by GARY DARBY
She straightens and her words are a gust of cold wind that swirls through the room. “Not, this time, Hooper Menvoran, not this time.”
The dark queen eyes her sword, making small circles in the air with its sharp point. “I had toyed with the idea of saving you for myself, using you and your gem as my slave.”
She laughs again. “You would do anything for that bedraggled ball of fur that you call a friend, wouldn’t you Hooper?”
Her eyes settle on Cara, and she raises a gnarled finger to point at her. “Or maybe even more so for your one true love? But, of course, that would be a little harder for you because we know her heart belongs to another.”
She pauses and flips a dismissive hand. “But I tire of this. Besides, with my dragons destroying Dronopolis even as we speak, I have no need of you or your Scamper, or of your maiden fair.”
A smirk turns her lips into cruel curves. “In fact, you shall watch me kill that scrawny ball of fur first, and then I shall slay your beloved Cara.”
With that, she bounds over to a deep wicker basket, flings open the lid and hauls out a trussed-up Scamper.
Even though his paws and mouth are securely bound, he squirms and squalls with every ounce of his body in raw rage at his captor. But what can he do against a witch who possesses a giant’s body and rules it as if it were her very own?
Nothing.
She holds Scamper high in the air by his hind legs and draws back her sword, Cara and I both scream, “No!” as we spring forward but Vay only laughs at us.
Her sword point slashes through the air but just before it reaches Scamper’s head, a brilliant ball of light smashes into the blade, knocking it askew.
Before Vay can recover from the first stunning blow, another sphere of pure, burning radiance blasts into her armor, slamming her backward against the wall.
For a moment, she’s dazed and drops Scamper. He lands with a hard thud on the marble floor. Before the giantess can recover, I dart forward and scoop him up.
I stumble back to Cara and then seemingly from out of nowhere, Phigby is standing next to us with his bag in one hand. “Hooper,” he puffs, his face weary and haggard as if he had no more strength. “I can bring up no more lightning balls. If we are to be saved, somehow you must take up the fight now.”
Gru is struggling to her feet, her face full of wrath and vengeance. In a heartbeat, she will be upon us, and nothing can save us from the death swings of her mighty sword.
Abruptly, a soft, warm illumination fills the room, pushing back the foul darkness. Three pale faces, almost matching the silvery sheen of their robes appear midair.
Gru holds her sword out in a threatening gesture toward the three, and with a vile hiss, says, “Begone! You have no place here, no power over me or what’s mine.”
The Gaelian Fae smile at us and their light grows brighter until there’s not a shadow anywhere, keeping Vay at bay.
The brilliance fills the room and then in a voice that fills my soul just as the light floods the room, the three utter,
Green to give the hilted stone
Green for power to hand and bone.
There’s a rustling to my side and from seemingly out of his green-hued robe, Phigby holds out a short, dull sword for me to take.
I hesitate, but then I hear Cara’s soft voice at my ear, “Take it, Hooper, it’s what the Fae mean for you to do.”
Taking a deep breath, I hand Scamper to Cara, and curl my hand around the hilt. Holding both the gem and the sword high, I cry out, “Vald Hitta Sasi Ein! Power Comes to this One!”
Suddenly, a rushing whirlwind of leaves and petals of every size and description descends until they’re caught up in a roaring, swirling blur of color.
Red rose petals, bits of green grass, tiny blue bells, yellow sunflowers, the purples and turquoise of Dragon Heart leaves, orange poppies—all the colors of the rainbow whirl and spin until I can see nothing of my hands or arms.
Both feel as if they’re being stretched, pulled from my shoulders. For an instant, my feet lift off the ground, and I’m dangling in the air, both arms encased in the sucking, whirling vortex of color.
Then, I’m gently lowered to the ground, the whirlwind dissipates, the leaves fall gently down until they form a carpet of soft petals over the hard ebony surface. In my left hand, I still grasp the gem.
But, in my right, I hold a gleaming, towering bright green sword whose point is like a single shaft of pure emerald light. Its hilt fits perfectly in my hand, and whereas the small sword was heavy before, this one is light, easily wielded. I’m amazed that I can heft such a wondrous blade.
