Her long auburn hair sits high on her head, a single white lock hanging to the side of her heart-shaped face. Explosions detonate around the village, sending dust and pebbles raining over us. I dodge out of the way of a large rock that breaks loose from the ceiling and hide in the corner as blasts detonate one after another.
Outside my prison, the community shouts unanimously in a language I don’t understand.
“Faugh a Ballagh!”
Confused, I glance at Jo, hoping for an explanation.
“It’s the battle call,” he says. “We’re under attack!”
Boots pound the soft earth, each footfall in unison with another. As if this isn’t their first invasion, and with how organized they appear, they obviously don’t expect it to be their last.
Another blast rocks the town, this time just outside my prison door. I’m hurled to the floor as loose dirt beats down on me. When the earth stops shaking, I cough, surrounded by a cloud of dust. I move slowly, checking to be sure nothing is broken.
My prison door hangs precariously, its bars twisted and bent. Quickly, I scramble out of the cell.
“Jo?” I say, choking out his name. Wiping the dust from my eyes with the back of my hands, I blink, trying to clear my vision. More explosions kick up dirt and shrubbery around me. Nausea twists my stomach as I search the destruction for any sign of Jo.
Within minutes, I find him crumpled beneath a tree, like a tossed-aside toy. I rush to help him to his feet.
“We need to get to the beach quickly,” he says, coughing. “They’ll need our help. Follow me.”
I don’t know what help I’ll be without my bow and arrows, but I go anyway. Jo leads as we travel through thick brush. Villagers run in different directions, and I’m not sure which way leads to the soft sand I landed on this morning. I’m surrounded by greenery; nothing looks like it did when I first arrived.
“This way,” Jo shouts over the ruckus. He chases after three soldiers armored in their mechnosuits.
Sunlight shines down, reflecting off the armor of the fallen soldiers. The closer we get to the beach, the more bodies we pass. Scattered among the dead are numerous wounded. From deep lacerations to missing limbs and disembowelment, their injuries, if not fatal, are disfiguring. Those who survive this assault will never be the same.
The ground quakes with the detonation of another cannonball. We race through a rugged pathway until the brush opens up, revealing a white-sand beach and fierce waves. Soldiers, standing nearly twice their size in their armored mechnosuits, fire high-powered, futuristic-looking guns that encase their arms. Smoke rises from the barrels as bullets fly.
Just beyond them, the sky is littered with flying machines that possess wings, and the body of a monkey. Spheres of fire shoot from cannons affixed to their shoulders.
As one Wickloreon soldier takes aim, a flaming orb rockets toward her, striking her in the chest. The armored suit is no match against a ball of fire. With a loud crash, she is thrown past us. When I turn back, she lies lifeless. Hot liquid metal from the melting suit pools inside the hole in her torso. I turn away, burying my head in Jo’s shoulder.
“Hold them back!” Ginger shouts. Her hair blows as gusts of wind rage across the shoreline. Patinaed coils adorn her waist, wrists, and neck like jewelry, gleaming as she grips the levers in the mechnosuit.
“How can we help them? We don’t even have weapons,” I say.
“There’s an armory cache nearby,” Jo says.
I shake my head. “This is far bigger than anything I’ve dealt with.”
“Ye want that key back?” he asks, pointing to Ginger. “She’s got yer precious key. The only way ye’re getting it is by proving ye’re worthy to hold it or by prying it out of her dead hands.”
Considering my options, I watch Ginger command her troops while she holds her own against the attack. My father insisted I find this woman, telling me she’d help me find the king. If she dies, my journey here will be for naught.
“Show me where the cache is,” I decide, not all that sure that I’m qualified to wield anything inside of it.
Jo leads me away from the firefight and down a short stony path. He picks up a palm-size stone from the ground and turns it over. Instead of a smooth granite surface, three metal spikes protrude from the rock. Jo easily slips the protrusions into the barely visible pits of the large boulder. With a twist, the stone appears to be a door handle. A slab of the rock opens toward us, revealing a pathway descending into the earth.
