by Lisa Fiedler
Relieved and grateful, Glinda quickly told Feathertop the message she wanted him to relay to the Grand Adept of Winkie Country. Everyone wished the eagle luck in grandiose quantities; then, with a snap of her fingers, Miss Gage opened one of the towering library windows, and Feathertop soared through it, heading due west.
“Is it odd,” Ben wondered, turning his attention back to the map, “that no stone landed in the blue country?”
“I’d say so,” said Ursie. “And there were two in Quadling. The green one landed there, but Glinda picked it up.”
“And the alabaster one was in Gillikin,” Ben added. “But Locasta picked that one up.”
Glinda gulped, knowing exactly what Ben and Ursie were thinking—because she was thinking the same thing herself: they’d taken the stones off the map, but because they hadn’t known how the game worked, they hadn’t consulted the vanishing stitches. Withdrawing the emerald from her pocket, she studied the map. “I’m almost certain it landed there, by Lurcher Lake—I mean, the Shallows of Sweet Success.” She frowned, her eyes darting to a point further south. “Or was it here, closer to the town square?”
“Roll again and find out,” Ursie suggested with a shrug.
Glinda tossed the green pebble. But this time it did not choose Quadling. Or Munchkin. Or anywhere else for that matter; it rolled right across the map and rattled off the table. Heart thudding, she picked it up and tried again. Again, it fell to the floor.
“Read the poem,” Locasta grumbled. “When the die is cast, the deed is done. It doesn’t say anything about do-overs!”
She was right, of course. The enchanted embroidery had come and gone, before they’d known to look for it.
“Now we have no way of finding out where the remaining two Fairies are hidden,” Glinda concluded miserably.
“Actually,” said Locasta, “while you were busy daydreaming about nonexistent emerald cities, I was paying attention to the map. At least enough to see and remember exactly where the Gillikin pebble landed.”
Glinda felt a surge of hope. “You saw the words appear after you picked up the stone?”
“Didn’t have to,” Locasta answered sullenly. “Because I know every inch of the Gillikin landscape by heart. That’s what happens when you spend your whole life looking for escape routes.”
“Then you do know what spot the alabaster marked!” said Ben with a clap of his hands. “You know where the third Elemental Fairy is!”
“Yes,” said Locasta. “That’s the good news.”
Miss Gage paled. “And the bad news . . . ?”
Locasta placed the pebble on the table as if it had been dusted with poison. “The stone landed on the castle grounds of the Brash Warrior Marada, Wicked Witch of the North.”
Before anyone could react to that disturbing fact, a quivering Trebly Nox and a madly hiccuping D’Lorp Twipple charged into the library.
“We’re under siege!” Trebly shrieked. “The armies of all three Witches are attacking.”
“And there’s a fourth army,” cried D’Lorp. “Worse than all the others put together. A squadron of . . . hic . . . of . . . hic—”
“Of what?” Glinda prompted.
“Monkeys!” Trebly finished, wringing her hands. “Winged ones!”
8
TAKING THE LOST ONE IN HAND
They were outnumbered.
Out-clawed, out-horned, out-fanged, and most assuredly out-winged.
Bursting through the academy doors onto the open lawn, Glinda gasped at the pandemonium—the campus was being attacked by the same horrific hybrid soldiers that had delivered Ava, Marada, and Daspina to the grounds of Aphidina’s fallen palace the day before. Hissing and croaking they came, hopping and clomping, with slamming tails, thundering hooves, bared fangs, and darting tongues.
Immediately Ben picked up a large stick and disappeared into the fray. Locasta and Ursie were hot on his heels to join the Quadling soldiers (formerly conscripted by the Witch of the South, now loyal to the Foursworn), who fell bravely into line with muskets exploding and blades flashing. Glinda recognized the Revos she’d met at the Mingling. The Munchkin girl was wielding her saber with ferocious grace, while Samiratur and Fwibbins shouted instructions to the panicked townsfolk who came scrambling to join the defense effort, taking up whatever arms they could. Fiercely they fought, battling legions of giant toads, swatting at low-swooping wisp-wasps, and dodging a violent stampede of wild-eyed buffalopes.
