“Exactly,” Artenvox complained. “It’s not like she’ll remember how to let us out either!”
“We can ask,” Cuthan offered.
“In case you hadn’t notice, she plans on turning us into whatever she is.” Thangone’s dry voice rang out from his cell. “I don’t think we will be escaping. Even if our swords could cut through these bars, what then?”
“There has to be a way out.” Pharengon’s voice was hard and angry.
Phyllis looked and saw the Monrage sprawled on the ground. She looked very young, possibly fourteen years of age. There was no sign of the book, and the fire burned low in its place. A moment later she woke with a gasp, her eyes empty and unsure as she looked around. She’d lain on her stomach, and indentions from the stone were displayed on her cheeks. She sat up in bewilderment, gazing at the six in the stone, barred chambers.
“Let us out!” Cuthan called, watching the Monrage girl stand up.
She turned toward him, and her eyes slid past his, the charm of his gaze irrelevant to her. “I don’t remember,” she whispered, and she sat back down, staring at the fire through lost eyes.
Cuthan continued to shout, and after a bit, Artenvox and Thangone joined in—pushing against the bars, clamoring for her attention, and begging to be let out. Yet the hours passed, and she sat—staring at the fire, rocking back and forth, and mumbling.
Phyllis huddled against the floor; her eyes were squeezed shut against the nightmare, hoping it wasn’t real. Words drifted to her. “There used to be songs they sang. Something about…what was it? Going up the moon, or was it the stars? I can’t remember. They were beautiful. I used to belong there. Calling the creatures of the wood to the council. They danced around it. Something bright and flickering. Beautiful. What was it? And the people groups were afraid of us. Why? It seemed wonderful. They sang about safety. I want to be safe.” She went on. Talking and tangling words together, incomplete pictures perhaps of a past life. She stood at times, staring upward at nothing or lay flat on her back on the stone floor, her eyes white and cloudy. She tore her rags into pieces and tossed them into the fire until the soot and ash covered her pale skin.
At last at sundown, the moment came. The shadows lengthened and grew, and the sun hid its face from the forest. The Monrage rose, and she was older again, the hollow shadow of what used to be a lady of the forest. She lifted a finger and beckoned the fire, and it grew up around her, its yellow flames heating the room and lapping up the air. Dark shadows shimmered around her as she drew a circle in the stone, and a pool of water, so cold its surface immediately glazed over in ice, appeared where she drew. The Monrage turned and reached into the fire, pulling out a thick black, book. The red lettering on it glistened in the fire and began to drip into the rock, and each drop sizzled with desire.
The Monrage rose, at last taking note of her prisoners. A dark smile gathered around her thin lips, and those pale, wild eyes focused again. “You will become like me.” She pointed to the bars, and, as she did so, a black crown grew on her head, gripping her hair and driving its sharp points up into the air. She licked her lips, and her tongue was black.
“You cannot do this!” Cuthan called. “We will fight you.”
“No one can stand against a Monrage and the Great, Black Evil.” She laughed, lifting the book. “Yes. I burned the book. I burned it into my mind. My mind that was ripped from me. You will know how it feels. You will be the first. The new Monrages. Your souls shall be mine. The house is sealed; you will never escape.”
She lifted up her hand and beckoned to the fire. It roared to a new height in obedience as the dark crown continued to grow. In one swift motion, she clenched her fist and released it. The prison bars dropped away, and the six stumbled to their feet, free at last. Artenvox raised his sword with a growl and ran toward the Monrage. She reacted by throwing black light at him. He lifted his sword to block it, but he was already too late. The light picked him up and hurled him against the wall. He hit it with a bone-jarring smack that knocked the breath from his body, and his sword clattered to the floor.
Cuthan’s attacked was graceful. He twirled through the air, spinning his sword. The Monrage laughed as she turned to the fire. “None can defeat me.”
A moment later she shrieked as Cuthan’s sword sang into her side. “We can defeat you,” he told her, gritting his teeth as he sank his sword in further. His face was stern, and the fire was reflected in his green eyes; there was something awful behind them.
