Dream Magic

by Joshua Khan

  “Okay, I’ll speak to Lady Shadow, but in the meantime, you have to leave Tom here. Agreed?”

  Kath stared hard, no doubt wondering if it was worth arguing. But Thorn spent half his time arguing with Lily, so he’d had plenty of practice in standing up to stubborn Gehennish folk. He folded his arms and waited.

  Kath sighed and nodded. “Agreed. When can—”

  “Wait a minute.” Thorn sniffed. “Can you smell that?”

  “Maybe it’s the zombies? The flowers can’t mask their, er, body odor?”

  “No. That’s smoke.” Thorn climbed up the side of a wall to get a better idea of where the smell was coming from.

  There was a flickering orange glow coming from a corner of Old Keep. Through the uneven shadows, he saw zombies stumbling, wailing, and clawing at one another, trying to escape. “Fire!” He jumped down. “A fire’s broken out.”

  “A fire? But the zombies—” Kath cried.

  Thorn looked around. “Take your children and Tom back to the moat. Cross over the ice, but be careful.”

  “What about the others?” She glanced around at the figures watching from the nooks and crannies. “We can’t just leave them.”

  “By the Six…” Since when was saving zombies part of his job? He ran into the center of the hall and cupped his mouth. “Listen up! You need to cross the moat! Got it? Follow Kath across the moat!”

  Then Thorn ran toward the flames.

  “Remember to behave,” said Lily.

  “I shall behave like a true scion of House Solar,” said Gabriel, taking her hand.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she whispered to herself.

  They entered the Great Hall.

  It heaved with people. Mostly nobles but also local merchants hoping to arrange trade with the Feathered Council, some village headmen and guildswomen who’d dressed up in their very best clothes to make an impression. Later they would tell their village all about the wonders of Castle Gloom.

  Dott stood in front of the musicians, clapping and stomping her feet hard enough that the tables nearby juddered. She’d added decoration to her hair: red radishes, a few golden turnips, and strings of bright green runner beans. She glanced over, and when she saw Gabriel, she sighed, like any lovelorn maid.

  The emissaries of the Feathered Council did not look happy. Why should they? Here they were, trying to arrange a marriage, and suddenly Lily’s old fiancé turns up. Was it mere coincidence, or a Solar plot to spoil their plans?

  Lily and Gabriel made their way up to the high table, where the Eagle Knight, Ying, sat watching, his face as sour as month-old milk.

  Ignoring him, Lily took her seat and asked brightly, “Is everyone hungry? I’ve been told the soup’s something special. Ah, here it comes.”

  The servants shuffled up, being watchful of the plates and goblets, and two carried the huge brass tureen of soup. The smell made Lily’s mouth water. Lamb with onions and dumplings, heady with spices. Her favorite.

  Gabriel tapped his spoon on the table. “Can’t they move a bit faster? I’m starving.”

  “It’s their first feast. They’re trying to be careful.”

  The Eagle Knight leaned across the table. “New servants? They look…are they zombies?”

  Gabriel gulped. “Z-zombies? You have zombies working here?”

  “Of course we have them; this is Gehenna. It’s just we’ve gotten a sudden surplus. I felt it best we give them something to do. It’s better than having them roam around the countryside, moaning and eating people’s brains when they get peckish.”

  Now Gabriel turned whiter than his tunic. “Eating their brains?”

  “Don’t worry, Gabriel,” said Lily. “I can’t imagine they’d get much of a meal out of yours.”

  Feet dragging, the pair carried the bowl slowly, and then, ever so gently, lowered it onto the table. One of the zombies began grinning. Or at least, his black lips parted and a strange, horrific grimace broke over his pallid, torn skin. Lily could see the sinews tugging through the gaps.

  “Well done,” she said. Her mother had taught her it was always good to praise new servants. “Now, how about dishing it out? It smells absolutely love—”

  Something splashed into the soup.

  “Er…” said Lily, staring.

  “Hurr…rorry,” said the zombie.

  A nose bobbed within the meaty broth.

  Lily scooped the nose out and handed it back. “Never mind. These things happen.” She sat down. “Maybe we’ll pass on the soup. Have a bread roll, Gabriel.”