Jo grabs my hand. “Stay close,” he says.
We take only a dozen steps before we find ourselves in a dark cavern. Jo reaches inside his pocket, lights a match, and tips it toward a lantern he must have known was there. When the light chases away the shadows, I find myself surrounded by arms of all sorts: swords, katanas, guns, maces, throwing knives, and other weapons I don’t know the names for.
“Pick yer weapon of choice,” he says.
Shaking my head, I’m not sure what to say. “I’m only skilled with a bow. Those creatures are made of metal. Those arrows will never pierce their armor.”
Jo selects a bow and quiver and shoves them at me. “Attack them like ye’d attack any game. Go for the soft spots. They’re not entirely made of metal.”
Jo picks a modified antique-looking gun for himself. He snaps a cartridge filled with bullets into the side of the weapon. Reaching into a trunk filled with ammunition, he pockets several more cartridges.
Seeing my hesitancy, he gives my shoulder a good shake. “Do ye want that key or not?”
Reluctant, I join him as he dashes out of the underground cavern.
When we reach the beach, he steps next to Ginger and takes aim.
“About time you got here. Where have you been?” Ginger asks, her question clearly aimed at Jo even as she keeps shooting. If she’s angry, she shows no sign of it. Tossing a glance over her shoulder, she peers at me and frowns.
“Who’s your friend?” she asks. Her dialect is familiar, not at all the Emerald Isle accent the others have.
“Gail’s here seeking yer help,” Jo says as he fires his weapon. Two bullets speed from his gun before bursting, sending a spray of hot metal toward the oncoming army.
Sending my own arrows through the air, not hitting anything, I plead my case with her. “You have to come with us.”
General Ginger’s eyes narrow. “I don’t know who you are, girl, but the last person to demand something of me and not regret it was my father.”
“I’m here because of your father,” I say, pointing at the brass key, which now hangs around her neck.
“Let’s be clear about one thing: This is my key,” she growls, switching a lever. Two cannons rise from the forearms of her suit. She squeezes the triggers with both hands, sending bullets flying. Several of the flying machines are hit. While some plummet into the ocean, others barely waver.
Pressing my lips together, my gaze stays fixed on the chain looped around her neck. “That key was given to me to bring to you.”
Ginger’s cheeks burn scarlet. She retracts the barrels of her weapon and turns to me. “Where did you get this?” she asks, holding the ornate metal up.
“My father. It was found in the Bloodred Queen’s Labyrinth. He instructed me to find you and to save King Osbourne,” I say bitterly. After all I’ve lost—my parents, my home, my friends—I can barely contain my anger at her lack of understanding, even appreciation that I’ve pretty much handed her a gift. Not only does she hold the key to saving the world, but the key constructed by her own father’s hands.
Meanwhile, my father … is gone. A lump wells up tight in my throat.
She considers me for a moment. “My father would never have given this key up. Not willingly.”
“Listen here,” I say, marching up to her. “My parents, my village, and everyone I know is dead. That key is the only relic I have left. Now, you either help me or I’ll take it and find the king myself.”
Ginger’s jaw tightens.
“I’m sorry for your loss. However, I merely meant that my father would not relinquish this key to anyone unless he couldn’t bring it here himself.”
When I realize what she’s saying, I feel ashamed. As it turns out, we have that loss in common. My severed heart confirms this fact. However, comfort isn’t anything I can offer her. Only that the key was given to Jack with instructions to return it to Ginger.
Another fiery missile strikes nearby, sending dirt and grass into the air.
She purses her lips and tightens her grip on the key; then she turns. “Amzo, you’re in charge of the militia. Get those birds or monkeys or whatever those machines are out of the air.”
“Yes, General,” Amzo says before shouting out orders to her soldiers.
Without saying a word, Ginge passes Jo and me again, only this time heading back into the village.
“Wait! Where are you going?” I ask, chasing after her. With her suit’s long strides, it’s hard to keep up with her. Jo follows behind.
“It’s time to wake the king,” she says as the ground shudders from another bomb. “You two had better find shelter. This one looks like it is going to be a long battle.”
