The Three Thorns (19 page)

“What’s his name?” Benjamin asked.

Using its index finger, the giant scraped through the soil and drew massive letters in the ground next to them. Cassius and Trump gathered around the boy to look at what the giant had written.

“Uh…pleased to meet you, Molo.” Benjamin smiled, lifting both hands to shake the creature’s fingertip.

It was near dark when they gathered up their equipment to cross the foggy fields to the Stained Castle. Cassius led the way into the thick fog, while the rock-shelled giant named Molo strolled steadily behind them, looking out for any dangers that lay ahead.

It was dark and wet inside the grimy cell. The dungeon’s executioners appeared no bigger than four feet tall amidst the gloom. Each pint-sized monster gawked at the prisoner through their red beady eyes and sniffed his human scent using the long, flopping trunks on their tiny faces. Bristly hairs covered their faces, reminding Jennings of the spikes on a porcupine.

One grotesque executioner sneakily shifted closer toward the old man before poking him with a small pole to get a lively reaction.

“Stop, you little vermin!” Jennings shouted.

A voice came out of the dark. “Enough!”

Immediately the group of executioners scurried off. Jennings started sobbing as a black silk handkerchief floated down upon his knees.

Jennings picked up the beautiful crafted silk material and ran his scarred fingers along its smooth texture. It was the nicest thing he’d felt in what seemed a very long time, ever since his fateful experience in the woods of Warwickshire.

“They can be the cruellest of all living creatures, can’t they?” came the patronizing voice from the shadows.

Jennings eventually gained the courage to look up at a well-suited knight walking into the dim yellow moonlight. His gray hair reflecting the moon made him look eerily older in contrast to his youthful complexion. He was richly dressed in the best of boots and had a layer of steel covering his entire left hand to resemble a glove.

Jennings squinted at the knight, confused as to what he was talking about, until he answered Jennings’ query for him.

“Children, I mean,” the knight grinned with a dazzling smile.

He was indeed very handsome and charming. But something in his character reminded Jennings of himself, which made the old man uncomfortable. His piercing black eyes were as cold as Jennings’ but held a burning fury inside them that he kept well hidden.

“Children…those monsters?” Jennings asked in surprise, backing away from the knight in fear for his life.

“May I…?” asked the knight, politely gesturing toward an old wooden stool that lay on its side next to Jennings’s chains.

Without uttering a word, Jennings nodded enthusiastically, all too willing to please the eerie knight. Demonstrating a simple spell of dark magick, the knight dragged the stool across the wet stone floor without lifting a finger.

Jennings gulped. “H-how did you do that?”

The knight smiled with a different grin, a devilish grin, as he trailed the stool back beside Jennings, whose body sagged on the wet concrete floor.

“On second thought, you should have this seat…you need it more than I,” came the knight’s soft reply.

With shaking legs, the frail man managed to stand up, only to slump his bruised body onto the stool.

The knight walked around his prisoner, staring at the hole in the stone ceiling above them.

“I’ve heard one of my trusty assassins would like you as his personal slave.” He laughed gently. “Would you like that? I could have my ogres build you your own personal oubliette.”

“What do you want, young man?” Jennings asked.

“Young man? I like that Jennings…I wish that were true.” The knight sighed, kneeling down to stare closely into his prisoner’s old worn black sockets.

“That’s
Mister
Jennings,” Jennings corrected, causing the knight to snigger.

“Titles must be earned in this place, old man.”

“Wait…how do you know my name?” Jennings whispered in horror.

The knight’s laugh shuddered through Jennings’ ringing ears, giving him chills. “Let’s just say…it’s complicated.”

“Who are you? I demand to know,” Jennings cried, losing his patience.

“I speak for the King of Abasin,” the knight said pompously.

“Who runs this place?”

With a sudden smile, the knight folded his arms with glee. “I do,” he said boastfully.

Jennings looked the man up and down in disgust before uttering a long sigh of despair.

“Do you believe in destiny,
Mister
Jennings?” asked the knight.

“Yes, I believe in one’s fate,” replied Jennings.

“I asked if you believed in
destiny,
” sighed the young knight, standing back upright.

