Too Many Curses (17 page)

"Of course." Yazpib swirled slowly in his jar, the closest he could come to pacing. "And my brother wouldn't allow such a transgression to go unpunished. Nor would his greed allow for the possibility of anyone possessing what was his even after his death. Nessy, I do believe you're onto something."

"It's a spell," she said. "A final spell to claim the castle and everything in it. And the hellhound is part of it too. It will devour all the dead things while the gorgon haze encases everything else in stone for eternity. And the castle dies with Margle."

It was the only possibility that made any sense. It didn't bode well for the future of her home. But she felt better for having found some logic behind it, and she smiled.

Sir Thedeus's curiosity overrode his paranoia. He flew to Nessy's shoulder. "But what about the armors? And the demon, The Door At The End Of The Hall? Are those all pieces of that spell too?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "We'll find out in due time."

"Margle was an evil, foul-tempered, sinister bastard, but even I wouldn't have imagined him to be this excessive."

"Trust me," said Yazpib. "No one held a grudge like my brother." He bubbled in his jar as illustration.

Nessy silently agreed that Margle's wrath knew few limits, and his power even fewer. She'd often thought that if he'd spent less time cursing his enemies and amassing collections, he might have ruled the world. A sizable portion of it at the very least. But such strange obsessions and overwhelming distractions, she supposed, were the way of magic.

They were not, however, the way of castle tending. She handed her plate to Mister Bones, thanked him for a lovely breakfast, and started on her day.

Firstly, she decided to brew the antidote for the gorgon haze with Yazpib's help. She had little trouble levitating him alongside her on the way to the alchemy lab, and was quite pleased with her magical progress. Yazpib was equally impressed, suggesting that she might have a true talent for wizardry.

Nessy chuckled. "Kobolds don't make good wizards."

"That's what they used to say about goblins. Until Wiked the Wicked proved them wrong. And no one believed an ogre could ever become a competent enchanter until Gruesome Gorg forged the fabled Sword of Peace."

"Aye, but dinna that sword kill him?" asked Sir Thedeus.

"Of course. It kills every living thing in sight once drawn. Even its wielder."

"Seems like a drawback, lad."

"You must remember that Gorg was a pacifist. He believed all struggles should be resolved nonviolently. 'The man who draws a weapon against his enemies, surely more
so draws it against himself,' he'd often say. I guess he was making that point with the Sword of Peace."

"I'd heard the last time the sword was drawn it slew five hundred men," said Fortune.

"Rather bloody point for a disciple of nonviolent resolution," said Sir Thedeus.

"I suppose Gorg was an ogre first and a pacifist second," mused Yazpib.

"That's another thing I never understood. If it kills everything, why did he call it 'the Sword of Peace'?"

"I believe he was being ironic."

"I believe he was being a great, demented loony."

"Anyway, as I was saying, I think you have the makings of a fine wizardess, Nessy. The magic arts aren't inborn by species, despite what those arrogant little elves might want you to believe. Certainly natural skill plays a part, but that only gets a student so far. The rest is will, study, and practice, practice, practice."

"What about the madness?" asked Sir Thedeus. "I've yet to meet a magus without a touch of lunacy. And Nessy here is the most sensible lass I've ever met."

She'd thought much the same more than once.

"Not all disciples of magic are insane," snapped Yazpib.

"I meant no offense, man, but 'tis the truth that all the great ones, and most of the not-so-great ones as well, have always been insane."

"I'll grant you, we've had more than our fair share of . . . eccentrics."

"Are ye daft, man? Crafting bloody magic swords that slaughter indiscriminately in the name of peace is a trifle more than eccentric."

Yazpib's eyeballs and teeth pressed against the sides of his jar in a snarl. Before he could continue the argument, they turned the corner, coming face to face with the withered, glowering form of Margle himself.

"Halt, interlopers!" shouted Margle with a mechanical cadence. "Dare you trespass on my sacred domicile!"

"He's alive?" Yazpib sank lower in his fluid. "I knew it was too good to be true."

"Prepare to face the wrath of Margle!" He raised one arm. Then he raised the other. His face still twisted in that same glower, he raged, "Prepare to meet thy dooooooom!"

