by Lee, Nikolas
Ion looked at the mirrored walls around him. “How old is this place?”
“Old,” Oceanus said, taking a bite out of a pink Glow Cake. “I’ve read a few articles on the matter, but no one seems to know when exactly the Acropolis was established. Historians believe Nepia raised it about three thousand years ago—the exact year unknown. She ruled the island until the Outerworld Wars began, when Othum decided the island should be his own…or did Nepia give it away?” She thought for a bit, with her bright pink tongue tapping the roof of her mouth. “I can’t remember. Anyway, the Acropolis has seen thousands of deadly storms and even deadlier winters, survived the fire of 193, and the plague of 1959; there’s no telling how many people have died here.” Her voice dropped to a dark whisper, “And what self-respecting spirit wouldn’t want to roam these halls all day? Why, they’re just brimming with little freckle-faced, nervous boys like you.”
Ion swallowed. “I’m not nervous! Just…cautious.”
“Right, brother,” she said with a wink. “Now, since you have me interested, where did this question come from?”
Ion sighed. “Well, on the first day of school, I was walking back from Relics class...and this…this dress…it was following me.”
“Just a dress?” Oceanus asked, her face cracking with a smile.
“It had a head!” he replied. “And it spoke my name! Actually, it screamed it.”
“Ion,” she chortled, “I’d love to think there are ghosts around here—would certainly spice things up a bit—but I don’t think you really saw one. I think it was your first day of school, and you were tired, and running on sugar fumes. Those cakes can make you see things, trust me. The other day, a nymph told me just one Glow Cake has three hundred grams of sugar.”
Ion stared blankly at her.
“That’s like six cups of sugar or something.”
Ion’s eyes went wide. “I guess that would make you see things.”
“I bet it was just some trick of the candlelight,” said Oceanus, picking up her book. “But I’m returning to my education now. If you knew what’s good for you, you would, too. If you don’t ace the CVE’s, kiss your deal with Othum goodbye.”
Ion rolled his eyes, and then moved them over the plate of Glow Cakes before him. By the time he left the hall, his nerves had forced him to eat so many different colors his tongue was a filthy pond-water green, which also matched his mood. His heart sat tight in his chest. His stomach seemed raw and sickly, weighing heavily at the bottom of his gut. As he walked through the courtyard in the heart of the fortress, he wondered if he felt this way because of the thousands of grams of sugar in his system, or because he knew Oceanus was wrong. It was not tricky candlelight...there was hardly any candlelight to begin with. There was a chance the sweets made him see things, yes, but he had the most peculiar feeling this was just another excuse—an excuse to hide his certainty.
By the time Battles and Ballistics class rolled around the next Friday, Ion had pushed his thoughts of specters aside. Oceanus had been right about one thing: if Father was going to be freed, Ion would have to focus on school and pass the CVE’s.
The instructor for Battles and Ballistics class, Hispoticus, was an automaton who hailed from the fires of Esereez’s forge, constructed by the Inventor just six months before the start of school. As an automaton, his flesh was built of cold, dark blue iron plates, fused together and hued a dark, ocean-trench blue. In place of a head, Hispoticus boasted an intimidating knight’s helmet, with sharp slits where his eyes and mouth should have been. For the students, the best part of Hispoticus was where his ankles ended and the large metal spheres he walked on began.
“At least you can always hear him coming,” laughed Stryker Montgomery, the bald-headed dwarf from Relics class, as Hispoticus came thudding into the classroom.
“Greetings class,” he said with a mechanical voice—every word said in a different pitch and tone than the last. It seemed Esereez hadn’t yet mastered the creation of voice boxes.
Ion and Oceanus stood silently in line with the other students—exactly how every Battles and Ballistics class began. The War Room where class was held was built in the shape of half a moon, with tall, wide windows built into the curved wall. Sunlight poured through the glass, twinkling upon Hispoticus’s iron body, and along the still, black liquid surface of the Gods and Guts table behind him.
“Today, we start Gods and Guts trials,” said Hispoticus. “Two students must show me—me—me—me”—he twitched with each malfunction—“if they’ve been listening. It will be a duel of sorts.” Hispoticus pulled something from out of a pocket of metal on his hip and went on, “Now I—I—I will choose the duelers.”
