Ozland

by Wendy Spinale

  Heavy leather boots splash nearby.

  Strong arms lift me from my watery grave.

  Thick woolen blankets wrap tight around my body.

  “Come now, drink up,” a gruff older woman’s voice says. Hints of cinnamon, cardamom, and ginger tickle my nose. And something else … whiskey? A cup is held close to my lips and I sip from it, willing my teeth not to chatter. The warm liquid spreads heat through me instantly, chasing away the icy chill. I cough, feeling the burn in the back of my throat from the alcoholic beverage.

  A gentle hand pats my back. “Amzo, I told ye that was too much of your firewater for this one,” a boy says, his voice kind and hushed.

  “Too much?” the woman’s voice says. “’Twas hardly a snifter’s worth.”

  My eyes struggle to focus. Brilliant orange light wavers in my vision. Sensation burns the tips of my toes and fingers as flickering flames warm them. I sip from the cup offered to me, but this time I’m prepared for the hot liquid. Closing my eyes, I’m grateful for the comfort it brings my near frozen body.

  “There ye go. That’s much better, isn’t it?” the boy asks.

  When I open my eyes, a ginger-haired boy smiles wide. “Feeling any better?” he asks.

  I nod and take in my surroundings. A dozen soldiers sit within metal machines. With arms and legs, the devices almost resemble a human. Scopes, barrels, and blades cover the machines as if they’re one large utility tool. They watch me cautiously, many with curious and even anxious expressions. Within the torchlight, several of them reflect an auburn glow, looking as if their locks are ablaze.

  A single machine remains empty and probably belongs to one of the two people sitting next to me: the older woman and the boy, who looks to be my age.

  “Where do ye suppose she’s come from?” the boy says, poking me with a finger. “I reckon she’s a sorceress with her flying about in the clouds like that.”

  “I’m not a sorceress,” I reply indignantly. “I’m just a girl.”

  He brushes his red hair from his face. “Right, and I’m as thick as two short planks. No one flies around here unless ye be a sorceress or a dragon, which in that case we’d have to kill ye either way.”

  “That was my hovercycle,” I say defensively.

  “Yer hover-what?” The burly, gray-haired woman, who must be Amzo, belches, dousing me in the hot stench of old fish and whiskey. My eyes tear up. “I don’t give two bollocks what that flying machine was. All I want to know is who are ye and what ye be doing here.”

  The others chatter among themselves, and their words blur in my head as they speak with thick accents.

  Although the warmth of the fire and tea relax me, fear replaces the prickle coursing through my skin. In my grave predicament, I had hoped the strangers would be friendly. Now that dying of hypothermia or drowning is no longer a worry, I second-guess my choice to aim for the beach. While these people appear friendly, I remind myself to remain cautious.

  “Where are ye from?” the boy asks again.

  “I’d like to know that meself,” the whiskey-scented woman says.

  “I’ve … been sent to find the …” I stumble through my words, the cold and whiskey making me slow.

  “Out with it, lassie,” Amzo says impatiently. “We don’t have all day. What are ye here for?”

  “She’s frightened enough. Don’t ye make it worse for her,” the boy says.

  “Ye mind yer own business, Jo. Ye have no say here,” Amzo chides.

  The brusque woman stares at me with dull green eyes beneath a single bushy eyebrow. Sun spots speckle her plump nose and rosy cheeks. Her expression is intimidating. I turn my gaze to the ground.

  “I’m here for a friend who was brought over five years ago,” I say, my voice trembling.

  Amzo guffaws. “Five years ago? Ye was a babe in nappies five years ago. How could ye have a friend from then?”

  “Leave her be,” Jo says, turning his attention to me. “What’s yer name, lass?”

  “Abigail, but most just call me Gail,” I say.

  The villagers whisper my name among themselves.

  “What a lovely name,” Jo says. He reaches down and grips my elbow. “How about we get ye some suitable garments and give ye a place to lie? Ye must be dreadfully tired, what with that fright ye gave us. Ye’re lucky ye didn’t end belly-up in those waters. The Manx Sea shows no mercy to those who grapple with it.”

