by Dante King
He disappeared through a door that led to the wine cellars. There was a crashing and smashing from behind the thick, iron-studded oak door, which I figured was the sound of Damien barricading himself inside.
The scantily-clad, frazzle-haired woman smacked into the door and rattled the handle, but Damien’s barricade held strong.
I wondered if the girl was going to notice the vintage battle-axe that was hanging from the wall just to her left. Would she decide to take to the door with it? The question barely entered my mind when Igor Chaosbane insinuated himself onto the scene.
“Now, now, now, my dear,” he said, holding onto the edge of a table to stop himself toppling over—or, possibly, floating away. “I sympathize with you, I really do. Young men in these times are so inconsiderate when it comes to the art of a good old round of belly bucking.”
The woman turned and regarded my mad-looking sponsor. With half her hair missing and the fact that she was quite obviously plastered, the pair seemed to see a kindred spirit in each other.
“He is inconsiderate, isn’t he?” she said.
Igor blinked. “Who is?” he asked. “Oh! No, I recall now. Yes, well, you see, my dear, I am not a young man. And, I do not think I would be remiss in telling you that I know exactly what you require…”
With the deft smoothness of Don Juan—albeit an older, far more inebriated version—Igor steered the young woman away.
“What a night, eh?” I said to an old woman that was standing nearby, her face set in grim lines of disapproval.
This woman was incongruous, obviously, in the way that she was the only unattractive woman in the building. She sighed and turned to regard me.
And Idman Thunderstone peered out from behind the woman’s wrinkled, rheumy eyes.
“Oh yes,” Idman said from behind the glamor that Barry Chillgrave, our new fraternity poltergeist, had cast over him to disguise the fugitive’s appearance, “I’m having quite the time.”
I looked at the Idman Thunderstone granny caricature with a cynical eye.
“Your words are telling me one thing,” I said, “but your eyes are communicating that you’re losing the will to live.” I tried my hardest not to grin.
Grandma Thunderstone gave me a withering look, although the ferocity of the gaze was diluted by the lavender curls that framed his—or was it her—face and the powerful smell of rosewater that hung about him… or her.
“I would not have chosen to attend a fraternity party, Mr. Mauler,” Idman said, “even in my normal form. However, my daughter seemed to think that I ought to spend some time around her friends. Why, I cannot tell you. I would have much preferred to remain in the dungeon.”
“With Barry?”
“Barry is not presently in the dungeon.”
“He’s not?”
Idman shook his head, and his lavender curls bounced upon his little granny shoulders.
I stifled a laugh. “You know, you don’t look half bad.”
Idman scowled.
“Barry didn’t think to disguise you as a student or something?” I asked.
“He told me that he had endeavored to channel an old washerwoman-type appearance,” Idman said with an imperious sniff. “He told me that the old washerwoman disguise had never been seen through, not once during the entire course of Avalonian history.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And you believed him?”
“I did not have a choice. Even a powerful mage such as I would not remain in a dungeon without a poltergeist present. Barry decided to participate in this evening’s festivities, so I am forced to do likewise.”
“Come now; it’s not all that bad.”
Idman grimaced.
I nodded and took another pull on my drink. It was a mark of how perturbed I was seeing a man as austere and proud as Idman Thunderstone reduced to playing the role of Mrs. Doubtfire that I didn’t even flinch when the rotgut touched my lips.
Thankfully—for me at least—my conversation with old Grandmother Thunderstone was cut short by the arrival of one of the Nevermoor locals. I recognized the man as one of the baristas that worked at The Little Gnome Cafe in town.
He was an older fellow with a few strands of pale blonde hair teased over the top of a magnificent bald dome and a short blonde and gray goatee. He would have looked a lot less ridiculous if he had just shaved his head, but the pride of men has ever been their downfall, and never was this more evident than when the combover was implemented.
“Can I help you?” Grandmother Idman asked the man, his voice about as comfortable and hospitable as a pair of razor-wire underpants.
