IGMS Issue 30 Read online

  "You thought you were the only one who had learned?" sneered the dark man, advancing slowly up the rubble and scree in front of his cave. "You thought that you could take from me and lose nothing in return? Idiot." He reached the fallen dragon-knight and looked down. "I gave you rules and laws, bindings and limits, all the trappings that weighed me down. Do you know what I took to replace them?" He lifted his bare foot and slammed it down onto Timor's forearm. Another crack, like the taproot of an ancient tree parting; another inhuman shriek from Timor.

  "I took strength."

  Slam.

  "I took freedom."

  Slam.

  "I took power." The dark man hauled back and kicked Timor in the chin. The dragon flipped up into the air like a catapult's arm and toppled backwards with a rush. The shockwave of the impact blew Draco's hair out of his face. Timor's eyes fluttered, and he hauled himself partially upright.

  "Timor!" Draco called.

  The dragon looked up.

  "Here!" Draco flung his sword, end over end. Timor plucked it from the air and rooted it in the ground, using it as a cane to stand with.

  The dark man spared a sneer for Draco. "Tossing aside your only weapon? How . . . chivalrous." He rushed forward, bare feet pounding the dirt, leaving claw-toed craters behind.

  Timor met the charge with a swing of his borrowed sword, striking a glancing blow on the dark man's side. It was enough to alter the man's deadly trajectory. His grasping hands reached Timor's other wing instead of his throat. It tore away like a sail in a hurricane. Timor hissed as his thick blood spattered down.

  "Idiots," the dark man said again. He raised his right arm, and behind it another hand lifted, a translucent form, half-present, tipped with razor claws. It plunged down. Draco saw a bare human hand scrape harmlessly across dragonhide. He saw a shadowed claw pass through Timor's flesh and strike something dark and shining within. Timor made no sound, teetering on three limbs, his wings ragged and useless.

  An eerie, ululating cry came from beyond the lip of the crevice. Draco and the dark man stared upward in mutual incomprehension.

  A white warhorse leapt into view, weighted with heavy saddlebags on either side. Lessa clung to the saddle, the front half of a lance gripped in her arms. The long haft hung out over Ransom's hindquarters, slapping them rhythmically with his stride and likely accounting for his unusual speed. The dark man had only a split second to stare in bafflement before the horse landed on him with all four hooves. They tumbled, man, girl, and horse, in a heap. Draco rushed forward to help, certain that he would find all three necks snapped, but scrambled into a backpedal when the dark man reared up, lifting Ransom overhead with both arms. The horse squealed. The broken lance dangled from the dark man's shoulder. Grunting, he hurled the horse away. Ransom landed on his side, panting, and did not try to rise.

  Lessa remained on the ground, unmoving. The dark man turned toward her, his back to Draco. Blood dripped from his fingers, and the shadow of the dragon loomed large around him.

  With a raw scream, Draco flung himself onto the dark man's back. He felt a shiver as he did, as though he passed through a cold lake's surface, but the black tunic was warm when he landed. The dark man cried out in surprise. Draco grasped the broken haft of the lance and twisted, eliciting a hiss of pain. Then a pale hand like a vise clamped onto Draco's shoulder and squeezed until the youth released his grip, gasping. Draco's senses blurred as he felt himself tossed through the air. His breath rushed out of him as he hit the rocky wall of the crevice and slid to the earth.

  Heavy steps approached him, and he struggled to inhale enough air to keep the black tunnel from closing around the edges of his vision.

  The dark man wrenched the lance out of his shoulder. No blood followed it. The tunic itself was whole and unmarred.

  Draco's hands scrabbled for purchase and he clawed a slow path sideways, away from his approaching death, crab-walking on the stony soil.

  "You want to kill me?" the dark man said. He tossed the broken wood aside. He crouched down, his eyes boiling around the wide pupils, his breath reeking like an open sewage pit. "I am fire and death incarnate. You are a pathetic worm, a crawling toady to that abomination that thinks it's a man." He flicked a negligent hand at Timor's fallen bulk. "He couldn't kill me, and you can't either."

  Draco's hand found a dented hilt, buried in fallen rocks and dirt. Timor's sword, notched and bent from the first blow the fallen knight had deflected.

  The dark man didn't notice. His eyes were wide, but he was looking past Draco, to someplace far inside himself. "You can't kill a legend. You can't kill fear. You can't kill nightmares and terror and the stories whispered in the darkness around the dying campfire. I am myth, now. I am eternal!"

  Draco licked his lips. "There's one thing I can kill," he said.

  The burning eyes flickered, focused, and Draco felt the weight of that terrible gaze beginning again.

  "I can kill a monster," said Draco, and swung the sword.

  Not at the dark man; at the space overhead, where a slender, serpentine neck would end in a goatish head and a frilled mane of feathery scales, where the blood would pulse in veins protected only by the soft skin of a birdlike throat. Draco had rested a hand on that very spot so many times now, walking beside Sir Timor on the long roads they'd trodden together. The sword, blunted by the abuse it had taken, bit home nonetheless, and Draco felt the hot blood rain invisibly down.