  The Great Hall echoed with a clang. A metal tray, a pair of hands still clinging to it, bounced across the flagstones. A now-handless zombie stumbled after it as carrots, potatoes, and peas rolled across the floor.

  Lily groaned.

  Ying cleared his throat. “May I say, Lady Shadow, how beautiful you look in your dress?”

  Lily brushed her fingers over the bodice. “It was a very generous gift.”

  “A dress made entirely of black dove feathers,” the knight continued. “Softer than any silk.”

  “Looks more like dyed chicken feathers to me,” muttered Gabriel, just loud enough for everyone to hear. “Cluck, cluck, cluck. That’s your war cry, isn’t it?”

  Lily kicked Gabriel under the table. “Now, Gabriel, remember that you’re my guest, too. Play nice. And this is a lovely dress, sir.”

  Ying smiled and shuffled his chair closer. “And the portraits do not do you justice, m’lady. You have the neck of a swan, and your hair, it is as black as a raven’s.”

  “You are too kind. See, Gabriel?” said Lily as she faced the Solar boy. “That’s a compliment. Not so hard to give, if you try.”

  Gabriel shrugged.

  The Eagle Knight continued. “Certainly I have never seen so elegant a profile. Your nose, it is so perfect. Like a beak.”

  “Er…thanks. I think.”

  Gabriel laughed.

  Lily kicked him again.

  Ying spoke. “I am sorry to hear about the attacks on your farms. If you need any help, it would be my honor to leave some of my men behind.”

  “You are generous to offer, but my Black Guard are more than capable of dealing with a few trolls.” Lily might be new to politics, but she was savvy enough to know that allowing foreign soldiers into her country was foolish, as was admitting the weakness of her own troops.

  “Have you any news about Tyburn?” asked Ying.

  Gabriel sat up straight. “What of him?”

  “Hunting trolls,” interrupted Baron Sable, two seats farther down. “Tyburn made his reputation fighting them.”

  Ying nodded. “Yes. They say there are three great killers in the New Kingdoms: Tyburn, of House Shadow; Kali, of House Djinn; and Golgoth”—Ying looked over at Gabriel—“of House Solar.”

  Gabriel smiled. “Golgoth’s the very best. Only my father knows who he is and what he’s up to.”

  A troupe of clowns pranced in among the audience—the same troupe that Gabriel had stowed away with.

  They should have named themselves the Unwanted.

  That was what they were. Dwarves, and those born deformed, and others who’d been in accidents and lost a limb. They had gathered together and were earning a living the only way they could, from the laughter of other people.

  But despite their disabilities, or perhaps because of them, they were talented. One dwarf balanced on the head of another and juggled with whatever the audience tossed him. A crippled man performed clever tricks with his one good hand; he was easily the best magician Lily had seen in a long time. Coins disappeared and reappeared at the bottom of goblets. He guessed names and birthdays and the contents of pockets. He made one of Sir Malcontent’s big mastiffs shrink to the size of a puppy; it was then chased around the hall by a mouser cat. A young boy ran behind the magician, collecting coins from the guests.

  When the conjuror limped toward the high table, he met Lily’s gaze, no doubt expecting silver crowns instead of b
ronze pennies.

  He bowed. “M’lady Shadow, may I entertain you and your noble companions with a few simple tricks?”

  Gabriel bit on a chicken leg. “You are in the company of true sorcerers now, Weaver. These tricks had better be good.”

  “Weaver?” asked Lily. “That’s an interesting name.”

  Gabriel interrupted before the conjuror could reply. “You know what these charlatans are like. A Weaver of Fate, he calls himself.” Gabriel pointed at the man’s deformed left hand. “Though with that he can’t even thread a needle.”

  The man bowed again, shaking under Gabriel’s abuse. He held his left hand tight against his chest. It was heavily scarred, burned, and was little more than wrinkled skin over bone. Patches of drab hair hung long, especially on his left side, where it had been combed to best cover his molten, waxy face. A cloak, embroidered with magical symbols—or what commoners thought might be magical symbols—partially hid his ruined body. Even the man’s boots didn’t match, the right a shoe, the left a sandal over a withered foot.

