Midwest Magic Chronicles Box Set

by Flint Maxwell

  She tried to pull herself up, but her muscles would not cooperate.

  A soft glow came from Hunter’s palms now.

  But the dragon roared again, turning its massive body with the motion, and one large, clawed foot came down upon Hunter’s body. His scream of pain was both muffled and short as the dragon squashed him into jelly.

  “Holy shit,” Maria said, her voice barely coming out as a whisper. Great, one thing solved; just got to get back up on the—

  The dragon jerked straight up into the air as it took flight. Wind roared into Maria’s ears. Raindrops smacked at her exposed flesh, each one like the point of a blade burrowing into her skin. She grunted, using the momentary feeling of zero gravity to her advantage. As the dragon took flight, so did Maria. She could’ve dropped to the beach and possibly saved herself much trouble and pain in the long run, but didn’t. She wouldn’t let herself.

  Now she floated in the air, the dragon’s tail ripped under her. It was her only chance. If the dragon took off without her on its back, all was lost. There was no way she’d be able to mount it again.

  So she took this chance as she had done the others and reached out, snagging one of the dragon’s spikes with her palm. It bit into her with a burst of pain. Red stained the white scales—Maria’s blood, but she hardly noticed. Both hands found purchase, followed closely by her feet. Her hair blew wildly, whipping in and out of her eyes. The stars grew closer above, and the town of Ashbourne grew smaller below.

  The unreality of this situation stole over her.

  This is a dream. There’s no real death in a dream. I can do what I want and still wake up in my bed with Sherlock at my feet, his paws twitching as he dreams of chasing rabbits. And because it’s my dream, I can dictate it however I want.

  Deep down, she knew this not to be true. This wasn’t a dream. Though, since she had discovered her magic, life had surely taken on a dreamlike quality.

  Maria opened her eyes to the rushing wind. The dragon’s great, ridged back stretched long in front of her, the scales gleaming in the moonlight.

  But something was different. Something had changed.

  There’s no more rain. Did I turn the rain off with my mind?

  Maria righted herself, holding on for dear life, only then realizing that they had flown above the storm clouds. Fear stole over her, causing her muscles to seize up. The whipping wind took her satchel and banged it against her body. She hoped against hope that the music box would stay inside of it. She would’ve checked its zipper if she were not so afraid to let go of the dragon’s spikes.

  She turned her head forward and something else caught her eye. It gleamed as bright, if not brighter, than the dragon’s scales.

  It was her sword, lodged between the back spikes.

  Anwyn’s sword before me, she said, surprised the words had crossed her mind. She did not know who Anwyn was directly, but she knew it was the ghostly voice that had talked to her earlier. She wished he would talk to her again.

  The dragon’s wings beat once more. As they did, Maria was knocked off balance. She scrabbled at the spikes again, only just finding her grip before another beat of its wings pushed her farther.

  The sword, I have to get to the sword.

  Suddenly, the dragon lurched, its wings pinning back like a bird’s when it dives for prey. Maria’s insides went upward. The force was too much, and she flipped over, falling down the dragon’s ridges. She caught hold on another spike closer to the dragon’s neck, and not too far from her sword.

  The town came into view again, and the rain hit her with that same force of a thousand daggers, stinging her flesh, drilling toward the bone.

  The wind whistled in her ears. It was the sound of a falling bomb; one Maria rode on the back of. She tensed her muscles as the ground grew closer and closer at an alarming rate.

  There was no way the dragon could stop now…not before it crashed and took Maria with it.

  Ignatius blasted a beam of energy out to a rushing Dragon Tongue. The magic took him in the gut like a sucker punch, and the man doubled over and rolled four times along the ruins of the paved street before coming to a stop a few feet from where Ignatius stood.

  Frieda was at his back. The flames from her palms were hot on his skin. Sherlock and Gelbus whizzed in and out of the battle. The Gnome now had a long wooden stick. It looked to be part of a shattered horse cart. With the stick, Gelbus swept at the legs of their enemies, causing them to fall flat on their faces. When Ignatius noticed this, he would hit the enemy—whether Dragon Tongue or Orc—with a strong freezing spell. He preferred not to kill if he could help it, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t. The Orc and the Dragon Tongue might be evil, sure, but they were more stupid than bad, blindly following a cause they didn’t truly understand. Was Ignatius to be their executioner due to their lack of intelligence?

