Song

by Jason Lethcoe

  Edward searched desperately for any sign of Tabitha in the swarming crowd, but it was impossible to tell where she was.

  “Please be okay,” he murmured, thinking about the wounded Guardian he’d just seen. Tabitha was an expert flier, but whatever it was that they were fighting seemed to have an edge over the Guardians.

  Spotting a nearby hill, Edward shouted for Bridgette to follow him. Maybe if they stood somewhere above the battle they would be able to find Tabitha.

  He and Bridgette reached the top of the hill, huffing and puffing. Edward surveyed the battlefield, searching desperately for any sign of their friend.

  Come on, Tabitha. Where are you?Suddenly, through the crowd of attacking Guardians, he glimpsed clearly whom—or what—they were fighting. Seeing the enemy up close, he suppressed a shudder.

  Four horrifying, mechanical centaurs struck left and right with clockwork precision, dispatching every Guardian who stood against them. A centaur with an ax easily deflected the forest Guardian spears thrown at him, striking back at the Guardians with tremendous force. A skeletal centaur wielded his scythe as if he were harvesting wheat, shearing wings instead of grain. As each of the Guardians lost their wings, they let out terrible, heart-wrenching screams before vanishing into thin air.

  A skinny, female centaur was destroying every inch of land she touched, her glowing hooves causing the ground beneath her foes to turn to swamp and suck them under.

  The last centaur—a lumpy, misshapen thing with a single, glowing eye—was scattering what looked like silver seeds on the ground. The seeds swarmed over to the nearest Guardians and engulfed them. Edward watched as more than one Guardian clawed at his face and body in an effort to rid himself of the tiny, silver attackers. Whatever the little things were, they clearly caused the victim immense pain.

  Edward had to do something! His stomach churned as he shoved his hand into his pocket, searching for his father’s ring. Tabitha had tried to give him a crash course in ring throwing, but he wasn’t very good at it yet. With a little time, he felt like he could get the hang of it, but he hadn’t expected to have to use his ring so soon in a real battle!

  “HROOOOOOMMMMMMBAAAAA!” Edward had just pulled the ring out of his pocket when the sound of loud, rumbling singing filled the air. He and Bridgette turned to see the Buruch, Cornelius’s mammoth blue snails, gathered together at the edge of the field. They were turned toward the attackers, singing a low, booming chord that sounded like the bottom keys of a pipe organ.

  The sound was so powerful that it shook the ground beneath Edward’s feet, and he had a hard time keeping his balance. He knew immediately that it was a Song of Power, but it was unlike the ones that Guardians sang.

  “Look!” Edward shouted, pointing at the snails. Bridgette followed his gaze. The blue snails’ massive shells crackled and glowed with electric sparks in response to the magical song. Lines of fire burst outward, illuminating the shells in a bright, phosphorescent glow and casting weird, dancing shadows on everyone around them.

  As the chord reached an ear-splitting volume, the mammoth blue shells sprouted enormous, deadly-looking spikes. Armed like gargantuan tanks of war, the huge creatures rushed forward to engage the centaurs. Their normally serene, almost human faces were alight with a ferocious glow. As they glided past him on the grassy field, Edward could just make out the words to the Song of Power they sang.

  Azru Li, Azru Li,

  Hear our song, O enemy.

  To battle! To battle! Buruch, the Blessed,

  Ancient snails, battle dressed.

  To war we go, O enemies flee!

  Azru Li, Azru Li.

  The last snail had just passed when Bridgette let out a cry. “Edward, look!”

  Edward glanced to where she was pointing. A winged figure was lying on the ground about forty feet away, a little apart from where the fiercest fighting was going on. Fearing the worst, he and Bridgette raced over to help the wounded Guardian.

  Edward’s heart sank when he saw who it was.

  “Oh no,” he moaned. “Not Tabitha!”

  Chapter Four

  RETALIATION

  Tabitha’s clothes, face, and arms were bloody and ragged. Looking closer, Edward saw that she was covered with thousands of tiny teeth and claw marks.

  Edward spotted one of the culprits by Tabitha’s foot. It was the remains of a tiny, mechanical bug with cruel-looking pinchers—one of the seedlike things he’d seen the lumpy centaur throw.

