Bad Unicorn

by Platte F. Clark

  “Oh,” Sarah said, retracting her hand.

  “He doesn’t mean anything by it,” Max jumped in. “Dwight’s just Dwight. But he’s cool and everything.”

  “Oh, wonderful,” Dwight replied. “Your approval is just the affirmation I need to keep from going to the back room and hanging myself.”

  “Yo, Dwight!” Dirk yelled from the other side of the shop, his face pressed against a glass countertop. “How much for this card here?”

  “Maybe you should just whistle and command me to come, like a poodle?”

  Dirk looked up and blinked. “Okay. Come here, boy!”

  Dwight shook his head. “Sarcasm is lost on fools—I keep forgetting that.”

  “Huh?” Dirk asked.

  “Never mind, I don’t want to overtax that brain of yours.” Mumbling something under his breath, Dwight walked over to where Dirk stood. He used a small stepladder to pull himself up to the counter.

  “You mean that card?” Dwight said, pointing at the card Dirk was staring at.

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell you what, I’ll make it easy. How much money you got? What’s in your wallet?”

  Dirk did a quick calculation in his head. “Uh, nothing.”

  “Then that’s exactly what I’m going to tell you—nothing.”

  “What,” Dirk said, shrugging his shoulders. “A guy can’t window shop?”

  “If I want window shoppers I’ll open a little boutique and sell bonnets. And then you can ask me about those, which you also won’t be able to afford.”

  Sarah leaned over to Max. “Is he always so irritable?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. But he kind of grows on you.”

  “Like mold, maybe,” Sarah said under her breath.

  Max and Sarah joined Dirk at the glass counter. Inside it was filled with various playing cards, most of which were wrapped in protective sheets.

  “So, are you like a relative or something?” Dwight asked Sarah. Dirk and Max were huddled around another card that had caught their eye.

  “Uh . . . no.”

  “They haven’t kidnapped you against your will?”

  “No!” Sarah exclaimed, folding her arms.

  Dwight shrugged. “Okay, okay. So you must be part of a charity, right? Volunteering your time to take kids like these around town?”

  “What? Of course not. Max and Dirk are my . . .” Sarah hesitated.

  “Boyfriends?”

  “No!”

  That caused Max and Dirk to look up. Dwight raised an eyebrow.

  Sarah, however, seemed a bit flustered. “Well, I don’t know why it’s so important to put labels on everything. So what if I said they’re my friends? What does that really mean? Maybe I just met them today, did you ever think about that? And would it be wrong to say we’re friends? I don’t think so. Friends . . . it’s a very encompassing word.”

  Dirk smiled. “Yeah, friends—with butt-kicking benefits.”

  Sarah slugged Dirk in the shoulder. “Anything else you want to know,” she continued, looking at Dwight, “like the last score I got on my geography test, maybe?”

  Dwight smiled. “Oh, I think we all know what grades you get.”

  “Wait . . . what’s that supposed to mean?”

  Max decided to unsling his backpack from his shoulder and diffuse the situation before things got worse. “So, uh, anyway . . . I found an old book of mine and I wanted to show it to you.” Max retrieved the Codex and placed it on the counter.

  Dwight crinkled his nose and bent down for a closer look. “Now, that’s an interesting thing you got there. Where’d you get it?”

  “I’ve just always sort of had it.”

  Dwight nodded, reaching out to touch the book, but Dirk grabbed him by the wrist. “Dude, don’t touch it!” Dirk hurriedly let go, however, as he realized that he’d just broken Dwight’s no physical contact policy.

  “You realize I’m going to have to wash that now?” Dwight replied, looking at the spot where Dirk had grabbed him.

  “But it’ll shock you,” Dirk continued. “I think it’s like a gag gift or something, like that stick of gum that zaps you when you try and pull it out.”

  “It’s weird like that,” Max said. “But it’s not a trick. I think it just might have a bunch of static electricity or something.”

  Dwight slowly retracted his hand. “If I want to read something that shocks me, I’ll read Dirk’s journal.”