  No, he would leave that job up to the Gods.

  Frieda, on the other hand, had lived up to her reputation as a dark witch from the northern outskirts of the Dark Forest, killing any enemy that got in her way. Ignatius didn’t approve, but he couldn’t fault her. The Orc and Dragon Tongue would kill them without any qualms. Murder for such dark forces came naturally.

  Ignatius knew that firsthand, for he had faced darkness on more than one occasion in his long life of wizardry, and he had done his fair share of killing as a royal guard in Dominion. He’d had his fill of it, but he knew this was battle, this was war, and with those things came death, whether he liked it or not.

  That was fine and dandy, as long as death didn’t touch him or the ones he cared for.

  It was during this thought that Hunter had fallen off of the back of the dragon. Through a haze of smoke, Ignatius looked on as the dragon crushed the cloaked man underfoot.

  Oh, two moons!

  Maria was hanging from the dragon’s legs, dangling and kicking for purchase. She looked close to slipping to her death. He knew if she hit the beach, it would not be long before either the Orcs or the Rogue Dragon converged on her.

  As the group took down another wave of Orcs, a blast of fire rocked them from the left side. Dragon Tongue came out of the broken facade of a nearby building, their palms blasting dark magic in every direction.

  Ignatius grunted and quickly danced his wand across his knuckles, mumbling a spell of protection. A shimmering wall of blue light erected up from the group. The fire hit it with a sound like breaking glass and bounced back toward the ones who’d sent it. Flames lit the Dragon Tongue’s robes, screams erupted from their throats, and they turned back the way they had come.

  “Good spell, Ignatius!” Frieda shouted, zapping a flash of white lightning-fire in the direction of an Orc running toward her with its sword raised. The lightning took the Orc’s arm clean off, sending the weapon into oblivion with it. The Orc stopped, its eyes wide, as black blood spurted from its nub. Frieda had a smile on her face when the Orc dropped to the ground, writhing in pain and death. The others following it must’ve read the crazy look in the dark witch’s eyes and thought better of attacking, because they turned tail and ran.

  “Maria!” Ignatius said moments before the dragon took flight. He pointed toward his dangling granddaughter.

  “Oh, my word,” Frieda said breathlessly.

  The streets were clear of enemies—for the moment.

  Ignatius took off toward the beach, his aching joints flaring with pain and age. "Come on!"

  A great burst of wind rocked both he and Frieda. They were driven backward, and they planted their heels in the sand. The dragon roared and took off into the air. Maria hung over the beach for a fraction of a second.

  Ignatius wasn’t sure what a heart attack felt like, but he was pretty sure at that moment he was close to having one; then Maria reached out and gripped the tail of the dragon and disappeared into the night.

  A distant roaring could be heard.

  “MARIA!” he shouted as he righted himself. Frieda gripped his arm, pulling him closer. She set her
forehead against his as Ignatius choked out a dry sob.

  Cacophony and the pounding of boots filled their ears soon after. There was no time to mourn, no time to hang their heads. A battle was happening, and they were right in the thick of it.

  Ignatius looked up. From the east side of the beach, a horde of Orcs and Dragon Tongue rushed onward.

  It seems they have found a common enemy, he thought bitterly.

  He raised his wand, the tip glowing with violent light. Perhaps he would kill. Perhaps he would kill them all.

  The spell was already on his lips—the big one, the death spell—when Sherlock and Gelbus rushed over to stand next to he and Frieda. Sherlock barked wildly, a sound Ignatius had never heard from the Bloodhound in all his years. Gelbus turned, his mouth a grim line, a fire in his eyes, and nodded. Ignatius nodded back and stepped forward as the leader of a battalion would. Then he raised his wand to the sky and shouted, “For Dominion! For Maria!”

  The four of them took off toward the charging enemy, flames and spells slinging out in front of them. The first line of defense fell as Orcs were stunned, and tumbled into the sand, tripping the men and Orcs behind them. Frieda lit up the night with her white flames. Robes and Orcs alike caught fire.

