Midwest Magic Chronicles Box Set

by Flint Maxwell

  “Felah is…gone, I think. The Arachnid got her. As for the other, I’m not sure. I presume, being Felah’s partner, the Arachnid got him, too.”

  Lois frowned. “Didn’t think to report it?”

  “I-I-,” Salem stammered.

  “We were scared. Besides, it only just happened. And we aren’t one hundred percent certain either of them is dead. The Arachnid used a transformation spell to look like Felah Fyre.”

  Lois nodded. It made sense. She figured Trevilsom was in the back of all magical folks’ minds. One mess-up, and you could be sentenced there for a long time, only to come out half-insane and fully changed.

  “I’m sorry, Lois,” Salem said. “I am. A lot has happened. More than I’d ever expected in this small corner of the world. I moved from Oriceran to get away from bloodshed.”

  “And somehow it found us,” Agnes finished.

  Lois offered a weak smile and put her hand on Salem’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Salem. You could rob a bank, and I wouldn’t turn you in. Ignatius on the other hand… I’ll have to have a long chat with him.” She couldn’t help it; her old ways were showing. They became a habit after so long in the Order.

  “Thank you, Lois,” Agnes said. “We were just trying to survive. We weren’t trying to cause a mess for the Order.”

  Lois waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad you’re all safe. As for the missing members, may the heart of Oriceran be with them.”

  “You can wait here until Ignatius and Maria get back. They shouldn’t be too long. I think they’re tracking down a Gnome,” Salem said.

  Lois shook her head. “Secretive things,” she replied, then she pulled out a chair from a nearby table and sat down. “I think I will wait. Mind getting me a chocolate cone?”

  “Of course not,” Salem replied, smiling.

  Suddenly a kid, obviously in the middle of a monumental sugar rush, his face smeared with chocolate, rushed past Lois’s table, screaming at the top of his lungs.

  “That is, if that fellow left any for the rest us…” Lois said.

  Chapter Nine

  Ves Ielan was a seedy place carved at the bottom of the southeastern side of a mountain, not far from the Land of Terran.

  The old wizard looked on it from a couple hundred feet away.

  That old wizard was Ignatius Mangood, known as Ignatius Apple on Earth, and he had never been inside of Ves Ielan—but he had heard stories of its wretchedness. Creatures practicing dark magic could be found there, performing all types of unimaginable feats. They would even perform, if you paid the right price, resurrection spells on the long dead— or so the stories said. Frankly, Ignatius had not believed it until he’d come face to face with Malakai in the streets of Akron, Ohio outside of Salem’s Ice Cream Shop; Malakai, whom he’d watched die in the battle for Dominion all those years ago.

  The thought of Salem came to him now.

  Salem, keep Maria safe, old buddy; you and Agnes and the Muffler twins watch over her for me, at least until I get back… If I get back.

  No, bad thoughts, Ignatius.

  “I should’ve kept Sherlock with me. May not be able to talk to him, but at least he’d bark if things were going south. A nose like that can smell bad blood. Yes, it can.”

  Ignatius sighed.

  A couple of hooded figures had just walked into the large building, the door opening and spilling out the raucous sounds of music, talk, and laughter—wicked laughter.

  “Time to suck it up, old man,” he said to himself and took a deep breath. He put the hood of his own cloak up, making sure his wand and various other weapons were well-hidden. In a place like this, it was no secret that the patrons kept their weapons on them. Everyone was armed. They had to be.

  As he got closer, the smells of strong liquor hit his nostrils. Drinks he had not smelled in many moons—the type of stuff that would make Earth’s toughest alcoholic wet his pants and pass out after one sip.

  Ignatius did not like that smell.

  Had he been walking to Ves Ielan all those years ago when he was a little less gray and a little more strong, the fear would not be as complete. Alas, the worlds spin and the days pass, and time goes on as it always had.

  Was it just a matter of confidence? He thought so. Being on Oriceran, he should’ve been able to draw upon its magical energy, but he just could not get his mind to focus on it.

  He walked on.

