Lor Mandela - Destruction from Twins, page 16
The spirit of the planet continued to groan in agony. The green fog had become denser, as the temperature of the air plummeted. It was early evening now, and the combination of the dreadful moaning and the icy air was keeping almost everyone indoors. Hardly a soul was out, creating the perfect scenario for Omer, who had not been seen by anyone on his way to Koria.
He arrived at the gate of the palace just before sundown. He was hidden behind a large rock, formulating a strategy to get in, when—much to his delight—the gate swung open, and Glaron himself crept out around it.
Glaron glanced nervously around as the iron gate clanked shut. The planet wailed loudly again. “I'm on my way! Hold on,” he whispered into the air.
Omer fumbled through his duffel bag and pulled out the vystoran sleeve. He waited until Glaron was several yards away from him, and then began his pursuit. He followed at a safe distance, through the outskirts of Mandela City, jumping behind trees and buildings periodically to stay out of sight. He stopped in back of an old abandoned farm that sat at the end of the city and watched Glaron start across the field toward the Anaria.
Suddenly, a horrific screech; more earsplitting and disturbing than any other sound that had been heard that day, bulleted from the core of the planet. Blasts of wind shot straight upward from the ground, obliterating the fog and ripping apart trees, roofs of buildings, fences—anything not securely anchored.
Omer hurled himself away from the old building he was hiding behind to keep from being hit by a barrage of flying bricks.
The screech lasted for several seconds, twisting pathetically through the evening air, and then, with an eerie abruptness, it stopped. There was nothing but complete and total silence. There was no moaning; no rustling grasses; no wind; no sounds of moving animals; absolute, dark, cold silence.
Glaron breathed heavily, waiting, hoping that the thick quiet would be disturbed by some sound—any sound—but nothing. “Oh, no,” he breathed and took off at a full run toward the Anaria.
Omer quickly followed.
Gracielle met Glaron at the Anaria's entrance. She grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him inside. “Watch out,” she warned, “there's still a lot of glass.” They hurried down the glass-covered tunnel. “Hurry! There's not much time.” The sound of the crunching glass shards beneath their feet was strangely amplified by the overwhelming silence of the planet.
“Gracielle, what's going on?” Glaron asked frantically. “Why is it so quiet?”
She spun toward him. “Do you have the book with you? We need to get this thing figured out, now!”
“Here,” Glaron glanced around at the shredded remains of the once elegant room. He handed the small brown book to Gracielle, who grabbed it and started anxiously leafing through it.
Meanwhile, Omer inched his way down the tunnel towards them. He knew that he would be heard if he stepped on any glass. He took off one of his gloves, bent down and carefully swept a section of the floor clear with it before taking each step. He didn't have to strain at all to hear every single thing that Glaron and Gracielle were saying.
“Gracielle, I have to tell you something! It's Darian. Ultara thinks he is after Audril.”
“Me too,” she replied, “I think he heard us talking yesterday.”
“She thinks Jonathan told him the . . . wait! What?” Glaron blurted, “You think he . . . yesterday?”
“Wait,” Gracielle questioned, “what are you talking about?”
Just then, the ground jolted violently, knocking them both to their knees.
The jolt threw Omer as well, tossing him into a pile of sharp glass fragments. “Ahhhuhhh!” he wailed pitifully, as he pulled himself up from the ground. His voice reverberated against the wooden cave walls.
“What was that?” Glaron whispered, as he helped Gracielle back to her feet.
Gracielle slapped her hand over his mouth. “Jonathan,” she mouthed and pulled Glaron towards the back of the room.
Horrific thoughts of what the atoc would do upon finding him—a Trysta man—there alone with Gracielle raced through his mind. “Not good . . . not good!” he muttered under his breath.
They maneuvered around piles of tattered books and broken glass to the back wall; Gracielle waved one of her hands across the wall and a sprawling maze of tangled tree-root tunnels instantly appeared where the wall had been. The floor cracked behind them and they spun around to see Omer staggering into the room.
