by A Corrin
Nikki and Lia, instead of heeding the nurse’s order, flew over to help, locking eyes with their friend and talking to distract him from his pain and the mounting terror that they all shared.
The nurse slipped her hands gently but firmly under Tyson’s thighs, using her foot to drag the rack holding his IV fluids and catheter over beside her. Tyson’s father, with a care unbefitting his muscular frame, helped the nurse drag Tyson bodily into the wheelchair.
Tyson’s mother brushed at her eyes, listening to her son groan in agony, watching tears slide from the corners of his own eyes as he clenched his teeth and gripped the sides of his gown. Nikki and Lia whimpered, pitying the deficient state their friend was in.
After managing to swallow his pain, Tyson cleared his throat, and gave Lia a half-brave thumbs-up. Lia choked out a laugh, heart swelling to the bursting point with admiration, and joined his side, looking expectantly at Nikki.
The van was near enough for Nikki to see the tiny rectangles that were the headlights. Everything happened at once.
Lia followed Tyson, his parents, and the nurse in a mad rush out into the hall, Tyson trying to see Nikki over his shoulder. “Come on!” he shouted. Nikki hurried to follow but looked around at the last second. They heard a terrible, distant smashing sound. The hospital trembled, and the windows rattled.
Nikki spun on one foot and sprinted out into the hall toward Tyson, dodging, ducking, dancing around the other fleeing bodies that were becoming a disorderly array of obstacles for their fellows trying to escape death. Tyson was helpless to do anything but watch her try to catch up, stuck in the mayhem behind him. When Nikki was about halfway down the hall, the world upended itself. The floor bucked with an explosion so loud it was felt more than heard—Tyson’s father stumbled and fell, and Tyson coasted until he hit a wall, disoriented as the lights started to flicker and the building quaked—but he could only watch as another, smaller explosion almost directly beneath them sent Nikki flying toward a window that looked out on a parking lot…eight stories below.
Nikki shielded her face, Lia and Tyson shouted her name in anguished unity, but a boy came out of nowhere and sideswiped her. The two rolled heavily across the floor, skidding to a stop by the wall. She lay there, shuddering in the stranger’s embrace, tingling with nerves and shock. Tyson wheeled over as fast as he could as the tremors began to subside, alarms went off, sprinklers turned on, and the odor of smoke and burning things started to reach them.
“Are you alright?” Tyson heard the boy ask Nikki. His voice wasn’t accented, it was American, but it sounded old-fashioned—archaic. It made Tyson feel like he did when he was with Jonathan: safe. And by the look on Nikki’s face, Tyson judged she felt the same.
But when Tyson got a closer look at his friend’s rescuer, he saw that the hero was bizarrely different from Jonathan. His hair was bushy but tidy; the ends curled inwards toward his ears and forehead. His eyes were almost feminine, thickly lashed and a deep-blue color. His cheeks and nose were thinly sculpted, as if straight out of some sort of beautiful stone. He seemed to be their age if not a bit older.
The boy repeated his question, his strange, melodious voice slipping from between his blush-pink lips like a breeze of cool air. “Are you well?”
Nikki nodded, mesmerized at his odd way of speech. “I am now. Thanks to you.”
The boy smiled, flashing pearly white teeth set in perfect place and harmony beside each other.
“Think not of it,” he said.
Chapter Eighteen:
Bar Fights are Intense
So we entered the inn again, hit with the odors of beer and the food being cooked for the customers. A warrior approached me, bowing. I recognized him as one of the gladiators. He had an aquiline nose and curving lips that hinted at Mediterranean blood.
“Sir and lady,” he said. “Peter requests your presence out back.” He looked sidelong at me, and I got the feeling that he was hiding something about what Peter wanted, but I was too curious about the location of our summons to care much. Why weren’t we meeting in our room upstairs in privacy?
