Sure, the flamelons were brilliant at building things in their famous Forges—especially things useful in warfare, like catapults of flaming torches. But they were always starting fights, even with their own families. Hadn’t their mother told them, with real despair, that some flamelons actually worshipped Rhita Gawr over all the other gods? That they considered him not just a god of war, but also a god of triumph and renewal, who led them to new heights of power and conquest?
But Scree said none of those things. For some reason he couldn’t explain, he just stood and started to trudge up to the tower with the portal.
“Well?” he called to his surprised brother. “Are you coming or not?”
• • •
“That was stupid,” Scree now grumbled, as he strode up to the crater’s rim. He sidestepped to avoid a plume of sulfurous smoke, but almost put his foot on one of those cursed fire plants, whose ghoulish fingers had scorched his legs so many times. “What a complete rock-head I was to have brought him up here!”
He climbed higher, his eyes now on the toothlike tower looming ahead. Green flames flickered at its base, bright under the night sky. But his mind’s eye was elsewhere—remembering the three things that had happened, right on top of each other, when he and Tamwyn had reached the portal.
First came the instant of wonder when they had gazed into it, openmouthed, glimpsing the rivers of pulsing light that carried travelers deep into the Great Tree—to any places they wanted to go. Or, as their mother had warned them, to some places they didn’t want to go. Concentration, she’d said, was crucial for portalseeking. That was why no infants or less intelligent creatures could do it safely, unless shielded by a magical chant. Even for adults, it was dangerous—so dangerous that many had arrived at their destinations in pieces.
Second came the heart-stopping screams of the ghoulacas as they had poured out of that portal—right into the astonished faces of the boys. This time, there weren’t just two killer birds, but more than a dozen. Flapping nearly invisible wings and slashing bloodred talons, the ghoulacas had screeched with delight as they attacked.
And third came the split-second decision that Scree himself had made, knowing they didn’t stand a chance to defeat so many foes: He grabbed Tamwyn’s arm and jumped right into the portal! The green flames engulfed them both before Tamwyn could object, or try to turn back. And before, unfortunately, he could even begin to concentrate on where to go.
Now Scree slowed, approaching the portal once more. He peered into the green flames that rose out of the ridge. “Where did you wind up, little brother?” He kicked some cinders into the snarling fire. “Better than where I did, I hope.”
He knew that wherever Tamwyn had landed, he probably assumed that Scree must be somewhere in the same realm. No doubt he’d spent the better part of these past seven years searching for his brother. How could he have known that Scree, in that instant they plunged into the portal, had concentrated on a different destination? That he had doubled back and made himself return to the crater in Fireroot?
For Scree had sensed somehow that those ghoulacas hadn’t appeared by coincidence. That they were after him— or the staff. And he had realized that the only safe place for his brother was somewhere far away.
Besides, Scree’s trick of doubling back had worked. When he returned through the portal, all the ghoulacas were gone. They had plunged right back into the green flames, enraged that their prey had escaped, determined to give chase. The last place they would ever look, Scree was sure, was the place where they had started.
He now gazed into the portal; flickers of green danced in his yellow-rimmed eyes. He’d waited a long time for this. Squeezing the staff tightly in his hand, he concentrated his thoughts on Woodroot. That was as good a place as any to start, since Tamwyn had mentioned that realm on their last day. And if his brother wasn’t there—he’d just keep on searching. As many realms as necessary.
He raised his foot to step into the flames. “Here I come, Tam. Just you—aaaaghh!”
Scree jumped backward, dropping the staff. He tripped, rolled on the rocks, and finally came to a stop. Slowly, he sat up, squeezing his burned hand. The staff, glowing red with heat, lay there beside him.
“What’s going on with you, staff?” he demanded, licking the burned flesh of his palm. “Are you mad? Am I mad, talking to you like this? For Avalon’s sake, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you didn’t want me to go in there!”
