The Heart of Two Worlds (20 page)

A
BAKUM SUDDENLY JUMPED UP, LOOKING WORRIED.
Everyone followed his gaze to see a group of people rapidly approaching in Edefia’s steel-grey sky. Some were Vertiflying, others were clinging to what looked like flying boards, as if swimming through the air. Pavel went over to Oksa and protectively put his arms around her, while the Runaways gathered around them, flanked by the Gargantuhens, who had puffed out their necks and were sheltering the other creatures under their massive wings. As for the Felons, they clustered behind Orthon, who was impatiently scrutinizing the horizon.

“The welcoming committee didn’t lose any time,” remarked Abakum, taking out his Granok-Shooter.

Everyone followed suit, including Oksa.

“That’s all we need!” she couldn’t help saying.

“Don’t worry, Lil’ Gracious,” whispered Tugdual. “No one is going to hurt you.”

Oksa realized she was showing her fear.

“Not me,” she added. “But they could hurt the rest of you.”

“Do you really think we’d let them?” asked Tugdual, his eyes fixed on the men who were now circling a hundred feet above them like vultures.

Beside her, Pavel stiffened. Oksa could almost feel the tension coming off him. He was burning up as the fire from the Ink Dragon spread
through his body in red-hot waves—it wouldn’t be long before he unleashed it.

“Pavel,” murmured Abakum, putting his hand on Pavel’s shoulder. “It’s too soon, your dragon should remain a secret. We may need it as a last resort.”

“That’s all very well!” growled Pavel. “But we’re in such danger…”

“Lunatrix,” called Oksa quietly, without taking her eyes off the flying men.

“Yes, my Gracious?”

“Please help my father.”

Immediately the Lunatrix took hold of Pavel’s hand and concentrated. His mysterious power allied to that of the Fairyman rapidly had the desired effect: it cooled Pavel’s blood, dousing the fire raging inside him and releasing him from the fever that was preventing him from thinking clearly. The fliers were still circling above their heads, forming a funnel whose mouth was gradually nearing the ground. The leader of this intricately choreographed arrival finally landed on top of the dune, followed by around thirty men and women. They were all wearing the clothes that Oksa had seen when Dragomira had projected images of the Great Chaos on the Camereye: short baggy trousers, laced ankle boots, supple leather armour and helmet. They stared at the newcomers from the summit of the sand dune with daunting severity, before advancing together, kicking up small clouds of dust. Abakum and the oldest Runaways took a few steps back, recognizing the man at the head of the group, while Orthon stood straighter, his face glowing with renewed ferocity.

With a wave of his hand, the leader silently gave the order to surround the two clans. He examined the Runaways and their creatures one by one, then the Felons, looking amazed and exultant. When his gaze rested on Oksa, she couldn’t help shivering.

She was in no doubt that this was Ocious, the terrible Werewall. Despite his grand old age—everyone knew he was well over a hundred—he didn’t look like an old man. He radiated a greater sense of power and
authority than the most intimidating members of his entourage. His perfectly shaped bald head enhanced a face that barely showed his years. He gazed at the Young Gracious for a few seconds in a silence thick enough to cut with a knife. His eyes were such a deep black that Oksa felt she could drown in them. His thin lips curved in a slight smile, furrowing his face with deep lines that disappeared into his short grey beard. Then he continued his inspection, before stopping at Orthon. He stepped forward resolutely holding out his arms. Orthon stood his ground, letting his father come to him.

“My son,” said Ocious, putting both hands on Orthon’s shoulders and scrutinizing him with intense curiosity. “I thought it was you…”

Everyone was wondering the same thing—what was Orthon thinking at that precise moment? Was he moved? Happy? Relieved? His father was alive… Even though this could complicate the Runaways’ crucial mission, everything rested on the outcome of this reunion between despised father and scorned son.

Orthon was remarkably composed. His pale, slightly iridescent face remained impassive. Only his chest, which was rising and falling faster than normal, gave him away.

“Yes, Father, it’s me,” he finally said, in perfectly modulated tones. “And, as you can see, I haven’t come empty-handed!” he added, glancing over at Oksa.

“What?” immediately hissed Oksa indignantly. “Don’t imply you were the one who brought us here. That’s total rot!”

Ocious turned to her, puzzled by these low words, which he hadn’t quite heard.

“Oksa! Be quiet!” hissed her father.

“But Orthon’s lying, Dad!”

“Listen to your father, Oksa,” broke in Naftali quietly. “It’s in our interest for this reunion to go as well as possible.”

Oksa clenched her fists, furious at losing her temper and frustrated that she couldn’t expose such a flagrant lie.

“So this is our New Gracious, is it?” continued Ocious, with a predatory smile.

“Yes, nodded Orthon with barely concealed satisfaction. “My mother Malorane’s great-granddaughter, and Dragomira’s granddaughter, in person! I scoured the world to find her and bring her back to Edefia.”

