The Unwanteds

by Lisa McMann

  Soon the squealing and squeaking vehicles could be heard. Alex and Meghan stood tall, trying to catch the first glimpse, almost like little eager children of Artimé who could hear a marching band but not yet see the approaching parade.

  Just inside the opening into Artimé, Alex could see Samheed and Lani’s squad waiting. Alex caught Lani’s eye, and when she smiled, his stomach flip-flopped, despite her mean note. He mouthed the words “Be safe.”

  Lani bit her lip and nodded. “You too,” she whispered.

  They did not have long to wait.

  A fleet of rust-colored vehicles, flanked on both sides by endless lines of marching soldiers, thundered closer. They raised no weapons. Slowly the vehicles came to a stop in front of the entrance to Artimé. They faced Simber head-on. When they came to a halt, a burly man stood up inside the front vehicle, his head and shoulders well above the windshield. He squinted as the colors of Artimé bled through the opening in the wall. Samheed recognized the man as General Blair.

  “Attention, worthless Unwanteds! I have a message for Alexander Stowe,” he yelled.

  Simber growled angrily.

  Alex felt his heart drop and splatter on the road.

  After a moment Simber nodded to Alex and growled in a low voice, “Step forrrwarrrd and claim it.”

  All the squads inside Artimé who could see through the opening watched the scene unfold. Alex’s breath was shallow, and his teeth nearly chattered together. He stepped forward as bravely as he could, cleared his throat, and said in his deepest, harshest voice, “I’m Alex Stowe.”

  The general stared him in the eye for a long moment, his upper lip frozen in a sneer.

  Alex stared back, unflinching.

  “The message is from the High Priest Justine.” He cleared his throat authoritatively.

  Alex didn’t move.

  “The High Priest Justine thanks you for the warning you gave to Aaron Stowe two nights ago.”

  As the general spoke, two Quillitary officers in the seat behind him hoisted something long and bulky over their heads.

  “She only wished that this,” the General said as the officers flung the object into the grassy opening of Artimé, “had truly been you.”

  On the ground, inside a sheet of thin, ragged linen, was the lifeless body of the general’s own son, Will Blair.

  Battleground

  Alex remained steady despite the gasps around him, gathered his wits, and spoke in a smooth voice. “If you live through the day, General,” he said, “perhaps you’ll ask the High Priest Justine why she’s too afraid to come here and deliver that message herself.”

  “Get back!” Simber barked as the far flank of Quillitary marchers raised long, rusty metal weapons to their shoulders. Simber’s wings burst open as a shield, forcing Alex behind them as loud blasts erupted from the Quillitary, followed by raining thuds of pellets against the stone statue. “Firrre!” commanded the stone beast.

  Alex regained his footing as the others in his squad sent a round of artistic fire at the Quillitary. Those soldiers who hadn’t been hit rushed into Artimé and began firing on the Unwanteds within, and the vehicles roared and coughed in preparation to enter through the gateway. Alex sent off a round of blinding highlights from his fluorescent yellow pen, hitting the drivers of the first two vehicles squarely in the eyes, as well as General Blair himself. The first vehicle lurched wildly and crashed into the wall, sending the general and two others catapulting toward Samheed and Lani. The second vehicle smashed into it, causing both jalopies to hiss and shoot boiling spurts of water back at their occupants.

  Samheed, still in shock at seeing his former friend lying dead, and witnessing Will’s own father show absolutely no signs of emotion or remorse, realized with full certainty that the Quillitary was no longer anything he wanted to be a part of. How foolish he had been! And seeing the heartlessness all around him—it was so much worse than he remembered. He felt the old familiar rage boiling up tenfold.

  With a wild yell Samheed pulled a spiked metal star from his vest and flung it with all his might at the groaning general. It struck the man in the throat and embedded deep within. General Blair’s blinded eyes widened, and then closed.

  But there was no time for anyone to reflect, as Artiméans all around Samheed fell to the ground.

  Another round of pellets from the enemy blasted and chinked off Simber, leaving him no worse for wear. Meghan dropped the first two officers in the far flank with sleep spells, and Peter laid down the next dozen with words of destruction. They writhed on the ground and were succinctly trampled by the Quillitary that pressed forward, trying to get into Artimé.