“Even worse! Even worse!” Glaron yelled as Omer aimed the vystoran sleeve directly at him. Gracielle flicked her wrist, and the floor beneath Omer bumped hard, throwing him off balance. A vystoran zipped from the sleeve and raced across the room; it smacked against the wall above her head. Glaron grabbed her by the arm and pulled her backward into one of the tunnels. They dashed down the tunnel and Omer pursued.
“Glaron, here! Take my hand! It's easy to get lost in here,” Gracielle instructed as they ran further into the maze. She yanked him around one sharp turn…then another. . .then another, and then stopped and motioned for him to keep quiet. They could hear Omer's heavy footsteps directly on the other side of the wall. His pace slowed as he tried to figure out which of the many paths they had taken.
He took a few slow steps, and as he did, Glaron saw his shadow heading in their direction.
Gracielle lifted her arm across Glaron's chest, and gently coaxed him back against the wall of roots behind them. She pushed him further back until he was smashed uncomfortably against the jutting roots.
Omer turned the corner, peered down the tunnel and looked almost directly at them, but the tangled shadows of the roots camouflaged them completely, hiding them from his view. He squinted down the corridor, and then retreated slowly back around the wall.
Gracielle waited a few seconds and then pressed her hand against the other side of the tunnel. It dissolved away and another long, dark corridor appeared. “Go straight,” she whispered, “don't take any turns. It goes to Koria.”
“But, what about you? Where are you gonna go?” he mouthed.
“I'll be all right. The palace is this way.” She pointed toward another tangled passage. “I'll figure out where we can meet again tomorrow.”
“Where are you, Ator?” Omer's sinister voice taunted from what sounded like just a few feet away.
“Get out of here!” Gracielle insisted quietly, “Go!”
Glaron watched as Gracielle took off toward the palace, and then reluctantly sped off in the direction she had indicated.
In the meantime, Omer was feeling a little nervous about being able to navigate his way back out of the labyrinth. He decided that it would be unwise to continue pursuing Glaron and Gracielle any further.
He started back out of the maze, but suddenly noticed an object lying on the ground a few feet in front of him. As he got closer, he could see that it was a small, brown notebook. He picked it up and flipped through the pages.
There were bizarre lines written neatly on each page, surrounded by notes, scribbled in a different hand. He started on the first page and read aloud, “Destruction from Twins, and so it must end.” The other notes on this page were, “Lor Mandela's spirit dying—caused by Anika.” and “Ryannon and Nenia?” He didn't know what it meant, but he knew who Anika was, and that Ryannon was Darian's son, and Nenia was Ultara's dead daughter. “I wonder,” he began, “if this nonsense would be worth anything to His Majesty.” He rolled his eyes at the mention of Darian then tucked the little notebook in his cloak and started back to Brashnell. The strange silence still hung eerily in the night air as he made his way back.
It was very late when Omer finally reached Darian's mansion. He would have waited until morning to report, but he knew that if, by chance, Darian found some value in this little notebook, the consequences of him not sharing his discovery immediately would be far worse than the consequences of waking Darian from his sleep. Luckily though, Darian had not yet retired. Omer found him in the same place he'd left him earlier that day—standing in front of the large desk in the mansion's study.
“Back so soon, Omer. I assume he’s dead,” Darian raised his eyebrows and added, “or that you have at least, brought me something relevant.”
Omer reached for the book. “I assure you, Milord, Glaron will be eliminated. Today just wasn't the day. I hope, however, that this will be helpful.”
Darian didn't look at all pleased. He ripped the notebook out of Omer's hands and started studying its pages. As he read, his eyes grew wide and the fires that danced in them surged and flared. “Anika? Anika caused this?” he hissed. “And Audril’s the only one who can fix it.” His mind was racing. “No wonder Ultara said . . . .”
