Dream Magic

by Joshua Khan

  “May I do something for you, m’lord?” asked Thorn. “It’s just I’ve got to be at the stables to prepare the horses for the Black Guard. Baron Sable’s taking ’em north at first light.”

  “You’re not going to tonight’s feast?”

  “There’ll be dancing, right?” asked Thorn.

  “Plenty.”

  “I’d rather spend the night shoveling horse dung.”

  Ying hooked his thumbs into his sash and looked at Thorn. “All warriors should know how to dance.”

  “Why? It ain’t like it’ll help you lop heads off.”

  “Speed. Grace. Nimbleness. All vital to warriors, yes?”

  Thorn frowned. “Suppose.”

  Ying performed a neat, sinuous bow. “All acquired through dancing.”

  “I still ain’t going.” Thorn had his bow and arrows; he had Hades. He didn’t need speed, grace, or nimbleness.

  “Truth be told, the feast’s been spoiled already.” Ying adjusted an eagle feather. “Lady Shadow has a new guest.” He looked meaningfully at Thorn. “One you know well, so I’ve been told.”

  “Who?”

  “Gabriel Solar.”

  Thorn felt as if he’d been smacked with a tree trunk. “Gabriel’s here? Why?”

  “You’re not a fan of his?”

  This was grim news. Gabriel was trouble, and even though Thorn wasn’t so great at spelling, he knew that his kind was spelled with a capital T.

  Last time he’d been here, Gehenna had almost been destroyed. And it was a feast that had kicked it off….

  “Stay clear of him, m’lord. He’s an idiot but a dangerous idiot. You don’t want nothing to do with him.”

  “Alas, there are rules, among nobles.”

  “Stupid ones, I bet.” Thorn shook his head. Nothing nobles did made any sense.

  Ying moved on. “We leave tomorrow, and I could not go without seeing the famous Hades.” His gaze did not leave the giant bat. Hades purred, enjoying the attention. Ying laughed.

  Even his laugh is handsome.

  Ying glanced at Thorn. “And meeting you, Thorn.”

  “Me? I ain’t famous.”

  “No? The boy who saved Gehenna? You do yourself a disservice.” Ying folded his arms and appraised Thorn. “We’re not so different, you and I.”

  “Oh?” We’re as different as different can be.

  Ying arched an elegant, slim eyebrow. “A generation ago, my family were peasants. But we had talent. And talent can make a man rise very high.” He looked back at Hades. “In many ways.”

  “Reckon I’ve gotten as high as I’ll ever get.”

  Ying shrugged. “How went the patrol?”

  “There’s been attacks on several farms. Pitch Farm’s just the latest. The reports are coming from down from Raven’s Wood and the Troll-Teeth Mountains.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “A month. Since the winter wind brought in the snow.” Thorn scowled; he didn’t understand it all. “There could’ve been more attacks we don’t know about. Gehenna’s got plenty of outta-the-way places. The baron’s fretting.”

  “I don’t blame him,” said Ying. “Who do you think is behind it?” He seemed genuinely interested.

  “People reckon it’s trolls.”

  “But you don’t. Why?”

  “I ain’t denying there have been troll attacks up north, but it weren’t them at Pitch Farm. No tracks, for one thing. Trolls ain’t light on their feet, and the snow’s perfect for taking footprints. Then there’s all the livestock they left behind. Raiders grab everything they can. They ignored fat sheep and goats and chickens, but stole two scrawny boys. Why?”

  “Who understands trolls?”

  “I understand being hungry, and that’s what trolls are.” Thorn shook his head. “No, it ain’t trolls.”

  “Then what?”

  That’s where he was stuck. No tracks. No signs at all.

  “Gonna ask Tyburn,” said Thorn.

  “Yes, your legendary executioner. You’re his squire, aren’t you?”

  “I suppose. Don’t do much for him but look after his horse. Tyburn’s a loner.”

  “He treats you well, though?”

  “Well enough. He’s firm but fierce, as my grandpa would say.” Thorn stood back and inspected Hades. The bat was clean and tidy. “I’d better go find him and give him the news.”

  “He’s not here,” said Ying.

