Escholia stumbled over to Sammelvar. Desperately, she searched her husband’s face. “What do we do?”
His gaze darted to their children, still on their backs. Promi was wrestling to lift a huge broken strut off his leg, while Jaladay lay stunned from the impact. Both were helpless if another blast should hit that spot.
Facing Escholia, he declared, “You should fly! Now—before another blast. I’ll stay long enough to protect them!”
Seeing that Promi and Jaladay were so exposed, she shook her head. “Then I’ll stay too.”
“No! You must leave!”
Deep clarity came to Escholia’s face. “You may be the leader of the spirit realm, but I make my own decisions. I’m staying.”
Sammelvar sighed in defeat. “All right, then. Help me make them a sphere.”
Placing her hands on top of his, Escholia said firmly, “This is right.” But the ocean-glass crystal on her neck swiftly darkened until it showed no trace of light at all.
Boom! Another flashbolt smashed into the bridge. One of the immense support towers, holding hundreds of cables, buckled. It teetered directly above Promi and Jaladay, creaking and wobbling precariously.
The two elder spirits, nearly knocked over by the blast, managed to keep their hands together. They concentrated on their task—even as nearby cables snapped and vaporstone struts burst apart beside them.
The whole bridge twisted, breaking more cables. Listing dangerously to one side, the once-elegant structure groaned from the growing stress. Above Promi and Jaladay, the support tower finally broke off and collapsed toward them.
At the same instant, a powerful burst of blue light flowed out of the hands of Sammelvar and Escholia, streaming toward their children. Just a split second before the tower fell on top of them, the blue light coalesced into a transparent sphere that completely surrounded them.
As the tower crashed down, the sphere burst out of the wreckage. Gleaming from the light of the Evarra galaxy, it spun as it flew away from the bridge.
Escholia’s misty blue eyes met her husband’s golden ones. “They’re safe,” she panted. A tiny spark of light returned to her amulet.
Sammelvar looked at her with all the love and loyalty of so many years together. “Yes. Now we must—”
Another flashbolt struck the bridge right where they stood, swallowing them in an explosion of debris. The destabilized bridge twisted more violently than ever.
At the same time, Promi and Jaladay both sat upright in the sphere. Instantly, they realized what their parents had done—even as they witnessed the new blast strike the spot where they’d been standing.
“No!” cried Jaladay, putting her hands on both sides of her head and shaking in anguish. “Please, no!”
“Not them!” shouted Promi, watching the flashbolt hit. He peered at the dust and debris from the strike, hoping against hope that they had somehow survived.
The debris cleared, revealing a gaping hole in the body of the bridge. And in the entire realm, as well. For Escholia, the spirit of grace, and Sammelvar, the spirit of wisdom, had both perished.
As Promi and Jaladay watched, the bridge finally gave way. The remaining towers fell, smashing onto the walkway. Cables flew, struts burst, and with a terrible convulsion, the whole structure collapsed.
Fragments drifted down into the twin galaxies below—one radiant with light, the other cloaked with darkness. Some of those pieces glowed bright before vanishing; others fell into eternal night.
Seconds later, nothing remained of the Universal Bridge—nothing but a great empty space in the sky.
Promi and Jaladay could only watch in stunned silence. Then, embracing each other tightly, they wept the most bitter tears of their lives. And then they wept some more.
CHAPTER 22
A Well-Deserved Bath
After a long and difficult day of barking at his servants at the temple, the Divine Monk sank peacefully into his bath. As hot water poured into the tub from the specially designed golden faucet given to him by his most capable subject, the great inventor Reocoles, the Divine Monk beamed with pleasure. That made all of his multiple chins turn upward, giving the impression of a stack of smiles rising up from his collarbone.
The day’s indignities—his scarlet robe’s buttons had burst when he tried to bend over, for the third time that week—began to melt away. Gradually, the spiritual leader of the City of Great Powers relaxed. Clouds of steam rose from the bath, obscuring the painted tiles showing earlier Divine Monks performing various miracles and acts of heroism.
He sank lower in the tub, careful not to get any water on his gold turban, studded with diamonds and an enormous ruby in its center. Positioning himself comfortably, he could feel the warm water rising toward his shoulders. It didn’t matter if the bottom of his thin white beard, decorated with precious jewels, got wet—the servants could dry that off when he was done. Same with his toe rings, finger rings, and multiple bracelets.
Most of his body would soon be submerged—except, of course, for his swollen belly, which lifted above the water like a whale at sea. But he had a solution for that.
“Towel!” he commanded.
Immediately, two white-robed male servants darted into the room and carefully draped a heated towel over the mound of his belly. After sprinkling the towel with fragrant rosewater, they bowed low and backed away.
Before they reached the door, however, the Divine Monk growled, “It’s not even, you fools. Fix it!”
Darting back into the steamy room, the servants bowed again and said in unison, “Whatever you command, He Who Has Been Kissed by the Wisdom of Immortal Spirits.”
“Forget the niceties,” came the command from the tub. “Fix the towel!”
Quickly, they slid the towel slightly to one side so that it covered the whole mound.