My amazement is short-lived for just then, the Fae disappear in a brilliant burst of light, and the shadows return. With a furious shriek, Gru charges.
Her sword blow is like a towering wave crashing upon the rocks, full of power and might. I block her thrust with my sword, stagger under the violent jolt, but somehow I hold my own.
Like a whirling dervish, she delivers one thunderous shock after another, each time our edges meet, sparks of gold and green spray outward.
Cara and Phigby retreat to kneel next to Desma, trying to rouse the young princess.
I have no idea how I know how to parry Gru’s continuous thrusts of her lethal edge; it’s as if my magical sword has a mind of its own.
Inevitably, though, she’s driving me back, forcing me into a corner from where I’ll have no escape and where she’ll seal my doom.
“Go!” I yell to Cara and Phigby as I lunge away from another vicious thrust of Gru’s broadsword. “Save yourselves and take Scamper with you!”
They don’t answer me. Instead, they redouble their efforts to revive Desma.
I can tell I’m in a losing battle. For now, I’m holding my own, barely. How I have the strength to withstand Gru’s furious onslaught is a mystery to me. Nevertheless, whatever the source of my power, it is waning. I can feel my strength drained by each powerful stroke of Gru’s immense sword.
My wondrous blade may be able to continue, but my weak body can’t go on much longer.
Now she has me in a corner, cut off on each side. I cannot grasp the sword with one hand any longer, I’m too weak and must use two hands to ward off her hits. Each of her blows feels as if a bolt of lightning strikes me, sending a jolt of pure pain and shock down my arms, into my body.
The evil one pauses and scorn seems to ooze with each word. “Did you think that an emerald sword alone would save you? It takes more than a strong sword arm to win this fight. It takes will and strength, Hooper Menvoran. But all I see in your eyes is trembling fear and terror.”
She leans forward, and her words are a silky, cold whisper. “Just as I saw in your family the night that I killed them.”
Just for an instant, I stand in shock, then I bellow in rage and anger, “Nooooo!”
I raise my sword high and with all the power and strength I can gather, I strike at the enchantress, over and over, and over again.
Our blades clash together in ear-splitting, pounding blows. Sparks shower the room, like a hailstorm of shooting stars. Somehow, I’m driving her back, one small step at a time.
But it doesn’t last long, even the power of my hatred doesn’t give me the strength to bring her down. It’s not long before I feel my chest heaving, my throat raw; my arms aching in distress.
There comes a point where I can barely lift my blade. I bring it up one last time, in my weakness, it’s all I can do to have it wobble in front of my face.
Sweat pours into my eyes, and I repeatedly blink, trying to clear my sight so that I can see the witch.
Gru stands but a few body lengths away, a sneer on her face. She and I know the end has come; I have no more fight in me and no escape.
I cannot see Cara or Phigby, I can only hope that they’ve taken Scamper, fled into the night and away from this evil place.
If they have, my death will be well worth it.
I back away, holding on to the sword hilt, trying to
keep it aloft, but it keeps drooping lower and lower. I know in mere moments, my guard will be down, and Gru’s sword will deliver the final blow.
The sorceress advances on me, bloodlust in her eyes. She senses too that this is the end.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see movement, and my eyes widen. Warned by my startled look perhaps, Gru turns, but it’s too late. A tigress is upon her, fighting furiously in what can only be a death match.
Alonya fights with every bit of strength she has and the two giants battle for the control of Gru’s sword. They crash against the gleaming mahogany table, splintering it into a hundred shards.
Gru pulls the sword away and slashes at Alonya, only to miss and slice priceless purple-dyed drapes in half.
I pull myself up, trying to determine how I can aid Alonya, but the two giants are too fast for my slow thoughts and actions.
Though she’s younger, nevertheless Alonya’s wounds have taken much from her and it is evident she is outclassed. She too is fighting a losing battle.
The two crash over a chair and before I can yell out, Gru has Alonya by the throat, her blade held high for the final, fatal slash.
