by P B Hughes
Jude unraveled the blank scroll and began to read.
“Nuvat gorea de un nuvia,” he began. “Neha eh diab carna mordu sen ish.”
Suddenly, the scroll began to glow—not with light, but with black electricity, flashing and pulsating.
“Era neem deiha,” Jude chanted. His voice sounded normal at first, but as he spoke it began to change, deepening, echoing. “Inga nor, inga heesh char anga nu, dobliet igreagana hela, hela!”
The darkness oozed out from the scroll, engulfing Jude. He rose up from the platform, one, two, three feet high.
Daniel looked over at Greavus, who had a wild look in his eyes, insane with pleasure. Daniel felt as though he would faint, but forced himself to remain conscious—he had to stop this! He let out a moan—trying to shout at Jude but he could not find the words.
“Daniel?” said Ari, taking notice. “Daniel, what’s wrong?”
She looked up at Nahash and he let out a guttural hiss.
“Release him!” she demanded.
He would not.
“I said,” Ari raised her staff and brought it down across Nahash’s arm with a crack, “release him!”
Nahash recoiled and Daniel came to his senses. Daniel lunged toward Jude,
“No Jude,” he called out. “Stop it—you must stop!”
“Ale hishna, coreska noof helendespar!”
Daniel reached up to grab him—an explosion of darkness burst out from Jude—everyone on the platform was knocked from their feet off the platform and onto the arena floor. Only Greavus, Nahash, and Marriott remained unaffected, the explosion passing through them like vapor. A shockwave of shadow tore through the stadium, flinging people left and right.
Daniel looked on as Jude rose higher and higher. The black stone Jude kept with him slipped out from his cloak and shot into the sky above the stadium, then froze. What happened next took Daniel’s breath away. A veil of black energy poured out from the stone—a force field, like liquid, fell and encircled the stadium in a dome of darkness. Then, Jude lowered back to the platform in a crumpled heap.
“What,” cried the voice of Chancellor Harquist, who had picked herself up off the ground, “is the meaning of this?” She seemed to have come to her senses, yet looked thoroughly bewildered. “What just happened?” She looked up at the platform to see the three men standing. “Marriott, explain yourself!”
Daniel watched, confused, as Judge Marriott backed away and hid behind Greavus and Nahash. Had the little man been working with them all along?
Greavus began to shake with laughter. “Coward!” he shouted, whirling around and kicking Marriott to the ground. “Ah hem—you see my good Judge, this—this is a coup d’état.”
The Miraclists around the perimeter of the stadium sprang into action, staffs outstretched, rushing toward the platform.
“You have no power now,” said Greavus, unfazed. “Don’t even bother.”
Sure enough, the Miraclists, try as they might, could not use energy. A wave of terror rippled through the audience. Frightened cries rang out as the heavy sound of beating wings came from above. Then a horrific roar blasted through the air, reverberating through the arena. There, in the sky, a black wyvern flew. On its back was Rasta Murk, donned in a charcoal cloak.
“No—no, it can’t be!” cried Daniel, scrambling to his feet.
Rasta flew straight through the barrier and landed behind Greavus with a mighty thud. His wyvern—scar-faced like her master—crawled forward on her hind legs and wings, snapping at the Miraclists, forcing them back.
“Get back, worms,” barked Rasta, “or she’ll feast on your flesh!”
“Ah, good to see you, my faithful servant,” Greavus called out. “But do not eat them just yet—not before my Sweet gets a chance!” Rasta reined the beast in and took a place at the base of the platform. “Nahash, bring her forth!”
Nahash threw back his black cloak and began to chant in an ancient language much like the one Jude had spoken. His jade eyes flashed. The ground beneath their feet rumbled. Then, several yards away there was an eruption. Out of the ground rose a horrid looking creature, far more frightening than any wyvern—a blood-colored serpent—black eyed, folds of skin around its head like a cobra, bearing its sword-like fangs at the crowd.
“My beautiful cobariss,” said Greavus as the serpent slithered across the arena floor and over to him, “my delightful, deadly, Malodia.” He reached out his hand and stroked her enormous head. “Did you bring your friends?”
