Bad Unicorn Page 2

  “So what’s up with that . . . codex?” Dirk asked, motioning toward the odd book and unconsciously rubbing his fingers. When Dirk and Max were little, Dirk had tried to open it—but every time he touched the cover he got shocked. Max laughed hysterically as Dirk tried over and over, grabbing his fingers and yelping with each failed attempt.

  “I found it in my room,” Max said, wiping some of the dust from the cover. Although it was very old, the book was in remarkably good condition. It had a reddish tone to it, which Max thought looked a bit like the color of dried blood. The edges appeared to be outlined with three rows of ornate symbols, but on closer examination it could be seen that the symbols were actually tiny, intricate dragons that interlocked with one another. In the center was a gold, eight-pointed star that split the cover in half. On one side of the star a number of people in colorful robes were crowded together, and on the other side there was a mix of fantastical creatures. “I’m going to use it for my book report. Except right now it’s talking about unicorns.”

  “Unicorns? Unicorns are lame.”

  “I know, except these unicorns cast spells and eat people.”

  Dirk nodded, getting the gleam in his eye that Max knew well. He and Dirk had been best friends since the second grade. It had all started when eight-year-old Ricky Reynolds had taken Max’s glasses and taunted him to try to get them back. Max stumbled along, everything blurry, trying to make a grab for them, but he was way too slow and clumsy to even get close. That’s when Dirk showed up. Apparently, Dirk had just learned a new “your momma’s so fat” joke and decided to try it out on Ricky. Soon after, Ricky forgot all about the glasses and was chasing Dirk—but Dirk happened to be the fastest kid in the entire town. After that, Max and Dirk became best friends.

  “Okay, a carnivorous man-eating unicorn might be cool. Too bad they’re not vampires,” Dirk said, his head bouncing as the bus hit a pothole. “Vampire unicorns would be awesome.” For Dirk, any creature plus being a vampire equaled something awesome. Unless that creature was a love-struck human running around with his shirt off.

  Max hurried to put the book in his backpack as the bus made the last turn leading to Parkside Middle School—Home of the Eagles! But for some reason Max couldn’t get the image of Princess the Destroyer out of his head. It wasn’t a particularly cold day, but a strange chill crawled up his spine.

  Mrs. Lundberg’s seventh-grade English class was always too hot. It was as if the administration had decided that sitting through English wasn’t hard enough, so they decided to crank the temperature up and see who could stay awake. After thirty minutes it was almost a relief when Max heard his name called. He made his way to the spot just under the READING IS FUNDAMENTAL banner. “I’m going to read from a book that I’ve had for a long time,” he said, pushing his glasses up. “It’s called the Codex of Infinite Knowability—and I think ‘codex’ basically means book, but its fancier or something.” Max looked up at Mrs. Lundberg, who’s raised eyebrow signaled that he should keep going, so he held the Codex up for everyone to see. “The part I’m going to read is about unicorns,” Max continued, opening the book to the spot he’d marked earlier. Several of the boys started snickering.

  “Did you say . . . unicorns?” Mrs. Lundberg asked in a husky voice.

  “Yeah,” Max answered, looking down. But this time the page he’d marked didn’t show a unicorn. Instead it had a drawing of a small creature with oversized feet, a large head with round eyes, and a curly tuft of hair. In its hand was a small stringed instrument. The title of the page read “On Frobbits.”

  “I mean, no!” Max blurted out, seeing now that his unicorn page had disappeared. “I mean, not unicorns. I’m going to talk about . . . frobbits.”

  “Frobbits?” Mrs. Lundberg asked, raising her infamous eyebrow again.

  “Yeah. They’re way better than unicorns.” Or so Max hoped.

  Mrs. Lundberg stared at Max with a look that almost made him confess to having no idea what he was doing, but instead she waved her hand in the universal gesture for “Let’s get going.”

  Max cleared his throat and began to read . . .

