The Eternal Flame

  Feeling fully alive again, he leaned forward to hug the horse’s neck. He felt her mane, wet with sweat, against his cheek. Whatever is to come, Ahearna, I am grateful for all you have given me. This feeling—and this flight.

  “That is not all I have given you, Dark Flame. For you also have the chance, small as it is, to save many worlds.” She spun around, wide wings outstretched, ears cocked forward. “Behold,” she declared, “the Heart of Pegasus.”

  An iridescent circle, enormous beyond anything Tamwyn had ever imagined, glowed before them. They were merely a mote of dust compared to its long, sweeping rim; a speck of ash to its huge, shimmering flames. Its sheer size made it seem immutable, as well as invulnerable.

  Yet Tamwyn saw countless jagged cracks, as black as dead fire coals, inside the star. The cracks were spreading, too—growing rapidly larger, extinguishing the flames, like gouges from claws of darkness.

  “The work of the dragon,” said Ahearna grimly, following Tamwyn’s gaze. “It is time we confront him, you and I.”

  She bent her neck downward, flapping her wings briskly, which turned them toward a lower part of the rim. “He is down there, working his sorcery on the star. Just as he was when I—”

  She never finished. For she, like Tamwyn, had suddenly realized that the dragon was nowhere to be seen.

  Ahearna flattened her wings, preparing to soar downward for a closer look. At that instant, however, Tamwyn heard something he’d never expected. A voice! Elli’s voice. It didn’t seem possible, yet the voice sounded utterly real. Whether it had come to his mind or his ears, he couldn’t tell. But its message was crystal clear.

  “Tamwyn! Look out!”

  He yanked the horse’s mane violently, making her veer sharply to the left. Even as she whinnied angrily, an enormous black tail snapped like a whip at the exact place they had been flying. It missed them by so little that its wind brushed Ahearna’s wing, fluttering her feathers.

  “Rhita Gawr,” shouted Tamwyn. “Behind us!”

  20 • Two Armies

  With a loud crackle of green flames, Brionna fell through the portal. She landed on her hands and knees on the damp brown soil, but bounced to her feet with elven agility. Even as she shifted the position of her quiver of arrows, which had dug into the scar on her back, her deep green eyes scanned the surrounding terrain.

  Mudroot’s rolling plains stretched in all directions. Under the clear mid-day starlight, the landscape of Malóch fairly glowed with a uniform brown color, broken only by the flickering green light of the portal, and by the darker shadows of mud-covered boulders. Yet Brionna knew that this land would soon be stained with a new color: the red of blood.

  For these were the Plains of Isenwy.

  From the portal where she stood, she had no difficulty seeing the two opposing armies that had already gathered. Only an unbroken swath of muddy flats, less than half a league wide, separated the two camps. Yet a gulf immeasurably wider separated their views of the world—which was why this battle would decide that world’s fate.

  Fortunately, the portal was much closer to the army that included her fellow elves, as well as others who cherished the Avalon she loved—the Avalon of free and magical beings who tried, at least, to live in harmony and mutual respect. Immediately, Brionna recognized some elves she knew from Woodroot, as well as Waterroot. Among them was her childhood friend, Aileen, who was training to become a master woodworker. Catching Aileen’s eye, Brionna nodded in greeting. In response, her friend blew a kiss for good luck.

  As Brionna blew a kiss in return, she wondered, Will we ever again drink hazelnut tea together in the boughs of your elm tree home? She then fingered her braid anxiously, knowing that it was impossible to tell.

  She turned from Aileen, eager to view the other warriors in the free people’s army. But right away, she felt struck by how little they resembled warriors at all. She could see, milling about, forty or fifty of Lleu’s fellow priests and priestesses, all wearing the Drumadians’ greenish brown robe with a clasp carved in the shape of an oak tree. Unlike the elves, none of them carried bows and arrows; only a few even held swords or spears. By their sides (or, in some cases, on their shoulders) were their faithful maryths—squirrels, stags, does, hawks, dogs, lizards, owls, sprites, or tree spirits. Seeing all the maryths, who had originally been paired with Drumadians so that humans would never forget their basic connection to other living creatures, Brionna frowned, saddened by the limits of such a worthy ideal. And by the many deaths that those limits would cause.

