Wayward Magic (Magic Underground Anthologies Book 2)

by Melinda Kucsera

  What was that kid’s name? Nulthir searched his memory. “Sarn? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m not really here.” The hooded kid hugged his knees and rocked to and fro like a frightened child.

  “But you were there. They kidnapped you in the hopes of using your magic to open a portal to hell.”

  Sarn shook his head as he rocked. He stared vacantly at a rock spinning on the ground in front of him. “I’m not here. This is your mind, not mine. I’m just a memory. I have no power here.”

  “Then you can’t lend me the power to take back control of my body.” Nulthir closed his eyes. He was tired and confused, and he really hated all this mental stuff. Memories belonged in drawers you could slam closed and forget about. This was Thing’s forte, not his. Where are you, old friend? You’d be in your element here.

  “But you know lots of spells. I’ll bet you know one that would help.” Hope flowered in Sarn’s too bright eyes.

  In fact, Nulthir did know one that might help. “I don’t have anything to power it. The demon changed what power I have to its opposite. I can’t work with darkness. Like you, I can only work with light.”

  “Then take back your light.” A spark danced in the hollow Sarn’s cupped hands made. It wasn’t green like the kid’s power. It was pure white light, and it fluttered like a butterfly. There was only one explanation for it.

  “You have two gifts.” Nulthir stared at Sarn in shock.

  The kid shrugged. “Maybe.” Sarn trapped the white spark, caging it with his long fingers. “When I gave you my power to fight the demon off the first time, I was so scared. I didn't know what I was doing. Maybe I accidentally pulled both. Maybe I gave you both types of magic I can work. If you only used one, then the other one might still be inside you.” Sarn opened his hands, and the spark flew out. The ropes fell off the kid as he gained his feet, his green hood falling to shadow his eerie green eyes.

  “What does that other power do?” Nulthir asked.

  Sarn had disappeared, but the still, small had voice returned, and the spark changed into a small glowing cross, like the ones Iraine wore. Maybe he should ask her about them if he survived this.

  “Maybe that demon is a curse, and that boy, a curse breaker.” The cross floated into Nulthir’s hand, and a bright spark broke the chains binding his wrists and ankles.

  “Neep!”

  Oh fate no... What trouble had that kit gotten into now? “Furball!” Nulthir clawed through the darkness until he could look out of his own eyes. And there was Furball, falling, as usual, his owlish eyes wide in terror. Nulthir reached for him, but his hands were stuck fast in the top of the dresser. No. He must save that adorable little troublemaker.

  Pain erupted in his hands as he pulled. The demon’s claws vanished in a puff of smoke, revealing his bleeding hands just in the nick of time. Furball landed on his palm and looked up at him with perfect love and trust.

  You stupid kit, you could have gotten hurt, Nulthir tried to say, but his mouth was under the demon’s control, and it was laughing. He tried to seize back control, and the demon laughed in his mind.

  Silly little warlock. You’ve got me under your skin. You’ll never get me out. The demon stretched his mouth into a wicked grin.

  You’re wrong. Where there’s magic, there’s a way. Nulthir felt his gaze drawn to the light shining in through the window across the room, and beyond it to the silver tree standing at the edge of the forest. She was a thousand feet tall according to legend, and at least twice the height of her enchanted brethren standing at attention beside her. The Queen of All Trees raised one glowing branch and crooked it at him in a come-hither gesture.

  Nulthir ran toward the window and the promise of help from a higher power. Furball screamed, and his scant weight vanished from Nulthir’s palm as he stepped over first Amal then Dale. Someone latched onto his ankle, but he kept hurtling toward that light. Runes lit up all along the window. They maintained a barrier spell he’d put there to protect the members of Thing’s family who hadn’t fledged yet.

  Nulthir struck that spell hard, and light crashed down on him. The demon screamed as that spell light burned it. Behind him, someone pounded on the door, and it splintered. Everything went white, and Nulthir fell into that light, needing it after so much darkness.

  To be continued in “Spell of Scales & Steel,” part of Forgotten Magic, the third installment of the Magic Underground trilogy of anthologies.

