Wayward Magic (Magic Underground Anthologies Book 2)

by Melinda Kucsera

  A sharp blow glanced off the side of her armor, bringing her back to the here and now. With ease, Margaret sliced down the man at her side. She realized, after delivering the blow, that the devious king had dressed his army in her kingdom’s leathers.

  Margaret swiped at the camouflaged soldiers to her left and right. Then another, and another. Raynor’s soldiers would not get the chance to harm her husband or her king.

  “James, oh James. I thought I’d never see you again,” Margaret called to him over the cries of battle.

  As Margaret cut through the last man between her and James, she watched in horror as his sword turned from the dragon’s neck to her.

  “Please, James!” she yelled, but it was no use. He couldn’t hear her.

  It all happened so fast.

  James soared through the air, sword raised over his head in both hands.

  Ase cried out a strangled warning from somewhere unseen.

  Margaret lifted her helmet to show her face.

  And the sword sliced through her flesh.

  Up next in “Dreams of Valonde,” James and Jim are left alone to fend for themselves without their dear wife and mother, in a realm they only came to for Margaret. When both keep having strange dreams about a battle and dragons, James starts to wonder if the horrible world he’s built for them is a mask of something worse. Find out in the finale in Forgotten Magic now!

  About the Author

  Toasha Jiordano has been writing most of her life, as far back as she can remember. She still has many of her childhood notebooks filled to bursting with magical tales and daring escapades. She loves the smell of old books and the comfort of old furniture. That’s why most of her novels are written at an antique roll-top desk, which may or may not have a quill and ink set waiting for its next adventure.

  For more information about the author, please visit: www.toasha-jiordano.com

  Don't forget to grab your copy of the next anthology, Forgotten Magic, for the thrilling conclusion!

  Better the Devil You Know

  S. Wallace

  Sometimes magic drifts away, or its user is possessed of a capricious nature. What if the source of your magic— which you most need was least reliable? This is not just a tale of battle and death but of magic that must be wrestled and bartered, magic that may not serve and the consequence if it turns away from the good.

  S. Wallace

  Al’rashal and Urkjorman have served the Baron of Wings for ten long and bloody years. Now that time has ended. They have but one simple task left them. But is any task for the baron ever simple? They will be tested by steel and spell and have to decide which is more important, family or integrity?

  Chapter One

  Obligation

  “Execute them.”

  The words were cast into the air with such mirth and ease that at first no one realized they had been spoken. Then, moment by moment, realization filled the chamber with horror and silence. Al’rashal looked about the dark chamber, first to the soldiers obscured in shadow, then to her husband, Urkjorman. No one moved; no one spoke. Finally, her gaze fell on the disheveled man bound in chains before their master.

  “W-what?” said Borden as the words sank in.

  The Baron of Wings leaned forward. The column of light at the chamber’s heart cast most of him into shadow, so he looked less like a person and more like a collage of darkness that smiled. Black eyes that seemed equal parts mirth and malevolence transfixed Borden with their scrutiny. “My dear Borden, you have failed me, and failure comes with a price.”

  “That’s madness!” exclaimed the condemned. “I did everything you asked for. I—”

  “Almost everything,” the baron interrupted. “You had but to bring the Bloom of Kaylisis to Honored Gyn, and you failed. You failed, you lied, and you ran.”

  “This is ridiculous! I did what you demanded for seven years! Seven years! And now, when you must pay what I am owed, you give me an impossible task?”

  “Was it not you who said, ‘I swear on my life I will carry the blossom to its final resting place’?”

  Silence and anger were Borden’s response.

  The baron leaned back so he was almost completely wrapped in shadows. “You should not have promised a thing you could not deliver, Borden.” Finality echoed in those words. The baron looked up, his dark eyes settling on the minotaur. “Urkjorman, execute him.”

  “Me?” asked Urk. “We agreed to his retrieval, not death.”