“Is there a difference?”

“Vast. You cannot change fate. Purpose, on the other hand, well…” the knight tittered when the lock around Jennings’s bare foot came undone by another simple use of magick.
“You
can
change that.”

“What is this all about?” Jennings pleaded, rubbing his bruised ankle.

“Destiny, Mister Jennings. Three destinies to be exact…each in need of changing. The Children of Abasin are prophesied to overthrow His Majesty and rule this world together,” the knight explained.

“You mean, my runaways?” Jennings gasped in awe.

“Come!” the knight ordered bluntly.

“Where are we going?”

The knight turned his head to give Jennings a glowering look. “Or wait here for Thestor’s nightly back scrub.”

Jennings shuddered at the screams of prisoners echoing from the dungeons as his captor led him out of an enormous underground torture chamber.

Outside the air smelled of burnt charcoal, and dust filled the stale atmosphere. Jennings breathed in deeply to adjust to the cold temperature. Then he caught sight of the ghostly vision before him.

It was a castle, but unlike any castle he had ever seen before. Land encircled it but the castle had no solid foundation beneath it to hold it in place, as it magically hovered in the middle of an everlasting pit. The awkward positioning of this ingenious creation was obviously to protect it from enemy sieges. The castle itself appeared no more than a mere monumental building of rocks, which twisted and changed position continuously. It seemed to be alive.

“Keep moving,” the knight ordered, leading the way along a narrow and dangerous path built on the better half of a bridge. Jennings looked between the cracks in the bridge at a frightening, everlasting pitfall of nothingness that made him feel dizzy. They walked out from the root of Saul’s great castle and travelled to its top in a massive lift that had been built on a steel structure of winding chains and rusted pivots. It was a long ride to the top of the castle. Towering over the landscape several thousand feet above the ground around it was enough to give Jennings a strong wave of vertigo, causing him to sway back and forth before he lost all sense of balance. Jennings leaned over the edge of the unshielded lift when the knight tugged at his tie, saving him from a fatal fall. “Grab onto something if you must,” the knight said coldly, rolling his eyes. The lift cranked into place. The shuddering halt caused Jennings to stumble out onto the floor. The ground felt different. It was smooth in texture; similar to the handkerchief the young knight had given him earlier. Only this wasn’t a handkerchief but a royal carpet. “This way,” the knight instructed, stepping over him.

They were at such great heights that Jennings could touch the very clouds that were now within reach, inches above his head. Rows of statuesque warriors glistened in the dark behind pillars that held half of a marble roof over them. They seemed to be a decorative row of statues until Jennings caught sight of their glowing cat-like eyes peering back at him.

The knight reached the enormous steel gates to Saul’s chamber room. The gates metamorphosed into black smoke as the knight moved through them, disappearing down a tall dark corridor, leaving the old principal to wait behind.

The freshly faced knight entered the circular floor inside Saul’s great throne room. The throne itself was made of pure blue flame. Whatever dark magick this fortress carried, it was certainly of the most powerful kind. On either side of the flamed throne stood an assassin that had been sent to the old world to kill Benjamin, Tommy and Sebastian. “Jodo Kahln,” whispered a voice from the flaming throne.

Stepping through the flaming throne seconds later, the False One greeted the knight. The False One was a beast-like creature. A white velvet shroud with a bronze-plated mask that concealed his face covered his body. He was tall, but only a few inches smaller than his assassins that stood guarding him on each side, and none the less grotesque. “We have a problem, your Highness,” Jodo, who remained kneeling, began.

“Ah yes…the human wart scrubber. He is your problem now, as you are his,” Saul said slowly. His mask started to change to an aggressive expression that matched the face that leered behind it. Saul’s voice soothed Jodo as much as it frightened him. “What shall I do, Sire?” Jodo pleaded to his fierce and powerful ruler.

“It is a very uncommon dilemma you are in with this captive; one that only you can judge, Jodo Kahln. My finest knight of knights,” Saul complimented as he approached the kneeling servant, his mask now a contorted smile. “We have more important matters at hand. The threat to my throne has finally arrived. The children have returned to take it from me, you understand?” Saul spluttered, resting a beastly hand upon Jodo’s armored shoulder.