The gladiator led us in a winding path around the rapidly filling seats and booths as dinner hour approached. A couple of the men who had gotten more than a few alcoholic drinks in them reached out for Mariah, only to have her snatch her hands away, eyes straight ahead and nostrils flaring. One guy pushed his chair back, separating Mariah and me from our guide, and grabbed at her.
Disgust flaring, I kicked the chair’s legs hard enough to tip the man over, shoving Mariah behind me.
“No, Jon,” she muttered. “Please, it’s fine…”
The mindless babble permeating the room cut short.
The bartender looked up from where he was gnawing on a turkey leg atop a stool. His luminous eyes sized up the situation, and me, with a sort of interest. Unlike any other bartender, he didn’t shoo us out or stop the violence but turned toward us to see better and resumed eating with a mocking smirk.
The man I had knocked over stumbled drunkenly to his feet, nearly tipping over his and his friends’ table when he leaned against it to pull himself up. He fixed his bloodshot eyes blearily on me, swaying back and forth, and then leaned forward, grabbing my collar in his hands.
“You got a problem, kid?”
I didn’t answer, biting the insides of my cheeks and looking down at the floor to hide my flaming-red eyes. The drunken man shook me like I was a disobedient dog, yanking my chin up toward him.
“Are you deaf, you addle-brained fool? Do you have a pro—”
The scarred blade of a dagger with a gold handle fashioned into a lion’s head slid across the man’s jugular. The hush in the room thickened with clouds of tension.
The gladiator leaned forward to whisper into the drunk’s ear, “If you value your miserable life, you will release my charge.”
The drunk’s eyes slid down as far as they could in the direction of the knife. He slowly let me go. I straightened my clothes, glaring around at the wide eyes and open faces.
The gladiator backed away from the man and resumed leading us through a door in the back of the room and out into an overgrown garden away from the prying eyes. I watched the man stick his dagger into his boot where it had been concealed beside his leg in a hidden sheath.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, watching my own feet tread the matted green grass.
I was surprised at the man’s jovial tone. “No, thank you, Prince. Quite a coincidence you have proven your heart today. I didn’t know that sort of fire was in you.”
My suspicion returned full swoop, but I had an uncanny feeling that answers were coming soon.
I found myself becoming distractedly amazed by my surroundings. This eerie and unkempt garden held a haunting but mystifying beauty. The long grass and weeds had all but taken over the crumbled stone birdbaths and fountains decorated with chubby cherubim.
The playful sound of water no longer jingled a merry melody. No birds sang from the grand willows or maples or oaks. But there was a pulsating, invisible life force that suffused the air with its splendor.
A brick path wound in many directions about the various plants. A cat was curled up in the boughs of a tree, lazily watching clusters of butterflies flutter in the flowers.
Vibrant tulips, as yellow as the rising sun, were planted in rings around the bases of rose bushes with blooms scarlet red, hot pink, or a seductive blackish crimson.
Ivy covered the tree trunks, helping their thick hosts to completely obscure the back of the inn from view the deeper into the garden we traversed. Clover acted as a carpet in the places grass and brick had abandoned. Giggling to herself, Mariah knelt and plucked up a four-leaf shamrock, twiddling it in her fingers. I saw with amusement that she had stuck a purple-tinted morning glory behind one ear to hold back her lengthening bangs.
In a way, I thought the garden was prettier now than it mi
ght have been if it were actually tended to and cared for; it was wild and fierce and colorful. I strongly believed that that was what the garden had become after the death of the bartender’s wife. Maybe she had been the one who had planted everything.
I realized that many of these flowers did not belong together. One required more sunlight than another, and another needed frequent rain. Some didn’t even dwell in the same climate. It must have been because of what people dreamed. Over the years, people had created this with their imaginations.
It struck me then that something like this didn’t exist in reality. I would never see this wonderment when I returned to consciousness. So I tried to lock it all up into my mind, a picture I would never forget. It was like a glimpse of heaven.
But then we came to the clearing, and I realized we were no longer alone.