“And it took you so many years to do it?” said Ocious.

Everyone watching this scene was dumbfounded by this unexpected taunt. Orthon blanched. His steely eyes darkened. Then he raised his head, shrugging off the implied insult. Impressed by his son’s self-control, Ocious tilted his head.

“You’ve been away a long time,” he said. “You’ve been much in my thoughts.”

“I don’t doubt it,” replied Orthon, his hard eyes meeting those of his father.

Orthon’s allies looked at each other in concern. Not even his most battle-hardened, loyal followers dared to move. Ocious inspected the group inquisitively and greeted those he recognized.

“Lukas… Agafon… I’ve always known I could count on you. Fifty-seven years, and you’re still on our side.”

“Our families have always been devoted to yours, Ocious,” replied Agafon. “In Edefia and on the Outside.”

“Ah, family!” crowed Ocious, putting his arm round Orthon, who willingly let him do so. “Is anything more reliable? Or stronger?”

“That’s what I kept telling my dear sister and… our extended family for so many long and pointless years,” said Orthon.

The elderly ruler reacted sharply to this statement.

“Is Reminiscens with you then?”

“Not with us, Father. With them.”

Orthon waved dismissively at the Runaways. Reminiscens left Abakum’s protection to stand in plain sight of the man who was her father. Ocious was clearly delighted, which seemed to upset Orthon, who frowned in annoyance as Ocious walked over to his daughter.

“Reminiscens!” he exclaimed.

“Stay right there!” replied the elderly woman frostily. “I forbid you to come anywhere near me.”

Ocious paused, surprised and vaguely amused, then said:

“I still recognize you, despite all these years. Your hair may have turned white and your face may be lined, but you still look the same. I can see you’re determined to make the wrong choice now, just as you did then. Isn’t your gallant protector—sorry, your half-brother—with you?”

“Leomido passed away,” retorted Reminiscens, tense with icy rage, “because of you! And, if you want to know, Dragomira’s gone too.”

Ocious looked shaken, as if an earthquake had occurred deep within him, wreaking havoc inside, but barely showing on the surface. His fierce eyes darkened with sorrow and regret, but he soon recovered.

“So you’re your own brother’s widow. How ironic,” he said caustically to Reminiscens with his head held high.

“Leave her alone!” broke in Abakum, standing between them. “You also ought to know that she’s been braver than your son Orthon ever was.”

“Well, well,” replied Ocious. “Abakum—or should I say the Eternal-Backstage-Lackey?”

“How dare you!” shouted Oksa, her cheeks crimson.

Ocious gazed at her inquisitively.

“Our New Gracious has a lot to say for herself, doesn’t she?”

“I’m not
your
New Gracious!”

“Oh, but you are!” replied Ocious. “You’re completely in my power, girlie.”

At these words the Felons closed round the Runaways.

“Don’t do anything,” murmured Abakum to his friends. “Fighting won’t do any good and will just put us in danger.”

“Abakum!” objected Oksa, panic-stricken.

“We can achieve more from inside.”

“The maggot in the fruit, Lil’ Gracious,” added Tugdual, squeezing her hand.

Curbing her blood-chilling terror with difficulty, Oksa walked forward, accompanied by the Runaways and creatures. Ocious smiled evilly at her.

“Welcome to Edefia, my Gracious!”

T
HE
R
UNAWAYS
V
ERTIFLEW CAUTIOUSLY THROUGH
Edefia’s murky sky, escorted by a steadfast band of reunited Felons. The creatures and Sylvabuls who couldn’t fly were perched on the back of the Gargantuhens, which were clucking shrilly as they beat their wings at a slow, steady pace. A regal Ocious led the way, accompanied by his son and grandsons.

“He’s worse than Orthon,” remarked Oksa, looking at the patriarch of the Felons.

“He certainly has a flair for killer put-downs,” nodded Tugdual, Vertiflying beside her.

“Don’t forget he’s the one behind this whole mess,” said Pavel.

“Orthon hasn’t made his move yet,” continued Tugdual. “And he’s holding all the cards. It could be dangerous.”

“Very dangerous.”

Oksa turned away from Ocious in his leather armour to contemplate the countryside. Edefia… the lost land which had now been found. Their long-hoped-for return. Edefia was in a bad way. Bathed in a metallic light, every living thing, even the smallest blade of grass, was blanketed in a layer of dust. The atmosphere had a twilight quality and everything seemed to be in its death throes, beyond rescue. Skeletons of trees brandished dead branches like wizened claws clutching at the sky. One of these trees stood so tall in its lost magnificence that it dwarfed all the others.

“The Majestic,” said Brune, very upset. “What’s happened to our world?”

