Dream Magic

by Joshua Khan

  “Really?” asked Thorn.

  Old Colm scowled at him. “Four eyes between the pair of you, and not one of them works. Look at the maker’s mark. The hammer and crescent.”

  Thorn saw it, just where the blade joined the hilt. Every sword and piece of armor from Castle Gloom had that mark. How could he have missed it?

  Old Colm tucked the weapon into his belt. “Got the same mark on my pewter. Not that the likes of you eat off anything but clay.”

  Wade winked at Thorn. Everyone knew how proud Old Colm was of his pewter dining set, a gift from the previous Lord Shadow. A squire polished it every evening, and Thorn’s turn had come last Sunday. Eight spoons, four knives, and four forks, along with ten plates, six cups, and a mug deep enough to hold two pints of ale. By the time he’d finished, every piece had shone brighter than silver.

  Old Colm scratched his wooden leg, something he did when he was thinking. “Troll, go help catch the chickens.”

  “Me, Master?” asked Wade.

  “Of course you! That’s what I said, wasn’t it? Now go grab some feathers before they all run off into the forest!” He turned to Thorn. “You, follow me.”

  Old Colm taught the squires how to shoot, how to wrestle, and how to fight with sword, ax, staff, and anything else that came to hand. He was as mean as a wounded boar. But right now he just looked like an old, tired man as they crossed the farmyard. His eyes were on the horizon, his thoughts roaming even further. “A bad business.”

  “What do you think happened?” Thorn asked.

  “What else? Trolls.”

  That was Old Colm, through and through. If it was too wet, trolls. If it was too dry, trolls. Too windy, too calm, too deep, too shallow, too much of this and too little of that, all the fault of trolls.

  Still, I suppose having your leg torn off by one might make you a little bitter.

  “Then where are their footprints?” said Thorn.

  “It’s snowing. It’s covered their tracks.”

  “No. We have ogres in Herne’s Forest, smaller than your trolls but just as heavy. Their prints go in deep; it takes more snowfall than this to cover them.”

  “How do you know? The trolls could have been here days ago.”

  “Hearth fire’s still warm. Someone was tending it not twelve hours ago,” said Thorn. “They attacked last night, and whoever they are, they ain’t trolls.”

  “You ever met a troll, troll?”

  Thorn met Old Colm’s hard stare. “Yeah, I know the one who—”

  “I don’t mean her,” Old Colm interrupted. “A real troll, one taller than that hovel over there, with teeth made of stone, and fists that could flatten a bull. I’ve seen one rip a tree out of the ground, roots and all. I’ve seen them, fought them, killed them for more years than you can count, and I don’t need a troll like you telling me about trolls.”

  Thorn couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “But something ain’t right. Where’s the dog?”

  “Dog?”

  Thorn nodded toward the empty kennel. “Devil. Their wolfhound.”

  “Your point?”

  “If it was trolls, Devil would have heard them coming. It was sleeping in the farmhouse; our dog does the same when it’s cold out. A squirrel steps on our roof, and he’s up, barking. No way a canny old mutt like Devil would sleep through a troll attack. It would have warned Pitch and his family way in advance.”

  Thorn snapped his fingers. He knew what else was wrong. “And their ax is missing, too. There’s a log pile, so Pitch must have one. If he’s like any farmer I know, he would have his ax resting up against the door. My dad does. First thing you grab when there’s trouble. If it’s not here, he’s still got it with him.”

  “You found any human footprints?”

  Thorn gestured at the squires spread across the farm. “After they’ve been all over? Forget it.”

  Old Colm peered out into the forest. “So you think the family is still out there? That they made a run for it?”

  “Let me look.”

  “They could be anywhere. Bone-Tree Forest’s a big place.”

  “I’ll have help.”

  Thorn whistled and summoned a monster.

  A hellish shriek pierced the quiet dawn air, driving terrified birds from their roosts. The sky darkened as massive black wings spread across the sky. They beat slowly and steadily, whipping up swirling clouds of snow as the creature descended. Sword-long ivory fangs shone wetly in his maw, and his claws flexed as the beast settled himself on a nearby boulder. The thick fur covering him glistened with ice drops, as though he’d been coated with diamonds. He spread out his wings, spanning over fifty feet in width, before refolding them around his body. It was a thing straight out of nightmare, a giant vampire bat. A monster.

