Curse of the Spider King, page 34
part #1 of Berinfell Prophesies Series
Unfortunately, it was such a nauseating motion that Tommy threw up immediately. But once the vomit left his body, it was vacuumed away. Tommy had no idea where it had gone and wondered remotely if he’d just splattered poor Kat somewhere behind him. The flickers of light had slowed and finally stopped, and Tommy stumbled forward and collapsed.
Tommy lay on his side on a tuft of thick grass and rolled over onto his back. Strange stars—purple, green, or blue—winked down at him from above. A cold breeze rustled the grass and tossed his curly hair. He closed his eyes and struggled to comprehend what he’d just experienced.
It felt like being absorbed. That was the only way Tommy could think to describe the journey. Someone touched his shoulder, and Tommy winced. The wound he had received from the Drefid outside Dalhousie still stung.
“Here’s one!” an edgy, urgent voice called. Someone stood over Tommy. “Here, in the tall grass!”
Someone else was suddenly there, kneeling at his side. “Tommy, thank Ellos you made it through.” Mrs. Galdarro helped him sit up. “How do you feel?”
“Like I just got hit by a cement mixer.”
“That’s normal for first timers,” explained Edward as he and Mr. Wallace approached. “Very normal, wouldn’t you say?”
Mr. Wallace did not answer at first. His head was still, but his eyes darted restlessly. “What?” he finally said. “Oh, yes, very normal, Tommy.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Mrs. Galdarro. “You seem distracted.”
“I am,” Mr. Wallace replied. “Four are accounted for, but I have not seen the other three.”
Mrs. Galdarro looked nervously about the area. “That would be Kat, Jett and . . . and Autumn!” Mrs. Galdarro stood.
Mrs. Galdarro scanned the hillside, searching amongst her kinsfolk. The grassy slope that everyone lay upon was the only soft area before the hill descended onto a forest floor thick with dead debris left over from a long winter. Small mounds of snow still hugged boulders and tree stumps, while dry leaves and old branches poked up from under their frozen white blanket. Pockets of Elves moved all over the hill, but she did not see Jett, Autumn, or Kat. After all they’d been through, to lose them in this—
“Over here!” cried a voice near the bottom of the hill.
“Go on,” said Mr. Wallace. “I’ll take care of Tommy.”
Mrs. Galdarro ran down the hill.
“Tommy?” another voice came out of the grass about twenty yards away. A strange pink thing appeared. It was Kat’s head. She stood unsteadily but looked none the worse for wear.
“Kat!” Tommy ran to his friend.
“Kat,” muttered Mr. Wallace. He took several steps away from the young lords. “Good, good!” he called to the young lords. “I’m going to join Galdarro and the others. Come right down.”
He didn’t wait for Tommy and Kat to catch up. In fact, he hurried to keep well away from them. “Kat Simonson, the thought-reader,” Mr. Wallace muttered to himself when he felt sure he was out of her range. Could he mask his thoughts well enough to establish himself among the Elves . . . like a poison splinter? Then he might at last learn the location of the Elves’ secret home. That would be worth much to the Spider King. Very much indeed.
Mrs. Galdarro pushed the group aside and found Johnny, nearly hysterical, trying to take his sister from Jett’s arms.
“Give her to me!” Johnny yelled.
Jett took an awkward step backward. “Stop it, man. You’re going to hurt her worse.”
“We’re going to help your sister,” Nelly said quietly. “Everything is going to be all right.”
“No!” Johnny cried, still trying to break Jett’s hold.
“Jett’s right, Johnny,” said Mrs. Galdarro sternly. “You are only making things worse. We need to get Autumn help right away.”
Mr. Wallace appeared behind her. And to Mrs. Galdarro’s relief, Tommy and Kat joined the group. “What’s going on?” asked Tommy.
Kat whispered to him, “Johnny’s very agitated. He’s not thinking straight.”
“Johnny, we want to help,” pleaded Mrs. Galdarro. “We can take care of her, but we have to move quickly. We cannot linger. . . . Wait! Quiet! I heard something.”
