by Corey Edward
He looked like a pharaoh back from the grave because that’s exactly what he was.
Narlothotep.
I had failed this city.
I had failed us all.
“Greetings, citizens of the kingdom of Bos-Ton,” he said, voice dark and rumbling. His teeth were crawling with worms that dribbled down his chin as he spoke. “You may call me Narlothotep. Eons ago, I ruled the mighty kingdom of Egypt as its Pharaoh, though my name has been forgotten to time. For millennia I have waited to be revived so that my kingdom might be born anew. That time has come at long last. Tonight, the dead will rise from their graves and become my formidable army, with which we will conquer the rest of this world. By the cawing of the rooster, you shall all be my subjects — and together, we’ll rebuild the greatest empire the world has ever known.”
Some people laughed, probably thinking it was just a Halloween prank. Others looked more confused by the strange turn of events. None of them knew just how much peril they were in.
If Narlothotep had his way, we’d never see the light of day again.
And Grams.
Gramps.
Rusty.
“Henry?” asked Enisa, voice small. “What’s going on?”
I didn’t answer her.
I ran out of the gymnasium faster than I had ever run before, faster than lightning, faster than death.
Eighteen
True Magic
I ran down the street, racing toward home like it was on fire. I’d never made the mile-long journey on foot before — especially not in pure darkness — but I didn’t have a choice. There were no cars to drive me. Not a single piece of technology worked. Even the street lamps had failed.
“Fireflit,” I whispered, and a little light fluttered above my head. It helped me see, but just barely.
It had to be well after nine o’clock, and most of the trick-or-treaters were home. The roads were empty aside from the occasional stalled car, which refused to start or a person staring into the sky and wondering what had gone so wrong.
All around us was the most deafening silence Boston had ever heard.
The world was as it had been in the times of ancient Egypt: free from technology and quiet as the grave.
I made it down one street, then another, then another. There was another quake, this one nearly knocking me off of my feet. I held out my arms to steady myself and looked up into the sky as a beam of brilliant red light shot up from the heart of downtown Boston, where the museum was located. The light climbed high as the clouds, filling the air with the dark Mana of the Nether Realm.
Chills climbed up and down my back. It had to be the most powerful spell I’d witnessed. Maybe even the most powerful one ever cast. And I could only guess what it was meant to do.
This was what I was up against.
Why couldn’t my dad have been an accountant?
I moved down Birch and turned onto Amway. Straight through and a couple turns and I’d be on Lovers Lane, home.
There was just one problem.
I’d have to go past Dunwich Cemetery to get there.
It was nothing scary during the daytime; just a lot full of long-forgotten dead people too decayed and worm-bitten to cause any fuss. But Narlothotep had vowed in his message to raise an army of undead soldiers, and it didn’t take Merlin to guess at what that spell he’d just cast into the sky was meant to do.
Their moans filled the peaceful suburban street corner as they broke through their coffins and dug up from their graves. They were slow, shambling, and mechanical, and they had only one purpose: serve their master, Narlothotep.
That’s exactly what they were headed out to do, limping toward the tower of red light, brainless but deadly. One bite and their zombie virus would spread from person to person, turning living being into undead soldier. As a Spellcrafter, I was immune to the effects of their bite, but humans weren’t so lucky. We’d be under complete societal collapse by the end of the week.
Happy Halloween, folks.
They came limping out from the cemetery, dressed in the old-fashioned tatters of early America. They noticed me and started to shamble my way, gnashing their teeth, eager to rip my flesh from my bones.
“That’s it, you dead shitheads,” I shouted. “Trick or treat.”
I knew they couldn’t think or hear — they were just mindless foot soldiers — but they were attracted to the Mana within my veins. Narlothotep had probably even given them specific instructions to seek me out.
Good.
I conjured as much Mana as I could summon from deep within me. I couldn’t risk being overrun by a horde — that was how people died in all the movies — so I needed something strong enough to wipe them out all at once. My dad taught me a spell back in the day, one that he said I should use only when I was surrounded and wanted to catch a lot of things on fire at the same time.
I wanted.
Oh, how I wanted.
They limped toward me and I took a few steps back, nearly tripping over my cape. There were at least twenty of them: men and women, young and old, even some skeletons who were crawling with maggots.
They had wanted a burial.
Now, they’d get a cremation.
“Ignius maxima!” I shouted, raising both of my hands into the air.
A great explosion burst out of my soul and lit up the night sky. It spread to each of the zombies, in turn, igniting their dusty bones and melting down their decaying flesh.
Some of them still kept walking toward me as they torched, moaning and groaning until they fell into smoldering ash piles.
It worked like a charm, but I didn’t have time to gloat over my spellcraft. I had to move, had to run, had to go go go-
There was my house, and there was my car, and there was the front door hanging open-
And there was the spot where Grams had fallen, taking the bowl of candy with her-
And Gramps’s walker, laying on the ground-
“RUSTY!” I shouted, cupping my hands. “Rusty, it’s me; where are you?”