  On Frobbits

  OF THE VARIOUS LIFE-FORMS LOCATED in the middle realm—or Magrus as it’s formally called—the peace-loving frobbit is a must-see for any traveler. Frobbit culture is based on the unwarranted trust of strangers, moving slowly when chased, and taking baths seasoned with eleven herbs and spices; which is also why frobbits are a favorite food source for all carnivorous predators (and even some leaf-eaters who want to live it up on the weekends).

  Sometimes when threatened, a frobbit will rub itself with mint leaves as a warning—a strategy that has yet to yield any positive results. Frobbit villages are called treeshires, because frobbits like to build their homes inside of giant, hollowed-out trees. On at least two occasions squirrels have been known to wait until the frobbits were finished tree hollowing and then successfully run them off and move in (for more on the future world domination by squirrels, see appendix B).

  Frobbit mandolins, constructed from the discarded wood from such hollowing activities, are highly prized throughout the Magrus. Not so much for their musical qualities, but as ready-made kindling for campfires or cooking pits.

  Whether as a handy food source or treeshire construction crew, frobbits have become an integral part of life in the Magrus.

  Max looked up as the frowning Mrs. Lundberg took out her red pen, gave it an audible click, and wrote something in her grade book. He’d seen that done enough times to know he probably wasn’t going to be bringing home the MY MIDDLE SCHOOLER’S ON THE HONOR ROLL bumper sticker.

  “I believe I said the assignment was to read a chapter from a novel of historical fiction,” Mrs. Lundberg announced. “Do you believe your frobbit tale qualifies, Mr. Spencer?”

  Suddenly Max had a flashback of Mrs. Lundberg detailing the assignment on the chalkboard. Max was drawing a picture of a dragon at the time and probably should have been paying closer attention.

  “Yes, ma’am,” was all Max managed to squeak out.

  “Oh? Please elaborate.”

  Max wasn’t particularly good at on-the-spot thinking. He also wasn’t that good at off-the-spot thinking. But since the difference between a D and an F was probably riding on his answer, he did the best he could. “Well, history is about things in the past, and this book is really, really old. And frobbits are probably totally made up, so that would be fiction. So, yeah, it’s pretty much historical fiction.”

  Several of the smarter girls in the class began to giggle. Max figured that wasn’t a very good sign.

  “Nice try, Mr. Spencer,” Mrs. Lundberg announced, sealing his fate. “Have a seat.”

  On the way back to his desk Max knew he should be at least a little concerned that he had just blown the assignment, but he was thinking about the Codex. There was something really strange about the whole notion of meat-eating unicorns, spell-casting wizards, spice-bathing frobbits, and a middle realm called the Magrus. He figured the book needed to be taken to an expert, and the first person he thought of was Dwight, the owner and sole proprietor of the Dragon’s Den.

  Chris Lemons, a tall gangly kid with a long neck, leaned over to where Max was sitting. “Nice job, Einstein. You should have stuck with the unicorns.”

  Max ignored him. It was bad enough that he was being mocked by a kid who had cried when a sunflower had touched his face, but now another poor grade meant he’d probably never get ungrounded. At least there was lunch to look forward to—all that talk of well-seasoned frobbits had made him kind of hungry.

  CHAPTER TWO

  REZORMOOR’S GAMBIT

  (THE MAGRUS—PRESENT)

  REZORMOOR DREADBRINGER WALKED THE LONG HALL OF THE Maelshadow’s temple. A whimpering gracon crawled before him, bound by a twisted collar and barbed leash that the sorcerer held in his gauntleted hand. The gracon was a ferocious beast—three or four times the size of the human. A spiderweb of molten lava spread l
ike veins across the creature’s armored hide, and its great three-horned head hung so low that it cut into the marbled floor, leaving long, smoldering trenches as evidence of its woeful path. Unfortunately, its name was Peaches—which happened to be far more impressive in Gracon than in English.

  Rezormoor had to respect the audacity of the creature. It was a testament to the power of the gracon that it would dare to rise up against the Maelshadow at all. And the fact that the Maelshadow had been unable to quickly subdue the creature suggested that the Lord of Shadows might have some weakness. But those were dangerous thoughts and not part of the sorcerer’s immediate plans. For now, he would bring Peaches to the feet of the Maelshadow and see if a deal could be struck.