  Joining the elves and Drumadians were over a hundred women and men who had resisted the call of Belamir’s Humanity First movement. Although they seemed, for the most part, sturdier than the priests and priestesses, they were clearly not battle-trained soldiers. Many looked as if they had never fought with anything more dangerous than a plow, while struggling to dig furrows in some rocky field. The few weapons they carried seemed flimsy or rusted from lack of use.

  With relief, she also spotted some people who could hold their own on the battlefield. These included three or four giants, brandishing uprooted trees that could be used as clubs. At least a score of sturdy-looking dwarves marched nearby, carrying double-bladed axes on their shoulders. And more than a dozen tree spirits, with powerful limbs and roots, stood among the crowd.

  Suddenly she glimpsed a group of eaglefolk circling overhead, their broad wings outstretched. Her heart leaped, and not just because those people made such superb warriors. But her excitement faded swiftly, for none of them was the eagleman she most wanted to see.

  As she stood next to the crackling flames of the portal, wondering what had become of Scree, a band of mist faeries buzzed past, so close that their whirring blue wings nearly brushed against her cheek. The sight of them instantly knocked her thoughts back to the present moment: So even the faery folk have come to defend Avalon! Within seconds, she also noticed a cluster of buttery yellow starflower faeries, and a few green-clad moss faeries who carried miniature slingshots.

  Then, off to the side, she saw a group of armored people whose presence here surprised her even more than the faeries. Flamelons. Their orange, upturned eyes glowed wrathfully as they stoked their fires, using specially treated wood that could burn for hours with almost the heat of lava. With the flamelons stood several huge fire oxen—beasts who could easily impale gobsken on their long scarlet horns, or pull heavy loads into battle.

  And the flamelons had indeed brought some heavy loads. Brionna couldn’t help but gawk when she saw some of their massive (and highly inventive) weaponry, most of which she’d only heard about in her grandfather’s tales. There were gigantic bows that stood on iron braces so they could send burning spears for more than a league, a pair of great catapults, and an enormous wheel that could shoot flaming balls of tar at the enemy. As if those weapons weren’t enough, the flamelons also possessed piles of gleaming metal swords, axes, hammers, spears, and spiked maces, all expertly crafted in their famous forges. On top of that, as Brionna had learned from her grandfather, flamelons could hurl firebolts directly from their own hands—although they did so only as a last resort, since the effort left them severely weakened.

  The elf maiden watched them, hands on her hips. What amazed her most was not that this warlike people had come all the way from Fireroot to join this battle. No, what struck her more than anything was that they had decided to join this side of the battle. After all, many flamelons actually worshiped Rhita Gawr. They viewed him not as a god of war, as did virtually everyone else in Avalon, but as a god of creation, who led their people to new heights of power. Since their bitter defeat, along with the dark elves and fire dragons, in the terrible War of Storms centuries before, the flamelons hadn’t attacked any other realms. And yet their fiery, warlike culture still persisted in their homeland—leading to frequent battles between clans. Even their realm’s only flower, firebloom, seemed to exemplify their culture: It thrived only on ground recently scorched by flames.

&nbsp
; Still, Brionna could guess why the flamelons had decided to join with their former enemies, elves and humans and eaglefolk, to defend the old order. Above all else, flamelons prized their freedom. So they had come here not out of any love for Avalon, or its wondrous diversity of creatures. Rather, they had come to fight for their freedom to live as they had always lived—fiercely and independently.

  Just as she started to turn away, to take a look at the other army that they would soon have to light, she spotted one more figure. A figure that made her catch her breath. It was an elderly bard, with a beard that stuck out on both sides, a silly grin, and a large, lopsided hat. He fit exactly the description Elli had given her of that old bard from Woodroot—the one who had led Elli and the others to Brionna’s side just in time to save her life after she’d been mauled by ghoulacas. Now she peered closely at the old fellow, just to make sure she wasn’t mistaken. But he ambled off, disappearing into the crowd.