The automaton opened his mechanical hand upon the floorboards at his feet and out of it scurried two rats. They dashed for the students. One of them raced in between Ion’s legs, and with a squeal, Ion was climbing Oceanus like a mountain. While Oceanus tried prying her brother off, the second rat sniffed curiously at the heels of the only elf in class—one with faded purple skin, sharp green eyes, and black hair that was tied into a knot on the top of his head. He looked disdainfully at the rat sniffing about his feet, whispering Elvish curses.
“What is it with all these woodland creatures?” Ion asked, finally coming unglued from his sister when the rat went to sniff at a corner of the room.
Two flower nymphs wearing wreaths of lilies around their heads picked up the rats and began to play with them like they were kittens, instead of the smelly, sewer-dwelling rodents Ion knew them to be. The three dwarves who had disappeared during all of this slowly emerged from their hiding places behind the Gods and Guts table.
Stryker cleared his throat and spoke on behalf of the other dwarves. “We thought they were transfiguring rats—dangerous things, if they were...”
“If only transfiguring rats existed,” Oceanus mumbled to Ion.
“The rats have chosen!” Hispoticus announced. “Ionikus Reaves duels Caspian Strange. Gentlemen, please make—make—make your way over to the table.”
Ion walked nervously over to his side of the Gods and Guts table, wondering why on Othum’s sweet earth he had to be chosen first. He’d wanted to play Gods and Guts since the day he saw it, but so far he’d only gotten to watch others play, and he could hardly remember anything Hispoticus had said about it the week before. So, naturally, those stupid, fat rats would choose him to fight. And against a keen elf, no less.
The Gods and Guts table looked so much bigger from where he now stood. The lake of black liquid was beautiful, but when he remembered Oceanus had said it was cyclops blood, its beauty dampened. Ion pulled his view up from the pool and saw Caspian on the other side. He was solemn and quiet—so very elfish. And he hadn’t blinked since Hispoticus had called his name.
Hispoticus thudded his way over to the long side of the table, and the other students followed. “Boys!” he shrieked. “I want you both to give it your all. You are to set an example for your fellow students. Please remember what I—I—I—I taught you.”
Ion nodded to Caspian, and the elf did the same, except much more coolly.
“Now,” said Hispoticus, “what Factions will you two be employing?”
“Oceanic Offspring,” said Ion, because it was the only Faction he could remember.
“Dark Descendants, sir,” said Caspian Strange, his voice deep and knowing.
Hispoticus placed his hand on the dial on the side of the table and gave it a spin. Ion watched, biting his lip and hoping the dial would land on the Warm Sea map, one veiled in nothing but water. Oceanus had told him that each Faction fights better on a particular map, and the Oceanic Offspring fought best on water. It was just the advantage Ion needed. But when the dial stopped, it landed on Twilight, and out of the black pond of cyclops blood rose a map Ion didn’t even know existed.
A sea sat calm and quiet on Ion’s side of the board, while black dunes of sand swept over Caspian’s. In the middle, where waves broke softly over the
shore, stood the Hill—a shining marble structure that looked like a miniature Protean Courthouse. Ion was pleased; there was a bit of sea before him, and there was nothing to indicate the Dark Descendants would fare well here. But then the curtains sitting at the sides of the classroom windows drew themselves closed, and the room went black.
“I can’t see!” whimpered one of the dwarves, who sounded a lot like Stryker.
“Hush!” Hispoticus demanded. “Wait…”
A glimmer of gray light appeared high above the board, soft and beautiful, and in moments, it became a solid moon, hovering defiantly in front of a blazingly blue sun.
“Twilight,” Oceanus whispered in wonder.
Caspian Strange smiled, and who would be favored by the Twilight map became perfectly clear. The figurines of the chosen Factions rose up out of the squares before Ion and Caspian, arranged in two rows.
“The eleven figurines before each of you,” said Hispoticus, “are now a part of your army. Both of you are allowed one Conjuring, which I advise be used only when you are in a tight spot. They are meant to turn the tides of battle and could possibly save you from defeat. As the map presents an advantage to Caspian, Ionikus is presented with first move.”
