by H. D. Gordon
The Broker nodded, his face indifferent.
My breathing became harsher, my chest tight. As half human, I could handle the presence of iron at a certain proximity, but having it flush against my skin caused some real issues. “Please,” I said. “It starting to hurt really bad.”
His only response was another nod. There was a clipboard in his hand, and he wrote something down on it, studying me like some kind of science experiment.
“It’s hard to breathe,” I gritted out, trying with all my might to keep my panic at bay. “Won’t prolonged exposure to iron… Can’t it kill me?”
Another nod. “Yes, that’s true. It could.”
“Then, take it off, for Gods’ sake,” I said.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“What kind of sick game is this?” I was on the verge of tears, and hated myself for it.
“This is a critical part of your training, soldier,” said the Broker, with unveiled exasperation. “And if you want to live through the night, you’re going to need to find a way to break those chains. Otherwise…” He shrugged. “Not everyone can make it. Not all Halflings are cut out to be Peace Brokers.”
My eyes narrowed, the strength draining from me by the second. “But we all have to be drafted,” I spat. “We all have to be rounded up and forced into this torture.”
The Broker came forward a few steps, his face as grave as the dead. “Careful, child,” he said. “Everything you do is recorded, and that sounded mighty close to treason.” He paused, poised his pen over the clipboard in his hand. “I suggest you focus on the task at hand. Your life literally depends on it.”
I stared in disbelief. I’d been in Broker training for nearly two whole years—since the age of five—and out of all the crazy stuff they’d had me do since then, this was easily the craziest. Part of me just could not accept the fact that this was serious, that they were serious. I was only seven years old, after all, and who would do such a thing to a child?
“So that’s it?” I asked, the words truly a struggle to produce now. “I don’t get any kind of assistance? I have to break free of this iron, by using what—my mind?”
“Actually,” said the Broker, his gray suit as stiff as his shoulders, “you do get an option.”
As he said this, the door to the small, windowless room opened, and another Broker stepped in and handed the Clipboard Guy something that was draped with a black cloth. Even at so young an age, my aura-reading abilities told me what was under the black cloth before Clipboard Guy removed it.
My young heart sank down and settled somewhere near my sneakers, and my stomach gave a dreadful twist. “You can’t be serious,” I said, but the words came out whispered, weak.
The Broker who’d entered left and closed the door behind him, once again cutting me off from the world. “I’m afraid I’m completely serious,” said Clipboard Guy. With no flourish, he removed the black cloth and revealed a glass jar with holes poked in the top. Inside this glass, just as my sixth sense had told me, was a Pixie.
The tiny Pixie—no bigger than the size of my hand—fluttered about in the jar, its flickering wings dropping sparkles of Pixie Dust that fell to the bottom of the jar and settled there, like snow. The Pixies eyes, slanted in the same fashion as a Fae’s, widened in terror as the tiny creature took sight of its surroundings, and its small but brilliant aura flashed bright orange with fear.
For several moments, I could only stare in disbelief. “You… you want me to kill it,” I said. It was not a question. “I thought all life has purpose, all life is precious. That’s what you guys are always saying.”
Clipboard Guy nodded. “This is true,” he confirmed, “all life is precious. Including yours.”
I tried to shake my head and only succeeded by a couple of inches. “I can’t,” I said. “I won’t. It’s not right.”
In answer, the Broker set the jar containing the trapped Pixie on the concrete floor of my prison and backed toward the door. “The choice is yours, soldier,” he said. “Good luck.”
He left, locking the door behind him.
CHAPTER 42
The smell of garbage and formaldehyde was the first thing to register with my senses, pulling me from the dream world and dropping me in the real world with soul-crushing force.
With serious effort, I tried to lift my head a few inches, blinking my eyes painfully slowly in an attempt to clear my vision. My ears were ringing, my sensitive hearing on the fritz. I swallowed, and the dryness of my mouth was felt all the way down my throat.
