The Forest of Lost Souls by Anne Plichota Read Free Book Online Page B

Runaways looked uneasily between Abakum and Tugdual.
    “Flies have never tried to kill the people I love!” retorted Abakum, staying remarkably calm. “But if they decided to do so, they’d pay dearly for it, mark my words, my young friend. And as for Orthon—”
    The elderly Watcher broke off, raising one hand in front of him in a gesture of surrender. It was better for all concerned if this futile conversation was stopped before it got out of hand. Oksa was furious, though. Despite the unsettling effect Tugdual had on her whenever he was near, she thought he was going too far with his provocative comments. She knew that Abakum’s wise exterior concealed a formidable man, more formidable than the most battle-hardened soldier. After all, hadn’t he been the only one capable of firing a Crucimaphila Granok at Orthon-McGraw? No one else could have done it. Oksa knew it hadn’t been easy for him and that he’d be tormented by the memory until his dying day. But his tremendous loyalty made him the man he was: unquestionably the most powerful of all the Runaways. This loyalty to Dragomira, and to her entire family, was the source of his immense strength. A mental strength which enabled him to surmount any obstacle. But how could she say all that to Tugdual? Her irascible friend couldn’t have known it was Abakum who’d vaporized Orthon-McGraw in the cellar of his house. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been so flippant about the old man’s pacifist ideals.
    “You forget that Abakum is the Fairyman,” she whispered to him, her cheeks scarlet with annoyance and embarrassment.
    “Hey, talking of fairies,” continued Tugdual sarcastically, “it’s been quite a while since we had a visit from the Ageless Ones! We could do with a helping hand from them, couldn’t we?”
    With a frown, Dragomira leant over to Naftali and Brune, who were glaring at their grandson.
    “I thought he was getting better recently,” she murmured to her two friends, looking at Tugdual. “I thought he was less…”
    “Less morbid? Less neurotic?” continued Tugdual, rolling his eyes. “I’m fine, thank you very much, so don’t worry your heads about me! Abakum, whom I respect more than you can possibly imagine, knows me better than anyone and I have absolutely no intention of insulting him. I just wanted to remind you what you yourselves said once about your lack of experience when it comes to dealing with danger. You saw yourselves as old folk, who weren’t up to the task. So take a good look at yourselves and be honest: are you really ready to face your enemies’ bloodthirsty attacks? You’ve always thought I was exaggerating when I described Orthon as Evil incarnate. But they weren’t just the misguided fears of a neurotic. Do you see that now? We have to expect the worst. Always expect the worst…”
    Some of the Runaways nodded in approval. The young man certainly had a tendency to blow things out of proportion, but there was a lot of truth in what he said and they all believed him now: the writing was on the wall—things were clearly going to get worse before they got better.

9
A V ERY I MPORTANT D ECISION
    T HE S QUORACLE WAS STANDING ON AN OCCASIONAL table, its tiny beak about an inch from the picture. The Imagicon, held taut by the wooden frame, was gleaming with dark shimmers in perpetual motion. Staring intently at this strange phenomenon, the Runaways waited impatiently for the miniature hen to make its diagnosis.
    “The Squoracle possesses the veracity of the elements of the present,” whispered the Lunatrix in Oksa’s ear by way of an explanation. “It can go where the knowledge of others cannot venture. The truth is always complete in its comprehension of the world and it never encounters errors. We can develop a total confidence: the Squoracle will provide an explication of the problem that has affected the picture.”
    “Shhh!” spat the Squoracle, glaring furiously at the Lunatrix. “How do you expect me to