The Eternal Flame

  He plunged down to the muddy plains, landing right behind Harlech. Hearing the rustle of wings, the hulking man whirled around. The claw, glinting only slighdy, slapped against his chest.

  “So,” Harlech sneered, “Ye finally decided to show yer gutless self, did ye?”

  “Sure,” answered Scree. “You were just so much fun to play with last time, I couldn’t resist.”

  The man growled, raising his sword and hatchet. “C’mere an’ fight, then. Or are ye too afraid?”

  Scree circled slowly, keeping his wings open just enough to fly at an instant’s notice. The feathers shimmered, bristling as he moved; the veins in his chest and thighs pulsed with power. His talons, as sharp as daggerpoints, carved furrows in the muddy ground. Should he attack now, he wondered, hoping that the claw hadn’t yet regained its deadly power? Or should he wait until he dodged the next blast, before rushing in for the kill?

  Suddenly Harlech tripped on a fallen gobsken, stumbling so badly that he nearly dropped his weapons. Sensing his opportunity, Scree abruptly made his decision. With a whoosh of wings, he leaped into the air and launched himself at his foe, talons extended.

  A trick! Harlech, having faked his fall to lure Scree closer, swung around and hurled his hatchet at the eagleman’s head. Scree ducked, barely avoiding the blow. But in that same instant Harlech lunged, slashing his broadsword with terrible ferocity.

  Scree jumped backward, flapping his wings to rise out of reach—but not before Harlech’s blade sliced his lower leg. Blood ran down the feathers, turning his talons red.

  “First blood fer me, wingboy.”

  Scree hovered above the warrior’s head. His eyes gleamed angrily. “Next blood for me, you worm.”

  Heedless of the risk from Harlech’s claw, Scree released a screeching cry and fell on his enemy. Feinting with his uninjured talon, he slammed the bony edge of his wing into Harlech’s head. The big man reeled, but somehow kept his balance. He planted his boots on the mud, ignoring the bleeding gash on his temple.

  While their battle continued, another warrior was wandering not far away. Despite his best efforts, Shim felt quite useless, unable to assist his army. He was simply too small—or, to use his word, shrunkelled—to assist anyone; too slow, with his lumbering waddle, to chase anyone; and too deaf, with his old ears, to hear anyone. So he wandered the battlefield aimlessly, searching for some way to be helpful.

  At last, he found it. There, just beyond the body of a dead fire ox, a giant sat crumpled on the ground. The immense creature was being mauled by no fewer than six ghoulacas, who were trying viciously to peck out their enemy’s eyes. Only the size of the giant’s hands, wrapped tightly around his or her face, was keeping the attackers from success. But those hands, by now severely shredded by the ghoulaca’s talons, wouldn’t last much longer. The victim then did something exceedingly rare for any giant: He or she whimpered painfully, trembling under the assault.

  Shim stared, aghast. Although he had often been shunned by other giants since being cursed to shrink down to a dwarfs size, that cry of pain from one of his own people brought back all his old loyalties. A frenzy of wrath overwhelmed him. Waving his little arms, he charged forward, shouting, “Away with you, beastly birds! Neverly harm another giant, or Shim will plucker every one of your unsightly feathers! Certainly, I—”

  He tripped on one of the fire ox’s horns and fell with a splat on the ground. At that same instant, a band of eaglefolk led by Cuttayka swooped down on the ghoulacas, chasing them away. By the time Shim raised his muddy face, all that remained of the killer birds were their frightened shrieks echoing in the distance.

  “Hah,” chuckled Shim, wiping a glob of mud from his eye. “Guess I’m still a bit giantly yet.”

  Slowly, the enormous giant he’d saved lowered those bloodied hands and gazed at him with limitless gratitude. It was the sort of look that only a true hero deserves.

  Shim, however, stepped backward. His eyes widened with terror; his entire body, right down to the tip of his swollen nose, trembled: For he recognized this giant just as if she had stepped out of his worst nightmare. It was none other than Bonlog Mountain-Mouth—the Very giant who had cursed him centuries ago!

  He turned to run, waddling as fast as he possibly could. But it wasn’t fast enough. Bonlog Mountain-Mouth grabbed him between her thumb and forefinger. She lifted him, legs still churning, into the air, until he was suspended right above her huge, drooling mouth.