  From the squads inside Artimé came another round of spells, causing tremendous chaos for the unsuspecting enemy. Scatterclips flew through the air, some of them dragging the enemy with them until they reached something solid enough in which to stick. Still it was all the Artiméans could do to protect themselves as the lines of vehicles and the near flank poured into the magical world.

  “Rrrufus, I need numberrrs!” Simber roared.

  Immediately the squirrelicorn flew up and, hovering just below the barbed-wire ceiling, counted out a quick estimate and dropped to the cheetah’s back. “A thousand at least—they’re backed up all the way to the nursery,” Rufus reported. “More than I expected.”

  “How many of ourrrs down?”

  Rufus flew up again to look around, and then darted into Artimé and returned. “Twelve down out here. At least two dozen down inside.”

  Simber roared his displeasure, which caused several nearby members of the Quillitary to hit the dirt. “Double up yourrr attacks! Make them perrrmanent!” he roared. “They arrre rrrecoverrring frrrom yourrr spells. Yourrr comrrrades arrre falling!”

  Alex and Meghan pulled out their permanent power weapons. Within thirty minutes the two of them, working in beautiful tandem, rendered forty-four Quillitary members permanently frozen in odd poses using Alex’s splatterpaint combined with Meghan’s Nutcracker ice dance.

  As the squads behind the fantastic Simber shield met their marks, a few of them falling back with stray pellet wounds, the squads inside nailed the enemy with fireball dragons, stinging soliloquies, splatterpaint, fire steps, itch glue, slam poetry, scatterclips, slash singing, blinding highlights, and the dreaded Shakespearian theater curse from those who had no qualms about inflicting mortal fencing wounds on their enemies.

  Lani and Samheed weren’t quite as fortunate. Samheed, though he thought he had prepared himself for this, soon found himself face-to-face with his father. And unlike with General Blair, Samheed hesitated a split second too long in this matchup, and Mr. Burkesh took advantage by slamming his son in the head and chest with a shield. Samheed groaned and fell.

  Immediately Lani reacted with a paralyzing taunt at Samheed’s father, but the man fell forward instead of backward, crashing on top of the young girl and trapping her under his weight. It took her several minutes to free herself, trying to cast spells at other enemies while struggling, her leg caught quite firmly underneath Mr. Burkesh. A sharp, rusty corner of the man’s armor dug into her calf. With one tremendous effort she broke free, ripping a nasty gash in her leg in the process.

  “Sam!” she cried, but Samheed was out cold. Blood poured from his nose, which was obviously broken. Lani dragged him with a sort of superhuman strength to a protected spot behind a tree and took a moment to rip a piece from her already shredded pant leg and wrap up her own gushing wound.

  Samheed groaned and moved his head weakly. The left side of his face was rapidly swelling up and turning purple.

  “Stay still!” hissed Lani.

  Samheed opened the only eye that would open. He coughed, swallowed painfully, and whispered, “Kill him.”

  Lani gave him a wild, pleading look. “Oh, Sam. I—I can’t.”

  Samheed looked at her for a long moment. Then he nodded weakly and tried to smile. “It’s okay.” He rolled to his side and spit blood, then took a deep bre
ath and rose shakily to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

  “No, Sam!” Lani whispered.

  Samheed staggered over to his father, released the paralyzing spell and waited for Mr. Burkesh to stand and get his bearings again. The boy stood nearly eye to eye with the man.

  “Father.”

  Mr. Burkesh glared. He pulled a knife from his belt and held it to Samheed’s neck.

  Lani ran toward them. “No!” she cried.

  “Father,” Samheed said again, his voice deathly calm.

  Mr. Burkesh’s hand trembled slightly as his face grew red. He spoke in harsh, drawn-out words. “Don’t speak to me. You are no son of mine.” And then he hesitated no longer, rearing back with the knife and roaring, “Die a thousand deaths!” He plunged it through the air toward Samheed. Samheed shook, but he made no move to stop him.