  The dark man staggered upright. He took one step forward and reached out a pallid hand, then stopped. He stared at his fingers as if he'd never seen them before. "I had it. I held it; it was mine. It is mine. I am fire . . . and darkness . . ." he said.

  And then he died.

  Draco buried the dark man and built a cross from the broken lance, tied with strips torn from his own tunic. A dead dragon. A knight's grave. Everyone would know what had happened here when they stumbled upon the scene. And they would be wrong, but not entirely. He left the dead from the manor house in the cave; the villagers could come for them, and it was better they should be buried by those who knew and loved them. Besides, Ransom was laid up with a split hoof and couldn't pull much weight, if any. Lessa was breathing, shallow but steady, covered in dark bruises. Draco wasn't much for injuries or medicine, but he had hope that she would recover.

  Sir Timor - the dragon, now - was another matter.

  Draco perched in front of the dragon's head for a long time, curled up with his hands around his knees. The dragon wasn't Timor anymore; Draco's birth-name had returned to him with the dragon's death. He'd felt it settle upon him; a mantle, or a shroud. It didn't fit quite right anymore. He'd have to decide what to do with it: keep it or hide it or give it away. He knew now how to do all of those things. He wanted to tell the dragon that he'd finally learned some of those lessons, wanted to thank the dragon for everything, however coincidental the events or unwilling his cooperation had been. The words wouldn't come.

  Behind him, Lessa coughed. Draco stood quickly, suddenly wanting to ensure this moment remained private. He reached out with the dented sword, dusty and scratched and unstained with any visible blood. Once on the right, then the left, then the right again.

  "Sir Timor," said Draco, "who slew the dragon. May your soul find rest."

  He plunged the sword into the dirt. Then he went to tend the injured and carry them home again. He left the sword standing in the stony ground.

  Eventually, it rusted away.

  Write What You Want

  by Eric James Stone

  Artwork by Nick Greenwood

  * * *

  I want to be rich.

  *

  The bells above the door to my magic shop jangle, and in walks a girl about fourteen years old. She stops once she's inside and the door closes behind her. She looks around at my shelves, stocked with card tricks, coin tricks, rope tricks, and a thousand more tricks for the aspiring magician to amaze his or her friends.

  *

  I want to be a famous
movie star.

  *

  From the haunted look on her face, I don't think she's an aspiring magician interested in tricks. She's here for the real magic. I hope it's something as easy as a first love gone awry. My magic has fixed a lot of those. I hold up a hand and say, "Don't tell me. You're here because you want something so much it hurts."

  *

  I want the cancer to be gone so I don't die.

  *

  She nods. Her voice breaks a little as she says, "A friend said you could help."

  *

  I want to be head cheerleader.

  *

  "I'll help if I can," I say. "No charge." I point to a stool in front of the glass counter containing the more expensive coin tricks.

  *

  I want to be straight.

  *

  As she sits, I pull the pad of paper from under the cash register. "Now," I say, "It's very simple." I tear off a strip of paper eight-and-a-half inches wide by about one inch tall. "All you do is write what you want on this magic piece of paper. When you're done, I'll burn it in a magic flame. Easy as pie."

  *

  I want to be thinner and prettier than Jasmine Rawlings.

  *

  "Umm." She looks around nervously. "Do I have to write it?"

  *

  I want my wife to stop nagging me.

  *

  "You don't have to do anything." I shrug. "But if you want the magic to work, you have to write what you want on the paper."

  *

  I want to be the star quarterback for my high school football team.

  *

  After a moment's hesitation, she pulls a pen with a plastic flower taped to it out of the cup next to the register.

  *

  I want my son Peter not to be autistic.

  *

  "Before you write," I say, "you should know there are a few rules. First, when you walk out of here, you won't remember exactly what the magic did, just whether you were satisfied with the result." I forestall the usual objections by adding, "People are usually happier when they don't remember that their happiness is due to a magic spell."

  *

  I want bigger breasts.

  *

  She nods, and I continue, "Second, you don't need to worry about tricks with the wording of what you want. This isn't like evil-genie wish magic, where the genie will twist your words into something terrible. The whole purpose of this magic is to make you happier."

  *

  I want Beth Larson to love me.

  *

  "Finally," I say, "this magic can only be used once per person, so you mustn't use it for something frivolous, like 'I want a bacon cheeseburger,' just because you happen to be really hungry right now. You should only use it if you desire something so much that you're sure you can't be happy without it, something that will affect you for the rest of your life. If you think you might want something even more later, then it's better to wait. You can only do this once."

  *

  I want the biggest big-screen TV in my neighborhood.

  *

  "I want this now," she says. She puts pen to paper, then looks up at me until I nod my approval. She writes the first few words slowly, hesitantly. She pauses for about a minute, then scribbles out a word and continues. While she writes, I put a red candle in a sterling silver candlestick and place it on the counter. Finally she puts the pen down and folds the paper in half.

  *

  I want to have children.