  Amal and her family may have saved Nulthir from a demon only to land him in trouble with the Queen of All Trees, and she doesn’t take kindly to warlocks with demonic summoning spells written on their skin. Meanwhile, Thing and Crispin are in serious trouble when they uncover a dastardly plot with teeth and claws and a taste for Owl-Cats.

  About the Author

  Melinda Kucsera writes fantastic short stories and books when dragons aren't trying to kidnap her. (Sometimes, her characters rescue her, especially when evil corporations are involved.) Check out all Melinda’s books on melindakucsera.com and meet her characters. They're lining up to meet you.

  Melinda leaves the running of her newsletter to a cast of lovable characters who hog her inbox. They might also star in several of her books. Enough about her, it’s them you’re really interested in, her cast of characters. Join them every week for a new adventure: at mkucsera.com/welcomecharacters. They make house calls.

  For more information about Melinda Kucsera and the characters in her story, please visit: http://melindakucsera.com/hanging-out-with-friends/ Don’t forget to grab your copy of Forgotten Magic to find out what happens next.

  When Day Fades into Night

  Anela Deen

  For me, the best part of writing about magic is coming up with all the ways it can go haywire. Sure, it can get characters out of an impossible situation, but it’s more fun to see how magic can push them into trouble. Magic is a powerful element, and like anything in nature, it can react in unexpected and dangerous ways. Life operates the same way on many levels, and this is a theme I explored in Wayward Magic. What we choose and how we react to our pain and our sorrow dictates the road that winds ahead. Sometimes we see where it leads. Sometimes we don’t.

  Anela Deen

  After discovering fairies were behind the ambush that nearly killed him, Simith is determined to negotiate a truce with the troll king. But a strange illness afflicts him upon his return to his world. When the Thistle Court captures him, he learns the troll king has accused him of oathbreaking and chosen a fight to the death to settle his guilt. As the fairies conspire to lure the trolls into a trap, Simith is helpless to stop them. Held captive by his true name, they’ll force him not only to fight in the arena, but to die there as well.

  When Jessa collapses after Simith’s departure, she realizes that the magic he used to save her life had the wayward effect of fusing their life forces. If they aren’t reunited to untangle them in time, both will die. With Relle and Katie beside her, she’ll travel into the magical realm to find him. But in a world torn apart by war, with signs of imminent battle on the horizon, locating Simith is the easy part. Rescuing him from his enemies is quite another.

  Chapter One

  He couldn’t get warm.

  Pausing on a low branch at the edge of the Jaded Grove, Simith chafed his arms, half expecting to see his breath on the air. It was high summer here, just like the world he’d left mere hours ago. The trees sighed with a temperate breeze; the air humid, heavy with the scent of cedar and leaf mold. Below, a doe wandered leisurely through the grass to nibble at a cluster of berries. Simith shivered and blew on his icy hands.

  This was ridiculous. He gazed back the way he’d come, thinking of the hazel thicket he’d seen. Perhaps he should’ve stopped for that nap his body longed for instead of pushing on. He’d drawn magic into his conduit as soon as he’d arrived and healed what remained of his injuries. That didn’t solve fatigue, however. It took an effort just to keep his eyes open, but he’d feared any delay. He
had a small window of time before the fairies would know he’d defeated Firo.

  Simith watched the doe where she nosed at a cluster of flowers. He pressed his temple to the trunk he leaned against, his head heavy. Perhaps travelling between worlds brought on this unreasonable exhaustion. Or maybe, he chided himself, he’d simply had a night filled with dangers and no rest. A nap to clear his head would be advisable before he risked communicating with the trolls again. What conclusions had they drawn when he didn’t show up to the meeting? Could King Drokeh even be convinced to agree to another?

  Hope is the thing with feathers.

  He inhaled deeply, drawing strength both from Jessa’s words and voice. Doubt might chase him, but he was a fast flyer. He could stay ahead of it.