  At that instant, the portal crackled loudly. Brionna spun around just as Lleu and Catha arrived. While Lleu spilled out of the green flames, tumbling onto the damp ground, the silver-winged falcon shot into the air. She circled gracefully, eyeing the two armies, before landing back on the gangly priest’s shoulder.

  Lleu brushed some mud off his cheek, then faced Brionna. “So we’re not too late?”

  “No,” she answered gravely. “We’re just in time for all the killing.”

  “Maybe this war can still be—”

  “Avoided? No chance. Just take a look at our allies over there.” She waved at the army on the nearby rise. “They’ve come from all over Avalon to fight. And, if necessary, to die.”

  Lleu didn’t answer. For his attention had been caught by the sight of the opposing force, assembling half a league to the north. Brionna, too, turned that way—and gasped. Not because of the ferocious warriors she could see, but because of their sheer numbers.

  Several thousand gobsken, their armored breastplates glinting in the starlight, had gathered on the plains. They stood around carts loaded with weapons, tended dung fires, and scuffled among themselves. Their commander, a burly man with many blades dangling from his belt, strode among them, barking commands and occasionally slapping them with the flat of his broadsword.

  Brionna’s whole body tensed, for she recognized that man immediately. Harlech. You murderer! You gave me this scar on my back. And, a thousand times worse, you and that sorcerer you serve killed Granda.

  Her fist tightened around the handle of her cedar longbow. As much as it violated her most basic principles to kill any creature—and worst of all, to kill for pleasure—she desperately wanted to kill that man. And surely would, if he came within range of her arrows. That she felt this way sickened her inside, yet she couldn’t shake the fact that it was true.

  I’m not worthy of elfhood, she thought grimly. I’m not even worthy of love—not Elli’s, not Scree’s, not anyone’s. But I will have my revenge.

  A blur of motion in the sky above the gobsken warriors caught her eye. Ghoulacas! The mere glimpse of their nearly transparent wings and bodies, and their bloodred talons and beaks as sharp as daggers, made her jaw clench. Bred by the sorcerer White Hands to serve as his spies and assassins, they would be terrible foes indeed.

  She lowered her gaze again. Harlech could no longer be seen among the gobsken. But she did pick out someone she hated almost as much: that arrogant human, Morrigon. He won’t be pleased to find me still alive. Or to find an elvish arrow in his heart.

  Then, with a shudder, she glimpsed the man—the changeling—he served. Belamir! Still disguised in the garb of a gentle gardener, he strolled among hundreds of men and women who followed his pernicious teachings. Among them, to her astonishment, was one woman who wore the robe of a Drumadian. And then, spotting a hint of green on the woman’s chin, she recognized who it was.

  “Llynia,” she declared, pointing so that Lleu could see for himself.

  The tall priest scowled the instant he spotted her, while the hawk upon his shoulder released an angry whistle. “How,” Lleu asked, “could a priestess of Avalon fall so far? Knowingly or not, she now serves Rhita Gawr.”

  “Along with hordes of gobsken and ghoulacas.” Brionna’s sharp eyes roved over the scene. “Plus at least three trolls and half a dozen ogres.”

  “And don’t forget the gnomes! There must be five hundred of them, each carrying a deadly spear.”

  The elf maiden blew a discouraged breath. “About the only dreadful creatures they don’t have over there are dragons.”

  “We’ve seen enough of those already,” Lleu said dryly. “Fortunately, Highlord Hargol can’t leave the waters of Brynchilla. Or he’d certainly be here to gobble us up.”

  Brionna nodded. “The rest of Avalon’s dragons—those who can fly, at least—are probably just waiting out the battle to see who wins. And what spoils they can find.”

  “Count ourselves fortunate. No one should be forced to battle a dragon.”

  “Fortunate?” She kicked at a small clump of mud near the edge of the portal. “That is the very last word I’d use to describe us.” She paused, as her brow furrowed. “Lleu, you don’t think that maybe the superior force we heard rumors about—the force that’s supposed to be joining those gobsken soon—could be a dragon?”

  The priest’s scowl deepened. “Let’s hope not! But that possibility is another reason why the elves’ plan to attack as soon as possible makes sense.”

