The Rise of Azlyn (Book 4): Planet Urth, no. 4

by Jennifer and Christopher Martucci

  “Everyone ready for this?” Will’s voice, edged with nervousness that echoes my own, distracts me from my brooding. In truth, I’d like to shout “No!” and perhaps even give into the tiny voice inside that demands we turn around and speed back to Cassowary. Cassowary is safe—safer than any shelter I’ve ever known—and holds the two people I love more than life itself. The need to rush there is instinctive, as reflexive as breathing. But it isn’t an option. Deep down, I know what needs to be done, and that we aren’t going back. I also suspect none of us are ready for what’s to come. How can the unexpected possibly be prepared for?

  “Not really,” I mutter under my breath.

  At first, I don’t think Will’s heard me, but when I glance up in his direction and find a pair of nearly translucent blue-green eyes searching mine, I realize he has. His gaze returns to the road ahead, and just in time to see towering structures with spires that seem to brush the lingering clouds.

  “Whoa,” Arnost says and twists in his seat, pressing his face to the glass of his window.

  Doing my best to ignore the intimidating buildings that grow in size, I check the map again. “Okay, the map says there’s one more turn up ahead, another right.” I point to a cross street marked by another, smaller sign, and once we turn onto it, we are submerged in utter chaos.

  Monolithic vehicles with more windows than I’ve ever seen race along, while smaller cars painted a vibrant, glossy gold weave among them, all funneling between daunting structures on either side of a narrow, paved path.

  “What the heck is all this?” Arnost recoils from the window, as if frightened by the sudden onslaught of vehicles. “I’ve never seen so many cars, trucks and buses before.”

  “Buses?” Will asks.

  “Yeah, those big long things with all the windows. “He points to a metal monstrosity emitting plumes of dark and foul smoke. “Those are buses. I saw a picture of one a long time ago, when I was a boy. Seeing it in person is different, though.” His words trail off and he leans toward the glass once again, gingerly this time, with his mouth partially open. He jumps, however, when a horn blares behind us. Turning in my seat, I glimpse a driver flailing his arms impatiently.

  “What do I do?” Will’s voice is fraught and louder than normal.

  “Uh, I don’t know.” My head whipsaws from the car behind us to the cars in front of us. A sense of urgency compels me. “Move, I guess.” I shrug and look at the cluster of cars before us clogging the roadway, struggling to make sense of it.

  “How?” He nearly shouts. He glances from left to right. The horn blares again, only louder and longer this time. Cars are bumper to bumper, all seemingly determined to get to the same location at once.

  “I have no idea.” I shake my head. “Maybe just inch your way into the flow.” My words come out as more of a question than a potential solution, tense and filled with apprehension as Will’s are. Regardless, Will eases off the gas pedal, allowing the car to roll and incrementally enter the stream of traffic.

  “This is crazy,” he says when our car narrowly avoids being clipped by another vehicle and joins the ranks.

  Submerged in the tide of cars, we make our way down the street and deeper into the city, our movement a series of jerky lurches and sudden stops. Soaring buildings eclipse the meager sunlight, replaced by flickering lights that glitter and flash images of Urthmen faces, cars and various other products.

  “They have electricity too, in this enormous city?” Andris comments, his voice filled with wonder.

  “I can’t believe it.” My head swivels as I attempt to take in the multitude of sights surrounding me, the most jaw-dropping among them is the throngs of Urthmen. “This is unbelievable.” Everywhere I look, male, female, adult, child, and elderly Urthmen fill the paved space along the street upon which we drive. Well dressed in fine materials in a rainbow of vibrant colors, they line the sidewalk, hurrying along just as the cars do.

  “There are so many Urthmen.” Will’s eyes dart from the road to the sidewalk. “It’s unreal.”

  Unreal hardly scratches the surface of the horror I’m experiencing. Being surrounded by this many beings, who for my entire existence were known as the enemy, feels nightmarish. Though they are clad in fancy garb and do not wield weapons—none that are visible, at least—distrust of them persists.

  Continuing to pitch forward then jolt to a stop, I rip my eyes from the spectacle and glance at the map. I take notice of the numbers displayed on the buildings and note that we are close—too close—to King Leon’s residence. “We need to stop soon. King Leon’s building is just up ahead. Find a place to park.” My eyes scan the roadway. Parked cars separate pedestrians from the road, but the spaces are limited and appear to be filled.

