Bad Unicorn Page 7

  Sarah looked up at Max. “Except for what?”

  “I don’t know—it’s just that you’re the only person in the whole middle school who ever talked to Dirk and me. So, that part wasn’t too bad.”

  “Okay, you’re right,” Sarah said, closing her eyes. “That part wasn’t too bad.”

  Max stood, his legs and back stiff and aching. “So, uh, I guess I’m going to go find someplace private. And hopefully with a bunch of leaves.”

  “Be careful, Max Spencer,” Sarah said, her eyes still closed and her voice sounding heavy. “We need you.”

  Max had never heard those words just by themselves before. Usually he heard things like “We need you to come to the office,” or “We need you to give us your lunch money,” or even “We need you to calm your friend down or we’re calling the fire department.” Who knew just plain old “We need you” could sound so nice?

  It had grown late by the time Max wandered back to the camp. Dirk and Dwight were snoring with a kind of rhythm that sounded as if they were going back and forth in some snore-off championship, while Sarah was sleeping quietly. Max was ready to knock off for the night too. In fact, he figured he could use the Codex and his backpack as a pillow.

  Only the Codex wasn’t where he’d left it.

  Max felt a pain in his gut as if somebody had just kicked him. How could it possibly be missing? Could somebody have moved it?

  Max began looking around anxiously, retracing his steps. Finding nothing, he rummaged through his backpack and then hurried over to where Dirk and Dwight were sleeping. There was no sign of it anywhere. But that was impossible; the book couldn’t just get up and walk away . . . could it? For all Max knew, maybe it could. He left the center of the clearing and began searching along the edge of the forest. He had just about decided to go and wake the others when he caught a glimpse of the Codex, sliding into the darkness of the surrounding woods. Max hurried after it, not even stopping to think whether he should get help. He had to reach it—without the book, he and his friends were truly stuck.

  Max crashed into the trees, spinning around and looking desperately for some sign of the book. When he caught sight of it, it had traveled a few feet farther, and Max had half expected to see tiny legs propelling the magical book forward. But something was dragging it instead. It was a spider. Not a normal spider, unless normal spiders were the size of dinner plates and weren’t bothered by electrical current. The spider seemed to notice Max and quickened its pace. Max ran after it again—in the same way a tortoise might be said to “run” across the beach. He cursed the forest for having to be so thick with trees and plants and stuff. As he pushed his way in, a strange thought kept recurring in his head: Hours of imaginary jump rope didn’t seem to have any real-world application.

  The chase through the woods continued, mostly because Max didn’t have any other options. He couldn’t run back to his friends because by the time he did the Codex would be long gone. And he couldn’t cry out for help because he was afraid of what other weird creatures might hear him. So Max just kept running because it seemed to be the least frightening thing to be doing at the moment. And besides, he’d probably smashed a thousand little spiders in his lifetime, so he knew they could be squished—he just needed a big rock. Or a dagger, like the one that happened to be hanging from his belt. He assumed Glenn, the Legendary Dagger of Motivation, could do more than just talk—like actually stab something. Although he wasn’t entirely sure.

  The spider picked up speed, darting around the forest floor with expert precision. Max would gain ground on it, then he’d get tangled in the trees and saplings and fall back. Often he’d catch a glimpse of the Codex before it was dragged off again. But he was determined to keep pushing forward, no matter what. Unless he got a side ache, or if he was about to run through poison ivy, or if a giant bee hovered in front of him. Then he might have to play it by ear.

  Suddenly, Max broke out of the woods and found himself a few yards from a building he recognized: the old cement factory. It was a strange sight, for although the large structure was familiar, it had now become a maze of twisted rebar and concrete tunnels. Every year the elementary school took students on a tour there, and he remembered being awed by the massive walls and never-ending labyrinth of men and equipment. If the spider was taking the Codex inside, Max might never find it again.