  Brionna shook her head. “Nothing about this war makes sense.”

  Just then the portal sputtered and crackled, sending up a spurt of green fire. Out rolled Shim, landing facedown in the mud. He sat up, wobbling on his wide rump. Grumbling to himself, he wiped a clump off his oversized nose.

  “Yucksy mud,” he said unhappily, scraping off some more. “This is a disgustingly greeting! Certainly, definitely—”

  “Absolutely,” finished Brionna, helping him stand. Peering into his sad old eyes, she said, “Really, Shim. You don’t need to stay.”

  Puzzled, he scrunched his nose. “Won’t feed who hay? What the queen’s beans is you saying, Rowanna?”

  She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it and just shook her head.

  The little giant frowned, understanding what had happened. “It’s me tiny ears again, rightly?” He swung his small fist through the air. “If only I was still bigly, and not so very shrunkelled! Then I could hears you, really and truly.”

  Brionna began to nod, when a new sound distracted her. Shouts of anger. Coming from the free peoples’ army! Some elves and men were arguing, shoving each other roughly. One elf had already grabbed his bow and was about to nock an arrow.

  “Wait!” she cried, sprinting over to them. Behind her ran Lleu, with Catha clinging tightly to his shoulder. Far behind them waddled Shim.

  Leaping over a pair of seated women, Brionna hurled herself into the fray. She knocked against the elf’s bow, deflecting the arrow just as it began to fly. The arrow plunged harmlessly into the mud at her feet.

  “What are you doing, Edan?” she demanded, panting. She glared at the elf. “We don’t have time to fight among ourselves.”

  “We do if those hoolahs in men’s clothing don’t apologize!” he shot back. “You stay out of this, Brionna.”

  “Who are you calling a hoolah?” A brawny man wearing a leather blacksmith’s apron shoved her aside. Grimacing, he faced the male elf. “Take that back.”

  “Not until you take back what you said about El Urien.”

  The blacksmith spat on the ground.

  “Stop, I say!” cried Brionna. “You two are no better than gobsken.”

  “She’s right,” Lleu declared, stepping in between them. “Enough of this, right now.” For emphasis, Catha screeched and clacked her beak.

  “Go back to where you came from, priest,” growled another man. “You, too, elf.”

  Edan, the wood elf, nocked another arrow.

  The blacksmith raised his fist, about to strik
e him, when—

  A lute strummed softly. Whether from the sheer unexpectedness of it, or from some strange quality of the music, all the arguing suddenly ceased.

  Apparently unaware of the quarrel that had been just about to explode, the old bard walked right into the middle of the group, swaying jauntily as he strummed. His silly grin seemed wider than ever. The pointed tips of his sideways-growing beard glowed silver in the starlight, making him look like one of the furry-faced monkeys from the jungles of Africqua.

  As he passed by, he stopped strumming to raise his hand to the brim of his lopsided hat. With a wink at Brionna, he lifted the hat, revealing the blue, teardrop-shaped museo who sat upon his bald head. Instantly, the museo started to hum—a richly layered sound that reached both high and low at once, thrumming like the deepest river and whistling like the loftiest wind. The hum rolled outward, swelling like a wave that washed over everyone nearby.

  How long the bard and museo remained, Brionna couldn’t quite remember afterward. She wasn’t even sure that she hadn’t imagined the whole thing. All she knew for certain was that, like the others around her, she found herself slightly dazed. If there had been an argument, she couldn’t remember what it was about. And if the bard and museo had really been there a moment ago, they were now nowhere to be seen.

  She turned to Lleu, who looked equally bewildered. Even as she opened her mouth to ask him what he thought had happened, a voice rang out.

  “Parley! The gobsken army wants a parley.”

  Brionna swung around to face the opposing force across the muddy plain. Sure enough, someone was waving a white flag, tied to the end of a spear. She shook her head, surprised that they would want to talk before the battle. That was a thoroughly ungobskenlike sign of reason—or perhaps even fear.

  Then she looked closer, and her puzzlement deepened. For the person holding the white flag was none other than Harlech.