Bad Unicorn

by Platte F. Clark

  “And how is your mother, the queen?” Rezormoor asked, pulling the hood from his head and allowing it to fall to his shoulders.

  “Controlling as ever,” Princess replied with a sigh. “Bossy, boring, and always telling me what I can’t do.”

  Rezormoor unrolled a scroll and held it up to catch the light from a narrow window. It was a wanted poster for “Princess the Destroyer” showing a drawing of a rampaging unicorn (with a burning frobbit in the background for added effect). “Looks like you’ve gotten the attention of the Mor Luin lords.”

  “Well, I really don’t know what people expect me to do. Chewing oats all day just isn’t as thrilling as it sounds.”

  Magar sighed. Maybe she’d just trade him in and he’d be free of her.

  “And as for this one,” Princess continued as if reading Magar’s thoughts. “He’s really quite trying. Perhaps I could exchange him?”

  Rezormoor turned his attention to Magar, who shrank under the sorcerer’s stare. “A mid-level wizard, are you?”

  “Yes,” Magar squeaked. He cleared his throat and tried to regain a bit of dignity. “Contracted by the unicorn queen and assigned to her daughter.”

  “Prepaid, no doubt,” Rezormoor said with a shrug. “Well, Princess, you could certainly trade him in—but such transactions are nonrefundable. Perhaps a mage would be more to your liking?”

  “No,” Princess answered dryly. “They’re even less likely to bend a knee and show the proper respect. Plus, you never know when they’ll up and leave.” That was the problem with mages, they could never really be assigned to any one person or kingdom. Mages were opportunists who challenged their rivals for position, working their way up to ultimately serve at the side of one of the seven kings. “Don’t you have any wizards who are, I don’t know, a bit more lively?”

  “It’s possible,” Rezormoor said, opening his hands, “but it all comes at a cost. And with this one paid for . . . perhaps he’s the better bargain still?”

  Magar now knew what it was like to be a head of cabbage haggled over at market.

  “I suppose I’ll keep him then, for the time being.”

  “As you wish,” Rezormoor said, clasping his hands and setting them in his lap. The truth was, Rezormoor wanted a docile wizard for the unicorn’s companion, and Magar seemed to fit the bill perfectly.

  “Now, to the real point of my visit,” Princess continued, “I assume you received my message?”

  “Indeed.”

  Princess perked up, moving to the edge of her seat. “Good, then I’ll get to the point. I’m bored, and the only thing that entertains me is hunting, killing, and eating.”

  “Understandable.”

  “Sure, but everything in the Magrus is tainted. I want to eat food that’s never known magic. I want to go to the Techrus.”

  “Ah,” Rezormoor replied, sitting back in his chair. “But the pathway to the human realm is closed to unicorns.”

  “Stupid monks and their annoying singing tree,” Princess answered. “They’re prejudiced against my kind and it’s not fair. No unicorn has ever been shown the path to the Mesoshire, or been allowed to travel to the Techrus. They say we’re too dangerous.”

  “And yet dragons make the journey when they wish,” Rezormoor said, fanning the flames of Princess’s anger.

  “Exactly! And do you suppose they’ll share their secrets with us? Not likely. They’re just dumb reptiles hiding under their rocks. I think they’re all jealous—everyone knows unicorns are the most magical creatures in existence.”

  Rezormoor couldn’t argue with that. “Well, as you know, such a request is nearly impossible—the monks of the Holy Order of the Tree of Attenuation are not known to bend their rules. I, however, have access to something they desperately want. So perhaps there is a way after all. But it would come at a cost.”

  “It always does,” Princess answered, flipping her hair back. “And while I’m a royal and I usually have piles of gold, I’m not exactly functioning in an official capacity, if you know what I mean. So why don’t we just get down to it and you tell me what you want? Destroy a town? Chase off a king? Cure the sick?” Unicorns were known for their healing powers, and some were even rumored to have raised the nearly dead.

  “Allow me to show you,” Rezormoor answered, drawing a small chain from around his neck. It held a strange pendant containing three interlocking rings that hovered around a small, metallic sphere. Stranger, however, was the fact that the pendant was transparent, as if only a reflection. Upon seeing it, Princess pulled her horn from within the folds of her dress. In human form unicorns kept their horns as powerful wands.

  “Now now,” Rezormoor said easily, “there’s no call for that.”

  Princess sniffed the air, her horn held at the ready. “That’s no simple pendant—it reeks of the Shadrus.”

  “As astute as you are charming,” Rezormoor continued. Magar, who was trying to press himself into the cushions of the couch, wasn’t sure if that was an insult or not.

  Princess offered a wary smile and watched as Rezormoor held the amulet higher. Suddenly the rings separated, the inner layers now free to turn and spin within the larger ones.

  “The Gossamer Gimbal is a unique artifact,” Rezormoor added. “It exists simultaneously across the three realms, and when sufficiently powered it will point to whatever the owner desires. And in this case, the owner is the Maelshadow himself.”

  Princess relaxed, lowering the wand to her side. “That’s what this is all about? You’ve misplaced something and you want me to find it? Probably a dragon, right? I can find a dragon for you. Even muzzle it.”

