What kind of Wizard would allow this to happen? This is sick. Does everyone get this test when they come here or are we special?
“Winner” the disembodied voice shouts as the word appears in light overhead.
The spectators cheer and it infuriates me—my friend was just murdered, and I killed that treacherous man—there’s nothing to cheer about.
A torrent of grief and sadness drowns my anger, and as my armor shrinks back into my boots, I cover my face in my hands to hide the tears that burst from my eyes. I bawl, devastated, falling to my knees in the middle of the arena. The sight of me silences the callous audience, so at least they’re not wholly without compunction. Hands touch my shoulders and I look up to see Nick. Before I know what I’ve done, I’ve risen and thrown myself into his arms. He hugs me, careful not to cut me with his axes.
“It will be all right,” he says as he pets my hair, his voice gentle.
“He’s dead.”
“He was already dead.”
“Undead. And he was on the verge of getting a cure. He was so close.”
“There is no cure,” he tells me, his brows drawing in like he’s breaking bad news.
“It’s all my fault,” Werelion bawls, stepping over to us with Toto in his arms.
I pull away from Nick, wrap my arms around Werelion and Toto, and we cry together. Soon Toto joins us with a howl followed by his little doggy whimpers. The spectators let out a collective, “Aww.”
That’s when I lose it.
I break away and turn toward the people, my face red and wet with tears and shout, “How can you watch this like it’s a sport? What is wrong with all of you?”
I’m about to rip them all a new one when a hand grips my shoulder. I turn around and it’s Ardie, not flat, but three dimensional and unharmed except for a large hole in his shirt and jacket.
“Ardie?” I gasp and hug him tight.
“I told you I’d be fine.”
“How?”
“Fire is the only thing that can kill me. But this came close,” he says with a single sad laugh. “The arena sped up the healing process, I dare say.”
“Oh, Ardie,” Werelion cries as he rests his furry mane on Ardie’s shoulder. “You’re alive. Thank Oz, you’re alive. You saved me, again. I owe you my life a second time over.”
“Uhh…” Ardie says and trails off, his discomfiture plain on his face—he looks as though a rancid taste and putrid smell are assaulting him at once and he’s trying to pretend they’re not. Despite his embarrassment, he still pats Werelion on the back and says, “You owe me nothing. I knew I would live.”
“Congratulations. Now come on,” we hear the gruff voice of the Guardian say behind us.
“You’re alive,” I say with a slight growl, still seething, on edge, torn between being grateful I didn’t kill him and sorry I didn’t.
“He should come back to life, but I shouldn’t?” he scoffs as he steps toward me and snatches back his staff.
“He’s a zombie. What’s your excuse?” I snap back.
“As am I.”
Ardie looks the most shocked out of all of us.
“What? But… how much makeup do you wear?” Ardie says and I suppress a chuckle. The Guardian narrows his eyes at Ardie then shoots me a death stare before he answers.
“I’m not a purplish ghoul like you because I took a low-dose batch of spice. I eat real food and only crave brains a few times a year. I still age but I am undead. Someday I will be a walking skeleton,” he says and walks, so we follow.
“Why doesn’t Oz give you the cure?” Ardie asks.
“Oh, he will when the time comes, when I’m ready to die.”
“How old are you?” Werelion asks, fascinated.
“One hundred and sixty-three. But the magic of Oz keeps me looking young.”
We reach the stadium wall—a solid, vibrant emerald expanse encasing a network of misty green light streams—and when the Guardian raises his hand, a circle of light the size of a soccer ball appears. He places his palm on the ring of light and a moment later, a large oval shaped hole expands in the wall.
“The final test,” the Guardian says and steps through. Magical green mist envelops him and when it disperses, he’s gone.
“No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. I won’t do it. I won’t do it!” Werelion says, shaking his head as he backs away from the wall. Is it cowardice or good sense that makes him back away? Daring to step into an unknown magical test after what we just went through might be plain stupid.
“I will go first,” Nick says. “It’s fine, see?” he says and puts one arm through the hole, then a foot, and Werelion bursts forward.
