Yaga in Yggdrasil City

Yaga in Yggdrasil City

Spenser Lincoln

Yaga in Yggdrasil City

Copyright 2020 by Spenser Lincoln.

All rights reserved.

Published by:

Aviva Publishing

Lake Placid, NY

(518) 523-1320

www.AvivaPubs.com

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the expressed written permission of the author except for brief quotations in book reviews and scholarly articles.

Address all inquiries to:

Spenser Lincoln

SpenserLincoln.com

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Yaga in Yggdrasil City / Spenser Lincoln

Summary: Yaga and friends saved their world from an evil lich but not unscathed. Six years after their last adventure, they still have to deal with the fallout while trying to live mundane lives.

[1. Slice-of-life—Fiction. 2. Interpersonal Relations—Fiction. 3. Urban—Fiction. 4. Urban-Fantasy. 5. Fantasy.]

Editor: Tyler Tichelaar, Superior Book Productions

Layout: Spenser Lincoln

Author Photo: Nagamine Photo Studio

ISBN-13: 978-1-950241-42-2

ISBN-10:1-950241-42-2

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019916049

Digital Edition

Acknowledgments

I want to thank my parents for everything they have done. They gave me every opportunity they could afford. My self-reliance, my desire to work, my love of stories, my education, my time, and my faith. They’ve encouraged me to be creative since I could speak. As an adult, they’ve given me the time to exercise my creativity and do everything I can to make my dreams a reality.

I also want to thank the late Sir Terry Pratchett for instilling in me a love of language. If not for him, I do not know if I would have pursued the written word as fervently as I have. But that is down a different leg of the trousers of time.

Prologue

Yggdrasil Modern Calendar, Years of the Transferre Novus

October 10, 665 TN

A white Ford Mustang, its bumper and hood dented from a recent collision, raced across an empty parking lot. With a sharp turn, the tires lost traction and careened onto the sidewalk. Skid marks led to the curb where the tires’ sidewalls exploded from the sharp impact. The car blocked the entrance to a pedestrian alley, and the driver’s door was the only way through.

From behind the wheel, a young man exited into the alley. He had on bleach-white, leather gloves and a matching jacket. Doubled over and rubbing his neck, he straightened from the butt of a long-handled shovel jabbing him in the tailbone.

Struggling with the shovel, another young man crawled over the car’s center console. Move it, he said. Emerging from the car, he was wearing a cheap, gray T-shirt and a faded pair of thrift-store jeans with a Swiss Army knife hanging from a belt loop by a carabiner. We don’t have much time, and you’ll be in just as much pain later.

Grow a heart, Yaga, the first out of the car said.

Grow a new spine, George, Yaga replied. The shovel clanged through the alley as Yaga dropped it to turn around and slam the driver’s seat forward. He helped a young woman out of the back. Come on, Audhild; this way. Watch your head.

George? Audhild asked. She couldn’t see straight as she struggled to lift her head of platinum blonde hair. Most of her was covered by an urban camo jacket somewhere in the multiple Xs’ size. As she moved out of the car, a ceramic-plated vest could be seen under the large jacket.

Yeah, George, the young man in white, said. He took her from Yaga and propped her up on his shoulder. I’m here.

What are we going to do, George? He’s still coming, and nothing we tried even slowed him down.

I don’t know about that. I’m pretty sure crashing the car into him broke his leg. I think I saw him limping as he walked after us.

Only slowing him down, Yaga said.

Well, said George, we have good news, which is we’re between him and his ultimate goal.

And bad news, Yaga replied. The lich’s gonna go right through us. We’re just a paladin with a magic sword, who’d be better off swinging a nerf sword. A trainee Valkyrie with a mild to severe concussion. I don’t know. I’m not a doctor. I’m just a warlock who might as well be a pistachio in front of a five-hundred-pound orangutan.

Pistachio? Audhild the Valkyrie asked.

Yeah, because he can—will—crack me in half and take whatever he wants. Should have driven to the nearest place that does laminations because we are certifiably screwed and might as well keep the blood stains off it.

