Faerie Apocalypse

by Franks, Jason;

  No walls protected the City of the Magi—no fences or barricades or moats—but there were gateways across all of the roads that led down into it.

  “Strewth,” said the magus, skidding and sliding carelessly down the scree-slope towards the closest of these. The dog-man followed him down with more care and equal speed.

  The gateway took the form of two rune-etched columns, which were cut from some lustreless, rain-coloured material. When the magus put his hands upon them he found the columns warm to the touch. There was no actual gate hanging between them, but some unseen force barred the way.

  The magus examined the spells that protected the gates, and found them to be intricate, robust, and obscure. It took him all of two minutes to determine that the puzzle was beyond his abilities to solve. He could not fathom the meaning of any of the runes, nor could he make sense of the way they were connected. He could not even determine where the spell drew its power from.

  “Dog,” he said. “You’ve been here before, right?”

  The dog-man looked at him, but it was not able to respond.

  “Any clues?” he asked. “Is there a party-trick door knocker or something I should be looking for?”

  The dog-man regarded him mutely.

  “Ah, fuck it,” said the magus. He drew a key upon the palm of his left hand and jammed his fingers into the gate-spell without regard for the interface it offered. Then he pumped as much power as he could into it until, finally, the lock broke. The gateway yielded, and the magus and the dog-man passed through into the City of the Magi.

  Although there was tremendous variation in the size, species, and gender of the black-robed folk who dwelled in the city, there was a uniformity about them that the magus instantly disliked. Their hands were scarred and blackened from the frequent handling of unnatural energies, and they carried themselves with a slightly hunched posture not unlike the magus’ own.

  The folk paused in their business as the magus and the dog-man passed amongst them. Although he could not see their faces inside their hoods, he could feel their distaste. They knew him for what he was: a vagrant mortal, staggering about in a cloud of his own stinking magic.

  The magus did smell pretty ripe, he supposed. He had not bathed since leaving the Ore-Lands.

  “Take me to your leader,” he demanded. Before he had finished the sentence, he found that he had been transported to another location. The teleport had been so swift that he had not detected any magic acting upon him. Perhaps the Realm of the Magi itself had shifted around him, and he himself had not moved at all.

  The council chamber was a vast, polyhedral room walled with mirrors. Those mirrors reflected only abstractions of the events that occurred between them: the councillors’ speech notated as music for some impossible orchestra; vector drawings showing the eddying currents of time; mathematical constructs that represented the contents of the room in greater resolution than reality itself.

  The Council sat around a large table, shaped like a rimless wheel. Each Councillor sat in a heavy marble throne at the end of its thirteen spokes.

  The magus scratched an armpit and cleared his throat. “G’day.”

  “Magus,” said the Speaker for the Council. “We welcome you to our session. If you have a petition to submit or a grievance to voice, you may speak it now.”

  The magus drew back his shoulders and folded his arms. “Well, I do. Are you the ones who sent me the dog?”

  “The circumstances under which you sought refuge in this world are known to us,” said the Speaker. “We thought a friend would help you settle into this new place.”

  “Charity,” spat the magus. The dog-man stood proud at his side, cutlass in hand, glowering at the Councillors. It did not growl; its master was speaking.

  “It was a welcoming gift to a new colleague.”

  “You were trying to placate me.”

  “That was our mistake,” said the Speaker. “For you are known to be an implacable foe. But, friend magus, we bear you no enmity.”

  “Course you don’t.”

  “Have you any further business, now that you have thanked us for our hospitality?” asked the Speaker.

  “I do,” said the magus, hooking his thumbs in his belt. “I’m told you arseholes are the most powerful sorcerers in the Realms.”

  “That is true.”

  “Who’s the best among you?”

  “I am,” said the Speaker.

  “Right,” said the magus. “Well, if you’re that good, you already know that I’m here to kill you.”

  “Only one who sits on the Council of Magi may challenge the Speaker to duel arcane.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “That is the law.”

  The magus scowled. “What do I have to do to get a seat?”

  “Should a seat become available,” said the Speaker, “you must demonstrate to us a form of magic we do not have in our recorded lore.”

  “Alright,” said the magus. “This is something I call ‘powdermancy’.” He drew back his shirt and drew the Desert Eagle from its holster, cocking, aiming and firing the weapon in the same motion.

  The trigger fell; his spell took; the spring caused the hammer to strike the firing pin. The pin and the bullet blipped momentarily into the mortal plane, just long enough for the black powder to ignite. The bullet exploded from the muzzle of the weapon. Gases expelled by the combustion slammed back the slide and chambered a new round. The ejected shell casing spun across the room. The spent spell-rune flickered brightly. The .50 calibre round smashed through the windpipe of the councillor who sat immediately to the Speaker’s right.

  The room fell quiet as the reverberations of the gunshot faded. The magus vaulted onto the table and strode to the dead councillor’s place, the pistol still in his hand. He kicked the councillor’s corpse out of its seat and settled himself in its place. The dog-man came to stand behind him.

  “Seems there’s a place on the council after all,” he said. “And a candidate who meets the criteria.”