  As I rise to my feet, exhaustion overcomes me. However, my gut twists, sending alarms to my thoughts. There’s no time for sleep. I struggle to stand, scrabbling out from under the blanket. I feel the fabric catch on something, then a tug around my neck, followed by the tinkle of metal hitting stone. Recognizing the sound, I bend down, reaching for the brass key and chain, but I’m too late. Amzo has snatched it up.

  “Where did ye get this?” she demands, clutching the key in her withered and wrinkled hand. Her tone startles me. I stumble back.

  “Stop it, ye’re scaring the lass,” Jo says, his words only fueling Amzo’s fury.

  She rattles the chain in my face. “I said, where did ye get this?”

  Words fail to reach my lips. I look to Jo, my only ally in this strange land.

  He grimaces before giving me a nod, encouraging me to speak.

  I’m unsure if they know of the king I seek. And if so, I have no idea whether they’ll help me find him or if they’ll consider me a threat. “I … I found it,” I say, hearing my untruth quiver through my voice.

  “Lie!” Amzo says. Gripping my collar, she pulls me close. “Ye’re one of hers, aren’t ye? Ye hail from Germany! Ye’re here to finish what that terrible woman started, yeah?”

  Jo stands between us.

  “Enough! Get ahold of yerself,” he snaps, his face only centimeters from Amzo’s. “We don’t know where she hails from. She’s nearly drowned herself getting here as it is. She deserves the right to speak.”

  Amzo doesn’t flinch, nor does she back down.

  “Put her in the locker. No rations until she loosens that lying tongue of hers,” Amzo says, brushing past Jo and heading to the empty mechanical suit.

  Another soldier reaches a steel claw toward me, ready to take me prisoner. Jo pushes me behind him, shielding me from the metal hand.

  “Ye’ll do not such thing! This matter is for Ginger to decide,” he says.

  My breath catches as I recognize the name. Ginger, the same name that my father used when he told me to find the king. My mind is riddled with thoughts. But I don’t have a chance to voice the numerous questions I have.

  Amzo whirls toward us, rips off a glove, and lifts a blistered hand. “Ye see this? This is the work of the Bloodred Queen. I will not have her cause more destruction than she’s already done. This is me land and me people. She’ll have no part in the goings-on here. Not by her hand nor through some wolf in sheep’s clothing. That girl is the queen’s spy, and she’ll die before she gets information from any of us. I don’t give a bother what Ginger says.”

  “Amzo, give her a chance,” Jo pleads, but the old woman pays no attention as she climbs into the mechnosuit. With a shake of her head, two other women lunge toward me with their mechanical hands. I am wrenched from the sand and lifted into the air.

  “What do ye think ye’re doing? She’s no spy. She’s hardly a day older than meself,” Jo says.

  Jo watches me with striking blue eyes, worry welling in them.

  Amzo barrels past the female soldiers, the metal feet of her suit kicking up copious amounts of sand with each footfall. She stops at the entrance to a pathway leading to the remains of an ancient fortress. Turning, she holds up the brass key and presses her lips together.

  “Hear me, soldiers of Wicklow. None shall assist this girl or else they’ll find themselves in the stockade,” she says.

  An uncomfortable hush blankets the group.

  “Amzo, what are ye saying?” Jo says, distress evident in his tone.

  “Do you know what this is, boy? T
his key is the craftsmanship of the keymaker of Lohr. ’Tis said to be the sole key that will unlock Lohr’s most precious treasure. I won’t be having some child running off to annihilate our last chance for survival.”

  As the women drag me along the pathway and toward the fortress entrance, I struggle within their viselike grip. Within moments of arriving at the Emerald Isle, I carelessly lost the last thing my father gave me. He’d never allow such an important item to fall into the hands of strangers.

  “Ye must be sloshed,” Jo says, glaring at Amzo.

  Amzo returns his stare. “Mind yerself, child. This is no business of yers.”

  “No business of mine, ye say?” Jo steps forward, fists clenched. He rips off his own ragged gloves, exposing a hand so raw with sores that there is hardly any healthy skin left. “I darn well think it is me business. Ye blather on about survival and hope, but all the time ye’ve lived among us, ye’ve never spoken of such treasure. If such a thing exists, why have ye not told us before? What blarney do ye speak of?”