The circumstances in which I’d found myself came flooding back to me, and I jerked my head to the side with a renewed sense of strength, my heart stopping in my chest when my eyes settled on Maleia.
Her big brown eyes stared back at me, unblinking, her body held terribly still. Almost like…
“Oh, God,” I muttered, the words scratching up my throat. “Maleia?” I said, panic leaking into my tone. “Maleia?”
Then, she blinked, and I felt as though I could breathe again. Tears sprang from my eyes, and I sucked in air like a surfacing swimmer. “Thank God,” I said.
To this, the little girl said nothing. She only continued to blink and stare, the beat of her heart and the air flowing through her chest the only sounds in the room save for the slight buzz of electricity running through the tunnels.
With a fresh ache in my chest, I realized that the poor girl was in a state of shock. Just looking at her, I could tell that even if we did somehow manage to escape this mess, Maleia Jackson would be forever altered, forever changed.
“Maleia,” I said, gently.
In response, the child only blinked back at me.
“I’m going to get us out of here,” I whispered. “Everything is going to be okay. I’m going to take you back to your mother, and make the bad man go away. I’ll make him go somewhere and he’ll never come back again… Do you hear me, sweetheart? Everything is going to be okay.”
As I heard myself say these words, I wondered whom I was trying to convince—myself, or the child.
I shoved this unhelpful thinking away and took a few moments to gather myself, to try to rewrap some wits around me. The iron in the straps restraining me was sapping my strength slowly but surely, and with every minute that passed the likelihood of our escape was similarly decreasing.
After a few deep breaths, I pulled myself up as much as was possible and took a real assessment of my surroundings. My ears told me that Maleia and I were alone, but I had no idea of how much time had passed, or where the Scarecrow was, or when he would be returning.
All in all, it was best if I figured something out quickly. There was not much to be seen, save for the leaky brick walls and the damp concrete floor. With a jolt, I saw that my Masked Maiden outfit (It was somewhat mad how I’d taken to referring to it as that) was folded up on a wooden chair in the corner—jacket, mask and all.
My eyes flicked down to my body, and a chill ran up my spine as I saw that I’d been changed into a dress. It was printed with white and yellow flowers, the sleeves folded neatly on my shoulders and the collar pressed cleanly around my neck. My gaze continued down to reveal that there were frilly white socks on my feet along with shiny black doll shoes.
Great. Not only was I trapped and on the verge of being murdered by my mortal enemy, but I also looked like an idiot. I twisted my neck and gaged the distance between the table I was held to and my jacket. If I could somehow reach it, I may be able to get out of my restraints.
I took a few more stolen seconds to brace myself for what I knew had to be done. At any moment, the Warlock could reappear, and something told me this would be the only opportunity to get myself free. It was likely that for whatever reason he’d left, he would not be doing so again.
It was now, or never.
My eyes went down to my right wrist, which was secured to the edge of the metal table on which I was lying. I said a quick, silent prayer and didn’t allow it any thought, as contempl
ation would only make my next move all the worse.
Heaving myself to the left, my hope depleted as the metal table hardly moved beneath me, but doing so had put Maleia’s deathly still body into my sights, and I wrenched myself to the right.
The table shuddered a bit underneath me.
Bucking and squirming like a cub caught in a snare, I continued to rock my body, each shift in my muscles taking a bit more of my precious strength. The table began to rock in motion along with me, and I fought all the harder when one side of it tipped up off the floor and bounded back down.
A few more urgent, depleting shifts on my part, and then I was crashing down on my right side, metal table and all.
There was nothing I could have done to stop myself from the cry that ripped up my throat as my right wrist was crushed between the table’s edge and the unforgiving concrete floor. This made the most awful of sounds—the crunching of the bones in my wrist, along with the clattering of the table, and the agonizing scream that was my own.
