by Lisa Fiedler
The water hissed in her ears: Ssssea Devilssss! it warned.
Having no intention of being devoured by this nasty bottom dweller, she began to squirm, wresting one ankle free from its grasp. But it was too late; he had already swum her into chaos.
Before her loomed a whole horde of these devilish creatures, darting and diving, fists swinging, tentacles slapping as they pursued two of the most gorgeous beings Glinda had ever seen.
Ssssea Fairiessss, the lagoon told her.
Of course! Indeed, their beauty seemed to be an extension of the water itself. Wildly lovely, they were a sparkle of silken scales, part Fairy, part fish. They moved with the frantic motion of their translucent winglike fins, the same pearly colors as the pool. Their webbed feet churned through the water as they tried desperately to dodge their attackers. But everywhere they went, a Sea Devil blocked their path, wielding a spear carved from blinding white fish bone.
Glinda reached for Illumina, once again its solid self, but the Devil slapped her hand away with a ready tentacle, tightening his hold on her leg. The pain of his grip and the absence of air made her head spin.
Oh, how she wanted to breathe! The weight of the water pressed against her chest, squeezing out what little air she’d managed to inhale in the cave. Some small rivulet of consciousness told her to fight, but the thought drifted away before it could become action.
Liquid oblivion threatened to overtake her.
Then something swung in from the left, and another from the right, and the Devil was suddenly flanked by Fairy wings. There was a roar as the Devil fell away and her glittering saviors returned to the battle. But Glinda was still without the luxury of air. Now more bright wings approached, more soft ripples in the murky deep. A third Sea Fairy swam up behind her, taking hold of her tunic and pulling her far from the melee.
Flooded—quite literally—with relief, Glinda dropped her head onto the Fairy’s shoulder and let the sprite’s elegant arm wrap around her waist. But the reprieve was fleeting . . . because the Fairy was now placing her hand over Glinda’s mouth and nose!
With what little strength she had left, she tried to shake off this savior-turned-captor who seemed determined to drown her.
But the water whispered, Resssscue, and when the Fairy’s hand came away, Glinda’s lungs were filled with glorious breath. Faster than phosphorescence, the Fairy spun Glinda around and shook her pretty head, pressing her hand over her own mouth in a silent command.
Glinda understood: she must keep her mouth closed or the spell would be broken. She nodded her thanks, but the Fairy was already racing back to join her sisters in the fray.
They fought valiantly, but more Devils were darting out of the shadows, their bony lances raised. The Sea Fairies were surrounded.
Glinda jerked Illumina out of her sash but knew she could not possibly fight off so many beasts at once. With her lips tightly closed, she looked down at the braided metal handle and thought as loudly as she could:
“ To these Wicked Devils we will not yield ; be light . . . be might . . . become . . . a shield!”
The handle quivered in Glinda’s palm and the interwoven strands of metal wrenched free, unwinding into three jagged ropes of energy that became six, then nine, then twelve. These pulled away from Illumina’s hilt, twisting into a helix of power, a braided current of light that shot toward the Fairies, then uncoiled to surround them in a glowing protective bubble.
When the first spear flew, it bounced off the blue light and spun backward, end over lethal end, impaling the very Devil that had thrown it. The beast let out a gurgling shriek. Enraged, a second Devil flung itself at the globe of light, then scuttled backward, its skin burned black and its scales charred brittle. The sight of him frightened his brothers into a frantic retreat.
As the Devils sped off into the darkness, the Magical field formed by Illumina’s handle dissolved into sparks; these floated back to Glinda to once again take the shape of the sword’s grip, solid in her grasp.
The Fairies rejoiced, their wings coaxing up columns of iridescent bubbles as they danced. Glinda was so delighted by their celebration that she didn’t notice the last of the Devils swimming straight for her until it was too late. She tried to duck out of its path, but his slimy fist delivered a blow to her sword arm.
And the blade slipped from her grasp.
