Ozland

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  DEDICATION

  GAIL

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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  COPYRIGHT

  My breath rises in ghostly wisps into the cold evening air as I hold my position. Motionless. Silent. My arrow securely nocked and trained on the shoreline of the icy lake. It’s after dusk, and winter has settled in early this year. The woolen cloak and gloves offer some warmth, but the chill bites the tips of my ears and nose. Still, my eyes remain fixed. The nightly cries of the youngest children, the ones that are nothing but flesh over bones, just skeletons really, shriek in my thoughts. They cry for their lost families, for the blistering pain riddled throughout their bodies as the new cure slowly heals them, for insatiable hunger; I can only help with the latter.

  I’m the best of the hunters in my village, bringing in the most food out of all of us who take our weapons to the wilderness. But even so, my father, Hunter, our leader, has insisted I travel no farther than the forest’s edge.

  Beyond the body of water, red lights glow in pairs. They are the eyes of those that are neither human nor beast in these parts. No one has ventured past the lake and returned alive. Terrible creatures lie in wait within the dense forest. Describing them as terrible is generous. They hide in the shadows of the trees, their bodies camouflaged like chameleons—only, they’ve been known to snap a person in half with one bite from their powerful jaws.

  The crackle of dry leaves draws my attention, but I remain still. Heart racing, sweat beading my forehead, I can’t allow my fear to shake my resolve. Survival lies in what game I can bring home.

  Under the glow of the moon, a shadow emerges from the tree line as the dead foliage rustles beneath the newcomer’s feet. The wild sow lifts her snout into the cool evening air, in search of the slightest hint of danger. Although I’ve been careful, rubbing my clothes and body with oak leaves to cover my scent, my stomach twists, worried that it isn’t enough. That my anxious heartbeat will divulge my location.

  The sow snorts, as if declaring the area safe, before making her way to the water, only five meters from where I’ve taken cover.

  My fingers twitch, but I don’t shoot. Instead, I take in a breath. If I fire now and miss, that will be my only shot before the pig bolts back into the forest. I wait until the animal is lapping at the shoreline. Steadying the bowstring close to my cheek, I take aim.

  As I’m about to take the shot, high-pitched squeals break the silence. Four piglets burst through the shrubbery and race to their mother’s side on the lake’s edge.

  My breath catches, hesitancy paralyzing me. I lower my weapon and watch the offspring romp by the lake’s edge. They are too young to be alone. With what else lives in these woods, they won’t make it through the night. Not without their mother looking after them. Growling, my stomach reminds me that there are those depending on me. Yet, if I don’t get back to the village soon, I also might not see the sun rise. It’s either them or me.

  Again, I take aim, my arrow fixed on the thick neck of the large sow, my hands steady as I pull the string taut.

  It takes only a moment to recognize the familiar rumble of a menacing growl before one of the piglets is snatched up by a hideous claw. The poor animal hardly has time to squeal before it disappears into the shadows. My face grows cold as the crack of bones startles the rest of the pigs. Instinct takes over, and I keep my weapon aimed at the adult pig. But I don’t have time to shoot. A Bandersnatch explodes from the trees, seizes the sow with its teeth and two of the remaining piglets with its claws. Only one escapes into the wild brush. The horrifying creature abandons the offspring and bulldozes into the trees, leaving behind splintered branches and uprooted shrubs. It takes seconds before the terrifying shrieks of the wild pigs cease, leaving the lakeside as quiet and desolate as it was when I arrived.

  Cursing, I throw my bow over my head and quiver my arrow. Knowing the frightened squawks of the pigs have probably warned off any other nearby game, I pack up and take one last look at the shoreline. Everything is still. As I turn away, I hear a quiet whine.