  Thorn’s monster.

  “Is Hades getting bigger?” asked Old Colm.

  Thorn stroked the beast’s fur, brushing off the worst of the ice. He smiled as he gazed upon Hades. He wasn’t actually his pet. Monsters couldn’t be owned.

  Hades burped. Thorn put his hand against Hades’s belly. It rumbled, and Hades twisted uncomfortably. “Bellyache?” asked Thorn.

  Hades bristled and didn’t meet Thorn’s gaze.

  “Open your mouth.”

  Hades didn’t.

  “Open up.”

  Hades burped again. This time it was a deep, long, throat-shaking belch exhaling the foulest smell this side of the grave.

  Thorn tugged a bloody strand of gunk from between Hades’s teeth.

  “This is wool.” He shook the gory thread in front of the bat’s beady black eyes. “Like what you find on sheep. Makes me wonder where the rest of that sheep might be.”

  Hades’s growling stomach answered that question.

  “That’s gonna come out of my pay, Hades!” said Thorn. “And that’s the third one this week!”

  Hades leaned down so they were eye to eye, or eye to jaw. He opened his mouth wide and slowly, making sure Thorn got a good look at the lethal fangs.

  “Oh, am I supposed to be scared?” Thorn folded his arms across his chest. “Why would anyone be scared of a fat bat like you?”

  Hades snapped his jaws shut.

  “Yeah, I said fat. What with all those extra snacks you’ve been having, it’s a miracle you can get your toes off the ground.”

  Hades spread out his wings and jerked them once. The wind blast knocked Thorn down.

  Thorn got up and brushed the snow off him like it didn’t matter. “I’m selling you to the next zoo that comes trundling past. Just wait and see if I don’t.”

  Hades snorted skeptically.

  Thorn grinned. How could he live without this bat?

  Old Colm scratched Hades under the chin. “Where’s the saddle?”

  “He doesn’t like it.” Thorn grabbed one ear to pull Hades down and himself up. “So it’s his job to make sure I don’t fall off.”

  Bat and boy worked together. Hades rolled his shoulders to make things more comfortable for Thorn, and in return, Thorn let Hades take the lead. The bat knew what Thorn wanted, so there was no need for him to pull him this way or that.

  But Thorn had to be careful. If Hades didn’t like something he did, the old monster wouldn’t hesitate to fling him off, even if they were five hundred feet aboveground.

  Thorn rubbed the frosty bristles between Hades’s big ears. Was there anything better in the world than this?

  But even up here, he wasn’t free of his thoughts about Lily.

  Wade didn’t understand; none of them did. To them, she was Lady Lilith Shadow, as high from them as the moon was from the earth.

  Thorn had first met her when she was a lonely nobody, like him. It wasn’t right to wish for those days back, but he missed the old Lily.

  He hardly ever saw her now. She was too busy ruling Gehenna, and he was usually too busy fetching oats for the horses. So he’d made her something, something that would remind her he was still around. Thorn had taken a piece of oak—twisted
, knotted, and beautiful—and spent every evening over the last two months carving her a brooch. He’d worked hard at sculpting the Shadow family seal, a pair of entwined crescent moons, and decorating it with vines and oak leaves, motifs from his old home.

  Then he’d seen the gift that the Eagle Knight, Ying, had brought Lily: a mechanical aviary. Thorn had stood at the back with the other squires, behind the nobles and knights and important guests, when Lily had taken the golden key and wound the device. How could such a tiny key work a whole tree? The tree was so tall it almost reached the gargoyles perched on top of the Great Hall, and its ivory branches fanned out all the way across the courtyard. The feathers on the clockwork birds were made of beaten gold, and their eyes were precious gems. In the torchlight, the whole tree seemed sprinkled with stars.

  Then the birds had sung, their songs rising together in perfect harmony that no living choir could match. Even Tyburn had smiled. Thorn hadn’t thought there was a spell in all the world that could make the executioner smile.

  Why would Lily look at Thorn’s stupid carving when she had such a marvel? How could a simple piece of wood compete with beautiful fire horses?

  Thorn had chucked the brooch into the fireplace.

