The Endora Trilogy (The Complete Series)

by Thomas J. Prestopnik

  They reached the river a short time later. And while the fog tended to be thicker near the water, a breeze continued to pick up and the air warmed, causing the wispy white trails to melt away like patches of leftover winter snow. As the horses traveled south along the grassy bank, Christopher, Mr. Jordan and Ulric watched like hawks for any sign of the first horseman. Occasionally Christopher would crane his neck backward and glance north, his eyes intently scanning above the horizon for a plume of black smoke. All he spotted was a fleet of stone gray clouds drifting ominously and silently eastward.

  They hadn’t traveled another ten minutes when they approached the bend in the river arching gently like a stretching cat. An outcrop of granite rocks, many larger than automobiles, lay on both banks half buried in the soil. Moments later, the trio spotted something that made their hearts race. A trail of blue-gray smoke drifted up from behind one of the larger rocks just ahead. The sweet smell of a campfire saturated the air, the snapping and popping of burning wood echoing gently across the water.

  Ulric halted his horse and silently raised a hand. Mr. Jordan guided his steed beside him. There was no sign of Morgus Vandar’s hired help.

  “He must be resting behind that rock near the fire,” Ulric whispered. He dismounted his horse and signaled for the others to do likewise. They gently led the animals away from the river and tied them to some nearby bushes. The steady splash of water washing over smaller rocks in the river muffled their footsteps. From this new vantage point they spotted the man’s horse farther upstream, lazily chomping on grass along the bank.

  “What should we do?” Christopher asked.

  “Surround and attack.” Ulric huddled with Christopher and his father to discuss the details.

  Moments later, Christopher circled around the granite outcrop and gingerly made his way toward the man’s horse while Ulric and his father returned to their original spot. Mr. Jordan crouched down and climbed up the large rock near the campfire and peered over the top. Below, a man sat against the rock wrapped in his cloak near a smoky fire, unshaven, his black hair growing wild as a weed patch–and sound asleep. Mr. Jordan signaled to Ulric who was inching his way around the side and mouthed the word sleeping. Ulric nodded, crept forward to the edge of the rock and waited. Now it was Christopher’s turn to make the next move.

  “Easy, boy,” whispered Christopher as he gently stroked the horse’s shiny black mane. But the animal continued to munch away on the grass, not bothered in the least.

  Christopher glanced back at the man sleeping against the rock, comforted by the fact that his father and Ulric were posed behind him, ready to pounce if he should wake. He rifled through a tattered blanket roll, a leather saddlebag and a small cloth pouch of grain for the horse, hoping to find the tiny bag of crystals that Morgus Vandar had given the man back at the barn. Christopher sighed through clenched teeth. No luck. The item was not on the horse. He looked at his father and Ulric, shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. He wondered what they would do now.

  Not wanting to give up so easily, Christopher decided that one more brief search wouldn’t hurt. He quickly rummaged through the items again, this time lifting up on the saddle and feeling underneath along the side. Suddenly the horse grunted and bobbed its head, taking a few steps backward.

  “Shhh…” Christopher said, running his hand along the top of its nose. “It’s all right. There’s nothing–”

  “Hey! What are you doing? Get away from my horse!”

  Christopher flinched. His stomach felt cold and clammy as if he had just chugged a glass of ice water. He knew the man by the fire had awakened and watched as he marched forward like an angry bull. But Christopher glared back and held his ground.

  “Better come after us first!” Mr. Jordan shouted, jumping off the rock and landing near the fire. He grabbed a burning stick and waved it in the air as the man spun around, pulling out a long knife.

  Ulric leapt forward opposite Mr. Jordan at the same instant, brandishing his sword. “I’d say you were outnumbered. Better give up now, or else.”

  The man scowled, taking a few steps back. “I’ve been in worse spots than this. You two don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

  Christopher chuckled. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with!”

  “No time for bravado, Chris,” his father insisted. “Loop around and stay behind Ulric and me. Search through his things by the fire.”

  “Do as your father says,” Ulric urged.

  “All right,” Christopher said, slightly disappointed.