“You’re not going without me,” I insist.
She turns. “You are a child. A little girl who should be back at home learning how to aim better, instead of being out here shooting your ridiculous arrows at flying metal chimps.”
“What makes you think you’ll fare any better?” I challenge her.
Ginger shakes her head. “I’ve faced far worse than those winged rats. And if you think they’re bad, you’ll be sorely disappointed. They’re kittens compared to what’s guarding King Osbourne. You’re not cut out for this, kid. Go back to the others and take shelter.”
Sprinting ahead, I stand in her path. “I’m going with you.”
Ginger gives me a crooked grin. “You’re cute, but you’re becoming a nuisance. This is not a task for a child.”
“I’m not afraid. I’ve outrun creatures you could never dream up. I’ve left a half dozen arrows in beasts that can only be concocted from a nightmare. You don’t know me or what I’m capable of. You either bring me along or you’ll never know the information I have on that key or King Osbourne,” I say, hoping she buys into my lie.
“You have no information,” Ginger replies.
I only smile, never breaking her stare.
Ginger bites her lip, clearly annoyed with me. She steps aside and waves a hand toward the west. “Well, then, go ahead.”
I watch the scene behind her: smoldering machines and dead Wickloreon soldiers piled on top of one another as others step up, taking the place of the fallen. If worse battles lie ahead, I can’t fight them alone.
“Go on. If you’re so brave and fierce, go find the king yourself. I’ll even give you the key back.” She loops the chain over her head and holds it out to me.
I don’t move. The key dangles in front of me, but I don’t have the courage to take it. If I do, I’m not sure that she wouldn’t let me just wander out into the unknown on my own. Forward is not an option. Not alone.
Smiling, Ginger tilts her head. “That’s what I thought. So, I guess this puts us at a standstill. You with whatever information you hold. Me with the key and the ability to save you when you find yourself in trouble. And trust me, you will.” She turns her head and shouts, “Jo, you’re to stay here and assist Amzo with anything else she commands.”
Jo shifts uneasily, standing several meters away. “But …” Jo doesn’t finish his sentence. Whatever he was going to say is snatched by the torrential wind stirred up by the beat of the machines’ wings overhead.
“And as for you,” she says, pointing my way, “I guess we’re taking this journey together.” Ginger loops the chain back over her neck and tucks the key beneath her shirt. Her fury is evident as her lips press together.
I adjust my bow and secure my quiver. “I guess so,” I say.
Between the onslaught of explosions and the dust hanging thick in the air, I can hardly see where I’m going. The unarmed villagers scream, running away from the bloodbath happening at the shoreline and around their hometown. Ginger bulldozes her way through. Even struck with fear, the villagers give her the right of way. I follow Ginger, nearly losing her in the throng of people.
In the early rays of sunshine, rolling hills come into view. I shield my eyes from the blinding light of flames burning grass and trees on every side. It takes only a few steps before I am struck with disbelief, unable to move. A sea of villagers and machines lies lifeless across scorched fields, flagstone walls, and barbed-wire cattle fences. Others run for safety but quickly join the legion of dead. The winged machines bombard those fleeing the coastal village with fiery cannons. A convoy of Wickloreon guards stand their ground, taking aim at the invaders to protect those who still live.
A ball of fire strikes next to me, its percussion throwing me several meters away. I slam to the ground as rocks, dirt, and grass shower me. The explosion reverberates in my ears, making the world go temporarily silent. I shut my eyes from the dizzying images in my vision. When I open them again, the world spins and a piercing ring assaults my ears. Rolling onto my hands and knees, I crawl toward a stone wall, hoping to shield myself from further strikes.
Once I find myself in the security of the rock barricade, I peer over. Choked by the sight of dozens of bodies that blanket the green field, I feel as if I’ve fallen into a nightmare. A deadly game far from home. This journey was meant to be a rescue mission and yet casualties follow me. Tears well in my eyes, but I don’t have time to shed them.
