by Lisa Fiedler
“Aphidina,” said Glinda, the name bitter on her tongue.
“It seems Wickedness is quicker than I imagined,” Mythra remarked, sounding fearful for the first time since the scene seen through the amethysts had begun.
As the Haunting Harvester strode past the quiet houses of Glinda’s street, she flicked her long fingers at their front doors, or thatched roofs, or garden shrubs, and as she did, they each burst into flames.
“I am your new queen,” she proclaimed. “The Witch of the South. Whosoever harbors the king’s Mystic shall be punished. Turn her over to me, and all that you wish for will be yours. For this is Quadling and all is well.”
“You must go!” said Stanton, placing his strong hands on Mythra’s shoulders and guiding her toward the kitchen door. “Run! Please. And don’t look back.”
“Run!” said Tilda, then covered her mouth with her hand and wept.
Outside, the Witch was nearing the front walk of Glinda’s house.
“I shall go out the front door and run off in the opposite direction,” said Norr, handing the shield to Mythra. “It will give you time to go . . . wherever it is you’re going.” He gave Tilda a reassuring look. “I will come back as soon as I can,” he promised.
With that, he opened the door and stepped out into the lane.
Into the path of the Witch of the South.
And as he did, the amethyst eyes of the statue went dark; whatever Norr had seen and done next faded into the moonlight.
In Marada’s zwinger, no one moved or spoke or even trembled for several moments.
“But he never did go back,” Locasta said at last. “He couldn’t. The Witches wasted no time in forbidding their subjects to travel from country to country.”
Suddenly a terrible thumping shook the ground beneath them.
They all turned to the archway, through which was thundering an army of draft animals ridden by Gillikin soldiers. And the Wicked Warrior Witch herself was leading the charge.
33
NO STONE UNTURNED
The Witch looked surprised to find her quarry already in the outer ward of her castle. “How fortuitous,” she shouted savagely, “the enemy has brought themselves to me!”
Glinda swept Illumina from her sash and held it high so that the glow of the sword mingled with the light of the moon, giving them all a clear view of the army rampaging toward them.
The Warrior’s soldiers were numerous and mighty. Their heavy armor and metallic weapons shone and glinted as they galloped on their war-yaks and buffalopes toward the five intruders.
Reaching out with one gauntleted hand, Marada grabbed a fistful of darkness, a piece of the night itself, which she rounded into a sphere and bowled across the purple grass toward Thruff, but he was spry and jumped over it.
Without so much as slowing her march, the Witch lifted one hideous sandaled foot, snapped the razor-edged spur from the heel, and with a searing sidearm toss sent it slicing through space toward Shade. Shade leaned out of the circle’s path just in time to prevent the loss of her right ear, but the lethal little disc tore through the hood of her cape and sheared off a lock of her sleek black hair.
With the hand that wasn’t holding the shield, Glinda gathered up the rope. “Find, bind, leave no soldier behind!” she instructed, and the rope went whirling through the air, growing longer and longer in flight. When it was directly above the stampeding Gillikin regiment, it dropped around them, pulling itself tight. The animals lowed and shrieked, digging their hooves into the grass. As the soldiers slid from their saddles or were bucked off their beasts, the sound of armor clashing against armor seemed to shatter the night.
“Knot!” Glinda cried, then thought better of it and shouted, “Double knot!”
The rope dove and pulled, winding itself into a secure binding, trapping the platoon; they struggled against Glinda’s Magic to no avail.
Locasta was scrambling toward Glinda and the shield, clutching the compass. But Marada dropped to one knee and slammed her fist on the ground in Locasta’s direction; the world reared up, throwing them all high into the air. But Locasta got the brunt of it, landing like a cannonball.
Glinda came down on the purple grass in a crouching position behind the shield. Ben landed sprawled beside her, and Shade crashed down on top of him. As Ben and Shade frantically attempted to disentangle themselves, more soldiers swarmed from the inner bailey on foot.
Locasta still had not moved.