  Rezormoor sighed. “Actually, there are a couple of things the Gimbal can’t point to—and dragons happen to be one of them. Something about their scales, but I appreciate the offer nonetheless.”

  Princess shrugged. “So what, then?”

  “Two things, to be precise. The first is the Codex of Infinite Knowability. Have you heard of it?”

  “Of course.” Princes snorted. “The World Sunderer hid his secrets in it after losing faith in men and magic.”

  “All because his wife was kissed with dragon’s fire,” Rezormoor added. “Perhaps your wizard knows the tale.”

  “Indeed,” Magar said, finding his voice. “It was an accident, right here inside the tower. A young acolyte couldn’t control the dragon’s flame—he let it get away from him. It was supposed to have been a demonstration; many in the tower had gathered to watch. But the arch-sorcerer’s wife burned for it—for no other reason than having chosen the wrong place to sit. Worst of all, she was with child. And as you know, dragon’s fire continues to burn even after the flames have been extinguished. For weeks she suffered, crying out in agony. But she willed herself to live long enough for their child to be born. After that, it’s said the arch-sorcerer went mad. One morning following a great storm, he, the Codex, and the babe were gone.”

  “And now I’m here,” Princess said with a yawn. “So I get it, you want me to find the Codex. Is that all?”

  “No,” Rezormoor answered. “I require that any living descendant who keeps the Sporazo bloodline alive be brought back as well.”

  “Oh, is that all?” Princess said with a laugh. “So why me? You must have a hundred of these Magar-types running around.” Magar nodded, acknowledging the jab. Part of his job was to be a human pincushion for the royal princess.

  “You said you wanted to go to the Techrus? Well, that’s where I believe they’re hidden,” Rezormoor said. “But only a creature of your natural magical abilities will be able to power the Gimbal once you’re there.”

  “Well then, it seems we both possess something the other wants,” Princess said, putting her horn back into the folds of her clothing. “You send me to the Techrus, and I’ll get to feast on humans and hunt for the Codex. It’s a win-win.”

  “I’m so pleased you’re enthused,” Rezormoor replied. “But first you’ll find the Codex and any living descendants, the
n you may have your fun.”

  Princess sat back in the chair, crossing her legs and thinking it over. “So, you want me to go to the Techrus and find these things for you, so that as a reward you’ll send me back to the Techrus again? Why don’t we kill two humans with one stone and do both at the same time?”

  “There are others who have a vested interest in what you do,” Rezormoor answered. “The Maelshadow, for example. Not one known for his patience. Besides, the monks tell me there are other reasons—so that’s that, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s not a very compelling argument.”

  “Of course you need not accept. But before you turn me down, you should know I’ve found a town in a place called Texas. It’s remote and far from prying eyes, and the people there are plump—corn fed and easy to catch. And not one of them is tainted with magic.”

  Princess licked her lips. “And when it’s done you’ll send me to this place—this ‘Texas’?”

  “With knife and fork in hand, Your Highness.”

  The thought of it all was simply too much for Princess. Rezormoor could have asked her to split the world again and she would have made the attempt. “Then we have a deal,” she said excitedly.

  “Excellent. Magar will accompany you to see that both of our interests are looked after. And I’ll have to instruct you in the intricacies of the Gimbal. But after dinner, of course.”

  The thought of a Techrus town full of fat, wobbling humans made Princess’s stomach rumble. “Then take me to your kitchen—I’m starving.”

  “I’ll show you the way,” Magar offered, standing and motioning toward the door. It seemed he was a dog with two masters now—and that didn’t bode well for his future.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE DRAGON’S DEN

  (THE TECHRUS—PRESENT)

  LIGHTNING FLASHED AND THE WIND BLEW, SENDING SMALLER, ALMOST black clouds rolling beneath the larger gray ones. The man in the black leather coat and dripping cowboy hat stared up at the sky, taking a moment to feel the rain on his face and smell the musty scent of the storm. He liked the feel of water on skin—there was a kind of vulnerability to it as if the water might actually strike hard enough to pass through. He knew it couldn’t, of course, but skin was always a bit of a novelty when he first put it on.

  The Techrus was an interesting place. Without magic, humans had to rely on their own creativity to get things done. So they built machines. Such marvels were really a kind of magic in and of themselves, and in some ways they were more impressive than the mundane spells prevalent in the Magrus. Or the Shadrus for that matter—he was one of the very few who had actually been there.

  The sound of the man’s boots clicked along the wet pavement as he turned down a narrow driveway. He walked along a chain-link fence until he came to a commercial garbage bin. He continued around it, knowing what he’d find on the other side—he could smell the scent of the other despite the rain. He found the elderly man hunkered down against the metal side, doing his best to stay dry by sitting in a large cardboard box. The old man smiled with a mostly toothless grin. “Obsikar,” he said, extending his hand. “I thought that was you. Welcome to Madison.”

  The man in leather took the other’s hand and squatted down to get closer. Obsikar’s skin was ebony and had white markings elaborately drawn on the sides of his neck. He wore the dark sunglasses favored by citizens of the Techrus, but the old man knew his eyes burned with a crimson found only in the darkest regions of the Shadrus.

