Lord of Monsters

by John Claude Bemis

  A new sound rose beneath his feet. Not the soft squish of the Mist’s floor, but a light crunch.

  Pinocchio stopped and waved a hand to part the fog. Lying before him was a blackened face as big as a tree stump. Maestro squeaked. Pinocchio reared back. But then he realized the monster’s eyes were closed. Part of its face was buried in silvery sand, along with its shoulders and torso. A low snore rumbled from its tusked mouth.

  “It’s asleep,” Pinocchio said. “It’s…one of the others.”

  Pinocchio crept around it, waving a hand as he went. There were more, half-buried under the Sands of Sleep, trapped in their centuries-long enchanted slumber.

  The toad monstrosity was right. These others were much more terrifying than the one hundred that had been awakened. Humongous beasts covered in jagged spines or thick, leathery plates. Some were humanoid—horned ogres or demons with multiple heads or a multitude of eyes. Others bore a passing resemblance to animals of the humanlands—vultures, wolves, crocodiles, or insects—but grotesque and full of vicious claws and fangs.

  Pinocchio eyed the clusters of sleeping monsters with curiosity. Maestro, however, was shaking with terror in his collar.

  “Maybe…maybe this isn’t the best place to be.”

  “They can’t hurt us,” Pinocchio said. “They’re sleep—”

  He froze. Ahead, rising out of the tendrils of Mist and mounds of sand-covered monsters, was a block of polished obsidian. A humanlike figure lay atop it on his back, arms folded across his waist. Sand clung to him like ancient mounds of dust.

  Maestro jittered uncontrollably. “D-D-Diamancer. Th-that’s Diamancer.”

  “I want to see him.”

  “No, don’t—” Maestro began, but Pinocchio was already weaving through the sleeping monsters, taking care not to stir the sand from any.

  When he reached the edge of the obsidian block, he looked down at Diamancer. In some ways, he seemed the least monstrous of any in the prison. He had no claws, no fangs, no horns or wings. He simply looked like a man, except that his skin was a deep bloodred.

  But what was disturbing about Diamancer’s appearance were those missing eyes, the way his skin ran smooth and unblemished where his lids should have been. It was hard to tell whether Diamancer was really sleeping. His face beneath the scattered sand had an odd expression as if he were about to smile. Pinocchio half expected him to sit up. It sent a shiver through his gears.

  Trying to drive the fear away with brave words, Pinocchio said, “He doesn’t look so menacing.”

  Even as he said it, he wished he hadn’t. What if Diamancer could hear him? What if he took this as some sort of challenge? Pinocchio felt certain that if Diamancer had commanded these monsters’ loyalty, if he had rallied them to a nearly successful rebellion against the immortal Prester John and his army, he must have had qualities that were much more dangerous than fangs or claws.

  “Why did they follow him, Maestro?” Pinocchio asked. “Why do you think they turned against Prester John?”

  “I couldn’t say,” the cricket chirped. “They’re monsters. They like destruction. I suppose Diamancer gave them an excuse to act the way they want to act.”

  “But monsters lived in Abaton long before Diamancer came along,” Pinocchio said. “I haven’t heard anything about them causing problems before the rebellion.”

  “Well, I suppose,” Maestro said. “But they weren’t really monsters back then.”

  “Right, so why are they called monsters now?”

  “Just look at them, Pinocchio!”

  Pinocchio frowned. “Back in the Venetian Empire, when I saw the djinni Al Mi’raj for the first time, I thought he was a monster too. But here in Abaton, he’d be one of the noblest races.”

  “Djinn are elementals,” Maestro argued. “Not monsters.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to say….Djinn aren’t considered monsters because elementals are part of the ruling class. Who’s a monster and who’s not seems nothing more than the opinion of a bunch of so-called noble lords, not because of any real truth.”

  “What does it matter?” Maestro said with an irritable flutter of his wings.

  “Because it’s not fair! Just because you look a certain way doesn’t mean you’re a monster. But when you call someone a monster, then they start to act like one.”

  He remembered what Kataton had said about why he never took heed when others called him slow.