“Illumina!” As the name ripped from Glinda’s throat, her mouth filled with cold briny water and the word was drowned in the sound of her choking. All she could do was watch, helpless, as her beloved sword sank to the distant bottom of the pool, its gemstones winking colorfully, as if to say good-bye.
Glinda listened for the soft thud of her sword hitting the sandy bottom of the pool. But no thud came. For all she knew, it would continue to tumble downward into the darkness forever.
Forever . . . Illumina would be gone from her.
Gone, like the precious breath the Fairy had Magically provided, but which Glinda had lost in shouting Illumina’s name. Again, she felt her lungs seize and her mind begin to cloud over. She was vaguely aware of wings enfolding her, a fluttering of fins, then a swift upward thrust. The last thing she understood was that the water had grown light and warm once more, and then there was no water at all, just pebbly ground—the edge of the lagoon, firm and dry against her back.
She did not feel the smooth round jewel being slipped into her pocket, nor did she hear the grateful Sea Fairy whisper:
“Take with you our thanks
From this watery whirl
For your kindness and courage
We gift you this pearl.”
Then, with a motherly hand, the Sea Fairy stroked the wet hair from Glinda’s forehead. “Rest now, Good hero, sweet Ozian child. And in your sleep shall strength return to you, so that you may resume your worthy quest.”
Resssst, Glinda, the water echoed.
And so she did, rolling over onto her side and sinking into a most wondrous slumber.
The wisp of her sleepy breath filled the cave, mingling with the hushed thwumff of metal landing softly on the faraway bottom of the pool. At the same moment, from somewhere other and above, there came the splintery crash of a door slamming inward.
But Glinda did not hear that, either. And she did not hear the quickening swish of Fairy wings retrieving Illumina from the lagoon’s sandy floor to be borne safely upward through countless fathoms of watery darkness.
Nor did she awaken to the happy cry of a Good Witch’s voice ringing through the toolshed, calling out in triumph:
“Glinda! Ben! Where are you? Glinda . . . we won!”
12
BEACON OF FRIENDSHIP
Breeches torn, curls tangled, Locasta thundered around the tiny toolshed, flinging over crates and peering behind rickety shelves.
“Glinda?”
No reply. She took another step and tripped over something. Ben’s knapsack, abandoned on the dirt floor.
“Ben?” Locasta felt a curl of panic in the pit of her stomach as she hitched the pack over her shoulder. “You can come out now. It’s safe.”
Now Ursie came skidding into the shed, rambling gleefully. “Glinda! Oh, Glinda, wait until you hear how we beat the Witches’ armies! You’ll never believe it, but all Locasta had to do was put the cap on her head and say—” Ursie cut off with a little gasp.
Because Locasta had come to an abrupt halt in her searching and was teetering on the edge of an opening in the floor.
“What in the name of Oz is that?” asked Ursie.
“I don’t know,” Locasta admitted, crouching beside the edge. “Some kind of portal?”
Ursie tiptoed closer, taking in the spiral-shell staircase with an expression of wonder. “That’s promising, don’t you think?”
Locasta frowned into the gap in the floor; clearly Glinda and Ben had disappeared into it, but there was no way of knowing whether they’d done so willingly or by the force of something Wicked. And this made Locasta tremble.
Afte
r all, she was the one who’d sent them here to hide.
From her brother.
Their violent encounter on the battlefield came back to her in a rush. She’d just dispatched Glinda to the toolshed. Thruff was sprawled on the ground, gripped in a headlock. It was a maneuver she’d often tricked him with when they were younger, playing together on the scrubby patch of yard outside their shack, exhausted from a hard day of mining but still delighted by each other’s company. There they learned to juggle small rocks, to box and wrestle (for their world was harsh and unpredictable and their father was determined that they learn to fight). Norr would watch from the moldering stoop of their shack, humming softly, absently rattling a pair of small amethyst stones in his palm—good luck charms, he called them—one for Locasta and one for Thruff. Sometimes he’d get a peculiar look on his face, as if a thought or a feeling had struck him out of nowhere, and he’d quickly press one or the other of his good luck stones to his eye and hold it up to the sun, as if trying to see through it. Or into the depths of it. Then he’d slip them into his shirt pocket, pick up a stick, and begin scratching strange, cryptic letters and symbols into the dirt, still humming. Always humming.