  Max caught sight of the thing as it dragged the book up a chunk of concrete leading to an exposed opening at the base of the building. And now that Max could see the spider in the open, he realized there was something odd about it. It looked like a normal spider (only bigger) at first, but underneath missing patches of wiry fur Max could see metal parts moving. And the rows of eyes that regarded him glowed a strange orange in the moonlight. It might have been a spider once, but it wasn’t anymore—it seemed equal parts creepy arachnid and machine. At least that explained why the shocks didn’t seem to bother it. The creature paused for a second, turning its head full of eyes in Max’s direction, then disappeared into the blackness with the Codex in tow.

  Max decided he should take a moment to size up the situation. First, he needed to catch his breath. Second, the last place in the world Max wanted to be was inside the dark hole at the base of the cement factory where some Frankenstein-type spider monster was lurking around. Third, none of this was really his fault and he didn’t see why he had to be the one to go after the Codex by himself. He knew where it was now, and so it seemed like the best thing to do was go back to the camp and tell the others what had happened. Probably in the morning, though, when it was light and everyone had rested. Then, after breakfast, they could all decide what to do.

  Max turned toward the forest and started to retrace his steps back to camp. He wasn’t like the rangers in the books he liked to read, where a skilled woodsman might notice a misplaced dewdrop and know what way to go. But if he imagined how the town used to be he could more or less point himself in the right direction. After walking a few steps and ducking under several branches, Max suddenly stopped. The forest floor looked weird. There seemed to be hundreds of small, glowing berries scattered just about everywhere. Funny that he didn’t remember seeing berries when he was running, but he was busy trying to keep track of the Codex and so probably just didn’t notice them. Max walked over to a clump to get a better look. And with a jolt Max realized the glowing round berries weren’t really berries at all. They were eyes. Thousands of glowing spider eyes that were attached to hundreds of Frankenstein-type spiders.

  Without even thinking about it, Max turned and sprinted back toward the cement factory as fast as his legs could carry him. There might have been some squealing involved—Max couldn’t be sure, given the various alarms going off in his head. Certainly there was panicked hand-waving and rapid tiptoeing across glowing clumps of spider eyes. But before he knew it, he was free of the forest and running for the base of the wall. Max dropped to his hands and knees in order to squeeze through the hole, then slipped down a pile of loose concrete and rubble on the other side. He half rolled, half skidded to a stop at the bottom, waiting as the small bits of rocks and debris came falling down around him. Lying on the ground some six or seven feet beneath the entrance, Max tensed in anticipation of an impending attack. His skin exploded into goose bumps as he imagined spider fangs sinking into him, and the sensation of hairy legs scurrying over his bare flesh. Horrors were coming for Max in the darkness, and he was powerless to stop them.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE SERPENT’S ESCUTCHEON

  (THE MAGRUS—PRESENT)

  THE ZOMBIE DUCK LURCHED FORWARD, CLEARING THE STREET OF frightened citizens along Guild Row. In the distance, a large pillar of black smoke snaked into the sky. Rezormoor watched it from the back of his carriage, wondering if he had perhaps put too much kick into his fireball spell. Such a destructive spectacle might force him to make an official court apology, which was not only a waste of his valuable time but led to humiliation and groveling—two things Rezormoor wasn’
t particularly fond of. King Kronac, Aardyre’s ruling monarch, had little tolerance for the Tower, or its regent. Because of a freak accident (thanks to a royal family reunion that served under cooked pork), Kronac the Barbarian (a nephew to the king’s fifth cousin, twice removed) ended up as the last living male with enough royal blood to be crowned king. The fact that Kronac wanted nothing to do with the office hardly mattered—the royal house had a bloodline to protect, and Kronac was named sovereign. Perhaps because of this, Kronac was generally ill-tempered and impatient. Many a petitioner had lost his or her nerve when facing the scowling king, drumming his fingers on his war hammer, Migraine. The fact that Kronac was heavily muscled and looked as if he’d been carved from granite didn’t help either.