  Another unwanted, earning a living the only way he can.

  He spread his good hand over an array of knives and spoons. They stood up, and he made them dance as if marionettes. Sable clapped.

  “Boring,” declared Gabriel.

  The conjuror let the cutlery fall. He took out a pack of cards and shuffled them with one hand. Not easy.

  “Even more boring,” said Gabriel, louder and emphasized with a yawn.

  Weaver dropped the cards, his face flushed red with embarrassment. “Apologies, m’lady.”

  Lily felt sorry for him. She gestured to the baron. It wasn’t like she ever carried money. She didn’t need to—she already owned everything.

  The baron handed her a crown, and Lily put it in the conjuror’s right hand. “A most excellent trick. Thank you.”

  Weaver stared at the silver coin, a week’s wage. “You are too generous, m’lady.”

  Gabriel slapped the table and laughed. “I think I’ve spotted a relative of yours, Ying.” He pointed across the hall. “There she is. My lady! Come here! Come here!”

  Lily’s heart sank.

  The woman wore a costume of ragged old feathers. Her nose was, unfortunately, exceedingly beaklike, and even worse, the sagging skin under her chin did resemble a turkey’s wattle. She jumped along the table, arms folded against her body, clucking and pecking at dishes.

  Gabriel tapped his chin. “Why, Ying, the family resemblance is uncanny. Your sister, perhaps?”

  Ying stood up. “M’lady Shadow, I must protest at the presence of this…intruder!”

  Gabriel threw his bread roll at Ying. “Here, have one of these, as I’m out of birdseed!”

  Baron Sable jumped forward. “Please, sit down! You’re of noble houses! You must show respect!”

  Gabriel sneered. “He’s not noble! The Feathered Council are a bunch of usurpers! Everyone knows they overthrew the real great house, House Typhoon! This lot aren’t even sorcerers! The only wind he commands comes out of his bottom!”

  Ying drew his blade. “How dare you!”

  Gabriel waved wildly. “What are you going to do? Pluck me to death?”

  “Take up your sword!”

  The poor conjuror stood trapped between the pair of them, not knowing which way to turn. The Eagle Knight shoved him aside, knocking him into Lily. With only one strong leg, Weaver fell, taking Lily down with him.

  Lily tried to get up, but Weaver couldn’t raise himself with only one good arm. “Apologies, m’lady!” he said, panicking and only entangling himself further.

  “Sable!” Lily shouted. Weaver cried out in pain as she pushed against his chest. “I’m sorry!”

  Sable dragged the man off.

  “I’ve had enough,” Lily snarled as she stood.

  The Eagle Knight waved his sword at Gabriel. “I said draw your weapon!”

  Gabriel stood there defiantly. “I wouldn’t dirty my sword on you. You should fight my fool. Mr. Funny, come here!”

  “Coming, Master!” Gabriel’s old fool started clambering over the tables to reach them, knocking over plates and goblets and smearing himself with food and wine. “Coming, Master!”

  Lily tried to grab Ying but only ended up bumping into Weaver again. The man was turning in circles on his good, right leg, trapped between three great houses.

  Gabriel was not stopping. “House Typhoon were true sorcerers! They had a fleet of cloud ships, and you’ve lost them all! Even worse, I hear the last one was stolen, not a year ago! Ha! It was the only true magic you had, and you couldn’t even hang on to that!”

  “I’ll kill you for this insult!”

  “Shut up! Both of you!” Lily yelled.

  Then the hall doors crashed open. The stable master barged in, pushing aside nobles and squires. He was waving frantically, but Lily couldn’t hear him over the challenges and insults flying between Ying and Gabriel.

  She grabbed the heavy iron candelabra in front of her and slammed it down on the table. “SHUT UP!”

  The iron’s clang beat back and forth between the walls, and the hall fell silent long enough for the stable master to shout one word:

  “Fire!”

  Flames leaped high in the northeast corner of Old Keep, spewing black clouds over the whole building.

  Thorn stared at the destruction before him. How could it have happened? And grown so big so quickly?

  The vines crackled, and the tall birch tree nearby was a fiery spear now. Bats flew in turmoil from the blazing tower. A man stood at the foot of the structure, waving his hands. Who was he? One of the Black Guard? Thorn shielded his face against the intense heat. “Hey, you! You’ve got to run!”