  As he stepped away from the horse, ready to circle back toward the fire, Christopher gazed toward the north and felt the blood drain from his limbs. He could barely breathe when he saw a black plume of smoke rising high in the sky miles away, climbing to the clouds like a vicious serpent ready to strike. Ulric and Mr. Jordan turned to look and their hearts sank. The horseman smiled.

  “Looking for this?” he taunted, removing a small tied bag from inside his cloak.

  “Hand it over!” Ulric said, stepping forward.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he replied with a sneer.

  “Chris, put out the fire!” Mr. Jordan anxiously ordered.

  As Christopher ran toward the campfire, the horseman charged Ulric with his knife. A clash of metal ensued as Ulric blocked every thrust and swipe of the man’s blade before knocking the knife out of his hand, sending it somersaulting through the air where it landed harmlessly in the grass. Mr. Jordan raced over and grabbed the knife while Ulric lunged at his foe. But the horseman quickly sidestepped him, his eyes fixed all the while on the fire. He tossed the bag from one hand to the other as he scrambled across some of the smaller rocks, preparing to throw it like a baseball. Mr. Jordan saw a crazed glint in the man’s eyes as Ulric chased him, then shot a glance at Christopher who was frantically pulling out burning pieces of wood from the fire. But the flames were too wild. The fire was too big. It blazed like an inferno.

  Then the horseman jumped onto a lower rock, firmly planted his feet and took aim, hurling the bag of crystals through the air directly at the campfire a moment before Ulric tackled him. They rolled off the rock and fought in the grass below.

  “Chris!” Mr. Jordan shouted as the bag sailed through the air like a slow motion bullet across the churning gray sky.

  Christopher had turned his head just as the man threw the bag and saw it rocketing toward the fire. He flung aside a burning piece of wood and dove sideways in front of the flames to catch the bag. But he sprang forward a split second too soon and his hands just missed it. Yet while still in midair, Christopher saw the bag zero in on the fire as he glanced down the length of his body and gave a terrific kick with his right foot, sending the bag sailing through the air just before the flames grasped it. The bag nearly arched over his father’s head, but Mr. Jordan sprang up and caught it like a fly ball. In that same instant, Christopher landed on the ground with a grunt and rolled away from the biting blaze.

  Mr. Jordan sprinted over to help Ulric subdue the horseman, but Ulric had already pinned him to the ground with his hands locked behind his back. Christopher darted over with the rope he had saved and Ulric tied the man’s wrists behind him and securely wrapped the remainder of the rope around his arms.

  “Nice catch!” Christopher shouted gleefully to his father.

  “Nice kick!” he replied, smiling. “You should try out for the soccer team.”

  Christopher smirked. “Dad, I was trying to catch it.”

  “Great job anyway,” he said. Then as Ulric sat his prisoner against one of the rocks, Mr. Jordan walked over to the river, untied the bag of crystals and unceremoniously poured the contents into the water. “I guess there’ll be no invasion of Endora today.”

  “King Rupert’s scouts should now have plenty of time to warn our people back home about the secret troll and goblin army,” Ulric said, eyeing his prisoner with contempt. “We will be attacking them shortly.” The horseman grunted as he struggled
at the ropes, looking at the ground in defeat.

  Christopher gazed toward the north again, watching as the black plume of smoke drifted harmlessly into the ashen sky. A few of the distant clouds started to break up on a strengthening spring breeze, and several beams of sunshine splashed down from patches of radiant blue sky. Christopher felt lighthearted, almost unable to believe that they had stopped the invasion. If it hadn’t been for his father and Ulric’s help, he couldn’t imagine what evil might have occurred. His heart was as high as an eagle drifting lazily overhead.

  Then it dropped like a stone through water.

  Christopher shut his eyes for a moment as if in pain, then turned to Ulric and his father. Mr. Jordan noted the horrified expression on his son’s ghostly white face.

  “What’s the matter, Chris? You look like the world has just ended.”

  “It might have,” he softly said, his light brown eyes drowning in despair.

  “What do you mean?” Ulric asked, his voice edged with concern.

  “Morgus Vandar sent up that first smoke signal.”

  Mr. Jordan nodded. “We know, Chris. You mentioned that when you filled us in on the details of the invasion.”

  “But he was ordered by Belthasar not to send the signal until the moment after the coronation took place.”