  *

  I use the burning finger trick to light the candle, holding my hand at an angle so she can't see the bit of wire that holds the flaming rubber cement. She picks up the piece of paper, but I snatch it from her hand before she can put it to the flame. "Sorry, but I'm the one who has to put it in the flame. And I have to read it first for the magic to work. Plus, I want to have the chance to talk you out of wasting the magic on something that's not vitally important."

  *

  I want my husband Benny to be alive and healthy again.

  *

  She sags on the stool, but makes no move to stop me. I open the paper and read: I want my dad to -- the word die is scribbled out -- stop having sex with me. My heart sinks and I feel nauseated. "I'm so sorry," I say, knowing it's completely inadequate. "I'm sorry, but I can't do this one."

  *

  I want to be the most popular girl in school.

  *

  The girl looks away. "You said you would help." Her voice is empty.

  *

  I want my wife to look like she did when I married her.

  *

  "If I could," I say. "But . . . the magic I do can't give people what they want. All it does is reduce the wanting. My customers go away satisfied because they no longer want something so bad it hurts. But you . . ." I held up the piece of paper. "I don't think your want is something that should be reduced." I desperately try to find a way to help. "If you tell me your name, I can contact a social worker, or the police, or someone."

  *

  I want my dad to be proud of me.

  *

  I'm hopeful she'll take me up on it, but after a long pause, she shakes her head, then slips off the stool and walks out the door. I feel completely useless -- what good is my magic when I can't help someone who really needs it? I rip her paper into tiny shreds and throw it out. Then I pull out the slip of paper I carry in my wallet. I hold it near the candle flame, but, as always, I can't bring myself to burn it. I return it to my wallet without reading it, because I know what it says:

  *

  I want to help people be happy.

  Constance's Mask

  by Nick T Chan

  Artwork by Jin Han

  * * *

  Constance hefted an axe and commanded Oscar to bow and extend his neck. The golem obeyed. She tightened her grip on the handle. Edward had betrayed her. With Oscar. Each second spent with the golem was like having a length of barbed wire jerked from her heart. The only way to stop her pain was to destroy him.

  She readied a downwards stroke and the axe trembled. When Edward was away, Oscar protected her from men. If she'd been pretty, they'd only pass lewd comments. But she wasn't pretty. She'd been born with hard calcified lumps beneath the skin of her face, leaving all but her mouth deformed and immobile. Men assumed they could have her and grew violent when she refused. The blade halted and trembled above the brass hoops and rubber seals connecting Oscar's neck to his torso.

  Beneath Oscar's wooden carapace was a fine network of brass tubes that carried his ink-blood. His head was roughly sanded into the shape of a human face. Only his mouth was close to human. He had a tongue made of muscled wet sponge, constantly oiled by some mysterious lubricant. Fine ivory teeth, rubber lips that were pulled by interior strings, a flexible jaw with silver hinges. A mouth that could talk. A mouth that could kiss. A mouth that could . . . the world compressed and for the next few moments her thoughts ran red.

  A sudden jet of black ink hard-sprayed across the green tiled walls and his head tumbled to the floor. The next axe stroke opened his torso, revealing interlinked wooden cogs and the brass tubes that pumped ink. Constance swung again, slicing through wood and brass. Ink splattered her from head to toe. When she was finished, Oscar was a pile of splintered wood. Only his head was intact, lying on its side in the middle of a welling circle of black against the white floor tiles.

  As quickly as it had vanished, awareness returned to her. Her rasping breaths echoed off the tiles. She'd destroyed Oscar. Destroying her husband's property was a sin. Covered in ink, she knelt and prayed. She prayed for respite from the rage her paralyzed face couldn't show, from the bitterness, from the heartbroken thoughts that dropped like pebbles down an endless well.

  Prayer calmed her.

  She dropped Edward's diary onto Oscar's remains. Edward had tried to disguise the contents by writing in the runes that formed personas. Edward had assumed she couldn't read them, but she'd copied enough of his work over the years
to learn. There was no mistaking the foulness of what Oscar did. Each act took place in the basement, and the language was explicit. What Oscar did, where his hands touched, what body part was involved.

  There was already hot water in the bath; she'd known the ink would splatter everywhere. Undressing without Oscar's help was a tedious process. She unlaced her corset, unfurled her many layers of clothes, and slipped into the iron bath tub like a newly born calf.

  The water's heat shocked her into reality. She couldn't leave Edward. All she'd done was destroy Oscar, destroyed her only protection from the rapacious men outside.

  She was physically incapable of crying. Instead she buried her head in her hands and let the bath dilute her despair.

  "Are you well, Lady Constance?" Oscar said. She opening her mouth in surprise, then flailed as water caused her to choke. "I'd help you, but I have no body."

  She clambered out of the bath, her feet puddling in the ink-slicked floor, and grabbed Oscar's head. It was lighter than she'd imagined. Ink dripped from Oscar's neck, between her breasts and onto her belly. "How can you still function?" she said, forcing the words past the thickness in her throat.

  "There's still some ink left in my neck cavities."