A branch snapped somewhere behind them. The hill went deathly silent. Jett took the opportunity to move Autumn out of Johnny’s reach. Hundreds of years of training taking over, the Sentinels and Dreadnaughts ushered the teens to cover in bracken, deadfall, tall grasses, and among the trees. Mrs. Galdarro’s heart crashed against her ribs. An assault here would be fatal. Little cover, few weapons, and more than half their number wounded.
Mrs. Galdarro held her breath, waiting for the first sign of attack.
Nothing moved.
Then the sweet song of a satin whippoorwill floated up from amongst the trees. Mrs. Galdarro placed her hands to her lips, cupped together, and whistled out the reply. They had come.
A breath later, flet soldiers emerged from hiding places in the depths of the forest, stepping out into plain view. Archers watched from their lofty nests in the treetops, while others equipped with rycheswords crawled out of holes covered with brush. They ventured forward, assembling as a most welcome sight before Mrs. Galdarro. And leading them was none other than the famed guardmaster himself.
“Guardmaster Grimwarden, I feared you were the Spider King’s forces. Half scared me to death,” gasped Mrs. Galdarro.
“You are wise to be afraid. They are very near,” whispered Grimwarden. He motioned to his troops. They raced forward bearing woodland cloaks and boots for those who had returned from Earth. He paused, realizing they had brought with them six times the gear they needed. “You have not all returned . . . but what of the lords?”
“We’ve returned with all of the Seven, Guardmaster, but one is in great need—”
“We have secured a place nearby for such a need. Herbs, salves, medicine—it is made ready. And Claris Gilant is here.”
“Claris? Ah, thank Ellos,” said Mrs. Galdarro. “She is unmatched in the healing arts.”
“Quickly and quietly, follow me.” Grimwarden motioned for his warriors to surround the Seven Lords and the Elves returning from Earth.
The Sentinels helped the lords struggle through the shrubbery and trees to a vine-covered area. Once there, Grimwarden motioned in the direction of a treetop and suddenly the area sprang to life. Flet soldiers ran to his side. Grimwarden turned to Galdarro, “Bring the most wounded lord forward, and tell what you require.”
They brought Autumn to an Elf maiden at the edge of the clearing. She had large green eyes and blood-red hair. Freckles dotted her nose and the tips of her ears.
She took one look at Autumn’s wounds and frowned. “You already tried to heal her?”
Mrs. Galdarro shook her head. “No, Claris, we haven’t had time.”
“Someone did,” Claris replied bluntly, glancing at Jett. “It is not enough.”
Johnny caught his breath.
“I can heal her,” Claris explained, “but not if we do not get her to our stronghold.” She reached into a pocket of her cloak and withdrew what appeared to be a tree twig about the size of a pencil. She cracked it open and rubbed one of the ends across Autumn’s wounds. “This will fend off infection,” she said.
Grimwarden motioned to two of his stronger flet soldiers. “Marak, Ramius, put her on a litter and bear her gently.”
“I can handle it,” said Jett.
“Nay, young lord,” said Grimwarden. “You have never trod these paths. We cannot take a chance on you stumbling.”
“I don’t stumble,” said Jett bluntly.
“Did you say ‘lord’?” Claris asked. She stared at Jett. “You are one of the Seven?”
Grimwarden nodded.
“Guardmaster,” said Claris, “with all due respect to your command, I believe this wounded Elf would be much better off with the lord who carried her this far.”
“As you wish,” he replied. The guardmaster stole a moment to survey the young lords. He saw in their faces a resemblance to their parents he’d last seen many years ago. And Grimwarden could hardly believe they’d all made it home to Allyra. “There is much you all must do,” said Grimwarden, “and no time to spare for proper ceremonies. But it is with great gladness of heart I welcome you back to your homeland . . . it has been a long wait.”
Some of the flet soldiers began to bow.
Tommy blushed and turned to Jimmy. “Dude, what do we do?”
“Just keep smiling,” he replied.
“Stop!” Grimwarden commanded his men. “The lords are due every bow, but to do so here is very dangerous. Even one spy of the enemy could witness your acts and identify the lords for assassination. Now, let’s get them out of this clearing, get them changed, and get them some food. They must be starving. Move with haste!”
Once she’d changed into her Elven gear, Mrs. Galdarro searched out Guardmaster Grimwarden.
“How long can we risk remaining above ground?” she asked.