Pain—fantastic, exploding pain—shot all the way down to the tips of my fingers, and up to my shoulder, where it seemed to spread from my chest. After my cry of agony, I lay there with my mouth working like a fish out of water, unable to find air. A hot sweat broke out over my brow and down my back, and for what seemed like an eternity, I could do nothing but hang on my side, still attached to the table, still lost in the pain of my shattered right wrist, my now useless dominant hand.
After only Gods knew how long, the cloud of agony parted only enough for me to blink my vision clear. Hot tears had sprung from my eyes and were dripping into my ear, which was ringing and throbbing. I concentrated on my breathing, the beating of my heart ticking off the seconds before my time ran out.
The tipping of the table had put me about a foot away from the old wooden chair on which sat my jacket. In said jacket, I could only hope was my magical staff. If I could somehow get it in my hand—it would have to be my left hand, as my right was unlikely to be following any orders from my brain anytime soon—I might be able to free myself from the iron straps containing me.
Even if I could reach it, that was a mighty big might.
Twelve inches never felt so far in my life as wiggled like a worm, trying ineffectually to move myself closer to the wooden chair, our only chance at salvation.
My heart continued to beat, the seconds continued to tick, and my progress was made with a painful slowness that was only overshadowed by the agony of my ruined wrist.
Somehow, though, I moved myself close enough so that I was able to knock over the wooden chair. My lungs were on fire, my muscles screaming at me for a rest, and my mind insisting I carry on.
The chair tipped, and the contents atop it fell to the floor beside me. My right hand was still trapped between the table and the ground, and every move I made sent a fury of agony all the way up to my shoulder.
I forced myself to bite through it, which was so much easier said than done, and rocked back on the table, crushing a few more bones in my right hand before sending myself crashing forward once more.
At last, panting like a runner having just completed a marathon, I lay on my stomach, the metal table still attached to my back, its shiny legs poking up into the air. The cold of the concrete actually felt kind of good pressed against my flushed cheeks, and I sucked in the dirty scent of the tunnel as I tried to catch my breath.
A small voice spoke to me from the darkness above, jolting me and nearly making a squeak escape my scratchy throat.
“You better hurry,” Maleia said.
I licked my dry lips and stretched my left hand toward the jacket, straining my neck in an attempt to see what I was doing. The jacket was only a few inches away from the tips of my fingers.
My left hand reached with all the strength it had, the strap around the wrist digging into the skin there, cutting deep without the benefit of added reach.
“Hurry,” Maleia said again, and I didn’t need to be able to see her to know there were tears on her face.
Working the muscles in my shoulders and stomach, I managed to drag myself a little closer. My fingertips brushed the fabric of my jacket. I shifted again, grunting and groaning with the effort, and at last, was rewarded.
My left hand pulled it forward and searched the jacket, locating my magical staff after what felt like an agonizingly long time. When my fingers finally wrapped around the wood of my staff, I felt as though I could somewhat breathe again.
Eventually, I managed to work the small wooden cylinder that was my staff between the straps around my wrist and the table. Then, I gritted my teeth, sent up another silent request, and mumbled the incantation that would cause the weapon to expand to its full length.
My heart leapt in my chest as the ironclad straps popped open as the staff’s magic overpowered its strength. With nearly more astonishment than relief, I realized with a spike in hope that my left hand was now free.
Making quick work of the rest of my restraints, I pushed the metal table off of me and climbed unsteadily to my feet. My head swam with fatigue and I forced myself to look down and take assessment of my right wrist and hand, which was certifiably mangled.
Then, my heart stopped altogether as a voice spoke from somewhere down the tunnel. “Looks like my mouse has escaped her cage,” came the voice of the Warlock.
The Scarecrow had returned.
CHAPTER 43
He moved with a silence that seemed born of the darkness surrounding him. His tattered trench coat swayed around his long legs, and his black eyes peered out at me from his balding skull.