The Monrage faced Cuthan; her dark face was inches from his as she pulled the sword further into her body. “None can defeat me,” she snarled. “I am Magdela the Monrage. Don’t you know? Your weapons can’t harm me.”
The dance of victory slipped from Cuthan’s face as Magdela the Monrage yanked the sword from her side. Bringing up her foot, she kicked Cuthan in the stomach. He doubled over in agony as she slammed his head against the wall where he lay.
Phyllis recoiled in horror and ran to Ilieus, wrapping her trembling arms around her. The words of warning from the creatures of the wood buzzed clearly in her mind. Beware blended mindless Monrage. It was too late. She desperately looked around the windowless and doorless hut, seeking a way to escape.
Meanwhile, the Monrage pulled a black-light sword out of the fire. It glowed as she raised it, shining with an inner darkness that permuted through the smoky air. She cackled as she spun to meet Thangone’s sword, disarming him in one blow. Thangone dived for his sword, but she tossed black light at him, numbing him as he fell to the ground.
Phyllis saw her moment. Letting go of Ilieus, she dashed for one of the fallen swords, only to feel herself struck in the back with a bolt of light. She screamed as she fell, feeling as if someone has set fire to her body. The fire roared, and Magdela the Monrage’s black mouth hung open in laughter, splashes of blood-red giving color to the air. She raised her black-light sword and advanced toward Pharengon. “None can stand against me. You are the last defense. Tell me. What will you do?”
Pharengon tossed his cloak into the fire and planted his feet before Magdela the Monrage. He drew his long sword, the metal ringing against the scabbard. The jewels danced with a light of their own; the colors of emerald, sapphires, diamonds, amethysts, and rubies blended together. Pharengon raised his sword, waiting for the blow from the black-light sword to resonate.
Magdela the Monrage took one look at the Jeweled Sword, and her crazed laughter turned into a scream of pure terror. It echoed off the stone, piercing the ears of all who heard it. She dropped her black-light sword into the fire that began to die. Her mad eyes went wide with fright as she fell to her knees, crawling backward. “No!” she cried. “No!” She yanked her hair and twisted her clawed hands. “No. They didn’t tell me. They didn’t tell me. You have it. They didn’t tell me. They didn’t warn me. You have the Jeweled Sword. The Jeweled Sword!” she cried again. Suddenly she lifted her head; her breath came thick and fast as she moaned in a singsong voice. “When the terrorizers of the black steeds and white steeds, Magdela the Monrage, has gone and been killed. When everyone has gone and hidden in the land down South. Up there will rise the Finder of the Jeweled Sword, Conqueror of Evil. He will come when he is young. He will wield the Jeweled Sword. He will dissolve the Green Stone. Where he goes, the people will no longer live in hiding. They will come out and rejoice. For evil has receded, but it will not completely be destroyed until the end of Time. - Song - as told by Paleidir Lady of the Green People. Daughter of King Islider, King of the Green People. Wife of Legone the Swift.”
She looked up as her words fell away, and a growl rose in her throat. She leaped forward with the crown on her head growing again. She snarled as she flew through the air, arms outstretched for Pharengon. But he was prepared. Lifting the Jeweled Sword, he skewered her on the edge of it. He threw her flat against the stones and drove the blade into her heart. Her blood pumped one last time and squirted across the room—the fire collapsed, the frozen pool disappeared, and suddenly
the door to the hut flew open. The Monrage howled, and even as she screamed, her body convulsed. All was still.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Quicksand
“Burn it to the ground,” Pharengon commanded as they left the hut.
Cuthan and Artenvox supported each other as they limped out into the failing light of the night. Phyllis and Ilieus clung to each other, silent tears of horror making their way down their face. Even as they walked out, Phyllis thought she saw a horned shadow move through the trees, disappearing from view into the north. She blinked quickly, forgetting the thought as if it hadn’t been there.
