Lor Mandela - Destruction from Twins, page 33
“So this is what that stupid book is all about.” Silently, he read through the glimmering lines. “Ahhh . . . so then she is the Child of Balance,” he mumbled. “The Child of Balance can only restore . . . restore,” he breathed. “Restore the dying planet? Make it . . . new.” He glanced at the flourishing, pristine courtyard once more. “Elahk A Ber Lor Mandela . . . Elahk A . . . Create a new . . . ?”
He didn’t finish his thought. He spun around and, without hesitation, hurried back into the portal. The instant he popped out of it, he marched across the almost dead courtyard and back into the room where his father’s body still lay sprawled on the floor.
As if on cue, Grayden and Omer burst in through the glass doors.
“Omer,” Ryannon barked, “bring me Ator Gracielle’s book . . . now!”
“Yes, sir,” Omer replied, as he sped obediently from the room.
“Grayden, why do you think we conquered Mandela City and overthrew this palace so easily?”
“Your weapons were . . . .”
Ryannon didn’t let Grayden finish his sentence. “It had nothing to do with my weapons,” he snapped. “You were with me at the battle! You saw what happened!”
“You mean that thing the atoh did?” Grayden guessed. “She and that servant girl? You think some voodoo chant decided the outcome of a great battle?” He looked at Ryannon like he was insane. “I thought you were different from your father . . . that you had a brain in your head.”
Just then, Omer burst back into the room. He ran to Ryannon and handed him Gracielle’s little brown book.
“Come with me,” Ryannon commanded, ripping the book out of Omer’s hand and glaring angrily at Grayden.
He led them into the courtyard and toward the portal. “My father thought he needed the Child of Balance to restore this world,” he explained, “but she’s already done it!” He stopped and pointed to the sliver of light at the back of the hedge.
“A Squanki portal?” Grayden questioned. “Where does it lead?”
Ryannon glanced from Grayden to Omer. “It leads, gentlemen . . . to Mandela City . . . to the palace.”
“What?” Omer sputtered. “But we’re standing at Mandela Palace. Why would the Squanki need a portal to take them from the palace to . . . the palace?”
Ryannon pointed at a page in the brown leather book in his hand. “It’s right here,” he answered. “Elahk A Ber Lor Mandela. The ator wrote it right here.” Grayden and Omer looked at the words scribbled to the side of the line from the Advantiere. ‘Elahk / Create –Ber /new - create a new.’
“Create a new Lor Mandela?” Grayden asked skeptically. “What are you suggesting?”
A sly smile spread across Ryannon’s lips. “I am not suggesting anything, General. I have proof.” He thrust his hand out toward the portal and explained. “Beyond this portal is another Lor Mandela . . . not a dead and decaying one like this,” He sliced forcefully at a dried up shrub near his side. “It’s a living, breathing, thriving, and restored Lor Mandela.”
Grayden eyed Ryannon with a look full of doubt.
“So what do we do?” Omer asked.
“We do what my father failed to do,” Ryannon instructed. “You two go through the portal and find me that girl! She’s been hiding it from me, but I know the truth! She is the atoh. Her mother’s companion servant gave that away when I put what she thought was an inhibitor on the atoc. She knew then that he was Jonathan, and responded exactly how I wanted her to!”
Grayden glanced at Omer as Ryannon continued. “Wait for me at this new Mandela Palace. Make sure that portal stays open and don’t let anyone into that room! I’ll bring the troops through in the morning, and we will take what should have been ours in the first place.”
“But why do we need that palace?” Omer questioned. “We already have this one.”
“Let me speak plainly,” Ryannon sneered, “then maybe your infinitesimal mind will be able to understand.
“This world has been dying, slowly and surely, for almost six years. I can only assume that it won’t stop. Do you know what happens to the inhabitants of a dead planet?” He smacked Omer in a demeaning fashion upside the head. “They die, you fool!”