  Strange. What’s delaying him?

  Ying must have seen the look on his face. “Do you think something’s happened to him?”

  “Lily…er, Lady Shadow,” Thorn corrected, “once told me that bad things never happen to Tyburn. Bad things happen because of Tyburn.”

  “Tyburn has his rivals, believe me.”

  Thorn’s eyes narrowed. This sort of talk felt disloyal. “There ain’t no better fighter than Tyburn.”

  “There’s always someone better, somewhere.”

  “Is that how you defeated House Typhoon? You had better fighters? Better than sorcerers?” asked Thorn. “I heard that House Typhoon flew on clouds. Carried great big armies across the sky on them.”

  Ying wore a wry smile. “The legendary cloud ships. That’s all anyone seems to know about House Typhoon. Alas, the ships are all gone. The magic required to keep even one aloft was immense. Toward the end, House Typhoon needed a dozen sorcerers to fly even the smallest.”

  That was a shame. Thorn would have loved to see one. Though nothing could be better than taking to the skies on Hades, of course. He pressed on. “I hear you know secret fighting skills where you come from. Punches that break through armor, and kicks that can knock down trees and such.”

  “Do you want to know how we beat House Typhoon?” Ying’s eyes sparkled.

  “Yeah.” Maybe he’d teach Thorn one of those kicks.

  Ying pulled a small leather tube from his waist sash. There was a cap at either end—one silver, the other black—and both were sealed with wax. Then he pointed at the wall. “Grab me that helmet.”

  Like most halls, Murk Hall was decorated with arms and armor; in this case, they were old and rusty. Thorn took down a heavy iron helmet and held it out.

  The Eagle Knight tapped the iron. “What do you think? Do you believe you could put an ax blade through this?”

  “Nope.”

  Ying uncapped one end of the tube and tipped a small pile of black powder onto a large broken piece of stone. He brushed the edges so it was a neat mound, less than an inch wide. “We knew the magic was fading, so we took precautions. House Typhoon was not interested. Despite the signs, they still thought they could regain their sorcerous powers, if not in one generation, then the next. But the sorcerers they did produce were pitiful. They began recruiting spellcasters from other kingdoms. Buying their magic, and loyalty, with gold.”

  “That sort of loyalty don’t last long,” said Thorn.

  Ying laughed. “Very true. Only as long as the coffers are full, and House Typhoon was no longer rich. So when the Feathered Council seized control, most of the hired sorcerers abandoned House Typhoon, taking whatever treasures they could get their hands on as they fled. Great artifacts of magic, many of them heirlooms from the days of the Six Princes, vanished that night.”

  “That still don’t explain how you beat House Typhoon.”

  “With this.” He resealed the black end and then, opening the other end, sprinkled silver powder onto the black, very carefully. He spun the helmet nimbly and put it over the pile of powder. “Get behind that column.”

  “Why?”

  “Get behind the column.”

  The powder hissed and sparked.

  Ying jumped behind a slab. “Five parts black to one part silver. That’s the secret.”

  “What secret?”

  Ying winked, then cupped his ears.

  A thunderous explosion knocked Thorn off his feet. The hall shook as it was filled with a flash of stark white light.

  Hades roared.
He jumped twenty feet into the air and, with a single, hurricane sweep of his wings, vanished into the night, taking his host of bats with him.

  The noise echoed between the heavy walls, rumbling deep into Thorn’s shaken bones. “What was that?”

  Ying helped him up. The Eagle Knight collected the now-smoking helmet. “Look.”

  The helmet was shattered; the iron twisted, ragged, and hot to the touch.

  “We call the black powder Thunderdust,” said Ying. “A small pile will punch a big hole through armor. A small barrel will destroy a house. A big barrel will bring down a castle wall. You can make it explode by applying a flame, but then it might blow up in your face. The silver powder reacts with the Thunderdust but in a more controlled way. It’s safer. Mostly.” He tossed the tube over to Thorn. “A present. Be careful with it.”

  Thorn stared at the gift, half-afraid it was going to explode then and there. “Magic?”

  Ying shook his head. “Better than magic. Science.”