“Good,” barked the Divine Monk. “Now in a few more seconds, when the tub is completely full, turn off the faucet. Then leave me in peace.”
Anxiously, the two men bowed again and said, “As you wish, Holy Wondrous Eternally Blessed Master.”
As they stood by the door, the supreme leader sighed deeply. No one, he thought, has ever deserved a hot bath more than I do today.
Suddenly, his feet felt something utterly wrong. And totally unexpected.
“The water!” he bellowed. “It’s cooling down!”
The pair of servants rushed over. Frantically, they both tried to turn the faucet for more hot water.
“Make it hot!” cried the Divine Monk, waving his arms in the air. “Now, you imbeciles.”
Desperately, the servants wrenched the handle of the faucet, turning it as far as it would go. Suddenly—the handle broke off.
Water—cold water—erupted like a geyser. Spraying everyone and everything in the room, the fountain of water couldn’t be stopped.
Now completely outraged, the Divine Monk roared, “Get me out of here! Quickly, before I drown!”
As he tried to sit up, his soggy turban slid off and fell into the tub with a splash. “Baboons’ bowels!” he cursed. “Just wait until I tell that fool Reocoles what I think of his inventions.”
Water sprayed relentlessly as the servants tried to pull their master out of his bath. Unfortunately, in all the commotion, he’d wedged his plump body so securely into the tub that he couldn’t be budged.
“Get me out of here!” he bellowed, struggling to free himself.
But the tub clung to his body like the shell of an overweight turtle. The servants pulled and pried while their supreme leader cursed and beat his hands against the tub. Meanwhile, ice-cold water poured over all of them.
“Out of here!” shouted the Divine Monk. “I don’t care how, but get me free of this!”
Abruptly, the wall adjacent to the temple’s outer courtyard cracked. The beam holding up the ceiling buckled, splitting n
umerous painted tiles. Caught by surprise, the plump monk and his servants froze.
“What in the name of the immortal spirits is happening?” cried the Divine Monk. “I didn’t give permission for any of this!”
At that instant, the entire courtyard wall crumbled. Completely naked, stuck inside his bathtub, the supreme ruler of the City found himself facing—
“A monster!” he wailed.
Like his petrified servants, the Divine Monk stared into the gaping jaws of a beast that resembled a gigantic yellow toad. Then, faster than the blink of an eye, the toad’s massive tongue shot out and wrapped around both the monk and his tub. As the monk screamed in terror, the tongue drew him deep into a mouth that gurgled with poisonous slime.
CHAPTER 23
Screams
Before they even reached the gates to the City, they heard the screams.
Atlanta led the way, just as she had through the forest, running across the stretch of packed dirt that led to the wide bridge before the gates. Following close behind came Shangri, her kerchief again dangling from a few strands of red hair after being clipped by several branches. Right after her ran Plato, formerly Lorno—though he continued to insist that this new name would last. Last of all jogged Zagatash, a few stray leaves caught in his gray beard . . . and a dangerous look in his eyes.
As they arrived at the bridge, they all noticed the considerable damage it had sustained. Wooden planks lay broken everywhere, crushed by something enormously heavy. Guardrails had been shoved aside, pushed into the deep canyon of the Deg Boesi. Far below, the river frothed and pounded as it raced through the channel, its banks littered with broken debris from the bridge.
Carefully, the companions picked their way across, doing their best to avoid stepping on any planks too weak to hold their weight. Atlanta easily maneuvered across, trotting and leaping with the grace of a gazelle. Shangri and Plato found the going much more tricky—and once the young bard stepped on a plank that splintered right under him, nearly pitching him into the canyon.
Surprisingly, the man they called Graybeard moved with great agility across the bridge. Benefiting from a lifetime of practice as an assassin, he moved swiftly and silently, closing the gap between himself and the younger members of the group. As he padded over the bridge, he continued to hold his coat closed to make sure none of his knives jiggled loose.
The time for my blades will come, he told himself. Soon enough.
There was no need to rush, he knew from experience. The opportunity to skewer his prey, in this case Atlanta, always presented itself in time. Just as his brutal father had waited for the right moment to slice him with a kitchen knife when he was a young boy—leaving him with scars across his cheek and chin that he could hide only by growing a thick beard.
All he needed to do, Zagatash understood, was to stay alert and poised for action. Until then . . . he could savor, as he always did, the joy of the hunt. The feeling of growing anticipation. The certainty that he would, once again, be fully in control, wielding his own deadly blades, carving his own painful scars.
Eyeing Atlanta as she gave Shangri a hand getting off the bridge, he clucked with satisfaction. Now you are so lithe and pretty, so full of confidence! That will soon change.
Together, the four of them strode up to what remained of the gates to the City. Torn completely off their hinges, the gates had been smashed to splinters. Their massive posts had been snapped in half as if they’d been no stronger than twigs. And the whole area reeked of yellow slime that smelled worse than rotting carcasses. Frantic people, some dragging gravely wounded family and friends, struggled past as they tried to leave the settlement.
“Are ye mad?” one elderly woman called to Shangri. “Yer goin’ the wrong way!”
Shangri just clenched her jaw and pushed ahead. She hoped with all her heart that her father, whom she’d left at his bakery that very morning, was unharmed.