  The hallway opened into a large chamber and Rezormoor and his captive entered. The Maelshadow’s throne was carved from the monstrous skull of some titan aberration, long lost in the annals of the ancient past. Enormous curved fangs shot from the top of the skull’s gaping mouth, driving down into the floor as if they were two mammoth pillars. Its eyes were empty black pools.

  The chamber itself seemed to dance and flicker as if lit by an unseen flame, but stranger still was the black river that carved itself through the hard floor, speckled with small points of light. It looked as if the night sky had been pulled down from the heavens and forced to assume a liquid state.

  Suddenly there was a presence that Rezormoor more felt than saw. Peaches sensed it as well, trying to lift its head and cry out. But the sorcerer pulled on the leash, the twisted collar (made from the roots of the Tree of Abysmal Suffering) constricting and biting into the creature’s flesh. The gracon groaned, a deep and pitiful wail that filled the chamber. But as the sound faded away the gracon dropped its head in submission, casting its eyes to the floor and whimpering. Rezormoor dropped his own gaze and took a knee. Despite the prize he held in his hand, Rezormoor knew that his life was in danger. He was certainly not foolish enough to underestimate the Maelshadow’s power or absolute cruelty.

  “Speak,” came a voice that rolled like distant thunder. Peaches whimpered in response and inched closer to the foot of the skull, groveling and rolling out its massive tongue. A formless shadow had settled upon the dais.

  “I have captured the gracon, my lord. It had fled from the Shadrus as you had suspected.”

  “As I had known,” corrected the Maelshadow. Rezormoor looked up to see the strange darkness that now occupied the throne. The Maelshadow was said to dwell in the darkest parts of the Shadrus, though its presence could transcend to its temple. Rezormoor himself had never been to the Shadrus—nor did he have any plans to do so. Maximilian Sporazo was rumored to have built a fortress there—a great castle carved from the side of an obsidian mountain. But whether it was actually his or just a rental, nobody knew for certain.

  “Then with this gift I would ask a favor,” Rezormoor requested, doing his best to keep his voice steady. Beseeching favors from the Maelshadow could prove a life-shortening experience.

  As if in response, two black-robed acolytes appeared from the shadows. Their faces were hidden within their cowls, but strands of long, ghostly white hair jutted out and fell past their shoulders. Whether they were men or abominations Rezormoor did not know. He handed the leash over when one extended a pale hand—its skin seemingly stretched too tightly over misshapen bones. The sorcerer watched as they led the gracon from the chamber. There was no more fight in the creature—Rezormoor could see that in its eyes. Peaches allowed itself to be led into whatever dungeons lay below.

  “The gracon is a worthy tribute,” the Maelshadow continued. “What do you seek in return?” The sounds of a portcullis ratcheting shut rang out from somewhere in the temple, and Rezormoor wondered how many others had heard the sound and then lived to tell about it.

  “As you know, I seek the Codex,” Rezormoor said, after taking a breath. “Lost now for over two thousand years. Some believe it destroyed, but I do not.”

  “It exists,” the Maelshadow announced with absolute certainty. “I can sense it, if only by the small ripples it creates in the fabric of the universe.”

  It was the first time the Maelshadow had ever spoken of the Codex with such specificity, and Rezormoor could only hope that his gamble to capture the gracon would pay off. “Truly then,” the sorcerer continued, “it must be found.”

  “It houses the Prime Spells. It’s not a trinket for magicians to play with.”

  Being called a “magician” was a particular insult used only by those who did not fear the power of the Tower. As its regent, Rezormoor had never heard human lips utter the word in his presence. Perhaps this was how the Maelshadow chose to test him, or it could be the Lord of Shadows was just being a jerk. Either way, Rezormoor vowed not to let the insult show. “In the hands of your servant,” the sorcerer finally replied, “the Codex would further your will.”

  “Do not pretend this is about my will!” the Maelshadow roared. “You should ask what you want while I still have the patience to hear it.”