  “And you agreed to serve at my pleasure. And this would please me oh-so much. You do intend to honor our agreement, do you not?”

  The sound of swords sliding an inch from their scabbards circled the room.

  “Yes.” Urk grasped Borden by the chains binding him and pulled the man to his feet. He gave the human a moment to compose himself and glare defiantly at the Baron of Wings. Urk lifted his ax, and the baron raised a hand.

  “Any last words?”

  “Yes,” said Borden, but he turned his gaze from the baron to look up at the minotaur beside him. “Never make a deal with the Auvithia.”

  The baron dropped his hand, and Urk dropped his ax. The head came away cleanly and rolled across the floor. The baron stepped from his throne to reach into the light and lift the severed head from the ground. “Never break a deal with Auvithia.”

  “Is there anything else you want of us?” asked Urkjorman.

  “No,” answered the baron with a dismissive wave as he retreated completely into the darkness. “Just be away with this mess, if you would.”

  They felt more than heard the baron and his retinue leave the chamber. Once she felt they were alone, Al’rashal turned to her husband. “Was that what we signed up for?”

  “Service demands sacrifice.”

  Al’rashal helped her husband carry the body of Borden through the castle halls. Urkjorman didn’t need the help—in truth, either of them could have easily carried the body—but it somehow felt right to share the burden. She had worked as hard as Urk to bring the man before the baron, so his death was as much on her as her husband. The pixies, sprites, and all manner of fairies flitted about the Aerie, giving the two a wide berth but otherwise ignoring the bleeding corpse they carried through the halls. Are they too afraid to acknowledge it, or too indifferent? Which is worse?

  Her thoughts were washed away by the chill afternoon air and the scent of wildflowers as they exited the castle and stepped onto the Mourning Field. The setting sun painted the sky violet as gold-orange rays washed the field and left deep swaths of darkness between the trees. Soon the sound of gentle laughter entered the air as the dryads caught the scent of fresh blood. Feminine things, with hair the color of grass and flesh the hue of wood, prowled forward as large, fang-filled smiles spread across their faces. They approached like a pack of hungry wolves. Al drew her lance and waved it at the dryads, causing the things to recoil as though the steel polearm were made of fire.

  One of the dryads came forward, with arms outstretched to accept Borden’s body. “Flesh for the soil, blood for my roots, let us bury this mortal that trees take root.”

  Al and Urk handed over the corpse, and the dryad took the body back to her sisters. The earth hollowed as they sank into the ground, their hands turning into roots, their teeth sinking into flesh.

  “Borden,” said Urk as he handed them the severed skull. “Never forget the name. Borden.”

  “Borden, Borden, Borden,” they chanted repeatedly as the corpse was pulled under the earth and the dryads with it.

  Al shuddered. She understood they were doing as all plants do, reclaiming the bodies of the dead, but to see the glee and the hunger with which they did it disturbed her. Urk rested a hand on her shoulder, and she rested hers atop his to squeeze it. “How long before our bodies are pulled into the dirt?”

  “Many, many years yet,” said Urk as they began walking back to the castle.

  “I’m sure Borden thought that, before the baron changed the deal.”

  �
��Borden failed. Borden failed and ran from that failure. We have never fled our failures.”

  “Instead, we’re rewarded with greater challenges and more dangers.”

  “Nothing beyond us.”

  Al’rashal stopped, grasped her husband’s face, and turned his head so she could look in his good eye and not the eyepatch covering his left. “And how much longer can we do that? Tracking down Borden almost killed us both; the last two years almost killed us a dozen times.”

  “Have faith, Al, for a few days more.”

  “A few days, and somehow I feel even further from our dreams than I did ten years ago when we agreed to this.”

  He pressed his brow to hers. “We have endured everything set before us and more. Have faith. We will endure anything that follows.”

  “I hope you’re right, Urk.”

