Though touched by the little giant’s intention, I shook my head. “No. I can’t take you, Shim. You’ll just get in the way.”
“I is not any fighter. That is truly. I is scared of almost everything. But I is full of madness.”
I sighed, knowing I was not much of a fighter myself. “No.”
“I asks you, please.”
“No.”
“That girl. She is sweet to me, sweet like honey! I only wants to help her.”
For several seconds, I studied the upturned face by my knee.
“All right,” I said at last. “You may come.”
PART THREE
25: A STAFF AND A SHOVEL
For hours, we followed the River Unceasing, clambering over smooth stones and low branches. Finally the river curled to the south, and we reached the eastern edge of Druma Wood. Through the thinning trees, I viewed the bright line of the river and, beyond that, the shadowed plains of the Blighted Lands. From this vantage point, there could be no doubt that the River Unceasing had been the sparkling waterway that I had glimpsed from the dune on my first day on Fincayra.
Downriver some distance, I could make out a group of egg-shaped boulders. They straddled both sides, and at least one sat in the middle of the waterway. The channel looked wider and shallower in that area. If so, it would make a good place to cross. On the opposite bank, a stand of trees had been planted in parallel rows, like an orchard. Yet if indeed it was an orchard, it was the most scraggly one I had ever come across.
Twigs snapped behind me. I whirled around to see Shim, struggling to get through some ferns. Several green arms wrapped around his stubby legs. As he twisted and jumped in the ferns, his floppy yellow shirt, hairy feet, and prominent nose combined to make him look more like a poorly dressed puppet than a person. But his coarse brown hair (still wadded with honey, dirt, and sticks), not to mention his fiery pink eyes, made it clear that he was alive. And angry.
“Madness,” he muttered as he finally broke free of the ferns. “This is madness!”
“Turn back if you like,” I suggested.
Shim scrunched his bulbous nose. “I knows your thinking! You wants me not to goes!” He drew himself up, which still made him only a bit taller than my knee. “Well, I goes. I goes to rescue her.”
“It won’t be easy, you know.”
The little giant folded his arms and frowned at me.
I turned my second sight once more toward the lands across the river. It struck me that everything, including the trees in the orchard, wore blander colors than I had seen in the Druma. Whatever vividness the rest of Fincayra had added to my vision would vanish as soon as we crossed the river. I had grown accustomed to seeing brighter colors in the forest, and even dared to hope that my second sight had improved. But now I knew the truth. My second sight was just as faded as before, as faded as the landscape in front of me.
And, as before, the strange reddish brown color painted the plains beyond. All the eastern lands, but for the black ridges in the distance, showed the color Rhia had described as dried blood.
I drew a deep breath of fragrant forest air. I listened, perhaps for the last time, to the continuous whispering of the boughs. I had only barely begun to sense the variety and complexity of this language of the trees, sometimes subtle, sometimes overwhelming. I wondered what they might be saying to me even now, if only I could understand their voices. Silently, I promised myself that if I should ever return to this forest, I would learn its ways, and cherish its secrets.
Just above my head, a hemlock branch quivered, filling the air with spicy scent. Reaching up, I rubbed some of its flat needles between my thumb and forefinger, half hoping that this would make my hand smell forever of the forest. On an impulse, I wrapped my fingers around the middle of the limb. I squeezed tight as if I were clasping another person’s hand. I pulled, just enough to feel the branch sway.
Suddenly the branch broke off. Still clasping it, I tumbled into the ferns—and onto Shim.
“You stupidly fool!” The miniature fellow regained his feet, took a swipe at my arm, missed, and fell back into the ferns. “What is you doings?” he cried from the tangle of green fronds. “You almost crushes me.”
“Sorry,” I replied, trying hard to keep a serious face. “The branch broke.”
From behind the mountainous nose, two pink eyes glared at me. “Shim almost broke!”
“I said I’m sorry.”
He stood again, growling furiously. “I makes you sorrier.” Clenching his fist, he prepared for another swipe.