He lowered the book and looked at Omer who was relieved that his findings seemed to be well-received. “General, how many battalions are fully battle-ready?”
“Three hundred and twelve, sir,” he smiled proudly. Roughly two hundred thousand soldiers.”
An evil smile spread slowly across Darian's thin lips. “And what is the size of the Mandelan Army?”
“We've confirmed nearly the same amount . . . two hundred thousand,” he answered.
“Yes,” Darian paced the floor and reasoned aloud, “but thanks to my son, our weapons are far superior.”
“Ryannon's technical advances in weaponry are, indeed, unparalleled, sir,” Omer agreed.
“General,” Darian’s eyes burned excitedly, “ready Syltar for me and gather the Commanders for an emergency briefing!” He smiled and added, “Prepare your troops, Omer. Tomorrow we ride for Mandela City.”
CHAPTER XVI
JOURNAL OF KAHLIE
My name is Kahlie. I am a servant in the Palace of Borloc, in the city of Mandela, first city of the beautiful world of Lor Mandela. I have been the companion servant of Ator Gracielle Borloc since I was fourteen years old. Shortly after I arrived at the palace, the ator gave birth to her beloved daughter, Audril. My duty has been to care for them both.
I am writing this now because something very strange has happened. I don’t know what exactly, but I’m sure that I was the only witness—at least the only witness who lived through it.
This morning, Ator Gracielle and I were walking near Mystad Lake, attempting to discuss plans for the upcoming Celebration of Light. The ator said something about how she hoped that Lor Mandela would make it to the Celebration, which I thought was an unusual comment. Sure, there were some weird things happening, but it seemed like she was afraid the entire world was going to fall apart. When I asked her what she meant, she just smiled, and said that she was being overly dramatic. But, I could tell she was really worried. It showed on her face.
She started talking about the Celebration again—about the flowers she wanted for the paths—but then she stopped short and stared at Tur Helene, (mine and Audril’s private teacher) and Audril. They were down by Mystad Lake, studying small drifter bugs that played on the grasses near the water. She stood motionless for several moments and stared at her daughter as if there were nothing else in the world. I glanced from her to Audril and back to her again. I studied her expression, wondering what was behind her unusually serious mood and this sudden break in our conversation.
After what seemed like several minutes, she grabbed my hand. Her gaze was still fixed on her little girl.
“Kahlie,” she said, with an expression of utmost concern on her face, “promise me something?”
“Anything you wish, Ator,” I replied.
“Have you ever met Darian of Brashnell?” she asked me, strengthening her grip slightly when she said his name.
I told her I hadn’t, but I'd heard of him.
She said, “I fear that Darian is not to be trusted. We've tried to keep an alliance with him, but he is dangerous— more so now than ever before.”
I nodded and listened as she went on.
“He's after Audril. He overheard me telling someone that Audril is the key to stopping all of this chaos, and now he wants her so he can gain control over everything!”
I didn't understand. I was trying to figure out a polite way to ask her what she was talking about, when she looked me right in the eyes and said, “DO NOT let anything happen to Audril, Kahlie.”
“Of course, Ator,” I answered, “I would guard her with my own life if necessary.”
She acted as if she hadn't heard me at all. “You have no idea just how important she is; Lor Mandela will die without her. You have to . . . .” She stopped in the middle of her sentence and stared in shock at the hills behind the lake. And that's when I heard the noise.
It started as a low hum that steadily grew to a thunderous roar. On the horizon, in every direction, a thin line of black started to appear. It was then that I realized what was happening. The army of Brashnell was flowing over the foothills, spilling into Mandela like a gigantic swarm of bees.
Terror gripped every part of me as countless thousands of Warriors and beasts—all adorned in glistening black—moved closer and closer.
Gracielle’s words, “DO NOT let anything happen to Audril,” echoed over again and again in my head.
I felt like my soul and body had somehow separated, as I picked Audril up with one hand, grabbed Gracielle by the arm with the other, and pulled her with me toward the palace.