  Through it all, more kept coming.

  Gelbus’s stick connected with the broadside of an Orc’s face, busting the creature’s nose, somehow making it more ugly, but another had swooped in and punched the Gnome off of Sherlock’s back. Sherlock fell with him, snapping at the fingers and only biting thin air.

  Ignatius shot magic from his wand. The spells hit the nearby Orcs, and Sherlock shot upward, looking in the wizard’s direction with gratitude in his bloodshot eyes. Ignatius nodded and turned his attention back to the battle at hand.

  I would die for that dog, he found himself thinking. I would die for all of my family.

  He willed more magic toward the group of Dragon Tongue nearby. The electric blue clashed with the Tongue’s own fiery red spells, and a great explosion of light lit up the beach. Both sides were knocked backward. The pain was immense; Ignatius felt blood trickling down his upper lip from his nose.

  A momentary calm washed over the battlefield. His head thrummed and thumped, his heart beat wildly.

  Dark thoughts crossed his mind. Is this where it all ends, Ignatius? Did the road of destiny lead you to this moment just so you could lie down and die on a beach with fresh blood in your mouth and a burning town at your back? No. No, it didn’t. Get up, Ignatius! Get up!

  He forced himself to do so. To his left, sprawled out in harsh angles were Gelbus, Frieda, and Sherlock. They all moved slightly. That was good—that meant they weren’t dead. But they were injured, and in no condition to continue fighting. That was okay. Ignatius would do the fighting for them all; for all of the good in all of the worlds.

  But, as he turned to his right, he saw his life flash before his eyes. Standing there, with a great hooked sword above his head and only one arm, was the Orc Frieda had critically injured earlier. Now the Orc had a crazed look in his eye—crazier than before. This was a beast with nothing to lose. Ignatius raised his hand, searching frantically for a spell—any spell—locked away in the confines of his vast memory banks.

  But as he saw his hand come up in front of his face, he realized too late that his hand was empty.

  No wand.

  The Orc swung down, and Ignatius could do nothing but close his eyes. He was a praying man through and through; he believed in the power of prayer as strongly as he believed in the power of his magic. So he prayed to whatever Gods would listen, whether it be his god, your god, or my god.

  And when he opened his eyes—he believed in facing death head-on, a sentiment taught to him by his own father and his father’s father before him—whatever gods were up there were listening.

  A blast of energy hit the Orc from the side, sending him flying and skipping across the beach into the hazy smoke of the lingering aftermath of Ignatius’s most recent spell. Ignatius turned to see where it had come from, expecting it to be Penelope, the town’s mayor, or one of the citizens.

  The savior was neither of those. Standing there like a hero out of a folk tale passed down from generations was Salem.

  He had a big grin on his face, his hair was wild, and there was dark blood staining his vest in patches. “You owe me one, Ignatius.”

  Ignatius shot up and wrapped his arms around the wizard in a tight hug. When the two parted, Ignatius rushed over to Frieda’s side. She moaned in pain. There was a long gash leaking blood from her forehead. Ignatius swiped some of it away before it could pool in her eye.

  “Ig,” she said. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

  “Can you get up?”

  She nodded, but he helped guide her anyway.

  “Oh, my ass,” the Gnome groaned nearby. He reached over and patted Sherlock. “You okay, my canine friend?”

  Shifting in the sand, Sherlock barked weakly. He was dazed, but he was all right. Probably just hungry, Ignatius thought.

  Out of the smoke, Agnes, Claire, and Tabby emerged. They looked equally worn and beaten; they had blood on their clothes and soot in their hair and on their faces.

  Claire bounded over to Sherlock, and that was enough to make the Bloodhound perk up.

  “How?” Ignatius found himself asking. He held Frieda at his hip, making sure she didn’t fall over and hit her head again.

  Agnes and Salem surveyed the battlefield and all its carnage. Orcs moved weakly. Some Dragon Tongue didn’t move at all as flames consumed their bodies. There were a lot of casualties, but for the moment, it seemed the fighting had stopped.