“Well, I noticed that you were looking a little crotchety talking to this young man, my dear,” the man said, his tone as unctuous and oily as a couple of eels sorting out their differences in a KY Jelly pit. “And a thought crossed my mind; this fine woman could do with a drink and some enlightened conversation!”
I was on the verge of telling the dwarven barista that he was barking up the wrong tree but decided otherwise. If he was going to hit on Idman Thunderstone, then who was I to interrupt what could be the beginnings of a wonderful romance?
The thought threatened to reduce me to tears of mirth. I could feel my ribs creaking as I fought to keep myself under control.
Luckily, at that moment, Barry Chillgrave popped into being across the room. Back when he was alive, he had built the pirating sky-galleons that had been such a thorn in the side of the Avalonian government a thousand years or so before. His illustrious career had cemented the Chillgraves as one of the most wealthy, powerful families in this world.
Now, however, he seemed more interested in the backside of a particularly brawny Fire Elemental woman. His ethereal hand reached out to grope her, but I raced over to him before he could give her ass a squeeze.
“That’s not exactly proper, Barry,” I said.
“Oh!” he said as he whirled around. “Just sampling the evening’s wares, young master.”
I laughed and shooed the Elemental woman away, who was quite surprised to find a ridiculously dressed ghost standing a few inches behind her.
“Ah. . . they certainly don’t make them like they used to,” he said as he watched her sashay away. “Although, I must say, they’re much fitter than they once were. Modern women really take care of themselves, don’t they, young master?”
“I’d say so. Now what the hell are you wearing?”
Barry too was in a disguise of a sort, but nowhere near as elaborate or terrifying as that of Idman Thunderstone. He had swapped his fairly outlandish pirate regalia for a suit of such insane flamboyance that I wished I could have seen it in color. As it was, I only got to appreciate it in its monochromatic green. However, there were enough frills, ruffs, trailing bits of lace and enormous buttons, and outrageously large feathers to keep an arts and crafts shop open for weeks.
“This is my evening attire,” Barry explained. “A real hit with the ladies. At least it was. Now, my role is relegated to simply staring from afar. Which is rather hard in such flamboyant attire.” The poltergeist sighed before he piped up again. “How is the evening treating you, young master?”
“The party’s going well thank you, B—I mean, Trev,” I said, coming up with the first name that popped into my head.
“Good to hear, sir, good to hear!” Barry said, slapping his thigh in silence. He conjured a bottle of ghostly grog out of nowhere and drained the thing in several long swallows. Then he tossed the empty bottle over his shoulder, and it vanished through a wall.
“Can I just congratulate you?” I asked.
“Congratulate me, sir?” Barry asked. “What in the blue blazes would you be wanting to congratulate me for, sir?”
“For doing such a fine job disguising our guest,” I whispered, cocking an eye in the Idman’s direction.
Barry cracked a delighted grin. It was clear that he was really chuffed with what he’d managed to pull on the man who had, until we rescued them both very recently, held him captiv
e in the Eldritch Prison.
“There is only one thing that I regret, sir,” he said to me, “regarding the almost perfect disguisin’ of our dear, sweet friend.”
“And what’s that, Trev?” I asked.
Barry’s expression turned wistful. “That our friend wouldn’t allow me to fabricate him the sort of enormous bosom that has made washerwomen such a byword, sir!” he said sadly.
I snorted rotgut out through my nose. “It’s a crying shame, you’re right,” I said. “It’s the lack of knockers that takes your work of art from a perfect ten to an admirable nine.”
“I do believe I sense some students about to copulate in a broom closet,” Barry said. “I best get to it, young master. You have to be quick with the youth, else they’ll be done before you ever get the chance to witness the climactic scene!”
I laughed. “Catch you later, Barry.”
There were so many students and locals at our fraternity party at this point that a lot of people had spilled out of the packed backyard and pool area and into the kitchen. Clearly, things were getting a little squishy in there too because more and more people were squeezing into the entrance hall. I noticed that many of them were looking around in mild surprise, as if they were surprised to find a place that had so much character.