Gracielle was yelling back at Tur Helene to get to the plaza and rally the troops.
I could tell that she was only hearing part of what the ator was yelling at her, but she understood enough to run toward town.
As the great army grew nearer, the thunder was punctuated by the distinct sounds of hoof beats and clanging armor.
Gracielle spun around and waved her arm. A huge crack opened up in the ground in front of us, separating us, at least momentarily, from the oncoming horde. I looked back to the town, and saw hundreds of our own soldiers running at full-speed toward the palace.
I grabbed Gracielle's arm again, and pulled her across the courtyard. I had the feeling that had I not been there, she would have stayed and tried to take on Darian's Army all by herself.
The moment we reached the stone steps, she began to scream out for Atoc Jonathan. We ran through the large double doors, into the grand marble foyer. The atoc was nowhere to be seen.
Gracielle pulled me toward a hallway that led to the kitchens and the servant’s quarters. I was still holding Audril, who was crying and obviously very frightened. Gracielle was frantically trying to find the atoc. She kept shouting his name, but there was no reply.
As we moved down the long hall, I saw a man at the other end of it, running toward us. He was in full battle armor and a cloak with a hood so we couldn’t tell who he was— or at least, I couldn’t.
Gracielle let go of me and flew down the hallway as though she had wings on her feet. “Jonathan!” she shouted.
When she reached him, the atoc embraced her quickly and motioned back toward the kitchens. He quickly pushed the three of us behind a large cupboard and told us to stay put.
At that moment, I realized that the battle had not only reached the palace, it was in full-force all around us. Outside of our kitchen, soldiers were killing each other with swords, vystorans, spike darts and axes. Others—servants and soldiers alike—were being slaughtered as they tried to escape.
“Kahlie,” Gracielle’s whisper startled me. “Inside that closet behind us there is a door. It’s in the floor, under the shelves that line the back wall. It leads to tunnels that run under ground. The tunnel on the left will take you to the Anaria. Get Audril and GO! Jonathan and I will be right behind you!”
“But, Ator,” I protested, “YOU and your family must get to safety!” You're the last Borlocs! I can create a diversion so that you and Audril won’t be seen, and so the atoc can break free as well. I would never forgive myself if I left and anything happened to one of you!”
I’d no sooner finished speaking when at least a dozen Black Warriors burst in from a door at the back of the kitchen.
“KAHLIE, GO NOW!” Gracielle was pushing me toward the closet.
Although the atoc was extremely outnumbered, he was battling ferociously. He was taking down Brashnell warriors as quickly as they were coming at him.
More Black Warriors ran in through another back door directly behind us.
We were no longer hidden. In addition, all of our escape routes—including the one in the closet—were cut off.
Gracielle's eyes glowed bright blue and three of the Brashnell soldiers fell screaming to the ground.
Atoc Jonathan picked up a knife from one of the tables, and flung it at one of the Black Warriors near us, hitting him squarely in the back of the neck. He fell to the ground, and at that moment I knew what I needed to do.
I lunged toward the fallen warrior and grabbed his sword. I don’t recall ever handling a sword in my past, but I wielded it as if I’d been dueling all of my life. Nothing had ever come so naturally to me.
One by one, I defeated the Black Warriors.
As I turned to face another attacker, I realized that one of them had made their way to where Gracielle and Audril were.
Gracielle was trying to shove Audril into the closet, as still another of Darian's soldiers was charging toward them. Gracielle turned to face them, when another one appeared behind her.
I ran for him as fast as I could, but it was too late. He raised his sword in the air, and thrust it forcefully into Gracielle’s back, and she fell, lifeless, to the ground.
Jonathan screamed and charged at the smiling warrior as I stood motionless; too shocked to do anything.
The Brashnellan soldier looked at Jonathan and then at Audril, who'd run crying into a corner.
A look of panic swept over the atoc’s face as he realized that his daughter had become the new target of this evil warrior.