Without thinking, I hurtle through the air and with a wild ripping motion, slice Gru’s leg. With a shriek, Gru’s head jerks up, her back arched in agony.
Her hesitancy lasts just long enough for Alonya to grab the nearby leg of a broken chair and smash it against Gru’s jaw. The witch slumps down to the ground and in an instant, Alonya tears the sword from her grasp.
She straddles the queen, the sword point against her neck. One thrust, and it would be over, but she stands there, breathing hard, her reluctance plain to see.
The Golian maiden lifts her head and in her agonized eyes, I see that she cannot do it; she cannot kill her own mother.
The witch rouses, glances at the wavering blade. In a voice full of mocking scorn Gru scoffs, “What, Alonya, the fearsome warrior cannot do what must be done? A piteous sight, indeed.”
“No,” Alonya breathes back, “what I see is a piteous sight. A foul creature who uses vain, filthy promises of power that are empty and bear nothing but the fruits of misery and shame. You are the one to be pitied.”
“Then kill me,” the witch spits back, “for I do not wish to be pitied by the likes of you.”
Alonya brings the blade’s point closer until it dimples Gru’s neck, then stops. Her hand quivers as if she is fighting with herself, knowing what needs to be done, but unable to finish the deed.
She turns her head to me, her eyes full of anguish, and she mouths a tormented whisper, “I cannot do it, Hooper, I have not the will to kill my own mother . . .”
“You wouldn’t be,” a voice calls from across the room.
Fotina stands on wobbly legs, her hands grasping the edge of the table to hold herself upright.
“Gru Oden is not your mother,” she goes on to say, before pointing at a dazed Desma, who, with the help of Cara and Phigby, sits upright. “Nor is she yours.”
She draws in a breath, seems to gain strength and says, “Queen Leda Escher, of the House of Escher, was your mother, and I was her First Consul.”
She points at Gru. “And she most likely killed your mother for the throne.”
Alonya’s roar is full of rage as she grabs Gru’s tunic and lifts Gru’s body off the floor so that they’re face to face. “Did you? Did you kill my mother?”
Gru doesn’t answer, her lips pulled back in a snarl.
Phigby strides over to stand beside Alonya and me. He gestures to my emerald sword. “Not all blades are meant just for the final ending of death, perhaps this one might bring life and answers.”
My brow furrows in puzzlement, but Phigby merely gives me an encouraging nod and gestures toward the scowling Gru.
I heft the sword and take tentative steps toward the Amazos queen. She begins to struggle, but Alonya manages to hold her down and with a wavering hand, I slowly lower my blade until its broad side lies on Gru’s forehead.
Gru screams as if I had brought a fire-hot branding iron to her skin. She tries to squirm her body and head away from the sword, but I keep pressing the emerald blade to her head.
She reaches up with both hands as if to grab onto the edge and tear it away but she no sooner touches the sword than she shrieks and cries out in anguish, writhing in torment.
Gru cries out in one final thunderous bellow and from her issues a black shadowy shape. It floats toward the ceiling where it flutters and flows in on itself as if it were trying to solidify into something firm, with shape and substance.
Gru coughs, moans, and then with a flickering of eyelids opens her eyes. She looks around with a confused, puzzled expression. “What am I doing on the floor and why do you have a blade at my throat?”
Alonya roughly pulls Gru to her feet. The queen peers around until her eyes stop at the sight of the apparition. The shadowy shape’s appearance seems to bring an abrupt awareness to the queen as if she finally recognizes her surroundings and circumstances.
She flings her hand up in front of her face. “No,” she moans in a wavering voice, “begone, leave me, I beg of you. No more, no more, please.”
Alonya whips up her sword and slashes at the air, defying Vay. “Yes!” she spits. “Begone from here, you nameless filth and slime.”
The specter materializes into Vay’s shadowy form. From within its hood, I can see an evil, grinning leer and wrath in its scarlet eyes.
It brings both hands high over its head. Suddenly, a blood-red spear appears in each hand, their points sharper and darker than a starless night.