He glared at Omer and then at Grayden. “Audril created a new Lor Mandela with that ‘voodoo chant’, General. The Borlocs tricked us . . . fooled us into believing that we’d won the battle, but in reality, they sentenced us to slow, desolate death! The atoh has powers . . . powers given to her by Lor Mandela itself . . . powers that I need! I want her brought to me alive!” He pointed authoritatively toward the portal once more. “Now get in there and find her! Our battalions will join you in the morning, and,” he continued in an eerily calm voice, “if you happen to find the Squanki Tabbit . . . I would like her head for my wall!”
Grayden and Omer nodded in acknowledgement and then stepped into the portal and vanished.
Ryannon turned on his heels, strutted back across the courtyard and disappeared inside.
The portal shrunk back to a small glint of pale blue. Right next to it, a large shrub, tattered by Ryannon’s recent assaults, shuddered in a faint breeze that wafted through the courtyard. The shrub began to ripple and sway as a figure gradually materialized from its shadows.
“Captoor de atoha, you tink? Fooleesh,” Lortu breathed, “Zo den, de Vritessa Ooltara ees once again maye best offer.”
CHAPTER XXXVIII
HOLDEN (OF THE TRYSTAS?)
“Doot deebee scloot bippa boo googly doot.” Tabbit attempted to cheer herself up by singing a song as she slowly sauntered up to the doors at Mandela Palace. “Doot deebee scloot deedle dee foom.” Unfortunately, the song wasn’t helping much. She wished there was a way she could just snap her little brown fingers and make Atoc Jonathan appear before her. “Thens atoh girl bees happy again,” she breathed as she sent a short blast of wind from her fingertips toward the doors. They crept open with a pathetic creeeaaak.
She sulked her way up the steps and was almost to the top, when she noticed a big, fat greelan bug slithering along a leaf on one of the plants that lined the stairs. She stopped for a moment, watching it crawl around and around.
With a gurgling growl, her bulgy, bubble-like tummy rumbled loudly. “Ohhh,” she moaned, placing her tiny hand on her stomach.
The bug started to scoot down the leaf toward the stem, when Tabbit—realizing that if she didn’t act now, the opportunity would be gone—dove head first into the bush and disappeared. She landed on the ground inside the plant, clutching the wiggly bug in one hand and smiling triumphantly. She jiggled her wrist up and down a few times, raised her hand above her head, and dropped the bug right into her open mouth. “Mmmmm!” she sighed, as she swallowed the plump insect whole.
“. . . And where, exactly does he expect us to look?”
A man’s angry voice suddenly interrupted Tabbit’s squirmy afternoon snack.
“This is plain stupidity!”
Tabbit peered out through the leaves, trying to make out who was there.
“Whether you like it or not, Omer,” another man responded, “Ryannon’s in charge now. We do what he says, unless of course, you want to go back to Koria, which is exactly where he’ll send you if you cross him.”
Tabbit recognized the men as the Brashnellan generals who had tried to capture Maggie earlier. She shrunk back and almost completely disappeared into the shadows of the shrub that surrounded her. Her big, bulgy, now-green eyes blinked across a clump of leaves.
Omer stopped on the steps and glared at Grayden. “Fine,” he sneered, “let’s just go find his precious atoh for him! The sooner we get this nonsense out of the way, the sooner we can attack this place and get it over with!” He stormed down the remainder of the stairs, followed by a snickering Grayden.
“We can attack this place and get it over with,” Tabbit echoed quietly, “Oooo! Its is the times. Its is the times now!” She slipped silently out of the bush and kept an eye on the two generals until they vanished around the end of the palace. “Its is the times,” she repeated. “The times to bring master Glarons backs from the dead!”
She tiptoed down the steps and then darted in a zigzag across the field between the palace and town. She moved very quickly; the long grasses, combined with her demure stature, made her nearly undetectable. She reached Mandela City, weaved through the gardens surrounding the pearly houses and scampered up and down a few of the streets. In a relatively short amount of time she arrived at the edge of the Sybran Forest.
The stately trees at its edge swished gracefully back and forth in the soft breeze. Tabbit ducked under the undulating branches and slid into the dark forest.
As she scurried along, she made a bizarre clicking noise with her tongue—a noise designed to imitate the mating clicks of a rynolt, the only creature Shadow Dwellers went to great lengths to avoid. She didn’t want to be seen by anyone, but especially not by the Shadow Dwellers.