But there had been no humming today when Locasta pinned her brother to the academy grass—only the clashing of swords and the shrieking cry of the monkeys, reminding her how very far from home they both were.
“How dare you sic these airborne apes on us!” she’d barked at him.
“Let go of me . . . Lo-spaz-sta!”
“I told you not to call me that . . . Fluff!” she grunted, tightening her hold. “By the way, nice hat! Didn’t know earflaps were in style this season.”
They tussled wildly, Thruff kicking up chunks of the lawn in his efforts to free himself. Locasta’s grasp did not falter until she noticed the large welt swelling on his forehead—the result of Trebly’s expertise with a rock sling, no doubt. At the sight of his injury, she unwittingly loosened her grip. And Thruff had taken immediate advantage of her sympathy, squirming out of her clutches and leaping to his feet. But he didn’t get far—there was a flash of red and a flutter of ruffles as two hands clamped around his left arm, then two more around his right.
He was caught.
By two graduates of Madam Mentir’s Academy! D’Lorp and Trebly had planted themselves on either side of Thruff, and for a couple of girls in pinafores, they looked surprisingly fierce. Locasta could only stare in disbelief as Ursie Blauf marched up to join them, prepared to fend off any hybrid who might attempt to interrupt this interrogation. Pushing her riot of curls out of her face, Locasta stood and addressed Thruff with a sneer.
“You have nowhere to go, brother,” she snarled. “So you might as well talk.”
“I came for the Quadling Sorceress,” Thruff growled. “The one you just told to run away! I could have traded that that prissy little redhead to the fifth Witch for our freedom, sister—mine and yours.”
Locasta grabbed the front of her brother’s shirt and yanked him out of Trebly and D’Lorp’s grasp. “So you’ve thrown your lot in with that smoky menace! How could you?”
“Because she’s strong, Locasta, and formidable. The other ruling Witches bow to her. And so should we.”
“Bow to Wickedness? Never!” Locasta shook her head hard, her purple curls whipping silver in the sun. With a snort, she shoved her brother away. “Have you no memory of our father at all? He bowed to no one!”
“And look where that got him.”
Locasta was only able to meet his glinting eyes for a heartbeat. Then her face crumpled with grief and she turned away.
Thrusting his hand into his pocket, Thruff withdrew two purple ovals that shone on his open palm.
“Gemstones?” Trebly remarked, incredulous.
“Am-hic-ethyst,” D’Lorp clarified.
Locasta whirled back around to gape at the glittering stones in Thruff’s hand. “Where did you get those?”
“Papa left them behind,” said Thruff. “I found them sewn into his pallet, hidden in the straw. No sign of his compass, though. Did you—?”
Without warning, Locasta had shot out one booted foot and connected with Thruff’s ankle, bringing him down hard to his hands and knees.
She recalled now how Thruff had looked up at her, mystified. His eyes were as cold and purple as the stones, but they were also smart; and while he hadn’t known for certain before, he surely knew now. She’d turned away from his angry gaze, just as the ground beneath them began to shake. A towering gray toad was hopping in their direction.
Trebly aimed her rock sling, but before she could send the stone sailing, the toad shot out its long tongue; it wound around her shins and jerked her off her feet.
D’Lorp and Ursie hurried to help, and together they managed to shove the squat, squishy beast off their friend. Scrambling to her feet, Trebly let her rock sling fly, clonking the warty toad right between its bulging eyes. It let out an agonized croak and bounded back in the direction from which it had come.
Unfortunately, those scant few seconds in which their attention was on the toad were all Thruff needed to make his escape. He ran, zigzagging desperately between spidergnats and salamanders, bison and beetle bugs, pausing only once, to yank the hideous golden hat from his head and fling it to the ground as though he wished he’d never worn it at all. D’Lorp gave chase, but he’d put too much distance between them to be caught. Locasta kept her eyes on her brother until the melee swallowed him from sight—and just before he disappeared, she spied a twinkling of bright purple falling from his grasp.