Ion picked up the two-pronged staff on the edge of the table and moved his first figurine. The front line of soldiers were called Pledges. They weren’t known for their strength, but they could certainly travel far, and that’s exactly what Ion wanted. The Oceanic Offspring had Nereids for Pledges—sea nymphs who rode atop vicious sharks. Ion pushed a Nereid three squares up, the shark slithering through the sea as though it was moving by choice. Caspian went next, moving one of his Pledges—a hunch-backed werewolf—up three squares as well.
The next few turns went by quickly. Ion moved two more Nereids up beside the first, and Caspian moved up another werewolf, and behind it, positioned a woman heavy in robes, without a weapon.
“That’s a Veil,” whispered Stryker to his plump, dwarf friend. “A nymph of the shadows. I saw one once—even scarier in person.”
Caspian pushed one of his werewolves up to the Hill, and Ion, in turn, moved a Nereid onto the scene. Any figurine that graced the squares of the Hill would automatically switch into defense mode, so as the Nereid arrived, the werewolf came charging around the side of the temple, its claws slicing through the air. It gave a sinister howl, pounced upon the Nereid, dug its monstrous nails into the shark, and then bit the nymph on the arm. The shark thrashed in the breaking waves. The nymph screamed. The werewolf leapt back onto the sand, and as it landed, the Nereid and her companion shattered into a pile of stone.
“Caspian has the map advantage!” Oceanus whispered to Ion. “His Pledges are stronger than yours!”
“No comments from the sideline,” Hispoticus said, glowering at Oceanus.
But Ion already knew this, so after Caspian moved a rather beefy, sword-wielding cyclops up two spots, Ion positioned one of his most powerful figurines at the base of the Hill, and the battle resumed. The soldier Ion had moved was a Water Spout—a whirling mass of water that sucked the werewolf in and never spat it out. It consumed one more werewolf soon after, until it was ripped to shreds by two other werewolves.
With the Hill guarded by the last of Caspian’s Pledges, the elf bravely sent his cyclops into the sea on Ion’s side of the board.
Ion gripped the sides of the table, and shouted, “I conjure the Whirlpool! Devour the cyclops that touches the sea!”
The waters beneath the cyclops whirled about, and suddenly the one-eyed beast was being pulled down the sides of a massive, churning, growling whirlpool, until the mouth at the bottom of the funnel opened up and devoured the creature in its serrated teeth.
Caspian clenched his jaw.
“Perfect move, Ionikus,” said Hispoticus. “The Whirlpool, is to remain stationary until the end of the game.”
The battles continued, one after the other, until the foot of the Hill was veiled in the crumbled stone of lost soldiers. Before long, both Ion and Caspian were left with only one figurine. Ion stared at his remaining soldier like a commander heavy with thoughts of war. The creature hovered in the water, etched in the silvery hues of the twilight. The beast was so large it took up two whole squares of the board. Its head was that of a squid’s, complete with large, hungry eyes, and a beak sharper than any sword. Its monstrous tentacles writhed about, lined with swiveling hooks and massive suckers.
Ion looked to Caspian, unnerved by the elf’s silence, but then he noticed Caspian’s last soldier, and a chill stung at his spine. How he hadn’t seen it before he didn’t know. It looked to be a woman with pale, translucent skin, wearing a white dress, which swept the sand as she danced carelessly in her square. Ion stared at the woman’s face, completely in shock.
For she was eyeless, earless, and without a mouth to speak.
“Ionikus,” came Hispoticus’s voice, hard and scathing, “are you going to make a move, or shall we anticipate another ten minutes of waiting?” Blackness glared out of the eyeholes in his helmet, and Ion quickly looked back to the board.
He placed his two-pronged staff behind the writhing Leviathan and pushed the creature three spots forward, onto the square right next to the faceless ghost. The Leviathan moaned as low and powerful as a distant roar of thunder, and in the blink of a cyclops’ eye, two of its long squid arms latched tightly around the ghost. She thrashed about in the monster’s grip, reeled closer and closer to its snapping beak. Ion watched with curled toes. He could almost predict what was going to happen next.