She moved deep into the forest, and was almost to its center, when she stopped. Just off to her left was a small cave almost completely camouflaged by jagged rocks and the shadows of the forest. She backed cautiously toward it, surveying the area with diligence, and making very certain that she hadn’t been seen. Once she was confident that she was alone, she took a deep breath, and bounded into the cave.
There, glowing towards the back of it, a thin shard of blue light sparkled in the darkness. Tabbit took another quick glance around, and then leapt into the light and disappeared into the portal.
A moment later she reappeared just outside of Pet Land in the Glenhill Galleria. Still standing there were the blonde field reporter and Brody—the freckle-faced Pet Land employee.
Upon seeing Tabbit come through the wall, Brody jumped behind the reporter and shrieked, “There it is! I told you! There it is!”
The reporter let out a shocked squeal as Tabbit jumped up onto her perfectly styled blonde head and started yelling in a shrill, squeaky voice, “Glarons! Master Glarons of the Trystas!”
She sprang off of the startled woman’s head and sprinted down the mall. “Master Glarons! Master Glarons,” she squealed as she darted from store to store, running in, yelling for Glaron, and then running back out again. Occasionally, she would jump onto the head of an unsuspecting shopper to improve her vantage point. Before long, four security guards and several curious bystanders, all with camera phones in hand, were chasing her throughout the mall.
Outside, Bridgette and Holden hid behind the news van, fervently thanking the tech for throwing the police off their trail. The technician was nodding and waving them off, urging them to get themselves out of there, when all of a sudden, he stopped short. One of the monitors inside the van, which up to this point had been dark, had unexpectedly come to life.
“Are we on?” The blonde reporter, whose normally perfect coif was, at the moment, somewhat disheveled, appeared on the screen. “Michael, I am reporting from the Glenhill Galleria where a strange little creature seems to be running amok. We have reason to believe that this unusual child . . . or animal . . . or whatever it is, is responsible for thwarting the attempted robbery at Pet Land earlier today.”
Slowly, Bridgette and Holden slid around to the side of the van where they could see the monitor.
The reporter continued, “Mall security is in pursuit, and management is asking shoppers to leave the mall.”
Just then, a wide-eyed, wild-haired Tabbit jumped out of nowhere, landing once again atop the reporter’s head, and screamed psychotically into the camera, “Glarons of the Trystas! Glarons of the Trystas! Where is you?”
The reporter yelped and the camera man practically dropped the camera.
“What was that?” the tech gasped.
Bridgette stared at the small monitor, gaping.
“I think we’d better get back inside,” Holden calmly stated.
Bridgette started to nod, but then realized that Holden was already dashing for the mall doors. “W . . . wait!” she yelled and took off after him. She caught up to him just before he ripped the mall doors open. “What’s going on?” she panted.
“I dunno,” he replied. “Tabbit’d never risk being seen unless there’s an emergency!” He sprinted into the mall and ran over to the reporter, who was sitting on the ground hyperventilating. “It jumped on me . . . again . . . why . . . why? Why . . . why me?” she whimpered mournfully.
“She isn’t dangerous,” Holden scolded as he helped her to her feet. “Where’d she go?”
The burly camera man, who had been awkwardly trying to calm the reporter down, glared at Holden, and barked, “Beat it, punk! Who do you think you are?”
Bridgette ran up behind Holden and put her hand on his shoulder. He looked back at her, and then at the camera man, “Well,” he answered hesitantly, “My name is Glaron.”
Bridgette’s mouth dropped open.
“Glaron of the Trystas.”
CHAPTER XXXIX
MALL MADNESS
A drizzling rain had started to fall as Dallin and Maggie skirted the east shore of Mystad Lake on their way back from visiting Dr. Slade. The lake’s slate blue water rippled and danced as the warm droplets plopped against it.
“We should hurry,” Dallin urged, “These storms . . . they move in kinda quick sometimes.”
Maggie nodded her head but in no way accelerated her pace.
Dallin didn’t push the issue. He didn’t feel much like running himself.