  Rezormoor had the sudden urge to withhold his question and leave, but he swallowed hard and pressed forward. He had come too far to turn back now. “Lend me the use of the Gossamer Gimbal, my lord. With it I will find the Codex.”

  There was a long silence—an interminably long silence in which Rezormoor wondered if he had spoken his final words. Finally, however, the Maelshadow answered, the tempest that was his voice seemingly calmed. “You need a descendant of the arch-sorcerer to read it.”

  “As you say,” Rezormoor replied, bowing slightly. Although the Maelshadow was correct that Rezormoor needed a blood relative to read from the book, if the Lord of the Shadows knew what Rezormoor truly planned to do, the wizard would be destroyed on the spot. “The Gossamer Gimbal could find both—the Codex and Sporazo’s heir.”

  “If such a descendant even lives. His line has been hunted for two centuries and without success. And while it’s true I have the Gimbal, my own agents have tried and failed. I do not see how you could do otherwise.”

  “Your agents cannot travel to the Techrus—or should I say, even if they did, their magic would be so weakened as to be useless. Not that they would be without means, but without magic the Gimbal has no power.”

  “You tell me nothing I don’t already know,” the Maelshadow replied, its voice crashing against the interior like an ocean wave. “The Techrus is devoid of magic.”

  Rezormoor straightened a bit. “But not all magic. There are some who carry such power within them.”

  “Dragons and unicorns. But you’ll find none willing to aid the Tower. Nor will the monks who tend to the Tree of Attenuation be persuaded to grant passage between the realms. These are not new thoughts, sorcerer. They are old stratagems without the means to accomplish them.”

  “I believe that is no longer the case.”

  The mass of black shadows on the throne seemed to shift and move. “How is that possible?”

  “It’s not been easy, but I’ve been in contact with the monks for some time. We are close to a trade.”

  “And what of the creature of magic?”

  “I have a candidate in that regard as well.”

  “If you have turned the monks and can convince a creature of inbred magic to serve you, you may take the Gossamer Gimbal,” the Maelshadow announced. “But there is a price: If a blood relative of Sporazo is found you will deliver them to me.”

  It wasn’t exactly what Rezormoor had in mind, but once he had what he needed the life of any descendant would be unimportant. “I agree,” the sorcerer said, the bargain now struck.

  “Good. Now tell me how you will bend a magical inbred to your will. They are as powerful as they are defiant.”

  Rezormoor smiled. “As it happens, there’s a unicorn on her way to the Tower as we speak. And from what I can tell, she has just the right appetites to be useful.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE KRAKEN VERSUS GRAVITY

  (THE TECHRUS—PRESENT)

&nbs
p; IT WAS LUNCHTIME AND MAX WAS JUST FINISHING SWAPPING HIS books at his locker when Dirk ran up to him, eyes wide and face flushed. “Dude, you totally have to see this!” When Dirk got this way it reminded Max of his neighbor’s Chihuahua, jumping up and down and running back and forth along the fence. Max barely had time to close his locker before Dirk dragged him down the hall. It was no great shocker to see that the Kraken and his band of thugs were giving somebody a hard time. What was strange was that that somebody was a girl—and even stranger was the fact that she didn’t seem to be backing down.

  “I said don’t try it,” the girl announced. The group (many of whom were wrestlers) all started laughing when she delivered her warning, but she wasn’t angry or yelling or even on the verge of tears. There was a cool determination in her voice that seemed to cut through the air like a razor.

  “You’re like a kung fu princess, is that it?” Ricky taunted, looking around at his wrestling buddies. “You think you could take me to the ground?”

  “I didn’t say kung fu,” the girl answered evenly. “And no, I’m not interested in taking you anywhere.”

  The crowd was starting to grow bigger. Max finally recognized the girl as Sarah Jepson from his math class. She was tall, smart, with the kind of auburn hair movie stars had. She didn’t hang out with the popular girls, or the band geeks, or even the drama kids. Come to think of it, Max didn’t really know a whole lot about her, other than the fact that she had somehow wandered into Ricky’s sights and was about to pay the price.