  Before the Pig Poisoning (as the citizens of Aardyre liked to call it—although never within earshot of the king), the royal family had learned to accept the Wizard’s Tower and even cultivate a tolerance for the magical arts. But not so with King Kronac and his northern barbarian brothers; they had an uneasy relationship with all things supernatural. Kronac regarded any visits from Rezormoor as a reminder that magic turned everything upside down. And kings, even more than most people, were not fond of surprises. The peace between the throne and the Tower was a delicate, and often uneasy, alliance. And although the sorcerer feared no man, Aardyre’s armies were too renowned to be dismissed out of hand. Rezormoor pondered his options as he turned from Guild Row and made his way toward the waterfront.

  It was late afternoon by the time the carriage rumbled into the large, open square that separated the docks from the rest of the city. A large man wearing a ring-mail vest over bare, tattooed skin ran up to Rezormoor as the coach came to a halt. He carried a broadsword strapped to his back and a coiled whip on his belt. His dark hair was oiled and pulled into a tight knot.

  The man bowed as the carriage door swung open, watching the movements of the zombie duck from the corner of his eye.

  “Brock,” Rezormoor said by way of greeting, stepping out of the carriage and into the bright sun. “Is this another waste of time?”

  “With such specific requirements, you know what you ask for is not easy,” Brock replied, his accent strange. “I had to sail around the southern ports of Caprigo, then north beyond Kalaran. ’Twas a long voyage.”

  “And yet I compensate you whether you deliver or not. Perhaps I should only give coin when you succeed?”

  “I’m sure the Tower can hire other slavers if it wants.”

  “Now now, no need to get testy,” Rezormoor replied. He reminded himself that men who wore whips were generally ill-tempered.

  The two men walked down a small series of steps until they found themselves on a large stone pier that lead to the individual docks. It was a busy place, with ships and men loading and unloading goods from around the Seven Kingdoms. Directly ahead, a dozen men stood chained together by hand, foot, and neck. Two hard-looking brutes with short swords were on either side, dressed in the tight leggings and the open shirts favored by those who spent their lives at sea.

  “I sailed round the Troll’s Cape in search of the caves you described,” Brock said as they came to the prisoners. “’Tis a remote place, but we heard rumors that certain men lived among them.”

  Rezormoor walked to the first of the bound men, looking him up and down. He then proceeded down the line to examine each man. They were blond and pale-skinned, and wore their hair in long, single braids that ran down their backs.

  “These are from the Isle of Kriis,” Brock said as Rezormoor continued his inspection. “We captured them at the foot of a dead volcano. Their coloring struck me as odd, given the small island they dwell on.”

  “I see,” Rezormoor replied, stopping to look at one man in particular. He was tall and broad shouldered, with an intricate tattoo of a winged serpent that stretched from his middle finger up his arm and across his chest. “You there,” Rezormoor commanded him. “Tell me your name.”

  The man, who had been staring down at his feet, lifted his head to face the sorcerer. His eyes were a dark blue, deeper than any that Rezormoor had seen before. “Gareth. I am but a simple fisherman.”

  Rezormoor smiled. “These others are worthless, Brock. Do with them what you will. But this one . . . he is different.”

  “Well now, that’s a bit harsh,” one of the other bound men announced. “I mean, you’ve hardly looked us over. I’m just saying.”

  Brock growled. “Quiet, dog. He’s offering you your freedom.”

  “Well, sure,” the man continued, scratching at his nose as best he could in his shackles. “I suppose that’s something. But you can’t sum a man up just by glancing at him. I have a fairly impressive résumé if you’d bothered to look.”

  The others nodded in agreement.

  “I’m a certified hair stylist,” another man added. “They just don’t hand those certificates out, you know.”

  “Fine,” Rezormoor grumbled. “You’re all very impressive. You’re just not what I’m looking for.”

  “Now you’re just patronizing us,” the first man continued. “That’s even worse than ignoring us.”

  “Yeah, it seems like you don’t really want slaves at all,” the hair stylist added. “Bringing us all the way here and then just letting us go.”

  There was a sharp crack of Brock’s whip and the shackled men jumped.

  “Then again, freedom’s good too,” the bound man suggested. The others in line nodded eagerly.

  “That’s what I thought,” Brock said, coiling his whip back on his belt.