  Amzo glares at him.

  “There’s no great treasure of Germany, is there? In fact, I’d wager there’s not much left of that vile place anyway. And even if there was, how in heaven’s name would ye know?” Jo says.

  Amzo purses her lips, fury raging in her eyes.

  “Unless ye start talking, I’d suggest giving the lass her key back and letting her be on her way,” Jo says, folding his arms. “Or I’ll go straight to Ginger meself and tell of yer cruelty to this stranger who has done nothing to warrant it.”

  Amzo storms toward Jo and leans in close, her armor squealing as she bends.

  “I know because the keymaker is General Ginger’s da,” Amzo spits.

  Lily winces as she applies a swatch of fabric from her shirt to her injured arm. Alyssa tends her other wounds as she reaches through the bars in her adjoining cell. A Haploraffen stands guard, waiting for Pete and me, and preventing us from reaching Lily or the others.

  I bite my lip while Pete reluctantly dabs at my gashes with a scrap of my shirt. My flesh feels as if it’s on fire, but inside I’m numb—like a corpse, cold and dead within my skin. A piece of my soul was ripped from me when Lily was snatched from my side and carelessly tossed back into her cell. And now that I can’t touch her, can’t help her with her wounds, I feel hollow.

  “Hurry it up,” demands the guard who executed my lashings.

  Lacking a gentle hand, Pete presses hard on my wounds. “Would you care to take over?” he asks.

  I swallow the pain.

  The Haploraffen growls.

  A cure. That’s all she wants from me. One that will take her symptoms away and that she could use to hold power over the nations across the world. Once she has it and the Bloodred Queen is dead, she’ll no longer have any use for me or the others. More than likely we’ll be next on her execution list.

  Alyssa does the best she can to tend to Lily’s wounds. Thankfully, each cell has a small barred window, probably to taunt its prisoners with the freedom they lack. The weather has turned gray and rainy, allowing Alyssa to wet the torn sleeve from her tunic for cleaning Lily’s lashes.

  Although I never lost consciousness, I quit counting after the twentieth lashing. The years and expertise in medicine rattle off proper care for my wounds in my head, but I’m in so much pain all I want to do is close my eyes and pass out. My tattered and bloody shirt lies in a heap in a corner, where I shed it as soon as I was brought back to my cell.

  Katt has left only one guard watching over us. The other four stand at each entrance of the macramé of hallways serving as our prison.

  “How are you holding up?” Pete mumbles. This sign of concern for my well-being surprises me.

  Exhausted, I shake my head. “I feel about as well as a tenderized steak, I suppose,” I say, groaning as I shift.

  “I don’t envy you,” Pickpocket says, leaning against the far wall of his cell. Curiously, his boot sits in the barred window as the storm sends rain through. “I would’ve been wailing like baby the entire time.”

  Maddox, who seems the gloomiest of the bunch, speaks for the first time since we’ve arrived at Lohr Castle. “There’s a remedy for that. A root that eases anxiety,” he says wistfully, probably thinking of his garden. He rubs his leg, grimacing. It’s been a few months since the Jabberwock skewered his thigh. Although he denies he’s in any pain, a noticeable limp has developed in his gait since then.

  The conversation dies down. Rain pelts the barred stone windows, drowning out the hum of the machines. Hopelessness is thick in the air and there’s not a thing I can do about it. No medicine, no diagnosis will make any of this better.

  “Duck!” Pickpocket says suddenly.

  Pete grabs me and pulls me to the ground. Machine parts squeak and sizzle. When I look up, steam rises from the Haploraffen guard as its gears grind to a halt. Behind the creature, Pickpocket stands holding his wet boot.

  “I don’t know about you blokes, but I’m not about to sit here and starve to death.” He slips two metal pins out of the decorative metal adornments on his boot. He easily picks the lock to the cell door.

  Lily clicks her tongue. “Impressive! Since when have you stashed lock-picking tools on your boots?”

  “Since always; these aren’t even my good ones,” he says, tugging on the brass button of his vest. The button slips off easily, and clearly it’s no regular button. With a flip of the hinge on the back, two metal prongs pop up, looking like tiny chopsticks.

