Lost Kingdom

by Matt Myklusch

  “Too bad they don’t feel the same way about us,” Leanora’s father said, bracing for the wave of people to come crashing in. The force field soon came down, shattering into pieces, and the fight was on.

  Shazad’s and Leanora’s parents set their sights on DeMayne. All four of them took him on at once using various magical items, but none of their attacks had any effect. They couldn’t touch him in that armor. Joey wondered if anything could. He stood up, wanting to help, but Scarlett sat him back down.

  “Wait there,” Scarlett told Joey, turning the pain back on. “This will be over in a minute.”

  Joey’s perspective of the fight shifted to a jerky, flailing view. As he rolled around on the steps suffering, he saw the Nomadiks trying to subdue the locals through nonviolent means, which wasn’t easy. Leanora’s family had to pull their punches, but their opponents were out for blood, swinging shovels, rakes, and hoes.

  Joey saw Leanora going after Scarlett. She was speeding around in her elven-made boots and using her firestone to battle the subjects of famous paintings throughout history: Mona Lisa, Degas’s dancers, and Whistler’s mother (who was surprisingly strong and lively for her age). Through it all, Scarlett made time for Joey and had no trouble keeping him pinned down in agony while fighting Leanora.

  Joey flipped onto his back, staring up at the clear blue sky, a vision interrupted only by the massive crimson funnel of the Imaginary Vortex. The pain got so bad he actually thought he might die, when Shazad appeared at his side.

  “Try to hold still,” Shazad said, wrapping the red Bandages of Panacea around Joey’s left hand.

  “What… what’re you doing?” Joey forced the question out in grunts. “Bandages… didn’t work.”

  “Yes they did,” Shazad said, working his way up Joey’s arm undeterred. “Sort of. Scarlett didn’t show up until you took this thing off. You were able to move your arm when you had it on, too. It didn’t cure you, but it blocked the magic. That’s worth another try, don’t you think?”

  Shazad was right. Joey was convinced, and since all magic hinges on belief, the bandage started working almost immediately. He felt the pain go away inch by inch as Shazad wound the bandage around his arm and shoulder. When he finished, Joey felt warm and tingly again. His arm was still pretty much useless, but the pain was gone. Joey could think straight again.

  Leanora raced over to Joey and Shazad, breathless from her clash with Scarlett, which was still ongoing. “Did it work? Is he okay—are you okay?” she added to Joey.

  Joey nodded weakly. “I’m getting there.”

  “We still need the brush,” Shazad said.

  Leanora turned to face Scarlett with fire in her eyes, not to mention burning inside her fist. “I’ll get it.” A second later, she was back on the field, trading blows with Vincent van Gogh’s self-portrait. Joey heard Scarlett order him to bring her Leanora’s ear.

  “What is this place?” Shazad asked Joey as the fighting went on around them. “What is this?” He waved at the red tornado in the center of the ruins. “Did DeMayne say ‘Welcome to Camelot’ when we got here?”

  “That’s what he said.” Joey tilted his head toward the swirling magic whirlwind behind them. “This is what that old lady Fate was talking about—the Imaginary Vortex. Camelot’s on the other side of it.”

  Shazad’s face lit up. “Really? Can we go through it?”

  “No. It’ll zap your imagination away. Kill your ability to do magic.”

  Shazad’s eyes widened in alarm. “Let’s get away from it, then. Can you stand?” Joey noticed Shazad didn’t ask him if he could fight. He stuck out his hand, and Shazad helped him up. “Why did they bring you here?” Shazad asked.

  “They wanted me to get rid of the vortex.”

  “Get rid of it how?”

  Before Joey could answer, another piece of artwork attacked. This time, it was the couple from American Gothic—the famous portrait of a farmer and his wife standing in front of their house with a pitchfork. Only the pitchfork wasn’t in the farmer’s hand anymore; it was sailing through the air, right at Shazad.

  “Look out!” Joey shouted, pulling Shazad out of the way in time to keep him from being impaled. The sharp tines of the pitchfork clattered harmlessly on the stone steps, right where Shazad had been. “These guys aren’t messing around,” Joey said.