But by far the worst of the mutant beasts were the Winged Monkeys.
Glinda couldn’t begin to guess at their numbers—the sky all but blistered with them! Chattering, flapping, screeching, and soaring, they cast a writhing shadow over the campus grounds. Some had already touched down on the lawn, swaying under the weight of their own immense wings. She spied the little monkey who’d accompanied the Witches to Aphidina’s grounds scampering to and fro, as though he were confused as to which side he should be fighting on.
Glinda made to thrust herself into the fray, but a scraggly hawk swooped down from the sky to cut her off. At the same time, the little monkey flung himself at her. She tried to shake him off, but he clung fast to her arm—though whether to throw her into the hawk’s path or to pull her out of harm’s way, even he didn’t seem to know. After a bit of a tussle, Glinda managed to disentangle herself from the monkey and give the hawk a sound swatting; screeching, it flapped away and perched upon the pointed tip of one of the academy’s red turrets, watching the battle with fierce eyes.
Already several of Glinda’s Foursworn comrades lay wounded in the grass. The soldiers in their red velvet coats fought valiantly, but the Witches’ armies and the Winged Monkeys were both aggressive and plentiful. Suddenly Ursie’s voice ripped through the din. “Glinda! Watch out!”
Glinda spun to see an enormous spotted salamander lumbering toward her. She reached for her sword and held it aloft; it flared white, shocking the monstrous creature, which squirmed in retreat, its bulging eyes blinking away the heat lightning of Illumina’s blade. Her respite was short-lived, however, for just as the salamander’s tail swung out of sight, two Winged Monkeys appeared above her, cackling and hooting as they trained their yellow eyes mercilessly on Glinda.
One of them was carrying a boy on its back.
A boy with tufts of purple-streaked hair sticking out from under the flaps of an ugly Golden Cap.
Thruff! Locasta’s turncoat brother.
The monkey gave a violent hoot as Thruff spurred him forward and down—heading directly for Glinda.
Trebly appeared, throwing herself between Glinda and the monkey; she tugged the belt from her pinafore and flung it up in the air. “Weapon!” she shouted, and the belt obeyed, landing in her hands as a sturdy rock sling. Scooping a sharp stone from the ground, she loaded the sling’s pouch and spun it above her head. Glinda could hear the measured vwuhsh—vwuhsh—vwuhsh of the whirling weapon stirring the air. Then, with a jerk of her shoulder and a flick of her wrist, Trebly sent the rock sailing—flying so fast that Glinda didn’t even realize it had been fired until the monkey cried out in pain. The jagged rock had torn a whole clump of feathers off the tip of his right wing. Trebly repeated the motion with a second stone. This time the projectile zoomed right past the monkey—but a loud hiccup from D’Lorp sent it circling back to clip the rider in the middle of his forehead.
“Quick!” cried Trebly. “I need another—”
Glinda’s hand was already closing around the emerald game piece in her pocket. This she pressed into Trebly’s open palm. Eyes narrowed, mouth set, Trebly loaded the pouch once again and spiraled the ropes of the sling above her head in a blur of strength and motion.
It hit its mark, landing right between the monkey’s eyes. The beast squealed in agony, pressing its leathery hands to its forehead as it tumbled through the air. Thruff cleaved to the creature for dear life, one arm wrapped around the monkey’s neck, his other hand clutching the Golden Cap to his head, as though he were more afraid of losing that ridi
culous hat than he was of crashing headfirst to the hard ground of the academy lawn.
Noticing that many of the monkeys carried bows and arrows, Glinda pointed skyward and cried out, “Ursie! Look!”
“Way ahead of you!” Ursie called back. Aiming her hands at the furry archers, she splayed her fingers wide, then crooked each one in turn while twirling her thumbs. A series of loud pings and snaps filled the air as every knot in every bowstring broke free. With their weapons rendered useless, the archer monkeys hooted in anger.
Unfortunately, Ursie’s skill could do nothing to stop the other furry beasts, who were armed with maces, clubs, and cudgels.