  “It’s because of the Noble Houses’ treatment that these monsters rebelled,” Pinocchio said. “It’s because of that sort of prejudice that Diamancer was able to convince these…creatures to turn against Prester John.”

  Maestro grew silent. He crawled out onto Pinocchio’s wrist and turned around to face him, flicking his antennae. “When you say look a certain way, would that include being an automa?”

  The anger drained from Pinocchio. He hadn’t realized it until Maestro said it, but yes, it was true. He had been so afraid for so long that his subjects would see their prester as something despicable and unworthy if they learned he was an automa.

  But at this moment, he was not nearly as ashamed of being an automa as he was at what he’d done to that wyvern. Sure, he’d been defending Maestro, but he should never have hurt him so badly. And now he was dying. It was his fault. What sort of monster did that make him?

  Guilt churned, searing through Pinocchio’s gearworks.

  “I can’t let him die!” Pinocchio leaped to his feet and dashed past the bodies of the sleeping monsters.

  When he reached the manticore, she cracked her eyes, her head resting on the wyvern’s back. “Back so soon,” she hissed.

  Several other monsters began gathering, eyeing Pinocchio menacingly.

  “This is a bad idea,” Maestro peeped from his collar. “They’re going to eat us. Well, I think they’ve realized you’re not so digestible, but what about me?”

  Pinocchio ignored the cricket, as well as the monsters. Looking from the manticore to the wyvern, he asked tentatively, “Is he—”

  She croaked, “Dead, most likely. Azi has lost too much blood.”

  Pinocchio looked at the wyvern’s face. He walked down his long body, past the crumpled wings lying half-buried in mist, until he reached the gash his sword had made. Dark blood still dripped from the wound.

  “His name was Azi?” Pinocchio asked.

  The manticore narrowed her eyes at Pinocchio before giving a nod.

  “What’s your name?” Pinocchio asked.

  She frowned before answering, “Khora.”

  “Khora,” he said. “We have to save him.”

  The manticore shook her head. “I have no means of closing the wound.”

  Pinocchio squeezed his hands together in desperation. If he only had the Pearl, it might have saved Azi. But then his eyes fell to his wrist—to the bracelet of jasmine Wiq had given him.

  Although the leaves and flowers had long fallen from its vines, the wood had remained supple. It might work. It just might.

  “Khora, give me one of your spines,” he said.

  “What are you doing?” Maestro whispered.

  “I can save him.”

  Khora rose to her feet, her jade eyes widening. “Why would you?”

  “Because he was a creature of Abaton,” Pinocchio said. “And it was wrong of me to kill him.”

  “We monsters kill,” Khora said.

  “I’m not a monster,” Pinocchio said. “And neither was Azi. He didn’t have to be. None of you do.”

  Khora’s eyes flashed with confusion.

  “May I have one of your spines?” he asked again, urgency cracking his voice.

  The manticore swung her tail around to Pinocchio, and he pulled one of the sharp needles loose. He bit down on the blunt end, breaking through with a crack. Holding it up to inspect, Pinocchio was glad to see it had done as he hoped. A rough hole had opened through the spine.

  He locked a wooden finger around the jasmine bracelet, fighting against the
regret burning inside him. “I’m sorry, Wiq,” he whispered.

  He snapped it loose. Quickly he uncoiled the long vine Wiq had woven together.

  “You intend to sew it shut?” Khora asked. “It is too late for that, wooden boy.”

  Pinocchio hoped beyond hope it wasn’t. He had to try. And he realized more than Azi’s life depended on it. Pinocchio might not have had the Pearl, he might not have been worthy of being the prester, but the responsibility of protecting Abaton had been given to him all the same. If Azi died by his hand, then Pinocchio felt he truly belonged in this prison of traitors.

  Knotting one end of the vine through the needle’s hole, he pinched a portion of Azi’s thick skin. Pressing the spine to it, he knew if he had not been an automa, he never would have had the strength to push it through—he might never have been able to slash the wyvern’s tough hide either. The spine pierced the skin, but Azi didn’t stir.

