by P B Hughes
Hector fell silent, fuming at the reprimand. He leaned against the wall, not daring to defy his queen.
“I wanted to meet you, Jude Elm,” said Queen Maria, “before you reached the king. It appears he does not wish for my diplomatic influence to stretch further north than Saragosa. Little does he know, my peoples’ influence pervades through all nations.”
Jude raised an eyebrow, thinking the comment humorous. “Of that I have no doubt.”
She clasped her pale hands in front of her. “You should know that King Oldguard is a difficult man, and while you are indeed an impressive warrior, in his throne room, that means nothing to him. He sees any meeting with the Empire as a war of the mind. For one as inexperienced as you, you should check any diplomatic notions at the door, for you will fail to achieve your nation’s goals in the face of my husband’s guile.”
“I’m here to deliver a letter,” said Jude. “That’s all.”
“And so you shall,” she replied. “But I sense within you a defiance that could breed tension between you and King Oldguard. I do not want that. I want peace.”
“You needn’t worry, then. The Empire wants peace as well.”
“It’s not peace with the Empire that concerns me. Empires rise and fall, depending on who rules them. I desire peace with you, Jude.”
Jude as taken aback. “Me?” he laughed. “But why me?”
Her eyes met his, and the intensity of her stare made him drop his gaze.
“Because,” she said, “though I’ve never met you, I feel as if I’ve known you for a lifetime. One day you will lead nations. And I would like to be on the same side when that happens.”
Jude looked up and studied her, trying to grasp the significance of such veiled words. Though he could not get a direct handle on what she meant, he did see that she was intelligent and keen, that she understood his potential for greatness in a way others failed to recognize. She spoke to him with esteem, like a fellow ruler, and it stirred his heart, capturing his allegiance in a way few others were capable. “I bear you no ill-will, Your Majesty. It is good to be known. Should I ever lead a nation, I would be honored to stand alongside you.”
Her eyes widened, ever so slightly. She was pleased at his response. She nodded and held out her hand to Jude, and he took it and bowed. Her skin was cool, and he felt a tingle of energy pass into him.
A demented howl echoed through the room, causing Jude to pull back and whip his staff forward.
“What on earth was that?” asked Marcus, drawing his sword halfway from its sheath.
Hector pushed himself away from the wall, tense, but he made no move to draw his weapon.
“You hear the wails of my pet,” said Queen Maria, unfazed. “It appears the poor man has found something to his disliking.”
“That was a man?” asked Marcus. “It sounded like a monster.”
“He is the most unfortunate of souls, and though he lives in a room all to himself, despairing thoughts often consume him and his cries of agony pass through all the walls in the tower.”
Jude searched the room, horrified. It seemed as if the howl was close by. The door to the left of them flew open, and through it ran an older man dressed in gray robes. Behind him rose a staircase.
The man spoke with urgency: “Your Majesty!” Seeing Jude and the others, he pulled himself short. He straightened and continued, lowering his voice. “We are losing control.”
Queen Maria let out a sigh. “It appears our time together has come to a close, Jude Elm. My pet needs me.” She squeezed his arm gently, and whisked across the room to the open door. She paused a moment, staring back. “Farewell, Alpha of the Guardians. And good luck.”
The way she looked at Jude set him at ease. He released a pent up breath. “Farewell, Your Majesty.”
With that, she walked up the stairs, and the old man closed the door behind them.
Marcus whistled. “What kind of woman keeps a human being as a pet?” he asked.
“It’s not a human, you dotard,” said Hector, striding across the room. “Not exactly. Besides, what the Queen of Irachnia does is none of your concern.” He stopped before another small door built into the wall, pulled it open and stepped aside, revealing a large wrought-iron crate hanging by a thick rope.
Marcus stared at it a moment, recognition lighting his face. “The elevator.”
“Yes,” Hector replied. “Now, step inside.”
Jude obliged, but Marcus didn’t budge.
“I don’t trust these newfangled machines,” he said. “I’d rather take the stairs.”