  Snatching my bow and an arrow, I target the bushes and find the young pig trembling beneath the lower branches. I drop my aim. Even if I kill it, there’s not enough meat on the piglet to make a decent meal for one, much less an entire village. There’s no point shooting it, at least not for now. Perhaps I could bring it home and fatten it up. It’s better than going home empty-handed or leaving it alone to be eaten by predators. I sit cross-legged on the damp soil and reach inside my rucksack. Taking out some wild berries and nuts, I shake them in my hand.

  “You hungry?” I ask.

  The piglet cautiously steps forward before it hesitates. I toss a handful of food its way. Squealing, it dodges back into the brush.

  “Chicken,” I mutter.

  The young pig watches as I pull out another fistful and snack on the meager morsels. It edges up to the closest berry with caution. With a guarded gaze set on me, the piglet devours the fruit and nuts. I coax the young pig toward me, holding out another palmful of food. When the warm snout nudges my hand, I pour the snack onto the forest floor. Hungrily, the piglet plunges its face into the pile. It flinches only once when I scratch behind its ear.

  “What am I going to do with you?” I ask.

  It peers up at me with chestnut eyes before returning to its meal. The piglet finishes off the food and begins chewing at the toe of my silver boot.

  “Hey!” I say, pulling my foot away.

  A roar rips through the trees. It’s the same beastly howl that makes the ground tremor in the dead of night. The piglet sprints for my rucksack and cowers inside, rattling the unclipped metal buckle. My eyes dart upward, hoping the beast is too focused on its dinner to notice me, but I know it’s only a matter of time before it picks up my scent.

  As the growl dies out, echoing far into the forest, my surroundings become eerily quiet except for the howl of a lonely wolf. I let out a silent sigh, grateful that the Bandersnatch has gone on its way. Standing, I cradle my rucksack in my arms, ready to turn back to the village when the ground shakes again, but this time it is much more violent. Earth-shattering screams erupt from behind me—the Bandersnatch is back, and it’s brought company.

  I don’t have enough time to draw my weapon. Instead, I just run.

  The canopy of branches blocks out what little moonlight there is in the sky. I can’t see where I’m going as I race between the large trunks of pine trees, dodging low-hanging branches. Twice I nearly fall, tripping over debris scattered throughout the forest floor. The piglet trembles within the leather bag clutched in my arms. The crack of tree limbs chases me like a violent thunderstorm, but I don’t dare turn back to see how close the beasts are. Panting, I push my burning muscles as fast as they can go, knowing if I slow down even a little, the piglet won’t be the Bandersnatches’ only snack.

  The Bandersnatches draw closer, and my legs grow tired. Panic riddles my body. I know I can’t
keep running much longer. Hiding is my only option.

  Ahead, a large tree, its trunk almost a meter wide, comes into view. I slip around and press my back against the bark. Gulping, I hold my breath, afraid that my panting will give away my location.

  Three Bandersnatches roar as they sprint past me, and the gust of wind following them ruffles the stray pieces of hair that have fallen from my braids. The younger trees snap like twigs as the beasts burst through the forest. When their long, spiked tails are no longer in my line of sight, I let out the breath I was holding in a cloud of mist. It won’t be long before they return. I need somewhere to hunker down until they’ve given up their search for me.

  The pale hue of a rocky hill catches my attention. If it wasn’t for the small amount of moonlight casting through a break in the trees, I never would have seen it. Taking one last glance at the destruction the Bandersnatches have left behind, I head toward the stone wall. It doesn’t take long for me to find a series of caves. With the chill in the air, more than likely this network of alcoves is a home to a bear or wildcat. But I’d rather deal with a dozen bears than even one Bandersnatch.

  Scrambling over the uneven stones, I choose a smaller hollow, hoping that the carnivorous wildlife would opt for someplace a bit roomier.

  On one hand and both knees, I clutch my rucksack and crawl through the entrance. The damp soil soaks through my pants as I creep to the back of the cave. Finally, I sit and lean up against the stone wall, thankful for the chill it brings. I inhale deeply, trying to slow my breath. It is the squirm within my satchel that pulls my attention from the anxiety boiling in me.