A petrified howl coming from the living room. I rushed into the darkness, reaching for his energy. He was by the fireplace, crying and whimpering. I found him inside of Grams’s yarn basket, covered in spools of thread, shaking the entire container.
“Rusty Dusty,” I said, reaching in and picking him up. I held him close as he licked my face, his stubby little tail wagging with relief. “My little buddy. I know what happened. I love you, and I’m so, so sorry I wasn’t there to save them.”
He whimpered again, louder this time, at something behind me.
I turned around and looked at the couch across from the TV.
Written on the wall in blood was a message:
COME TO THE MUSEUM, OR THEY DIE BY SUNRISE.
The sight of it singed a red-hot rage into my soul.
I needed to find Narlothotep.
I needed to find him and kill him all over again.
But how could I get to the museum? Even if I ran until my feet bled, I wouldn’t be able to make it in time. Especially not with the dead rising from their graves and the city at a gridlock. The only way I could make it… was if I flew over them.
I bounded up the steps and wheeled into my bedroom. I threw open the closet door and looked down to see the giant wooden chest hidden in its depths.
Dad had always called it his “war chest’.” I had never seen it until the day he died, when it finally transferred over to me. He told me not to open it unless I was in dire need of assistance against an insurmountable foe.
Inside the chest was a pile of magical artifacts: empty spell spheres, potions, crystals, even a staff that blew things up. The last one might be handy, but its destructive power scared me enough to leave it alone.
What I needed instead were the two most ancient things inside: the sweeping gray cape and the conical gray hat. The former would shield me against flames and the latter would make my Mana recharge quicker, both of which were useful in a fight.
I hurried to the mirror to look at myself. The boy I recognize there was definitely me, but not me at the same time.
I looked…
Well. I looked like a wizard.
A proper wizard, like Merlin or Dumbledore or Gandalf.
Was this how Dad felt when he charged off into his toughest battles? When he faced the enemy head-on, struggling valiantly against Death itself?
I’d have to get there, first. Luckily, I had just the plan for that.
I bounded down the steps, taking two or three at a time while Rusty followed after. Next, I ran over to the hallway closet, opened it up, and pulled out a broom. It was the oldest one I could find, old enough that it still had straw at the bottom and a wide handle. Riding the thing would prove uncomfortable, but I didn’t have a choice.
It was this or nothing.
This or my grandparents’ — and the world’s— certain death.
I ran out of the house, Rusty in one arm and the broom in the other. I felt silly, even stupid. How many Spellcrafters alive today would risk such a thing? And could I really Craft a spell that would propel me through the cold autumn night and carry me all the way to the museum?
The answer would have to be yes. Because if not…
I stood in the yard and held the broom to the side. I closed my eyes and focused, pulling on the Mana left in my veins and channeling it. I tried to use some of Rusty’s, but he was unfocused, still too shaken.
I had to try it without him.
“Volant,” I said, which was the Latin word for fly.
The broom stirred into life, and I let it go. It floated for just a second, and then fell to the grass.
I picked it up again and tried to focus. It was a start, but I didn’t need to start. I needed to go. “Volant,” I repeated.
I let it go. This time it shot forward a few feet into the air, leaving the grass and making it into the street before crash-landing.
This wasn’t going well. The spell to enchant the broom clearly required way more magic than I had available. I couldn’t stand there for the next hour trying desperately to make it fly, only to cause it to float. I needed to hurry — and quick.
I put the broom onto the ground and turned Rusty around so that I was looking right into his eyes. I only reserved this look for our most serious talks, usually, about how he needed to lay off the bones or needed to pee at eleven so he didn’t have to go at one. But this was more serious than anything else had ever been, and I needed him to know that.
“Rusty,” I said, speaking to him the same way I would a person. “I know you’re scared. You should be. Everyone should be. But you know what else you should be? Mad. Because Narlothotep has our family. He has Grams and Gramps. And if we don’t get this broom to fly, he’s going to murder them in cold blood — and then end the world.”
Rusty made a hmph noise, as if acknowledging my point but refusing to agree. I could still feel his fear, heavy in the air between us. And it only encouraged me more. I had to motivate him. I had to make him believe in himself.
In us.
“You know what? No,” I went on. “I’m not afraid of that dead asshole and you shouldn’t be, either. What we have is stronger than every drop of black magic in the universe. Something brought us together that day under the bridge, and it wasn’t just magic. It was hope. Now, we have to be their hope. We have to be their strength, just like we are for each other. I need your help to make this broom fly. Can you do it?”
This time, he barked in the same affirmative tone he used for treats and bedtime.
“I said, can you do it?”
He barked again and hopped up into the air. He was back, my Rusty, my wizard’s Familiar. Now we were ready to fly.
I picked up the broomstick and held it in my hands. I channeled my Mana — all of it, as much as I could muster — and then channeled all of Rusty’s. The power was so great that it reverberated through every inch of my being. No Spellcrafter was like us in that moment. No Spellcrafter ever could be.
