Lor Mandela - Destruction from Twins (21 page)

“Oh, that's a good boy,” Darian smirked, and
then turned and retreated into the warmth of the indoors. “Cursed
animal,” he hissed under his breath as he walked back inside.

His thoughts instantly returned to what he'd
overheard Ultara say the morning before. He went to the desk,
picked up a long black stick and spoke into the end of it. “Omer,
get in here!” he insisted.

A young, serious looking Trysta man entered
the room almost immediately. “Yes, sir?” Omer brushed a stray
strand of straight black hair away from his narrow green eyes. “How
may I be of service, Milord?”

Darian couldn't help but smile smugly at the
respect and loyalty being shown him. “Omer, who is Glaron?” he
asked.

“Glaron?” Omer smirked. “You mean Ultara's
little pet? He is her chief advisor . . . the eldest son of
Malynda.”

“I want him followed. Ultara has been
sending him to meet with the ator, and I want to know why,” Darian
insisted.

“Of course, Milord, I shall see to it
myself.” Omer was only too delighted to be involved in any plot
against Ultara.

“Good.” Darian paced back and forth for a
minute and then quizzed, “He and Ultara . . . they're close then?”
The fires in his eyes blazed intensely.

Omer sensed the jealousy in Darian's voice.
He smiled slyly and played along, “Lovers . . . or so I've
heard.”

Darian's jaw set and a thick vein in his
forehead became more prominent. “I see,” he fumed. “In that case,
Omer, learn what you can and when you have all that you think we
can use, feel free to kill him.” He turned away from Omer,
struggling to control his rage. “That is all, General.”

“Yes, sir! It will be my pleasure.” Omer
bowed and backed out of the room.

He immediately set off for his home to
gather a few necessities; a traveling cloak to keep him warm and
somewhat hidden, some food in case he was away for an extended
period, and his weapon of choice, a vystoran sleeve—a simple silver
tube loaded with small blood red disks called vystorans, which were
virtually harmless, until they were shot from the sleeve. With a
forceful impact, a vystoran would rupture, oozing a runny, slime
green substance. The substance would slowly and painfully freeze
the internal organs of the victim who had been shot, starting with
the heart—regardless of where on the body they'd been hit. Omer
checked the vystoran supply in the sleeve, packed it away into a
simple black duffel bag, and left quickly for Koria in search of
Glaron.

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.”

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.