The ground shakes as something crashes in front of me. Shielding my eyes, I blink, trying to take in the dark figure before me. Sharp fangs gleam in the early morning light as it bares its teeth. The beast stands, towering over me with its wings spread wide. Its jaws open and inside its mouth a ball of fire ignites.
My breath catching, I crawl backward, looking for anything to hide behind. My foot slips and I lose my balance. Before I can stop myself, I slide down the edge of a grassy embankment and fall over a rocky ledge. Below, a vast lake expands in nearly every direction. Clinging to the craggy ledge, I dangle helplessly. With my feet, I attempt to stand on any foothold of the rock structure, but the slick shale crumbles beneath me. I try again, but only succeed at sending more rocks crashing below me. The mechanical monkey peers over the ledge once, lets out a yowl, and takes flight. I half expect it to light me up in flames, but it doesn’t come. Instead, it joins the others as they continue to shower the hillside with bombs.
I growl in pain as the muscles in my hands and arms grow tired. My pulse roars through every vein in my body as I glance down. Jagged rocks jut out of the watery grave that awaits me. Above me, the slaughter continues. My hand slips when an explosion hits nearby, but I recover.
Squeezing my eyes shut, images of my home back in the Labyrinth pass through my mind. A childhood lived within the boughs of the Black Forest’s trees. Friends and family. I struggle to keep my grip, but I can’t hold on any longer. My heartbeat throbs in my ears as my fingers slip. With quick, panicked breaths, I wait for my body to be crushed along the rocks.
But it never happens.
Instead, something latches on to my arms, legs, and waist, bringing my fall to an abrupt halt. My breath is taken away momentarily. I gasp and lift my chin only to be met by copper coils that cover the cliff face like vines. Stunning rust-colored blossoms decorate the latticework. The petals quiver in the brisk wind. Protruding from the wall, several of the coiled vines lace up my body, keeping me from falling to the ground.
I let out a breath, thankful that my body isn’t in a thousand pieces. The machines fly over the cliff but don’t seem to notice me.
The nearest blossom draws close, and I swear it’s scrutinizing me from head to foot. When it reaches my face, a light, pleasant floral smell tickles my nose. I lift a finger to touch the petals. As I do, the coils around me tighten, cutting off my circulation
.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a female voice says.
At first, I don’t see her among the green coils; she stands on a narrow walkway, leaning up against the cliff wall with her arms crossed. It’s Ginger. She’s ditched her mechnosuit but is still as ominous as ever.
Another vine crawls up my legs and torso. Panic sets in as the vine twists around my neck. I reach for it, but my efforts are met with restriction to my airway.
“You see, girl, that there is the blossom of the Clinging Vines. Trust me, it might be pretty, but looks can be deceiving,” she says.
I try to wrench my hands free from the copper coils wrapping around my wrists, desperate to pull the vine from my neck.
“Stop,” Ginger calls to me. “Struggling only makes it worse. The more you move, the more the vines sense that you’re still alive, and alive is not what it wants you to be. It’ll choke you to death before it tears your head and limbs off your body and makes you an afternoon snack.”
As if on cue, another vine wraps around each arm and leg. Slowly, it pulls my limbs from their sockets. My shoulder and hip joints protest in excruciating pain. I try to swallow, hoping for the smallest gulp of air, but my throat is too constricted. As spots bloom in my vision, another blossom’s anthers dig into my thigh like long, thick needles. My scream is muffled, as the one around my neck tightens even more.
Ginger leaps from the narrow ledge and pulls from a holster on her back a revolver with a hand-size circular saw on the end of the barrel. Gripping the handle, she brings the sharp blade down on the plant. It takes her less than a second to cut the vines from me. Right before I drop, she wraps both legs around me and grunts, taking on my weight.
We are showered with thick black oil spewing from the severed vines as they recoil into the rocky wall. They squeal like rusty hinges, but I know that no amount of grease will quiet their wails.
We land on the ledge with a jolt. Gasping, I cling to the wall, grateful for the crisp air in my lungs. As I inhale deeply, I notice the flying machines give out a piercing cry, each one returning the call. En masse, they head west.
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