  Shim nearly passed out. That was the very mouth whose gargantuan, saliva-drenched lips had tried to kiss him at the Battle of the Withered Spring. Even though, in that ancient battle, he had accidentally saved her life, as soon as she tried to thank him with a kiss, he had fled into the mountains. To punish Shim for this humiliation, she had cursed him to lose his giant size. And still not satisfied, she had hunted Shim for many years afterward. The wrath of a spurned giantess knows no bounds.

  Now, Shim knew, she would finally have her revenge. “Please, mistress Mountain-Mouth,” he begged, “have some mercifully on this poor shrunkelled fellow.”

  She ignored his pleas. As rivers of spit gushed from her cavernous mouth, she brought him closer. He closed his eyes, certain now that she was going to eat him.

  Instead, she puckered her enormous lips and did something that seemed, to Shim, even worse. She kissed him! Her lips smacked so loud that he thought the whole world had exploded.

  To his astonishment, it had not. Nor had Bonlog Mountain-Mouth any more punishments in mind, although that one had been horrible enough. She dropped him back on the muddy ground, then stood to depart. Even though it was hard for Shim to see through the mound of sticky saliva that oozed down his face, he thought that, perhaps, she gave him a wink.

  As she stomped off, shaking the plains with her weight, Shim felt a strange sensation. All the cries and shouts and clangs of the surrounding battle abruptly halted, making him wonder whether the noise of her kiss had destroyed what little hearing he had left. At the same time, though, he felt a warm breeze, laden with the scent of honey. It stirred his scraggly white hair, even as it entered his body, stirring ancient memories in his bones.

  Miraculously, his nose started to swell even larger. His hands, too, grew in size, as did his feet. All across his body, skin expanded. His woolen vest, which for so long had billowed around his chest from being too large, grew tight—and then started to rip into shreds.

  Shim, incredulous, rubbed his eyes with his swelling hands. “I is getting big,” he cried. “As big as the bigliest tree!”

  28 • A Faraway Aroma

  Across the battlefield from the astonished Shim, a tall priest fought bravely. He also fought alone, except for the badly wounded falcon who lay cradled in his arm.

  Lleu slashed brutally at a line of gobsken warriors. He spun and dodged with agility surprising for someone not trained in swordsmanship, holding the injured Catha in one arm and his broadsword in the other. Several gobsken who confronted him found themselves sliced or skewered. Others, surprised by his ferocity, simply backed away, certain that one lone priest couldn’t get very far in their ranks.

  Lleu, however, never intended to advance very far. He had only one goal—beyond hoping that Catha might somehow survive, which he knew would take more help than mere mortals could provide. That goal was to break through the line of gobsken to the solitary person standing behind them, a person he meant to challenge.

  Belamir. Although he wore the soiled garb of a gardener, and carried no weapons beyond spades and shears, the expression on his face didn’t fit the image of a thoughtful man of the soil. His eyes spoke of hatred, both for the fools who followed him and the greater fools who dared oppose him. Coldly, he watched the slaughter of the women and men of his village, toying impatiently with his necklace of garlic bulbs.

  He was eager for this battle to end. Only then, as Kulwych had instructed, could he reveal his true identity: Neh Gawthrech, feared even among his fellow changelings. And only then could h
e have the satisfaction of destroying anyone still alive who might pose a threat to the sorcerer’s absolute rule. Or to his own role as Kulwych’s chief aide. That included Harlech, whose puny brain could fit inside an acorn, and Morrigon, whose simpleminded brutality had been useful to Belamir’s Humanity First movement, but who would almost certainly resist serving under a changeling.

  He rubbed his chin, using his hand with the broken thumbnail. As he watched the course of the battle, another look slowly came into his eyes. A look of satisfaction. His time had almost arrived. Although the fighting had already lasted beyond what he had anticipated, it wouldn’t last much longer, thanks to Harlech’s claw—a poor substitute for a changeling, but still reasonably effective.

  Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he saw the glint of a blade. He spun around, so swiftly his feet kicked up flecks of mud. Placing his hands on his hips, he faced Lleu, who now stood only a few paces away. The man’s thick eyebrows arched severely, while blood stained his torn robe; he looked much more like a warrior than a priest.