As Marada continued her advance, she began to beat her fists against the breastplate of her armor. The pounding of silver against metal produced a violent explosion of purple sparks, which coalesced into a single bolt of Wicked Magic, shooting like purple lightning in Locasta’s direction.
“Noooo!” Glinda’s voice was part plea, part war cry as she grabbed the shield and ran to protect her friend from the Witch’s brutal Magic.
The shield caught the purple bolt, deflecting it back on Marada, where it slammed into her midsection and sent her flying backward, crashing into another trio of soldiers who’d just appeared through the arch. She fell on one of them, the weight of her armor and her own muscular bulk crushing him instantly. The power of the purple bolt bounced off her breastplate, dissolving the other two in a burst of darkness. But the impact of her own Magic had left the Warrior severely stunned.
As Glinda continued her sprint toward the fallen Locasta, the shield began to grow heavier in her grasp. Struggling to keep her hold on it, she recalled Mythra’s words: Give your fears to the shield . . . give voice to that which threatens to hold you down. . . .
“I’m afraid for my friend,” she whispered to the shield, “I’m afraid for my friend. . . .”
And just as it had in the Mystic’s cave, the shield threw off its own heft and took on Glinda’s burden instead. With the shield nearly weightless, she made it to where Locasta still lay motionless, and quickly dragged her behind a grouping of six burly miner statues, each holding a pickax or hammer. Thruff arrived a moment later, and Shade and Ben were not far behind.
“Ben,” said Glinda, motioning to the next wave of guards pouring through the gate, “can you take care of them?”
“I think so. As long as I have the right weapon.”
She drew Illumina, held it close to her lips, and whispered to the sword, “Fight, my friend; fight as though both Mythra and I are guiding you!” Then she handed it to Ben. “Illumina will know what to do,” she promised. “Just listen to the light!”
Despite the odds, Ben did not hesitate. He ran toward the heavily armed soldiers, leaving Glinda and the others unarmed, with only the minimal protection provided by the half-dozen statues behind which they crouched.
“If only they could help us, “Glinda murmured, her gaze taking in the stony forms of countless Gillikin miners and their families who had been Petrified at Marada’s hands—all enemies of the Witch, and therefore allies of Glinda.
As she studied their sculpted faces, thoughts began to race in her mind:
Why can’t these statues just awaken?
If only I knew how to reverse Marada’s Magic.
What words did Shade and Thruff speak when they quoted the Wicked spell?
And with a jolt she realized why Marada’s curse had struck a chord. There is always a how, a why, and a when.
“Shade!” cried Glinda. “Thruff! I need you to repeat Marada’s curse for me, right now. I need to hear the words again—not all of them, just the active phrases, but please, make sure to say it with nothing but Good intention in your hearts.” She lowered one eyebrow at Thruff. “Especially you.”
Shade and Thruff exchanged curious glances but did as they were told, speaking the Witch’s ugly lines in a kind of wary harmony:
“Drain away motion, spill away breath
Sculpt away feeling, carve away life
In between heartbeats, with a touch cold as stone . . .”
“Excellent. Now I need you to say them again, only backward this time.”
Thruff looked confused. “But it won’t mean anything.”
“No, it won’t,” Glinda agreed. “But it will be the opposite of Wicked. Now, please . . . just keep saying it.”
Thruff might have challenged her command a second time, but Shade, with her cloak whipping around her, was already shouting in a voice louder than Glinda had ever heard from her before. “Breath away spill, motion away drain.”
Thruff chanted with equal zeal, “Life away carve, feeling away sculpt.”
Glinda was not naive enough to imagine that simply saying a spell backward could reverse it, but this particular curse had included a very particular how, when, and why. Her hope was that if she could reverse these points as well, the combination might be powerful enough to negate the spell.
As Shade’s and Thruff’s voices continued to ring out, Glinda positioned herself in front of the stoutest of the six stone-ified miners. “When?” she asked herself. And because the answer was the oddly poetic “in between heartbeats,” she forced herself to focus on the frenzied pounding of her own heart, clocking not the “in-betweens” but the beats themselves.