  “I cannot fathom your quarrel with us,” said the Speaker. “We welcomed you here with anonymous gifts and open arms.”

  “Well,” said the magus, putting his boots on the table, “I come by me magic the hard way. No teachers, no spellbooks, no nothing. When the Conclave back home told me I had to answer to them, I told them where they could shove their Code of Practice and their Annual Fees and their fucken Journal of the Mystical Arts…”

  “This Council maintains cordial relations with the Conclave.”

  “Yeah, I figured,” said the magus. “I didn’t get on with those bastards, trying to tell me how to do me magic, so I come here to Fairyland…and what do I find? Another bunch of wankers who want to tell me what to do.”

  “You will find that our governance is far less…invasive…than the Conclave’s,” said the Speaker.

  “Not the point,” said the magus. “Fuck you and fuck your Council and fuck your politics and fuck your gifts. I don’t care if you were born with more sorcery in one arse-hair than I’ll ever have—I hate you and I’m going to fucken kill you.”

  “Ah,” said the Speaker. “Now I truly have your measure.”

  “Twelve inches,” said the magus. “If you start at the base, not the balls.”

  “You hate us because we were given what you had to work for.”

  The magus bit his lip. “No,” he said. “I hate you because you think it makes you better than me.” The magus tried to imitate the Councillors’ bassy tones, but fell short by almost a full octave.

  The Speaker nodded gravely. “Alright. I am prepared to forgo the ceremonies of investiture and declare you now a full member of the Council of the Magi of the Realms of the Land of the Faerie. Councillor Magus, I accept your challenge to duel arcane.”

  “Too bloody right.”

  “Do you
require any strictures on the conduct of said duel? Do you want invigilators to adjudicate it or notaries to record the outcome?”

  “Nuh,” said the magus, grinning. “No rules, no umpires, no cameras. Just you, me, and a big fat arse-kicking.”

  “Name the place and the time,” said the Speaker, “And we will duel to the death.”

  14. Godzilla

  The magus made camp just outside the City of the Magi, but he did not pitch a tent or light a fire. He boiled up some rice, the way his father used to prepare it, and conjured a slab of XXXX lager, which his father used to drink. He devoured the rice with his fingers, and then proceeded to drink his way through the full twenty-four cans of beer.

  The dog-man sat in its terrier form and observed this silently. When the magus was so intoxicated that he could neither stand nor see it became a man and addressed him. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

  “Fuck-oath-bloody-hell I am!” bellowed the magus. He collapsed onto his back.

  “The Speaker for the Council is unmatched anywhere in the Realms of the Land,” said the dog-man. “Or in the mortal world.”

  “Eggs-bloody-zactly!” replied the magus, propping himself up with his hands. Whatever else he tried to say was inaudible over his panting breath.

  The dog-man tried another tack. “I don’t understand how you expect to profit from this venture, an you prove successful.”

  “Profit! Loss! Fucken accountants!” roared the magus, swinging his fists at the empty air. He fell over again.

  “Do you intend to die?” asked the dog-man. “Is that what you seek?”

  The magus, lying flat on his back, grinned like a skull. “Nuh, mate,” he said. His grin parted and his tongue skinned the edges of his teeth. “I don’t deserve to be put out of me misery.”

  “Yet that is the likely outcome of tomorrow’s confrontation.”

  The magus shook his head. “Nah,” he said, “Only thing that can kill a monster is a hero or bigger monster… But there’s no such things as heroes, and I’m the biggest fucken monster there is.”

  “Aye?” said the dog-man.

  “I’m the god of monsters,” said the magus. “I’m God-fucken-zilla.”

  The magus began to laugh. His guffaws shook his frame, flexed his skinny chest like a blacksmith’s bellows. He laughed and laughed, and he did not stop until his mouth filled with spit and he spluttered and choked. The magus rolled onto his distended belly, threw up, and fell unconscious.

  The magus had scheduled the duel for dawn the following morning, but the Speaker had to wait until mid-afternoon for him to rouse himself.

  The magus had already divested himself of his previous night’s dinner, but he still found reserves of food to vomit. When the magus spat a final mouthful of bile and wiped his chin on his sleeve the Speaker approached him. “You look poorly. Would you like to postpone the combat?”

  “Course not.” The magus cleared the grot from his throat and repeated himself more clearly. “Course not.” He smoothed the sweaty hair back from his face and shaded his eyes with one hand.

  “Are you certain?” asked the Speaker.

  “Yes, I’m bloody well certain!” The magus shambled to his feet and drew a knife from under his vomit-stained t-shirt.

  “Are you ready, then?” asked the Speaker.

  “Yeah,” said the magus, the knife hanging loose in his fingers. The runes he had scratched onto the blade the night before showed silver through the black tungsten coating. He spread his feet to steady himself, wobbled at the knees, and adjusted his stance again. The magus spat one more time. “Let’s get the show on the road.”

  “Very well,” said the Speaker, lowering its head and extending its hands from its sleeves. Its fists opened until its improbably long and supple fingers were fully extended.