“Not long. It is unsafe for us, especially here,” he answered.
“How did you know where to find us?”
“We’ve been monitoring the enemy’s movements near the old portals. He has abandoned all the others but this one. In fact, the Spider King stationed a formidable war band here. We drove them off, but they will return and in greater numbers. I feel even now we are being watched.” Grimwarden paused and looked around. “Goldarrow, you and your team accomplished a task we thought impossible. All of Elfkind is in your debt. When we return to the Nightwish Caverns, we will honor you and all who served with you.”
Quiet filled the air between the two.
“Goldarrow, have the young lords’ gifts began to develop?”
“Yes, but they have not mastered them yet.”
“And will they be able to keep up with us?”
Galdarro smiled. “They have surprised me with their strength—”
Suddenly, Grimwarden stopped her to listen to a distant bird’s call. “That is from our scouts! The enemy returns! Flet soldiers, depart! Swift but silent running!” He turned when Mrs. Galdarro touched his arm.
“You’re heading to the north, but that is a longer journey and will take us—”
“Past the Dark Veil. Yes, I know. But, Elle, you have been gone a long while. The journey north is not nearly as long as it once was.”
“But—”
He held up a hand. “I believe our preparations will be more than adequate.”
“Preparations?” inquired Galdarro.
“You shall see. Come.” He hesitated and turned to the Seven Lords now gathered near him—Autumn opened her eyes. “And you, my good lords—your journeys have just begun.”
Continue the Adventure
Solve the Riddle on Page 372
Acknowledgments
So many people gave love, time, resources, and insight to make this book possible. Coauthoring is really new territory for us both, so we owe a great debt to many, many people for their support and prayers. So to all the family, friends, and readers everywhere, we offer heartfelt thanks.
Wayne’s wife, Mary Lu, and Christopher’s wife, Jenny, bore the brunt of our collaboration, taking many extra shifts at home so that we could be online, writing or on the phone or in Scranton, Pennsylvania. God really blessed us with amazing ladies, beautiful on the outside and within. Following the Lord, our thanks go to you as God-given gifts for which we could never repay Him.
To our own young Tribe: Kayla, Tommy, Bryce, Rachel, Eva, Luik, and Judah—thank you for reminding us that deadlines can sometimes wait, and that play is an essential part of life. May God make tender warriors of you all.
WTB: Mom and Dad, Leslie and Bob, Jeff and Shannon, and Brian and Melissa—what an adventure we’ve been on together! Thank you for everything. And to the students and staff of Folly Quarter Middle School—as always, you are my frontline editors and readers. Pip-pip cheerio!
CH: Hopper and Nesbitt Clans—how will I ever repay the Lord for getting you as kin? I am blessed among men. And to all my hometown readers at New Life Christian Church and 33 Live . . . even Jill at the post office—you are my greatest encouragers. Shine bright; nations are waiting on the other side of your obedience.
To Billy Jepma—likely the next Robert Ludlum, Stephen King, and J. R. R. Tolkien wrapped into one—may ideas continue to pour into your mind, onto the page, and into the hearts of many! All for Jesus . . .
La famille Sureau: Pascal, AnneMarie, Juliette, and Sophie—our “superfans,” who constantly patrol the trenches before we make a landing.
The Meldrum family in Dalkeith, and Phil Springthorpe in Ardfern—for all your Scottish input and tours of legendary castles.
To Keith and David at Literature and Latte—for creating the most extraordinary writing software on the planet: Scrivener—we most definitely owe you gents a pint. How did we ever write without it?
Jeff Hanson—for creating the coolest dashboard fantasy name generator widget ever known to man (or Elves).
The Banshee—for being the home away from home, the creative hangout for these two little inklings. Special thanks to Kathleen, Melony, Bobbi, Jenn, Chuck, Karen, Taby, Jamie, Brita, and Katie.
The Radisson Hotel Lackawanna in Scranton—you were long overdue for a mention. We have found your place to be a writer’s sanctuary.
His Way Books—Michelle Black; Barnes and Noble, Ellicott City—Amber Stubbefield; and Gifts from Above—for supplying us with books to sell for Pennsylvania events.
To Gregg Wooding, our friend—and agent—man, are we glad to have you as an ally. You are a Swordbrother of the first order.