“Be my guest,” said Hector. “But be aware that the ascent will take half an hour on foot. Oh, and please say hello to Her Majesty’s pet along the way.”
Marcus begrudgingly stepped inside the box and Hector followed along with one other guard. Hector pulled a lever sticking out of the wall, and slowly, they began to climb.
“It appears the queen has taken a shine to you,” said Marcus under his breath to Jude. “I suppose even a queen can become part of the amorata.”
“She is not simply an adorning fan,” Jude whispered back. “I can tell she’s more sophisticated than that.”
Marcus chuckled. “Whatever you say, Alpha of the Guardians.”
Jude turned to Hector, wanting to change the subject. “You say Chimaroos built this elevator?”
Hector nodded. “Through an alliance forged long before we were so unceremoniously…absorbed into the Empire.”
“Being part of the Empire is a privilege,” Marcus rebutted. “Nations are only made better by our strength.”
Hector ran his hand across the wrought-iron walls of the box. “As you can see, we were doing just fine before you bestowed your privileges upon our heads.”
Finally, they pulled to a stop. Hector and the guard stepped out into a short corridor and turned, hands on their hilts.
“You must turn over your weapons,” said Hector, “or proceed no farther.”
Jude slipped his hand into one of the pouches on his belt and pulled out a tiny spore.
“You can’t be serious!” said Marcus. “We’re in hostile territory and you expect us to—”
“Marcus,” said Jude. “It’s fine.” Jude held forth his staff to Hector. Hector reached out to take it, but before Jude handed it to him the orb on the end blinked green. The spore swelled in his hand and he tucked it in his pocket.
Hector drew back and pulled his sword out of the sheath, ever so slightly.
“Sorry,” said Jude. “I’m a little wary. Here, take it. You can take my dagger, too.”
Hector’s eyes narrowed as he took the staff and dagger. “Now,” he said to Marcus, “you too.”
Marcus handed over his sword, a dagger, and a knife, all while muttering various curses under his breath.
“Come,” said Hector. “Our king awaits.”
Jude and Marcus followed Hector down the tunnel and up to two doors. Hector paused a moment, inhaled, and pushed the doors open. “Ambassadors Jude Elm and Marcus Kincaid of the Orsidian Empire,” he announced.
They walked into the circular room. To the right sat an empty throne with two guards standing on either side. Curtains of red and purple hung from the ceiling to the floor around the great wooden chair. To the left was a black stone table, papers strewn across its surface, and directly in front of them was a balcony, on which a man dressed in a heavy fur coat stood with both hands against the railing, peering out across the golden waves of grassland.
“So you’ve finally come,” said the man, not turning around. “And without an army. Is the Empire so torn that it’s decided to resort to diplomacy?”
Jude stepped forward and pulled out the letter. “My name is Jude Elm, Alpha of the Guardians. This is Marcus Kincaid. We have a message from the Empire—Boquietus Bubbs, to be precise.”
“And where is Ambassador Sweeny? It seems odd they would send two boys on foot to deliver terms.”
“Our party was larger, but we were amb
ushed by goblins on the way here. They killed Ambassador Sweeny and stole our horses.”
The man turned around, a smirk on his pinched face, his black eyes sparkling. He stroked his pointed goatee. “Sweeny is dead, you say?”
Jude nodded, thinking it odd that the man said nothing of the goblins.
“Then the Empire has lost one of its more splendid worms. I would have liked to see him wriggle before he died.”
“His passing brought me no tears,” said Jude. “Though, I did not wish it upon him.”
The man raised an eyebrow and he stared unblinkingly at Jude. “I am Roderick Oldguard, King of Irachnia. I see the two of you are not worms, for worms love their own kind.” His eyes narrowed. “But the Empire produces other disgusting creatures. It’s only a matter of time until I discover your true nature.”
“We didn’t come here to pass insults,” said Marcus. “We came to deliver a message.”
Oldguard frowned and walked away from the balcony, his long fur coat sliding across the stone floor. “You speak boldly for one in enemy territory,” he said, taking a seat on his throne.
“This territory belongs to the Empire,” replied Marcus. “You’re merely squatters.”
