by Logan Joss
‘What about the crew? They’ll still help us, won’t they?’
‘I wouldn’t bet on that,’ Mèlli said. ‘They’ve lost their captain and their vessel. Taking us two to the far north will be the last thing on their minds.’
‘Maybe we can ask these spirits then?’ Trevor said, jumping to his feet. ‘They could fly us there.’
Mèlli got up and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I suppose there’s no harm in asking.’
Trevor took a few steps into the clearing and looked around, unsure of which way to go.
‘Of course, you’ve got to find one first,’ Mèlli said from behind him. He followed Trevor as he wandered aimlessly around the clearing looking for the elusive spirit.
‘Maybe I’ll wait until they come back. I’ll ask then.’
‘Good idea,’ Mèlli said encouragingly. ‘The sun’s setting anyway and it will be dark soon. Perhaps we should think about bedding down for the night.’
They made their way back over to their tree, to discover that bedding, in the form of large, soft leaves covered in downy fluff, had been placed there ready for them to sleep on.
‘It looks like you missed them again, Trevor.’ Mèlli said, trying not to laugh.
They snuggled down between layers of soft leaves and chatted quietly before drifting off to sleep.
Trevor’s eyes opened. The clearing was illuminated by a soft, green light. It was eerily quiet. He pushed off the leaf blanket and stood up. Floating in the center of the clearing was a green ball of light, which seemed to be calling out his name. He looked down to see if Mèlli was awake, but the ground had become covered in a dense layer of mist, hiding him from sight.
‘Trevor Pondsbury,’ a soft voice whispered. ‘Come.’
Trevor began to step towards the light. He felt no fear, despite the unearthly atmosphere. ‘Gýella? Is that you?’ he said in a hushed voice.
‘Yes, Trevor. It is we.’
He looked around, but there was only one ball of light, which slowly morphed as he neared it until it took on an angelic form.
‘Trevor Pondsbury, who has traveled from far, welcome.’ The figure descended until she was level with Trevor. ‘You have a question, Trevor Pondsbury. This is your opportunity to seek the answer.’
Trevor’s head filled with all the questions he had wanted to ask since arriving on Ëlamár, but the only one he managed to utter was the one he had been discussing with Mèlli that evening. ‘Can you take us to Borreós?’ he blurted.
‘We cannot take you, but we can give you the means to continue your journey.’ She leaned in closer to him. ‘Now ask the question to which you truly seek an answer.’
‘But I have so many questions. Like…like…what’s happened to rus? Is Ormostrious alive? And Burtlùs and Freya? And King Somúlùs? Will I ever see them again? And will we find a dragon’s tear? And if we do, will it save Princess Viöla? And the glÿmpse—does it have the power to take me home?’ Trevor stopped himself, his heart beating hard in his chest. Then in a soft voice, he asked, ‘Will I ever see my mother again?’
‘Just questions all, Trevor Pondsbury. But first, let me ask you a question. If I told you that I have the power to send you home, here and now, what would you say?’
Trevor took a step back in disbelief. ‘You could do that?’
‘If I told you I could do that, what would you say?’
‘Yes, yes, I want to go home. But what about Princess Viöla? And rus? What would happen to them?’
‘If I were to give you a choice to go home now and seal the fate of Princess Viöla, or to stay and fulfill your promise, which would you choose?’
‘That’s unfair, asking me to choose between myself and the life of someone else.’
‘What if I were to tell you that I already knew what your answer would be before I even asked the question?’
‘Then why would you ask it?’
‘Because the true question is whether you yourself believe you are capable of not just saving one life, but the lives of so many others.’
‘So many others? But it’s only Princess Viöla who needs the cure. And given the choice, right here and now, I would choose to honor my promise, even if that means I never see my mother or Ruth again.’
Trevor was shocked by the words, even as they parted his lips. But he realized they were true.
The spirit rested a hand on his shoulder. To his surprise, he could feel it even though it seemed to be made only of light.
‘Then you have answered your own question, Trevor Pondsbury.’
‘Huh? What question?’
‘Search within yourself. Both the question and the answer are within.’
