Creation Mage 6

it was crawling up my esophagus, which suggested we were heading downward. This hypothesis was supported by my registering a gorgeous, glittering city sprawled some few thousand feet below us.
There were the beautiful, delicate spires of tall buildings that stood like crystal stalagmites in the midst of the snow-blanketed city.  Myriad silver threads—rivers or canals —ran through it. Expanses of pristine evergreen woodland surrounded the whole metropolis.
And, sitting proudly in the middle of a sprawling high-walled estate, was a magnificent castle. Towers stood nobly on each of the four corners, towers that would have given Merlin a hard-on.
Before I could take in anything else, my view blurred and was obscured. I looked around us. We were tearing down what appeared to be a gleaming, translucent tube—a sorcerous version of the Lincoln Tunnel.
“What the fuck is this now?” I asked no one in particular. It was quieter in here, without the rushing of the wind to contend with.
To my surprise, Reginald Chaosbane turned on his heel to answer my question. For someone who was supposed to be manning the controls of a sleigh traveling at the top speed of a Corvette C5, I found his attitude to be on the casual side. If I hadn’t known the Headmaster, I might even have called it negligent.
“We have now passed into the city of Manafell’s border burrow,” the Headmaster said, pulling one of the many flasks that he carried on his person from the sleeve of his coat. “It leads directly to the border station where the guards will go about their boring business of quizzing us about any contraband that we might or might not be attempting to bring into the capital of Avalonia.”
The Headmaster took a long pull from his flask and smacked his lips. “Gods, that’s horrible,” he said. “Tastes vile enough to make a goblin gag.”
“Uh, sir, shouldn’t you maybe keep your eye on the… Ahead of you?” I asked tentatively, not wanting to sound like a worrywart.
“Hm? Oh! No, Mr. Mauler, you see, everyone that enters Manafell’s airspace is required to enter one of the five border burrows that are dotted on the edge of the city limits,” Reginald explained, taking another drink. “Once they are inside, a very clever bit of magic takes control of whatever it is they are flying and guides it down to the border station.”
“What if you don’t enter one of the border burrows?” I asked.
“Ah, well, in that case, you and your conveyance would be intercepted, and dealt with very efficiently, with a smack on the wrist.”
“That doesn’t sound so harsh,” I said.
“Sorry mate,” Reginald said, screwing the cap back onto his flask, “I forgot to pronounce the required capitals—my tongue’s a little numb after the flight. The Slap on the Wrist is a defensive spell measure that would have you raining down in incy wincy little pieces over quite a large section of Manafell.”
I looked around at the transparent tunnel completely surrounding us. “So, it’s sort of like a magic vacuum in here?” I asked. “The only magic that has any effect on something inside it is that magic that is controlled by the border guards? All other magic is nullified?”
“In a way,” the Headmaster said. “The nuts and bolts of it are this: there’s nobody who could fly this sleigh now, even if they wanted to.”
He paused and stroked his mustache with thumb and forefinger. “Well, I could, of course,” he said, “but I might be the only one.”
The whirlwind journey to the floor of Manafell and the border station lasted only a minute or so. Gradually, the speed of the sleigh lessened. The crystalline tunnel came to an end outside of a squat marble building. The structure sported tiny windows and that awfully efficient, inoffensive characterlessness—the byword of all government buildings the multiverse over.
Almost immediately, once the sleigh had come to a halt and the legs of the six bulls were stationary once more, a concealed door opened in the side of the building and a team of uniformed guards came marching out.
The guards looked like they might be at least half-Jotunn; they were so big and broad. They had quick, alert eyes and the carefully cultivated bland expressions of those who regarded all travelers as idiots until proved otherwise. They wore formidable suits of armor, forged from blued steel. Heavy truncheons hung at their belts, and large bastard swords were strapped to their backs. On their heads were helmets which looked slightly more phallic than was probably necessary.
One of the guards stepped forward and treated us to a facial expression that was not quite a leer, but was definitely not a smile either.
“‘Ello, ‘ello, ‘ello, what brings you lot here, then?” he asked. Not waiting for an answer, he leaned on the edge of the sleigh and said, “My name’s Sergeant Mullock. I will now conduct a short questionnaire, and then, depending on your answers, my men will make a search of your conveyance, if that’s agreeable with all those present?”
There was the typical murmur of acquiescence made by those who flaunt and mock authority on a daily basis and are now confronted by it.
“Splendid,” said Sergeant Mullock. “Now, if you would be so kind as to pull your conveyance to the side over there. Your bullocks can graze on the paddock immediately in front of the inspection zone.”
Reginald Chaosbane clicked his tongue at the six bulls who, in defiance to the fact that they looked like they would much rather break from the traces and trample us all, did as they were told.
The guards moved with the sleigh, their hands starting nonchalantly to the truncheons at their belts. Clearly, these were security professionals who were ready to leap into action with only moderate provocation.
As Reginald parked the sleigh and the bulls got down to some serious cud chewing, the Headmaster smiled