  Whitelight mojo crackled about the Speaker as it drew power to itself. Ley-lines snapped taut and ruptured. The Speaker had his offense already prepared, and his spell leapt to life as soon as the circuit was complete.

  The magus stood his ground.

  The skies clouded over, groaning with thunder; slashing at him with lightning and pounding him with ice. Screaming winds bludgeoned and clawed at him. A phalanx of armoured demons swept down upon him on hellburnt wings, and the Land itself yawned open a rock-toothed, soil-dripping maw.

  The magus stood, transfixed by the huge and intricate network of spell structures the Speaker had built. The Speaker wanted him to look at it; wanted to show him the extent of its power, the depth and breadth of its art.

  It was a sight to behold.

  The magus squinted at the spells and raised his puny dagger. He made no effort to understand the Speaker’s working. It was too much for him to comprehend at once. He let his eyes lose focus, let the components blur together until all he could see was the broadest shape of the system.

  The Speaker held its burning hands out wide. Cords of power writhed like serpents from its fingers. The magus closed one eye, aimed, and threw the knife.

  The blade sailed over the Speaker, past its protective shields, and lodged in the heart of its showcase spell.

  The storm collapsed. The forks of lightning earthed-out harmlessly; the razored hail melted to slush; the wind howled impotently as it gusted away. The demons tumbled out of formation as their own wings set them alight. The fissure in the ground fell in on itself, coming apart in great damp chunks.

  The Speaker tripped on the hem of its robes as it stumbled backwards. Its hood fell back, revealing to the magus a bald head with tiny, unlined features.

  The magus allowed the Speaker to scrabble to its knees before he swung a boot heel into its face. Its jaw shattered. Teeth and bone splinters and pulped flesh hung from its ruined face, but there was not a lot of blood.

  The magus extended his right hand and the black knife flew into his waiting fingers. He knelt beside the Speaker, held it down with one hand, and put the point of the blade against its sternum. He pushed down on the weapon until the hilt lay square against the Speaker’s breastbone.

  It was like sticking a fork into a toaster. The Speaker’s art coursed up the magus’ arm and into his brain like electricity. His back arched and his head snapped back as the current of pure knowledge oscillated through him. The buckle of his belt glowed red hot.

  It was too much for the magus to absorb entire, but he held onto the knife until his fingers were blistered and cracked. The magus slumped over, his breath shuddering in his chest. The Speaker for the Council of the Magi lay dead before him, a plume of smoke rising from inside its hood.

  The magus arose, blood dripping from his spasming fingers. He turned his back on the City of the Magi and closed his eyes.

  The dog-man crept up behind him. “You are victorious, master.”

  The magus did not turn to look at the dog-man. “I’m not your master.”

  “You are my master, now and forevermore.”

  “I’m not your master,” said the magus. “Fuck off.”

  “I am a dog, and I must have a master.”

  “I told you to fuck off.”

  “Please. I must have a human master, and there is no other to be had in all the Realms.”

  When the magus raised his head, his blue eyes had turned black. The dog-man shrank to the form of the terrier.

  “If a dog has no master it must have a pack,” whined the terrier, “but I am the only dog in all the Realms.”

  “Go,” said the magus.

  The terrier crawled towards him on its belly.

  “Go,” said the magus.

  The terrier looked up at him with wide, white-rimmed eyes.

  The magus swung his foot at it. It squealed as his boot connected with its ribs.

  The terrier picked itself up and turned to face the magus again; growling, then whining, then growling as different
instincts seized it.

  “GO!” shouted the magus, swinging another kick.

  The terrier yelped and scooted out of the way. It turned to regard him one more time before it fled.

  15. The Poison Sea

  The magus had the power to instantly relocate himself to anywhere he desired. He had the power to walk between the seconds. He had the power to travel to any world he could imagine. He had the power to fly. But there was no place that he wanted to go.

  Alone and on foot he wandered the Realms, for days or months or years—the magus did not care to count them. Nor did he care to count the miles: The Land was a continent unbounded by ocean; a planet unconstrained by the geometry of a sphere; a world where distance was every bit as relative as time. He walked for years or decades or centuries; and his deeds grew ever darker and stranger, and ever more bereft of meaning.

  In time, the magus tired of wanton destruction, and sought some new endeavour to occupy himself. Something difficult and hideous and contrary to the natural state of the world he inhabited. Something that was beyond reason; even there, on the wild fringes of the most impossible of Realms. Some feat that could not possibly succeed.

  The magus planned his new enterprise carefully. His project would require massive amounts of power as well as a degree of skill that he knew was beyond him. Still, he had nothing better to do, and his heart had become set upon it. The magus had never considered that his heart could do anything more than its nominal function of pumping blood through his veins, so he took this as an omen.

  The magus began by tearing a hole in the Faerie world; rending the Land so deeply that the Abyss itself gazed up at him through the gap—but he did not have time for staring contests. Deftly, he cut and fitted a new piece of real estate over the wound. He pinned it down with jagged black cliffs and stitched the new Realm into place, kneading it into a vast basin and sealing it with molten rock.