“Marcus,” snapped Jude. “Be silent. We don’t need to be making enemies.”
Marcus’ face turned red, but he did not argue.
“The Empire lies in pieces,” said Oldguard, gripping the arms of his chair. “In case you weren’t aware, we have an army ready just outside the city. They would not hesitate to march on the Capital this very hour if I gave the order.”
“And they would be smashed against our shields,” replied Jude. “They are ill-equipped, untrained, and undisciplined.”
“Not for long,” inserted Hector. “They will be...trained, if you will.”
“Oh, so you’re going to train them?”
“Not me,” Hector replied. “They will be trained by—”
“That’s enough, Hector,” said Oldguard. “No need to lay our secrets at their feet.” He shuffled uncomfortably in his seat and gave a sideways glance toward the balcony. “It is true; our men may not be up to par just yet. But you will see. Soon our army will be capable of bringing the Empire to its knees.”
“May it never come to that,” said Jude.
Oldguard stamped his boot to the floor. “For nearly sixteen years our people have been taxed to starvation and left to rot while your leaders flaunt their wealth: pouring liquid gold over their statues, hosting lavish parties that could feed an entire village. We say, enough! When the Cythes nearly eradicated the Empire’s Miraclists—that was justice. And soon we too will have our vengeance.”
Jude cringed at his words. The fact that anyone could celebrate a massacre left him unsettled. “I’m sure both sides wish to avoid armed conflict,” he said.
“My boy,” said Oldguard, lowering his voice to a growl. “We’ve been yearning for armed conflict since the day Emperor Oran was killed.”
Jude stared at the man for a moment, slowly realizing that some men were so twisted with hate that they craved war. Even if peace was possible, a man like Oldguard would not be satisfied until the rivers ran red with the blood of the Orsidian people. Jude held forth the letter and crisply walked to the throne.
“The message has been delivered. Our mission is complete,” said Jude.
Oldguard reached out and took the letter.
“Now,” continued Jude, “we’d like to be off. If you would be so kind as to let us purchase some horses, we’ll be gone before sunset.”
Oldguard leaned back in his throne and reached up to break the seal. He stopped. “You,” he said to the guard on his left, holding out the envelope. “Open this letter.”
The soldier obeyed, taking the letter from Oldguard. He held the letter up and broke the seal.
There was a hiss—green smoke spewed out from the letter and into the guard’s face. The man’s eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the floor, foaming at the mouth and convulsing. For a moment, everyone stared at the man, stunned.
“Assassins!” cried Oldguard, leaping to his feet.
“No,” said Jude. “We didn’t—”
“Seize them! Sound the alarm—guards!”
One guard tackled Marcus to the ground while the other ran to the staircase. Hector made a move toward Jude. Jude locked his eyes on his staff, still in Hector’s hand. He reached into his pocket and crushed his spore.
“Surrender, Imperial dog!” cried Hector.
Jude held up his the palm of his hand and blew a cloud of yellow dust into Hector’s face. The captain stumbled backward, coughing and wheezing. Jude slammed himself against Hector and wrenched his staff free.
“Guards—guards!”
Jude heard shouts coming from the stairs. He looked at Marcus, who now had a blade pressed against his neck.
“Run, Jude,” cried Marcus.“Hurry!”
Through the door burst ten soldiers, swords drawn. They stopped when they saw Jude, the Miraclist with his staff aglow.
“We didn’t do this,” said Jude, backing away onto the balcony. He opened his pouch with a click and tossed a seed to the floor next to him. He waved his staff and the seed sprouted, its roots searching for soil. Tiny leaves grew from its stem. He reached down and plucked a leaf from the plant before it withered. With the end of his staff he lightly touched the leaf—its edges sharpened in his hand like a razor. “We’ve been framed—I swear it.”
“Am I the only one who’s not afraid of this…boy?” cried Oldguard, unsheathing his sword. “I’ll arrest him myself!”
Jude flung the sharpened leaf past the guards, down the hallway, and into the elevator box. The rope cut with a swish, sending the box tumbling down the corridor.
