Vicious Magick (12 page)

“No way!” D’kassar shouted.

“Yep, fed the thing to her family for Beaster
Feast. You see, I’d already told everyone long before that she’d
run off with a philosopher, but her parents still came to visit
once a year. Well, one year, when they showed up, I realized I’d
forgot to go the market, so…”

Zanther and Novanostrum are each five beers
deep into a hazy midafternoon drunk.

“Hey Nove, I gotta ask you, if you’re some
big-shot wizard, why are you running around the countryside like
some bum. Shouldn’t you be flying on skyships and flanked by
servants?”

“I had some problems at the Academy. Compared
to the Universitorium, their courses are a little
more…rigorous.”

“Oh? Go on.”

“Well, kids, it’s time for this old man to go
to bed. Like I said, in the morning we’ll walk on over to the
village and I’ll show you where Slotterhaus, the mayor, lives. I’m
sure he’ll be able to help you find your friends; it’s his job to
know what’s going on in Zweissergrund.”

Feeling dehydrated and cranky, Zanther and
Novanostrum stagger cautiously out of the cave. Encouraged by the
lack of lizard people, they manage to make their way back to the
main tracks.

As they walk along the metal rails, they
notice a sound, a melodic sound, like a lullaby being plucked on
strings.

“Brace yourself,” Novanostrum says.

Varello appears, flanked by dozens of
serpentites. He plays a suspended second, and the lizard people
charge the two of them. Novanostrum swings his staff at them,
managing to clock one on the head, while Zanther cuts one through
its midsection and clangs his steel against the blade of yet
another.

“Don’t fight
them
, Zanther.”

Zanther has an epiphany and stops hacking
apart the lizards, instead charging towards Varello and bringing
his blade down through the lute, reducing it to a pile of strings
and splinters.

The lizards blink their huge eyes, conscious
of having been played as puppets against their will. They turn away
from Zanther and Novanostrum and crowd around Varello, flicking
their long, forked tongues in anger.

Zanther and Novanostrum take this opportunity
to stealthily back away from the crowd and then run towards the
exit.

Varello reaches inside the breast pocket of
his coat and produces a small wooden flute.

Zanther and Novanostrum tromp up the
snow-covered path, spotting an idyllic mountain village like
something out of a fairy tale. The log buildings are immaculate,
with cheerful children and smiling wives visible in the windows. In
the distance, they can see a ski lodge with rosy-cheeked tourists
puffing out clouds of steam. Zanther and Novanostrum look at each
other, horrified, and they keep walking up the path toward the
pagoda-shaped pagoda perched ominously at the top of a nearby
mountain.

“Let’s just find these monks and make tracks
to somewhere warm,” Zanther says.

“You realize you’re traveling with a
world-class wizard. There’s no reason either of us should
needlessly suffer this infernal climate.”

“Yeah, so what can you do? Magick the sun a
little closer? Apparate me some whiskey? Summon a centaur and cut
it open so I can climb inside?”

Novanostrum reaches up his sleeve and pulls
out a very, very long scarf and hands it to Zanther.

“Gee…thanks.”