  Lani screamed. “No! Samheed!” She began uttering another paralyzing taunt, just as a thin voice from somewhere above her uttered a sharp rhyming curse.

  Immediately Mr. Burkesh flew backward in the air and landed on the ground. His hand relaxed on the knife, and it fell in the grass.

  Samheed sank to his hands and knees, shaking his head in disbelief, sobs and blood clutching at his throat. “I had to know,” he choked out, “if he would really do it.”

  Lani tossed off a quick handful of spells at the other Quillitary nearby, and when they were all temporarily contained, she looked up to see where the voice had come from.

  In the tree sat Mr. Sigfried Appleblossom. He hopped to the ground nimbly, walked over to Mr. Burkesh, and, putting a foot on his chest, tugged at something. Soon he pulled out a small, thin fencing sword, as clear as an icicle. He ceremoniously wiped it clean on the grass, gave it a quick polish with his hanky, handed it to the wounded boy, and said:

  “Your father is a beast beyond compare.

  You proved you have more dignity and grace.

  Your worth to me … it’s more than I can share.”

  He paused tearfully, took a steadying breath, and continued. “Now go inside; have someone fix your face.”

  And with that, Mr. Appleblossom returned to his post in the tree.

  Once the Quillitary’s front line had turned into a magical pile of stiffs, Simber roared, “Advance!”

  Inch by inch, yard by yard, Simber moved forward on the Quillitary, his squad close behind, and the other squads following in their wake.

  As many Quillitary soldiers as were able to get past the great stone statue did so, easing their way into the magical world to face a new group of attackers. The afternoon wore on, Simber unwavering, though chipped in spots; Alex gaining confidence as the battle continued; Meghan temporarily set back by a melee attack that left her slashed from shoulder to elbow before she was able to stop the three attackers with a fire step that sent them running away.

  It was nearing sunset on the desolate side of the wall when all those of the Quillitary who hadn’t made it into Artimé had been contained in one fashion or another. Simber sent Rufus to Claire Morning with this news as the squads outside of Artimé regrouped and refueled on water and food that somehow had appeared at the gate, delivered by some brave protector.

  When the squirrelicorn returned, he bore this news: “Ms. Morning is sending out the night watch. She requests the backup squads deliver the injured into the mansion at once.” Rufus took a deep breath and continued. “Simber …” He shook his head, almost as if he were reluctant to deliver the rest of the message. “Claire wants you and Alex to meet her on the mansion roof immediately.”

  Alex, who was resting against the wall, blinked. “How am I supposed to get up there?”

  Simber nodded. “Thank you, Rrrufus. Stowe, climb aboarrrd.”

  Alex didn’t hesitate. He hopped on the cheetah’s slick stone back, settled between the wings, and wrapped his arms around Simber’s broad neck. With a power greater than any force that Alex had felt before, the cheetah flapped his wings and ascended over the carnage. Seconds later they landed on the mansion roof, Simber leaving a hearty dent in the shiny metallic shingles.

  Alex stared at the property below, littered with bodies and small smoking bits of fiery weapons. His nose crinkled at the smell of smoke and blood. Nearly the entire lawn, from the giant wall on his left all the way to the jungle in front of him and to the sea on his right, was occupied by fighting pairs in hand-to-hand combat. He scanned the property for Samheed and Lani, but he couldn’t find them.

  “Well done, Simber.” Claire Morning spoke in a smooth, firm tone. She had a bandage on her shoulder, the center of it stained with blood. “They’ve nearly run out of ammunition for their guns. Many thanks go to you, my friend, for rendering so many of their pellets useless.”

  Simber nodded. “Casualties?”

  Claire tugged at her hair, deep in thought. “We have many injured. Two of ours have died from their wounds so far.”

  Simber growled his dissatisfaction. “And the enemy?”

  “Scores of them. It’s difficult to tell who is frozen from spells and who is dead, though General Blair is most assuredly dead. Needless to say, they are hurting. And that is why I’ve called you here. We’ve word that they are sending in a second wave.”

  “What, tonight? In the darrrk? Fools! We’ll crrrush them.”