Thangone lit the hut on fire and came to stand beside Pharengon as they watched it burn. “I cannot pretend to understand what sorcery was at work there.” Pharengon shook his head. “I trust we will not speak of this again.”
“I saw this,” Ilieus gasped. “She was in my visions. The Monrage. I did not know it was her until now. She has done something terrible.”
But Phyllis could not help but feel something was not right. If, indeed, the Monrage had been as terrible as she claimed, someone more powerful had banished her and that someone or someones were still at large. She shivered in the darkness and held tighter to Ilieus.
They moved away, each holding on to dark thoughts as they fled deeper into the northeast. No one saw the shadow, standing near the wood and watching them from the north. “My daughter,” the shadow said, more or less to himself. “I am sorry for this. Half-Changers can die after all. Your life was an experiment, but now I know. They do not have the Green Stone.” He mused to himself a few moments longer as the flames faded away. Then he turned, took his shadow, and disappeared.
***
They traveled for days, speaking little as they journeyed further northwest. Each held the horror of the past to themselves, reluctant to speak of it. But each looked at Pharengon with newfound respect and admiration, now that they knew the power of his sword.
“Did you hear the prophecy?” Cuthan asked. “Is it true?”
“I have never heard it before.” Artenvox wrinkled nose. “It doesn’t make sense though. Legone the Swift was one of the Five Warriors, and he died during the last battle for the Western World in the Great Water Hole.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Cuthan argued. “His wife still could have said the words of the prophecy whether he was dead or not.”
Ilieus swallowed hard as she listened to them. “Tharmaren the Wise asked about a Green Stone.”
“We should speak of this no more,” Pharengon said, his voice hard. “There are greater works at hand beyond our understanding. If we ever escape from this relentless forest, we should take what we have learned to Tharmaren the Wise. He will tell us what to do with our knowledge.”
Phyllis was silent. She was frightened now. More frightened than she’d ever been. It was one thing to hear the stories of danger and peril, and quite another to experience them firsthand. All along, she’d thought her end goal, to help her sister get better, would be straightforward. Each step forward dragged them down into a bottomless pit of mystery, unlocking doors to knowledge she never knew existed. As each glimpse into the hidden mysteries revealed itself, she wished to know no more. The immortals were quite real, the tales of old were true, the prophecies would come to pass, and she was only a piece in time in the unending struggle. If, indeed, the words of Magdela the Monrage were true, what, in fact, had the Five Warriors done except delay the inevitable?
She felt as if the fingers of darkness were reaching out for her as if… “Aye!” Cuthan yelled as he fell into a brown slush. “What is this?”
“Watch out!” Artenvox called back. “It’s quicksand. Everyone, get back and grab onto a tree branch or whatever you can find.”
“I have rope!” Thangone swung off his pack as he backed away, digging through it for a coil of rope. “Hang on Cuthan.”
The ground swelled where Cuthan stood, rolling around in brown and gray colors mounds. There was a sucking sound as it pulled everything within its reach inward. Phyllis scrambled toward a tree to hold onto, but even as she ran, something caught hold of her foot and yanked. She turned; her leg was caught fast in the mirk, and a steady force was dragging her down.
“Take my hand,” Pharengon’s deep voice rumbled.
Phyllis stretched out for him, attempting to still the rising panic she felt. His hand was warm, steady, and strong as he pulled her toward him, calming her with his gaze.
Thangone tied his length of rope around a tree trunk and flung the end toward Cuthan. “Reach!” he ordered.
Phyllis saw Cuthan struggling to lift his arms as the marshes rolled again, like waves of the ocean, reaching to pull him under into a sandy death.
“I can’t move!” Cuthan shouted back.
“Here, I’ll help.” Artenvox grabbed the rope, but before he could move again, the marshes pulled him in and rose up to his waist, pinning his hands beside him. The rope disappeared as the quicksand rose again like a monster playing with its food.
When Phyllis looked down, she saw the marshes were already up to her chest and she couldn’t see her hand in Pharengon’s anymore.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“No,” Phyllis cried. “This can’t be happening!” She felt herself struggling in the marshes to no avail.