Faster almost than the eye can follow, the first spear speeds through the air. I spin at a scream of agony and find the scarlet javelin has run Gru through and through.
She slumps to her knees before slowly tottering forward. The spear’s end scrapes along the ebony flooring before it turns into gray smoke and blows away into nothingness. Gru’s last breath is a death rattle that resounds in the room before dying away to nothing.
Vay brings the second lance back, her glowing crimson eyes centered on me. “Hooper!” Cara screams. “Look out!”
I can’t move fast enough, the scarlet spear flashes from the witches’ hand; a bolt of crimson that rips through the air.
A body dives between me and the red spear.
Fotina.
The spear point plunges deep into her body. She throws her head back, lets out one deep groan of agony, slumps to her knees, and then tumbles to the floor.
Vay shrieks in rage and fury and in a blur of darkness disappears through the ceiling.
We hurry over to Fotina, and Alonya gently cradles her to her bosom. We look anxiously at Phigby, who kneels next to Fotina, peering at her gory wound. He lifts his eyes and shakes his head at our unspoken question. “This is beyond my abilities to heal.”
He lays a gentle hand on Alonya’s forearm. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs and moves away to let Desma kneel in his place.
Fotina opens her eyes and gazes upon the two sisters. “Fotina . . .” Alonya cries, her voice trailing off into wrenching sobs, “no . . .”
Fotina reaches up with a weak hand to stroke Alonya’s golden hair and then cups Desma’s chin. “You both look so much like your mother,” she rasps out, her voice weak and halting, “do not cry for me, cry for our people and what has befallen them.”
She coughs, and a smattering of blood and spittle drools to one side of her mouth. “Now listen, both of you, for my time grows short.”
Her breath is grating, halting. “Your mother knew she was dying, suspected that someone had poisoned her, was trying to kill her and her child.”
She shakes her head, coughs again. “There was turmoil in the domain thanks to Gru and her House and Leda was unsure of who she could trust among the other families.
“Thinking that her child would face death as well, she made me promise that if at birth the baby was a girl and therefore her possible successor, I would hide her, watch
over, protect her, until it was her time to return to Golian.”
A coughing fit stops her from speaking, and she gasps for breath. She’s finally able to go on and turns to Desma. “When Alonya was born, I wrapped her in her newborn blanket and Leda was able to hold her for a moment before I sped away into the night.”
Her eyes fill with tears, and she gently touches Desma’s face. “Neither your mother nor I knew she was carrying you as well for the bearing of twins is all but unheard of with us. And twins have never been born in the House of Escher until you two.”
She writhes in pain, her body arching until the agony subsides. Trembling, she takes in another ragged breath. “It wasn’t until years later that I found out about you, Desma, and by then, I had no way to spirit you out of Dronopolis.”
Desma gently strokes Fotina’s cheek. “If I am of Escher, why didn’t Gru have me—”
“Murdered?” Fotina coughs. She shakes her head ever so slightly. “I don’t know, child. What I know is that she passed you off as her own, but she never bore children.”
Her tears flow, and the anguish is etched on her face. “I am so grateful that she didn’t but oh so sorry, Desma, that you had to grow up around that creature, I—”
“Fotina, no, I understand,” Desma quickly interjects as her own tears flow and she bends down and gently kisses Fotina’s forehead. “You didn’t know and you did what you thought was right at the time.”
She glances at Alonya. “I will envy my sister in this one respect, that she had you as her mother and guide.”
Alonya asks, “Our father?”
“Marius,” Fotina whispers, “one of Gru’s victims in the first purge.”
She glances at Desma. “Gru never possessed Queen’s Sight, she only pretended to have it so that her claim to the throne would appear legitimate. Leda had it, and I believe she foresaw her own death.”
She turns her face to Alonya. “I also believe that she saw you as the future queen.”
A coughing spell chokes her voice before she can say, “How do I know this? Your dream, Alonya. It wasn’t a dream—it was Queen’s Sight. A gift of the gods to Escher’s house and it only comes to the rightful queen of that line.”