  The same poisonous chill ran through Ulric and Mr. Jordan as they glanced at the plume of black smoke. It burrowed into their very bones.

  “That means…” Mr. Jordan uttered, not wanting to speak the unthinkable words swirling in his mind.

  Christopher swallowed hard, his throat as dry as sandpaper. “That means that Belthasar is–King,” he said, glancing up at the sky.

  The shining sun no longer cultivated any hope in their hearts. The breezes of spring offered no chance of renewal. The world now seemed lost in darkness.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Kitchen Help

  Molly wiped a dab of flour off her nose before tying the strings of the white cloth bonnet securely under her chin. She stood in the corner of the kitchen with Rosalind, Darius and Mr. Tupper, all similarly dressed in white uniforms required of the castle cooks and helpers. Mrs. Rudkin eyed them up and down, inspecting every aspect of their appearance. She dipped her hands in a sack of flour and clapped sharply, creating a thin cloud of white powder which engulfed her four visitors.

  “I want you to look like you’ve been baking bread,” Mrs. Rudkin said, waving her finger at them. “And tuck in your hair under those hats. I see a few stray locks slipping down some of your foreheads.” All quickly complied.

  Molly coughed. “I feel like I’ve been baking bread.” She fanned herself with her hand. “It sure is hot in here. How can you stand it, Mrs. Rudkin?”

  “You get used to it, my dear,” she replied, her cheeks still apple red from the warmth. “Though in the frosty wintertime, there is no place else I’d rather be than by the warm fires of my kitchen.”

  “I’m just glad you’re here with us now,” Princess Rosalind said. “Thank you again for your help.”

  Mrs. Rudkin shrugged as she rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to be doing, but if you say it’s important, Princess Rosalind, then who am I to argue?” Several of the other workers, busy preparing and serving lunch for some of the soldiers, shot curious looks at the peculiar quartet or whispered an occasional comment. Mrs. Rudkin hushed them up with a stern glance.

  “I wish I could divulge more details of our little escapade,” Mr. Tupper replied. “But secrecy is of the utmost importance. We must remain hidden yet move fast. More is at stake than you could ever imagine, my dear woman, and your assistance will not be forgotten.” He raised an eye as the shadow from the brim of his cook’s hat eclipsed his nose. “I suppose we make quite an odd sight in these getups.”

  “When this is over, perhaps you might rather bake cakes and knead dough than counsel the King,” Darius joked. Mr. Tupper eyed him sideways. “Sorry, sir.”

  Rosalind suppressed a laugh and addressed Mrs. Rudkin. “Well then, if we’re all ready, let us begin. Show us how to bake biscuits.”

  Mrs. Rudkin shook her head and sighed. “A princess baking biscuits? What is the world coming to?”

  While Molly and Princess Rosalind received a quick lesson on shaping dough into biscuits and baking them in the arched stone ovens, Mr. Tupper and Darius huddled together at another table, talking in hushed tones while scribbling words on a tiny piece of parchment. Mrs. Rudkin had provided them with a quill pen and ink for their task, not bothering to ask what they planned to write because she knew a direct answer would not be forthcoming. The other kitchen workers bustled about as they performed their duties, ignoring the guests as Mrs. Rudkin had instructed.

  Suddenly a man barged into the room and looked around amid the controlled confusion. Rosalind and Mr. Tupper instantly knew he was one of Belthasar’s agents looking for the escaped prisoners. As the man glanced from worker to worker, Rosalind whispered something into Mrs. Rudkin’s ear while he wasn’t looking. Mr. Tupper, at the same time, casually turned and faced the wall, pretending to be busy. He signaled for Darius to do likewise and then grabbed a handful of flour from a sack next to his feet and plastered both their faces with the fine white powder, caking up their eyeballs and nostrils, and nearly inducing fits of coughing.

  Mrs. Rudkin nodded at Rosalind’s hastily whispered words, then suddenly erupted in a fury as Belthasar’s advisor approached.

  “That is not how you form a proper biscuit!” she shrieked at Molly and Rosalind, who kept their heads down in apparent shame. “You girls knead the dough with all the strength of a spider! You burn every batch you slide into the oven! Why, oh why do you still have a job in my kitchen?”