  The man turned, and Thorn saw that he was dark-skinned and dressed in flowing red-and-orange robes. The man swept his arm over the blaze, and a thick tongue of flame snaked out, straight at Thorn.

  For a second, Thorn was blinded by the flames; then he leaped. The fire singed his back, and he rolled across the snow, extinguishing the sparks on his clothes. By the time Thorn had gathered himself, the man was gone.

  Thorn had seen fire magic before, created by his friend K’leef. His family, House Djinn, were sorcerers of fire the same way the Shadows were sorcerers of darkness.

  So was this man a sorcerer from the Sultanate of Fire? He had to be. But what was he doing here?

  Thorn didn’t have time to mull over that mystery right now.

  Zombies stumbled, bodies burning. One collapsed, his mouth open in a desperate, soundless scream. Thorn dashed over and buried him with snow. The flames died, and the zombie lay there, a blackened husk, but still “alive.”

  Fire was one of the few things zombies feared, because it destroyed everything. You could hack them, smash them, and bash them, and as long as the body remained mostly intact, the zombie would keep going. But there wasn’t much one could do when it was a pile of ash.

  More barged out of the doorway; others tried to clamber over the tumbled walls or one another.

  He had to get them out. Thorn spotted the old drawbridge through the gatehouse.

  But the portcullis was down. Zombies piled up against it, desperate to escape the wall of fire closing in on them.

  He needed to get the portcullis up.

  Thorn climbed a pile of rubble and from there launched himself onto the low branch of an oak tree. The trunk smoldered and hissed with boiling sap; the heat penetrated his boots. Thorn ran along the bough and jumped. He cried out as he flung himself the last foot, to land sprawling on the hard, icy stone, every bone inside him reverberating.

  What am I doing, risking my life for zombies?

  Thorn stood and stole a quick look back to see Kath leading the undead across the ice. Her children were already on the other side, helping the zombies up the bank.

  Thorn swiftly climbed the ivy clinging to the gatehouse. The smoke blew over him, stinging his eyes and burning his throat. The heat increased the higher he got.


  The zombies barged up against the portcullis. Those at the back were already burning, but that didn’t stop them from pushing, and spreading the fire to others.

  Thorn reached the top of the gatehouse. The winch was a big iron wheel with a rusty handle. The chains disappeared through a slot in the floor.

  Thorn put his shoulder against the wheel. “Come on, move.” It creaked; rust flaked off the axle. “Come on!”

  Smoke clogged his throat, and each breath burned. The wheel wasn’t moving. He couldn’t save them; he should run and save himself.

  But Thorn never gave up. He was stupid that way.

  He groped around the floor and found a long pike, four inches thick, with an upper shaft made of steel. Thorn stuck the metal end into the mechanism and leaned his full weight on the other end, using it as a lever. “Come on!”

  The axle moaned. The wheel turned.

  The portcullis rose an inch. Then another.

  Each turn got easier until Thorn could abandon the pike and twist the wheel by hand. The gatehouse shook as the undead horde beat against it, consumed by the terror of the fire.

  The portcullis rose a foot, and the zombies began crawling under it. Thorn worked harder to get it higher, and soon they were spilling along the drawbridge. It didn’t reach all the way across the moat, so they fell off the end and crashed through the ice. They sank, but that wouldn’t bother them, having long given up the burden of breathing.

  People from the castle had gathered at the moat’s edge and were yelling and waving and shouting. Some waded in to help drag the zombies out of the water.

  The doors to the Great Hall swung open, and out poured more people, the rich nobles and visitors from the Feathered Council. Thorn even spotted one drop of white among all the Gehennish black. That had to be Gabriel.

  Then he saw Lily.

  She ran toward the bank edge. She was screaming at him. What was she trying to say?

  A mighty rumble behind Thorn made him turn.

  Flames engulfed the gatehouse. They reached a hundred feet high, and the clouds of smoke swelled and spread up and up, blacker than the night sky, smothering the stars and moonlight. Thorn stared as the upper level of the gatehouse trembled, then began to fall.