  Reaching inside the bag, the piglet rubs its warm snout against my hand as I search for a candle and matches. Lighting the beeswax candlestick and tucking it into a crevice in the wall, the cavern brightens. Small bones, tufts of fur, and feathers litter the rock-and-dirt floor. Based on the size of the scat, whatever lives in here can’t be any bigger than a fox. Relieved, I sigh and watch the shadows dance across the gray rock.

  “It’s your lucky day, Gail,” I mutter aloud.

  The piglet peeks out of the bag and tilts its head, as if listening intently.

  “Seems today is lucky for both of us,” I say, scratching its soft pink ear.

  With a single snort, the piglet circles my lap and flops down, lying on its side.

  “How can you possibly nap after all that?”

  The animal doesn’t seem to hear me, but instead breathes deep and slow, lost somewhere in its dreams.

  Another roar echoes in the distance. The Bandersnatch may not be outside the cave entrance, but I’m not taking any risks. Not tonight, at least. Besides, I’m suddenly drowsy, my eyelids weighted down by the aftereffects of an adrenaline rush. As the candle flickers, fighting to stay lit, I close my eyes and surrender to the lull of sleep.

  Although it’s been three months since we arrived here, Evergreen Village has yet to feel anything like home. Then again, after all we’ve been through over the last year and a half, I’m not sure what home should feel like anymore. From the bustling streets of London, to the underground Lost City, to living in Umberland’s Alnwick Castle, and now hiding in Evergreen’s treetops … home has taken on so many definitions it’s become lost in our journey.

  Pickpocket and I return to the village after gathering plant samples to stock my medicinal supplies. When we arrive, the armored members of the Evergreen Guard hardly acknowledge us. In fact, I’m certain they aren’t pleased that we’re here. I can’t blame them. More souls to protect. Extra people to account for. There aren’t nearly enough bodies left to soldier up for the attacks we’ve endured from the creatures that were let loose throughout the Labyrinth.

  They don’t have the time or the desire to watch out for the foreign doctor who insists on picking leaves, roots, and berries he claims will help keep them healthy. They call it magic, even though I can cure most common ailments. The Evergreen Guard care about one thing—keeping as many as possible alive.

  No one is left for dead, and anybody or anything that threatens the small community will pay for it with their lives.

  That’s been the new mantra, the new motto here within the remains of the Labyrinth. Because everybody counts toward our survival not only as a community, but as the human race. They don’t voice it to me, but the Evergreen Guards’ displeasure toward our weekly scavenges to collect medicinal plants does not go unnoticed in the murmurs as we pass by. Their hypocrisy also doesn’t go unnoticed when they come whining to me about a stomachache.

  Malevolent shadows lurk in the dark corners of the forest. One distraction could cost a soldier his or her life. Armed with rusted guns fashioned of scrap steel, these are the strongest and fastest of the survivors. Heroes of the Labyrinth, of Umberland and Everland, the Guard are as fierce as they are fearless. More than once they’ve battled a squadron of bloodthirsty gryphons. Their corpses are ultimately part animal and part machine, cruelly conjured up by the Bloodred Queen, although their wings are an excellent source of metal for creating machine parts. The combination of metal, eagle, and lion, these souls are as tortured as any of us. They are one of many of the Bloodred Queen’s ghastly experiments, along with centaurs, chimeras, and satyrs. None of them completely bone and blood, yet none all machine.

  I’ve become numb to the demise of these tormented beings, caught between both living and machine. I’ve encountered so many. Tried to revive them. But I only know of blood, vessels, muscles, and organs. How they intertwine with metal parts I am left perplexed about. When I lose them, sadness threatens to overwhelm me—not only as a physician, but also simply as a human—so I cut it off. As if that primal emotion is unworthy of recognition. With each toss of soil, every meter into the earth the Diggers breach, and each body they bury, I feel as if I become less of a person myself. I’ve become as cold as the corpses they’ve laid to rest.