I’d been in a couple of the other fraternities that surrounded the village of Nevermoor, and they were all a lot flashier than the one that Rick, Damien, Bradley, Nigel, and I called home. It was obvious that the word on the Mazirian Academy grapevine was that this was the bottom of the ladder as far as the fraternities went.
The vast majority of attendees looked like they were having a good time. The rest were so hammered that I couldn’t be sure. The extensive cellars that were part of our fraternity’s charm, and the high-quality barrels of booze that were inside them, meant that the alcoholic font overflowed. Coupled with Bradley’s food—barbecued delights that Guy Fieri wished he could make—I was willing to bet that there wasn’t an unhappy person in the vicinity. Excluding the woman that Damien had given an impromptu haircut, and most likely the occupants of a broom closet who were likely to receive a ghostly visitor right about now.
So when I heard the sound of girls screaming in what sounded like terror, I was rather surprised.
I was moving before I knew it—though not before I’d knocked back the last of the rotgut in my glass and tossed the empty vessel to Granny Thunderstone.
I sprinted across the entrance hall, unceremoniously shoving the local dwarf barista out of the way as I went. I conjured my staff as I moved through the clusters of people. My pulse had picked up, and it now matched the steady rhythm coming out from the enchanted stereo system.
I crashed through the front door with the black crystal staff raised.
The first thing that I saw was our other new addition to the fraternity house, Ar-undead Lightson, our new guard-zombie. He was straining at the hefty chain that we had fixed around his waist. His dull, glazed eyes stared straight ahead, and his teeth snapped aggressively as he bit at the air.
Having Ar-undead, tethered outside our front door as a rustic magical alarm system raised many interesting ethical questions. No doubt back on Earth, what with the year 2020 ticking along in the fashion that it had been, the fraternity would have been the focus of many attacks on social media. The keyboard warriors would have been jizzing in their pants—don’t treat him like an animal, he was a person, you can’t chain him up, what about his family, why can’t you just put him to rest, yadda yadda yadda.
The fact was though, that Ar-undead was fucking dead. Everything that had made him the person that he had been was gone now, or else buried so deep that it was going to take some serious magic to bring him back. He didn’t even look that similar to when he had been alive. Then, he had been an austerely, arrogantly handsome guy. Now, he looked like something that had crawled out of Courtney Love’s vagina.
Madame Scaleblade had hinted that there might be a chance of restoring Ar-undead to his previous Arun form, though she had been extremely tentative on that. This guy had been an asshole when we first met, but he seemed like he was heading in a good direction before his untimely demise. In fact, I thought that he deserved another chance at life. I’d already made a mental note to try and get him cured one of these days.
Given the fact that Ar-undead was, technically, not alive, that sure wasn’t stopping him. He was groaning loudly. His arms were outstretched, and his fingers twitched and clawed toward three figures that were standing a little ways back from the porch. The trio looked somewhat surprised by the greeting they’d been afforded.
I pulled up sharply behind Ar-undead and lowered my staff.
“Hello, boys!” I said with mock cheerfulness. “What are you doing here? Did someone leave your cage open?”
Qildro Feybreaker, Ike Frostfoot, and Dhor Boulderfist stood in the middle of the gravel path that led through our front garden from the main road. They were trying to act nonchalant, as if they’d totally expected to encounter the rabid zombie version of their former frat leader chained to the porch of their arch-enemies.
They were doing a terrible job of being nonchalant.
Dhor’s eyes in particular were glued to Ar-undead, and he looked like a dwarf who had shit his diaper.
“What are my three favorite pig-fuckers doing here?” I asked. “Did you take a wrong turn? Surely, you weren’t trying to sneak into our little shindig, were you? Not after you’ve spent most of the time that we have known one another telling everyone how lame this frat is.”
“It is fucking lame,” snapped Ike, a Frost Elemental, his big blue hands bunched into fists. “You dicks wouldn’t know a legendary party if it fell out of the sky and landed on your heads.”