The warriors that had been traveling with us reclined or sat in exhausted heaps on the ground, covered with films of sweat. I guessed that they had just finished sparring, seeing as how their various weapons lay on the ground beside them. Many of the men had removed their shirts, showing their herculean pectorals and abdominals, and wetted the fabric from water flasks, draping them over their faces or around their shoulders.
Kayle was conversing animatedly with a smiling army man, joking about something, patches of sweat darkening his gray sweatshirt. Mariah rushed over to them, sitting daintily on her knees, and gave Kayle the shamrock. Kayle’s face lit up, and he closed his eyes, massaging the weed’s tender leaves.
The soldier patted his back understandingly and I heard him say, “You miss it, don’t you?”
“More than anything,” Kayle said in return.
Peter stood in the center of the clearing; his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Unlike the others, he didn’t look like he’d sparred with anyone yet. He held a sword in one hand, out to the side. The blade was around eight hands long and spotless silver. The handguard above the hilt was fashioned to resemble the peeled-back petals of a red-orange tiger lily, and the leather and wire handle was a thick green-and-silver “stem.”
“Thank you, Marcus,” Peter said, addressing the gladiator.
The man nodded on his way past me toward a couple of his friends and said, “I do believe he’s up to this, sir.” He recounted what had taken place in the inn for all to hear, and I watched with indignation and stung pride as roguish smiles spread across everyone’s faces.
Chuckling, Peter looked at me and chortled. “Brave and honorable, Jonathan, but if matters had gotten out of hand, Mariah would have been able to handle herself.” I felt my insides squirm in embarrassment at my brash actions. It was true; Mariah was no weak little girl.
“Don’t worry, I still appreciated it.” Mariah beamed sweetly at me, and I tried to flash a convincing smile.
“But at least you’re in the mood,” Peter said. I was about to ask what mood when he tossed another sword at me, hilt first. I jumped back to avoid it, and it thumped to the ground, provoking mild laughter from those gathered. Guess who laughed hardest? I’ll give you a hint: he’s a maniac.
“Pick it up!” Kayle shouted, teeth bared in an unholy grin. “Or you’re dead!”
“Um...I can shoot a gun. Could I have a gun instead?”
Peter replied, “No, for the following reasons: The sword is the weapon of knights, kings, heroes—the champions of storybook fables. So, naturally, it is the most common weapon in the Land of Dreams. And, just as you represent a legacy, so, too, is this sword a symbol of your lineage—of all who have ruled this land before you. The sword is only as good as its wielder. It will not do its job for you—you must be in complete control at all times, and using a sword teaches you patience, finesse, and grace. And a sword won’t run out of bullets. It is important you know how to use one.”
I considered objecting but realized I would only be hurting myself. Just like learning to fly, this was going to be a difficult lesson to experience, but if I were to make it in this Land of Dreams alive, to make it back to my friends and family and protect them from the Rankers, I would need to take advantage of training and practice.
I bent at the waist and wrapped my hand around the hilt. It was a good-looking weapon. The blade glimmered. The handguard was shaped like the curling claws of a griffin with each curve so realistically talon-like, I could almost believe they were real. The handle was a gripped steel, and bronze in color. There was a compartment in the bottom that I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t brushed it with my fingers. I ignored that and focused on trying to pick the thing up.
Have you ever gone to pick up a soda can or the like, expecting it to be full, but your arm goes shooting up because the can is in fact empty? That was what lifting the sword was like—except the opposite. I expected it to be light, like the plastic toy ones Ben had when we were kids, but it was not. I almost fell over, braced my legs and strained to lift it, nervous sweat popping out on my brow.
Wow! It was about as heavy as a pillowcase full of bricks. It wasn’t that I was out of shape or anything, but I wouldn’t be able to swing this thing around for long without overexerting myself.
As I struggled to point the sword’s tip upward in a ready stance, my forefinger brushed the blade, and I quickly drew my hand back, but I wasn’t injured.