  Wade wanted him to aim lower in his choice of friends, but how could he? As someone who could fly among the clouds, how could Thorn aim for anything lower than the moon?

  Hades growled. He could sense Thorn’s moods. This moping wasn’t going to help them find Pitch and his family.

  A pale sun balanced on the horizon, casting a dull, shadowless light over the landscape.

  Which way had they run? Did they have a shelter out here? Or had they fled blindly, stumbling through the night with no idea of direction?

  The Caves of the Hag lay eastward. Plenty of hiding places there.

  Hades shook his head.

  “Not the caves? Why not?”

  Hades didn’t explain. He merely glided away to the west. Each wingbeat was slow and easy as Hades skimmed the treetops.

  “There,” said Thorn. He nudged the bat with his right knee. “I saw something.”

  Hades wheeled around. For such a huge beast, he moved almost as sharply as a sparrow.

  The birch trees bent in the wind Hades created as he settled himself in a small clearing. Thorn slid off his back and sank shin deep into the snow. He plowed through it, heading to where he’d seen it. He wasn’t even sure what it was, just that it had been wrong.

  Thorn clambered over a frost-painted boulder. And found Farmer Pitch and his wife, Milly.

  It looked as if they were lying on a red rug, but it was bloodied snow. The farmer still held his ax. Wounds covered their backs—long gashes that had gone through flesh and bone.

  It was a woeful sight, but it didn’t sicken Thorn. He’d hunted and killed animals for food since the day he could draw a bowstring. Growing up in Herne’s Forest made you familiar with all the ways a creature can die. Poisonous berries. A fall that splits a skull. A wound that goes bad. He’d seen sheep torn apart by wolves. He’d twisted a few chicken necks, shot deer, and trapped squirrels and rabbits. Were dead people much different? They bruised. They bled. They broke. All in the same ways.

  But where were the boys?

  He heard something to his left.

  There, a thicket. A perfect hiding place for a couple of small children.

  Thorn dropped to his hands and knees and crawled into the foliage. “Hello? Sam? Alfie? You in there?”

  He was answered by a growl.

  “Devil?”

  The big, shaggy wolfhound faced him, his ears flat and his lips peeled back in a snarl. His haunches quivered, either to flee or attack, Thorn wasn’t sure which.

  Thorn, already crouching, held out his palm. “Easy, boy. You know me.”

  The dog’s bloodshot eyes glared and spittle dangled from his jaw.

  “It’s all right, Devil,” said Thorn, speaking as calmly as he could, despite his heart hammering against his ribs.

  Devil took a step forward, grinding his teeth.

  He’s gone rabid.

  It wasn’t disease but fear. Something had thrown the dog into madness.

  Devil launched himself at Thorn. He hit hard, and both tumbled back. Thorn threw his arm across his own neck just as Devil bit down. The fangs sank through the stiff leather of Thorn’s sleeve and pricked the arm beneath.

  Hades shrieked and tore at the dense lattice of branches, snapping furiously at Devil but unable to reach.

  Thorn tried to push the dog off, but Devil clamped his jaws tighter into the flesh. Thorn cried out as blood ran down his arm. He fumbled for his dagger.

  A bowstring thrummed. Devil yelped and collapsed. The fearful fire in his eyes died with a hissing breath.

  Thorn lay under the big dog, feeling the animal’s blood pour out of a puncture wound in his ribs. His fingers touched the shaft of a quarrel buried more than halfway in.

  Old Colm crouched at the edge of the thicket, Heartbreaker resting on his good knee and a second quarrel already loaded. “You’d better not be dead, boy. I’m not crawling in there to get you.”

  Thorn shoved Devil off. Then, wearily, he dragged himself back out the mass of twigs. “Thanks. You got here quick.”

  “You’ve a talent for getting into trouble, so I had to keep an eye on you.” Old Colm tapped the snow off his peg leg. “And I can move on this if I have to.” He looked over at the dead dog. “I thought you Herne folk had a way with animals.”

  Thorn grimaced. The pain was really kicking in. “We do. Usually.”

  “So we’ve got the parents.” Old Colm gestured at the two dead bodies. “What about the boys?”