The Majestic? Oksa remembered the images Dragomira had shown her on the Camereye: the lush forest surrounding the cool, clear waters of Lake Saga. The aptly named tree stood a good 300 feet higher than the crests of other trees. But this desert of dust and dead plants, extending as far as the eye could see, bore no similarity to what she’d been shown. Only the bright shifting shimmer on the horizon, which looked like the Northern Lights seeping into this strange world, gave her cause to hope that some life had been preserved. Other than that, the grey, heavy sky seemed moribund. Fascinated by the sights spread out before her, Oksa rummaged in her rucksack for her sunglasses to shield her eyes from the steely glare and a few of her flying companions followed suit. Her strained muscles were protesting and her body was tense—she’d never Vertiflown for as long as this, or as… openly. Even though this limited amount of freedom was controlled strictly by the Felons, it still felt like freedom. In Edefia, she could be herself. She would
have
to be herself. She stretched her arms in an attempt to ease her aching limbs, and groaned.

“Would you like to join Abakum on the Gargantuhen?” asked Pavel in concern.

She shook her head. The constant physical discomfort was proving less of a problem than her agitated state of mind. Oksa was experiencing all kinds of conflicted feelings and had never felt worse than she did now, even during the toughest times of her life. There were so many things upsetting her that she felt paralysed emotionally, which was the only thing actually stopping her from falling apart. She couldn’t do anything to make herself feel better in the short term, and her survival instinct was telling her to save her strength to deal with the immediate future. She had to be on her guard and as alert as possible if she was going to get the better of an evil despot like Ocious and his gang. There would be time enough later to tend to her wounds.

The russet Gargantuhen ferrying the creatures and Abakum was lagging behind so badly that its pace could have been described as lethargic in the extreme. However, although the giant hen was beating its wings slowly, its brain was working overtime. Erring on the side of caution, Dragomira’s Lunatrix acted as a mouthpiece for the bird’s plan.

“The russet Gargantuhen is making the proposal of a tactic of escapement,” the Lunatrix murmured quietly in Abakum’s ear, watched suspiciously by one of the Felon escorts. “Its muscular energy and its unsuspected speed may help the Fairyman dissociate himself from the dominion of the jailers.”

Abakum’s expressionless face revealed nothing of his excitement at this opportunity. The Squoracles placidly flying beside their enormous counterpart fluttered closer. One of them landed on Abakum’s shoulder and informed him in a whisper:

“The Young Gracious’s Tumble-Bawler has just told us that a group of Sylvabuls has managed to keep part of Leafhold, in the Green Mantle territory, from becoming a desert. The town, thirty-four miles from here, has a population of 348 people and the temperature is cooler than in this desert—ten degrees centigrade with an eighty per cent rate of humidity—which is terribly severe for Edefia and sensitive creatures like us. That’s why we’re opposed to this plan!”

“Your altruism does you credit!” scoffed Dragomira’s Getorix.

“Do you think so?” innocently wondered one of the Incompetents.

“Pah!” spluttered the Squoracle. “Anyway, no one has ever shown
any
consideration for our species. We’re going to die and no one could care less.”

“That’s true,” sighed the Getorix.

“Are you dying?” asked the Incompetent. “That’s terrible…”

Abakum raised his hand to interrupt this pointless sparring, and the creatures sulkily fell silent.

“The Squoracle is committing the oversight of one detail weighted with importance,” continued the Lunatrix. “Like all people in Edefia, the final inhabitants of Leafhold are experiencing the constraint of the dominion overflowing with severity exerted by the Felon Werewalls. But resistance swells their heart. Since the Ageless Ones have procured the information that the Fairyman and the New Gracious is here, their hope has encountered exponential growth. They are preparing to provide welcome and rebellious action! If your wish encounters the choice of schism from this forced expedition, the russet Gargantuhen provides assurance that the breakaway will be crowned with success. It has the physical ability and you have the power to ensure protection. That belief may be firmly rooted in your consciousness.”

Abakum was clearly torn. He gazed at the Runaways—his dear friends and their descendants—then at the horizon where he could just make out an oasis of greenery in the grey desert. Not far from the Gargantuhen, the slender figure of Reminiscens was Vertiflying ahead. She had to be exhausted… He loved her so much… He looked from Reminiscens to Oksa, who was flanked by her father and Tugdual. All he could see was her bowed back and streaming chestnut hair. Oksa was heading straight for an uncertain destiny. The Lunatrix cleared his throat: he needed an answer. Ahead, beyond the hills, Thousandeye City appeared. The capital of Edefia, shrouded in purple mist, was no longer just a dream.

“I have no doubts about our Gargantuhen’s ability,” whispered Abakum, barely opening his mouth. “Just qualms about abandoning the other Runaways and our Young Gracious. I know I could achieve more from outside than under Ocious’s thumb, but I can’t leave them, Lunatrix. I just can’t.”