How long you been saving that one? George asked.

Since the armored skeleton stood up after getting hit by a half ton of steel going forty miles per hour.

Do you have any ideas? Audhild gripped George’s sleeve.

If only I had some way to do real damage, George replied. He’s slow, clunky, and overconfident. In a fair fight, I would beat him hands down.

Yes, if only he wasn’t immortal, then he would definitely die. Solid plan. Yaga gave him a thumbs-up.

George replied with a different digit.

The car hurt him, didn’t it? said Audhild. Can we just keep running him over until he stays down?

If I had thought that would work, I’d have backed up over him then and there, said George.

But worth considering, Yaga said, fetching his shovel. He poked the burst wheel with the tip of the handle. Do you have any enchantments on your car? Magic sigils, ancient runes, safety charms, blessings, anything?

No, just 100 percent Detroit power, George said as he flexed the arm Audhild wasn’t holding.

Hmm. Gasoline? Yaga asked. Leaded, unleaded, pixied, unpixied?

Um, normal, whatever normal gasoline is.

Unleaded, most likely, Yaga said. Which is good.

Why? What does it matter? George asked.

We can light the lich on fire, Audhild said. Leaded would be better, wouldn’t it? It has a higher-octane rating than unleaded.

The difference here wouldn’t be worthwhile, Yaga said. It just has to be unpixied.

Okay, I’ll ask again. Why?

The lich, all liches, are impervious to magic. It looks like a skeleton, but it’s really a magical force inhabiting a physical object to strengthen its tie to this plane of existence. That’s why your sword didn’t work. You were essentially hitting an iceberg with an icicle, no? Bad analogy. More like hitting the ocean with an icicle. However, the skeleton, its anchor, is vulnerable. Just have to get past its defenses.

Okay, the car worked because it’s not magical, but why didn’t he defend himself? George asked.

Would have, if he saw it coming.

Why couldn’t he see it? Audhild asked.

He could and couldn’t, Yaga replied. In a vessel without eyes, he’s blind, seeing, hearing, smelling with magic. Anything not magic is invisible.

Shouldn’t he have seen us in the car?

Sure. Between the three of us, it’s probably blinding.

The car? George asked with a roll of his hand.

Probably thought the car was magical and would bounce off him like your sword. Next thing he knew, front end’s slamming into his kneecap. Medieval armor surprisingly doesn’t protect against modern automotive technology.

So, I was right. The car wouldn’t have worked twice. He would have cast a shield spell or just have dodged.

If he knows it’s coming, he’s invincible and immortal.

The gasoline! Audhild said. If we can douse him with gasoline, then we can just burn his bones to ash.

No, George said. He’d put it out before the fire got even close to hot enough.

Might put him off his game, Yaga said. Hey, George, you said you could take him in a fair fight?

Most definitely. His fist seemed like it could burst free from his leather gloves.

How about an unfair fight?

What? Of course, I would win. Why even ask that?

Don’t know. Maybe your hero’s honor would never allow that or something. Audhild, think you can get us into the sprout chamber or whatever it’s called?

I should be able to.

Perfect. George, you got a gas can in the trunk?

Yeah, George said. Why?

Keep up, Georgie. Yaga snapped his fingers repeatedly. Gas go on big, bad, scary skelly man, and fire go boom.

And how do you expect me to get the gas into the can?

Siphon it.

What? How?

Do you have a hose?

No, why would I?

Well, the obvious answer would be to siphon gas, but I guess not. Yaga worked his T-shirt off with one hand. To get it off his other arm, he switched hands holding the shovel. After tossing the sweaty T-shirt at George, he unhooked his Swiss Army knife and threw that at him. Cut it into strips, use the dryer parts to dip into the tank, and then wring out the gas into the can. Audhild, can you stand on your own?

I think so. She scooted herself up the wall, a couple of inches at a time. Twice, she nearly collapsed. Once leaned up against the wall, she tried for a smile, but it was more of a toothy grimace. As long as I stick close to the wall, I should be fine.