Within a few moments, the slow sprinkling drizzles gave way to a substantial downpour. Maggie stopped walking and just let the rain drive down on her. She felt numb. She didn’t care about the rain; she didn’t care about Lor Mandela; she didn’t care about Dallin, or the lake, or Darian’s death or Ryannon. She wanted the rain to rinse it all away—to wash things back to the way they were before—she and her dad, quietly and inconspicuously living in Glenhill, Iowa. She longed for her dull life—for the uneventful, blasé simplicity of being nothing more than an ordinary teenager from a small Midwest town.
A bright flash lit up the afternoon sky followed by the rolling boom of thunder. Dallin gently took her hand and insisted, “We need to get inside. You’ll make yourself sick.”
It didn’t matter if she did get sick; she didn’t care if she died. She stared blankly at Dallin as he guided her along toward Mandela Palace.
They were thoroughly soaked when they reached the stone steps.
“I wanna go home,” Maggie sighed. “I just want to get out of here.”
Dallin tried to comfort her, but knew that no words would help. He felt pretty miserable himself. “I’m sorry. I wish there was somethin’ I could do,” he tried. “Kahlie and your dad were my best friends. I . . . .” He stopped short, knowing that he had just said exactly the wrong thing. “I . . . uh, what I meant to . . . um,” he back-pedaled, wishing he could somehow erase his words.
“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?” Maggie exploded. “I am not your stupid atoh! Why don’t any of you listen! I’ve had it with this! I’ve had it with Lor Mandela and I’ve had it with you!” She turned on her heels and raced back down the side of the lake, wanting nothing more than to get out of Dallin’s sight. In the distance were some tall evergreen trees; without a backward glance, she took off in a full run towards them.
The rain poured down on her, stinging her face and arms and hands as she ran, but camouflaging the proliferation of tears spilling down her cheeks.
After a minute or two, she reached the trees and slowed down a bit. She checked behind her to see if Dallin had pursued, but to her relief, he hadn’t.
She stomped angrily further into the trees. “Get me out of here,” she yelled at the cloudy sky.
She clenched both fists and pounded them hard against the trunk of a nearby tree. The rough bark scraped her hands, but she didn’t care. She hit it again…and again…and again—pummeling it with all of her strength—sobbing bitterly, until the pain in her hands was too much to bear. The sight of her red, bleeding hands did nothing but make her even angrier. She kicked at the unaffected tree trunk, and stormed off deeper into the forest.
She was just beginning to maneuver her way around a large pine, when there was a rapid rustling, and Omer suddenly sprang out from behind it.
She opened her mouth to scream, but he grabbed her and slapped his hand over her mouth so fast that she wasn’t able to get a sound out. Just then, Grayden also appeared from behind the tree.
Maggie kicked and squirmed, trying to escape, but Omer was too strong to wrestle away from. She shook her head from side to side which gave her enough of a change in the position of Omer’s hand that she was able to open her mouth and bite down—hard.
“Ghandentel!” Omer bellowed. He turned away from her, but then, with his entire body, swung back around and slapped Maggie forcefully across the face, knocking her to the ground.
Her cheek burned and throbbed as amazing pressure built up behind it. It felt like it was going to explode. She hardly had enough time to cry out before Omer yanked her up from the ground by the arm and pinned her against a nearby tree.
“Not a sound,” he growled, “or you’ll be sorry.”
He ran the back of his hand down her throbbing cheek and looked at her like she was an alluring prize he’d just won.
“Mmmmm! Not bad,” he oozed. “Maybe I should teach you some manners.”
He pushed his weight against her and moved his mouth toward hers.
Maggie cringed and turned her head in disgust.
Grayden stood behind Omer and chuckled.
Omer grabbed her face and turned it back toward him. “Come on, love . . . why don’t the three of us have some . . . .”
“Get away from her!” Suddenly, Dallin burst onto the grove. “Get your filthy hands . . . .” He rushed toward Omer, but all at once stopped and let out a painful gasp.
Omer smirked at Maggie. He knew exactly what had just happened. He grinned and stepped to one side to give her a better look.
