The Legend of Zanther

By Jordan Baugher

The fourth book of the Vicious Magick series. After being named Quester of Righteousness, Zanther must defeat the Malevolent One. However, his quest is complicated by the interference of someone he does not expect.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jordan Baugher
• Release date: Jul 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466021761

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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The Legend of Zanther

written by Jordan Baugher

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Jordan Baugher

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter 1

The main square of Mortesia is bustling with activity. A vendor sells a clockspring doll to a mother with worry-lines on her face and a young child in tow. A group of visitors stands gawking at the Threaded Spire, a screw-shaped tower, and Macchen’s Gear, a kinetic sculpture over four hundred man-lengths tall.

One of the tourists notices activity on a balcony halfway up the facade of the Threaded Spire.

I thought the Vinch was killed, a middle-aged woman says to an old man standing next to her.

And good riddance, the man says, spitting on the ground.

The movement on the balcony is revealed to be a hooded figure. If not for the lily-white skin of her hands and face and her mane of cloud-white hair revealed as she pulls down her hood, her black robe could be mistaken for the shadow of a wizard. Her features possess a certain harsh, angular beauty. Her billowing sleeves stand in contrast to the skin-tightness of the robe as it caresses her curves, and her blue eyes bring to mind the blue water of lagoons infested with sharks. As he taps her staff to the metal rail of the balcony, the clank of wood on metal echoes through the square. She clears her throat, and her voice carries as far as her eyes can see. This is no accident; the engineers who built the tower and the square curved the buildings in such a way as to facilitate the excellent acoustics necessary for a leader to speak to his people without making himself hoarse.

People of Mortesia, she begins, gather in the square and listen to my announcement. It concerns you all. I shall wait a few moments for everyone to arrive.

She waits, staring straight ahead without blinking, without tapping her fingers absentmindedly on the railing, waiting with absolutely no movement of any kind. After the allotted ‘few moments’ have expired, she begins speaking again.

As you know, the Vinch was assassinated two days ago. Rather than allow a power vacuum to devolve into chaos and rioting, the Black Robes have decided to use this opportunity to introduce a concept called ‘democracy’ to your land. They have sent me to act as that agent of change. My name is Dromeda.

The citizens gathered in the square look at each other questioningly, rolling their eyes in the direction of the woman speaking before breaking into small groups and shuffling out of the square. She continues her speech.

The key difference between the previous system of dictatorship and the new system of free choice will be voting. A vote will be held right now to elect the next leader of Mortesia. Every citizen present will be required to vote, but the method of voting will be very simple. Those of you who wish for me to be the next leader of your fair city-state, stand absolutely still. Those of you opposed to my ascension to this position, raise your hand.

Of the thousands present, roughly six hundred Mortesians raise their hands. The dissenters, mostly young men wishing to make a show of looking defiant, hold their hands high, daring this black-robed woman to stop them from voicing their displeasure.

The woman raises her staff, and roughly six hundred threads of lightning suddenly snake from the sky, connecting themselves to the raised hands of the dissenters. A split-twitch later, the thunder from the barrage of lightning strikes crashes and echoes through the square. A majority of the crowd is knocked off their feet by the incredible force and volume of the sound, and as soon as they rise to their feet, they are shocked to find their ranks littered with the charred black corpses of those who dared raise their hands.

Dromeda smiles as she surveys the masses below. She pauses for a moment to allow everyone to regain their ability to hear. The people of Mortesia are wise--all of you have unanimously chosen freedom over oppression, you have chosen choice over mindless submission. Today is the day Mortesia stops sliding backwards into the past, and begins thrusting forward into the future. There may be some difficulties along the way, and not every day will be as celebratory as today, but we shall prevail--or else.

The people of Mortesia wear nervous smiles as they glance at each other, clapping and cheering fervently for their new leader out of sheer terror that she won’t find their adoration to have a sincere enough sound.

Novanostrum raises his staff, and a fireball explodes from its tip and blasts into a skeletal tree, reducing it to a pile of cinders.

Not bad, Stronom says, kicking a chalky apple with his foot and scanning the deserted, barren forest for any sign of movement and finding none.

Yeah? Novanostrum says, You’re not going to see anything--the monsters don’t come out ‘till night.

Stronom narrows his eyes at his son. One can never be too careful. Your form is pretty good--that was a textbook fireball. A prime example of the power of a First Circle such as yourself.

Novanostrum frowns. Judging by your tone, that didn’t sound like a compliment.

Stronom waves his arm and the overcast sky swirls above. A spinning vortex opens in the clouds and a tornado shoots down to Stronom’s open palm. Stronom touches his own staff, made of obsidian, to the tornado and ignites it. The wizard pulls his arm back and throws the burning, swirling flamespout. As it burns a path through the dead forest toward the horizon, Stronom straightens his robe and faces his son.

"Were you taught anything like that at Pigrash?"

Novanostrum shakes his head. I was not.

Stronom smiles. "It’s because those wizards in Arcania approach magick the way an alchemist sets about making his potions. They follow set procedures, they feel every element has to be carried out a certain way. For them, it’s good enough that it works, and it never occurs to them to improve upon their techniques, to improvise, to experiment.

Your mother, Lilia, she was a born experimenter. Take that trinket on your wrist, Stronom says, pointing at Novanostrum’s Ristwatch, hand that to me for a moment.

Novanostrum removes the watch and gives it to his father.

When your mother worked as a researcher in the Knot, it was her job to produce these kinds of relics. She made the Ristwatch, imbuing a small bit of her magickal ability into a mechanickal device we found on a trip to Krassen. Being her child, your magickal aura is similar enough to hers that it has no effect on you.

And those I choose to shield from its power, Novanostrum adds.

Stronom raises his eyebrows. Those you choose to shield? I was not aware that the holder of the Ristwatch was capable of doing such a thing.

Novanostrum shrugs. Well, for example, the first time I met Zanther, I used the Ristwatch to slow time in order to allow him to defeat a Darrinian assassination squad.

Stronom scratches his ear inquisitively, smiling at his own private realization. And have you ever ‘shielded’ anyone else from its effects?

Novanostrum thinks about it for a moment. I haven’t ‘shielded’ anyone else per se, but its power was nullified by the presence of a dragon once, and Rassamander was also not affected by it when I crossed him in Arcania.

The older wizard nods. "Dragon scales have a property similar to that of Moonmight stones which gives them a kind of