The cobariss flicked out her tongue. The sound of a drum began to beat—deep and steady through the stadium—up from the crater Malodia had formed.
Boom…Boom…Boom.
Suddenly, hands—green, gnarled, and terrible, gripped the edges of the crater. Up, like a nightmarish fiend, leaped a huge goblin war-chief, clad in black chain mail from head to toe. His eyes were like coals—his long hair glistened like the mane of a black stallion. He let out a bellowing shriek, his lengthy red tongue whipping past his pointed teeth as he beat the hilt of his curved scimitar against his chest. Behind him, his followers swarmed from the hole like locusts. They were dressed for battle—black armor, wicked spears and horrible black bows.
“Kill them,” said Greavus. “Kill them all!”
Daniel took Ari by the arm and pulled her to him.
“We have to run—run!”
The goblins gave chase, teeming through the stadium—across the arena, up the walls and into the stands, overrunning the terrified people, cutting down every Miraclist they came across. Chancellor Harquist ran next to Daniel and Ari, but the goblins were too agile for the old woman—they cut her off and cornered her back against the wall.
“Greavus!” cried Chancellor Harquist as she stared down the tip of a spear, “You treacherous slug—you planned this! Mordecai was right. You feigned an uprising to be rid of the troops!”
The goblin jabbed his spear into Chancellor Harquist’s chest, pinning her against the wall to silence her.
“Chancellor, no!” Daniel cried, turning around.
Ari caught Daniel by the wrist. “It’s too late—we have to get out of here!” she shouted, pulling him toward the open gate to one of the tunnels. Jelani and Nera were ahead of them, nearly there.
“Stop them!” shouted Greavus. “Malodia—attack!”
The great serpent rose up and shot toward them, scattering the goblins left and right.
They slid inside the tunnel; the cobariss slammed against the frame, snapping and spitting. The folds of skin about her head would not let her pass through.
The four of them sped through the tunnel and up a flight of spiraling stairs, refusing to look back. They rushed out into the corridor. Scores of screaming people were running out of the stadium and through the dark barrier that now enveloped it.
“Come!” Jelani shouted, making his way behind the people, the rest of them behind him.
Daniel, Ari, Jelani, and Nera ran up to the wall of energy, tried to pass through, but were knocked from their feet. Daniel crawled to his knees and reached out his palm—the wall was completely solid, impossible to penetrate. A mother and child ran past them—straight through the barrier.
“Why can they pass through, but we can’t?” Daniel said, slamming his fist against the wall.
“Quick—we haven’t any time, we must hide!” said Jelani. “Up the stairs!”
The four of them dashed back inside the stadium. They opened a door in the side of the wall and raced up the stairs into a small empty room.
“What is going on, Daniel?” snapped Ari. “You knew something was going to happen—how did you know?”
“That scroll,” he panted, “we found it in the woods—Rasta, the man on the wyvern, stole it from us. Now I know why he wanted the scroll so badly—it must activate that barrier—whatever it is. But still, I don’t get it—the scroll was blank! None of this makes any sense!”
“But how did you know—how did you kno
w the scroll was something evil?” Ari pressed.
“I-I’m not sure,” Daniel replied. “I just knew!”
“That does not matter now,” said Jelani. “We must do something to stop this madness!”
“What can we do? We can’t use energy!” Nera cried.
“We have to find General Tiberius,” Daniel said. “But first, we have to break down the barrier.”
“But how? Did you see all those things out there?” Nera argued.
“By getting that stone.”
“That stone is a least two hundred feet high,” cried Nera, throwing her arms into the air, “how do you propose we get to it?”
“I don’t know—I don’t know! Just let me think for a moment!”
“If only there was a way to get beyond the barrier,” said Ari. “Then we’d have a chance.”
Suddenly, an idea gripped Daniel. “I’ve got it!” he said, “Miraclists may not be able to pass through—but others can! Rasta and his wyvern—all the others—they passed through without any problem!”
