Lor Mandela - Destruction from Twins (44 page)

As he turned away he saw it out of the
corner of his eye—a small glint of pale blue, flickering in the
dark behind where the bushes had been.

“Of course,” he breathed, “a Squanki.”

He glanced around to ensure that he was
alone and then touched his foot to the light. The portal expanded
and his foot disappeared into it. A devious smile spread across his
face as he slid the rest of the way into the portal, and was
immediately engulfed in light. He moved rapidly down a long,
brightly flashing corridor, but then suddenly jolted to a stop, and
the radiant flashes around him faded.

“We need to get her to a doctor.” Dallin’s
voice was the first Ryannon heard as he came out of the light.

He squinted and blinked to force his eyes to
adjust, fully aware that as long as he wasn’t seeing well he was at
a disadvantage.

As his eyes cleared the forms of Dallin,
Tabbit and Maggie rippled into focus. None of them were facing him
at the moment so he seized the opportunity to duck behind a large
pillar next to him.

“Need to get her to a doctor,” Tabbit
repeated mournfully, “Doctor Slades is best. Tabbits takes her
rights away.”

Dallin, whose arms were still around a
softly sobbing Maggie, gently guided her out the door, followed
closely behind by Tabbit.

Ryannon slid from behind the pillar with
caution and looked around the room in which he was standing. It was
large and lined on one side with a wall of windows. He started
toward the door, but then stopped short and spun back around. “Wait
a minute,” he muttered as he realized that the room he was in was
identical to the one he’d left only a few moments ago. He turned
back toward the windows. Just outside, a thriving, green hedge
sprawled across the back of a stunning marble courtyard.

“Mandela Palace?” he whispered, “how?” He
started toward the window wall but then paused as he noticed yet
another surprise. There, on one of the walls of the room, tiny
sparks of red light flickered across the glittery words etched in
its surface. Ryannon approached the wall and ran his hand over the
glowing Advantiere.

“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.”

“
D
oot 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.”