  “Seems like I can ask you the same question,” Salem answered.

  “Yeah!” Tabby said. “Holy shit, we saw you blow all those guys to hell! That was awesome!”

  Ignatius offered a weak smile. War and death were never ‘awesome’.

  “Where’s Maria?” Claire asked.

  Maria! Two moons!

  Ignatius shielded his eyes and looked up. Far away in the distance, covered by a haze of cloud, the great dragon sliced through the air.

  All Ignatius could do was point.

  Frieda verbalized for him. “She’s up there,” she yelled.

  Salem grabbed Ignatius’s shoulder and whirled him around. “Ig! She is the heir to Anwyn. She has to be.”

  Confusion stole over Ignatius’s brain. Heir to Anwyn? Who is Anwyn? But I know that name. How? Where?

  “The talking to Sherlock, the communicating with the world in between, the sword that she was able to wield with hardly any practice. Ignatius, the blood of the Dragon Slayer courses through her veins. Tell her what she needs to do!” Salem shook Ignatius until his joints ached and his brain was rattling around in his skull.

  “Tell her? How can I tell her? And what do I tell her? I don’t know how to slay a Rogue Dragon—a resurrected Rogue Dragon, at that!”

  Then an idea hit him. Well, two ideas.

  “They’re coming back down!” Agnes shouted.

  “Oh, shit, Maria! Hold on!” Claire yelled. The two girls had gathered up loose wood from the destroyed ships and held them near the sides of their heads like knights holding swords.

  Ignatius searched the beach for the crumpled remains of Hunter. He pushed past Salem and Agnes, leaving them staring at him, mouths agape. He came upon Hunter’s body and saw that the Dragon Tongue leader was smashed as flat as a…well, tongue. Surprisingly, there was not much blood, aside from a few streaks leaking from his ears.

  “Where is it? Where is it? I know I saw it somewhere!” Ignatius muttered. He dropped to his hands and knees and felt around in the sand for the book the Dragon Tongue had chanted from. If there were any answers, they would have to be in that book. He knew that somehow.

  Finally, his hands came upon something rough beneath the sandy surface. His first thought was that it was a bone, someone’s skeleton. But as he closed his fingers around the bulky, square object, he quickly real
ized that was not the case. Luck seemed to be in his favor, the gods on his side.

  He flipped through the pages at an alarming rate, so fast that the pads of his fingers became covered with paper cuts.

  The spell. There must be a spell in here. What is done can always be undone.

  His rune reading was not great—it had been many years since he had read from the ancient texts—but it was good enough. Near the middle of the large book, words appeared on the page. He identified one for sure: Control. The rest of the title was lost in translation. He didn’t need the rest of it. What he needed was the body of the text.

  His eyes ran left to right, left to right; skimming the words he’d known when he was a young wizard, still green behind the ears. He came upon a string of words he knew. A sentence.

  “Theix grututa fei feir!” he said aloud.

  Of course nothing happened. The spell would have to come from Maria to make something happen.

  He closed the book with a thud. Above him, the air whistled with the dragon’s descent. Maria was on its back. Though he could not make out her features, he saw the dark spot on the dragon’s white scales. His granddaughter. Oh, I never thought this day could come. What have I done?

  You know exactly what you did when you gave her that dratted music box, Ignatius, he answered himself. And she is strong. Stronger than you give her credit for, but she still needs your help. For the moons’ sakes, do not give up now!

  But how? How can I relay the message to Maria? How can I give her the spell?

  He turned to look over his head just as Agnes shouted for him to duck. The roaring wind given off by the dragon’s body as it sliced through the air was enough to knock Ignatius down. The book spilled from his hands and cartwheeled down the gentle slope of the shore and into the water. Distantly, he thought he heard a splash.

  “No!” he shouted.

  I think I have the spell, but what if it’s the wrong one? What if I get it to Maria and it makes the dragon more powerful?

  No, Ignatius, you cannot think like that. You must keep going!

  He scrambled up, spitting sand from his mouth, and rushed over to Sherlock. If he was going to get that spell to Maria before she fell off the Rogue Dragon’s back and was turned to jelly, he would have to do it fast.