Just then, I noticed the branch in my hand. To my astonishment, its bark started to peel away. At the same time, the smaller branches attached to the main stem began snapping off, one by one, dropping their needles on my lap. The peeling bark rolled into large curls, then fell away, as if shaved by an invisible knife.
Catching sight of this, Shim lowered his fist. A look of wonder filled his face.
By now the branch in my lap was no longer a branch. It was a sturdy, straight stick, thick and gnarled at the top, tapered at the bottom. Lifting it higher, I could see it stretched a full head taller than myself. I twirled it in my hands, feeling the smooth wooden skin. In a flash, I understood.
Using the stick as support, I lifted myself from the ferns. Standing before the fragrant hemlock tree, I recalled my clumsy attempt to find a staff when I had first entered this forest. I bowed my head to the tree in thanks. Now I held my staff. And more precious by far, I held a small piece of the Druma that would travel with me beyond its borders.
“You isn’t going to hit me with that stick, I hopes,” said Shim rather meekly.
I looked at him sternly. “If you won’t hit me, I won’t hit you.”
The little figure stiffened. “I didn’t want to hurts you.”
I raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Hefting my new staff in my hand, I started striding toward the egg-shaped boulders downriver. Shim followed behind, fighting through the brush, grumbling as much as before but not quite so loudly.
A few moments later we reached the spot. Here the river widened considerably, flowing over a bed of white stones. As I had hoped, the water, while still fast flowing, looked quite shallow. Beneath the boulders, the mud on both banks showed tracks of large, heavy boots.
“Goblinses,” said Shim, observing the tracks.
“I’m sure the River Unceasing did not make it easy for them to cross.”
Shim glanced up at me. “Myself, I hates to cross rivers. Really, truly, honestly.”
I leaned against my staff, grasping the gnarled top. “You don’t have to do it. It’s your choice.”
“How far will you goes?”
“To wherever Rhia is! Since those goblins think they have the Galator in their sack, they are probably heading to Stangmar’s castle. I don’t know if we can catch them before they get there, but we must try. It’s our only hope, and Rhia’s.”
My second sight scanned the shadowed hills in the distance. A wall of clouds, blacker than any storm clouds that I had ever seen, rose above them, plunging the easternmost hills in total darkness. Rhia’s own description of the location of the Shrouded Castle came back to me. In the darkest of the Dark Hills, where the night never ends. I must find her before she reached those hills! Where the night never ends. For in such darkness I would have no vision. And almost no hope.
Shim swallowed. “All right. I goes. Maybe not alls the way to the castle, but I goes.”
“Are you sure? We won’t find much honey over there.”
He answered by starting to wade into the river. He made his way for a few paces, struggling against the water. As he neared the partly submerged boulder, though, he stumbled. Suddenly he found himself in much deeper water. He shouted, thrashing his little arms. I leaped to his aid just before he went under. Hauling him onto my shoulders, I began to cross.
“Thanks you,” panted Shim. He shook himself, spraying water all over my face. “This water is muchly wet.”
&
nbsp; Carefully, I stepped through the surging water, using my staff for support. “I’d be grateful if you’d keep your hands away from my nose.”
“But I needs a handle to holds on to.”
“Then hold on to your own nose!” I exclaimed, certain now that I had made a mistake to let him come along.
“All right,” he replied with such a nasal voice that I knew he was holding tight to his own nose.
With every step through the rapidly flowing river, I felt something pulling backward against my leather boots, tugging me back toward the forest. It was not the current itself. Rather, it seemed that hundreds of invisible hands were trying to restrain me from leaving the Druma. Whether these hands were in the water, or in myself, I could not tell. But my feet grew increasingly heavy as I neared the opposite bank.
A feeling of foreboding swelled in me. At the same time, I felt an image forming in my mind, an image from some source other than my second sight. I saw strange lights, dozens of them, moving toward me. Suddenly I realized that my hidden powers were at work. This was going to be an image of the future!