  “It’s good to see you again,” Obsikar said, the rain pelting his hat and flowing along the channel created by its brim.

  “What are you doing here in the Techrus?” the old man asked. “Is it safe?”

  Obsikar shook his head. “I have sensed a force moving against us for some time. It hides in the shadows, but I will bring it to light soon enough.”

  “So I suppose we must remain here a while longer,” the old man said with a sigh. “There are worse places to hide.”

  “True. But it’s strange to find several of us so close,” Obsikar continued. “I was going to inquire, but then I began to feel it myself—there’s something about this place, isn’t there?”

  “Old and powerful magic, I’d say. Only one thing could produce that here.”

  “The Codex.”

  “Yes. And perhaps we’re but moths to its flame,” the old man continued. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Meanwhile the Tower grows bold. You know Rezormoor’s obsession with finding the book—and his hatred of our refusal to help him. Perhaps this is not the best place for us?”

  The man laughed. “I’m a homeless old man in a modern world of wonders. This is how one becomes invisible here.”

  Obsikar put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Tell the others to stay hidden, then. I have more to visit in this realm, then I must go to the Shadrus for a time.”

  “Do you suppose it’s the Tower that hunts us?”

  Obsikar paused—it was a question he had pondered before. “Rezormoor is angry, this much is true. But to start a war over such a thing? It’s too . . . obvious. I see no advantage in it, unless I’m missing something. But I will find the murderers eventually. Blood has been spilled and a day of reckoning is coming.”

  “You are our king—the choice is yours. I will stay here, however. Something is happening. I can feel it.”

  For a brief moment Obsikar wondered if he should also stay. But the man in black was not good at waiting; he needed to keep moving—to keep hunting.

  It was exactly the kind of day on which you didn’t want to be caught outside. The rain had caused Sarah to second-guess her decision to go with Max and Dirk to the “Dragon’s Den”—whatever that was. She had spent her whole life in Madison and never even noticed the little store before. But apparently it was important to Max and Dirk, so the three of them were running through the rain to get there.

  Max didn’t like running. He much preferred the nuisance of a little rain to the side-aching, lung-burning, and muscle-cramping agony of running. And to make matters worse, Dirk simply pranced merrily along without even knowing that running was supposed to be hard. Max would have stopped several blocks back if it hadn’t been for Sarah. The last thing he wanted was for her to see him clutch his side and fall into the gutter. He also didn’t want to throw up in front of a girl.

  They made it to the small store without incident. A less-than-professionally-painted sign proclaimed the place to be THE DRAGON’S DEN. Dirk turned to Sarah with a crooked smile, “Welcome to the coolest place in Madison.”

  Sarah had her doubts.

  Inside, the smell of burning incense hit them at once. Max always liked coming to the store. Here he didn’t have to worry about being judged for being flabby, or teased because he didn’t play sports, or worry that the Kraken was going to jump out and give him a smack on the back of the head. Coming to the Dragon’s Den was like finding sanctuary on holy ground—no jocks allowed!

  “So this is where velvet pictures go when they die,” Sarah said, looking around at the variety of black-light posters hanging on the walls. They generally fell into one of three categories: skulls with fire for eyes, skulls with swords across their heads, or skulls with both fiery eyes and flaming swords across their heads. One larger poster showed a skeleton riding a motorcycle with flames shooting out the bike’s exhaust. It must have been expensive because it was secured in a sturdy metal and glass frame. A mishmash of comics, role-playing games, dice, paperback books, miniature figures, game modules, incense burners, and candles was scattered throughout the place. The Dragon’s Den had just about everything but customers, and Sarah wondered if she was the first girl to ever step inside.

  Max automatically moved to the rack with the various role-playing modules on display, thumbing through them with expert proficiency. Sarah walked up and pulled a random one out. It had some kind of female elf on the cover, dressed in what looked like a steel bikini and waving a whip above her head.

&n
bsp; “Dragon Lair of the Elf Queen,” she said, reading the cover out loud. She picked up another. “Citadel of the Dark Paladins and the Dragon Witch. Huh . . . seems like a lot of dragon stuff around here.”

  “Dragons have been written about by nearly every culture,” Max responded, sounding a bit more defensive than he intended.

  “And that’s because they’re smelly, stingy, and live for far too long,” said a voice from behind them. Max and Sarah turned to find a small man looking up at them—he was not just small, he was technically a little person. He wore a buttoned-up red vest adorned with a darker swirling pattern, and had a neatly trimmed reddish beard and one of those “balding in the front, the rest as a pony tail” hairstyles that Max would sometimes see when he watched VH1 Classic.

  “Hey, Dwight,” Max said. Dwight stood there, however, staring at Sarah. It finally took Sarah clearing her throat before Max remembered to introduce her. “Oh, and this is, uh . . . er . . .” For a brief, horror-filled moment, Max forgot Sarah’s name. “Sarah!” he finally blurted out, a little too loudly. “Yep, definitely Sarah.”

  Sarah leaned down and offered her hand, but Dwight frowned. “I’m not really the touchy-feely type,” he said in a gravelly tone. “I mean, who knows where those hands have been?”