In the confusion that followed, Brionna sprinted over to the bard, her loose elven robe fluttering as she ran. “Come!” she cried, tugging on his sleeve. “Hurry, old man.”
His wrinkled face shone with gratitude. Grasping his lute firmly, he started to follow her.
Too slowly. The gnomes’ leader stamped his foot on the boulder and barked some new commands. Quickly, his band of warriors regrouped. They surrounded the elf and the bard, grunting irately among themselves. In unison, they hefted their spears, ready to throw.
Brionna didn’t need to glance around to know that they couldn’t escape. Too many spears were aimed at them. Even if she was able to get off one final shot at the leader, both she and the bard would surely die.
Gravely, she turned to the elder. What she saw in his dark eyes, though, surprised her. There was none of the despair that she herself was feeling. Rather, the bard looked at her with an expression that seemed inexplicably peaceful.
At that instant, the gnomes’ leader released a loud shout. It was not a command—but a shout of rage. For the mud-covered boulder beneath him had suddenly started to swell, expanding on all sides.
Though he waved his arms wildly to keep his balance, the blue-painted gnome fell over backward. He hit the ground with a spray of mud. Two gnomes rushed over to drag him away from the spot, while another dropped his spear and ran, disappearing into the surrounding fray.
Meanwhile, the boulder continued to grow, its surface bubbling like brown lava. Slowly it lengthened, growing taller and taller. At last, when it stood nearly twice the height of Brionna and the bard, it sprouted four slender arms, each with three delicate fingers as long as one of the arrows in Brionna’s quiver. Then a rounded head appeared atop its sloping shoulders. Deep-set eyes, as brown as the rest of its body, peered down at everyone.
The elf could only stare back in utter amazement. She knew, from her grandfather’s tales, that she was looking at a mudmaker—one of the most elusive creatures in all of Avalon. And also one of the most magical. According to lore, these strange beings had been given a wondrous power by the wizard Merlin himself: the power to Make, to form new creatures out of the mud of Malóch. Creatures as beautiful as the caitlinott bird, whose every feather shone with all the colors of the rainbow, or as immense as the elephaunt, whose enormous bodies broke the first trails through the jungles of Africqua, had been crafted by the mudmakers.
The tall brown figure raised her many arms. “Flee, gnomes!” she commanded. “Or feel you shall the wrath of Aelonnia of Isenwy.”
With a round of guttural shrieks, most of the gnomes scurried off. Only the leader remained, a scowl carved on his face. Shakily, he raised his spear. But when Aelonnia raised one of her flat feet, squelching noisily, and took a step in his direction, he released a terrified whimper and fled into the battlefield.
The mudmaker swayed, then turned to the young elf and the old bard. For a moment she studied Brionna, then said in a resonant whisper: “A child of Tressimir you are, I perceive.”
The elf maiden swallowed. Nervously, she bowed, feeling the pinch of the scar across her back. “His granddaughter. My name is Brionna.”
Aelonnia’s round head bobbed slightly. “So it is. Your name means strength in the ancient tongue of Lost Fincayra. And feel sure, I do, that you have needed all your strength in recent weeks.”
Brionna trembled, but managed a nod.
The mudmaker’s deep eyes turned to the bard. As she peered at him, her long fingers moved thoughtfully, as if they were strumming an invisible lute. “And you,” she observed, “a most unusual warrior do seem.”
“Olewyn the bard, at your service.” He grasped the brim of his hat, whose crown curled like the petals of a spinflower, another of the mudmakers’ creations. Then, with a flourish, he bowed.
Rising again, he declared, “It is an honor to see you, Aelonnia of Isenwy. As it is to visit Malóch, even at this time of terrible conflict.”
His hand stroked his silvery beard, which shimmered in the starlight. “For despite all the bloodletting around us, Malóch remains the true soil of Merlin’s magical seed, still blessed with the seven sacred Elements of Avalon:
“Earth, mud of birth;
Air, free to breathe;
Fire, spark of light;
Water, sap to grow;
Life, fruit of soul;
LightDark, stars and space;
Mystery, now and always.”
Aelonnia drew a deep, slow breath, as if she were inhaling the power of those words. “All the gifts of Dagda and Lorilanda, they are.”