  “I don’t like it, not one little bit.” The stable master, Ongar, held open the feedbag as Thorn poured in a fresh supply of oats. “Them zombies have got to go.”

  A few of the other stable boys nodded.

  “Crawling out of their graves, stealing our jobs,” continued Ongar. “Soon there won’t be a breathing soul in the castle, and then you know what’ll happen?”

  “What?” said Thorn.

  “Brains. They’ll be wanting brains. Yours, mine, anyone’s who’s got the pink-and-mushies.”

  One bag filled, Thorn started on another. “But I thought you Gehennish loved your undead.”

  Ongar shrugged his shoulders. “I know that’s what Lady Shadow wants, but she doesn’t live downwind of Old Keep, does she? Oh, now, it’s all well and good for her, telling us to be nice, to make friends with them. And it suits her. Cheap labor. Save on the servants, more coin for her statues.”

  “Lily’s not like that.”

  The stable master gave him a mocking bow. “Oh, yes, I forgot. Lily, isn’t it? Well, m’lord, I’m sure you know what’s good for Gehenna better than I, whose family has been here since Prince Shadow laid the first stone of this here castle. You, who hasn’t a drop of black in your blood.”

  There was no point arguing; Ongar was always grumbling about something. Thorn slung the feedbag over his shoulder and headed off to the stables. It was going to be a long night of hard, heavy work.

  But it beat dancing.

  Soldiers, the famed Black Guard of Gehenna, were already assembling in the icy courtyard along with the older squires. A few queued outside the blacksmith’s shed. He worked at his wheel, grinding the edges of sword blades to a razor’s keenness. Troll bones were hard and their skins had the toughness of old leather, so every man wanted his weapon perfect.

  Each Black Guard wore a sculpted visor, a mark of his membership in the elite band. Captain Waylander owned a horned demon, passed down from his father, who’d inherited it from his father. The four Wicked brothers had grinning skulls. There were fanged vampires, bearded devils, and more than a few decaying zombies.

  One day, he’d have a mask like that. Thorn fancied one with large bat wings and fangs. The bigger the better. But he wouldn’t ride into battle on top of a warhorse.

  A couple of the warriors waved to him, then got on with their business, helped by the older squires. Dawn would come soon enough, and they needed to be off on the road to the Troll-Teeth Mountains.

  Someone put a hand on Thorn’s arm.

  “Excuse me, young master, but we’re lost.”

  A woman stood facing him. She smiled, but she was weary. She carried a swaddled baby, and there were two young children with her, both bundled in layers of winter clothing, so they were as wide as they were high.

  Thorn lowered the heavy feedbag. “Where are you heading?”

  “We’re looking for the…zombies?”

  “Why?”

  “We’ve lost our dad,” said one of the children, the girl. “We’ve come here to find him.”

  They’re shivering and look ready to drop.

  “Come a long way?” Thorn asked.

  “Skeletown,” said the mother.

  “You walked?”

  She nodded. “We’ve never been more than five miles from home. Didn’t realize how long the road was.”

  Thorn stopped one of the other stable boys. “This goes to feed the foal.”

  The stable boy stared at the feedbag. “Do I look like your servant?”

  “You look like someone who’s about to get his backside kicked if he don’t hurry up.”

  The stable boy took the oat-filled sack, muttering as he left.

  “Come with me, Mrs….?” said Thorn.

  “Kath, just call me Kath.” She patted the boy’s head. “This is Hammel, and that’s Janet.” She hugged the baby. “This is Tomas.”

  “I’m Thorn.” He pointed at the nearby steps. “There’s a fire and some food left over at the squires’ dorms.”

  “The grave was empty. His, and three others,” said Kath. “First we thought it was grave robbers; then we heard what happened at Castle Gloom, about the dead rising.”

  It was just them in the dining room—the squires were all out on errands. Thorn threw a log into the fireplace to raise a bit of extra heat, and the family sat on stools, circling the flames as closely as they could. The only food available was leftovers, but they attacked it like famished wolves.

  “So you think your husband’s turned into a zombie?” he asked.