  “Well, I’m not afraid to touch it,” Sarah said, reaching out and jabbing the cover with her finger. The moment she did there was a sharp SNAP! “Ouch!” she cried out, pulling her hand back and holding her finger. “That hurt!”

  “See?” Dirk exclaimed. “Not even girl ninjas can withstand its power!”

  “Sorry,” Max said, grimacing. He hoped Sarah wasn’t going to punch him in the gut or toss him over the counter. One, it would hurt. And two, it would be highly embarrassing. “I don’t know why it does that to everyone.”

  “Everyone but you,” Dirk said accusingly.

  Dwight looked at the book suspiciously. “Some books are protected by magic. But that’s impossible here. But still . . . tell me what’s inside.”

  “It’s like totally random. Last night I read about how squirrels are using St. Louis as a staging area to take over the world. Then this morning it was all about unicorns. And in my English class there was this whole section on these weird creatures called frobbits.”

  “You shouldn’t have a book that talks about frobbits,” Dwight said slowly.

  “Well, I do. Here . . . ,” Max said as he opened the book, expecting to find the section on frobbits. But instead, the Codex showed an illustration of a dwarf dressed in armor and holding a battle-axe.

  “Well now,” Dwight announced, “that ain’t no frobbit.” But Max and his friends didn’t hear him. They were leaning in to get a closer look. There was something oddly familiar about it, and after a moment it hit them and they all looked up at Dwight.

  “What . . . ?” Dwight asked, sounding annoyed. “I told you it wasn’t a frobbit.”

  “It looks like . . . you,” Sarah answered.

  “Oh, nice,” Dwight grumbled. “So all of us little people look alike, do we? I thought you overachiever types were supposed to be more politically correct.”

  Dirk was looking back and forth between Dwight and the picture in the book. “No, dude, it really does look like you—exactly like you.”

  “Great, I resemble some random picture in a book. Maybe I’ll close the store early and celebrate.”

  Sarah had moved past the illustration, however, and was staring at the strange characters written on the page. “I wonder what language this is—it doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen before.”

  “What do you mean what language? It’s English,” Max said, obviously confused. When he looked at the page he didn’t see strange characters at all.

  “Yeah, right,” Dirk challenged. “Go ahead and read it, then.”

  Max rotated the book toward him and cleared his throat: “On dwarfs. Dwarfs are commonly found in the Magrus, in the far mountains of Thoran, and spend a majority of their lives underground. In this way they can be compared to ants, except dwarves are much bigger, communicate through language, prefer hands to pincers, and are probably not insects.”

  Max looked up, “See what I mean? The book’s totally random.”

  But Dwight had a strange look. “Keep reading,” he said, his voice flat.

  Max hesitated but then returned to the book: “Many speculate that the reason dwarfs live underground is so they can mine, craft weapons and armor, and escape their mind-numbing fear of the open sky. So closely is dwarf culture tied to living underground, in fact, that any dwarfs born claustrophobic (that is, afraid of enclosed spaces or people named Claustro) are considered to have been rejected by the stone itself and must live out their days cut off from their people. Case in point: Dwight.”

  Sarah let out a gasp. Maybe it was odd that
there was a dwarf named Dwight in the book, but Max didn’t think it was gasp worthy. Of course, Max didn’t know a lot about girls and so he wasn’t very certain on that point. But when Max looked up he saw what had frightened Sarah—Dwight held a dagger in his hands and it was pointed at him!

  “Close the book,” Dwight said, his words almost a whisper. “Close the book right now!”

  The sight of the dagger sent a shudder of fear through Max’s body. He didn’t like sharp things—and he definitely didn’t like sharp things that were pointed at him. Max started to close the book when it suddenly jumped—but not physically. The book shifted as if some part of it leapt from the pages into Max’s head. A series of images exploded before his eyes: He was standing on the balcony of a tall tower, looking out over a great medieval city at sunset. The city was complete with a large castle and a crystal-blue ocean beyond. Then he was in a small room where robed figures tended to a burned, screaming woman. It was night, and torches flamed in sconces on the walls. As she thrashed about in the bed, Max could see the large bulge of her belly, and he knew she was about to have a baby. Next, he was walking the streets of a strange city, with gaslights, antique cars, and green trolls tipping their hats as they passed by. There was no sky, but a perpetual grayness that blanketed the heavens. Finally, Max felt a shift as if the whole of the world was beginning to slide away. He wanted to run from it, to flee from the force that had grabbed hold of him and was pulling him down. But he could no more stop it than he could turn back a roaring avalanche. A word formed in his mind, and the word became a voice. “Futurity,” it said, and it sounded as big as the entire universe. In the end, Max succumbed to the whirlwind, and he watched as the world plunged into darkness. He felt his heart beat once, and then everything exploded with a brilliant light.