Above me, one of the bedroom windows exploded outwards in a chrysanthemum of broken glass. There was a short shriek, which sounded familiar in my ears. Nigel Windmaker and the blue pixie chick landed with a dusty thump on the enormous, sagging, busted-ass sofa that had lain in our front yard ever since I had arrived at the frat. A rusty spring shot out of the sofa with a satisfying twang. Had Dhor not ducked at that exact moment, the rusty spring would have impaled one of his eyeballs.
Both Nigel and the pixie chick were stark-bollock naked. What was more, the blue-haired pixie was sitting in Nigel’s lap in a way that indicated that Nigel was, as Plato might have put it, up to his nuts in guts.
“Tell me, Ike,” I said amiably, “do you have to get a license to be as dumb as you are?”
Qildro’s face contorted in fury. “You think you’re so fucking funny, Mauler,” he said. “So bloody smart.”
“I try to be smart, Feybreaker,” I said with mock seriousness, “because as you three continually prove; it’s all too easy to be stupid.”
Qildro started to snarl something else, but I held up my hand. Such was the look on my face, that the asshole shut his trap without even being consciously aware of it.
As much as I loved partying, my newfound joy of having a dungeon run by a poltergeist was not far from my mind. So, I thought to myself, why not combine the two?
I stared at the trio of douchebags. “Look, I’m not sure what the hell your problem is Qildro—though I’m sure that it’s got a long and complicated name—but I’ll tell you what, you three can come in and join the festivities on one condition.”
“Name it,” Dhor grunted in a deep voice.
“You have to beat me and a couple of friends in battle… to the death.”
Qildro looked at me as if I’d gone round the twist.
“What the hell are you babbling about, Mauler?” he sneered.
“We’re War Mages, aren’t we?” I said. “You guys put your big boy pants on and let’s settle this like War Mages. In our dungeon.”
An agony of confusion and pride played across Qildro’s face. It was clear that he thought I was talking out of my ass.
“We can’t—we can’t fight to the death,” he stammered. He looked around at t
he crowd of onlookers that had gone suddenly quiet. They could all hear what happened next.
“Sure we can!” I said pleasantly, starting to wind in Ar-undead’s chain. “We have regeneration runes!”
Chapter Two
Not even twenty minutes later, the dungeon of our fraternity house was absolutely packed to capacity. Revelers from the party above lined the walls, stood upon the rows of potion-making tables, sprawled on impromptu couches made out of the stacks of straw dummy targets, and sat on one another’s shoulders if they were able to.
There was a carnival atmosphere to the proceedings. Bottles were being passed around, as well as a few large joints from which pungent yellow smoke rose. People were laughing and arguing over what might happen in the coming scrap. There was even one enterprising dude from Nevermoor who wandered through the throng of spectators, taking down bets in a little black book.
I was half tempted to ask him what the odds were, but thought that would be tempting the gods of fate a bit too much.
Barry Chillgrave—or the Flamboyant Trev, as I had named him for this evening—had taken on the mantle of master of ceremonies. The poltergeist was zooming about the place, ensuring that everyone could see and hear what was going on.
As Barry was now commander in chief of this dungeon, he was able to near-instantly create tiered seating in a couple of places, so that the partygoers there would have an unobstructed view of the fight.
I signaled to Barry as he flew past me. The poltergeist pulled a handbrake turn in mid-air and came over.
“Yes, matey?” he asked.
“Let me just say that I love your work, man,” I said. “But I’m thinking that we need a barrier, you know, between everyone and the action. I know that we have regeneration runes, but I’d rather not have any collateral damage.”
“Ah, very wise, sir.” Barry wagged his head understandingly.
“Everyone’s having such a good time,” I said. “I don’t want to spoil the evening for anyone by having them be unexpectedly killed.”
“Aye, that sort of thing can put a damper on a lad or lass’ evening to be sure, captain,” Barry said.
