by P B Hughes
“She needs a mana-crystal,” Gregory announced, setting his pack down and rifling through.
“Gregory, on your left!” Sir Weston shouted.
Gregory looked up at the roof. An archer leaned out from his hiding place behind a chimney. Before he could fire, a puff of smoke swirled around him; the man crumpled and the arrow shot into the sky.
Gregory found a crystal and handed it to Martha. “Did you see that?” he said. “What was that smoky thing?”
In an instant, Martha was back on her feet.
“A miracle,” said Sir Weston. “Now make haste; the enemy is upon us!”
They sprinted onward while steps thumped on the rooftops around them.
At the middle of the city, the ground sloped dramatically downhill, and Gregory could see the Lonis River, so engorged by the heavy rains that many shops and homes lay submerged beneath gray waters. The rain had stopped now—a mercy, Gregory thought.
“Over there,” said Sir Weston, pointing to a bridge. It was tall, clearly designed with flooding in mind—a highway built on towering piers that lifted the main road away from the falling city. “Elder Bridge. The Industrial District is just beyond.”
They turned onto the main road, sprinting as fast as their legs could manage. Always on the run, thought Gregory as they pressed onward.
They made it to the bridge unscathed and hurried up the bow. Halfway across, Gregory dared a look out over the river. He would have thought the sight beautiful if they weren’t running for their lives. They were high enough to see most of the city. Yellow light shimmered across the water from opened windows. He could see silhouettes of townsfolk craning their necks, curious to see the commotion.
Gregory’s ears tingled and the hairs on his arms stood on end. There were whispers on the wind. No, he thought, terror gripping his limbs, no, please—not now. He glanced over his shoulder, and his greatest fears were realized. Riders—a dozen of them atop immense black steeds—were thundering toward them. They were on the main road, still a good distance away. But it would only be seconds before they were at the bridge.
“Paragons!” Gregory cried, a surge of adrenaline coursing through him as he ran with double effort. “Paragons, Sir Weston!”
“Keep moving,” Sir Weston shouted. “We need to get to those buildings. They can’t ride their horses in there.”
The twang of bowstrings sounded. Black darts hissed through the air, sailing across the bridge. They struck Gregory’s pack, knocking him to a knee. He was up in an instant, unharmed, though his fear was swiftly replaced with fury.
My crown! he couldn’t help but thinking, hoping it hadn’t been scratched by their filthy arrows. If only I could use my powers; I’d burn this bridge down!
They raced off the bridge and straight into a cluster of derelict buildings. Gregory’s legs burned, his breath hung ragged in his throat. Martha was slowing, trailing behind them. He turned and took her hand in his.
“Stay with me,” he said, encouragingly. “That’s it.”
“Down there,” said Sir Weston, turning the corner. “Just a little farther!”
A rickety gate barred their path at the end of the narrow street. Sir Weston hurtled forward, kicking it in with all his weight and knocking it from its hinges. They hurried into a sprawling junkyard, piles of scrap littered throughout. Another sturdier wall barred their way into the Air Shipyard.
“Through that gate we go,” Sir Weston said, pointing to an arch ahead. “Sally forth!”
The gate swung open, and in the frame stood a dark figure, its features impossible to discern. Sir Weston raised his weapon and Gregory pulled his knife from his belt.
“A Cythe,” cried Martha, releasing Gregory’s hand and holding forth her staff.
“A Paragon,” cried Gregory.
Orange light exploded in the darkness; it was neither Cythe nor Paragon—it was Jelani, his staff in one hand, a shield in the other.
“I thought you might need this,” he said, tossing the shield to Sir Weston. “This way—the ship awaits!”
“We’ve got Paragons on our tail,” said Gregory.
“We have the whole Obsidian Plague on our tail,” Jelani replied, turning around and charging ahead. “My powers are nearly exhausted. The fighting has been fierce. When the bell began to toll, we realized we had been found out. Nera and I began an assault on the guards while Barnabas and Geoffrey finished their work.”
They crossed the threshold into a far more organized area—a paved expanse a hundred yards wide surrounded by a low wall. Across the lot were six long and narrow hangars, built side by side.