Glinda’s eyes scanned the chaos: she saw Ben wrestling a gigantic frog; she watched Locasta lead an enormous yakityak on a frenzied chase, then dart out of his path in the nick of time so that the beast plowed straight into a tree, lodging his horns in the trunk. Even Miss Gage was fighting valiantly; she had accepted a broadsword from an injured Quadling soldier and was fending off an onslaught of giant squirming caterpillars—then she cried out, “Flutter!” and the caterpillars instantaneously morphed into a squadron of delightfully oversize and utterly harmless butterflies.
Satisfied that her friends could hold their own, Glinda swung her gaze across the battlefield in search of Thruff, hoping to find him sprawled unconscious in the grass. But that was not to be. He and his injured mount had landed without incident, and there he was, Golden Cap still firmly upon his head, striding through the violence and danger as though he knew nothing even akin to fear. Thruff’s gait was every bit as purposeful and determined as his sister’s as he eluded angry chuckwallas, giant spidergnats, and horrific humpbacked bison. He stomped past every one of them as if they didn’t even exist, as if he were on a mission.
And he was heading straight for Glinda.
A snap of his fingers brought three more monkeys swooping out of the sky to surround her, the force of their fiercely beating wings whipping her hair across her eyes. Blindly, she drew Illumina and swung, but one of the winged monsters kicked the sword out of her grasp and sent it spinning out of reach.
And then Thruff was standing right in front of her, even younger-looking up close than he’d appeared at a distance. He was glowering at her with eyes so eerily like his sister’s that Glinda shivered. Another monkey grabbed the neck of her tunic and hoisted her off the ground, holding her suspended so that the soles of her boots dangled above the trampled grass.
“Locasta!” she screamed.
From across the lawn, Locasta whirled in the direction of Glinda’s voice. Seeing her friend in peril, she spun into a dance, her rhythmic Witchcraft re-igniting the Magic that lingered in the fabric of Glinda’s apparel. The monkey cried out and released his grip, shaking his stinging fingers.
Glinda landed on her backside with a hard thud and found herself staring into the round, blinking eyes of the littlest monkey. To her surprise, he had fetched Illumina and was holding it out to her, his tiny head bobbing eagerly as if to say, Take it! Take it!
She snatched the sword and leaped to her feet. In her hand, the blade gave off a shower of light. The gems on Thruff’s Golden Cap glimmered in the glow, but he did not flinch.
She knew she could take him down with one swoop of her sword; she could burn the Wickedness out of his heart with the heat of it. But this was Locasta’s brother; the brother she had come to Quadling to save. And because of that, Glinda could not bring herself to deliver him so much as a scratch.
Instead she began to back away slowly, keeping the brilliance of Illumina squarely between her and her enemy. Thruff kept pace, stalking her step for step, squinting into the light of her sword.
“I am to bring you to the fifth Witch,” he informed her. “Come willingly and you won’t be hurt.”
At this, Glinda let out a snort of disgust that was almost worthy of his sister. “I very much doubt that,” she sneered, and twirled Illumina to send a swirl of light springing from the blade; the swirl wrapped itself around Thruff’s knees, tripping him to the ground. He rolled and kicked until he had wrenched himself free of it. But before he could gain his feet, Glinda had advanced, pressing Illumina’s glowing tip to his chest, pinning him to the grass. “You command these flying apes?” she demanded.
He glared up at her and grunted. Yes.
“Call them off.”
“Never!” Thruff’s eyes burned hotter than the sword as he ground his words out through his teeth. “Your cause is lost, Sorceress. Wicked holds all. No use in rebelling only to lose what you love, and die in the process.”
Glinda quirked one eyebrow at the boy. “Is that what you think?” she asked, truly surprised. Lessening the force but keeping Illumina pressed lightly against his collarbone, she motioned for him to stand and appealed to him in as reasonable a tone as she could muster. “We have already beaten one Witch. We can do it again. And if you have even one drop of your sister’s blood in your veins, I know you cannot truly have aligned yourself with the Wickeds. Join the Foursworn, Thruff. Join us!”