  Mrs. Rudkin flailed her arms as she marched back and forth, nearly colliding with Belthasar’s advisor. “And what do you want?” she shouted. “Why are you wandering in my kitchen like some lost hungry puppy looking for a scrap of meat? Can’t you see I’m busy trying to teach these dunderheads how to bake?” She gently tapped Molly and Princess Rosalind on the head. “Today of all days they send me girls who can’t tell a fork from a spoon or an apple from a turnip! So unless you’re here to put on an apron and help us cook or wash dishes, young man, then I suggest you get out of my way while I prepare lunch for all the hungry soldiers sitting in the dining hall on the other side of that door!”

  The man flinched like a startled cat as Mrs. Rudkin, fuming like a chimney, extended an arm and pointed a finger at another door in back of the room.

  “So– So sorry to bother you, ma’am. I– I can see that you’re busy,” he muttered. “Nothing here that I’m looking for!” he said as he hustled out the door into the corridor.

  Mrs. Rudkin stood at attention for another moment as her kitchen staff gawked at her in stunned amazement. Though she was a stickler for details and a job always done well, Mrs. Rudkin was also an affable lady enjoyable to work with. None of her kitchen companions had ever seen her in such an agitated state. She slowly lowered her hand, took a deep breath and casually flicked her fingers at the staff.

  “Okay, show’s over, everybody. Back to work now.” She returned to Rosalind and Molly and flashed a slight smile. “How was that? A good enough distraction?”

  “I should say so!” Rosalind said, still mesmerized by her performance.

  Molly giggled. “I used to have a strict teacher like that back home. I made it a point never to forget to do my homework for her class!”

  Mrs. Rudkin grinned. “And what did you two think?” she asked, addressing Mr. Tupper and Darius.

  The King’s advisor and chief guard both turned around, looking as white as snowmen. Mrs. Rudkin grunted in laughter as Mr. Tupper scraped a dusting of flour off his eyelids. Molly hurried over and offered each of them a towel to wipe off their faces, biting her tongue to keep from giggling. Rosalind merely stared wide-eyed at the two gentlemen, unable to speak.

  “Disguises,” Mr. Tupper
said awkwardly, lightly brushing off his face and beard with the towel. “When that man walked in, well, I had to do something in case he recognized us! Am I right, Darius?”

  “Uh, yes, sir,” he softly said, digging bits of flour out of his eyes and gritting his teeth.

  “Well, enough nonsense and distractions in my kitchen,” Mrs. Rudkin lightly admonished. “You two finish up whatever it is you’re writing while I show these ladies how to make a proper biscuit.” She looked at the ceiling and sighed. “Why I’m doing this, I do not know!”

  Several minutes later after having cleaned themselves up, Mr. Tupper and Darius put the finishing touches on their note. They carefully folded it to the size of a postage stamp and wrapped it in a thin scrap of cloth. Molly and Princess Rosalind took over at that point, taking the secret message and concealing it in the center of one of the uncooked biscuits they had formed on a baking tray. Molly pressed a few raisins on top of that particular biscuit to mark it separately from the others. While Mrs. Ruskin assisted some of her other workers for a moment, Mr. Tupper went over their plan again as Rosalind slipped the baking tray into a stone oven.

  “They’ll be cooked in a few minutes,” Rosalind said as the oven breathed invisible billows of heat into the room like a napping dragon.

  “And when they’re ready,” Mr. Tupper reminded Molly, “you must enter the dining hall with the other servers and deliver our secret message to Amin.”

  “And who is he again?” Molly asked.

  “He’s the best archer in the King’s army,” Darius informed her. “His eye is sharp and deadly accurate. We need to arrange a meeting to speak with Amin, so it is imperative that you get this note to him.”

  Darius led Molly to the door leading into the adjacent dining hall and opened it slightly. A din of voices and the clatter of knives and forks enveloped the room. All the soldiers in the King’s guard not already on duty were eating lunch before taking their places at the coronation. The men talked and joked and seemed to be having a good time. Molly noticed several of the kitchen servers bustling about from table to table, setting down platters of food and biscuits or replenishing drinks and clearing away empty plates.