  “Oh, Edward. Look what they’ve done to her wings!” Bridgette said, choking back tears.

  Edward hadn’t noticed the absence of Tabitha’s beautiful, pearly pink wings. But now he saw that the tiny attackers had stripped her wings of feathers, leaving behind two useless stumps. Flying meant everything to Tabitha. She would be devastated if she could never fly again.

  Rage washed over Edward. His eyes flashed as he rose to his feet and turned to face the four horsemen. He wasn’t going to let what they had done to Tabitha go unpunished.

  “Edward, don’t!” Bridgette cried. “You don’t know what you’re doing! You need more training!”

  But Edward was too angry to listen. His huge wings flared out dramatically on either side of him as he raised his ring and took careful aim, concentrating with all his might.

  The Four never saw the attack coming. They’d been dispatching the Guardians with ease. Even the gigantic blue snails, although formidable, were no match for them. But when Bugs reached into his pouch for more of his metal insects and found his arm severed at the wrist, they suddenly gave pause.

  No enemy, mortal or immortal, had ever inflicted the slightest scratch upon them.

  The Four rotated their heads and cast their glowing, electronic eyes upon their tall, thin attacker. Edward’s ring returned to him like a boomerang, and he snatched it effortlessly from the air. It had been a good shot, one that would have made Tabitha proud. But as he felt the eyes of the centaurs upon him, his courage waned.

  The Four possessed a weapon that went beyond ordinary steel. The Jackal had empowered them with something else—something that even their strongest enemies could not escape.

  With a puff of smoke, a tiny, metal insect with a stinger no bigger than a small mosquito shot from Blight’s outstretched hand. It was the smallest of the Four’s weapons, but also one of the most powerful, having been enhanced by the Jackal’s own magic. Its poison was a magic akin to the Corruption, but with a transforming effect that was mental instead of physical.

  The metallic bug burrowed deep into the flesh of Edward’s exposed neck. As it released its dark, subtle poison, a web of fear settled over him. Sudden waves of insecurity and self-doubt filled his mind. The glowing, red eyes of the centaurs focused on him, and the confidence and resolve he’d had only a few seconds earlier melted away. Voices spoke in his head, reminding him of his worst insecurities: that he was no good; that he was a skinny, tall freak who nobody liked; that he didn’t stand a chance of rescuing his mother.

  Suddenly Edward knew with overwhelming certainty that he was outmatched in every way. It had been a lucky shot that had injured the lumpy centaur—probably one in a million. He barely knew what he was doing as a Guardian. After all, hadn’t he just learned how to fly two days ago?

  Edward could not look away from the Four. It seemed to him as if the entire battlefield had fallen silent.

  The horsemen continued to stare at him, watching as their invisible web snaked its way around his mind and heart.

  “Edward, what’s happening?” Bridgette asked, sensing the change that had come over him.

  “I duh-duh-don’t nuh-nuh-nuh-know,” Edward stammered. With a sinking heart, he realized that the stutter that had plagued him for so long, the one he thought he’d beaten after he’d faced his fears in Specter’s Hollow, had returned.

  Edward felt insignificant, ridiculous, and more afraid then he’d ever been.

  Suddenly Blades hefted his immense battle-ax and Bones grabbed his long s
cythe. There was an eerie, bloodcurdling shout as the Four galloped forward!

  “Edward!” Bridgette yelled, shaking his arms. “Edward, they’re coming. Do something!”

  But Edward hardly moved. The voices of the horsemen echoed in his brain. Worthless . . . Ridiculous . . . Weak . . . A Guardian who can’t even talk, much less sing! Pathetic . . . just like his father . . .

  The horsemen thundered closer. “Fly, Edward! Use your wings! We’ve got to get out of here!” Bridgette shouted.

  Edward couldn’t think. His mind was fogged over with fear and anxiety. It’s hopeless . . . they’re too strong . . . I’m no Guardian . . . I’m just a freak . . .

  The Four were very close now. Edward clearly saw the grinning metal skull of the nearest horseman laugh as he raised his deadly scythe. But he didn’t care. Better to end it now! the horsemen’s voices mocked.