Coming to a stop in the only opening—the only way out of this dreadful place—the Scarecrow grinned, his eyes flicking over to Maleia and back to me. “You might be able to slip past me, precious,” he taunted, “but you’ll have to leave the girl.”
I gripped my staff in my left hand, my feet already having moved into a fighter’s stance, my body struggling to stay alert. I spoke between tight teeth. “I’m not running, Warlock. I’m not leaving here without her, and I’m not afraid of you.”
His laughter rang out, rebounding down the dark tunnel. “You’re not afraid of me?” He took a step closer, his hands clasped loosely together before him. “I think we both know that’s a lie, and that I’m the one who stalks your dreams.” His dirty tongue poked out and slithered over his cracked lips. “I know you’ve been a frequent presence in mine. My only regret is that I got to you too late. You’ve already deflowered yourself.” He said this with a certain disgust, and his dark eyes flipped to Maleia. “Unlike this one here.”
I shifted a bit on my feet, and the fingers on his hand splayed as his dark eyes narrowed.
A smile lifted one side of my mouth at seeing this. “Who’s afraid, Warlock?” I said. “Last time we crossed paths, you lost. Like you said, I’m not a child anymore.”
The Scarecrow spread his hands, rolled his long neck. As I watched, his humanlike form was shed, like a snake slithering out of its skin. His fingers grew to twice their length, adding a joint or two and hooking like long claws. Two spots on his head split open, and long, spiraling horns sprouted out. His black eyes shifted on his terrible face, growing farther apart and dilating, gleaming as he fixed his gaze on me.
With a swirl of his now clawed fingers, the Warlock summoned a sphere of flame that was about the size of a baseball and launched it right at me.
I dove to the side, rolled, and regained my feet, striking out with my staff and catching the Scarecrow on the face. The wood made a cracking sound when it met with his cheek, and his eyes flashed with anger as his jaw unhinged in a way that looked painful.
He let out a guttural sound, summoning another ball of fire and launching it at me once again. This time, I was a touch slower, my strength running on fumes, and I felt the blazing heat of the flame as it tore past me and crashed into the brick wall of the tunnel. With a spin that felt dreadfully slow, I smacked the Warlock across the opposite side of his face with my staff.
The weapon was ripped from my hand immediately after, and it took me a moment to realize that the Scarecrow had removed it from my grasp using magic. The staff flew from my hand and cracked against the overturned table on which I had been held before clattering to the ground and rolling away.
Instead of going after it, I slammed my left fist into the Warlock’s sinewy midsection three times before absorbing a kick to my own stomach that lifted me into the air and sent me crashing against the shiny cart where all the Scarecrow’s tools and makeup were arranged. The cart tipped as my weight slammed into it, and all its contents went scattering about in every direction with a cringe-worthy clatter.
I was on my feet again within the same heartbeat.
With a move that would’ve made both Nick and Sam proud, I gripped the Warlock by his right horn (my right hand was all but useless, leaving me with only the use of my left) and yanked down hard while simultaneously ramming my knee up and into the area where his man parts would’ve been had the Warlock been an actual man.
To a spectator, the whole scene would have appeared almost ridiculous, with me dressed in a doll’s gown and shoes, my right hand cradled limp and broken to my chest, my teeth gritted and head swimming as I fought for my life against a beast from nightmares.
The tunnel flashed with light as the Warlock’s hands began to form another burst of magic, but I pivoted on my feet and slammed my foot into his chest, putting out the growing flame between his fingers as though I had doused it with water. I followed this up with another powerful kick aimed at his knee, buckling the joint there and sending him crashing to the ground.
I drew my left hand back, intending to crack him in the face with all the strength I could muster… but my hand froze in the air, my movement halted as though some almighty fist had taken hold of me.
A cry of frustration tore up my dry throat as I struggled against the magic that had assumed command over me. The Scarecrow regained himself as I did so, climbing to his feet and grinning as though the whole situation were hilarious, as though I were a child throwing an unreasonable tantrum.
