of us.”

  “It’s not like that!” Thorn snapped.

  Wade just didn’t get it. How could he? Wade wasn’t the one who’d helped Lily back when her uncle had tried to overthrow her. Wade hadn’t been there when she’d—

  “Thorn, look at this,” said Wade from behind him.

  “I’m not interested.”

  “Thorn, look.”

  Reluctantly, Thorn turned around and looked.

  Wade had his hands wrapped around a sword hilt. Its blade was half-buried in the roof. “It’s stuck.” He braced his legs on either side and pulled.

  It did not budge.

  “How did it get up here?” asked Wade.

  “Let me try and use some of my brutish strength.” Thorn gripped it with two hands and pushed it forward. Then pulled it back. Inch by inch he worked it loose, then looser still. “Just a bit more…”

  There was a sharp crack, and the sword tore free.

  Wade stared at the sword, then the hole in the roof. “Maybe Pitch had it for protection? Grabbed it as he was pulled up?”

  Thorn hefted the weapon in front of him. The blade was bright and the edge razor sharp. “Too good a sword for a farmer. Would have cost him a year’s labor, at least.”

  “What are you two trolls playing at? Get down here!”

  The shout shook more snow off the roof, and Old Colm stood below them, glaring. “Are you deaf as well as stupid? I said get down! Now!”

  The one-legged weapons master wore a grimace. His heavy crossbow, Heartbreaker, rested on his broad shoulders. “What have you got? Show me.”

  Thorn and Wade slid down the slope and handed him the sword. “Found this, Master Colm. Sticking in the roof.”

  Old Colm inspected the blade. “This is from the forge of Castle Gloom.”