D’Lorp stopped running and bent to scoop up the amethyst stones. Panting and hiccuping, she brought these back to Locasta, who shoved them into her own pocket with a grunt.
It was then that the little monkey touched down at her side. The beast was holding Thruff’s ugly Golden Cap out to her and chattering excitedly, tugging at the hem of Locasta’s tunic, shaking the cap at her.
“I think he wants you to put it on,” said Trebly. “My little brother Obblish spent the whole of last autumn speaking nothing but monkey just to annoy us. So I know a smattering of the language. I believe he’s telling you that if you don that silly hat, the tide of battle will turn.”
“Because of a hat? That’s ridiculous.”
“No,” said Ursie, a tiny grin turning up the edges of her mouth. “That’s Magic.”
The monkey bobbed his head eagerly, pointing from the hat to Locasta’s curls. Still skeptical, Locasta took the velvet hat and, with a deep breath, pulled it down over her hair so that the long earflaps swung almost to her shoulders.
“It’s not particularly fetching,” D’Lorp observed.
“Now what?” Locasta had asked the monkey.
And there in the middle of the battle, her furry little ally had guided her through the incantation of the Golden Cap. First he had her stand on her left foot and chant, “EP-PE, PEP-PE, KAK-KE.” Then he made her switch to her right foot and hoot, “HIL-LO, HOL-LO, HEL-LO.” Finally he had her stand on both feet and shout out, “ZIZ-ZY, ZUZ-ZY, ZIK!!!”
What had happened next astounded her.
The monkeys, many in mid-flight, others in mid-attack, instantly ceased their pummeling of the Quadling forces and as one, turned their glaring yellow eyes to Locasta, awaiting her first order. For it was the cap and the cap alone that commanded their loyalty—temporary as it might be—and their obedience.
“Mercenaries!” Locasta had gasped with distaste.
But the little monkey had given her a look as if to excuse them: It’s not their fault.
The Winged ones continued to stare at their new leader with ugly, expectant faces.
“Protect the Quadling forces!” Locasta shouted. “Defeat the Witches’ armies!”
And so the monkeys had turned their aggressions on the multitude of hybrids. With those weird, wild, winged creatures on their side, the Foursworn army had been unbeatable. The insects retreated first, speeding eastward in a droning panic. Marada’s
herd soon followed, and when Locasta glimpsed Thruff lashed to the horns of a buffalope, she understood that because of his failure to capture Glinda, he was not being brought back to the Gillikin north a leader, but a prisoner.
It was while she’d been debating whether or not to facilitate Thruff’s rescue that the giant toad returned, pouncing from behind and tackling her to the ground. Its weight had taken the wind out of her, and she’d recoiled at the feeling of its bumpy hide and the swampy rot of its breath as his tongue slapped mercilessly against the back of her neck.
The toad’s attack on Locasta had terrified D’Lorp so badly that it sent her into a hiccuping fit—and how lucky that had been, since hiccuping, it seemed, brought on her Magic. With every involuntary squeak from D’Lorp’s larynx, the toad assailant shrank in size until it was nothing but a bulging-eyed blob hopping up and down between Locasta’s shoulder blades! Jumping to her feet, Locasta had yanked the Golden Cap off her head and flung it at the warty menace, catching the toad under it. It stunned the creature for only a second. Then everyone (except Locasta) had laughed at the sight of that ugly yellow hat “hopping” away, heading west with the rest of Daspina’s slithering dragoons.
In truth, Locasta had not been overly disappointed to be rid of the cap. The battle was finished and the Foursworn had emerged victorious; she had no further use for those flying mercenaries.
And now here she was, in the toolshed.
But Glinda was gone.
And without Glinda to lead them, the whole fight had been for naught. Locasta hung her head, and a single tear slid down her cheek, falling into the hole in the floor. She did not hear the tiny splish of her sadness becoming a part of the water far below.