  Claire nodded. “We will with this method. Gunnar reports that much of their ammunition has misfired and their guns are either clogging up, useless, or backfiring due to opposite soliloquies, so they are injuring themselves quite nicely. But there is one thing I thought of … and it leaves me more than a little concerned.”

  “What is it?”

  “Justine.”

  The cheetah’s stone forehead rippled. “I don’t underrrstand.”

  Claire glanced at Alex and then back to Simber. “She’s coming.”

  Simber’s face softened and grew concerned, and then Alex thought for a moment that he saw a thread of fear trickling into the giant cat’s marble eyes. “I see,” he said gruffly. And then he added, “She’ll expose herrrself if she uses any of herrr magic.”

  Claire nodded. “Father thinks she’s growing desperate enough to risk it.”

  Alex had no idea what they were talking about. Justine could do magic? And who was Claire’s father? Mr. Today? He hung on to every word because it seemed so terribly important.

  “What do you prrropose?”

  “Florence, Octavia, and I can handle Justine and the governors,” Claire said, her voice bitter just saying Justine’s name. “But she’s leaving the palace exposed, and Father is the only one who knows the secret entrance. He wants you to accompany him. If we can disarm and seal the palace, she’ll be trapped with no place to hide, and this will soon be over. Not just for us, but for the people of Quill as well.”

  “And the boy?”

  “He’s to go with you. Father doesn’t want Justine anywhere near him.” She turned suddenly toward the sea and put her hand to her forehead, trying to block the sheen of sunset on the waves. “There,” she said, pointing to a gleaming white boat in the distance. “He’s waiting.”

  Alex, surprised at the turn of events, hitched himself onto the cheetah’s back once again. The thrill of the flight and the powerful wing strokes, a hundred feet above the vast sea, shook his ribs as he slid around on the cheetah’s slippery back, trying to find a comfortable position without falling off.

  Soon enough the statue reached Mr. Today. Simber closed the gap between them until he hovered just feet above the swiftly moving craft. “Now,” he growled over his shoulder to Alex. “Slide off my left side.”

  Shivering, Alex did what he was told and dropped onto the deck. Mr. Today grasped his arm and helped him right himself as gale-force winds from Simber’s immense wings blasted the boy about like an empty paper cup. Simber rose to a more comfortable altitude and easily stayed with the ship as they skimmed around the shore.

  Alex stared. “It really is just an island,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief
. All the years the governors had lied to everyone—it was crazy. He peered ahead at the islands in the distance, growing closer as they rounded Quill.

  Mr. Today glanced at Alex. “There’s an entire string of islands out there, most of them inhabited by good, decent people. But we lost contact with all of them when we built the wall.” The old mage stood at the helm, his hair looking perfectly normal for the occasion. He looked weary.

  Alex’s teeth chattered with anticipation and the cool evening sea breeze. “Where are we going, exactly?”

  “Ahh,” sighed Mr. Today. “I suppose we can’t just enjoy the ride tonight, can we? No, indeed. Why I don’t take this thing out more often is quite beyond me. I used to take Claire fishing.…” He shook his head, forcing his thoughts back to the threat at hand. “We’re going to the palace. You know about the secret entrance into Quill, do you not?”

  “Yes, er, well, Arija mentioned it, and so did Ms. Morning just now.”

  “Well, it’s been many years since we devised it and added the magic. I think I can find it. Once we’re in, we’ll have a few encounters if the guards are still around, I imagine. You and I will freeze them up or some such thing; then we’ll seal the palace so that if Justine makes it out of Artimé, she’ll have lost her ‘power,’ so to speak.”

  “The palace is her power?”

  Mr. Today furrowed his brow. “Not exactly. Her power is the fear she instills in people. She hides behind the palace so that Quill can’t see that she is afraid too.”

  “What is she afraid of?”

  The mage laughed bitterly. “She’s afraid of losing her power to make people afraid. She’s afraid of not being in control. Appearing weak.”

  Alex thought about all of this. It was hard to imagine that the stately woman was afraid of anything. But there was another question in his mind that had been eating away at him since the night he’d gone to the gate. He hesitated, not sure if he should ask, but finally gathered up the nerve as they sped along, rounding a particularly jutting piece of the island.