  “Vanished.” Thorn stood up and regretted it instantly, as a spell of dizziness struck him. He sucked in the fresh air and tried to clear his head. Blood dripped down his sleeve and decorated the snow with small crimson petals.

  He stared at the farmer and his wife. What had happened here? There was a way of finding out secrets even from the dead. “Lily will want to see these two.”

  “Will she?” asked Old Colm suspiciously. He inspected the pair. “And why’s that? Seems to me we should bury them here, by their homes.”

  Thorn bit his lip. He knew Old Colm had heard the rumors regarding Lily.

  She was his friend, and while only thirteen, she was the ruler of Gehenna. She was also a Shadow, descended from the lord of darkness himself, the greatest necromancer the world had ever known.

  And death itself could not stop a Shadow….

  “Welcome to Castle Gloom,” said Lily.

  “Huurugg muur.”

  Lily frowned. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that.”

  Matilda Husk stepped closer and curtseyed. “My father-in-law said, ‘Thank you,’ m’lady.”

  “Ah. Good.”

  Lily looked at the zombie.

  The zombie looked at Lily. Sort of.

  One eye had rolled into the back of his skull. The other was so loose he had to jerk his head constantly to get it to stare in the right direction.

  The flagstones glistened with frost in the Great Hall, which was empty but for the four of them—Lily, the zombie, Matilda, and Baron Sable. Not enough to bother lighting the fires for. Still, Lily wished she’d arranged a brazier. She huddled deeper into her Mantle of Sorrows, wishing the cloak were made of fur instead of the collected miseries of her ancestors. The memories made it heavy, but they didn’t make it warm. She sighed and watched a cloud of breath rise up and float toward the pair before her.

  Matilda Husk wore a homemade wool shawl over her shoulders and was awestruck, eyes wide enough to fall from their sockets.

  Lily knew the look well. Everyone bore it the first time they entered the Great Hall. The room was immense in all directions, raised not by masons and craftsmen but by magic.

  No breath emerged from the zombie as he waited patiently in nothing but a pair of patchy pants and a threadbare shroud. Ice sparkled on his skin, and
icicles dangled from his gray beard. They tinkled whenever he moved his head.

  Baron Sable shuffled his feet, bored. He stood beside her high-backed chair, and his gaze drifted to the small table with the wine jug.

  Lily leaned forward. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Husk, but what is it your father-in-law wants?”

  “Rhhurr. Rhurrr. Urrgh,” said the zombie.

  Matilda Husk elbowed him. “Where’s your respect, Dad? It’s ‘m’lady.’”

  The zombie, Old Man Husk, bowed. His spine creaked like dry twigs, and Lily feared something would snap and leave him stuck doubled over.

  “Rrruur. Mrrruuy,” said the zombie.

  The woman curtseyed. “He wants his old room back, m’lady.” She glanced sideways, her eyes narrowed. “I’ve told him Henry and his new wife have that room now. After all, he’s been dead eight months.”

  “Rrurrh! Rrrhur! Mhhuur rruhh!” said the zombie, waving his hands about.

  “It’s no use complaining, Dad!” snapped Matilda. “And we built you such a lovely tomb, too, one you know we couldn’t really afford! Marble all the way from the quarries of Sparklestone. Cost us half our herd.”

  “Rrurr. Huur.”

  The country was suffering a plague of undead. On Halloween, the dead had come out of their graves, no one knew how many. First the people had been happy, overjoyed at seeing loved ones they’d lost and missed. Families had thrown resurrection parties.

  Now, three months later, things were different. The undead had come home to roost and would not leave. There was no place for them here alongside the living.

  And not just zombies, but also ghosts and even the odd vampire. One bloodsucker had caused a lot of trouble in Witch Glade, draining livestock and attacking villagers until he’d been captured and reburied, this time with an iron stake through his chest. The price of garlic had tripled.

  Lily gazed at the hour candle, wishing it would burn faster. She wanted this over and done with so she could get down to the castle library. A shiver of excitement went through her at the thought. Her studies were going well, learning what it really meant to belong to House Shadow….

  Bats flitted overhead. As they crept out of the cracks and vents within the high walls and roamed in search of dinner, their shadows decorated the ceiling with living patterns. They were all wild, and free to come and go as they pleased.