  If only he could get warm. Simith rubbed at his arms again, the soft chattering of his teeth the only sound in the woods. The stillness nudged at his instincts. Below, the doe’s head came up, ears flicked forward. He froze.

  Someone was near.

  Simith readied a blade, eyes scanning the tall grass of the meadow leading out of the Jaded Grove. The summer breeze rippled the high stalks like waves on the sea—except in one spot. There, the wavering tide broke, as if a stone squatted within the current. Or a crouched enemy.

  It moved.

  The doe vanished into the woods and Simith alighted on the next tree. On silent feet, he followed a branch that extended over the meadow above his target. It shifted again. Simith halted, ready to throw himself back to cover if his foe looked up. It didn’t. A careless mistake, though his quarry had hidden themselves well. He couldn’t see whether it was a fairy or troll spying the forest, but the mid-morning sun betrayed their shadow.

  Which shifted again. Any farther and Simith would lose the angle of attack. He burst across the final steps, darting down upon his enemy with a snap of wings. His target let out a startled yelp as Simith pressed their face into the dirt. His blade point found the tender spot behind their ear. Their struggles ceased.

  “Your name,” Simith demanded softly, “or I’ll make this meadow your grave.”

  “Sir Simith?” a muffled, familiar voice said. “Is that you?”

  “Flix?” Simith moved off him. He stared in astonishment at the young pixie scout. Though, not so young anymore. Two years had passed since Rimthea had trained him. That had been the last time he’d seen the boy. Just before Rim was killed.

  “By the winds, you’re terrifying, sir.” Flix gave a strained chuckle, rubbing at the spot where Simith’s blade had pricked him. “I never heard a sound.”

  Wary at his presence, Simith kept his blade close. “What are you doing here? Why hide in the grass instead of the trees?”

  “I was sent to await Helm Firo and his soldiers. Fairies don’t appreciate when we startle them from above. Now I see why.” He lowered his hand from his head and stared at Simith, wide-eyed. “Is it really you, sir? They said you’d been ambushed by trolls and killed.”

  “Who did?”

  “The Helms. They told us you were sent to offer a truce, but the troll king murdered you instead.”

  Just as Firo had said they would do.

  “Helm Firo was dispatched to retrieve your body.” Flix gripped Simith’s arm, blue eyes bright with pride. “I knew it had to be a mistake. There isn’t a troll alive that could best you.”

  Simith looked away. Flix was too young to remember the peaceful creed the pixies lived by ten years ago. He’d have been a child of eight when they entered the war, barely old enough for his conduit. Flix’s admiration was a conviction of all the things Simith loathed about himself. No wonder he was no longer welcome in the moorlands. His influence was as toxic as an ill wind.

  Simith pushed these dour thoughts to one side. Flix’s presence here meant the limited time he had to contact the troll king was less than he’d thought. He considered having the boy delay his report to the Helms, but decided against it. The fairies might suspect Flix had some part in Simith’s plan. Who knew what they would do to him in that case?

  He stood. “Helm Firo isn’t coming. You must return and inform the commanders.”

  Flix blanched as he rose. “The trolls killed them?”

  “No.” He hesitated, then unbuckled his sword belt, holding it out in his hands. “Take this with you when you return.”

  The boy stepped back from the weapon. He shook his head emphatically. “It’s not your fault, sir, whatever happened. The fairies won’t blame you.”

  “Flix…” He didn’t know how to explain that their allies were not allies, that they wished to use his death to inspire even greater slaughter. He could barely understand it himself.

  “Besides, you have to come back with me,” Flix said. “All knights have been recalled. The Thistle Court arrived today to address the accusation.”

  He frowned. “What accusation? Against whom?”

  “Against you, sir. The trolls accuse you of oath-breaking. They say you lured them to a meeting for peace, and ambushed them.” He gave an outraged snort. “A pathetic twist on the truth as ever I’ve heard.”

  Anxiety built in the back of his mind. “What does this have to do with the Thistle Court if it’s me they accuse?”

  “You were assumed dead, sir, and since you serve the fairies, the claim is a mark against their honor. The trolls have called for satisfaction through combat. The triad came to answer it in your stead.”