So close to the mouth of the Leviathan, the ghost threw her head back and a mouth split vertically down the middle of her face. She screamed a horrible, blood-curdling scream, as cold and unforgiving as a blizzard, and everyone but Hispoticus clamped their hands over their ears. The Leviathan flailed in the water, until it was so annoyed by the noise that it disappeared into the depths of the sea, pulling the faceless ghost down with it. The seas swallowed her in moments, and the last bit of her muffled shriek dimmed to silence.
“The match ends in a tie,” said Hispoticus, his hands in the air, trying to express excitement.
“What?” said Ion. “How is that? My Leviathan just dragged that thing underwater!”
“That thing is a banshee, Mr. Reaves,” said Hispoticus, “a ghost who, in this game, brings death to any who hears her wail—death for your Leviathan, in this case. Both parties perished.”
Ion’s heart dropped and he was sure as sure he’d gone cold white. “A-and is that the case outside of this game?” Ion asked. “That a banshee brings death to anyone who hears her wail?”
“Not exactly,” said Hispoticus. “Banshees are rare, Mr. Reaves, so we know very little about them. But what we do know is that a banshee can only speak the names of those soon fated to die.”
A shock of cold rushed through Ion’s metal jaw, and breathing suddenly became much harder.
“Looks like you’ve seen one yourself,” Hispoticus said, before laughing a mechanical laugh—unaware of how close to the truth his joke had landed.
The dwarves and nymphs filled the classroom with applause, and the curtains swept themselves aside to let the sun shine once again. Oceanus shook her head in disappointment. Caspian smiled, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow. Ion stared down at the trail of bubbles rising from the sea where the banshee had last screamed. His jaw was like ice against his skin. But...the banshee spoke my name, he thought, so heavy with fear now he’d lost all feeling in his toes.
Then Ion realized that his new school didn’t have specter problems.
He did.
CHAPTER TWELVE
LOST HOMEWORK
It was official: Battles and Ballistics class was no longer Ion’s favorite.
That night, after his first Gods and Guts match, Ion lay in bed staring up at his ceiling. He couldn’t sleep. His dreams wouldn’t allow it. Every time he’d dose off, the banshee would appear, hovering high above his bed, dancing to the silence of
the night. He’d watch, frozen under his sheets, as the ghost would plunge toward him, screaming as she swallowed him in the darkness of her gaping, vertical mouth. That’s when he’d wake up and do some more ceiling watching.
The words of Hispoticus rang in Ion’s ears: a banshee only wails the names of those soon fated to die. Could it really be? Was what chased him after Relics class really a banshee? Was death really that near?
When finally the scream of the banshee rang so loud in his ears he knew sleep was impossible, Ion rolled out of bed and snuck down to the halls of the fortress. He hid behind a column, then scurried to the next, alert to any sort of swooshing dress noises. Once he found his way to the War Room, he closed the doors behind him, and slowly approached the Gods and Guts table.
The pool of cyclops blood glimmered under the light of the moon. It seemed so odd to Ion, being there and not hearing the sound of stone pulverizing stone.
Ion ran his hands along the edges of the table. He stopped where he had stood in his battle with Caspian, and craned down to the pool. “I call forth the Dark Descendants,” he whispered.
Two lines of figurines slowly rose in the center of the pool—the warriors Caspian had used only hours before. They looked brand new—no bites or gashes or missing limbs. The banshee stood behind the squall of growling werewolves, her dress draping the pool of blood, her face blank and unnerving. Oceanus had told Ion the figurines were full of facts, since their purpose was to educate the students. So if he was to learn anything about the real banshee, this is where he would start.
Ion plucked the banshee from the line, and she thrashed about, trying desperately to pry his fingers from her waist.
Ion stared into the empty face of the ghost, his stomach twisting into a knot. “Why do you know my name?”
The banshee stopped her struggling, and her face split down the middle. Ion braced for the scream that would awake half the fortress, but it never came. Instead, a thin, airy voice filled the room. “A banshee knows only the names of those who are soon fated to die.”