“So? What’s your point?” asked Nera.
Ari understood. “Shade,” she said, nodding decisively. “We need to get Shade back into the arena.”
“Go back into the arena? Have you lost your minds?” Nera protested. “We’ll be killed the moment we step foot back in there! And who is Shade?”
“My gryphon.” Daniel pulled out the little black whistle Mrs. Doppledodger had given him. “It’s our only hope—we have to get to the stone. It appears to be powering the barrier. If we can get to the stone, then perhaps that will cause the barrier to fall, and then we’ll make short work of these monsters.”
“And what if it doesn’t? Then what?” Nera objected.
“Daniel is right, Nera. There is no other option,” said Jelani sternly. “Daniel, what do you need from us?”
“Time. I need you to hold off any attacks while she gets here.”
“Then time you shall have.” Jelani gripped his staff with both hands and swung it around him.
The four of them crept back downstairs. Shouts echoed from inside the arena—something terrible was happening.
“Oi—there they are,” gurgled a deep voice. “Greavus says kill the lot of ‘em!”
A black arrow whizzed past Daniel’s ear. A band of goblins—nine in all—came hurtling toward them with weapons outstretched.
“Stop right there, you wretched band of green insects!” a voice called out. Suddenly, out from behind a statue jumped Sir Weston, the knight from the outer-stables, broadsword drawn. “Stay behind me children—I shall protect you!”
“Sir Weston?” Ari cried. “But how did you—”
“No time to explain!” he replied, jumping forward. “Have at you, foul fiends!”
At first, the goblins slid to a halt. One of them, taller than the rest, nudged his comrade forward with his round shield. “Take care of this maggot!”
The goblin lunged, his nasty scimitar stained with blood, and swung it violently at Sir Weston’s head. There was a flash of steel—Sir Weston deflected the blow, knocking the scimitar from the goblin’s hand. He thrust his sword into its gut. The goblin fell to the ground, dead.
“Who else wishes to challenge Sir Weston?”
The lead goblin let out a screeching cry and shook his shield and sword in the air. “Rip his heart out!”
The eight remaining goblins rushed forward, howling like a pack of wolves.
SPAT—SPAT—THUMP!
Two of the goblins fell to the ground, throwing knives buried in their skulls. Another caught a knife in his round-shield before it hit. The goblins looked past Sir Weston and past the Miraclists, terror in their eyes. Behind them stood the hunchbacked Gizzard, brandishing two more throwing knives over his head—another between his teeth.
“Good show, Gizzard!” Sir Weston congratulated. “You really gave them what for!”
Gizzard let out a raspy laugh and slid to Sir Weston’s side.
“Now we are evenly matched—six versus six—come on, then!”
The four goblins with shields moved to the front, raised them, and marched forward. The two in the back notched their arrows.
“Look out!” shouted Ari, spotting them.
But they were no problem for Gizzard. With a flick of his wrist, the tiny man sent the glinting knives deftly between the goblin’s shields, right between the eyes of one archer and into the chest of the other. Sir Weston dashed forward, cleaving a goblin’s head, and then thrust his sword up underneath the shield of another. He tried to pull it back, but his sword was stuck. He rolled backward as the goblin’s spears clinked against the ground. Another goblin leapt on top of him, snapping at his neck with its teeth.
Daniel raised his staff above his head, let out a yell, and barreled toward the goblins. He swung his staff, smashing the helmet of the goblin on top of Sir Weston. The goblin crumpled. Daniel turned to face the last goblin. Gizzard’s knife whirred by Daniel’s head; the goblin deflected it with his curved sword. He let out a low, rumbling growl. Daniel rushed forward, slamming his body against the creature’s shield. He grabbed a knife from off the floor and jabbed it into its chest.
The goblin staggered back, and then collapsed.
Sir Weston pushed the goblin off of himself and was on his feet.
“Ah—the army may have left without us, but the battle rages here! Quickly, take their weapons. You will need them.” He pulled a scimitar from a goblin’s fingers and handed it to Daniel. The rest of them picked up the remaining weaponry—a scimitar for both Nera and Ari and a spear for Jelani.