"Ach, I killed this blathering idiot once," said Sir Thedeus. "And I'll do it again if I have to."

Before Nessy could stop him, the bat flung himself into Margle's throat. The wizard made no attempt to dodge. There was a loud slurp on contact, and Sir Thedeus found himself stuck to the wizard's viscous flesh.

"Hey, why'd you do that?" asked Margle, his arms still high in the air, his face still frozen in that immovable scowl.

"Let me go, ye damned wizard!" Sir Thedeus struggled, only to end up more trapped than before. "Yer dark sorcery will not save ye."

Echo spoke up. "Hold still already. Otherwise the sludge might mistake you for food."

The protean sludge slurped.

"So that's yer game, eh wizard. I'll have ye know that the last creature that ate me dinna think too much of it, and neither will ye!"

"Amorphous," commanded Echo, and Margle melted into a large, yellow puddle.

Nessy scooped up Sir Thedeus's glistening slime-coated body.

"What goes on here, lass?"

"I'll explain later."

"How was I?" asked Echo.

"Very good," said Nessy.

"Although I'm not sure about that 'Prepare to meet thy doooooom' bit," said Yazpib. "A little over the top, even for my brother."

"I thought so too," Echo agreed. "But I am a poet. You must allow me some creative license."

"I must admit I'm impressed you could teach it so much in only twelve hours."

"It learns remarkably fast," said Echo. "The difficult part is getting it not to learn things."

"How did you make it speak?" asked Nessy.

"I just whisper to it, and it repeats what I say. I've taught it some movements and expressions but, as you can see, they're not the most natural-looking."

The protean sludge boiled rudely as if offended.

"I think it's more intelligent than Margle gave it credit for."

The sludge bubbled less noisily.

"More likely, it's empathic," said Yazpib. "Responsive to emotions. Particularly emotions directed at it. It would explain why Margle underestimated it. He was nothing but negative passion. Must've been quite stifling for the poor thing."

Bloop, bloop,
agreed the sludge.

The nurgax leaned in and sniffed it. The slime responded, instantly assuming a mirror image of the purple beast in nearly every detail.

"It still responds to stimuli of its own accord sometimes," said Echo.

The nurgax hopped back. The sludge duplicated the move. The nurgax snarled. The sludge snarled back. The alarmed original sought safety behind Nessy. The copy repeated the motion, although there was no one for it to hide behind. Then a bud popped off the sludge and grew into a copy of Nessy. The second Nessy wasn't quite as convincing, as kobolds were a furry species. But that the sludge even attempted to grow hair showed its progress.

Nessy waved to herself, and she waved back.

"Amorphous," commanded Echo. The sludge melted into its natural shapeless mass.

It was going better than Nessy had expected when first coming up with the plan. She just might convince Tiama the Scarred that a mound of shapeshifting fungus was a great and terrible wizard. But since Tiama was missing, Nessy considered the gorgon haze antidote her priority.

She glanced through the alchemy volumes for a recipe book.

"No need for that," said Yazpib. "I know this potion well enough. We'll start with ten drops of dryad dew."

Brewing the potion took some time. The laboratories were huge. Everything was in its proper place, but it still involved a lot of walking to collect them. The aisles were narrow, and she could only carry a jar or two in her arms. Levitation was a time-saving possibility, but she didn't trust her skill well enough to risk dropping anything. Many of the ingredients were rare. And some were irreplaceable. Maybe not for a wizard, but for a simple kobold who had no idea where to find dragon spleens.

She mixed everything in a big cauldron, muttered several quick incantations, and stirred it over a simmering fire.

"When it turns green, it should be ready," advised Yazpib.

Sir Thedeus perched on the cauldron's rim. "Perhaps we should test it."

"Are you suggesting I don't know how to concoct a simple potion?"

"Is everything a personal insult to ye wizards? Heavens forbid someone imply ye are the slightest degree less than infallible. I've news for ye lad, all that magical power dunna make ye gods. And even if ye are, I think the state of this world speaks of the dubious competence of gods," the tiny bat snarled. "So shut yer gob."

Though Nessy didn't agree with the wording, she did concede a test would be sensible.

