Creation Mage 6 by Dante King (red scrolls of magic .TXT) 📗

I ran. There was no thinking involved.

Hurdling an upended hotdog cart, I charged on, trying to outdistance the falling Ferris wheel. The sudden realization caused me to turn and remember that I was a fucking mage. Still backpedaling, I used my Telekinesis spell and managed to halt the heavy Ferris wheel.

This taxing effort, while resulting in me not getting smushed into paste, almost completely drained my mana reserves. A wave of light-headedness surged over me, and sweat broke out across my brow. The earth wobbled under my feet.

The Yuletide Yeti took a couple of ungainly steps toward me. It raised its big fat fist, clearly intent on flattening me.

Mort stood on the very edge of the sleigh, as it swung low over the fairground. Despite only having an inch of wood to balance on, he looked as steady as a man standing on a sidewalk. Two throwing knives were held in each of his hands.

I blinked hard a couple of times, focusing first on the yeti about to pulverize me and then at the bounty hunter standing on the cruising sleigh.

Mort let fly his knives.

The throwing daggers glinted as they flashed through the air. One after another they smacked into the hide of the Yuletide Yeti and—

—were flung away, right back toward Mort and the sleigh.

The quartet of blades thunked heavily into the edge of the sleigh, right next to Mort’s sandals-wearing toes.

“Mortimer, you tomfool!” Reginald cried. “You know how those damned Klauses take a sketch of the sleigh before they let you borrow it! They’ll be in my pocket in a big way for this, mark my words!”

The inflatable yeti swiped at the sleigh, its attention momentarily diverted.

Seeing my opening, I leapt over a mound of smoldering cotton candy and darted between the yeti’s stumpy legs. Looking up, I spotted the concealed flap in the space between the yeti’s legs, the flap that I had spied when it had bent over. It was, I figured, the place where old Great Granddaddy Gorlbadock had somehow filled the thing with air.

Essentially, it was the Yuletide Yeti’s butthole.

It was a good job that the marauding inflatable asshole didn’t seem to possess the capacity to feel pain because, if it had, it sure as hell would feel what I was about to do.

The Yuletide Yeti flapped its fangs at the sleigh, while the Chaosbanes continued to argue amongst themselves, seemingly unaware that the sleigh was descending slowly toward the massive inflatable yeti. It stretched on its fat, bulbous legs.

I made my move.

I ripped its ass flap down, stuck my black crystal staff inside, and unleashed the most powerful Frost Shards spell that I could with the mana remaining to me.

Five spear-like icicles materialized and fired up into the cavity of the mammoth inflatable yeti. Almost immediately, I was blown off my feet by the explosive deflation of the gigantic blow-up enemy.

I was catapulted backward, but had my flight arrested by a conveniently placed wand range—a booth at which kids could fire muted down Storm Bolts from enchanted fake vectors at targets. I smashed through the flimsy counter and into a wall of cuddly dragons, basilisks, and phoenix.

For its part, the Yuletide Yeti deflated like a punctured balloon. It let off a satisfying, drawn-out squeaking noise, like a fart being deployed by someone sitting on a hard plastic chair, and collapsed into a hefty pile of empty canvas.

I let out a long breath.

Fuck me, but there was never a dull moment when the damned Chaosbane clan were involved.

I hauled myself to my feet and brushed off snow, splinters, and dirt.

There was a thud a few feet away, and a bundle of rope laddering hit the deck.

“Mr. Mauler,” Reginald cried down from the sleigh, “an exemplary performance! Fine thinking on your part: when in doubt, shoot it up the backside. Bravo!”

I waved up at the sleigh, while I caught my breath and fought off the fatigue of my mana being tapped out.

“Now, when you’re ready, Mr. Mauler,” Reginald continued, “we’ll continue onto the ranch house. I’m sure Great Granddaddy Gorlbadock won’t be too irate that you destroyed his inflatable.”

“Saved the day, you mean?” I shot back as I began to climb the rope ladder.

“Justin, you handsome ball of testosterone and magical prowess,” Leah called down, still waving her nails, “you are quite comely to gaze upon, but you must know there is a time and a place for splitting hairs. Now clamber up here and let’s go and get a drink.”

At the mention of a drink, a snuffling snort, like a boar trying to get a pea out of its nostril, burst from the back of the sleigh. Igor’s tousled head popped up over the edge.

“Somebody called?” he said.

“Your cousin was just suggesting that we all go and seek libations at your ranch house,” Idman said.

“Pass one over the tonsils, you mean?” Igor scratched the hair on his head and then the hair that covered his top lip. “What a capital idea. Lead on, driver!”

So the driver, Reginald, clicked his tongue and turned the sleigh back toward the great log edifice that was the homestead of the Chaosbane clan.

Chapter 4

The Klaus Cruiser touched down with remarkable and, let’s face it, completely unanticipated delicacy on the large swathe of lawn on the edge of the forest.

“Home’s—” said Reginald, hopping down from the sleigh as it coasted to a halt.

“—where,” said Mort, stowing his throwing knives again.

“—the heart,” chimed in Leah.

“—is,” finished Igor, tumbling out of the back of the sleigh but managing to turn his fall into a smooth roll that brought him to his feet. “Not to mention a most notable barrel of Old Bizarro’s Ripsnort Brandy, if my memory serves me rightly,”