Cool, good, great. Go on ahead, open the door, and we’ll catch up, Yaga said. He watched her go to make sure she could manage. However, as soon as she looked to be out of earshot, he turned to George. Okay, here’s the real plan.

What do you mean ‘real plan’? He kept dipping the cotton strips into the gas tank. Why am I doing this if it’s not part of the real plan?

It’s part of the plan, like a really small part. Now, shut up, ’cause if I have to explain twice, then I’m going to realize how bad of a plan it is.

***

Okay, George said as he pulled off his shirt. Where do you need me?

In the middle of the circle, Yaga said. He was on his knees with the Swiss Army knife’s screwdriver folded out. He had scraped lines into the surface forming a rough circle. With the corkscrew, he was digging at six points around the circumference.

George stepped over the line and stood in the middle.

On your back, Yaga said without looking up as he used his makeshift drill for the last of the holes.

George complied. He began to lower himself onto the ground. Lean and taut, he looked like a suspension spring in a big rig as the load was added. Even tense, he didn’t look nervous or concerned. He turned stress into real, literal tension—the ability to jump, to run, to fight in an instant. He didn’t flinch as Yaga folded the corkscrew back in and pulled out the smaller of his knife’s two blades.

The short blade was about an inch long and a finger wide. The edge was pristine, unlike the longer one, which was dull and covered in the gunk of glue and pocket lint. By the streetlight, the stainless steel had a utilitarian glint. Rising higher, it caught more light and shone like silver.

Don’t move, Yaga said with the knife hovering over George’s chest. And after I pull the knife out, keep not moving until I say so.

George’s eyes shifted as he glanced at Yaga, but he kept his neck immobile.

Breaking eye contact, Yaga plunged the knife down into George’s chest. Perpendicular to his ribs, the short blade stuck at about half an inch. Stay still, Yaga said as he removed the knife.

As blood dripped off the tip, Yaga rushed the knife to the nearest hole he had made in the concrete. Into the notch, a red drop fell and mixed with the mortar dust. On his knees and one free hand, Yaga scuttled along the inside of the perimeter and around George. He let five more drops fall into the remaining indents. Wiping the knife off on his pants, leaving a red and quickly browning stain, Yaga folded it away and hooked the carabiner back on his belt loop.

Turning toward George, who stared at the narrow bit of sky available to the alley, Yaga placed his hand directly on the still bleeding wound. The blood in contact with Yaga’s skin turned silver and flowed back underneath his touch. As the blood receded, the wound appeared healed. However, when Yaga pulled his hand away, the incision persisted and began to bleed again.

First, the silver liquid Yaga had forced back in flowed out. A gold-stained trickle of blood followed as if dragged out by the silver. Then, like a geyser, a golden mist erupted from the cut. It hung over the two for a moment.

George stared up in unmoving delight for a second, but as more of the gold cloud formed, his eyes darkened. His prepared tension leeched away from him as he began to twitch and spasm.

Yaga stared at the cloud, too. As George twitched below him, Yaga opened his mouth as wide as he could. Slowly at first, the mist drifted down like the first far-off hints of a twister. As swirling color and light contacted his tongue, it turned into a full-blown tornado funneling into his gullet and lungs.

As the last of the mist entered Yaga, George stopped twitching and remained completely motionless. Quickly, Yaga started chest compression. He had never done CPR before. A half-remembered detail entered his head as he mumbled to himself, Stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive, ah, ha, ha, ha. Slowly, George’s lungs took to the rhythm, and he sputtered as he reentered consciousness.

While still lean and taut, George had lost the intensity of a spring. It was now more like the energy of a gyroscope, spinning in place with nowhere to go. He had given away his hero’s destiny and gained nothing but emptiness in return.

***

The metal was crinkled, and the bone underneath shattered. The magic holding the fragments together generated enough outward force to undo the larger indent. Creases in the metal showed where the impact had been. Across the parking lot, the lich saw the three teenagers’ residual magic outlining the car. His pace quickened, and if he had a pulse, that would have, too. The force holding the armor up and together surged, nearly bursting the bolted seams. He strode with a relentless cacophony of metal on metal.

