It is a well-kept secret that a witch cannot heal injuries she herself has inflicted, even if they were caused indirectly. Certainly it would be bad for business if everyone knew this, as many witches relied on repeat business from a small pool of monster-tolerant human customers to stay solvent. Every farmhand who came begging for an enlarging potion inevitably came back a week later needing a cure for numerous bruises, bites, abrasions and grazes. While they could not be cured with another dose of the same witch’s magic, she could still send them home with an all-natural herbal poultice that would at least prevent infection while the boys healed.
Mycal’s wounds were deep, and although she had done her best to clean and tend them, she was not an expert in Shrooman biology. She must have severed some critical mycelium cord as he was worsening by the hour, and it was becoming obvious that he needed more help than she could provide. Monkey had finally woken from his muffin-coma with some blunt assistance from Aggie’s boot. He was now grumbling outside, trying to get the old wagon into some kind of working order and laying a bed of straw for them to lay Mycal on.
Eventually they had him loaded up, covered in a blanket to take the edge off the evening chill and keep the fungus-flies off his wounds. He had been worryingly silent ever since he collapsed. The rest of the wagon was loaded with everything she might be able to trade with her fellow witches, or if things became truly desperate, with a human. After much too long a delay, everything was ready to go and it was time to summon Ignivolus.
The Evil Horse trade – not to be confused with the evil Horse Trade - was a robust industry dominated by a handful of dynastic demon families. They had been in the business for so long that their names were now synonymous with the most prestigious stables and only the highest quality steeds. The Malphesia Family and the Insominic Clan were both widely sought for their fire-maned Nightmares and ember-wreathed Pyronies, but if you wanted a good Nightstallion everyone knew you went to Jinn Wailing Firehouse.
Aggie had done just that many years ago, during better times when she had plenty of coin, before her shop had been razed and she’d been driven into the woods. Jinn had given her a good deal, and even helped her find a reputable groomsman and stable to look after her new acquisition. Even to this day he’d occasionally pop up in her scrying ball, checking in to make sure she was doing well. It was obvious the old efreet was hoping for something more, but he just wasn’t her type. Sulphur made her sneeze.
She thumbed the black iron horseshoe, muttering arcane words and tracing a pentagram in the air. “Ignivolus, egorum iuibeo vosa venirela…” Nothing happened. “I’ll give you a carrot…”
The horseshoe ignited, and Aggie tossed it into the air. A bolt of black lightning struck it and a huge dark stallion dragged itself into the material world, trailing purple embers from its blazing indigo mane. It floated to the ground, snarling and braying like a beast from hell, which is precisely what he was. He stomped the ground and look expectantly at Aggie. She tossed him a carrot, and he immediately settled down, happily munching away while Monkey guided him into the wagon’s harness.
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With Ignivolus hitched up and everyone on board, Aggie pulled a wax-sealed acorn out of a pocket and broke it open. She sprinkled a pinch of glittering dust on the wood of the wagon, then replaced the cap and leant forward, using the heat of Ignivolus’s tail to reseal it. The acorn disappeared back into the folds of her robe and she clapped her hands. “Right, let’s go!”
* * *
People had been imagining flying wagons for decades, if not centuries. Whenever the subject came up in conversation there were always sagely nods and comments like, “I assure you, sir. Another ten years and everyone will have flying carts. They’re just around the corner.”
Truth was they’d been around for a long time, but they were expensive and impractical for daily use, and thus rarely seen. If Aggie calculated the cost of obtaining, stabling and maintaining Ignivolus, the price of wagon itself plus the amount of levitation powder it burnt per mile, she could have bought a dozen teleport scrolls or even a magic carpet. But the scrolls only worked on one person at a time, and the magic in carpets faded when exposed to sunlight, not to mention how hard they were to clean. So the wagon it was.
It was a much smoother ride through the air than it was on the ground. No potholes, no accidentally turning down a dead-end street, and very few bandits. What small number there were often had better sense than to tangle with a witch and a nightstallion, but occasionally some ruffian on a wyvern would try his luck, and Monkey would end up with an arm or a leg as a special travel snack. Wyvern stingers also made great drip bottles once dried and cleaned.
There were no bandits out tonight. Blue Moondays were a dangerous time when angry spirits and vengeful phantoms stalked the night, forever searching for who was responsible for leaving that gods damned light on. Most mortals stayed indoors. Not witches though. For witches, it was party time.
The wagon made swift progress, shooting across the night sky like a purple star and carrying them out over the forest as Ignivolus furiously beat his hooves against the cool air. Small flickers of light appeared below as they entered the Farmlands, a huge stretch of fertile plains populated mostly by humans, their scattered homesteads leaking warmth into the vast and empty night.
Aggie was seeking a particular farmstead, owned by a witch-friendly agriculturalist who had offered the coven use of one of her unsown fields as a venue for Steaming Man, on the proviso that neither her husband nor sons be involved in the celebrations.
It was clear something was wrong long before the field even crested the horizon. There was a growing haze that stank of burning wood and flesh, and not the good kind. This was a smoke that carried the stench of righteousness and miscarried justice, blind prejudice and misplaced blame.
“Oh funk.”
She directed Ignivolus to circle at a safe height as she peered through the darkness at the carnage below. A score of burnt-out pyres shed a weak and bloody light across the field as their embers smouldered away, having mostly burned themselves out along with the unfortunate victims. Aggie couldn’t see the remains clearly from this height, but she had no doubt that the blackened skeletons would each and everyone one of them possess the long, elegant talons common to all Corvidius Magicka. Her sisters were dead.
Agrathea’s ears filled with the sound of crows only she could hear, a deafening cacophony that drove all other thoughts from her mind. A powerful gust of wind blew her hood off, whipping through her feathered mane and nearly blowing Goblin off the cart. She leapt onto Ignivolus’s back and slashed the harness. “Hyah!”
The pair fell like a screaming comet toward the only thing still moving in the field below.