"I'll do it." Fortune leapt to the cauldron rim.

"Yer a brave lad. I'd be reluctant to wager me own tail on a bottled wizard's word, and I dunna even have a tail."

Fortune smiled. "The risk is what makes it interesting." He dipped his tail in the green fluid. "Tingly."

"It should only take a moment," said Yazpib.

The black cat pulled out his tail. The lump of stone at the end had become a shard of glittering ice. It wasn't as heavy, and he was happy to be able to swish it once again, weaving a trail of frost through the air.

Yazpib's brain shaded his eyes thoughtfully. "Hmmm. Did I say dryad dew? I meant nereid tears."

Fortune's tail tapped against the cauldron, and a small patch of ice materialized.

"Or is it brownie dung?" said Yazpib. "Darn, I used to know this."

Nessy hopped from her stool and headed for the alchemy shelves.

Margle was dead.

He wasn't a ghost. He was a spirit, a soul trapped between worlds by spells put in place long ago for just such an eventuality. But these same spells were supposed to restore him to life. In his own castle, Margle couldn't die. Not easily. Not by merely being devoured by a nurgax.

But he wasn't alive. As he wandered the empty halls of his home for hours and hours, he couldn't imagine just where he was. This was most distressing as Margle knew all about the various fates that awaited a soul upon death. For his own depraved soul, there could be only hell.

But which hell? That was the question. Margle owed many demons many favors, and he'd earned the ire of several others. And when he did die, he'd assumed there would rage a terrible war the likes of which had never been seen in the kingdoms of the underworld. Only after score upon
score of diabolic legion were slain and the hells themselves reduced to smoldering wastelands (more smoldering than usual anyway) could the most supreme and horrifying demon lay claim to Margle's tormenting rights. The wizard would be subjected to only the most brutal, indescribable agonies. His punishments would be like none that any other damned soul had suffered since the dawn of time.

Margle had mused on the manner of his unholy castigation since he so enjoyed musing on torments, even his own. Perhaps he would be served as a meal to the absolute king of all demons, to be consumed, digested, and excreted for breakfast, lunch and dinner (and brunch every other Saturday). Or possibly he would be alternately roasted and frozen while suckling bloated, razor-toothed stygian cherubs. Or maybe he'd just be sat on by a big, smelly creature while a chorus of tone-deaf wrack devils sang folk music. Whatever the torture might be, Margle would settle for nothing less than a celebrated, one-of-a-kind damnation. It was his right as a great dark wizard.

Yet this was denied him. His castle, this empty version of it, was vexing, annoying, but it wasn't a hell worthy of him. There might be some poetic justice to it, to wander alone in these barren halls and chambers, but it was hardly terrifying. After walking the uninhabited, unfurnished castle from one end to the other and back again several times, a screeching demon would've been a welcome sight, even if it were only a little one with a tiny pitchfork to jab in his shins.

Often, he'd hear noises, sounds like things skittering
about just out of sight, whispering just out of earshot. But he had yet to find a trace of their source, and he was beginning to think they were the foundation of a burgeoning madness. He'd always known the torments of hell were designed to be insufferable, but he'd never imagined he'd break so easily. It'd only been a few days of solitude. Or possibly weeks. No more than a year or two, though time was hard to measure, for this castle had no windows, no days or nights, and he didn't tire physically.

"Enough."

The voice startled him until he realized it was his own.

If this was his hell, he must escape it. There was one thing in this castle that had been in the real one. It was the one thing in all the world that Margle had feared.

The Door At The End Of The Hall.

Except in this place, the Door was even more ominous. The hall was long and twisting like a corkscrew. And the Door was huge, its planks cut like the pointed teeth of a thirty-foot maw. It wasn't barred. Nor were there runes upon it. But it was The Door At The End Of The Hall. Of that, Margle had no doubt.

As he started down the hall, he heard the whisper again. This time there was no mistaking it for delusion. It was one voice speaking loud and clear. Margle knew many forbidden and ungodly tongues, but he couldn't understand it. The stones contorted beneath his feet, and he felt as if he was going to float away. Then he did. The bricks of the castle fell into blackness. There was only Margle, the Door, and nothing.