  On the Creation of the Codex of Infinite Knowability

  MANY SCHOLARS BELIEVE THE CODEX OF Infinite Knowability was created just prior to the Great Sundering. Such scholars are idiots and should hang their heads in shame. The Codex was first created as a travel guide during Maximilian Sporazo’s freshman year at the Wizard’s Tower. The first glimpse of the book’s potential came during an incident with Fregor the Dim-sighted, an arch-wizard who taught advanced concoctions and interpretive dance. One morning Fregor woke with a specific craving for waffles. Finding no stewards available, he decided to make them himself. Now, wizards have a somewhat sordid history when it comes to their cooking (see “Zombie Duck”). In Fregor’s case, it wasn’t that his waffles were evil—unlike his apple fritters (see also “the Great Fritter Massacre”)—it was just that his old eyes mistook a bag of Bigus Boomus for a sack of flour. Fortunately, the young apprentice Sporazo had just completed his first draft of the Codex, and, thinking quickly, hit the old man over the head with it. Consequently, it was considered bad form to keep explosive anti-elements in the food pantry, or to hit an arch-wizard with any tome weighing more than two pounds. It did, however, serve as an important lesson for the young Maximilian: Books were useful.

  Over the next few years the Codex was expanded into an encyclopedia and infused with powerful magic to assist in the gargantuan process of cataloging all of existence.

  Even at that early stage of its evolution, the Codex was considered a magical wonder: part encyclopedia, part travel guide, part cookbook, and a good part many other things that may or may not have involved some of the forbidden magical arts. But it wasn’t until the Codex was infused with the fifteen Prime Spells that it became something . . . else. Perhaps—or so it was rumored—because some piece of the arch-sorcerer found its way into the Codex in the process. It might have been an eyelash, or maybe even a mustache hair. Regardless of what it was, the end result was that the Codex of Infinite Knowability had a tendency to do what it wanted instead of being bothered by whatever might be important to the reader. Whether or not this turns out to be helpful remains to be seen.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  RUNNING ERRANDS WITH YOUR ZOMBIE DUCK

  (THE MAGRUS—PRESENT)

  REZORMOOR DREADBRINGER DIDN’T LIKE DEALING WITH PEOPLE. First of all, he had plans. Big plans. Rule the world kind of plans. Suffering through discourse with the common folk was bothersome. It also meant leaving the Tower grounds and descending through the winding streets of Aardyre.

  Going out in public was particularly annoying to the sorcerer. This was not because he was an indoor type who only wanted to read books—although to be fair, he did like books and the Tower was quite comfortable—but because he was feared. For most villains, being feared was one of the perks of being a figure of doom and menace (in addition to wearing black, which is naturally slimming). At first Rezormoor had enjoyed the simple pleasures of meeting a poor villager afraid to make eye contact, or having some simpleton shrink back from his mere presence. He had especially liked it if the shrinking was followed by a bit of cowering. But over time Rezormoor discovered that being feared wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. For example, he had a hard time getting waiters to come to his table. And most merchants would close their shops rather than risk having a sorcerer as a dissatisfied customer. He even had a much higher than normal percentage of lost mail—especially when it required hand delivery. In the end, being feared made dealing with the townspeople inefficient—and if Rezormoor hated anything, it was having the things he hated doing take too long to accomplish. But at times even he had no choice but to venture out.