Screams shattered the air constantly. Along with those screams came a steady din of other sounds—walls collapsing, windows breaking, and frightened animals braying or shrieking. Plus, once in a while, the howling bellow of the monster.
Smoke rose from all parts of the City. From the market square, a towering cloud lifted skyward. Even through the sooty haze that clung to the Machines District—a fact of life since the arrival of Reocoles—the companions saw billowing smoke from buildings on fire. Yet the darkest clouds, and the loudest screams, seemed to come from a different part of the City.
The temple of the Divine Monk.
Following the trail of rancid slime that led down the cobblestone streets to the temple, the companions passed many more wounded people. One man sat, his head in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably. Nearby, a woman stood in shock, facing the pile of rubble that was all that remained of her mud-brick home, standing amidst shards of glass and a tangled line of laundry. And a grieving father and mother, bending over the body of a child who had been crushed by a fallen chimney, wailed piteously.
Even as they pressed ahead toward the temple, Shangri wanted to break away and see if her father was safe. But she guessed he could probably take care of himself—and she knew the most important thing to do now was to try to stop the monster.
But how? The companions racked their brains for an answer. Whatever the means, they knew they needed to end this beast’s savagery—or Atlantis itself could not survive.
No less than the others, Zagatash wanted that beast eliminated. He grimaced, hopping over a puddle of slime. Who, he wondered, would have any need for an assassin if everything was collapsing in ruin? Such devastation was bad for business. An assassin thrived on stability—hirings came from ambitious people who wanted to gain power or greedy people who wanted to gain wealth. Or, in the case of Reocoles, someone who wanted both.
Maybe I’ll let her live a little longer, thought Zagatash. To see if she’s clever enough to find some way to destroy that beast.
As the companions neared the temple, they were nearly run over by a group of half-crazed monks and priestesses, their tan robes splattered with mud, as well as blood. Screaming and waving their arms wildly, the temple’s residents fell over themselves to escape. The exodus swelled still more as Atlanta and the others arrived at the temple gates.
Facing the tide of panicked people, Shangri shook her head in disbelief. She barely recognized the calm and stately entrance to the City’s spiritual heart. This was a place she’d known her whole life—the tranquil spot where she’d often delivered freshly baked pastries and pies! Now, by contrast, it was the scene of more tumult than the stampede of goats, horses, and people through the market square she’d seen on the day, years ago, when she first met Promi.
As they pushed through the crowd at the entrance, all four companions abruptly halted. The temple’s main courtyard thronged with panicking, injured people—along with piles of smoking rubble that only hours before had stood as ornately crafted buildings. Broken balconies, split gilded beams, and smashed statues of immortal spirits lay everywhere. So did countless fragments of brightly colored tiles, turquoise stonework, and stained glass windows.
On top of that, the temple’s great bell tower, a fixture of the City for centuries, looked severely damaged. A gaping hole had opened in one sidewall, while deep fissures ran all the way up to the copper dome over the bell. It looked so precarious that one strong gust of wind could knock the whole thing over.
Squatting in the center of all this wreckage was the beast who had caused so much damage. Swollen from everything it had devoured that day, it looked nearly twice its original size. Its tongue and teeth had swelled in proportion. Even the festering lumps on its back had grown to be as big as anvils.
Yet even so, the monster hungered for more. Driven to consume endlessly, it needed to eat to sustain its enormous bulk—as well as what it carried. For it carried something very precious both to itself and to Narkazan.
Aghast, the companions could only watch as the gargantuan attacker slammed its great bulk against the outer wall of the Divine Monk’s personal residence. The wall split open, buckled, and fell into the courtyard with a thunderous crash.
“No!” shrieked Shangri, as the toadlike monster’s terrible tongue shot out and wrapped around the Divine Monk himself.
Caught in the midst of taking a bath (which, Shangri assumed, he had earned after a long day of ministering to the sick and needy), the Divine Monk squealed and waved his arms helplessly. But the tongue drew him—as well as his tub—swiftly into the monster’s mouth. As the jaws closed, Shangri heard the sickening crunch of breaking bones and tile work. Right away, a large bulge moved down the beast’s bloated gullet.
“Sweet puddin’ o’ the gods!” cried a familiar voice behind them.
Just as Shangri turned, her father’s powerful arms wrapped around her. Holding her tight, he swayed from side to side.
“I be fine, Papa,” she cried. “That is, if ye don’t crush me to death.”
“By the everlastin’ gods,” panted Morey, “I wasn’t sure I’d see ye again.”
He set her down. Peering at her, he said, “Now it’s time we get out o’ this cursed place. While we still can!”
Shangri placed her hands on her hips. “No, Papa. We here—” She gestured at the group. “We’re resolved to try an’ stop this monster. Fer good.”
“Then yer resolved to die,” he objected. “Look at that hulkin’ beast! Nobody short o’ the gods is goin’ to succeed.”
“We have to try,” chimed in Atlanta, stepping to Shangri’s side. “For the sake of this island.”
Very good, thought Zagatash, stroking his beard. You take care of the beast . . . and then I’ll take care of you.