Toil and Trouble

By Jordan Baugher

In the seventh book of the Vicious Magick series, Upper Kleighton finds itself at the mercy of Novanostrum Singularis, and it's up to two young twins, Pinessa and Paloma Mystifer, to put his reign of terror to an end. Will these two magickal amateurs have what it takes to bring him down?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jordan Baugher
• Release date: Aug 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476059600

Jordan Baugher

Jordan Baugher is a science-fiction and fantasy author currently based in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He is a graduate of the University of Pittsburgh.

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Toil and Trouble

written by Jordan Baugher

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Jordan Baugher

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter 1: The Deus Palatium

The desert stretches from sky to sky, a three-hundred-and-sixty degree horizon of sandy dunes expanding to fill the entirety of Zanther’s vision. Rather than getting discouraged, he crouches down on the wooden deck of the dunerunner and rubs his eyes, trying to remove the burn-in caused by the reflective sand.

A strong gust of wind fully inflates the sails of the sandship, pushing it faster and causing its steel runners to lift a few fingerwidths above the endless sands upon which it is currently sailing.

How much longer do you think it will take to cross this desert? Pinessa asks.

Well, they didn’t name it the ‘Infinite Sandswath’ because it was something somebody could walk across in an afternoon, Zanther muses.

Still, Pinessa says, "it can’t really be infinite. Nothing’s infinite. The world itself has finite boundaries. After all, you crossed it going the opposite direction just a few moonths ago, right?"

Zanther scratches his head. I was an unconscious lump in a box attached to balloons full of dragon farts. I don’t really remember exactly how I ended up down there in Lower Kleighton.

You were sent by the gods to save us, Pinessa says.

Zanther chuckles. "That’s about the only thing I can be sure didn’t happen."

How can you be so sure? Pinessa asks.

Let’s just say that when it’s my turn to meander up the skull-cobbled road to the Grand Fork, there won’t be anyone standing there waiting to help me get to High Heaven.

"But you’re a hero," Paloma pleads.

I never asked to be anyone’s hero, Zanther says.

"Doesn’t matter whether you asked or not, you’re our hero for better or worse," Pinessa says.

What’s it like, anyway? Pinessa asks.

What’s what like?

Being a hero.

It bonks--it really does, Zanther says, "It’s a lot harder than being, say, a warrior. It’s never enough to be tough, you have to be clever, too. You can never just overpower your enemies with brute force, you have to trick them at the last eyeblink, oftentimes forcing them to be the instruments of their own demise. The death of the hero’s enemy has to contain a touch of irony and more than a little luck, otherwise the hero ends up looking like a bully, and then he risks ending up being remembered as the villain."

Blecch, Pinessa says, People hate the villain. That’s the worst thing you can be.

Not true, Zanther says, "the worst thing you can be is unlucky. Think of the poor bastard with a missing leg hobbling through a bustling crowd, or the unfortunate soul who gets expaled for a crime he didn’t commit. People hate an unlucky person more than anything else."

I don’t buy that, Pinessa says, what about a murderer?

People can identify with murderers, Zanther says, we’ve all fantasized about killing someone who antagonizes us. We can sympathize with thieves because we’ve all thought about stealing at some point, especially from someone we see as having unjustifiable wealth. However, we never fantasize about how much fun it would be to be blind, or how great it would be to be dying of droopeye plague. When we come across someone like that, we can’t even look at them--we have to look away or, sometimes, pretend to ignore them completely.

Why do you think that is? Paloma asks.

It’s simple, really, Zanther says, they represent the unpleasant truth that every person is just an unlucky split-twitch away from ending up without an arm, or from having our home burn down in a burst of flame. Nobody wants to consciously identify themselves with such an arbitrary universe, so unlucky people, as a product of just such a universe, are best avoided, lest we accidentally force ourselves to confront death or tragedy on its own terms.

That’s downright philosophical, Paloma says.

And you wonder why philosophers are so popular everywhere we go, Zanther says sarcastically.

The twins both have dirty blonde, shoulder length hair. While Pinessa’s is up in a ponytail, Paloma’s hair is gyrating wildly in the wind.

"So what should we do if we see an unlucky person?"

Oh, I try to ignore them, Zanther says, or avoid them. But that only seems to piss them off for some reason. My advice would be to ignore them compassionately.

How would this unlucky person know the difference between being ignored regularly and being ignored compassionately? Pinessa asks.

There’s no difference, really, since to the casual observer there would be no way to know whether or not you were ignoring compassionately or not. However, since you’re doing the same exact thing and expending absolutely no extra effort, doesn’t it make sense to ignore unlucky people compassionately all the time? Seems the humane thing to do.

Why not help them out? Paloma asks, You know, give them some bread rolls and a dodecka or something.

Are you out of your mind? Zanther asks, That’s how bad luck spreads--it’s contagious.

"That’s about the least heroic thing I’ve ever heard you say," Pinessa says.

Then you haven’t been listening to me very well, Zanther says.

What’s that giant stone arch? Paloma says, pointing.

Ahead in the distance is an arch almost thirty man-lengths high, a parabola the color of darkened sand flecked with granite and marble, round like a giant loop of rope as thick as a roundwood tree. The arch has a jagged edge protruding along its Z-axis from one end to the other.

No idea, Zanther says, but that’s no surprise. Most of the Infinite Sandswath is unexplored.

"How can this area be unexplored if someone built that arch? Doesn’t that mean they explored it?" Pinessa asks.

That’s technically true, Zanther says, and a technical truth is the worst kind of truth because it implies an error or a simplification in the mechanism used to determine said truth.

Pinessa nods. Like the inherent implication that all cultures before the creation of the current scientific establishment are primitive or irrelevant.

"Why is it moving?" Paloma asks.

The ridges along the crest of the arch begin to move, and the arch itself sinks lower, flattening itself out.

Ah, Zanther says as he walks toward the helm of the dunerunner, that’s no arch. That’s a sand-dragon.

Should we start freaking out? Paloma asks.

I wouldn’t even bother, Zanther says, the amount of freaking out demanded by this situation would require a level of expertise in the art of freaking out that none of us here possess.

Can I scream? Pinessa asks.

Screaming is inadvisable, Zanther says, the double-damned things locate their prey by following vibrations from under the surface. Screaming would lead it right to us.

How’s its sense of smell? Pinessa asks.

Why? Zanther asks.

Uhh...no reason, she says, shifting her legs uncomfortably.

Zanther shades his eyes with his hand, spotting something in the distance which causes him to smile.

Pinessa, grab my pack. Paloma, grab that staff and don’t drop it.

The twins give him a concerned look, watching him stand for a moment with his eyes closed. He opens his eyes with a start and snaps into action.

Okay, so here’s the plan, he says, grabbing a long loop of chain and tying one end of it to the dunerunner’s wheel in an awkward iron knot and tossing the rest of the chain over the port side of the sandship and watching as it drags in the sand, causing the wheel to start shaking and spinning erratically.

The jerky left-to-right movements of the dunerunner make it hard for the three of them to keep their balance, but Zanther manages to scoop up one twin under each arm and rush to a spot near the sand ship’s only mast. He looks down at his feet to make sure the three of them are in the right spot, and then grasps a lever attached to the mast.

The Mad Shah had one last escape plan, he explains as he pulls the lever.

A trapdoor opens beneath them and a panel pops out of the starboard hull. They fall for an instant before sliding down a metal ramp and flying out of the side of the dunerunner, which is still rapidly advancing