  They looked over at Leanora, who was outnumbered by Scarlett and her art-based minions eight-to-one. “I’d better give her a hand. Wait here. We’ll be back with the brush.” Shazad grabbed the pitchfork by the handle and ran back into the fray. Joey wanted to help, but he was still weak from his ordeal. His arm was coming back to life, but it would be a while before he could move it, and even longer before he could throw a punch. He was forced to watch from the steps as his friends put themselves in harm’s way for his benefit.

  Neither one of them was able to get close enough to Scarlett to steal her brushes. Not with the living paintings blocking their path. Leanora dodged twirling kicks from Degas’s dancers. They attacked, one after the other, in a graceful, choreographed attack pattern. Shazad was locked in mortal combat with Mona Lisa, who inexplicably turned out to be a kung-fu master. Joey wondered if that was a creative choice by Scarlett. If so, it was the first original thing he had seen her do. Using the pitchfork like a bo staff, Shazad defended himself against a flurry of kicks and punches. Leanora went on offense, tearing through three dancers and Vincent van Gogh with a single firestone punch, reducing them to puddles of wet paint. Following her example, Shazad found an opening and stabbed through Mona Lisa, wiping the smile off her face. She liquefied just like the other paintings, but Shazad and Leanora still had to deal with American Gothic, Whistler’s mother, and whatever Scarlett decided to paint next.

  Meanwhile, Shazad’s and Leanora’s parents were getting their butts kicked by DeMayne. They were no match for him in his armor. Shazad’s mother wrapped DeMayne up with a golden lasso, binding him tight. He broke free. Leanora’s father swung two morning stars. One burned with a smoldering red glow as if it had just been forged by a blacksmith, and the other one looked like it was carved out of ice. Neither one left so much as a dent in the armor. Shazad’s father took out a small fife and played a tune that controlled DeMayne’s movements for a moment, but the moment didn’t last. DeMayne lowered the visor on his helm and blocked out the influence of the song. After that he delivered a one-two punch to Shazad’s father, knocking the fife out of his hands and the wind out of his lungs. All the attacks on him amounted to nothing. It was the battle outside the Majestic all over again.

  DeMayne flipped his visor back up. “Honestly, people, what are we doing here? I can’t remember the last time it came to blows between us. You’ve all gone out of your way to avoid me for years! Why make a mistake like this now?”

  “You made the mistake,” Leanora’s father said, swinging his morning stars at DeMayne. “You threatened our children.”

  DeMayne turned his shoulder into the attack, letting his armor absorb the impact. “Blah, blah, blah,” he said, shooting out his leg with a lightning-fast back kick that sent Leanora’s father reeling. “I can see it’s no use talking to you. This ‘fight,’ if you want to call it that, accomplishes nothing.” He drew the Sword of Storms from its scabbard. “I’m done with it.”

  Holding the broken sword with both hands, DeMayne called on hurricane-force winds to blow everyone away. Shazad’s and Leanora’s parents, the brainwashed townspeople, and the other Nomadiks went rolling across the field. DeMayne kept the pressure on as they tried to stand their ground, aiming the winds to push the trucks back and flip the cars into them.

  “Leave them alone!” Joey shouted.

  “I’d love to,” DeMayne called back over the roaring winds. “You can stop this, Joey! Call the wand before someone gets hurt! Do it now!”

  Joey realized in that instant that he should have called the wand the second Shazad had bandaged his arm. He was protected against Scarlett’s curse, and
he cursed himself for not acting sooner. He was going to try to summon the wand when the farmers from American Gothic surprised him. The old man ripped his backpack off, and his wife grabbed him by his good arm. “Get his bandages off, Pa,” she said in a crotchety old voice.

  “Yes, Ma,” the farmer replied, and went to work unraveling Joey’s magical protections. Joey struggled, but it was too late. His fingers were exposed and Scarlett’s black paint spread out to his extremities once again.

  “Just keeping you honest, Joey,” DeMayne shouted. “Better hurry!”

  He turned up the volume on the sword, uprooting trees and flipping Leanora’s parents’ trailer onto its side. Joey wanted to fight back, but he didn’t have any weapons, and now his arm was vulnerable again. He looked around for something that could help him. The only thing he saw was his backpack lying on the ground. The zipper was open and the Finale Mask was sticking out. Joey didn’t have a laser to hook it up to, but he knew it had plenty of power all by itself. He had always been afraid to try it on. If he could just get to it…

  “Get your pitchfork, Pa,” the farmer’s wife told her husband as Joey tried to free himself from her grip. “I’ll hold him.”