  “Great. Where?” Will asks, clearly frustrated.

  Leaning forward and trying to look past the sea of cars, I glimpse one leaving a spot. “There! A car is leaving that spot!” I point and yell, though I’m unsure why, exactly, I’m yelling.

  Will accelerates and almost hits the bumper of the car in front of us, a small van with a rear window filled by the faces of two Urthmen children. They stare at us and gesture. Though I can’t hear what they’re saying, they signal animatedly, pointing at us. Disregarding the children’s reactions, he guides the car into the compact opening.

  Blowing out a long loud breath, Andris says, “Wow. That was interesting. And a little terrifying.” A hearty chuckle follows his words.

  “Ah, don’t soil yourself, brother.” Arnost claps his brother on his shoulder. “We haven’t gotten out yet.” He looks across Andris, to the sidewalk where Urthmen crowd and swarm like insects.

  “Oh no,” is all Andris mumbles as his large hand palms his face.

  Arnost laughs again.

  Admittedly, I’m with Andris on this subject, especially since every Urthman that passes our car gawks in shock. The rest is predicated on the fact that such a high concentration of people surrounding me gives me the sensation of being smothered.

  “I can’t believe this place,” Andris says. “I can’t believe Urthmen could build something so grand.” He eyes towers of glass and steel, of stone and metal. I’m grateful for his comments. They delay our departure from the car.

  “Urthmen didn’t build it.” Will’s eyes rove the landscape. “Humans did. This was once Manhattan, one of the greatest human cities in the world.”

  “Well then,” Arnost grumbles and folds his thick arms across his chest. “This is the most amazing place I’ve ever seen.”

  “No argument here.” Will holds up his hands. “How about you, Avery? You’ve been quiet. What do you think of it?”

  “It’s . . . overwhelming,” I answer. “I don’t know how it was possible to create a place like this.”

  “I know,” Will agrees. He looks beyond the pane of glass. “Now what, we’re supposed to just get out of the car into the middle of all these Urthmen and they aren’t going to kill us?” Incredulity marks both his features and his words.

  “I guess we’re about to find out.” My eyes ramble over countless hideous faces, some streaked with colored product around their eyes and where lips should be, that is, if they had lips.

  Silence befalls our group. After several beats, I realize waiting only delays the inevitable. The time to leave the car and enter King Leon’s building is upon us. Slipping my fingers around the passenger door handle, I give a gentle tug. The door opens and I have to raise my voice over the cacophony of sounds that roar from every direction. “Let’s go meet the King of the Urthmen.”

  Features hardening to expressions of flinty determination, Will, Andris and Arnost nod. They slide from the car and join me after Will retrieves a plant from the floor of the passenger side of the car, a peace lily transplanted with dirt from the wild to a ceramic pot by Sully.

  Immediately, I am greeted by a medley of overpowering scents. Sulfur mingles with the aroma of food and the stench of urine and excrement, of smoke and rotten fish, all car
ried on a whistle of sharp, rushing air. The incessant honk of horns competes with shouting, talking, crying, and the clank and clatter objects striking each other. Rising above it all is the shrill shriek of an Urthman child. “Momma! Humans! I see humans!” I follow the source of the sound, my eyes landing on a miniature creature with a misshapen head, disproportionately larger than his stout body. His lidless, black eyes are wider and clearer than that of adult Urthmen and he jabs a finger our way. A female Urthman I presume is his mother shushes him and pulls him close, looking upon us in horror before hurrying out of sight.

  I look among Will, Andris and Arnost. We exchange confused glances.

  Urthmen gape at us as they move in random, shifting patterns, scuttling toward an unknown destination. We begin moving, clumsily trying to navigate the ever-changing tide of beings. Several times, an Urthman barrels into my shoulder, not bothering to apologize but making sure to level a long, lingering look my way. One brushes past me, his wild eyes, a faded chestnut hue, never leaving me. Pockmarked and with skin a jaundiced shade of gold, his clothes are threadbare and ill-fitting. His stench, a nauseating blend of urine and excrement and a body that may never have been washed, is carried on the briny breeze. I suppress a gag, but notice that he’s the only one among the vast majority of those around us who is unbathed and disheveled. In fact, apart from him, every Urthman that passes is dressed nicely. None carry weapons; except us. Grungier looking than the beings that roam the sidewalks and armed with weapons, we appear uncivilized by comparison.