Gregory heard a buzz of electricity fly through the air. Flashes of lightning flickered from the open floor-to-ceiling doors of the building furthest to the right.
“Nera is inside holding off the guards,” said Jelani. “We must hurry!”
Arrows whistled overhead. Gregory ducked instinctively as the darts thumped into the wooden hangar walls.
“We’ve got company,” he cried, whipping out his knife. How he wished he could use his staff! He gnashed his teeth in frustration, knowing he would be utterly useless in this fight.
The Paragons appeared through the gate, now on foot. But they were not alone. Gregory could hear goblins and men shrieking and roaring with fury beyond the walls.
Terror coursed through Gregory as they entered the hangar. Lanterns hanging on the walls revealed a grisly sight—dead bodies littered the floor, some smoking from Nera’s thunderbolts, some crushed beneath Jelani’s boulders. Wooden barrels stacked along the walls had been reduced to splinters, and Jelani’s craters were everywhere. But Gregory chose to ignore the chaos, for he locked his eyes on the most beautiful sight he had ever seen—a massive Sky-Whale floating upward through the open ceiling, anchored by five thick ropes. A rope ladder hung to the floor from the Sky-Whale’s gondola. Nera stood atop the Sky-Whale’s crest with a rope and harness around her waist to keep her from falling as she worked.
“Jelani, untie the ropes!” she cried, her staff sparkling in her hand. “The rest of you get to the ladder!”
“Gregory, Martha,” said Sir Weston. “You go! I will hold off these assailants whilst Jelani works.”
Gregory took Sir Weston by the arm. “You can’t beat them. You’ll be killed!”
Sir Weston shrugged him off. “I swore an oath to protect you, and protect you I shall. Now, get up that ladder!” He gave Gregory a shove and rushed toward the hangar door, sword raised, shield before him.
Jelani ran to the first rope and began to untie it. Gregory took Martha by the hand and they ran to the rope ladder.
“We can’t just leave them,” she said, looking back over her shoulder. “We have to help!”
“Help them by getting up the ladder,” Gregory replied. “We need you ready to heal.”
Martha nodded, grim-faced, and began to climb. Gregory turned, determined to protect her as she ascended.
The first Paragon burst through the doorway, black hair a wet mass over his pale face, coal-black eyes aflame with rage. He was their captain, it seemed, by the silver crest on his shoulder. His black armor shimmered beneath the lantern light as he paced, waiting to strike. Suddenly, with a grating shout, he swung his two-handed broadsword at Sir Weston. Gregory winced, thinking it was the end of the good knight.
But Sir Weston’s boasts were not supercilious. He knelt, meeting the blow with his shield. Sparks flew as the Paragon raked his blade across the bowed surface. Sir Weston kicked upward from his knee, slicing his blade up the body of the black-armored brute. The Paragon stumbled backward, a horrible gash cut across his face, drenching him in blood.
Sir Weston crouched, holding his shield close against his body, his sword peeking out from the side. “What ho, blackguard! Show me your tainted power and it will be met with the power of righteousness, tenfold.”
“Your severed head will sit inside my trophy case tonight,” seethed the Paragon. He lunged at Sir Weston, feinting right
, spinning left. Sir Weston took the bait, leaving his side exposed. The Paragon brought the studded butt of his sword against Sir Weston’s skull, knocking the knight sideways.
Gregory cursed and left the rope ladder. He pulled his knife from his belt and prepared to let it fly. At the same moment, the rest of the Paragons appeared in the entryway. Two raised their nocked bows at Sir Weston, and the captain stepped out of the line of fire. Gregory made a split-second decision and changed his target. He chucked the blade, sending it tumbling through the air. There was a sickening splat as it met a soldier’s neck.
Z-ZAP.
A bolt of lightning struck the other soldier in his chest; his arrow shot into the floor.
“Jelani, help them!” Nera cried, dropping to her knees from exhaustion and rifling through her pack for a mana-crystal.
With horrific shouts, the Paragons charged, their captain at the lead.
Gregory marveled at what happened next. Surely, the Paragons expected Sir Weston to retreat, for they ran, weapons high.