  “Yes, Ma,” her husband droned, and went off to collect his prized possession. Shazad had lost it at some point during the fight and was now engaged in hand-to-hand combat with Whistler’s mother. It was a wild and oddly welcome sight. With Whistler’s mother occupied and the farmers focused on Joey, Leanora was finally free to go after Scarlett.

  “What’s wrong? Run out of famous paintings to fight for you?” Leanora taunted. “Too bad you can’t think of anything yourself.”

  “I don’t need to come up with anything new,” Scarlett countered. “I have an endless appreciation for the classics.”

  She took out the Jackson Pollack brush and started shooting blasts of paint at Leanora. Fortunately, Leanora’s winged boots helped her dodge them easily.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to get out that brush,” Leanora said.

  “Come and get it,” Scarlett said, firing off a fresh salvo.

  The farmer picked up his pitchfork just as Whistler’s mother spun around with a vicious roundhouse kick that caught Shazad in the face, dropping him. She climbed on top of his body and pinned him to the ground. Staying true to her namesake, she whistled for the farmer’s attention. A high-pitched, piercing noise cut across the battlefield. The farmer turned and saw Shazad trapped and helpless. “Hang on, Ma.”

  The farmer stalked toward Shazad, pitchfork in hand, as Leanora made her move on Scarlett, who was trying in vain to splatter her with weaponized bursts of paint. Leanora ran at Scarlett, using the Winged Boots of Fleetfoot to take three steps up into the air. She flipped over Scarlett, snatching a brush away from her in the process.

  A few feet away, the farmer stood over Shazad. He raised the pitchfork high above his head, ready to stab it down in a killing blow. “This is for Mona.”

  Leanora snapped the paintbrush in half.

  It wasn’t the Jackson Pollock brush that had cursed Joey’s arm. It was a brush that had once belonged to Grant Wood, the artist who had painted American Gothic. The farmer and his pitchfork melted into a swirling, colorful mess just in time to save Shazad’s life. The farmer’s wife dripped away into nothing behind Joey, turning him loose as well. He sprang into action.

  “Scarlett!” DeMayne barked out, while struggling to keep the Sword of Storms under control. “He’s going to get the wand. Don’t let him use it on us!”

  “I’m not getting the wand,” Joey said, grabbing the Finale Mask off the ground with his one good hand. He lunged for DeMayne as Scarlett raised her brush in his direction. Before she could hurt him, Leanora hit her hard with the firestone, knocking her back to the steps of the ruins. Joey charged into DeMayne, holding the mask out in front of him. “This is for you! One-point-twenty-one gigawatts—in your face!”

  DeMayne managed to lower the visor on his helm just before Joey got to him, but it didn’t save him. Power surged through the mask into DeMayne, and he staggered back as if he’d been hit by a charging rhino. He dropped the Sword of Storms. It sank into the ground with a thunk, and the winds stopped blowing. DeMayne fell, and Joey fell on top of him, holding the mask in place. His unwavering belief activated the latent energy inside the mask, bringing about the finale of DeMayne’s precious armor. The magical power grid DeMayne had been so quick to mock now lit him up like a Christmas tree. Green energy poured out of the mask, eating away at his black iron shell like a toxic acid.

  Joey spent the next sixty seconds getting payback for the torture he had endured, eradicating the Armor of the Ages. DeMayne was screaming for Joey to get off him, but that just fueled his fire. He pushed down harder, determined to see this through to the end. If he had to use up every ounce of power in the mask, then that was what he was going to do. A fracture appeared in the Finale Mask, right between the eyes. Joey didn’t let up for a second. The mask split in two, releasing a shock wave that knocked Joey off DeMayne. He landed flat on his back.

  When it was over, DeMayne tried to get up, but he didn’t have the strength to stand. The armor was too heavy for him, but that problem didn’t last. As he fell to one knee, the armor cracked and broke apart, crumbling into dust. He coughed and coughed, waving the black cloud away. The black iron armband that had once housed the Armor of the Ages slipped off his wrist and rolled across the ground. It came to a stop next to the Sword of Storms, useless and devoid of magic. The armband clinked against the sword, which was still lodged in the earth and vibrating with energy, waiting for someone to turn it off.