  Even so, Belamir shrugged calmly. “I suppose you have the temerity to think you can kill me.”

  “Yes, I do, by the light of Dagda.” Lleu advanced, pointing his broadsword straight at his foe. “Because I know what you really are. And how fast you can move.”

  “Do you, now? But do you know that, when you saw me tear out the heart of that guard, I was moving quite slowly, just to savor the experience?”

  Lleu kept advancing.

  The changeling’s gaze flitted across the mayhem of battle. No one was looking his way, so he could safely dispose of this foolish priest. And if there happened to be any witnesses . . . why, it would take just another instant to destroy them, too. Besides, the whole conflict was now almost over, so there was nothing to lose.

  Just as Lleu took another step toward him, Neh Gawthrech instantly changed forms. Fangs, curved like the blades of scythes, suddenly appeared on the now-triangular head, along with scarlet eyes that flamed with wrath. Deadly claws sprouted from long, scaly arms. Muscular legs flexed, down to the clawed toes, ready to rip apart their victim. The changeling pounced, leaping right over Lleu’s sword, and then—

  Crashed to the muddy ground, an arrow buried deep in his chest. The changeling writhed, clawed at the air, then fell completely still.

  Lleu was so surprised that he could only stare in disbelief at the motionless body. Finally, he looked up. The archer whose arrow had saved him was just emerging from behind a muddy boulder. Lleu took a sharp breath, for the sight was almost as much of a shock as what had just occurred.

  “Morrigon,” he said in amazement. “You—”

  “Saved yer life, I know.” The old man stared at the ground as he stepped closer, examining the scaly, reptilian form of the beast he had unwittingly served for so many years. He ran his hand through the white hair above one ear, his expression a mixture of outrage, confusion, and disgust.

  At last, he turned his bloodshot eye toward the priest. “Don’t get the wrong idea, now,” he snarled. “The ideas he spoke about, the rules he taught us—all that was right an’ true.”

  Lleu glanced down at the bloodied body of Catha, whose eyes were just barely open. “As true as the form of a changeling.”

  “Don’t get smirky, priest! I shot him, yes, but I was jest about to loose me arrow at you. Then he changed—I saw him meself—an’, well . . . I switched me target.” His voice dropped lower. “But don’t fool yerself. I don’t like ye any better than I did afore.”

  Turning back to the corpse, Morrigon kicked the changeling’s clawed hand. “How could ye do that?” he railed bitterly. “To all o’ us who believed.”

  “Morrigon,” said Lleu gently, lowering his sword. “I know this is hard for you. But will you help me now? Will you bring others over here to see the real Belamir, so we can finally stop this war?”

  Slowly, the old man lifted his face, distorted by feelings he couldn’t begin to describe. “No,” he declared. “Belamir, mayhaps, was false. But not his cause.”

  The lanky priest peered at him sternly. “Are you sure?”

  Morrigon averted his eyes. For an instant he seemed to waver. Then, abruptly, he reached for another arrow, nocked it, and aimed at Lleu. “Now, get yerself out o’ me sight! Afore I do what I should’ve done last time.”

  Before Lleu could answer, a gobsken warrior leaped at him. Still clutching the falcon, Lleu slashed with his sword. Once again, he was fighting for his life.

  Morrigon made no effort to help him. In fact, he didn’t even bother to watch. For he was staring, once again, at the contorted body of the changeling at his feet.

  Not many paces away, someone else who wore a Drumadian robe was fighting for her life. Llynia jumped backward, desperately trying to escape the fire ox eager to impale her on his horns. The ox’s nostrils flared as he charged again. Once more, she spun away—but her foot slipped in the mud.

  She reeled and crumpled to the ground. Now she was helpless! The ox lowered his fearsome head for the kill. Starlight glinted on his horns, as red as her own blood.

  Just then, at the edge of her vision, she spied a band of gnomes, her allies, raising their spears to attack the vicious beast. But she knew they were too late. Even if their spears struck down the ox, he would have already killed her.

  With an angry bellow, the ox lunged forward. His horrible horns shot straight at Llynia. She shut her eyes, too frightened even to utter a final prayer as she died.

