Ruler of Beasts (Dorothy Must Die, #0.6)(13)
Ozma’s magic light bobbed anxiously. “It’s time to go,” she said, reaching forward to scratch the Lion behind the ears. “I’m so glad you’re with me. You don’t know what a difference it makes to have you here. It’s so lonely down here in the dark.” Her voice sounded wistful now, and she resembled the sad, brave creature he’d left sitting alone in her chambers on his first night in the Emerald City. Ozma might be powerful, but she was still barely more than a child.
The Lion stood up and lashed his tail fiercely. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Your Majesty,” he said. “Not here and not anywhere else. I’ll be glad to protect you until—until the day I die.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, but thank you.” Ozma continued down the tunnel. The Lion followed.
In just a few moments, the clanking noise they’d heard earlier was so loud it was almost deafening. It echoed down the long, dark tunnel so powerfully that the Lion was tempted to cover his ears with his paws. Ozma stopped in front of a blank wall. Even the ball of light was nervous; it wobbled in tiny circles overhead.
“He’s here,” she said. “Thank goodness. I wasn’t actually sure he would be.”
“You came down all this way and you didn’t even know if the Nome King would be here?” the Lion asked in disbelief.
“It seemed likely he would be,” Ozma said serenely. “But you never know.” She rested her palms on the rough stone wall and the air around her began to glow. Her huge, beautiful gold-veined wings unfurled from her back like a butterfly’s and spread outward in the still, hot air, glowing with a brilliant emerald light. “We won’t have long to get through,” she gasped, her voice thick with exertion. “When I say the word, you have to follow me right away.”
As the incredulous Lion watched, the stone began to glow red-hot around Ozma’s palms. The red glow spread outward like molten lava, running in channels to form the outline of a door covered in mysterious runes. A golden doorknob, glowing with the same emerald light as Ozma’s wings, protruded from the door. “Now!” Ozma yelled, yanking at the doorknob. The entire door-shaped section of wall swung inward, and Ozma leapt into the darkness on the other side with the Lion and the ball of light at her heels. The Lion was half convinced he’d slam into solid stone, but instead he felt as though he were falling from a great distance. And then, with a bone-jarring thump, he landed on the floor of another tunnel.
“Well, well, well,” hissed a sinister, sibilant voice. “What under the earth do we have here?”
TEN
The Lion rolled to his feet, looking around frantically. Ozma lay crumpled next to him, her head lolling at an unnatural angle. She looked unconscious—or dead. The Lion swallowed hard. She had to be fine. She had to be. Panic welled up in his chest. What was he going to do now? Everything was up to him! He remembered the terrible darkness in the tunnels, the way he’d thought it was alive. He didn’t want to die down here in this awful place.
But then he remembered Ozma’s strong, powerful voice when she’d challenged the darkness, and felt ashamed of himself. He was a Lion—and not just any Lion but a king bearing the Wizard’s gift of courage. He would be strong. He looked around again, confidence flooding through him.
They had landed in some kind of cavern. The walls were lined with torches that burned with a blue fire and did little to dispel the darkness. The ceiling was high enough to be lost overhead in blackness. The clanging noise was almost deafening, and the air was even hotter than it had been in the tunnel they had just left.
The man who had spoken was looming over him. The Lion recognized him instantly. He looked exactly like the pale, terrifying king from the banquet hall. His skin was a sickly white. His icy pale eyes glittered evilly in the blue torchlight, and he wore robes as densely black as the darkness that surrounded them. But instead of the long white hair the king in the painting had had, this creature was as hairless as an egg. He seemed both ancient and ageless at the same time—there was something fathomless, cold and cruel and very, very old, in his eyes. An iron crown, wrought in the shape of thorny branches, rested on his bald head. He carried a staff topped with a glowing blue crystal. There was no mistaking him for anyone other than the Nome King.
The Lion drew himself upright, hoping his voice sounded more confident than he felt. “I am the Once-Cowardly Lion of Oz, bearer of the Courage of the Wizard of Oz and King of the Beasts, and I demand you desist your invasion of Oz at once,” he shouted over the clanging, hoping fervently that Ozma would wake up any minute.
The Nome King laughed and waved one hand. Around him, the darkness seethed, and suddenly he was surrounded by pale, thin warriors in black armor, their faces hidden by black helmets. The Lion’s heart missed a beat, but he held his ground, determined not to show his fear.
“You’re a long way from home, little cat,” the Nome King hissed. “Do you really think you’re in a position to be making demands?” He leaned forward, and the Lion took an involuntary step backward. The crystal on top of the Nome King’s staff blazed with blue-white light. At last the Lion saw the source of the terrible metallic noise. At one end of the huge cavern, a vast, many-armed machine of iridescent blue metal the Lion had never seen before was chipping away at the rock. More bald Nomes—these stoop-shouldered and scuttling, wearing leather aprons over their shirtless chests—stoked a furnace at the heart of the machine, dumping load after load of coals into the glowing inferno. They wore thick black glass goggles on tattered leather straps to protect their eyes from the heat. Huge leather gloves clanking with chain mail kept the coals from burning their hands. They were all pale as mushrooms but coated in black dust, their lean, wiry bodies scarred and burned where the leather had not been enough to protect them. Many of them had carved elaborate designs into their bare arms and chests and packed the cuts with coal dust so that their skin seemed covered in dense black lace. Others had shoved chunks of iron through their earlobes, noses, or lips. Moving together, they looked like an army of sinister beetles pushing their burdens back and forth like ants carrying food back to their nests.