Jude leapt onto the railing of the balcony and dropped a fistful of seeds over the edge. He gave one last look to Marcus, bit his lip, and jumped. Right before he hit the earth, a flurry of vines shot up, coiled around him, and lowered him gently to the ground.
Chapter 27
From high up in the Sky-Whale’s gondola, Jelani watched through the glass as a herd of elk thundered across the sweeping grassland. There were so many that their procession seemed like an endless wisp of smoke stretching to the horizon. He wondered if elk had reason to fear anything. A predator would have to be mighty indeed to face such an army. Or exceedingly cunning, he mused, catching a glimpse of a pack of wolves that kept close by and out of sight. He noticed they were stalking an elk with a lame leg, hobbling along as the rest of the herd passed it. It couldn’t keep up much longer. Soon it would be separated altogether.
Jelani looked over his shoulder. His friends were sleeping, huddled next to some large pipes that radiated excess heat. They were exhausted. Even though they had stopped to rest in a field the night before, none of them had slept. After their escape, they flew for several hours before Barnabas announced they must land. It was a dangerous idea, but Barnabas insisted they stop and make repairs to the ship. So in the veil of night, they landed. Nera and Gregory assisted with the repairs underneath the glow of lantern light. The rest of them stood guard, peering out into the darkness for any sign of an enemy.
There was only one point, when the night was at its blackest, that Jelani thought he saw something. The field was flat and the grass tall; he could see nothing else for miles. But for a split second, out of the corner of his eye, there was movement. He glanced in its direction. There was, indeed, something—a large something he could not quite make out. Perhaps it was simply a tree that he hadn’t noticed before, he thought. He took several steps toward it, straining his vision. A sense of dread filled him as he walked, and though he counseled himself to remain calm, his hands trembled and his steps slowed. He felt the shadow was alive—staring, not at him, but past him toward the Sky-Whale. But as he drew near, the thing faded as if it was never there.
The encounter left him uneasy. Of course, the night does play tricks on the mind, he reasoned. But then…there wa
s some shadowy creature back in the hangar. Though that may have been a trick of the Nosfertu. And if there was some creature, they had left it far behind. Nothing could move quickly enough to keep up with a Sky-Whale.
The Nosfertu is a strange power, he thought. We are only just beginning to understand its potential.
Jelani had a distaste for the strange complexity of shadow-magic. There was something foreign and demented in such abilities. They defied logic. Shadows should not live; shadows should not curse. Darkness did not truly exist; it was merely the absence of light. Jelani gripped his staff. Give me earth and stone, he decided. Give me something I can feel.
It was his mother who instilled Jelani with an aversion to wicked things, whether tangible or otherwise.
He remembered the morning he and a friend stole a basket of mangos from an orchard when he was just a boy. The fruit was so bright and so sweet, he ate until his stomach sloshed with each step he took. When he arrived at his jungle home, nausea set in. Even the thought of mangos made him feel as though he might vomit.
“Where have you been, Jelani?” asked his mother when he flopped down on his bed. Her arms were folded across her chest and her dark eyes were narrow with suspicion.
“Bosede and I went to the river to swim,” Jelani lied. “The water was cool and refreshing. We could not resist.”
His mother frowned, ever so slightly. But it was quickly replaced by a broad smile. “Ah, then you must be hungry, my little Jelani. A swim can be draining, but a good meal should lift you.”
“Oh, no, Mother,” Jelani replied. He knew he had to think of a convincing lie. If his mother found out he had stolen mangos, she would punish him fiercely. “I swallowed river water—perhaps a newt. My stomach is quite befouled.”
“Befouled, you say?” She thought a moment then snapped her fingers. “I know just the thing to cure a befouled stomach. You must wait here.”
Jelani listened to her white dress swish across the floor as she trailed off down the hall. His insides let out a low growl. He felt his stomach churn with a storm of mango flesh. “Oh, why did I eat so much?” he muttered when his mother had left the room. “Three was enough—but seven? You bad boy, Jelani. You were very gluttonous.”