  Then, from somewhere deep inside him, the words of the snails’ battle song rushed into Edward’s mind.

  Azru Li, Azru Li, Azru Li . . . He didn’t know what the words meant, but he sensed something powerful in them. It was as if the words called on a different kind of strength, one that he didn’t possess, something entirely outside of himself.

  He’d sung the words once before when he was trapped by Whiplash Scruggs back on Earth and needed to escape. Then, they had come unbidden to his lips, even though he was sure he’d never heard them before. This time, as he recited them in his mind, it was as if something awoke inside him. He heard a quiet voice, very different from those of the Four. It was gentle. And it radiated confidence and hope.

  You don’t have to listen to them, you know, the new voice said.

  But they’re right! They’re too strong, and I’m . . . Edward thought, but the new voice interrupted him.

  You are who you’re meant to be, and that is enough. It is time to gather your courage and fly.

  Edward didn’t know who it was that spoke to him, only that the words filled him with new purpose. Through the shadows of fear and insecurity, he realized what he needed to do. He needed to fly. The problem was, the only way he’d been able to find the confidence to fly before was by visualizing his deck of playing cards. And right now, all he could focus on were the alien faces of his attackers rushing toward him at a full gallop.

  “Edward, NOW!” Bridgette screamed.

  Edward calmed his mind. He tried to picture the familiar images from his precious deck, but he couldn’t see them. Until he’d lost them, the cards had been like a security blanket, helping him through his most difficult times.

  The Four were practically upon him, just ten yards and closing. He saw the lumpy one reach into his bag and pull out a fistful of the writhing, silver insects.

  “EDWARD!” Bridgette shouted.

  Suddenly the clouds lifted from his brain. The cards, every pip and every face, were clearly delineated in his mind.

  King of spades with his golden shovel, jack of diamonds with his eye patch, queen of hearts with her trapped peacock . . .

  As the images rushed into focus, Edward’s wings gave a powerful downward flap. He barely managed to duck the skeleton’s rusty scythe as he grabbed Bridgette tightly around the waist. The big centaur’s ax was raised for a killing blow, and thousands of deadly, iron-jawed insects were scuttling toward their feet.

  The jaws of the nearest insect closed on empty space. Edward and Bridgette were rocketing skyward. The Four stared after their escaping prey, amazed for the second time.

  There was the briefest pause as their mechanical brains whirred and clicked with this new information. Then their heads tilted back on their necks and their electronic eyes rolled back in their sockets. Their iron jaws fell open and an eerie wail filled the entire valley, an alarm that they knew their master was sure to hear.

  The wail echoed off of the mountains that surrounded the tree-lined hills. But it was not just an alarm. It was also a cry of triumph. For although Edward soared among the clouds, there was a poison tether that bound him to the ground. Their poison was with him, and once infected, there was no cure. No matter how far he flew, the Bridge Builder could not escape the Four.

  Chapter Five

  TORTURE

  Sometimes the Jackal’s Lair resembled a dark tower with cruel spires. Other times it resembled a palace of ice. At the moment, the Jackal’s Lair looked exactly like his headquarters in California: a five-story building with bricks the color of molten copper.

  In Los Angeles, his headquarters was known as the Bradbury Building, and it was the most evil place on Earth. The structure was elegant, covered with iron filigree and containing dizzying flights of stairs. Most people walked by it every day, never knowing what truly went on within its secret rooms. They were oblivious to the depths of evil that lurked inside.

  But in the Woodbine, everyone knew exactly what went on in the Jackal’s Lair. It was a place of unnamed horror and unspeakable torture. The Lair was hidden from view by a force field that was said to shear the wings off any Guardian who flew too close. Its borders were marked by huge, flat pieces of stone. Woodbine legend claimed that the stones were the remains of the bridges the Jackal destroyed when he fell. It was said that the Jackal drew power from the stones, that they were needed to keep his force field in place.

  The legends were true.

  Outside the stone wall, the landscape was dry and inhospitable. Scrub brush and stunted oak trees were the only things that grew there, and it was a place of unbearable heat.

  But deep inside the Jackal’s Lair, it was very cold and very dark. Groundlings swarmed through the maze of dripping tunnels and halls like a maggoty infestation. All hope was abandoned inside the Lair, for its residents functioned on a different kind of energy.