  “I’ve got to get me a pair of those,” Maddox says.

  “How did you know the water would destroy it?” Alyssa asks.

  “Every machine and engine needs a source of energy,” Pickpocket says. “In order for that thing to be functioning, it’s either run by steam or fuel. With so many in Katt’s army, it makes sense to use steam energy, which requires two things: water and …”

  “Fire,” I say. “But why would the queen resort to fire when a simple rainstorm could snuff them out?”

  Pickpocket sighs. “That was the hard part.” He flicks his wrists, and screwdrivers of all shapes and sizes eject from his fingertips. “Any time it stepped close enough, I gave the screws of its back panel a turn.”

  Pete and I step behind the Haploraffen. The hinged metal panel is wide open and the burner inside steams beneath a water tank.

  “Remind me to take you everywhere I go,” Maddox says.

  “What now?” Pete asks, slumping against the wall. “Neither Lily nor Doc are in any shape to fight. We have no weapons. We have no idea where Katt has taken Gwen. What are we going to do? Kill the Bloodred Queen and Katt and all their soldiers with our bare hands? This is already a losing battle, and we haven’t even started.”

  Whirling, Pickpocket looms over the former leader of the Lost City. “You know what, Pete, we don’t have time for your whining. Ever since the destruction of Everland and then Umberland, you’ve been nothing but a prat. And now that we lost Bella, you’re utterly useless. Where’s our fearless leader? That Lost Boy who didn’t put up with anyone’s excuses?”

  “Bite your tongue,” Pete growls. “This is nothing like Everland ever was.”

  Pickpocket shakes his head. “You’ve given up, haven’t you? You’re right, Pete. This is not Everland. You’re no longer in charge. Go ahead, Lost Baby. Sit on your nappy-covered bum. I will not spend my final breath swinging from the gallows all because you’re in a foul mood. Get stuffed!”

  Pete shoves Pickpocket against the bars. Pickpocket does not take his eyes off Pete, challenging him to take a swing. Pete knocks him against the bars again before jutting a finger in his face. “Watch your mouth!”

  “I will not!” Pickpocket shouts, shoving him back. “I have followed you to the ends of the earth. Battled pirates and mutated lizard people. Saved dozens of children. Watched my Scavenger partner and best friend, Pyro, be eaten by a bloody crocodile. If you think for one second that steel bars are going to stop me from killing the Bloodre
d Queen, you’re greatly mistaken. Our plan was to rid this world of the Bloodred Queen, and that is what I intend to do. That evil queen will see her grave, even if I have to do it with my bare hands and alone. For all the Lost Kids that have died, for every child who suffered in Umberland, and for every person lost in the Labyrinth. For each life she’s taken, you’d better believe I will be sure that vile woman is dead,” Pickpocket shouts.

  Maddox lets out a low whistle. “He’s got a point. And guts.”

  Pete glances at me. Shock drains the blood from his complexion. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for me to say something, but I’m hardly surprised by Pickpocket’s threat. He’s loyal to Pete, almost to a fault, but when it comes making sure justice is served, he can be the judge, jury, and executioner.

  “I’m taking her down, Pete, with or without you,” Pickpocket says with an eerily calm voice. “I swear to you on my pa’s grave that she will bleed. That woman has taken all that I ever loved, all that I cared about, and destroyed it. And she will not get away with it. Not while I’m alive. Either you’re with me or not.”

  All eyes fall on Pete. We all wait uncomfortably for his response.

  The leader of the Lost Kids shakes his head. Finally, he looks up at Pickpocket.

  “How?” Pete asks, defeat evident in his fallen expression. “The six of us against an entire army of machines?”

  “I don’t know. But we’re here, in her bloody castle; we have to try,” Pickpocket says.

  “I’m in. I’m not much of a fighter, but I’ve done my fair share of surgeries. How much different is sword fighting from making incisions?” I joke.

  “Count me in, too,” Alyssa says, suddenly appearing at the bars of her cell.

  Maddox groans and stands. “Well, if she’s going, I guess I’m in, too. Someone needs to keep an eye on her. She welcomes trouble,” he says with a wave of his hand.