Seeing the staff’s glow fade, he shook his head in puzzlement. “And in that case, why did you seem to want me to leave the cave?”
Even as he spoke, he glimpsed, from the corner of his eye, a change in the night sky. One of the brightest stars had suddenly winked out—just like that. Probably just covered by a thick cloud of smoke.
But no, there wasn’t any more smoke than usual in that spot. Scree rubbed his chin, scowling at the sky. There wasn’t any doubt about it. A star had just gone dark—a star in the Wizard’s Staff.
15 • Skunkweed
This way, you lazy fools! Can’t you see where I’m leading?”
Llynia’s harsh voice scraped on Tamwyn’s ears no less than a dagger on a sheet of flatrock. He was walking through the grove of dwarf pines, whose dry upper branches brushed against his waist, tinkling the small quartz bell at his hip. Hearing her voice, he stopped and arched his neck from under the huge pile of bundles, water flasks, and cooking pots on his shoulders.
“Sure, I can see. But I told you before, the mudmoss hanging from those branches—right there, in the cedar above your head—means there’s a marsh nearby. Or at least there was, before the drought. Even mudmoss that’s as dry and colorless as this stuff can spell trouble, believe me. And since these dwarf pines like to grow in drier ground, staying over here is a good way to avoid—”
“Silence, porter!” Llynia glared at him, her hands on her hips. “I told you that your job is to carry bags, not get us lost. And besides, we’ve no time to waste.”
She glanced up at the sky and frowned. Even in the midday brightness, there was no way to miss the change in the Wizard’s Staff. The gap where its star had disappeared seemed to throb with emptiness. More to herself than to anyone else, she muttered, “No time at all.”
“But you—”
“Silence!”
Thanks to Nuic’s herbal remedy, her face had regained most of its normal color over the last three days (except for the triangular mark on her chin). But right now her cheeks had taken on a dark shade of purple. “I said get back over here and follow me.”
Henni, whose back was bending under a load almost as big as Tamwyn’s, wiped his dripping brow with one of his big hoolah hands. “Just like we’ve done the past few days, eehee, eehee. Right, Lady Greenbeard? We’ve followed you into more bramble patches, peat bogs, and stickysap pits than I’ve seen in my whole life!” He nodded at Tamwyn, who stood just in front of him. “But at least I haven’t dropped my things all over the place, like clumsy man here.”
With that, he pulled the slingshot off his belt and placed a dwarf pinecone on the leather pad. Then, balancing his load carefully on his shoulders, he shot the cone right into Tamwyn’s bottom.
“Yaaaaah!” roared Tamwyn, spinning around so fast that several bundles and pots flew off, clanging into the trees.
“Hoohoo, heehahahahaha. Clumsy man does it again.”
Elli, who had seen the whole thing, couldn’t help but chuckle. Just what that fool Tamwyn deserved! For three days now, she’d been throwing him every chore—and every insult—she could come up with. All that felt good, though it didn’t even begin to make up for the loss of her harp.
“You really are clumsy,” she jeered. “But,” she added with a wink at the round little sprite riding on her shoulder, “that’s just the way imbeciles are, I suppose.”
Henni broke into a new fit of wild laughter, nearly dropping his own bundles.
Tamwyn just glared at the hoolah. Ever since they’d become porters, he’d wonde
red why Henni was still with them. It was most unlike a hoolah to travel with a group—certainly when carrying a heavy load of supplies was part of the process. But now he was sure. This accursed creature was staying around for just one reason—to torment him. And he was succeeding!
“Just you wait,” Tamwyn growled, “you stinking bag of bear turds! The second I’m done with this job, I’ll twist you up into such a knot, you could pass for an ogre’s braid!”
A pair of purple-blossomed boughs waved a stern warning in front of their faces. Fairlyn’s large eyes held them both. She was beginning to smell vaguely like a couple of crushed skulls.