  “We’re from a poor village, Master Thorn. Not the sort to attract thieves looking for buried treasure.” Kath smoothed her baby’s hair as she rocked gently on the stool. “And the snow was fresh enough for us to see the footprints.”

  “You sure you want to go through with this?” asked Thorn.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you do find him, he may not be the same as you remember.” Was there a delicate way of putting this? Probably not. “He’ll be a corpse.”

  “He’s still our dad,” said Janet, spitting out crumbs.

  “He may not know that, though,” replied Thorn.

  Back in Herne’s Forest, the druids said that death was just a means of making way for new life. He’d seen fallen tree trunks, which had once towered above all else, laid low and covered with mushrooms and ferns, slowly crumbling and enriching the earth for new saplings.

  The dead should stay dead. The end should be the end. He didn’t like this zombie business, but he hadn’t been brought up in Gehenna. Now he had a giant vampire bat to tend, a ghost puppy nipping at his heels, and a castle steadily filling with all sorts of undead.

  Maybe the stable master had a point after all.

  Still, family was family. Kath and her children had struggled a long, cold way to find theirs.

  “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s go look for your dad.”

  Thorn knew there were many ways through Castle Gloom: long ways, quick ways, easy ways.

  And hard ways.

  The route from Murk Hall to the stables in Skeleton Gate was one of the hard ones. Lots of abandoned halls and empty corridors. You needed to stay clear of Weeping Alley; a pack of ghouls lurked within, and more than one servant had taken a shortcut down there and ended up as dinner.

  “They’re being housed in Old Keep.” Thorn collected a burning torch from its wall socket. The family followed close behind, hand in hand in one long chain.

  There wasn’t a single window throughout the ancient castle. No matter what changes had been made in its long life, not one window had been installed. For Thorn, who’d grown up navigating by breeze, sun, and stars, it wasn’t easy finding his way around the place.

  So he made his way by smell.

  They used olive oil for the lamps along Dead Man’s Road. They filled the corridor with the scent of summer: greasy and sweet. Thorn crossed Tumbledown Town—nothing but a collection of buried hovels—lit by reed torches, which turned the air d
ry and arid; it coated your throat. Then it was along Lucifer’s Path, lit with huge candelabras bearing ten-foot-tall tallow candles, and finally left into Hell’s Hall. The steward used animal fat for the lamps here, giving off a smoky golden flame and a taste in the air that made Thorn’s stomach growl.

  “Why are we going down here?” asked Hammel.

  “It’s a shortcut. Don’t worry, there ain’t nothing down here to hurt you.”

  Thorn turned the door handle and led them out of the corridor.

  No one knew how long Castle Gloom had stood here—thousands of years, most reckoned—and it was immense, having grown and grown over all those dusty centuries.

  But once, at the beginning, it had been a mere keep. A single, stubby tower surrounded by a wall and a shallow moat.

  Today, ice covered the moat. The walls had long since tumbled down, but the building remained, black, wreathed in sprawling ivy, and forlorn. Old Keep.

  And there, across the moat, the zombies waited.

  The weak light from Thorn’s torch shimmered on their frost-flaked skin and the icicles that dangled from their hair and beards. Others hid within the broken walls and dense, shambolic foliage.

  Thorn swallowed. “Are you sure about this?”

  “Why don’t they move?” asked the boy.

  “Some have frozen,” said Thorn. “They don’t have inner warmth, like us. We tried putting fires along the walls to keep them from going stiff, but zombies fear fire and they catch easy; it’s one of the few things that can destroy them.”

  Sally looked along the moat’s edge. The drawbridge had long since rotted away. “How do we cross? Is there a boat?”

  “It’s stuck in the ice. We’ll have to cross on foot.” Thorn held up the torch. “I’ll go first. Watch your step.”

  How had he gotten himself into this?

  Old Keep had been built low and squat. The other, later buildings towered over it, casting it in perpetual darkness, no matter the time of day. It was a good place for abandoned things.

  Thorn stepped slowly and carefully, checking for any breaks in the ice and listening for cracking. It was a mere fifteen feet across, but the far bank was steep and lined with reeds. A sad-looking willow tree clung to the bank, its roots creeping over tumbled-down stone slabs, its fronds locked in the frozen water.