“How?” she said. “With a cold touch.” Well, that certainly wouldn’t be a problem, since her whole body felt overheated, thanks to her exertions with the heavy shield.
Lastly she asked, “Why?” And the answer to this was the precise opposite of the answer the Warrior had given in the curse. Because the last thing Glinda wanted was for these cursed victims to leave Marada alone!
She reached out and placed her warm palm on the statue’s arm in perfect time with the next thud of her heart.
“Away drain . . .”
“Away sculpt . . .”
“Away spill . . .”
“Away carve . . .”
The Magic began, just as a woozy Locasta opened her eyes. The hard stone of the statues was slowly crumbling in a series of small cracks, echoing from every corner of the zwinger.
“Motion . . .
. . . feeling . . .
. . . breath . . .
. . . life.”
When the words registered in Locasta’s dazed mind, she jumped to her feet. “That’s Marada’s curse. They’ll turn us all to statues!”
“No, they won’t. They aren’t Wicked, and besides, they’re reverse-incanting it.”
Locasta frowned. “You made that up.”
“Well, yes, I suppose I did. But it’s working! Look!”
Sure enough, the outer surface of the statues was falling away to reveal the faces of the startled Gillikins beneath.
“They’re alive?” Locasta gasped.
“It seems so,” said Glinda.
Ben came speeding back from his battle, beaming with triumph, and handed Illumina to Glinda. “Truly, if the colonial militia had swords like this, we’d have no trouble defeating England!”
“Who’s England?” Locasta asked.
But a growl from across the ward had them all swinging their heads around. Marada was hoisting herself up from the ground. They could only just make out her burly form through the thickening cloud of stone dust created by so many crumbling statues.
“Show yourselves, brats!” she roared, peering through the dust cloud.
“We have to free the Fairy!” said Glinda. “Now! While Marada can’t see us!”
“Hurry,” said Ben as Marada’s footsteps stamped toward them.
“Hold the shield steady,” said Locasta, and Glinda obeyed. As Locasta fit the compass case into the small indentation in the center of the shield, her words boomed into the dusty haze. “I call upon the Elemental Fairy of Lurl! For Oz! Forever! Truth Above All!”
The golden lid of the compass flipped open and from it rose what Glinda could only describe as a living mountain. Terra! Enormous, imposing, and rock-solid, climbing up from the compass, the force of her arrival sweeping away the cloud of stone dust.
Terra’s girth was not without grace; her boldness not without beauty. Her legs shimmered with flecks of quartz, and her arms were smooth and shining like marble; indeed, she contained bits of every handsome stone represented in the Arc of Heroes—emerald, alabaster, obsidian—but most exquisite were her wings: delicate sheets of gleaming mica, which gave off a silver-white frosted sheen in the moonlight.
The Gillikins who had been statues just moments before gaped first at the Fairy, then at their loathed leader, the Wicked Witch of the North, who had stumbled to a halt at the sight of her nemesis.
Raising her arms above her head, Marada slammed the wrists of her gauntlets together to form an X, and the sharp noise of their contact solidified into a weapon. She was now holding a vicious-looking spiked ball—a bludgeon—attached to a long handle by a short chain.
“It’s a flail!” Thruff rasped. “And I’m sure she’s cast a Wicked enchantment, making it strong enough to fight this Fairy.”
Terra’s mica wings had already carried her across the zwinger to meet Marada where she stood. The Witch was expertly rotating the weapon’s haft, causing the bludgeon to circle wildly on its chain.
Terra lifted one gigantic stone foot, but the Warrior and her weapon were swift. The swinging spiked ball slammed into the Fairy’s ankle. As chips of stone showered down on Marada, pinging off her armor, the Fairy let out an agonized wail; it was the sound of an avalanche.
Marada dropped the flail and clapped her gloved hands together, and this time a crossbow appeared in her grasp. When she released the arrow, it sailed arcing up into the night, as high as the Fairy’s towering shoulders—and as it flew it divided itself into a whole shower of arrows, all of which lodged into the Fairy’s chest.