  He pushed the doors open, his steps heavy on the stone floor. As soon as the doors banged shut behind him, all the sound inside of the tavern silenced. At least a hundred pairs of eyes were on him. Ignatius allowed himself to linger and surveyed the crowd. Dark witches, dark wizards, large Orc half-breeds with swords just as big as themselves slung across their backs, Trolls running along the bar top, their green hair the only colorful object in all the grayness. He did not see a Gnome, though there were a lot of creatures scattered throughout the wide expanse of the tavern.

  They looked at him until he turned away and slapped coins on the bar top. A nearby Troll somersaulted over his hands, talking gibberish. “Firejuice,” Ignatius said. The closest creatures to him gasped; two Goblins and a Dark Elf—an odd pairing.

  “Did he just—” one of the Goblins said.

  “He did,” the other one answered.

  The barmaid was a pretty young woman, and her shirt was unbuttoned low so her hearty cleavage was exposed to the patrons. Judging by her overstuffed pockets, which jingled with coins from all over the land, no doubt her appearance was definitely playing to her favor.

  “Firejuice, sire?” she asked in an unbelieving tone.

  “Aye,” Ignatius answered.

  The eyes were on him again as a hush settled over the crowd. Good. This was what he wanted. Earn their respect, make them think he was one of them, and they’re lips wouldn’t be so sealed.

  So he dug into his robes again and slapped another coin onto the bar counter. The sound it made traveled the vast tavern, echoing off of its walls.

  “Better make it a double,” he said.

  “Sire—” the barmaid continued, but was cut off by a large, barrel-chested man with more hair in his beard than was on his head.

  “Listen, my friend, if you want to die, you can go outside of my place. We’ve had enough death here to last a thousand lifetimes,” the man said.

  Ignatius lifted his head up so his eyes bored into the man’s. “What’s one more death?”

  “Let him drink, Rogerius! He’s got the gold, doesn’t he?”

  The owner’s upper lip peeled back to reveal tobacco-stained teeth as he snarled.

  Suddenly a chant of “LET HIM DRINK! LET HIM DRINK!” swept over the crowd. Pints of ale banged the tabletops, feet stomped, Trolls were launched into the air by the vibrations, playful smiles on their faces.

  “Yes, Rogerius, let me drink,” Ignatius said; now it was his turn to smile.

  Rogerius shook his head and waved the barmaid on. She looked as if she was tasked with beheading Ignatius instead of simply serving him. In a strange way, she kind of was.

  Beneath the bar the maiden went, and from a locked cabinet she pulled free a dusty glass bottle and set it in front of Ignatius. The fire trapped within the liquid swirled and pulsed, as vibrant and deadly as flying too close to the sun.

  On the outside, Ignatius remained calm, even as the crowd got up from their seats—some of them good seats that they had probably fought over—and pressed up against him. Somewhere among the sea of patrons, bets were being taken. Not bets on whether Ignatius would live or die, but rather how long until he eventually did die from the Firejuice.

  The barmaid turned her head as she twisted the cap off the bottle. The fumes alone were known to singe the nostril hairs and eyebrows of anyone who got too close. From just below the counter, above the shelf the Firejuice came from, she grabbed a glass and set it next to the bottle.

  Her skin had gone pale. “Sire, you’ll forgive me if I do not pour this for you.”<
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  Ignatius raised a hand and nodded.

  Some of the color rose back into the barmaid’s cheeks.

  “Thirty on thirty seconds!” someone yelled to his left.

  Ignatius took the bottle, the heat emanating through the glass hot enough to irritate his skin, and just as he was about to pour, a particularly drunk ranger-type slapped him on the shoulder, startling him. The man reeked of stale ale and his own urine. “I’s known the one who slain the dragon this here Firejuice is made from! I’s known him well. Bardol, his name was. Great, great warrior.” The ranger wobbled, and soon he was swallowed by many arms of the crowd as they swept him back, out of Ignatius’s face.

  It’s amazing the things people will do for you when they want to see you die, he thought bitterly. Dragons. Not even I have seen a dragon.

  “DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!”

  “LAST CALL FOR BETS! LAST CALL!”

  “FIFTY ON A MINUTE!” someone growled.

  “ANYONE ELSE?”