When the lich reached the Mustang, he paused. As a lich, specifically a lich in a skeleton, he lacked the needed chemical components for anger. However, annoyance, pettiness, and revenge were less organic and more metaphysical emotions. He reached his hands straight out over the vehicle. The car collapsed down into a six-inch plate of steel, plastic, glass, interior leather, and the other miscellaneous components of a vehicle made during the 1960s. The smell of oil, gas, and rubberized air seeped into the lich’s bones even though he could not detect it. If cars had been around when he was born, or even around in his first century of existence, maybe he would have thought twice about destroying a trans-reality, vintage import.

Walking over the plate, the lich went down the alley. At first, all he could perceive were trails of mystic residue left on the walls and ground and hanging in the air over the crude magic circle he could not see. As he continued around the first corner, he could better perceive the underlying current of magic. Out in the world at large, in the rest of city, the magic was nearly impossible to tell because it permeated everything, like trying to feel bedrock while standing in a desert. Here it was stronger, but even more than he had anticipated. There was a fork in a path, but it hardly mattered to the lich since he wasn’t even aware of the alley anymore. He was a salmon going upstream to fulfil the next and final stage of its existence. A few more twists and turns down an alley that should have run into a building or street by now, and he finally realized why the magic was greater than he had anticipated.

He stopped at the entrance, even though they had left the door open. How considerate, he thought.

To anyone but the lich, the doorway would have looked like an ordinary fire exit. Past the doorway, there was no façade or illusion. It was a round room, about thirty feet in diameter. Roots made up the walls and ceiling. Directly in the center was a seed, twelve-feet tall and six-feet around. The roots making up the room were sprouting up from the seed to the ceiling where they had spread out and tangled. To the lich’s senses, it was an aurora accompanied by a distant rolling thunder as the magic spread out through the air and roots. Never simulating senses for taste or smell, the lich found the power radiating from the room like the sensation of a humid, spring breeze. Half-forgotten reactions came back to him as he moved his jaw to work a tongue he didn’t have to get the remembered nectar of a honeysuckle blossom.

Refocusing his senses, the lich brought his attention back to the room. Looking through the flow from the seedling, he could make out the shape of Yaga like a star in the daylight, half-seeing only because he knew it was there. The magic sword aided Yaga in standing out, but it was a negligible difference. Yaga stood between the lich and ultimate victory with the near worthless weapon held nobly by the hilt and the point stuck in the ground, like a king surveying his battleground. Something more than the sword, though, made the boy stand out to the lich.

I see, the lich said. A single branch is weak, but a bundle is strong; is that it? A good first step to ascend the flesh as I have, but it’s too little too late. He walked through the door as he continued speaking. What of the girl? Couldn’t figure out how to convert her demi-divinity to raw magic like you could the…hero’s? Whether he had paused in thought or surprise hardly mattered as gasoline gushed over his skull and down the neck of his armor.

Audhild had been hidden behind the door. Dropping the gas can with a soft, plastic gong, she dived away back behind the open door.

On cue, Yaga snapped his fingers, shooting a softball-sized orb of blue and white sparks at the lich’s head. The sparks were cut short a foot away from their target and did nothing but glow slightly brighter as they hit a few stray fumes of gasoline. It wasn’t enough to ignite the mass of explosive vapor inside the chest piece.

Futility at its finest. Did you really—?

Ugh, seriously? Yaga interrupted. ‘Futility at its finest.’ You’ve been alive for what—four, five-hundred years?

Six-hundred-and-seventy-one, but—

Six-hundred-plus, and the best you can come up with is ‘Futility at its finest’? You know, I’ve read up on your kind. Can’t feel sadness or remorse or whatever, but come on, you’ve gotta know better than that. Only thing worse would be if you said, ‘An exercise in futility.’ Just never say ‘futility.’

What is the point of this exercise…?

Eh? Yaga said and followed with a stupid and slightly forced