  And so Rezormoor found himself traveling through the part of the city known as Guild Row. As was his custom, he rode in a black carriage pulled by a small, waddling, undead duck (referred to as a zombie duck). There was no sound quite like the slapping of the duck’s webbed feet against the cobblestones to drive Aardyre’s citizens to the side of the road, down alleyways, or behind barred doors and windows. Those who dared to venture near enough for a closer look might see the duck’s crimson eyes, or the snakelike tongue that sparked when it touched the air. On one particularly unfortunate day, a clown and an elephant were drumming up business for the newly arrived circus when they mistakenly crossed the zombie duck’s path. Several horrific seconds later all that remained were two tusks, a red rubber nose, and an oversized novelty shoe. Not only did the circus lose much of its original appeal (many of the children had a hard time looking at clowns again), but the zombie duck had firmly cemented its reputation as a creature not to be trifled with—or at the very least, one who should be given the right of way at crossroads. The zombie duck was in fact a rare and peculiar breed of monster avian born from a novice wizard’s attempt to blend roasted duck, “death by chocolate” pudding, and zombie spice—the wizard later claimed it was all that had been left in the pantry on his night to cook. As the Tower’s regent, Rezormoor adopted the duck as a kind of mascot and personal pet.

  Guild Row was a motley assembly of buildings that represented the many factions of professional life in Aardyre. Rezormoor’s path took him past the so-called Guild of Magic, a brightly colored building with a half sun and half moon painted over the door. They were an unauthorized spell-caster union that picked up the rabble who either dropped out, were kicked out, or had never gained entry to the Wizard’s Tower in the first place. The Guild’s very existence was an affront to Rezormoor and all that the Tower stood for. Such rogue magic was generally frowned upon by the Seven Kingdoms, but of late the king seemed overly tolerant of the Guild’s activities. As the sorcerer slowly passed the building, he decided he might make the most of his visit by sending a message. Rezormoor muttered a few words under his breath and then flicked a fireball from his hand. The blue flame flew from the carriage window, soared across the street, and finally curved into one of the third-story windows. Rezormoor gave it a count of three, ticking off the seconds as he worked at some dirt under a fingernail.

  Boom!

  The entire street shook as doors and windows were blown from their frames. Soon robed figures, some of them aflame, dove from the building. Rezormoor grinned as he settled back into his seat to th
e sound of the fire bell ringing. Magic was a dangerous business, and perhaps this would serve as a warning.

  The zombie duck continued on its way, producing more of a “gwaawk” than a “quack” when it honked at the growing commotion on the street, until coming to a stop in front of an ornate building constructed from giant blocks of sandstone. It was the Lawyer’s Guild, framed by two massive pillars and a door that was shaped like the giant, gaping mouth of a serpent. Over the door the Guild’s motto was inscribed in stone: MAKING THE WORST ARGUMENT APPEAR STRONGER. The establishment date was 399 B.C., which pre-dated even the Great Sundering. Rezormoor stepped from his carriage, flipped his hood over his head, and pushed his way inside.

  The office was paneled in a dark, nearly black wood, with knots and holes that looked remarkably like human faces—only these were twisted into portraits of agonized pain and suffering. The equally dark desk held a great hourglass, behind which a portly goblin was sitting in a high-backed leather chair. He was wearing a permanent scowl, and had ears that shot out of the sides of his head and ended in two points, with the rest of his bulk stuffed into a tailored suit. His thick, green-skinned fingers wrapped around the hourglass, and he turned the heavy timepiece over with a thud.

  “Now we are on the clock,” the goblin rumbled, a small tussock of gray whiskers waving as he settled into his seat. The sergeant-at-law and supreme counsel to the king was the most important lawyer in Aardyre. He was also on retainer from the Maelshadow, who preferred doing much of his dirty work through his attorney.

  Rezormoor withdrew his hood. “You sent word for me?”

  “On behalf of the Lord of Shadows,” the goblin replied, his double chin and fleshy jowls adding a deepness to his voice. “He wishes a report on the status of your arrangement.”

  “Tell the Maelshadow that the unicorn has accepted my terms and even now is following the Gimbal.”

  “To the monks of the Tree of Attenuation, no doubt.”

  “I would assume so.”