Trevor just felt confused.
‘You will see your friends again, but not all of them,’ the spirit said.
Trevor felt a wave of dread fill his body. ‘Not all of them? Then who?’
‘Your friends are many. Think not only of the friends you know but also of those you have yet to meet.’
Trevor thought that didn’t really answer his question. ‘And what did you mean, the lives of many?’
‘If you succeed in your quest, it will not just be the life of Princess Viöla that you save, but the lives of all on Ëlamár. Your destiny lies in this world.’
That’s what Ormostrious said, Trevor thought. ‘But what does that mean?’ he said. ‘How can I be responsible for everyone on the planet?’
The spirit did not respond and began to fade, the green light becoming dimmer. ‘Remember this, Trevor Pondsbury—not all those you travel with are what they appear to be.’
The spirit vanished.
Trevor woke with the early morning sun on his face. He sat up with a start and looked around. Mèlli was sitting beside him, nibbling on nuts from the basket.
‘I had the weirdest dream,’ Trevor said, not sure if it was, in fact, a dream at all.
‘I dreamed I was a fruit hanging from one of these trees here,’ Mèlli said. ‘I knew that I was about to drop, when suddenly the tree changed into one of those horrible, evil trees and the ground opened up beneath me and swallowed me whole.’ He offered the basket of nuts to Trevor. ‘What were you saying?’
‘I dreamed that I spoke to the spirit and she told me I could go home right here and now, but I chose to stay…’ Trevor thought about his dream, how real it had felt. ‘Then she said if we don’t succeed, everyone on Ëlamár will die.’
‘That’s deep Trevor. I think I prefer my dream.’ Mèlli stood up and brushed the nut shells off his clothing.
‘But what do you think it means?’ Trevor asked.
‘It was only a dream. Come on, let’s go and see if there’s anything for breakfast.’
Absentmindedly, Trevor stood up and followed Mèlli into the clearing. The rest of the crew was already awake, standing around and talking in small groups. The midshipman, who had spoken to Mèlli the previous day, spotted the two boys and walked over to them smiling radiantly.
‘Ah, our young passengers, good morning to you,’ he said. ‘Come and join us.’
‘Anything for breakfast?’ Mèlli asked hopefully.
‘I’m afraid our benevolent hosts have not graced us with their presence as yet. Mind you, it is still early.’
As if on cue, Gýella appeared as a bright light in the center of the clearing and, to Trevor’s amazement, morphed into the angelic form from his dream.
‘That’s her!’ Trevor said.
‘That’s who?’ asked Mèlli.
‘From my dream, that’s how she looked in my dream.’
The spirit began to speak. ‘I trust you are all well rested. Soon we will prepare for your onward journey. Everything you need will be provided for you.’
As she spoke, new baskets of fruit and sweetbreads appeared, along with knapsacks fashioned from leaves, which were full to the brim with provisions. Trevor and Mèlli leaped eagerly to investigate what had arrived.
‘There’s enough here to cross the whole continent!’ Mèlli e
xclaimed. But before they could help themselves to anything, Gýella spoke again, but this time only to Trevor and Mèlli.
‘My dear friends, you must take a different path. You must complete the rest of your journey alone. Please follow me.’
A little confused but intrigued, they did as they were asked and followed the spirit out of the clearing along a narrow path cut between the trees. Descending down a gentle slope, the path soon came out on the bank of a broad, fast-flowing river. On a small stony beach to one side stood a wooden raft with a shelter at one end and enough provisions to take them all the way to their destination.
‘You will find everything you need onboard the raft,’ Gýella said. ‘Please climb aboard.’
‘Isn’t north that way?’ Mèlli asked, pointing upriver, as they both climbed onto the raft.
Without a word, the spirit knelt down by the water’s edge and touched one finger into the river. The flow of water gradually began to slow until it came to a complete stop, before starting to flow back in the opposite direction at a far steadier pace.
‘That was amazing!’ Trevor said, wide-eyed. ‘It’s going uphill!’
With a wave of Gýella’s arm, the water rose and engulfed the beach, sweeping the raft out into the river.