Brionna, though, furrowed her brow. With a discouraged wave at the battle raging all around them, she asked, “Where are Dagda and Lorilanda now, when wre most need them?”
“Doing what they must, they are.” The mudmaker’s delicate fingers stirred, weaving mysterious designs in the air. “Just as we mortals ourselves are obliged to do.”
Even as Aelonnia’s rich whisper filled Brionna’s mind, pushing aside briefly the din of battle, the elf maiden thought of another mortal who was doing what he must. Scree, she called silently, I wish I knew where to find you in all this mess! Are you still fighting Harlech? And still alive?
The answer to both questions, as it happened, was yes.
“C’mere, ye wretched liddle bird,” snarled Harlech, panting. His boots clomped heavily on the mud as he circled his enemy.
Scree glared at the big man who stood opposite him. The deadly claw, while shining more brightly by the second, did not yet glow with the same intensity as it had just before it had shot that evil beam at Brionna. Scree guessed that he still had some time before Harlech could use the claw against him. Yet he had no idea how much time.
He gave his wings a shake, trying to rid them of exhaustion. “This battle has gone on long enough,” he growled.
“Aye, it has.” Harlech wiped the mud off his broadsword by scraping it on the breastplate of a gobsken who lay moaning on the ground. Slowly, he kept circling, watching for an opening. “So c’mere, an’ I’ll end it.”
Abruptly, Scree stepped to the left, causing Harlech to shift his weight. Then, quick as a wingbeat, Scree moved back to the right again, throwing Harlech off balance for just an instant—long enough for the eagleman to spin around, one leg extended. A talon ripped across Harlech’s forearm, making him shout and drop his sword. He stumbled, trying to retrieve his weapon.
Wasting no time, Scree flapped his broad wings and leaped onto his foe, just as an eagle would pounce on a rat. Yet despite his injured arm, Harlech recovered with surprising speed. Even as the eagleman’s shadow fell over him, he whipped a dagger from his belt and thrust the blade upward.
Scree screeched and reeled backward. He fell hard, as blood poured down his wing, soaking his silver feathers. The soggy soil clung to him, making it hard for him to rise. No sooner had he finally sat up than he found himself staring right at the tip of Harlech’s sword.
Scree clacked his jaw, beaklike. Trapped! He couldn’t even stand, let alone run or fly.
To his surprise, Harlech slowly lowered the weapon. Scree started to push himself to his feet, ignoring the pain that coursed through his wing. Then he saw Harlech’s malicious grin. And he saw something else, even more disturbing.
Hanging under Harlech’s chin, the claw now glowed an intense shade of red. Scree knew what that meant, just as he knew that a torn wing was the least of his troubles.
30 • Final Seconds
For Tamwyn, the conflict in the sky rapidly worsened. As he watched many of the brave fire angels perish, his remaining hopes dimmed, until they were almost as dark as the seven stars of the Wizard’s Staff. Those stars, now open passageways to the Otherworld, gaped above the aerial battle like so many open wounds.
Tamwyn suffered all the more because he could hear, in his own mind, the tactical commands that Rhita Gawr kept sending to his force of immortal dragons. Unlike the dragons, who heard those commands because of the sorcery that bound the
m to their master, Tamwyn heard through his own innate power. But that made no difference in the end. Whenever Tamwyn caught one of Rhita Gawr’s commands, he pulled with all his strength on Basilgarrad’s long ear, steering the great green dragon toward the place where fire angels needed help. Yet time and time again, they arrived too late.
“No!” cried Tamwyn, as he realized that a horde of black dragons was about to swoop down onto some of Gwirion’s warriors. Since Gwirion’s band was busy fighting against a different group of foes, they would be caught completely unaware.
He leaned his full weight against his ally’s ear. Even as Basilgarrad whirled around, banking so sharply that the bones of his wings bent severely under the stress, the black dragons attacked. Their claws raked the fire angels’ backs, slashing their flesh so brutally that several of the flaming warriors died immediately. Their fires went out, leaving only charred bodies that spun downward into the realms far below.