Another scream of pain, this one as loud as a lurlquake.
Laughing maniacally, Marada tossed away the bow and was about to clap her hands again when a pickax came spinning through the atmosphere, catching the spaulder on her left shoulder. She stumbled backward, howling.
Next a dolabra with a lethal blade followed, its blunt end pounding her in the knee.
“It’s the miners!” cried Ben. “They’re using their tools to hold her off.”
Glinda looked around and saw that Ben was right. From every part of the outer ward, the freed-from-stone Gillikin miners were advancing on the Witch, hurling their tools at her, preventing her from using her Magic to conjure more weapons to use against the Lurl Fairy.
Just as Glinda had hoped they would.
And in the midst of it, she spied a familiar face. A former groundskeeper to the king.
And beside him marched his fiery-eyed, curly-haired wife and their five daughters. They had each picked up a chunk of rock from the ground—perhaps pieces of their own prisons—and were hurling them at the Witch who had cursed them.
High above, Terra was jerking the arrows out of her stone flesh. The brave intervention of the Gillikins was all she needed to regain her control of the battle. As Marada ducked from the rocks and hammers that flew at her, Terra made her way forward, motioning for the miners to stand down.
This left only the flustered Witch and the Elemental Fairy to glower at each other.
Marada did not shriek or beg as Aphidina had; instead she sent up a ferocious war cry that rocked the night. But the sound was swallowed up by the force of the Fairy’s foot stomping down upon her, grinding her into the very ground that long ago, Terra herself had had the great privilege of creating. The soldiers bound in the Magic Rope sank where they stood, disappearing into the rocky soil of Gillikin as if they had never even existed. Only Glinda’s Magic Rope remained to mark the spot where they had met their fate.
Glinda, Ben, Shade, and Thruff ran forward just as Terra was lifting her foot.
Amazingly, the purple-tinted grass looked utterly undisturbed; there was no hint of the Witch to be seen, except for the Silver Gauntlets—which had not suffered so much as a dent.
Thruff scooped them up and turned hopeful eyes to Glinda. “May I have these?”
“Absolutely,” she said, grinning. “As long as you promise
you won’t use them to pummel your sister. Right, Locasta?” She turned to where she expected Locasta to be, and was surprised to see that she wasn’t there.
Her heart flipped over, fearing her friend might have accidentally stepped into the path of a flying pickax or sledgehammer. But Shade’s voice came to her, soft as a summer rain:
“Don’t worry. She’s safe.”
“Where is she?” Glinda pressed, still frantic. “Where did she go?”
Smiling, Shade flicked back her cape and pointed across the ward. “Isn’t it obvious? She’s visiting her family.”
Glinda smiled when she saw that Shade was right—Locasta, surrounded by her parents and her five sisters, looked very, very safe indeed.
34
FOOTSTEPS OF THE FAIRY KING
The Road of Red Cobble had no trouble surfacing through the rocky rubble left by the crumbled statues. Once again, it delivered Miss Gage to them, and this time, as a pleasant surprise, Ursie Blauf had come along too.
“Ursie, could you—” Glinda motioned to the Magic Rope, which still lay knotted in the purplish grass.
“Certainly!” cried Ursie, skipping off to do what she’d been asked.
“She has a way with knots,” Locasta explained to her sisters, who had all gathered along the edge of the road so that their father could introduce them to his Foursworn friend, Miss Gage.
“Allow me to introduce my family,” Norr said proudly to the teacher-Sorceress. “This is my wife, Norlasta. My boy Thruff, and these darling fairygirls are my older daughters, Calamita and Margolotte, and the triplets, Edith, Schuyler, and Suzanne.”
Plump, sweet-faced Margolotte curtsied while the other four smiled and nodded.
“Another Fairy safe, another Gift freed!” said Miss Gage. “But where are the footsteps of the king?”
“Perhaps we should ask her,” said Ben, his voice filled with admiration as he pointed to the towering form of Terra hovering in the air behind Locasta.