  Feeling the eyes of too many Urthmen to count, I notice that one by one, bodies come out of shops. Eyes as black and smooth as polished onyx dot the landscape as the inhabitants of Kildare openly stare at us with scornful, grimacing faces. And with fear.

  “Come on. Let’s get where we need to be. I don’t like this at all,” Andris says.

  “Me neither,” I mumble absently, too consumed by the watchful gazes of every Urthman around me.

  Hurrying our pace, we proceed toward the address, bobbing and weaving to dodge being trampled. Before long, we arrive at a structure—taller than the rest—that rises higher than I can see. Seemingly disappearing into vaporous wisps that haunt the uppermost portion of it like ethereal beings, the building seems to glisten as if crusted in a glittery substance. Bulbs illuminated by electricity flash, alternating in color from blue to red and skate up the side of large block letters that read “The Palace.” A racket that consists of what can only be the warbling of an Urthmen that sounds as if he’s being tortured pours from unseen speakers, making the entire structure seem alive, and ridiculous.

  Covering his ears, Andris says, “What’s that awful noise?”

  “It’s horrible.” Will scrunches his features and looks all around us for the source of the sound. “This is the address. I hope it’s not playing inside.”

  “Me neither,” I agree. But my words die on my lips as my gaze zeroes in on Urthmen dressed identically in dark clothes and armed that block the entrance.

  Following my line of vision, Will says, “I gather we have to go through them first.” He clips his head toward the guards. “Let’s get this over with.” He walks toward them. “This is Azlyn. We’re here to see King Leon.”

  The Urthman closest to me eyes me suspiciously. “Remove your weapons.”

  I eye him distrustfully in return and watch as Will, Arnost and Andris reluctantly surrender their weapons. I’m the last to hand mine over. I do so without breaking eye contact.

  “You can have this back as soon as you leave,” the Urthman says in a tone that’s not pleasant or unpleasant, just matter-of-fact. Unsure of what to make of it, I try to discount the sinking feeling that I’ll likely never see my blade again. “Follow us.” He waves us on then turns on his heel and enters through a set of wide glass doors with ornate gold handles. Flanked by roughly four Urthmen on either side and with two picking up the rear and one leading us, we are well guarded as we step inside a vast room bathed in pleasant light. Opulent marble floors filled with the same gold veins woven into the exterior of the building stretch out underfoot. Above me, large, branched fixtures with small glass bulbs at their tips, more massive and heavy than the ones I saw in the restaurant in Washington Central hang from ceilings adorned with a painted tableau depicting winged Urthmen babies clad in drooping, underwear-like bottoms. Gold leaf moldings sit at the juncture of the wall and ceiling, elaborate carvings I cannot make out engraved within them.

  “I-I can’t believe this room,” Will marvels.

  Behind me, Andris and Arnost comment on the décor.

  Wordlessly, the Urthmen march toward a seam in the wall. Depressing a button, the seam parts to reveal a spacious compartment similar only in structure to the one that descended to the underground city.

  “Whoa, where are we going?” I halt and ask before setting foot on what I now know is an elevator.

  “The King’s office is on the fourth floor,” one of the Urthmen replies.

  Swallowing hard, I trade glances with Andris. He looks about as comfortable as I do about riding the elevator to the fourth floor. Still, we enter, waiting tensely while the doors shut.

  Within seconds, we rocket upward, making my stomach feel as if it’s being pulled to my feet by an invisible, but extremely potent force. When finally it ends, my legs feel wobbly and lightheadedness plagues me. Breathing deeply to combat it, I stride with as much confidence as I can muster as we’re led straight ahead.

  Following the Urthmen down the long corridor, my head oscillates, unsure of what to look at first, the countless paintings and tapestries of Urthmen dressed and posed glamorously or the glass cases filled with untold treasures and trinkets that line the walls. The motion does little to alleviate the dizziness, but it’s impossible to resist. I’ve never seen such odd, garish articles.