“No, I will go first. You have all sacrificed for me. I will test it and see if it’s safe. It is the least I can do,” he says, hands me Toto, and moves toward the hole. Nick steps back to let him through.
Werelion stands at the hole, takes a deep breath, then another, and doesn’t move.
“Werelion?” Nick says. Werelion shakes his head.
“Push me in. Just push me. I can’t do it on my—” he says, and Nick sends him flying into the hole. The magic envelops him in an instant. When the mist clears, he’s not there.
“Do you think he realizes we have no way of knowing if he lives through it?” Nick asks, amusement crinkling his bewildered eyes.
“Dorothy? Would you like to go next?” Ardie asks.
“Sure,” I say with a shrug before I walk over, my bag of weapons on my back and my dog in my arms. “See you on the other side,” I grin. With a deep breath and not too much thought, I step into the mysterious magical mist of Oz with crossed fingers.
15
The City of Emeralds
Dazzling brilliancy cradles and encapsulates me like I’m a fetus in the womb as it hurls me through a solid emerald wall as thick and tall as the tallest skyscrapers. With Toto in my arms, we rush headlong through the great barrier, the green crystal before us folding away in kaleidoscopic patterns, carving our path as we fly. I find every slope, loop, twist, and turn thrilling, like being on a roller coaster, but Toto doesn’t agree. He barks out his protests, growling and howling and barking for every curve and corner we take. But as much as he hates it, I love it, smiling so big for so long my face hurts. It’s hard to tell which way is up or down but if I had to guess, I’d say we’re upside down speeding feet first straight up to the top of this massive emerald.
Soon enough the morphing shapes of the crystal at my feet open to a bright blue sky and Toto and I are spat out in a puff of green mist. Toto howls as we shoot high into the air feet first from the center of the rampart over a long walkway that lines the entire battlement. A tooth shaped parapet of merlons made of single large emerald crystals with sharp points line the rampart, and magic haze pours out through the crenels in coruscating light and fog. Behind the parapet is a rooftop covered in zombies, shifters, and humans either working or walking around and hanging out on emerald benches, packed into restaurants with outdoor seating, and socializing at what might be a country club.
Upside down and hurtling through the air, I take it all in as we arc down toward the bustling city below. The rapid thudding of my heart rattles my ribcage, and I wonder if this is my way of learning I failed the test the Guardian of the Gates mentioned. Outrage thunders inside me as the spangly green cloud that brought us to this point forms into a bubble around us. Afloat, suspended in the middle of the magical bubble that appears to be taking me somewhere, my anxiety abates and a blanket of relief enwraps me—I guess I’m not getting dropped from a thousand feet above the ground—but worry creeps in as the bubble curves back toward the emerald rampart. Is this some elaborate ejection from the city? Werelion flails around in his bubble ahead as he floats along the interior of the wall, and although he’s obviously in distress, the sight of it relaxes me.
When I turn around, I see Nick get spat out the same way I did. Ardie emerges next in the same puff of nebulous mist. With a visible pop, their glimme
ring fog morphs into bubbles, and both of them follow the same track as Werelion and me, veering back toward the wall and drifting along the length of its interior.
The closer I get to the wall, the clearer its details become. Grotesques of terrifying shifters offset rows of apartments that span the entire emerald rampart. In an unnerving marriage of elegance and spookiness, nightmarish shifter gargoyles stand posted at either side of the many twinkling bartizans in the wall where large families of zombies and shifters live.
As I float past the viridescent windows of these fancy apartments with crystal balustraded balconies, the people inside go about their lives as though someone floating by their window is commonplace. When I look out over the city in the other direction, I notice we’re not the only ones traveling this way. Bubbles containing humans, zombies, and shifters float over the top of the city, down into the streets, and my eyes widen in awe.