Peter noted my astonishment. He pulled a small bottle full of something like oil from a pocket and shook it. “You’re lucky the dwarves gave this to me,” he said. “It’s a tincture that can only be crafted a few days out of the year when the nectar of the brother’s hand carnation is available for harvesting.” He put it back in his pocket. “I put some on our blades while you were out. For a few hours, it will be impossible to hurt ourselves or our friends with these weapons.”
I tried to say “cool,” but was afraid that I’d throw up if I opened my mouth. Instead, I blanched and managed to monosyllabically squeak, “What?” a bit too late.
Peter smiled, expertly twirling his sword in a circle. “You’ve fought Garrett himself before, have you not?”
There were impressed looks from my audience, but in my own defense, I objected, “With my fists! Not this…can opener!”
Kayle’s mouth was a large O. He leaned forward to catch my attention and asked with interest, “Who won?”
I avoided his penetrating red-brown eyes uncomfortably and groused, “He did, sort of. But he cheated. He stuck me with a knife while my back was turned.” I twisted and showed him the faded red scar on my back where the blade had made its entrance.
Kayle’s eyes flicked from my wound to my face and a crooked smile melted up his cheeks. “‘Cheated,’ did he?” He snickered. “Right…”
Peter came swinging wildly at me then. Unprepared, I dropped my sword, felt the blunt, hard edge of Peter’s blade at my throat, and was looking into his bottomless gray eyes, half bowed back against the weight he was forcing on me. “Focus, Jonathan,” he whispered calmly, like a teacher explaining a difficult concept to a lost child. “Remember our flying lesson—a foe will take advantage of any distractions.” I nodded dumbly, and he drew back a few paces, resuming his ready stance. I staggered back into mine, inwardly groaning.
It all went downhill from there.
Peter was relentless. He taught me techniques and gave me pointers, all the while ruthlessly beating at my confidence and my sore arms. “Use your powers to your advantage,” Peter panted, dancing around me and sometimes taking a break from speaking to beat at any part of my body. “You are young…strong, and filled with a fire that all men of your age possess. Plus, you’re a griffin.”
With that, and a clever grin, he vanished, sword and all. One moment I was looking warily up into his face, and the next at the wall of flowers across the clearing. With a jolt, I remembered Mariah telling me that Peter’s griffin power was that of camouflage.
“Where am I?” His voice came from everywhere at once.
I jab
bed diagonally out to one side and hit nothing but atmosphere. Something hard and cold bashed into my ribs, knocking the breath out of me.
Peter reappeared behind me, advising, “Trust your senses, not your gut. Keep a close watch for anything hinting at your enemy’s whereabouts. Look for a disturbance in the air when I disappear.” He dissolved again.
This time, I spotted what looked like vapor waves next to me, the kind you’d see over a road on a hot day. I stabbed vaguely at it. Peter dodged neatly, but came back into focus and congratulated me.
Just when I was beginning to become too tired to go on, Peter put his sword in the sheath at his belt and declared, “That’s enough for today. You did well for your first time, Prince Jonathan.”
I dropped my sword, arms and legs shuddering, believing his praise to be empty words. There was polite, scattered applause.
“Okay, men,” Marine Sergeant Flaherty called. “Let’s go get some chow!” Mumbling cheerfully to each other, those gathered hopped to their feet and wandered back down the flowered path to the inn. I was about to follow, but Peter softly called my name from behind me. I turned on my heel, a moan softly rolling in the back of my throat.
Peter was fondly caressing the sword I’d used to spar with, running his hands over the talon look-alikes in the hilt. My heart picked up its pace. This was it. We were alone together, and he had a sharp weapon in his hands; he was going to kill me right when I had no strength to fight back.
“You did well,” he said again, and this time I believed he sincerely meant it.
I hung my head, embarrassed at my accusatory thoughts. “Thanks.”
He looked up, brows rising in his effort to show me how honest he was being. “You show great promise. Here.” He was offering me the sword, hilt first.
“For me?” I was shocked. Gingerly, I reached out and grasped it, letting its tip thump to the grass so that I wasn’t once again carrying its whole weight.