“Cuthan!” Artenvox’s voice was urgent. “Cuthan!”
“Farewell, friends.” Cuthan’s face was all that could be seen as he sunk. “It’s been a pleasure.” He gave one last grin before he closed his green eyes and his head disappeared into the quicksand.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Marshswamps
Phyllis couldn’t breathe, and she did not dare open her eyes. The grit of sand and the stink of the marshes consumed her, sucking her in and distorting her body as they pulled her down. Suddenly, she was standing still, and she gasped as warm air entered her lungs. Her hand was still wrapped in Pharengon’s, and she reached out the other, bumping into Ilieus, who was beside her. She squinted, opening her eyes to see if they were in the afterlife. Darkness flooded her sight, but as she grew used to the dimness, she could see a tunnel before her and a great many shadowy creatures moving back and forth. They reminded her of a colony of roaches buried under a dead log, and when exposed to light, they scurried and fled in all directions. Her hands trembled, and her teeth chattered. This wasn’t the afterlife, was it?
“Did you get all of them?” a voice asked.
“Yes, all six,” another voice replied.
“Where are they?” the first voice demanded.
“In the bright lights room.”
“In a line?”
“In a line.”
“Well, what are we waiting for?” the first voice asked impatiently.
“The marshswamps to recede.”
“Done yet?”
“Nearly.”
“I’ll get them to work then.”
“Where are you going to put them?”
“Where do we need help?”
“First Power Room. Status. Full. Second Power Room. Status. Empty.”
“What about Third Power Room?”
“What about it?”
“We need the most work there.”
“Yes.”
“Status!” the voice exploded.
“Could use more help.”
“Six?”
“Six.”
“Well?”
“Well, yes?”
“Let’s get them there?”
“By what whephon?”
“Fonamanon, not whephon!” the voice shrieked. “Which is the quickest?”
“The Shock Scruff.”
“Use that one.”
“How much shock?”
“Little.”
“Should I bind their eyes so they won’t see?”
“Of course, they shouldn’t see our other work!”
“Should they hear?”
“No, someone might say something by mistake.”
“Oh, just hurry and get the thing done!”
The six were suddenly blindfolded and their ears clogged with some terrible mushy substance. They smelled something sharp as they fell through the air. Their ears were unclogged, and they heard a humming sound. Phyllis reached up to rub the remains of the nasty stuff out of her ears and tested her legs. She was standing upright on something softly and springy like the marshes. Her hand had been ripped away from Pharengon’s in the sudden transfer, and she found herself missing the comfort of his strength. The blindfold was still yet plastered to her face like a second skin, refusing to move even as her free fingers tore frantically at it.
“Strangers, get to work!” a thin voice barked in annoyance. The sound of a whip cracking sliced the air, making Phyllis jump.
“Are you talking to us?” Cuthan’s voice inquired flippantly. “How are we supposed to work with blindfolds on?”
The voice gave a huff and a sigh of annoyance. “Take a box,” it snapped. Seconds later, Phyllis felt a box slam into her stomach. She felt bile rise in her throat at the force of the impact, and she lifted her hands to hold it. “Put the items at your feet in the box. CAREFULLY!” the voice demanded. It sighed again. “When the box is full, put it behind you and start over.”
“How do we get more boxes?” Artenvox asked, clearly amused at the situation, although Phyllis wasn’t sure why.
“Just get to work!” the voice barked and padded footsteps walked away.
Phyllis awkwardly bent down, falling to her knees on the ground. It smelt musty, wherever they were down below the marshes. Her fingers bumped against something cool and cylinder; it was smooth but emitted a humming sound and smelled queer, sharp in a way that made her head hurt. She put it on the square container and reached for another, fumbling in the dark.
“I wonder,” Cuthan spoke loudly. “Where are we?”
“Faster!” barked the thin voice, and another set of flapping footsteps padded away.
The Blended Ones (The Four Worlds Series Book 2) Page 25