  Those of us from England and the others who’ve been trapped here in the deadly confines of the Labyrinth have spent the last several months preparing our escape. Right under the Bloodred Queen’s nose. Planning a rescue mission to find the missing king of Germany and devising a plan to take down the Bloodred Queen. But it’s hardly been simple.

  The Labyrinth walls became nothing but ashes when the pwazon pòm tree was set on fire. For days, the maze burned relentlessly, scorching the very fortifications that not only kept the villagers as prisoners but also the fierce creatures that resided within them. Since then, we’ve battled monsters fabricated from nightmares, nursed as many sick humans as possible back to health, and built an entire army to do the one thing—the only thing—that will ensure the survival of humankind: kill the Bloodred Queen.

  Beyond the Guard, the Tinkers—Everland boys who can repair or create, well, practically anything—work feverishly. Hammering, welding, and soldering our fleet of hovercycles. These vehicles are our only hope for the planned mass exodus for safer territory—although I’m not sure if any such place exists.

  As we saunter beyond the human brigade of soldiers, the Tinkers greet me with grunts and tired eyes. Even Cogs, the head engineer and normally a pleasant Lost Kid, has been in a dreadful mood lately. Dark circles bruise the skin beneath his hazel eyes, and the glimmer of hope has long extinguished over the months of hardship.

  No one sleeps at night. At least not well. Not between the endless ache of hunger or the overwhelming grief for those who have died. Even the slightest noise puts us all on edge. The little bit of rest we do get is vexed with the howls of the forest’s predators, warning us that our time here is fleeting. Their song is a reminder that we either escape what is left of the Labyrinth or become their next meal.

  Silently, Pickpocket and I climb the ladder made of tightly braided vines to the simple treetop village, the place we call home now. Woven grass curtains flutter in the brisk wind at each hut’s doorway, the torchlight within having been extinguished hours ago. The occasional hoot of an owl mingles with the rustle of the dry pine needles. Only t
he quiet whispers of those who gather near the community bonfire break the still evening air.

  “I’m going with Hunter. There are plenty of soldiers to protect the people. You don’t need me to stay behind,” Lily is insisting. “If Osbourne is indeed alive, as Hunter suggested, he’ll most likely be heavily guarded. After all the Bloodred Queen has done, that’s one battle I refuse to miss.”

  A grin grows on my face. She’s as kind as she is fierce, although very few get to see the gentle side of her. The girl who was well trained with a sword is not to be trifled with, and most know that. But in the quiet hours of night, when it’s just her and me, we can find sweetness in the stars, in the stories of her childhood, and in the mystery of science that runs thick in my blood.

  Alyssa, the former Duchess of Alnwick, sits next to Lily, watching her intently. The idea of losing Lily to whatever awaits on the journey to find the king must weigh heavily on her mind. Lily is a valuable soldier. Without her, our war with the Bloodred Queen could be difficult. More than that, though, Alyssa and Lily have become close friends and allies. Both have been passionate about saving those who need to be saved … but then again, we all have.

  “We need you here,” Alyssa says, equally as determined as Lily. Dark aviator goggles rest tightly on the top of her head like a black headband on her long blond hair. “Your contribution to this community has been invaluable. You are our greatest fighter. Joining Hunter on the Emerald Isle will be a loss for us. Even though we have the approximate coordinates to find King Osbourne, nothing is for sure. Who knows what you’ll face there.”

  “Send me. I’m just as capable as anybody. And if my father is alive, I should be the one to find him. Besides, I’m the one who found the key and told you it was meant for that Ginger girl,” Jack shouts from behind the bars of his prison. With his cell set on the other side of a narrow footbridge, his words are muffled. But his voice is received with quiet contempt.

  Jack. Once a Marauder turned Lost Kid, and then a traitor who ran back to his brother, revealing the location of the Lost City, he has yet again somehow found his way back into our small band. But not without brewing resentment. While Pete couldn’t care less about him, I couldn’t leave him for dead.