The hard line of Thruff’s mouth softened and his eyes darted sideways, though with confusion or remorse, Glinda could not say. Only now did she notice that several yards off, another pair of monkeys had alighted. Over the spiky purple tips of Thruff’s hair, she watched with growing fear as the beasts sought out their master. One of the Winged things pointed and hooted; another chattered madly and picked at his matted fur as they approached. Wings pulsing, arms swaying, they swaggered toward Thruff and Glinda on bowed legs.
Thruff had just opened his mouth to shout out a command when Locasta appeared, hurtling out of the fracas like a comet to tackle her brother back to the ground.
“Glinda, run!”
“What? No! I—”
“Run! It’s you they want!”
But the thought of hiding while her friends fought made Glinda’s skin crawl. “I will not abandon this battle just to save myself.”
“You need to stay alive for whatever comes next!” Locasta snarled as Thruff, squirming beneath her weight, jerked his knee into her stomach. She growled out something about obnoxious little brothers, then landed an elbow to his midsection, effectively putting a stop to his squirming. As Thruff struggled to catch his breath, Ben came skidding over, his waistcoat torn, his britches dirty, the leather cord gone from where it once bound his hair at the nape of his neck.
“Well, well, well.” Locasta crooked a grin at him, even as she pressed her hand over Thruff’s face and good-naturedly ground the back of his head into the dirt. “Aren’t you the seasoned warrior?”
Ben gave her a sideways smile. “My father would be proud.”
“Mine wouldn’t,” Locasta muttered, scowling pointedly at her brother. Then she tossed her head in Glinda’s direction. “Get her to safety. She’s too stubborn—or maybe just too dense—to do it herself.” Then she turned to roar at Glinda, “Go!”
Ben reached out to grab Glinda’s hand, and together they took off at a frantic pace, fighting off bucking bulls and spiky lizards as they went.
The fury of the fight unfolded all around them in a blur of swinging clubs, soaring stones, and the clang of swords colliding. The dark essence of battle surrounded her, tangling in her hair, soiling her clothes, burning her eyes and her skin. She could taste it, the bitter sting of violence, combat, conflict—war . . . and all its hateful waste. Hopelessness pummeled her from all sides.
And then she saw him, the tiny Winged Monkey, his eyes wide, his tail trembling, frozen in terror in the path of a galloping buffalope.
Without pausing to think, Glinda dove to grab the monkey’s paw, bundling the petrified little creature into her arms and spiriting him away from the crushing power of the animal’s hooves. Whisking him to the relative safety of the side lawn, Glinda could feel his little heart racing in his chest as he pressed his soft face into her neck, stroking her cheek and chattering his thanks.
“Glinda, come on!” cried Ben as another squadron of monkeys swept
out of the sky.
“Be careful, little one,” Glinda whispered, placing the monkey on the grass. “No . . . be good.”
“Goo—oot-oot-oot?” the creature echoed, blinking his big eyes. He tried again: “Good!”
But Glinda had already turned on her heel to run after Ben.
Which was why she did not see the little monkey tilt his diminutive head this way and that, contemplating her words and listening to his own thudding heart. She did not see him dash back into the mayhem to snatch up that which the angry boy had for some reason just thrown off his head and she did not see the little beast skimming above the fray on his monkey wings in search of the purple-haired girl. Nor did she hear him impart to Locasta in a yipping, hooting attempt at language something of monumental significance as Locasta bent low to listen and accept the Golden Cap he offered.
Glinda witnessed none of this; she knew nothing of any of it, not at all.
Because in those critical moments during which the little monkey made the choice to be Good, and to alter the course of Ozian history forevermore, Glinda had been running.
Running for the toolshed.
Running for her life.
9
IN THE TOOLSHED
Ben slammed the door and shoved a heavy workbench against it.
Amid the stacks of chipped flowerpots and racks of rusting garden tools, Glinda struggled to catch her breath. The walls of the tiny building did little to shut out the noise of the escalating battle without. The shrill voices of the Winged Monkeys—multiplied to many hundreds now—were an assault on Glinda’s senses, and the shed’s rickety frame shook with the force of the wind their wings stirred up. She could have sworn she heard bones breaking.
“Try to think of something else,” Ben suggested.
“Something besides the fact that I’m hiding in here like a coward,” Glinda murmured, “while the Foursworn forces, such as they are, are getting positively trounced?”