  Simith ran a hand through his hair. Not only had the fairies attacked him, but they’d done the same to the trolls. How would he ever arrange another meeting if the troll king thought he’d betrayed them?

  He tipped his head back as a far more dire thought sprang to mind. The triad—the three noble fairy houses—had come. The entire legion would be gathered in the same place. If the court had planned to use his death to subvert peace, they must have also known King Drokeh would level the accusation. He’d called for combat, a typical reparation between accuser and accused—unless Simith wasn’t there. The fairies would insist on a different sort of combat, the kind between two forces instead of two individuals. Rather than chancing a long siege in the trolls’ lands, they meant to finish their army off on a battlefield. Soon, by the sound of it.

  “When is this meant to occur?” Simith asked.

  “They’re working out the terms now, and whatever is decided will happen tonight.” Excitement lit his eyes. “But since you’re here, you can answer the claim yourself.”

  Simith refastened his sword belt around his waist. Tonight. Far sooner than he thought. He had to stop this before it was too late. “Where are the trolls camped?”

  “On the other side of the valley from the legion, and—Sir, where are you going?” Flix followed after Simith as he darted into the air.

  “You mustn’t be seen with me now,” he told the boy. He tried to outpace him, but the farther he flew from the forest, the harder the fatigue pressed on him. Why was the air so cursed cold? “Flix, go back.”

  “I don’t understand, sir,” he said, easily keeping pace alongside him. “All you need to do is explain what happened to the commanders. There,” he pointed, “Helm Capal comes for my report already. She’ll understand, you’ll see.”

  A rider approached from the opposite direction. Simith lurched back as the Helm cupped her hands around her mouth. “Cover your ears!” Simith shouted, clapping his hands over his own, but the boy didn’t react in time.

  Flix tensed beside him, eyes flaring with surprise. “Why…” He gawked at his own hand as it removed the dagger sheathed at his hip.

  Simith twisted away, anticipating an attack. To his horror, Flix set the blade against his own throat. The blade cut into his skin.

  “No!” Simith lunged forward. He grasped his arm, pulling hard against the unnatural will that commanded Flix’s body with his true name.

  “Fight it,” Simith told him, though he knew he was trying, his arm trembling, terror in his gaze.

  Flix’s boot rammed him in the gut and he almost lo
st hold of his arm. Growling, Simith adjusted, pulling the boy close, crushing his hand between them. He put a protective arm behind Flix’s neck and head. Then he took them to the ground. The impact left his elbows and knees throbbing. Flix lay dazed beneath him. Simith grabbed the dagger away from him and pressed his knees into the boy’s arms.

  The point of a sword came to rest between his shoulder blades.

  “I take it we won’t be seeing Firo or his soldiers again?” Capal said behind him.

  His hand tightened on the dagger. “They are dead, yes.”

  “A shame,” she said, though if she grieved for it, her voice didn’t show it. “Will you come peacefully, Sun Fury? Or must I use your true name to have you murder the scout?”

  Simith closed his eyes and let the dagger fall from his hand. “Where are we going?”

  The sword point lowered. A wry smile touched her words. “The Thistle Court awaits you.”

  Chapter Two

  She dreamed.

  Beneath a cloud-covered sky, Jessa glided over a rolling, rural landscape she didn’t recognize. Bordered by stone cliffs, low shrubbery adorned it; cotton-grass, mosses, and bracken. Wild ponies with their manes snapping in the wind roamed alongside grazing sheep. She watched as she approached heather fields where cob cottages with roofs of grass and adobe walls dotted the terrain.

  Home, a young voice said in her thoughts, but it wasn’t hers.

  Movement alongside caught her eye. There, a pair of pixies flew. Two young men, one not quite an adult yet, the softness of adolescence still clinging to his face. With a start, she recognized Simith. His shoulders were narrower than when she’d met him, his sandy brown hair long with feathers and flower stems woven through it. His brown eyes held the same piercing intensity, but with a spark of innocence that was no longer there.