‘Remember my words, Trevor Pondsbury,’ she said as the raft began to make way.
25
The Reckoning
FROM ALL AROUND the palace walls, the men watched with confusion, uncomprehending, as the dark mass flowed towards the city. The terrible realization sank in as Nirikö’s dead army breached the outer city walls in a single wave of flesh and surged relentlessly towards the palace. This was what the men had feared above all else. They had heard the rumors of this army of lost souls—the re-animated corpses of those who had lost their lives in previous battles, defending their countries against the might of Nirikö. But not even the most terrifying rumors could have prepared them for the reality they now faced.
With a terrible, inhuman speed, the dead army leached through the abandoned streets of rus, making its way inexorably towards the palace like a deadly infection. High on the ramparts, the runian soldiers turned on their heels and scrambled down towards the parade ground, forcing their way through the crowds of their comrades who had yet to witness for themselves the unimaginable size and terror of the scourge that was consuming their city. Panic-stricken, the men fought to get down to the safety of the palace, scrambling for the steps in a desperate attempt to escape the mindless horror that pursued them. Men who had fought shoulder to shoulder only hours before now pushed each other aside, trampling those who fell, seeking only to save themselves.
King Somúlùs was among the crowd starting to make his way up the steps to the ramparts. Consumed by fear, his soldiers failed to recognize their king, and he too was cast from the steps and fell heavily onto the hard cobbled surface below. He lay there, dazed, beside the bodies of other runians who were either unconscious or dead, he could not tell.
The stench of death filled the air long before the attackers reached the palace walls. Only one small company of archers on the northern ramparts, standing staunch against their fear with their arrows poised, remained long enough to see the terrifying forms of the dead army up close. With one sharp order from the commander, arrow after arrow flew through the air. The archers’ aim did not falter. Some arrows penetrated the bodies of the dead, spilling dark congealed fluids; others slid straight through their targets as if they were nothing but air. Yet the archers soon realized it was all in vain. They continued firing until their arrows were exhausted, but the dead continued regardless, with arrows protruding from their skulls like macabre headdresses.
As the army of the dead reached the base of the walls, their blackened, rotting flesh tore from their limbs as wave upon wave clambered upon each other, insect-like, a tsunami of writhing bodies that rose up and crested the circumference of the palace wall. Hundreds, then thousands of the dead spilled over, filling the ramparts. Many of the archers turned and fled; others were engulfed by the swarm. Only one remained. Too petrified to run, he was forced to the edge of the wall by the solid mass of death. He buried his face in his hands, terrified, and waited for his imminent demise. But it did not come. There was only silence. The slithering of dead flesh was no more.
Slowly, the archer opened his eyes and peered through his fingers. The dead had stopped. All around the palace walls and beyond they stood, frozen in time like hideous statues. Barely daring to breathe, the archer lowered his arms and felt for the stone wall behind him, edging his way unsteadily along it towards the steps. He had no choice but to squeeze his small body between the hard stone and the putrid flesh, making him wretch painfully.
Despite his urge to look away, his gaze was fixed uneasily on each of the now pitiful forms before him, their soulless white eyes staring blankly ahead. At such close quarters, he could clearly identify the dead army’s origins. From Saphèa, the furthest north and the first to fall, the dead were little more than skeletal forms starved of flesh, their taut skin stretched across brittle bones. Others still wore the ragged uniforms of Sivèo, Timaÿs and Flûrdroùm. And some, the most recently dead with the flesh still fat on their bones, bore the sparkling crests of Xýrantè.
At last, the archer felt the wall come to an end. He turned and ran down the steps as fast as his legs could carry him, hurtling headlong onto the parade ground and becoming lost in the chaos of frightened people.
On the other side of the quadrangle, Somúlùs sat dazed, propped against a wall, looking on in despair. It had all gone wrong so quickly. How can I have been so foolish? he thought. I should have taken my people and fled when I had the chance. Cýrian warned me this would happen.
‘My liege? Sire. Sire!’