“All right, then,” grumbled Tamwyn. He stooped to retrieve the fallen bundles and tossed them to Fairlyn, who replaced them on his pile. “You go first, Priestess, and show us your way.”
Llynia grunted in approval. “Due north, as I’ve been saying all along. To the Dun Tara snowfields at the very top of Stoneroot, where I believe there’s a portal to Woodroot.”
Tamwyn froze. “But that portal—”
“Hush, porter! You have nothing to say about this.”
“But I do,” declared Elli. “You said you believe there’s a portal? I thought you knew for sure.”
“I am sure,” retorted the Chosen One. “Before we left, I had Fairlyn show me on a map which portal she came through when she left Woodroot.”
“But that might not work,” Elli persisted, shaking her bouncy brown curls. “Portals are quirky, you know. That one might just lead to one particular outlet, not to lots of other portals. What if it just goes back to Fairlyn’s home at the western end of Woodroot? The legends say that where we want to go is way over on the other side of the realm—where the forest is deepest.”
“I know what the legends say!” thundered Llynia. “And I don’t need advice from an apprentice third class.” She wheeled on Tamwyn. “Or a lowly porter.”
“I suppose,” offered Nuic casually, “you could just use your gift of Sight to find the way.”
Llynia’s eyes bulged, but she said nothing. Then she took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “All I need is the faith of Elen the Founder, and the courage of her successor, Rhiannon.” Through clenched teeth, she added, “And the patience of them both.”
Nuic, on Elli’s shoulder, whispered, “None of which can do much good without a brain.”
Elli sputtered, pretending to cough to hide her laughter.
“Due north,” repeated Llynia with certainty. Again she looked up at the stars, shining so bright—except for the one that had vanished. “And we have no time to lose.”
Her face now not so certain, she turned and led the way into the cedars, her feet crunching on the dry needles. Fairlyn followed close behind, then Elli and Nuic, and the two porters.
Tamwyn shook his head. “Now I know what it’s like to be a slave.”
Elli spun around, her hazel eyes boring into him. “Don’t you ever make jokes about slaves. You hear? Or I’ll take that little bell off your belt and stuff it up your nose!”
Tamwyn just glared right back at her. All his sympathy for Elli had vanished after three days of her abuse. The black eye she’d given him, still bruised, swelled with rage. “Making threats, are we? Too bad you’re just as lousy a fighter as you are a harpist.”
She lunged at him, plowing her head right into his chest. Nuic went rolling into the mat of dry needles—but Tamwyn fell hard into the cedar boughs. Sacks, bundles, flasks, and pots sprayed in all directions. Before he could roll aside, Elli’s fist smashed hard into his unbruised eye.
With a roar, Tamwyn leaped to his feet, shoved Elli’s shoulder, and tripped her backward. Before she knew what was happening, he whipped the vine off his waist and lashed her ankles together. Then he tossed the longer end of the vine over a sturdy branch, hoisted her up so that her head dangled above the ground, and tied the vine around a trunk. All in a matter of seconds.
She hung there, like a caterpillar stuck inside its cocoon, struggling to free herself. Tamwyn watched her for a moment, then gave a satisfied nod. “Did that once to a bear cub who just wouldn’t leave my camp alone.” Gently, he touched the new bruise on his face. “But the bear didn’t punch.”
“That’s not all I’ll do to you when I get down!” She squirmed and twisted, trying to reach the place where he’d tied off the vine.
Tamwyn turned away. “At least it’s going to be quieter now.”
“Sure, until she gets free!” Henni, who had enjoyed the show immensely, scuttled out of Tamwyn’s reach. “And then you’d better run, eehee, eehee. Or you’ll have such big rings around your eyes, you’ll look like a hoolah! Hoohoohoo, hohohohee.”
From deep in the cedars, Llynia called: “Where are you, porters? I told you to follow!” There was a pause, some swishing of branches, and she added, “By the way, master wilderness guide, this way is perfectly fine. Imagine thinking we’d find a marsh in a drought like this! And imagine thinking that you . . . What? Eeeehh!”