“I’ve never had to use a weapon like this—or anything other than my staff for that matter,” said Nera, waving the scimitar clumsily.
“You will be a mighty warrior,” Sir Weston encouraged. “Come, back to the arena—we must gut these foul poltroons!”
“Wait!” said Daniel. “We have to be smart about this—we can’t just go rushing into battle. We have an idea.”
Sir Weston stroked his chin. “Quite so, quite so. A strategy to vanquish our foes. We must be deliberate. Kill the cobariss first, I’d say.”
“And why did you let that thing out of its cage?”
Sir Weston puffed at the accusation. “Let her out? LET HER OUT? I would never do such a thing! It was only this morning that Gizzard went to feed that nasty cobariss, but came back to tell me she was gone! I assumed someone had stolen her, but she had burrowed out of her cage. Didn’t know she could do that…Anyway, we heard shouts coming from her tunnel and thought she had been kidnapped. I took my sword, Gizzard grabbed his knives, and we followed the noise. Imagine our surprise when we sneaked up upon hundreds of waiting goblins! Well, we waited too—then quite suddenly, the cobariss dug up into the arena and all the goblins—well you know. Gizzard decided to play it smart, so we waited in the tunnel to see what was going on. When we saw that cobariss attack you all—our new Gate Guardians, well I couldn’t stand for it! So we extricated ourselves from the hole in the midst of the chaos and followed you through the tunnel, once that beast moved out of the way. You disappeared from sight several times, and we had to assist several citizens out of the barrier. I noticed you had gone up the stairs, so we set guard outside the door.”
The four of them blinked at Sir Weston in wonder.
“Wow,” said Nera. “Well, as you can see, we’re in a bit of a crisis!”
“Yes, indeed,” said Sir Weston. “Now come! Sally forth, tally ho!
“Wait!” said Daniel. “To go out there and try to fight them all would be suicide—we have a plan, and we need your help.”
Daniel relayed their plan to Sir Weston and Gizzard, and the two of them nodded in agreement.
“It will be done as you say—let us hope your gryphon comes speedily.”
“Good—just watch my back. If she comes, I’ll need a diversion. Those arrows could be deadly to her.” Daniel walked to the end of one of the stadium seating entrances and stuck h
is head out. Below in the arena was a dreadful sight that made Daniel’s stomach churn. Hundreds of bodies littered the ground, and still more lay in the stands. The remaining Miraclists, all of them students, had been corralled into the arena, surrounded by a horde of goblins.
“Students of Orsidia—my children!” boomed Greavus, his voice carrying throughout the stadium. “Fear not—for I have let you live for a purpose.”
Daniel looked around at the cowering people. To his relief, he spotted Gregory and Martha near the middle, Gregory’s arm wrapped tightly around her, her face buried in his chest.
“You have seen our abilities—you have seen our strength. None can stand in our way! But any wise ruler knows that he must have leaders—those he can count on to do his bidding. And I have need for capable young Miraclists to help me rule this land. Help us as we usher in a new era, for the Cythes of old are alive!”
The crowd was silent a long while, and then a voice called out in the crowd.
“You must be insane.” It was Brutus, the Sapphire Miraclist. “Everyone knows Cythes are nothing but a myth—a fable told by mothers to scare their children.”
“Nonbeliever!” shrieked Greavus, pointing his fat finger at him. “It would appear you need some convincing. Behold—the Cythe’s return!”
Behind him, Nahash slowly uncovered his face of his cloak and mask. The crowd let out a horrified gasp. Before them stood a man, just like the statue in the hall—slick headed, earless save for two holes in the side of his head. He opened his mouth revealing four pointed fangs.
“You see,” bellowed Greavus, “The time is nigh! Now—who will be first? Who will join the ranks of the Believers?”
“I’ll join you!”
It was Caden, fists clinched at his side.
Greavus looked down at Caden, clearly pleased. “Ah, good. We knew you would join us. You will be made a prince in our kingdom—the true Prince of Fire! Let him pass!”