In amongst the cries of panic and terror, King Somúlùs heard his name being called as if from far away. Then a hand reached down and a firm grasp on his arm made him look up.
With one swift movement, Frèuitùs pulled his king to an upright position. ‘My liege, we need to get you into the safety of the palace.’
Somúlùs withdrew his arm from Frèuitùs’ grip. ‘No. I’m not leaving my men out here to die alone. All this is my fault.’
‘No-one’s going to die. Um, it’s Ormostrious, sire. Err, he’s got a plan. But he needs you.’ Frèuitùs took hold of Somúlùs’ arm again, but instead of leading him towards the crowded main entrance of the palace, where every other frightened runian was going, he took him into a small courtyard and through a plain wooden door which led down to the old wine cellar.
Just days before, this room had been piled high with crates containing the flare casings that were used to hold Ormostrious’ potions. But now there were empty spaces amongst the oddly shaped piles of furniture and forgotten relics that slumbered here. Frèuitùs took a firestone lantern from the wall and led Somúlùs through the maze of strange shapes to a heavy iron door on the far side of the room. The door was slightly ajar and it opened with a low metallic groan. Frèuitùs closed it firmly behind them and turned a heavy metal wheel on the back of the door, inlaid with the royal crest. As it turned, eight metal bars slid out in different directions and sealed it tightly shut. In front of them, a flight of stone steps led steeply downwards into darkness. Frèuitùs started to head down.
‘Where are you taking me?’ Somúlùs said.
Frèuitùs turned and paused slightly before answering. ‘To Ormostrious, sire.’
‘He’s down here?’
‘Yes, my liege. I don’t know what he’s got up his sleeve, he just sent me to find you.’
Somúlùs pondered this for a moment, before following his consul down the steps.
The air took on a damp chill as they descended deeper and deeper. Eventually, the steps ended as they reached a long arched tunnel leading off in both directions. Without pausing, Frèuitùs strode off, taking the tunnel which led away from the palace. Somúlùs followed behind him in silence. After a while, the passageway opened out
into a large stone vault, with a closed door at the far end.
‘Where is Ormostrious?’ Somúlùs demanded.
Frèuitùs turned to face his king. ‘I’m sorry, my liege, but I have led you down here under false pretenses.’
‘What do you mean?’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘You said you were taking me to Ormostrious.’
‘He was here. He and a small group of others have gone to join with Viöla.’
‘So why have you brought me here?’
‘rus is lost. There is nothing that can be done about that.’
‘If rus is lost, then I am to be lost with it,’ Somúlùs said. ‘I will stand and die with my men, with honor. I will not run away like a coward.’ The king turned and made his way back towards the door, but Frèuitùs stepped in front of him and blocked his way.
‘I’m sorry but I can’t let you do that,’ he said, closing the door.
Somúlùs met Frèuitùs’ gaze and saw that his eyes were lit with a kind of madness. ‘Frèuitùs, let me pass,’ he said.
Frèuitùs stood silently, unflinching, with his back against the door. Somúlùs began to lose his patience and grabbed hold of him, thrusting him aside and reaching for the door handle. But in one swift movement, Frèuitùs raised the firestone lantern high and brought it down hard on the king’s head.
Meanwhile, rus waited. Every door to the palace had been braced shut by those lucky enough to have managed to push their way inside, heedless of the plight of their less fortunate comrades. Those who remained in the courtyards and the parade ground cowered against the walls, resigned to their fate. Waiting for the army of the dead to resume its inward march. Waiting for death.
As if reflecting their fear, the sky above them began to darken as a vast shadow slid across the parade ground from the outer walls to the palace, plunging the crowds below into an unnatural twilight. Hundreds of faces looked up. Hanging above the palace was a fleet of galleons, dwarfing the one that had so easily been defeated the night before. Leading it was its flagship, three times the size of the Leviathan’s Roar. Its wooden hull was clad with metal armor and on its bow was a cast metal figurehead depicting a roaring dragon. Its twin masts stood side by side and leaned outwards, their red firesilk sails rigged beneath them to appear like wings. Emblazoned on each was the symbol of the impaled dragon.