Vicious Magick

Vicious Magick

written by Jordan Baugher

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Jordan Baugher

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter 1: Claustria

Zanther sits at the bar. He nurses a pint of Dragon’s Leg, the cheapest swill available in Claustria. As he digs around in his pocket searching for a leaf of thinpaper and a pinch of smokeweed, he observes that the seats around him all seem to be occupied by black-vested Darrinians who keep eyeing him as if he were a treat to be unwrapped.

It should be noted here that Zanther isn’t all that pretty.

These Darrinians have the stocky build and matted, greasy hair of their counterparts back home, but unlike most Darrinians, these men have thick muscles and each carries on his back a gleaming, flawless longknife forged with the precision of a master military smithy. The emblems on the hilts of their weapons mark them as a special detail assigned to do the bidding of the Kleptocratic Party, the de facto rulers of Darrinia.

Zanther takes another small sip of his beer before rolling his cigarette. He snatches up a small candle sitting on the bar, using it to light his freshly-rolled smokeable. Before he can exhale his first drag, a half-dozen stools are overturned and longknives are drawn, all of them pointed at Zanther’s head.

Disturbances at the Stuck Pony are rare, so the patrons are watching the scene tensely, torn between their desire to flee and the chance to be entertained. With Claustria Castle just a few blocks away, soldiers typically deal quickly and harshly with any violent acts.

Zanther holds his hands in front of him to show his cooperation, and as soon as the points of the blades lower just a tiny bit, he uses that moment of hesitation to reach for his own longknife.

He poses in defiance for but an instant before realizing that he’s holding only a rusty hilt; the blade remains firmly wedged in its scabbard. He ducks between the slashes of the two nearest Darrinians as he contemplates his next move.

It’s here when everything gets sketchy. Zanther’s vision becomes altered; the color is drained from his surroundings and everything he sees is black and white and blue. He can see the veins of his attackers pumping their angry blood, but their movements are languid, almost lethargic. Zanther ponders this for a moment before realizing that time itself seems to have slowed.

Rather than try to figure out the reason for this shift in perception, Zanther makes the most of his advantage and reaches for a mop in a bucket a few paces away. He swings it at the face of the nearest Darrinian, breaking it in half on his nose. Left with a pointed stick, he drives this into the chest of another Darrinian, watching as the blue blood gushing from his heart turns red upon its exposure to the air.

As this second black-vested man drops his longknife in a futile effort to pull the stick free, Zanther snatches the falling longknife and uses it to decapitate two more of his attackers, their faces frozen in shock as they struggle to process what is happening.

With a few quick thrusts, Zanther decommissions the last of his enemies. Time regains its normal fluidity and heads and bodies fall to the ground in a sick succession of splats and thuds. The patrons of the Stuck Pony stare, mouths agape at the speed and quality of the carnage wrought by this single, scruffy man.

Zanther reaches into the pocket of one of his slain foes and produces a few dodeckas, the de facto currency of Upper Kleighton--the value of the dodecka is currently pegged at one-twelfth of a goat. He drains the remainder of his drink before dropping these coins onto the counter and stepping out into the night.

In this world, there are good kings and bad kings. A good king spends most of his time in his palace, cutting babies in half and solving other disputes, while a bad king dons a disguise and walks among his people pretending to be a revolutionary in order to draw out his enemies and study them face-to-face before having them tortured in inventive and horrifying ways.

Madra is what one would call a bad queen. She’s among her enemies all right, but she doesn’t do much walking. Her small, pleasing frame and innocent eyes conceal a cruel and calculating intellect honed in her twenty-four sunspins of crushing rebellions and thwarting assassination attempts.

She is also at the Stuck Pony this night, seated next to a duke. Due to Madra’s presence, the Stuck Pony is filled with guards, all of them dressed as plainfolk, their weapons concealed by long coats and simple cloaks. As soon as the first longknife is drawn, a dozen eyes shoot to Madra for guidance. With a single finger, she commands them to hold their positions, and they do this without protest

She watches as Zanther slices his way through his attackers. She isn’t smitten; the smitten ones are the Darrinians. A feeling stirs in her nethers, but it isn’t love. Madra decides at once--she will have this young man, she will possess his quick movements and powerful thrusts.

The Duke unconsciously licks his upper lip as he looks Madra over, noticing none of the violence just a few paces away. Her leather top reveals a generous amount of cleavage, cupping her tiny breasts tightly to her chest. While such an outfit would normally be viewed as unfitting for a female monarch spending a night on the town, the voices of those who would dare object to any action of Madra’s have long been silenced.

As soon as Zanther leaves the tavern, Madra rises from her seat. Marchand, the leader of the Stoneguard, the highest-ranking soldiers in Claustria and the personal guard of Claustrian royalty, rushes to her.

Shall we apprehend him, your Highness?

Not yet. I wish to speak with him first--alone--to try and gather a little more information about this fracas.

Are you sure that’s wise, your Eminence? the Duke asks.

Dressed in puffy silks, white frills poofing out from between his lapels, his sleeves inflate his shoulders. His white makeup, his fake mole, his white wig, Madra notes all of these. It strikes her that this prissy aristocrat is the complete opposite of a man, an ideal clearly illustrated not ten eyeblinks ago by the dusty knifesman outside the Stuck Pony.

"You seek an audience with the Queen of Claustria to discuss special dispensations for your properties and then you question my judgment. Would you consider that wise, Kaverle?"

I beg pardon, your Eminence.

"Beg is the operative word," Madra says as she steps away from the table.

There’s a third person with a personal stake in Zanther’s exploits tonight. His long robes are dark blue. He stares at his drink, a Mongovian Brain Buster. As he watches the men point their longknives at Zanther, he pulls back a frayed sleeve and twists the outer ring on the face of the gold watch he wears on his wrist.

As it does for Zanther, time slows for this observer as well. He looks on as Zanther stabs and cuts his way through the men. His eyes follow Zanther out