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

and Great Granddaddy Gorlbadock outside. Behind us came Igor, Mort, Janet, Rick, Nigel, Cecilia, Alura, Enwyn, Damien, Mallory, Idman, and Barry. I watched everyone troop outside. Seventeen of us. Seventeen of the most motley assortment of misfits that there might ever have been.

Milling around us were also a host of children and other family members that we, or at least I, had not yet been introduced to.

“Hey, where the hell is Bradley?” I asked Rick, suddenly noticing that one of the crew was absent.

“You didn’t hear?” Rick asked.

“Hear? Hear what? How am I going to hear anything, I’ve been in the woods for the past few days, drunk off my ass or naked,” I said. “Today, I’ve been busy enough just trying to keep from getting killed or worse. Hear what?”

Rick gave me that tombstone grin again.

“Bradley won that fucking competition,” Damien said, slapping me on the shoulder as he came to stand next to me. “He was going to come and meet us, but he’s had to do all these interviews for periodicals like, Big Buns Weekly, Flambéeboy, and Avalonian Housewife.”

“No shit,” I said, smiling and clapping my hands with delight. “Well, that’s awesome! How are the Flamewalkers taking it?”

Nigel frowned. “He’s managed to keep it from them for now. His letter didn’t go into detail, but apparently his father has been rather irked because a neighbor’s flying bulls pooped all over his lawn and destroyed some of his antique garden furniture…”

I turned to look out across the grounds at the distant, white, architectural confection that was Flamewalker Manor.

“Yeah,” I said, smiling at that particularly fresh and steamy memory, “judging by the size of those chocolate hotdogs, I’m not surprised.”

Reginald raised his hands for silence, and the hubbub of voices died.

“As many of you know,” he said, “and, also, some of you do not, the carving of the Yuletide Log is an ancient tradition that has long been observed in the Chaosbane clan. My dear cousin Mort here, renowned bounty hunter and owner of perhaps the vilest set of sideburns in all of Avalonia, was champion of the Eggnog Gnome Hunt. As ancient right decrees, the carving of the Yuletide Log falls to him!”

There was a round of polite applause. One of the Chaosbane toddlers said, “Who the fuck is cousin Mort?” and Mort raised a shy hand in thanks.

“Bring forth the Log!” barked Great Granddaddy Gorlbadock.

The doors through which we had just walked opened once more. A huge, long platter came floating outside. There was nobody bearing the tray, but it floated along on a cushion of Chaos magic that appeared to be controlled by that saucy minx, Aunt Ruth.

From afar, I could not make out much of the contents of the tray. It just looked like a long loaf of meat, like an enormous kebab shop shawarma. As it drew nearer, I noticed that it was steaming in the cold late afternoon. It was when it drew level with where I was standing in the crowd that the smell of the thing hit me.

It smelled goddamn terrible. It smelled like…

“Is it just me,” I said in an undertone to Janet, “or does the Yuletide Log smell like shit? Like an honest to goodness turd?”

Janet, whose nostrils were dilating but otherwise seemed unaffected by the stench emanating from the Yuletide Log, glanced at me.

“Of course, it smells like crap,” she said, shooting me a funny look.

“And after Mort cuts it, are we supposed to all eat a slice or something?” I asked, horror stricken at putting something that pungent smelling near my face. I was already having visions of having the sort of reaction that dudes had when they tried to eat canned fish back on Earth.

Janet’s funny look morphed into one of disgusted confusion before settling into one of abject mirth.

“Oh my goodness!” she said, almost choking with laughter. “Oh my goodness, that is hilarious!”

I glanced at Cecilia, who was also trying to stop her ribs from breaking in her fit of laughter.

“What?” I asked.

“The reason that it smells like crap,” Janet managed, wiping tears from her eyes, “is because it is crap!”

“What?” I said again.

“Why the hell do you think they call it the Yuletide Log, friend?” Rick guffawed.

“You’re telling me that the cutting of the Yuletide Log is, principally, the slicing of a huge butt muffin?” I said.

Nigel started cracking up.

“That would be a fairly accurate description, yes,” said Alura.

“That,” I said, with perfect truth, “is probably the most fucked up holiday tradition that I have ever heard. And I come from a country that holds a vacation to mark a bloody strike that led to dozens of deaths and millions of dollars in damage on the first Monday in September every year.”

“Mortimer Chaosbane,” Reginald called, “are you ready to do your festive duty on this festive dookie?”

Mort stepped from the crowd and said solemnly. “I am.”

Reginald turned to Aunt Ruth.

“Auntie, release the Yuletide Log, if you please!”

Aunt Ruth made a motion with her hand and the Yuletide Log shot, blazing silvery-white Chaos Magic behind it, into the dusky sky.

The giant shit rocket, which must have been at least twelve feet in length, arced out over the pristine white lawn.

Mort pulled one of the many daggers from out of the folds of his Franciscan-style robes. It was one of those crescent-bladed things, deadly sharp and ornate. He strode out across the lawn, executed a balletic side flip, and threw the dagger into the log as hard as he could. It hit the Yuletide Log bang in the middle and severed it cleanly in two.

A great cheer rose up from the clan, and I followed suit. I was running on autopilot, I think, still trying to grasp the notion of a holiday being opened by someone