  DeMayne stared in a daze at what was left of his armor. He was much less intimidating now that he wasn’t wearing it. Kneeling there in his fancy three-piece suit, covered in dust, he looked like the world’s best-dressed chimney sweep. “What happened?” he asked Joey. “What did you do?”

  Everyone else was wondering the same thing, Scarlett most of all. Joey locked eyes with her across the field. She looked scared. Joey was pretty sure she had never seen anyone take on Ledger DeMayne and win. You’re next, he thought. She still had the paintbrush that had caused him so much pain. She was about to use it again, but Joey didn’t give her the chance. He dashed forward and grabbed the Sword of Storms by the hilt. “Not this time.”

  He aimed the jagged edge of the sword at Scarlett and sent a wind strong enough to topple a house right at her. The brush flew from her hand and into the Imaginary Vortex. Joey kept the winds focused on Scarlett, pushing her in after it. She tried to stand her ground, but it was like trying to hold back the ocean.

  “Sorry, Scarlett!” Joey shouted as he drove her to the brink. “I’m done suffering for your art!”

  “NO!” Scarlett screamed as she slid back toward the vortex. “Please, stop! I’ll leave you alone. I swear! The brush is gone. You’re safe! You don’t have to do this!”

  Oh yes I do, Joey thought. She was practically begging him for mercy, but Joey wasn’t moved by her pleas. He wasn’t going to let her hurt anyone else the way she had hurt him. He kept the sword aimed at her, holding on with all his might.

  Bye, Scarlett, Joey thought as the violent red storm swallowed her up. Now we see you… now we don’t.

  He didn’t get to enjoy the moment after she was gone. The temperamental Tempest Blade bucked in his hands, and he nearly shot his friends into the vortex after Scarlett. “Joey, watch out!” Leanora yelled.

  He thought she was telling him to watch where he pointed the sword, but it turned out she was trying to warn him about DeMayne. He barreled into Joey and tried to steal the sword out of his hands before Joey used it on him. Joey nearly lost his grip on it, but now that Scarlett’s magic ability was gone, so was her curse. Joey got two hands on the hilt and wrestled with DeMayne for control of the blade.

  “Give me that—it’s mine!” spit DeMayne. He sounded like a petulant child. Joey didn’t waste time arguing with him. He just fought to hold on w
ith all his might. He wasn’t letting go of the sword for anything. “You’re going to pay for this,” DeMayne told him through gritted teeth. “You’re going to pay. Everything I told you before? It’s going to happen. Your family, your friends… they’re dead. You hear me? They’re de—AHHHH!”

  DeMayne’s voice broke into a scream as Joey threw his weight on top of the sword, pointing it down at the ground. The unstoppable winds pouring out of the blade shot them both up into the air and sent them rocketing backward—right into the heart of the Imaginary Vortex.

  18 Go the Distance

  Joey held on to the Sword of Storms as he went flying through the air, leaving the ground far behind. He grew dizzy and disoriented as the whirlwind spun him out of control, but he held on to the sword as if his life depended on it. DeMayne did the same, shouting at Joey as the vortex whipped them around in a mad orbit.

  “What have you done?” he railed. “You’ve killed us! Worse than killed us! You’re mad!”

  Joey couldn’t argue with that. He felt sick. They climbed higher and higher with each turbulent revolution, but the vertigo-inducing ride had nothing to do with the nauseous feeling in Joey’s stomach. His imagination was about to be removed from his brain! For all he knew, it was already happening. DeMayne was right; it was a fate worse than death.

  What did I do? Joey asked himself as the magical storm cast him about wildly. What was I thinking?

  It was a question that had no answer. Joey had not been thinking when he used the sword to push himself into the vortex. He had just acted. On the one hand, he was protecting the people he cared about. DeMayne couldn’t go after Joey’s friends and family if he couldn’t do magic anymore. On the other hand, the price Joey would have to pay to keep everyone safe was unbearable. Life as he knew it was over. The loss of imagination was more than the loss of magic; it was the loss of who he was. His personality, his sense of humor… everything about him! It all started with imagination. Joey thought about his favorite things: Star Wars, The Avengers, Harry Potter, Indiana Jones… Would he ever enjoy them again? Would he ever enjoy anything the way he had before? Who would Joey be when he came out of the Imaginary Vortex? Would he still be himself, or just an empty shell of what he used to be? He had no idea.