Authors Donita K. Paul, Sharon Hinck, Eric Reinhold, Bryan Davis, Jonathan Rogers, L. B. Graham, Chris and Allan Miller, Andrew Peterson, Dean Briggs, Bryan Polivka, J. A. Konrath, and many others who have modeled excellence in writing—thank you for inspiring us by your example.
Laura Minchew, Beverly Phillips, June Ford, Jackie Johnston, AnnJanette Toth, and all our friends at Thomas Nelson—thank you for spending your skill and experience on us.
And last but not least, to Pam Schwagerl, for being the catalyst for our Fantasy Tours . . . and for giving Christopher permission (wink, wink).
Sneak Preview of
The Berinfell Prophecies : Book 2
Deep in the northwestern corner of the Thousand-League Forest, carved into the living rock of Mount Mystbane and shrouded by the fearless cliffhanging trees, Whitehall Castle, the Elves’ long abandoned home, had tenants once more. Hidden and far away from the Spider King’s stronghold in Vesper Crag, Whitehall was the one place the Elves thought it safe to conduct the secret warfare training of the returning lords. Once embedded within the castle, a team of Sentinels and Dreadnaughts began their urgent mission teaching the young lords the Elven art of fighting. With few breaks, the young lords endured the rigorous lessons—while the exiled remnants of Elven civilization anxiously waited hundreds of leagues away in the Nightwish Caverns.
On those rare occasions when he was free from the brutal training schedule, Tommy spent nearly all of his time exploring the labyrinthine passages of Whitehall Castle. The intricate network of corridors, keeps, tunnels, and towers was an irresistible puzzle waiting to be solved . . . and Tommy loved puzzles. Most often, he’d make a wrong turn and wind up at a blank stone wall, or worse, right back where he’d started. But every once in a while he’d follow a passage and discover spectacular settings, like a chamber full of sunlit water fountains or a hall strewn with intriguing artwork. Or, like yesterday, a secluded balcony high on Whitehall’s central tower.
Tommy had spent several hours reclining on the balcony’s curving stone bench and quickly made it his own. Eyes open or closed, he found the spot relaxing and entertaining. Colorful birds crisscrossed in the air and disappeared into the dark green shadows under the canopy. Braided mimots—the striped, ghost-faced, monkeylike creatures that lived in the treetops—hooted and cackled as they leaped branch to branch after each other. And numerous driftworms—thumb-sized fuzzy, purple caterpillars—descended from the upper branches on gossamer parachutes of silk, to land wherever the breeze carried them. It was as peaceful a place as Tommy had yet seen in Allyra.
After a particularly exhausting session, Tommy couldn’t wait to get back to his special escape. Traversing several large halls, climbing two flights of stairs, and racing blindly down a dark passage, Tommy turned a corner and . . . came to an abrupt stop.
Kat Simonson was sitting in his spot. She looked up at Tommy, her bluish skin purpling with new blush. But there was no smile. Just a sigh.
“You’re kidding,” they both said.
“I just found this place yesterday,” said Tommy.
“I found it the day before,” said Kat. She saw his shoulders fall and didn’t even need to read his thoughts. “It’s okay,” she said. “There’s room for two.”
Feeling somewhat disappointed and very awkward, Tommy sat. He crossed his arms and leaned on the balcony rail. He didn’t look at her but could feel Kat’s stare. When she finally looked away, Tommy felt somehow lighter. He relaxed a little and absently watched the driftworms.
“Oh, look,” said Kat. Tommy turned. A small purple piece of fuzz was crawling down her forearm. “It tickles.”
“Reminds me of woolly bears back at home,” Tommy said. “’Cept they’re not so purple.”
Kat smiled and held up her hand. The driftworm traveled the length of her index finger and seemed perplexed as to where to go from there. “Have you seen the moths that these things turn into?”
Tommy shook his head.
“Ril says they’re as big as both your hands . . . and they glow.”
“Cool,” said Tommy. He imagined the forest canopy at night, alive with hundreds of luminous moths. “Way cool.”
Suddenly, Tommy and Kat stiffened and looked up. They had heard a sound, a haunting . . . alien sound. Like a bird’s cry, but it had gradually morphed into a voice. It trilled and then faded.