“No!” I cried, shaking my head so violently that Shim had to grab my hair to avoid falling off.
The image disappeared. The powers receded. Yet the feeling of foreboding remained, deeper than before.
As I crossed onto the eastern bank, Shim wriggled down from my shoulder. Not without punching me in the ear, however.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“For makings me holds my nose all that way.”
The thought of throwing him back into the river crossed my mind, but somehow I resisted. And my anger was swiftly crowded out by the closer view of the orchard. The trees, thin and tormented, looked considerably more frail than even the oldest trees in the Druma. Indeed, those farthest away from the river seemed positively sickly, mere ghosts of living things. We had arrived in the Blighted Lands.
I approached one of the sturdier trees, whose branches draped over the river. Reaching up, I plucked a small, withered fruit. Turning it in my hand, I puzzled at the leathery toughness, the rusty brown color, the wrinkled skin. Sniffing it, I confirmed my suspicion. It was an apple. The scrawniest apple I had ever encountered.
I tossed it to Shim. “Your supper.”
The little giant caught it. He looked unsure as he brought the fruit to his lips. Finally, he took a bite. The bitter expression on his face said it all.
“Bleh! You wishes to poison me!”
I smirked. “No. I didn’t think you’d take a bite.”
“Then you wishes to trick me.”
“That I cannot deny.”
Shim placed his hands on his hips. “I wishes the girl is here!”
Grimly, I nodded. “I do, too.”
At that instant I saw in the distance, beyond the last row of trees, a band of six figures marching out of the eastern plains. They seemed to be heading straight for the orchard. Warrior goblins! Their swords, breastplates and pointed helmets gleamed in the late afternoon sun. I watched them disappear behind a rise. Although the slope hid them, their gruff voices grew steadily louder.
Shim, who had seen them too, stood petrified. “What is we goings to do?”
“Hide someplace.”
But where? From where we stood, I could not find even a single rock to crouch behind. The withered vegetation offered no protection. The slope along the bank ran low and smooth, with not so much as a gully.
The goblins neared the top of the rise. Their voices grew louder, as did the heavy stamping of their boots. My heart raced. I scanned the terrain to find any possible hiding place.
“You!” whispered a voice. “Over here!”
I turned to see a head poking out from among the roots of the trees at the far end of the orchard. Shim and I dashed to the spot. We found a deep, newly dug ditch that had not yet been connected with the river. In the ditch stood a broad-shouldered, sunburned man with a strong chin and brown hair, the more so because it was flecked with dirt. Below his bare chest, he wore loose leggings of brown cloth. He gripped his shovel as effortlessly and securely as a practiced soldier grips his sword.
He waved at us with his shovel. “Get in here, lads. Quick.”
We did not hesitate to follow the command. I tossed aside my staff and dived into the ditch. Even as Shim dived in behind me, the goblins marched over the rise and entered the orchard. Quickly, the man covered us with dirt and leaves. He left only a small hole where each of us could breathe.
“You there!” called a goblin’s voice. From beneath the blanket of dirt, it sounded a bit higher, though no less grating, than the voice of the goblin who had led the band in the Druma.
“Yes?” answered the ditchdigger. He sounded perturbed at being interrupted in his work.
“We’re searching for a dangerous prisoner. Escaped this morning.”
“From who?” asked the man.
“From guards, you buffoon! Former guards, that is. Lost their prisoner, then their heads.” He gave a high, wheezing laugh. “Have you seen anybody cross this river? Speak up, man!”
The laborer paused for some time before speaking. I started to wonder whether he might yet give us away.
“Well,” he said at last, “I did see somebody.”
Beneath the dirt, my stomach clenched.
“Who?”
“It was . . . a young man.”
Sweat, mixed with dirt, stung my lips. My heart pounded.
“Where and when?” barked the goblin.
Again the man paused. I debated whether I should try to bolt, hoping to outrun the warriors.
“A few hours ago,” answered the laborer. “Heading downstream. Toward the ocean.”