  “Ahem,” interrupted a new voice. Al and her husband looked down at the source, finding a redcap. The small, human-like creature had a thick white beard, huge hands, and was wearing a soft cap that dripped blood over his scalp. A blue discoloration started near his shoulders and traveled down to his hands, where it turned almost black. Al’rashal recognized it as a symptom that fairies got from prolonged exposure to iron. Most of the Iron Guard had such discoloration on their fingers or palms. “You’re the two, right? Minotaur and centaur that’s been servin’ the baron?”

  “Yes,” Al and Urk agreed.

  “Don’t figure there are many of either of you types workin’ for the baron, let alone a pair together.”

  “Captain Black-Hand?” asked Al.

  “Aye.”

  “Why trouble us, Captain?” asked Urkjorman.

  “Ta give you the baron’s orders. You’ll be with the Iron Guard, protectin’ him durin’ the Ascension Celebration.”

  “That all?” asked Al’rashal.

  “That’s all. Be the last thing the baron asks of you.” The redcap waited a moment longer for further questions, then walked away.

  “Why do I feel like we’re missing something?” asked Al.

  “Because you are afraid,” answered her husband.

  “This doesn’t seem odd to you? Each mission has been worse than the last, and now we’re assigned guard duty?”

  “It is the thing he has most asked of us.”

  The centaur stopped and gestured at the setting sun. “The Twilight Kingdom is the Twilight Kingdom because the Baron of Wings won’t let the sun set. What could threaten such a thing?”

  “Then the task will be easy.”

  “No. If something could threaten a being as powerful as the Baron of Wings, what hope would we have against it?”

  “All of it. Hope would be the only thing we had.”

  Chapter Two

  The Court of Wings

  Security within the hall was a nightmare. The Aerie had been designed to celebrate the baron’s power and aesthetic. It had not been designed for his safety, and the riot of people, animals, and things that had come to the celebration only made that worse. Urkjorman recoiled as someone’s yak released a toxic cloud of flatulence that made his one eye water. “Who brings a yak to a party?”

  “Water carriers,” answered Black-Hand from his right. The stout creature next to him was picking something from his teeth with one of his iron daggers.

  “I thought they revered camels?”

  Black-Hand paused in thought. “Different sects, different beasts?”

  “We should kick them out for the smell,” said Urk with a growl as he lumbered forward.

  “No,” said Black-Hand, halting Urk’s stride with a hand on his thigh. “They’re guests of the baron; he wouldn’t want us ta make a scene.”

  Urk considered arguing, but the air was filled with intense music. The light streaming through the glass ceiling was eclipsed by blazing spheres that shone cones of light onto the hall’s entrance. The music rose to a crescendo, and the Baron of Wings strode through the open doors. Immediately the crowds parted, and people knelt or lowered their heads in supplication.

  The baron was wrapped in layers of white and silver that reflected the light like a mirror. He strode to the center of the room with the kind of grace that only a supernatural creature could possess and bowed to the assembled. “I thank you, all. For attending me on this simplest of occasions.”

  Urk rolled his eyes.

  “On this day, we celebrate my ascension to my rightful position as Auvithia, so it is only right that I celebrate it as I was.” The baron’s speech was accompanied by pixies flitting about his form, who slowly stripped him of his clothing. “Here I am, bereft of my raiment, my glory, my power. I stand before you as I did before I seized the sky, claimed the kingdom, and brought you peace.”

  The baron bowed, wrapped in nothing but his seven wings and light. A cheer sprang from the assembled as the baron rose and the cones of light faded. Servants and visitors lined up to offer the baron thanks, admire his beauty, and heap upon him gifts.

  Urk pulled his gaze from the baron and continued roaming the crowd. He caught the gaze of his wife at the far end of the chamber, and she seemed as bewildered by the whole affair as he. The music about the room shifted into something soft and melodic as the lights dimmed to something more intimate.

  “May I have this dance?” asked the Baron of Wings.

  Urkjorman looked around in terror. “My lord?”