The thick wall that surrounds the city looks like a fortress from the outside, but from the inside it is a beautiful creation of intricate design. If what the Guardian said is true, it was magic that carved the homes from the gargantuan stone. Like the rest of Emerald with its grand estates of lush farms and emerald mansions, the homes inside the wall are elegant with a magical touch. Crystal walls with doors that open and close like a camera shutter divide large rooms. Each home has wide open spaces with elegant décor and its own aesthetic unique to its residents and their species.
With my emerald goggles on, I can see the magic that lights the room I pass. Inside, a busy shifter rabbit cooks dinner over an emerald stove run on magic in a kitchen that opens into a very large family room. While her children hop around and play, three of them argue over a toy. The shifter rabbit yells at her fighting kids to quiet and turns away from the pan to resolve their tiff. As she separates her little ones, a magic hand made of green glittering mist emerges from the kitchen wall, lifts her spoon, and stirs the vegetables she is sautéing.
My mind is blown. That’s maybe the most convenient appliance ever. Talk about a smart home. I bet Alexa has that ability someday.
The bubbles drift lower, Werelion already about fifty feet below me, and I pass more apartments, most with curtains drawn but some have zombies or shifters puttering about their homes. I float past a balcony where a man stands drinking out of an emerald bottle. Shirtless, only wearing loose pants that hang from his hips, his warm, dark skin sports an elaborate tattoo of a snake that circles around from his low waistband to his torso and covers his chest and back with its head curling around his neck. He leans on the balustrade looking out at the city. Silky brown hair falls in waves just above the head of the snake at his chiseled jawline. When our eyes meet, he smiles at me and winks oozing promises of debauchery.
Why are all the attractive guys in this realm playboy types with such cheesy game? If that’s what works for the men around here, what is wrong with the women of Oz? Or it could be they hate it as much as we do in the civilized realm. I don’t know of a single woman who wants that kind of approach.
“Human, zombie, or shifter?” he asks as I float by.
“Human,” I say, and he smiles a lazy half-grin, his smoldering eyes roaming over my body. A shudder creeps down my spine.
“Meet me at the Copper Jewel tonight,” he calls as I float away relieved to be leaving his presence.
The bubble picks up speed and whisks us through the bustling streets above the heads of pedestrians. None of them act like it’s strange how close we are, as if flying low in a bubble over the streets of the city is commonplace. Although I suppose it would be in a city like this—a city made of emeralds, run on magic, and grown from the ground by a wizard.
Even Toto’s eyes are wide as we zoom through the spectacular city in a bubble. Restaurants and taverns advertise ‘Fresh Brains!’ and ‘Fresh Kills!’ Shops and markets with cheerful signs and displays advertise products like ‘Zombie Cream — now with Methanol!’ and ‘Artisanal Brain Bars — Jam-Packed with Happy Thoughts. Now in Munchkin Flavor!’
We weave in and out of buildings, floating around corners, and flying down street after street until we reach the main road that gleams with vivid green magic. On one side of the street, boutiques and cafés bookend zombie spas and shifter groomers. On the other side stands a large skyscraper with high-ceiling apartments.
As our bubbles circle the building, spiraling up toward the top, I see entire floors are rainforest or desert, ice and snow, beaches—it boggles my mind how even with magic, a beach and ocean could appear on the thirtieth floor. The bubble brings me all the way to the pinnacle of this unique shifter building, the entire top of which is a resplendent aviary brimming with shifter birds. Daedal carvings in the crystal catch the light of the sun and reflect in iridescent clouds that drift off the top of what is the tallest building in the city by far before it disperses over the land. This is the beacon of light that led us here.
As we descend, I realize I’m being given a tour. It brings a smile to my face and gives me hope. If the wizard’s magic is controlling this bubble as the Guardian implied, I’d take it as a good sign we’ve proven ourselves enough to at least get a decent welcome.
From the top of the tallest tower, we glide toward the city’s center, and halfway there I spot it—right in the middle of the bejeweled metropolis stands an emerald palace grander than the grandest palace ever built in the civilized realm. The Palace of Versailles has nothing on this place. The Taj Mahal doesn’t even compare. It’s enormous. If this city is about the size of the island of Manhattan, this palace is all of Central Park.