  The monsters watched silently as Pinocchio threaded the jasmine vine through, over and over, again and again, pulling closed the horrible, oozing wound. Warmth tingled in his wooden arms as he sewed, but Pinocchio’s whole attention was fixed on stopping the bleeding, stopping the wyvern from dying.

  The mists began churning. A few of the monsters grumbled anxiously. Others slunk away.

  When Pinocchio at last tied off the end of the vine, he watched the wyvern’s face, hoping, pleading…

  Azi didn’t move. He didn’t waken.

  The mists swirled in a sudden storm—not as ferocious as the one earlier, but a swift gale that extinguished in an instant.

  As the mists descended again, a solitary feather as large as a man’s arm floated out of them. Khora watched it, drifting back and forth, until Pinocchio reached out to catch it. He clasped it in his wooden hand. The feather was the same steely gray as their surroundings, but with the barest hint of sky blue at the tip. Then it faded, evaporating into mist.

  “What was that?” Pinocchio asked, feeling a slight tingling in his fingers where he’d touched the feather.

  Khora tilted her feline head. “I’ve no idea.”

  Pinocchio looked to Azi. He’d hoped desperately the feather might have brought some enchantment that would save him. But as he watched the wyvern, he didn’t stir. His eyes remained closed. He was still as stone.

  “I told you,” Khora said, with a strange note—was it tenderness?—in her voice, “it was too late.”

  She rose to her feet and slowly padded off into the gloom.

  Pinocchio ran a wet hand across the wyvern’s skin, tracing a finger over the pointless stitch he’d sewn to close the gash. The woody thread that had been Wiq’s gift—the bracelet and promise—could not be taken back now. It was lost, just as Pinocchio was, just as the hope that his friend would be freed from the Venetian Empire was, and as Abaton soon would be.

  Resting on Pinocchio’s forearm, Maestro stared up as if he expected another of the phantom feathers to fall. “What is this place?” the cricket murmured.

  Pinocchio’s thoughts were still on Azi, but he answered dully, “The Mist.”

  “Yes, but…” Maestro twitched his antennae. “What is the Mist, really?”

  Pinocchio sighed. “I don’t know why you’re asking me. You know more about Abatonian—”

  “The eye,” Maestro interrupted, still looking up. “The mouth. The seed. And the feather. Those are the symbols of the four Primordials who guard Abaton.”

  Pinocchio sat up straighter. When he’d been on the lowest street of Grootslang Hole, he’d seen those symbols on the shrines. The eye had been for Regolith, the primordial of earth who guarded Abaton’s memories. The devouring mouth was the Deep One, the primordial of water and guardian of Abaton’s shores.

  Understanding began to dawn on Pinocchio. “Maestro, what’s the primordial of air?”

  “I’ve only ever heard it called the Roc. An enormous elemental bird, but this Mist…” The cricket turned to face Pinocchio. “When Prester John moved the prisoners from the pyramid, he moved them here. Not just to the Mist. But to the Roc. The Roc was given to Diamancer’s traitors to guard! So this place…the Mist, we’re inside the Roc! Don’t you see?”

  Pinocchio shook his head in disbelief. “But…why did that feather just fall?”

  “As a sign from the primordial guardian,” Maestro said. “To you! You’re the prester.”

  “But I’m—”

  “You tried to save Azi,” Maestro urged. “A prester’s greatest responsibility is to protect his people.”

  “But I didn’t. I killed him!”

  Maestro gave an impatient flutter of his wings. “Accidentally, trying to protect me. But you felt remorse and you tried to make up for your actions. Even though Azi was a monster, you saw him with the eyes of a true prester.”

  Maestro snapped his tiny head around. Light was blooming from the Mist nearby. Monsters were moving through the gloom, clustering around the bluish glow.

  “Do you see that?” Pinocchio asked, climbing to his feet.

  “What is it?” Maestro asked.

  The silent shifting monsters were blocking their view. Pinocchio pushed his way through the ones at the back to see what had drawn their attention. Resting on a wooden stand was a tall, oblong pane of glowing glass that he had not noticed before among the drifting mists.

  “It looks like a mirror—” Pinocchio started to say.