  The baron curtsied, offering a hand. “This dance. I will give you my first.”

  Urk swallowed, casting a pleading gaze to Al, who seemed no more certain than he. “It would be better, in this time of your vulnerability, for me to focus on keeping you safe. Would it not, my lord?”

  “And where would be safer than in your arms, Urkjorman?”

  “If it would please you, my lord.”

  “Very much so.”

  Urk took the offered hand, amazed at just how soft and smooth it felt. He was still luxuriating in the feel of the baron’s fingers when he was dragged onto the dance floor, surprised as much by the baron’s strength as his soft skin.

  “Something wrong?”

  “No, my lord. Just surprised.”

  “At my strength or my beauty?”

  “Must I choose which?”

  The baron laughed, a light, melodic thing that drifted through the air like silk. “Oh, you are smooth for a minotaur. No wonder your wife clings to you so.”

  “Why did you think she does?”

  “I thought it was for more physical reasons,” answered the baron, running fingers along the minotaur’s arms.

  “I’m sure that plays a part.”

  “Perhaps when this eve is over, you can show me what part it plays.”

  “I serve at your pleasure, my lord.”

  “Yes, I believe you will,” purred the baron as the song ended. The Baron of Wings curtsied, Urkjorman responded with a bow, and the baron drifted away to receive more gifts and praise.

  Only now did Urk realize how his heart was hammering.

  “You all right, Urk?” asked Al’rashal. “You’re shaking.”

  It took him long moments to steady his breathing and his heart, and when he did, he took his wife into his arms and kissed her with more passion than he’d felt in years.

  Al laughed. “If you’re going to do that every time you dance with the baron, maybe I should send you back over there.”

  “Do that, and I might not come back.” They laughed, and Urk returned his gaze to the baron. He was talking to the water carriers and their yak. Even from here Urk could tell the smell was offending people, as a perimeter had expanded around the group. One water carrier addressed the baron, with the other four standing at cardinal points about the yak. Each was dressed in desert hues and carried one of their water staffs, long staffs that ended in a loop that could carry liquids, usually water, though Urk had seen water carriers use the loops to transport wine and once collect blood from a bleeding man and feed it back into his body so he wouldn’t die. Unusually, these loops were made of bronz
e, when water carriers generally used natural materials.

  “Why aren’t they facing the baron?” asked Al.

  Urk saw it now: the other four were facing outward, as though ready to protect themselves. Then he realized the loops gleamed not because they were polished but because they were sharpened. “Al, go! Something’s wrong.”

  Al’rashal sprang forward, bulling guests aside as she raced toward the baron. The baron looked up, an expression of indifference crossing his face as she shouted warnings. Two of the water carriers stabbed the yak with their blades, felling the beast and sending blood pouring from its corpse.

  “Move!” roared Urkjorman, magnifying his roar with the Voice of Thunder to send people scattering in fear.

  One of the water carriers-cum-assassins pulled blood from the yak and hurled it at Al. The centaur lifted her shield just in time, and the bolt struck with such force it sent her stumbling to the side. A second assassin hurled an arrow of blood at Al. This one skimmed her shoulder and left a trail of blood behind, but Urk couldn’t tell if it belonged to her or the yak. Two more of the assassins stabbed the yak, sending more blood pouring onto the floor, and the baron… laughed?

  One of the assassins leaped at Urkjorman, swinging his staff in a wide arc that Urk blocked with his ax. The assassin slid to the ground, spun beneath Urk’s return swing, and cut a line of blood from Urk’s stomach to his chest. Urk reached out with his left hand, then tried to kick the assassin, but he was too nimble and danced just out of reach of each strike. But the assassin wasn’t the only one with magic. Urk inhaled, filling his lungs with both air and the radiance of his god. When the assassin sprang forward, the minotaur exhaled, creating a cloud of ice and frost. The assassin flailed at the air, trying to clean the ice from his face. Urk seized the moment and cut the man’s head off.