Only two of the fire angels escaped through quick maneuvering. One of them, Tamwyn was glad to see, was Gwirion himself. The precious Golden Wreath still sat upon his brow, shining with the light of his flaming wings. Yet Tamwyn knew, as Gwirion surely did, that the Ayanowyn could not long survive. Their numbers were rapidly dwindling.
How, Tamwyn asked himself for the hundredth time, could they ever defeat this army of deathless dragons? By now, that lone goal occupied all his attention. He had given up trying to imagine how they could possibly drive their enemies back through the doorways to the Otherworld—let alone close those doorways forever.
“Hear me now, my warriors,” commanded Rhita Gawr, his thoughts echoing inside Tamwyn’s head. “It is time to finish off that ragtag group of mortals, to destroy them utterly, so that our invasion can proceed! Listen carefully to my instructions, even as you watch me eliminate my own final obstacle.”
Basilgarrad needed no warning from Tamwyn. His own senses, seasoned by many battles, told him of Rhita Gawr’s approach from behind. The green dragon veered, turning so fast that his passenger barely clung to his ear. At the instant they came around, Rhita Gawr swept past, close enough that Tamwyn could have reached out and struck his wingtip.
The black dragon roared with such force that the darkened stars themselves seemed to quiver. Then he spun around, even as his winged foe did the same. Wrathfully, the warlord of the Otherworld faced Basilgarrad and the insolent young wizard who rode him.
For a brief moment, the two enormous dragons hovered in the air, surveying each other. Ominous sparks suddenly flared in Rhita Gawr’s uninjured eye. Just before he released a bolt of black lightning, he issued final commands to his warriors. At the same time, Basilgarrad flapped his mighty wings and charged forward.
It was a charge, Tamwyn felt sure, that would end this battle at last. One way or the other.
• • •
“Time to end yer miserable liddle life,” snarled Harlech as he stared down at Scree.
He grasped the leather cord that held his most terrible weapon, the glowing claw. Its bright radiance touched his fingers, making them seem to be dripping with blood. His hand squeezed tighter with anticipation.
Despite the certainty that he was about to die, Scree lifted his head proudly. His yellow-rimmed eyes glowed with a brightness of their own. “What’s keeping you, Harlech? Have you lost your courage?”
The warrior’s grin only broadened. “It’s not about courage, wingboy.”
He raised his boot and kicked a clump of mud onto Scree’s torn wing. “It’s about a choice, a difficult choice, ye’ve forced me to make.”
“What’s that?”
Harlech chortled in satisfaction. “Which part to cut off first! Yer wings—er yer head.”
31 • Unexpected Talents
As Tamwyn and Scree, in two distant places, fought for their very lives, Elli did the same in another place. Not in the stars, or on a muddy plain, but deep underground—in the deepest cavern of the darkest realm.
Kulwych laughed softly as he examined her, slumped against the cavern’s rock wall. Water trickled down behind her, soaking her curls, but she paid no heed. Her face exuded despair.
Gloating, the sorcerer rubbed his pale hands together. “How inconvenient for you, my priestess! You have come all this way, with great difficulty no doubt, only to learn that your plan was fatally flawed.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the vengélano crystal that rested safely on its stone pedestal. Then he bent lower, bringing his mutilated face so close to Elli’s that she was forced to look into his empty eye socket. The pulsing red light from the crystal glinted on all the scabs and scar tissue, making the socket seem to crawl with maggots.
“You see,” he whispered, “my crystal is indestructible. Mmmyesss, completely indestructible.”
Elli shuddered and turned away, as much from this bitter news as from the sorcerer’s voice. Yet worst of all was the feeling that Kulwych was, indeed, correct. Her quest had been fatally flawed.
She shook her head of thick brown curls, thinking of all the mistakes she had made on this journey—starting with her decision to ignore the Sapphire Unicorn’s plea to go straight to the Lady of the Lake. She had led everyone into a pack of gnomes at Llynia’s temple. She had welcomed the death dreamer into her arms, almost killing both Nuic and herself. Even when she had tried to do something right, such as call to Tamwyn through the Galator, her very shout had gotten them captured by gobsken. Just as it had gotten old Grikkolo killed.