  Passing dozens of doors, all decorated with feathers and swirls of raised gold, we reach the end of the hallway. The guard ahead of me turns and looks among his men, nods, then knocks.

  “Enter!” a voice calls out.

  The Urthman before us turns a handle that’s large and coated in shiny flecks. Pushing the door forward, the entryway opens up to a chamber, and my breath catches in my chest.

  An enormous, gilded throne sits in the center of a room decorated in creamy white and rich, velvety, blue tones. Spread out on the throne, which is canopied by gauzy white fabric with twinkling lights wound about it, is the largest creature I’ve ever seen. Uncertain whether it is an Urthman at first, I do a double take.

  Pale skin, a ghastly shade of gray-green, appears to be stuffed to capacity with generous folds of flab spilling over the sides of the throne. Rotund and shaped differently than anything I’ve seen, the being I presume is King Leon is covered in a red velvet cloak trimmed in white fur and wears a jewel encrusted crown perched atop his pudgy head. Ringlets in the palest shade of snow-white frame his ghastly face, a wig as I presume, for I’ve yet to see an Urthman with hair. He is surrounded by guards.

  “Azyln,” he says my name with a peculiar lilt, emphasizing the “z” in my name as a drawnout “s”. I am King Leon.” A female Urthman wearing a tiny dress that barely covers her torso uses a gigantic feather attached to a long stick to fan him. Raising a hand with five fingers so stubby I doubt they’re dexterous enough to wiggle, he motions for us to come forward.

  Clutching my peace lily in two hands, I slide one foot in front of the other, repulsion slowing my movement. I stop far enough from him that his short arms can’t reach me lest he feels the need to do so. “King Leon, my name is Avery, but my people know me as Azyln.”

  His thick, gelatinous upper lip curls and his expression turns befuddled. “Oh, okay.” He nods and his many chins jiggle. “What is that?” Beady eyes, dark, deeply set and hooded by folds of skin, train on the plant in my hands.

  “It’s a peace lily. It’s a gesture of goodwill.” I hold it up higher so that he can have a better view of the bold, shiny green foliage surroundi
ng white flower stalks.

  Wiggling the twin, oval shaped holes that sit where a human nose would, he leans forward a fraction of an inch. Then a grin so wide it’s frightening splits his face. “Splendid!” He claps his bloated hands. “Put it over there.” He jabs a hand toward a long mahogany chest.

  I walk the plant to the shiny piece of furniture then return, placing myself a little farther back from him than I’d been before.

  “So, let’s discuss the reason I asked you to come to Kildare.” He shifts in his seat and his velvet cape twists and pulls his shirt, revealing a swath of dimpled, puffy skin. “I want there to be peace between our people. As you can see from those you’ve seen on the streets of my great city, Urthmen here are not the same as the Urthmen you’ve likely come across.” He raises his hand to his mouth and picks at something between his teeth. Plucking then licking and sucking at the teeth, he resumes his thought. “The people here are civilized. We’ve evolved beyond the heathens roaming the backwoods and plains.”

  “Yes, I noticed,” I admit.

  “I have a goal. And that goal is to transform the planet, to shape its society after the one here in Kildare.” Lowering his head so that his lower lip dangles, he breathes a wheezy sigh. “My late son, Prince Neo, was on a mission to expand the civilization of the world.” He lowers his voice a notch. “He was killed by a band of humans.”

  My heartbeat, lulled earlier into a false sense of calm, speeds to a dangerous rhythm. I swallow hard, hoping the hideous creature before me does not see the frantic darting at the base of my throat. We killed his son. Surely he knows that and that’s the real reason he brought us here. Impending doom wraps me in a dark and cold embrace. June’s face, so sweet and innocent, flashes in my mind. And Sully. Sliding my hand into the pocket of my sweatshirt, my fingers traces the smooth, plastic edges of the remote detonator, rigged to set off the nuclear weapon in the trunk of our car parked just outside the building. I just hope we’re still in range to use it.

  King Leon shakes his head as if clearing it of cobwebs. Balling his chunky hand, he says, “I refuse to let his death be in vain. I want his legacy to live on through a cause that meant so much to him. I want him to be seen as the hero he was, the Urthman who gave his life for what he believed in.”