“Volant!” I shouted.
This time, the broom took off before I could even let it go. It rose up over my head and lifted us off our feet, reaching for the night sky and bringing us higher than the nearby tree in a matter of seconds.
I kicked off a branch and hoisted us up onto the broom, clutching Rusty as close as I could, and sat sidesaddle on top of it. Now that I was on, it’d be impossible for either of us to fall off. The power of magic would keep us upright.
“We did it, Rusty,” I said. “We’re flying. Flying!”
And we were flying, soaring over a pitch black city, moving over houses and treetops and cars and skyscrapers. My cape flowed freely behind me, rippling in the cold night air. Above us only constellation; below us, paralyzed humans with not a device to record on. This night would pass into local legend, just as the unrecorded tales of heroes of old.
And what a legend it’d be.
A pharaoh, a boy, a dog, and a flying broomstick.
Where were you when you saw them?
And did you see them? Because I did… I swear it.
We flew over concrete towers, dead and empty.
We made our way over highways, gridlocked with cars which could neither move nor honk.
We soared next to the Hudson Bay, the boats that sat on its cold waters still as death.
Moving ever closer to the light that wasn’t. To what was either our crushing defeat or our finest victory.
At least we’d go down fighting.
Just as we Candle wizards always did.
~&~
The broom took us right up to the front doors of the museum and didn’t so much drop us off as it did spit us out. We tumbled onto the asphalt and the broom clattered to the ground along with us, its purpose completed.
And there we were.
If I thought the museum looked spooky last time, it was nothing compared to how it looked now, surrounded by a fog so thick that I almost couldn’t see Rusty walking beside me. But what I could see were snakes. They slithered this way and that, hissing and hanging from the sides of the museum walls and dropping to the ground. I’d never seen so many of them in my life, not even that day in the woods.
I raised a cone of protection around Rusty and I, imagining the light of Merlin enveloping us to guard us from evil. It might not have done us much good, but it was better than nothing. Better than going in unguarded.
We walked toward the front door, careful not to disturb any snakes we saw lying on the ground in front of us. To my surprise, the front door opened easily.
We were expected.
I walked into the entrance of the museum, which was dark as sin and quiet as a candle. My brave little Fireflit followed us inside and helped illuminate our surroundings, but the blackness was still absolute. Where was Narlothotep? Where were my grandparents?
Ahead of me lie the dome-ceilinged atrium of the museum, the place where I’d seen the black sarcophagus.
The funky rot of the ages was heavy in the air; it stunk of an ancient evil that the world had been happy to forget. Orange fires cackled atop torches that had been placed around the atrium, illuminating the foggy room with flickering lights. The entire area had been redecorated, its Egyptian statues rearranged so that they were up against the walls.
Right in the center of the atrium was a mighty golden throne adorned with hieroglyphics. Seated upon the throne was the Black Pharaoh Narlothotep himself, Heir to the Senebkay dynasty and evil Lich incarnate. He was more skeleton than he was man, with flesh that didn’t so much cling to his face as it hung from his skull. From the neck-down, he was dressed in a flowing golden robe with a black Ouroborus on the front and wore a headdress that was the color of night. Behind his throne was an open black sarcophagus.
He smiled at us as we entered.
“Ah, Henry Candle,” he said, his booming voice filling the atrium. “Son of James. I welcome you to my new palace.”
“Don’t pay the decorator just yet,” I said. “I think they forgot the lights.”
“I decorated it all my own. This shall become my new throne room, from which I will rule my new kingdom.” He got to his feet, lifting himself up on a black, snake-tipped staff. “And Henry, truly, all I want to do is talk.”
“Yeah, kidnapping my grandparents was a great conversation starter.”
“They’re alive, I assure you. And they will remain that way so long as we come to a peaceful agreement.”
“I usually don’t negotiate with dead people who haven’t brushed their teeth in thousands of years.”
He took a few steps toward me and I took some back. I didn’t want him close; I couldn’t trust him with such little distance.
“I am dead no longer. I have returned, body and soul. I do not wish to harm a single Spellcrafter in this world or any other. I wish to unite our race against the other race that has prosecuted us so — the human race. Let us turn the tables. Let us be the leaders.”
“Would you want to work with someone who kidnapped your grandparents and murdered your father?”
“Someone did. And that someone was me.” He smiled proudly, revealing a mouthful of writhing, wiggling worms. “All in the pursuit of power. That’s what life's about for a Spellcrafter. It’s about power and magic.”
“For a Darkcrafter, maybe. But being a Spellcrafter is about more than that. It’s about helping people. The only one you want to help is yourself. We couldn’t be less alike if we tried.”
“You think I am the villain, then. You are wrong, Candle wizard. It is you who is the villain in this story. It is you who defend our oppressors.”
“I’m not the one going around kidnapping the elderly and raising zombies. Just saying.”