  Rezormoor shook his head and turned his attention back to the Gareth. “Your transformation is impressive. But your eyes—humans don’t have eyes quite like that. But who can take issue with a little artistic license? What I don’t understand, however, is why you allowed yourself to be taken in the first place?”

  Gareth studied the sorcerer before speaking. “We always knew there was enmity between our kind and the Tower. You asked for our aid and we turned you down. But to hunt us like animals? We thought such hubris was impossible—even for you. But now I know it’s true.”

  “Indeed,” Rezormoor offered. “But it has nothing to do with some offense. You have something I want—something I need. And I mean to take it.”

  Gareth’s eyes narrowed. “Then it is hubris after all. There is no magic in this world that will allow you to make use of it.”

  “On that point,” the sorcerer continued, “I believe you are correct.”

  “Know this then: Even if you defeat me there is another. He is a king with many names, but you will know him as Obsikar.”

  Rezormoor recognized the name. Obsikar was said to be an ancient creature, half dragon and half demon, whose legend was so terrifying that his name had persisted for thousands of years. It was even whispered that the Maelshadow himself would not contend with him directly.

  “A fairy tale,” Rezormoor responded. “Told to children to keep them in their beds at night. I do not fear stories.”

  “You will not think it a story when he finds you. He will burn all of your towers to ash, level every city that housed them, and poison every field that fed them. He will hunt your wizards, your mages, and your sorcerers until they are nothing but a memory!” Gareth suddenly lurched, driving his shoulder into Rezormoor and causing the sorcerer to stumble backward. He pulled the dozen men bound to him forward, sending them crashing together in a tangle of limbs and chains. Gareth reached up and broke the heavy irons from around his neck, snapping the links between his shackles and waist. The other prisoners shrank back, scrambling over one another in their panic to get away.

  Rezormoor recovered quickly, his hands deftly finding the black daggers at his belt while he pronounced an incantation under his breath. The white clouds above the city turned a sudden grey, and a foul wind rose from the south. The seagulls that swarmed around the port dropped from the sky, losing any lift from their rapidly beating wings. And the seamen working on the docks felt a sudden
chill. Rezormoor stood tall, his black robes fluttering in the air, the blue stones along his belt and shoulders glowing with a strange intensity. Around him, a black mist seeped out of the ground.

  Brock was on Gareth in a flash, swinging his blade in a wide arc aimed at Gareth’s skull. But to Brock’s astonishment, Gareth caught the sword in his bare hands. He drove the weapon back, hitting Brock in the forehead. Brock fell backward into one of the guards and they both tumbled off the dock. Gareth flipped the broadsword hilt over tip, catching the weapon as the other guard lunged. Gareth parried the attack easily. The guard hesitated, sensing the strength of his opponent, then threw his weapon to the ground and jumped headfirst into the water. The remaining captives took a moment to size the situation up and decided it was exactly the right thing to do. They jumped into the water, chains and all.

  Rezormoor and Gareth now stood alone on the dock. The sorcerer advanced slowly, his steps light and the daggers held so the blades ran along the length of his forearm. The world had grown darker. Black mists rolled across the ground and the gray clouds billowed until they threatened to blot out the sky.

  Gareth turned to face the sorcerer. His serpent tattoo glowed like red embers, and his blue eyes raged. “It’s a foul magic you summon, magician.”

  “I grow tired of your lecturing. You are old, but the powers I command are ancient.”

  Suddenly the mists shot up Gareth’s legs like long tentacles, as others stretched for his arms, binding and twisting as they coiled around him. Gareth’s sword dropped from his grip as he struggled to free himself, while other tendrils of smoke moved up his body and began to wrap themselves around his neck. Rezormoor smiled, straightening as he watched the mists swarm around the blue-eyed man.

  But Gareth would not succumb. With a tremendous effort he shot his hands into the air and the black tendrils exploded into wisps of smoke as a loud clangor exploded across the pier. Gareth smiled as the remains of the black mist drifted harmlessly in the air. He bent down and retrieved the sword, eyeing Rezormoor coldly. “I will not be as easy to kill as that.”