It was the same key that had been taken back from the enemy by the kids-the key that opened prison doors. He’d returned to bring that message to another prisoner. Rook had escaped from this place not long before, rescued by a group of schoolkids who had brought him a message: Once freed, always free. It sickened him to be back in the Fortress of Chaós again, the dark castle at the edge of Skot’os, the lair of Ponéros, the enemy. Above them a maze of steel girders wound upward in a twisted skeleton, blocking out most of the churning, red sky. Rook paused to let him rest, balanced precariously on a narrow girder that hung across a stretch of empty space. His arms were still flesh, however, which made it somewhat easier to keep a grip on him.
The prisoner’s legs were encased in metal, the joints stiff from disuse. “Hurry!” he whisper-shouted, although he knew no amount of coaxing would help. He jumped from beam to beam, pulling his companion along with him, the prisoner he’d just released. Rook knew that things were not going according to plan. The faces in the sculpture cried out in a fresh agony.Ī shadow rose up from the seat of the throne, uncoiling like a giant snake, striking out at the intruder in purple. The violent hissing of the snakes rose to a fever pitch as the figure turned from the throne and sped away. He slipped the peculiar key into his purple robe. He pulled out its contents: a small metal object with four corkscrew crosspieces. The figure lifted the seat of the throne to expose a compartment underneath. The snakes recoiled, deserting the throne, hissing furiously in protest. A hand emerged from the sleeve-pure glowing white-piercing the darkness. They lashed out with their forked tongues as the figure in the purple robe raised up one draped arm. More writhing snakes carpeted the seat of the throne, their green, iridescent scales gleaming in the firelight. Behind the throne was a wall of fire, the flames illuminating the agonized faces embedded in the sculpture, making them seem alive. It had the shape of a crude tree made of entwined human forms, scrawny legs and arms twisted in bizarre contortions. The figure paused before the throne-a huge sculpture made of greenish iron. Snakes slithered out of his path, thousands of snakes that littered the floor, hissing and rattling their tails.
Ī small figure, clothed in deep purple, skimmed silently across the floor of the vast room. *Editor’s Note: The following is a chapter excerpt from Priscilla Shirer’s new book, The Prince Warriors and the Unseen Invasion.
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