Like everything else, it’s made of emerald—brilliant, shimmering, and deep green. Magic courses through its walls and over its grounds, out into the city. A small river encircles the entire property. One might call it a moat if fish shifters weren’t swimming in it and people weren’t lounging at the riverbank. An emerald drawbridge spans the water forming a walkway to stairs that lead to the colossal emerald and copper doorway of the grandiloquent castle.
Embellished with florid engravings on its facade, the palace is majestic to say the least. Towers topped with emerald hoardings shine as bright as they menace. Exquisite turrets with cut crystal roofs glint in the light and evanesce sparkling green vapor. And between the turrets on the flat roof of the exterior wall are embattled parapets with crenellations. Merlons of rough hexagonal emerald stones jut upward to sharp, intimidating points. Soldiers in green military uniforms walk the patrol path behind the battlement that runs along the top of the rampart. Each of them carries a staff like the Guardian’s—long, copper, and bejeweled in faceted emeralds with a deep green stone the size of a softball braced in the talon-like clutches at the top.
Behind the curtain wall is a palace that would make mansions cry from shame of inadequacy. Bartizans with windows the color of ripe honeydew protrude from the palace’s exterior. Rapacious green ivy climbs the walls and curls in flowery complement to the elegance of the gleaming facade. And at its center, uniformed landscapers and the twinkling fog of the magic of Oz both tend to a spectacular open-air garden only man, nature, and magic could have grown in congruence.
From my bubble that floats about five feet above the garden’s highest tree, I gaze at all the rich-hued flowers glutting the ground below in an arresting kaleidoscope of blooms. Touch-me-nots drench container gardens, spilling over to kiss the neighboring pink pampas grass that explodes from its planters like fireworks. Crimson petunias sway with twirling hibiscus blossoms in a magical dance that steals my breath. Each of their swirls and swivels emit sparks of magic that flitter away in the breeze. As I drift over the garden gasping at the overwhelming beauty beneath my feet, my bubble dips down so low I can almost touch the sea of angelonias as they cuddle with a rainbow of powder puff dahlias that emanate glittering affection.
My bubble slows, and it feels as though it knows this garden is the kind of place I’ve always dreamed of seeing in person. The magical work of art at my feet is a love affair of structure and pa
ndemonium. Flowering vines coil and curl around trellises and gazebos of latticed emerald crystal. A rumpus of shimmering green roses weave around topiaries trimmed with exactitude. And bedlams of annuals congregate around paths of manicured emerald grass in a harmonious commingling of chaos and order. It’s a spectacular synergy of the green precision of man and an anarchy of color only nature and magic could grow together.
I float out of the garden, up over a pavé tower topped with a swirling crystal roof that looks like it’s blown glass, and inside I see an elderly human man pacing the floor. Our bubbles float around the castle before lowering us on its front steps. When the bubble reaches the landing at the top of the steps, it pops and drops us about a foot above the ground. Werelion tumbles, sobbing, while I land with ease. Nick alights without a stumble but Ardie falls over with a grunt.
“I cannot wait another minute for this cure,” Ardie grumbles as he picks himself up. “When can we see Oz?” he asks the Guardian who is standing here waiting for us.
“When he’s ready,” the Guardian says in his usual sour way.
“Lose the attitude or I’ll flatten you again,” I warn, my eyes slits, but he just shakes his head at me and turns toward the massive door.
To the side of the door is another palm-sized faceted emerald rimmed in copper. The Guardian places his hand on it and the massive door opens.
The inside is even more striking than the outside. Deep green selenite-like columns that glint and glimmer support high-vaulted ceilings forming a long, wide corridor that leads to a reliquary of magic oozing luminosity. Iridescent, glittering green haze seeps into the atmosphere and flows throughout the space. Florid archways carved with intricacy and skill frame honeydew crystal doors that open and close as soldiers and servants clad in formal green uniforms zip about the space.
Dorothy In the Land of Monsters Page 23