“You’d better be right,” rasped the goblin.
“I’m right, but I’m also late. Got to finish this irrigation ditch before nightfall.”
“Ha! This old orchard needs a lot more than a ditch to save it.”
Another goblin voice, slower and deeper than the other, joined in. “Why don’t we chop down a few of these trees to lighten this poor fellow’s load?”
The whole band wheezed in laughter.
“No,” declared the first goblin. “If we’re going to catch the prisoner by nightfall, we have no time to lose.”
“What did they do with that fool girl?” rasped another goblin as the band marched off, boots pounding on the soil.
I pushed my head out of the dirt too late to hear the full reply. All I caught were the words of the king and, a bit later, better off dead.
I shook the dirt off my tunic. As the gruff goblin voices faded away, finally swallowed by the sound of the churning river, I crawled out of the ditch and faced the man. “I am grateful. Most grateful.”
He planted his shovel in the loose dirt, then extended a burly hand. “Honn is my name, lad. I may be just a common ditchdigger, but I know who I like and who I don’t. Anyone who is an enemy of those overgrown toads is surely a friend of mine.”
I took the hand, which nearly swallowed my own. “I am called Emrys.” I nudged the pile of dirt beside my foot. “And my brave companion here is Shim.”
Shim popped out, spat some dirt from his mouth, and glared at me.
“We must go now,” I said. “We have a long journey ahead of us.”
“And where are you bound for?”
I drew a deep breath. “For the castle of the king.”
“Not the Shrouded Castle, lad?”
“Yes.”
Honn shook his head in disbelief. The gesture revealed his ears, somewhat triangular in shape and pointed at the top, beneath the mat of brown hair. “The Shrouded Castle,” he muttered. “Where the Seven Wise Tools, hewn ages and ages ago, are kept. I remember when they belonged to the people. Now they belong just to the king! The plow that tills its own field . . . the hoe that nurtures its seeds . . . the saw that cuts only as much wood as is needed . . .”
He caught himself. “Why do you want to go there?”
“To find someone.
A friend.”
He stared at me as if I had lost my mind.
“Can you tell me where the castle sits?”
Raising his shovel, he jabbed it at the air in the direction of the Dark Hills. “That way. I can tell you no more, lad, except that you would be wise to change your plans.”
“That I can’t do.”
He grimaced, studying me with care. “You are a stranger to me, Emrys. But I wish you whatever luck there is left in Fincayra.”
Honn reached for his shirt beside the ditch. He pulled out a worn dagger with a narrow blade. He twirled it once in his hand, then handed it to me. “Here. You will need this more than I.”
26: THE TOWN OF THE BARDS
I strode across the tundra, trekking toward the rising waves of the Dark Hills. My satchel of herbs felt heavier, now that it also carried Honn’s dagger. As my boots crunched on the dry, crusty soil, my staff clicked against the ground. Every so often my shoulder rubbed against the staff’s knotty top and I caught a faint scent of hemlock.
Shim, grumbling to himself about madness, struggled to keep pace with me. But I would not slow down for him. We had no time to lose. Over and over the goblin’s words better off dead echoed in my mind.
Despite the blades of grass, clumps of bracken, and groves of scraggly trees that managed to survive on this tundra, the dominant colors of this plain, stretching to the dark horizon, were dull grays and browns, tinged with rust. Several times I looked over my shoulder at the fading green hills of Druma Wood, trying to recall the lushness of that land. As the sun sank lower against our backs, our shadows grew longer and darker.
I noticed in the distance a stand of dark, leafless trees. Then, drawing nearer, I realized the truth. What had looked like trunks and limbs were really the skeletons of houses and stables—all that remained of a village about the size of Caer Vedwyd. No people or animals were left. The buildings had been burned to the ground. The stone walls had been torn apart. By the side of the ash-strewn road through the village, a wooden cradle, once the bed of a child, lay in splinters. Why this village had been destroyed, no one remained to tell.