And now, she told herself grimly, your single most important task turns out to be impossible. How could she ever have been so foolish? Kulwych’s crystal—whose power, he said, reaches all the way to the stars—simply cannot be destroyed. At least not by me.
Nuic stirred in her lap. She gazed down at the pinnacle sprite, her loyal companion, watching his skin vibrate with an angry shade of scarlet as he glared at the sorcerer. Then his liquid eyes turned toward her. Simultaneously, his skin color shifted to orange, his way of signaling impatience. And with it came a ripple of lavender: his simple, quiet statement of affection.
She nodded, guessing his thoughts. You’re right, old friend. What’s the point of feeling sorry for myself? There’s so little time left! If I’m ever going to do something, it must be now.
She tried to straighten her back, but even that gesture seemed a challenge. It felt as if she were lifting an enormous weight, as heavy as all the rocks that lay between this deep cavern and the surface of Shadowroot. What, though, can I possibly do?
As if in answer, Kulwych spoke again in his grating whisper. “You can do something for me now, my priestess, mmmyesss. You can die.”
“That’s right, Kulwych,” declared another voice from the cavern’s open door. “But first, you can die.”
Kulwych instantly straightened. His lone eye peered at his new visitor, astonished as well as enraged. For just like Elli and Nuic, he had never expected to see this person again.
“Deth Macoll,” breathed Elli in disbelief. Nuic, in her arms, darkened to pitch black.
“Surprised to see me, my gumdrop?” The assassin’s sallow face twisted into a spiteful grin. “It would take far more than that little fall you devised to harm the great Deth Macoll. For unlike this amateur magician here, I am full of—shall we say, unexpected talents.”
Kulwych bristled, his pale hands squeezing into fists.
Without taking his flinty gray eyes off the sorcerer, Deth Macoll added in a voice that was all the more menacing for its softness, “I shall take care of you soon, gumdrop. You and your treacherous little sprite. And what a pleasure that will be! First, however, I have some plans for my dear friend Kulwych.”
Deth Macoll stepped fully into the cavern, the crystal’s red glow shining on his bald head. Despite his tattered jester’s garb, which had lost all but one of its tiny silver bells, he strode in casually, almost jauntily, swinging his cherry wood cane that held a hidden blade. When he was just three paces from Kulwych, though, he stopped abruptly. He p
lanted the tip of his cane on the stone floor. As its echo reverberated around the dank walls of the cavern, no one moved.
“Kulwych,” sneered the assassin. “How lovely to see you. It’s been too long.”
“Too long that you have annoyed me,” rasped the sorcerer. “But that, mmmyesss, will soon end.”
Quick as a striking snake, Deth Macoll leaped at his foe. He thrust his cane, blade extended, at Kulwych’s chest. The sorcerer, though, moved with equal speed. He sidestepped the thrust, then locked one of his hands around the assassin’s wrist. With revenge blazing in his eyes, Kulwych shot a blast of intense pain into his enemy’s arm.
Deth Macoll shrieked in agony, dropping his weapon. The cane clattered on the stone floor. But instead of collapsing to his knees, as the sorcerer expected, he did just the opposite. Deth Macoll leaped into the air, flipping over backward to break Kulwych’s grip. In the middle of his flip, he kicked one foot into the sorcerer’s head, striking the lone eye.
Now Kulwych howled in pain, as the skin under his eye swelled and darkened to blue. Yet even as the assassin landed back on the floor and stood, clutching his sore arm, Kulwych pounced. This time the sorcerer’s white hand wrapped around Deth Macoll’s neck. Kulwych’s slit of a mouth curled in triumph, confident that his next blast would surely kill his adversary.
Just then Deth Macoll flicked his left wrist, popping another hidden blade out of his sleeve. Before his foe knew what had happened, the man named Deth slashed his blade across the hand squeezing his neck. Blood spurted from the back of Kulwych’s hand, once so perfectly manicured and free of any blemish.
Kulwych screamed, as much in horror as in pain. But his cry was cut short as Deth Macoll threw himself at the sorcerer, tackling him. They slammed into the rock wall, then tumbled together to the floor.
As soon as the fight had begun, Elli’s mind began to race. This was her chance! There would never be another such opportunity. But what could she do? How could she possibly put an end to this crystal whose powers were so vast?