  “I’m going to disappoint a lot of people if I don’t die,” Ignatius whispered. No one could hear him over the roar of the crowd. That was okay. Respect went further than money in Oriceran. That was true. He’d known that since his days serving the King of Dominion, Maria’s father—an honorable man who’d treated his daughter Zimmy well, and who had died a horrid death.

  “King Ancel, this is for you,” Ignatius muttered. He raised the glass. It was full nearly to the brim with that poisonous, liquid fire. “And for the dragon this drink has come from. May you both rest well.”

  The crowd broke their previous decibel level, their cheers so loud, they rattled the windowpanes.

  Ignatius brought the drink to his lips. He could already feel the layers of skin singe there. He closed his eyes and tilted his head backward.

  Now the crowd went silent. Someone dropped a coin on the floor; it had sounded loud enough in that silent room to carry across the worlds.

  The Firejuice tore down Ignatius’s throat like magma tearing down a mountainside. He gulped and gulped, eyes spouting tears, nose running, vision blurring. Already, the fumes had gone to his head, and the poison began to overtake his bloodstream. It had been many years since he’d drank Firejuice, and if he had a tolerance then (and one can never build up much of a tolerance to Firejuice), it was surely gone now. The world rotated beneath his feet. Visions of the past swept by him in blazing pictures. The Queen, the King, the music box, Maria as a baby, his own father bestowing the sword to him, his magical training, his first slain Arachnid.

  Distantly, someone shouted, “What’s the time? What’s the time? He’s gonna drop. HE’S GONNA DROP! PAY UP! PAY UP!”

  No.

  Ignatius exhaled, his breath coming out of him like a jet of flames from a dragon’s mouth, and slowly the world came back into focus. Ugly faces crowded around him, their lips parted in silent gasps.

  “Just passed a minute, gents!” the bookie shouted.

  Ignatius swayed as he tried to stand. He almost lost his balance on more than one occasion, but he grabbed hold of a man next to him who was mumbling, “Fifteen more seconds, old man. Fifteen more seconds. Hold on for fifteen more seconds!”

  But the fifteen seconds ticked by, then thirty, then forty-five. Finally, Ignatius was still on his own two feet at a little past two minutes, and the bookie was saying that no one bet past a minute, forty-five—because no one in their right mind would bet that far. No man, woman, or creature had ever drank a double of Firejuice and lived to tell the tale.

  At least, that’s what they had thought.

  Ignatius Mangood was no mere man, after all.

  With the world coming more and more into focus, Ignatius climbed up on his barstool and stuck his hands up and out like a man accepting applause, except there was no applause for Ignatius then. Not yet, at least. Everyone was stunned into silence.

  As Ignatius scanned the crowd, he thought he caught fear in the eyes of some of the patrons. Good. That was what he wanted. If not respect, then fear.

  “I seek a Gnome!” Ignatius said. It burned his throat to talk, but he did it anyway. The crowd hung on his every word.

  “Ain’t no Gnomes here, wizard!” someone shouted back. “They ain’t allowed inside.”

  Ignatius thought this place not too strict on enforcing whatever rules it had, judging by the crowd below him.

  “He goes by the name of Gelbus! He was a librarian, a keeper of secrets in the Light Elves’ castle.”

  Nothing.

  Slowly, the crowd watching him began to disperse. They turned away and found their tables again, bringing their cups to their lips. If death was not involved, they wanted no part of it.

  Ignatius felt like a fool, standing up like he was. He got off his stool and sat back down. Did I drink the Firejuice for nothing? Oh, no… it was starting to hit him harder than before. The bar was as tilted as the look the bar’s owner gave him. Ignatius offered a weak smile, and the man turned away, heading into a backroom.

  Have I failed my mission so early?

  He pulled his hood down over his brow, shrouding his features in shadow, then dug into his pocket again and asked for a cup of ale, something to wash the Firejuice down; though he knew he’d be feeling it for days to come.

  The barmaid gladly poured the ale. He told her to keep the change. She smiled a very practiced smile.

  Ignatius sat at the bar, ignoring the swell of distant conversation filling the room. He just needed to get his feet back under him. He’d be better in a few minutes…he hoped.