“I will do what is asked of me, Highness,” the bold knight stated, looking up at his master through hardened eyes. Saul knelt to face his trusted knight and spokesman, taking off his mask for only Jodo to see beneath it, which terrified the evil knight.

“Their Brotherhood will become the greatest thorn in our sides. It is the same future that has been foretold by the witches,” Saul growled. The knight kept his gaze upon the ground. “You know, thorns are much easier to pluck from the flesh when they are small, Jodo. A little pick and scratch is all it takes to heal the wound. But let them grow, and some can become big enough to cause a fatal puncture, and together…demonstrate nature’s power, more lethal than steel.”

“What would you have me do?” Jodo replied with a serious and stern look, hiding any signs of fear.

“Shake my lazy army out of their rut. Go to the Goblin City and lead Borland’s lot to the Stained Castle,” he ordered, sitting back upon the blue flamed throne. “
Civilians
are protecting The Three That Are One. Their capture will require much force now. My Nockwire will aid you.”

With one gentle nod, Saul motioned for his two assassins to accompany the knight.

The two assassins, Thestor and Scythas, towered over Jodo Kahln, when they marched on either side of him, snarling at each other as they left Saul’s chambers to recruit their destructive army of goblins.

Thestor lifted Jennings onto his back before the group flew off the marble balcony outside Saul’s palace chamber. Flying at high speed, Jodo led the Nockwire assassins and Jennings toward several glowing mountains concealed in radiant blue mist, at least forty miles away from Saul’s castle.

“Where are we now?” cried Jennings when they landed on one of several thousand high bridges built between the mountains and their caves. The rope bridges each intertwined with every other in an enormous spider’s web-like maze.

Jodo Kahln’s eyes blazed in anticipation as he stared back at Jennings. “This is the entrance to the Goblin City. We’re now in their den so be careful where you tread…for they fly too.”

Brisk winds picked up when Ariel and Tommy reached a grove near the edge of the sharp mountainside.

“Can we get by that?” he asked, pointing to the bunch of brambles and trees.

“I’m not sure. This used to be a clear way to the Stained Castle. I say we wait here for the others. They’re bound to come this way soon,” she said, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Instead of heeding his protector’s advice, the stubborn boy moved her hand away and proceeded forth into the grove until he felt something swipe at his head and miss.

His eyes darted around the grove, but he was unable to spot who or what was responsible for the unprovoked strike. Trees of different shapes and sizes made up the grove. There was one in particular that caught Tommy’s attention most of all. Molds of humans in various postures decorated its bark alongside creatures unfamiliar to him.

The girth of its trunk was three times larger than the oak trees that neighbored it. Its roots sprawled over most of the area and claimed the entire ground.

Casts of ill-fated pixies, goblins, and children patterned its wooden surface. High above, hundreds of different shoes dangled from laces attached to its floppy branches, some in even pairs, others in odd pairings, and a few single shoes hung alone. Flats, heels, riding boots, snow boots, dress shoes and dozens of other types of footwear hung lifelessly and motionless, as if part of the tree’s decoration.

“What are they?” Tommy asked as he stood gawking at the disturbing spectacle.

Ariel placed her finger over her lips, signalling him to be silent. As Tommy took a step out of the tree’s domain another swipe came at him, but this time it didn’t miss. As the lace wrapped around his wrist, its tugging grip spun him around.

“Get it off me!” he yelled.

Another lace wrapped round his waist. Together, the laces hauled him deeper into the grove, out of Ariel’s reach. Tommy yelled as loud as he could, muffled by the laces that had ensnared him. It was difficult for Ariel to spot him inside the mass of living shoes.

A web of shoes quickly formed in front of her, attempting to block her path. Slicing through, Ariel threw herself into the den, fighting off every swiping attack with her trusty dagger. The nymph flipped backwards and forwards fluently, missing every assault the shoe tree made toward her. Hacking her way through the thicket of entangled shoelaces, Ariel saw the tree open its gaping mouth, ready to swallow Tommy whole after it took the boy’s shoes off his feet and added them to its eerie collection. But Ariel wasn’t going down without a fight.