But the knight did no such thing.
Instead, he leapt to meet them, slamming his shield into their leader, driving his sword forward with such strength he punctured the warrior’s breastplate. He yanked his sword free and whirled around, decapitated the next in line, and then battered another in the face with his shield.
But that was all the brave fellow could do against such a force, for the Paragons swiftly gained their bearings, raising their blades and thrusting them into the knight’s body like many needles in a pin cushion.
“No!” cried Gregory.
The stone floor erupted around Sir Weston and the wicked soldiers went flying from their feet in a flurry of stone, tumbling back through the open hangar doors.
Jelani was breathing hard. He had untied all the ropes but one, and was struggling to remain standing. “Bring him, Gregory,” he said, waving his staff. The rubble began to pile up in front of the open doors.
Gregory ran to Sir Weston. The knight still held his sword and was gasping for air. Gregory took him under his arms and dragged him toward the ladder.
“You’re such a fool,” said Gregory, tears stinging his eyes. “You’re such a blasted fool.”
“Right here,” said Jelani, looking ragged.
“Don’t pass out on us, Jelani,” said Gregory, resting Sir Weston at the foot of the ladder. “We need you.”
The Amber Guardian grimaced. He slammed the butt of his staff against the ground. The stone around Sir Weston cracked and then flew upward, raising him to the gondola’s lip. Martha pulled him inside.
Jelani collapsed; the boulder fell with a crash. “You must untie the last rope,” he wheezed, trying to stand. “I cannot do it, and I am out of mana-crystals.”
Gregory could hear the shouts growing outside. Their enemies were already tearing at the pile of stones, and would soon be upon them.
He helped Jelani to the ladder, hanging his arm around one of the rungs, then sprinted to the last rope near the middle of the Sky-Whale. As he reached for the thick cord, whispers filled the room. He flinched for an instant, but then placed his hand on the knot. Just as he did, the stones covering the doors exploded in a cloud of dust, the shockwave knocking him off his feet.
With a groan, he sat up to see the doorway swirling in black shadow.
Gregoryyy, a voice whispered in his ear.
Two Cythes leapt through the shadows, landing on all fours like cats. One was covered in taut black garb; his face masked save for a pair of jade-colored eyes. The other wore a cloak, his hood limp on his shoulders revealing a slick, white skull. Gregory knew he must be Maloch, the tormentor of the city, for he shouted a command in guttural speech: “Murdo, ele-hazar!”
The other Cythe sprang forward, thrusting forth an open hand. Black smoke materialized in his palm, growing into a whip-like tendril. The Cythe jerked his arm; the whip slashed at Jelani.
Jelani let out a pained cry as the shadow cut into his chest. “Nera!” he yelled, his voice tortured. “Cut the rope—cut the rope!”
Nera took hold of the cord and belayed down the body of the Sky-Whale, positioning herself so that she could see the last rope. She aimed a bolt and fired, blackening its hide.
Gregory stood, dazed. He was unarmed and helpless.
“Get to the ladder, Gregory!” Nera cried, firing again.
Gregory snapped back to reality. He stumbled toward the rope ladder. It’s my only hope, he thought. My only hope.
Suddenly, Obsidian Plague soldiers—men, goblins, Paragons—poured through the door behind the Cythes, whooping angrily and loosing arrows. But Gregory could barely hear their cries for the whispers in his ears.
ZAP-ZAP-ZAP!
The rope snapped, the Sky-Whale jerked upward, raising Jelani and the ladder.
Maloch locked eyes with Gregory and raised his hand above his head. Darkness swelled around the Cythe’s fist; it pooled together and grew into a long-bladed sickle. The ladder was rising fast. Gregory jumped, narrowly catching the last rung.
With a mighty leap and a twist of his arm, Maloch slashed the blade through the air. Horror filled Gregory as the blade grew, extending toward the ladder like some terrible, elongated claw. Then, as if from nowhere, smoke billowed up from the ground beside Maloch, materializing into a creature of swirling shadow. It was a hulking beast with long arms and an arched back.
The whispers ceased.