  A face appeared in the glass. A hooded figure.

  Pinocchio ducked down behind the back of the toad who had eaten him. In the pyramid, when he had thought Diamancer had trapped him, that had been a mirror as well, the glass shattering when he summoned the flames. But now he knew: it hadn’t been Diamancer then. And this wasn’t Diamancer either.

  “Our esteemed warden.” Khora made a slight bow of her head toward the mirror.

  “Are you and your monsters ready to be released again?” the warden whispered.

  Pinocchio peered around the toad, trying to see the warden’s face, but Khora had stepped in front of the mirror.

  “We are ready,” she replied.

  “Good,” the warden said. “I am planning to open a portal for you. You will find yourself not far from the Moonlit Court.”

  Monsters chuckled and growled.

  “We’re to attack the palace, then?” Khora said.

  “Eventually,” the warden whispered. “First, I want you to watch the skies for a flying ship that is headed for the capital. It carries the traitor Lazuli aboard. The ship will be difficult to spot, as the gnomes have been dabbling in human alchemy to make it nearly invisible to the eye. But I trust that you and your monsters can spot it.”

  Pinocchio stiffened. Lazuli was aboard the ship! And if the gnomes were there, then his father might be too.

  “And when we spy this flying ship?” Khora asked.

  “Destroy it,” the warden said. “It must not reach the Moonlit Court. There can be only one prester. And it will not be Lazuli. Do you understand?”

  “Of course,” Khora said.

  Pinocchio felt awash in fear. He needed to warn her, to help her, but how could he, trapped in this prison?

  “Once you have finished with the ship, your monsters may attack the Moonlit Court. As before, I want more menace than massacre. Frighten the people of the palace. Tear off some balconies. You may even have some chimera servants if it makes you happy. But in the end, you will allow my forces to drive you back. I will be seen as the victor and Abaton’s savior.”

  Pinocchio couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “I understand,” Khora growled. She paced a few steps sideways. “Warden?”

  The warden’s face, shadowed beneath the hood, peered out from the mirror. “What is it, Khora?”

  “I assume you mean us to stop the prester Lazuli so—”

  “She is not the prester,” the warden snapped.

  “But you intend to be,” Khora said, coolly. “Our attack will persuade the gentle people of Abaton that you are their
only chance for protection. And after you do, you’ll ask to be named their prester.”

  The warden was silent. Then a moment later, a hand held up a dark, dull orb.

  “I already am the prester, Khora,” the warden said. “I have the Ancientmost Pearl. Not Prester Pinocchio. And not my niece.”

  Niece? Pinocchio staggered a step, the realization of what the warden was saying dizzying him.

  “Then after we help you, my prester,” Khora said. “Will we be rewarded?”

  The warden leaned closer to the mirror, the hood drawing back slightly to reveal a lock of blue hair and Sapphira’s crystalline gaze.

  “You and your kind are monsters,” she said. “There is no place in Abaton proper for monsters. But if all goes well, if you carry my demands out to the letter, you might still be rewarded. I can make sure that you never have to return to this prison again. Would you like that?”

  Khora dipped her head.

  “Very good, then. Destroy the ship before attacking the palace. And enjoy what you do best.” The light from the mirror dimmed, Sapphira’s face vanishing into cold black.

  Pinocchio could scarcely believe this. Lady Sapphira was the warden! Lady Sapphira was sending these monsters against her own people. Pinocchio understood why she had taken the Pearl from him when she thought he was an automa. But this was something else entirely. She had been plotting against him and Lazuli all along, probably since their arrival in Abaton. And she was willing to put the lives of her people in danger to trick her way onto the throne.

  Pinocchio ran toward Khora. “You can’t help her!”

  She rounded on him with dagger-slit eyes. “We are not helping her. We are helping ourselves.”

  “Attacking, destroying, these won’t help you.”

  “But they’re fun,” the gruesome toad croaked.

  “Look around,” Khora said. “What have we to live for here? And if the warden fails to live up to her promise, if she tries to send us back, then I swear I will put a spine through her heart. We will be free!”