  But she didn’t die. She heard the gnomes’ spears pierce the beast’s hide; she heard his roar of pain and the thud of his body hitting the ground. Why, though, hadn’t she felt his horns plunging into her chest?

  She opened her eyes. The sight that greeted her was almost as terrible as the prospect of her own death. For she suddenly realized that someone had thrown herself onto the ox’s horns to take the impact, trading Llynia’s life for her own.

  Fairlyn.

  Llynia crawled to the side of the lilac elm, this gentle creature who had taken a maryth’s vow of loyalty to her years ago—and had stayed true to that vow until Llynia herself broke their compact by leaving the Society of the Whole. Seeing the horns anchored deep into Fairlyn’s trunk, just below her large brown eyes that now stared lifelessly at the sky, Llynia winced painfully. She knew that Fairlyn, like all tree spirits, could live on indefinitely after her host tree had died. Yet she also knew that a tree spirit could still perish, either from grief or from wounds received in battle.

  And now, thought Llynia, you are dying from both.

  Blinking back her tears, she gazed at Fairlyn, whose branches had snapped and whose trunk had split wide open with the force of the blow. Most of the purple buds that dotted Fairlyn’s boughs were covered in mud. And, as a sure sign that her life had ended, she emitted no smells at all. The only aroma that surrounded her now was the stench of death.

  Llynia, once so proud that she believed the Lady of the Lake would never want to see anyone but her, lowered her head onto Fairlyn’s torn trunk. And sobbed.

  Suddenly she felt a soft tapping against her back. She sat up, just as the lone branch that had touched her so tenderly fell away. She swallowed, unsure whether it had been just a gust of wind . . . or something more.

  Then, so subtly she could not be certain it was real, she smelled the faraway aroma of lilac blossoms.

  29 • To Do What Mortals Must

  The battle upon the plains of Isenwy raged on. Mud and blood, in equal proportions, splattered faces, clothing, and weaponry.

  Rumors swirled like whirlwinds across the battlefield. Some of them claimed that the warrior Harlech carried a whole slew of terrible, invincible weapons. Others predicted dire events—that the stench of corpses would attract more flesh-eating ghoulacas to the battle, or that the flamelons would soon betray their allies and join with the gobsken. But most of the rumors involved the superior forces that were expected to come soon to the gobsken’s aid. While some people guessed that
those forces would be another army of gobsken or a company of trolls, most people believed that the new forces would be even more powerful—and even more devastating.

  A dragon, perhaps. Or a group of dragons, whose leader would bear the sorcerer Kulwych. Or, worst of all, the spirit warlord Rhita Gawr.

  No one, it seemed, knew the truth. But the expectation of such an arrival felt just as tangible as Malóch’s muddy terrain. As a result, both sides battled still harder: the soldiers of Kulwych, out of growing hope; the allies of Avalon, out of mounting dread.

  All the while, individuals fought and died, cursed and prayed. At the same moment that Lleu slashed away with his sword, and Llynia wept over the body of her friend, another person nearby fought valiantly—but with an unusual weapon.

  A lute.

  The old bard, surrounded by gnomes, swung at them awkwardly with his musical instrument. All the while, he tried (with mixed results) not to trip over his own cloak. As his lute swept through the air, nearly brushing the gnomes’ spear tips, it trembled with deep, whooshing notes.

  Whether because they were simply amused, or because they just weren’t sure what to make of this bizarre warrior with the lopsided hat and the beard that grew sideways, the gnomes didn’t immediately hurl their spears. Instead, they merely watched. They grunted among themselves, keeping just out of reach of the swinging lute.

  Finally, one of the gnomes climbed on top of a mud-covered boulder and called out some harsh, guttural commands. Slightly taller than the others, he wore jagged stripes of blue body paint on his chest and arms. On his three-fingered hands, red ceramic rings gleamed in the starlight. Hearing him shout, the rest of the gnomes ceased talking, planted their feet, and lifted their spears higher.

  The warriors were just about to hurl their weapons at the bard, ending his songs forever, when an arrow whizzed through the air. It struck one of the gnomes, who lurched backward and splatted on the mud. An instant later, another arrow flew. This one caught a gnome in the thigh, making him crumple in pain.