The beast swept its hand across the floor, slamming Maloch and the soldiers into the wall. In a puff, the smoke-creature vanished. Gregory watched in disbelief as the remaining soldiers screamed in terror—but what caused their fear he could not see, for the ship was rising. They flew out from the hangar and into the dripping sky, Gregory and Jelani clinging to the ladder for dear life. Gregory looked down at the shrinking city, almost entirely black, the river growing ever smaller. Suddenly, he realized he was being pulled upward. Barnabas, Martha, and Geoffrey were working together to crank up the rope ladder.
Jelani tumbled in through the door, followed by Gregory. Once inside, Gregory rolled over and lay on his back, staring at Sir Weston as Martha hurried back to him and hovered over his wounds.
Geoffrey ran to the cockpit to pilot the ship.
“I told you it was too dangerous!” Barnabas spat. “But no, you all insisted. And then you cut my rope instead of untying it. It’ll be a nightmare to tie down, now. And Nera had to go and blow our cover at the sound of the bell—attacking guards. We still had time! We could have all been killed.”
“But we weren’t,” said Gregory through gritted teeth. “And now we’re free, and the sky is yours. Soon you’ll be rich beyond your wildest dreams.”
Barnabas sat down on his haunches, breathing hard. A moment passed and then his chest began to bounce with a chuckle, which soon evolved into a full-fledged belly laugh. “Right you are lad! We’re free, and soon we’ll be living like kings.” He cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted toward the cockpit. “You hear that, Geoff? We made it. We’re going to be rich!”
“Gregory,” said Jelani, clutching his chest. His nostrils flared as his breaths came labored. “Tell me. Did you see what attacked those guards?”
“I saw it.”
“What was it?”
Gregory thought about what he’d seen. It was truly nightmarish. But they would have been captured or killed without its help. Whatever it was, he thought, it was on their side, and so he decided to borrow what Sir Weston had said earlier:
“Jelani, it was a miracle.”
Chapter 25
A mother, gentle with her touch, love and intelligence in her eyes. Highborn, of course. And a father, strong and devoted, fiercely passionate but steady as stone. Maybe a little brother or sister. Invariably annoying, but still loyal and kind.
Perhaps they had no choice but to leave him at the orphanage, Jude thought. Doubtless there was a sickness or war that took them. They would never have left him willingly.
That had always been
Jude’s family. The one he envisioned when he let his mind wander. Silly, idealistic, unrealistic, he knew. But it was the one fantasy he couldn’t escape. It was as if their ghosts haunted the hollows of his mind day after day. At times he would allow the fantasy to overtake him. Then he could see their faces, hear their voices, and almost feel their touch. But none of that was real, and he felt the fool for hoping.
But what orphan does not fantasize about his family? he wanted to shout. I am not weak for wondering—for wishing! I never knew them and thus they were mine to create.
But now he did know. His parents were gone. His brother was a monster with no kindness in him. The ideal he had conjured lay shattered at his feet.
At that moment, he felt the Nosfertu inside of him, swirling and suppressed, whispering to be set free. All he had to do was give in. It would be so easy…
Something is always trying to control me, he thought, his resolve tightening. He remembered the matrons at the orphanage—they would remind him of his lowly place with a rod and a curse. Then there was the forest. The very trees had tried use him, to feed off of his power, to absorb him. And the governing officials—it was their will he had to follow. He must go to school; he must be a Miraclist; he must be a Guardian. And Mordecai…Mordecai gave him his orders: where to go, what to say, what to do. All while the headmaster withheld the truth, controlling Jude by managing what information reached his ears.
And the Nosfertu, he thought, feeling the darkness lurking inside of him. He spoke to it as one speaks to a rival, I will defeat you as I defeated all the others. I tamed the trees. The officials have no power over me. So it is with you!
Jude stared down at the red dirt road to distract himself. His aching feet answered the call. Since they had left Ari, he and Marcus had been travelling on foot, unable to find their horses after the battle with Caden and the goblins. It was slow going, but Jude was glad for the chance to be alone with his thoughts. Marcus seemed to care little for idle chit-chat. Jude decided that if he must have a companion, this quality in Marcus made him at least tolerable.