  He sat in silence as the Trolls started a game of straw jousting right in front of him. They each stood on small brown bottles and ran in place until the bottles lurched forward to one another. Before the bottles would clink, they’d stab each other in the chest with the straws, fall on their backs giggling, get back up, and do it again. It took three times before one of the bottles rolled off the bar and shattered on the floor. No one seemed to mind.

  He never understood Trolls.

  A wise person once said that no one ever did understand them, and Ignatius was almost one hundred percent sure that it was a rare Oriceran truth.

  “Front row seats to two Trolls trying to kill each other with plastic straws. Maria would be so proud. C’mon, Ignatius, it’s time to adapt and find that Gnome,” he murmured to himself.

  There was a time in Ignatius’s youth when he was offered the secrets of dark magic. Had he accepted those secrets, he believed he would not be in his current predicament.

  No, you’re smarter than that. If you followed down the dark path, you wouldn’t be here at all. You’d be worse off, and you know it, Ignatius.

  It was true.

  “Wizard,” someone said from his right, much too close for comfort. With the Firejuice coursing through his system at light speeds, the voice sounded much too distorted.

  Ignatius startled, his hand slipping down so his wand was easily accessible. He turned, his vision still swimming, and saw a black-haired woman, her hood drawn over her head. Under her eyes was the dark makeup native to a tribe of dark witches on the outskirts of the Dark Forest, a group completely fine with coexisting among Arachnids.

  “Step back, witch,” Ignatius said, a snarl on his face.

  The witch offered a sly smile. “The Firejuice is really taking its toll on you, is it not? Perhaps the bets are not completely off.”

  “Leave me be,” Ignatius said. She was right. His insides were twisting with fire.

  “Don’t be so hasty to get rid of me, wizard. We may be of use to each other.”

  Ignatius turned to face her.

  A trilling came to his right, and one of the Trolls—who was covered in seed, shells, and grime from rolling around the floor—was pulling itself up the side of Ignatius’s ale. He waved the Troll away with the back of his hand gently, much to the Troll’s displeasure.

  “Buy your own,” Ignatius said.

  The Troll stuck his tongue out and blew raspberries in Ignatius’
s direction, showering his mug with Troll spit.

  “Gross,” he murmured, taking the mug with a shaky hand and wiping it off with the sleeve of his robe.

  “Those Trolls are such a nuisance,” the dark witch said.

  “Oh, they’re nothing compared to my Bloodhound, Sherlock,” Ignatius said.

  “Bloodhound?”

  “Never mind.”

  The dark witch leaned forward. “Ah, you have secrets, wizard. Don’t we all?”

  “Please, let me drink in peace, my lady. I mean no disrespect.”

  “As you wish, but I guess you aren’t interested in your Gnome’s whereabouts.”

  Ignatius paused as he brought his cup up to his lips. “My Gnome? You know of Gelbus?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Please, spare me wasted time. If you are only here to mess with my head, I warn you, I am quite powerful,” Ignatius said.

  “He was here only a fortnight ago. Cheery fellow. A bit of a heavy drinker though. But he was here looking for someone himself.”

  Ignatius’s stomach flipped. That was Gelbus. Though he had never met the Gnome, he knew it was so from the Centaur’s description. How many Gnomes drank, after all?

  “Where is he now?”

  “He was abducted.”

  “Abducted?” Ignatius’s mouth hung open. The burning of his insides from the Firejuice was the furthest thing from his mind.

  “I’ve seen it in the flames, wizard,” the witch said. This all but confirmed her origin. Only a certain type of witch read flames, and it was a certain type of witch Ignatius didn’t particularly want to be associated with.

  “The Gnome came in and asked for a friend. He was approached by a man undercover—sort of like you, Ignatius Mangood,” the witch continued in a low voice.

  Ignatius grinned, his teeth showing bright in his beard. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Your legend stretches far in the Dark Forest.” The witch returned the smile. “As for your Gnome friend, I will say no more.”

  “What do you want in return for the information?” It seemed like everyone these days wanted something. Oriceran was changing right before his eyes.