  Hate. Despair. Revenge.

  The very walls seemed to ooze with these feelings, filling the occupants with the traits of their lord and master, the Jackal.

  It was inside one of the Lair’s immense, underground caverns that Whiplash Scruggs had gathered an assembly of Groundlings to witness his moment of triumph. He’d narrowly escaped the Jackal’s wrath for not capturing the boy. As far as he knew, he’d only been spared because he’d brought his master another prize.

  It had been a long chase. Scruggs had tracked the boy and his father from Portland to Los Angeles and then to the Woodbine. He’d been thwarted in his pursuit several times, but finally, outside the village of Woodhaven, Scruggs had caught up with them. Unfortunately, the boy had escaped. But Scruggs was certain that Edward Macleod would return to his clutches now that he had the boy’s father.

  As the dank amphitheater filled with blue-eyed Groundlings, Scruggs stroked his black goatee and relished the moment that was about to come.

  Melchior, known on Earth as Mr. Spines, had been captured. And every Groundling not on assignment had gathered to watch the Clipping, the ritual of severing a Guardian’s wings.

  Scruggs’s fingers caressed the handles of his long-bladed scissors. For thousands of years, he and Melchior had been master craftsmen, creating Instruments of Power to be used with Guardian songs. But Melchior had always been just a little bit better at it, garnering the attention and praise of the highest-ranking Guardians. Where Guardians craved Melchior’s unique and inventive instruments and saw them as priceless collectibles, Scruggs’s were seen as well made but lacking in imagination.

  Scruggs would have given much to have the success and fame that Melchior had. And it had only irritated him more that Melchior hadn’t cared about the praise. He’d cared only about the work itself, something that Scruggs had never understood. What point was there in creating something if it didn’t garner rewards, he thought.

  It was Scruggs’s bitterness over being second best that had eventually led to his fall. For him, there just wasn’t enough room for both he and Melchior in the Woodbine. So he had chosen to fall. He’d abandoned his craft and turned his sharp intelligence to finding creatively cruel ways to fulfill the Jackal’s orders.

  And
now it had paid off. He had Melchior just where he wanted him. And when he was finished with him, he would dispense with his son, Edward. Scruggs would be the most famous Groundling ever, and would gloat in his final victory.

  “Who’s laughing now, eh, Melchior?” Scruggs whispered to himself as he opened and shut his scissors with a deliberate SNIP!

  Scruggs removed a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and polished his beloved shears, admiring them with renewed appreciation. The handles were brass, but the blades were made of pure silver. He’d forged the scissors himself after much testing and trying of other metals. Ultimately, he’d proven that silver was the best for the job. It was the only metal that sliced effortlessly through a Guardian’s wings.

  Scruggs finished shining the deadly scissors and gazed around at the throng of hideous Groundlings. The commotion in the huge amphitheater settled down as a low-ranking Groundling, Belthog by name, hobbled onstage and motioned for silence. The creature had a vulture’s beak, a humped back, and two glowing blue pinpricks for eyes.

  “Brothers and sisters,” he croaked. “It is my great honor . . . golp”—the gnarled Groundling paused to make a disgusting, burbling sound in his throat—“to introduce to you the esteemed Moloc, known to mortals as Whiplash Scruggs. He has arranged an evening of entertainment, golp, that is sure to leave you both thrilled and inspired.”

  The Groundling introduced Scruggs with a twisted claw, and the assembled throng let out a series of thunderous squawks, grunts, and cheers. Scruggs was positively radiant at the praise, sweeping off his huge, plantation style hat and bowing low.

  “So it is without further ado”—burble, gulp— “that I give you the most innovative and dedicated servant of the Jackal, a Groundling without equal, a genius of torture . . . MOLOC!”

  More cheers. Scruggs motioned to the back of the stage and two more Groundlings, twisted apes with pig snouts, wheeled out a gurney with a small porcupine-like figure strapped down to it.

  Mr. Spines was far too weak to struggle against his bonds. His face was pale and he looked half starved. He gazed sadly at row upon row of jeering Groundlings, who spat and let out a chorus of catcalls when he appeared.