Leaving his scattered sacks behind, Tamwyn raced through the cedars, ducking under low boughs and hurtling over broken limbs. When he reached the edge of the grove, he stopped abruptly. And stared.
Llynia had fallen face-first into a murky pool. As she struggled to stand again, thick black mud oozed through her hair, dripped down her face, and coated her arms, legs, and half her chest. A clump of marsh grass hung from her shoulder. Her mouth worked feverishly to spit out whatever she had swallowed. Fairlyn, trying to help her, was also splattered with mud. Over on the side of the pool, Henni was howling with laughter.
Into the pool plunged Tamwyn. The black ooze sucked at his legs, but he managed to find a flat stone to support his weight. He reached out to Llynia and pulled her from the murk, then led her out of the pool. At last she collapsed on firm ground.
That was when Tamwyn spotted the worms. Flesh-eating worms! Not just one or two, but dozens of them, crawling on Llynia’s scalp and ears. Buried in the mud, the worms were small enough that she hadn’t yet noticed them.
She would very soon, though! Tamwyn knew from experience how much the gnawing jaws of those worms could hurt. And how much blood they could draw as they scraped off layers of skin to dig themselves into a new body.
Desperately, he scanned the grove for any sign of skunkweed, the one plant whose smell was strong enough to drive off the worms. If, that is, its leaves could be crushed before the worms started digging in. After that, there was nothing to do but pull them off one by one—and tear off bloody chunks of skin with them.
Tamwyn frowned. No skunkweed! Only seconds remained.
In a flash, he turned to Fairlyn, who was just slogging out of the pool. “Fairlyn! Can you smell like skunkweed? Quick—for Llynia!”
The tree spirit straightened her trunk and eyed him suspiciously. A faint aroma of sour milk wafted from her branches.
“No, no. Trust me.” He pointed at the huddled priestess, who was trying to wipe the mud out of her eyes and ears. “Flesh-eating worms! The smell of skunkweed is her only chance.”
Instantly, Fairlyn’s boughs snapped toward Llynia. At the same time, they released a choking, rancid, overpowering smell. It was worse than a whole family of enraged skunks.
Tamwyn jumped aside just as a mass of writhing worms tumbled out of Llynia’s hair. The worms tried to burrow into the dirt, or scurry back to the pool—anything they could do to get away from the smell. Unfortunately, Llynia saw them, too. She flew to her feet and shook herself violently, shrieking at the top of her lungs. Any worms that didn’t move fast enough were crushed beneath her shoes.
It took more than an hour of searching the area for Tamwyn to find even a trickle of a stream. Flowing out of a cracked stone on the hillside above the cedars, it wound down a narrow gully until it sank again into the ground. But it was all the trekkers needed for their baths. Everyone took advantage of the opportunity—except for Henni, who scoffed at the idea of washing up.
Llynia used some soaproot found by Nu
ic to remove the mud and the potent smell of skunks (moaning all the while that even another Drumadian bath couldn’t get her clean now). Next came Elli, who had finally freed herself from the vine, though not without getting sticky cedar sap in her hair. She scrubbed her hair in the pool, pausing only to shoot dagger-looks at Tamwyn. Last of all, Tamwyn himself washed up, removing at last the stains of balloonberries and the smell of dung. All through the bathing, Fairlyn kept her roots in the water, drinking gladly, while Nuic merely sat upstream, enjoying the feel of cool spray on his back.
Neither of the priestesses bothered to thank Tamwyn for finding the stream. In fact, neither of them spoke to him at all. But he didn’t mind. At least now he felt clean.
Still, like everyone else, he remained thirsty. Even a prolonged drink at the cracked stone didn’t help, for his thirst ran deeper than tongue and throat. His very blood seemed thickened by drought.
And Tamwyn’s heart ached for the thirsty land around him. It didn’t take a wilderness guide to see how much all these trees, grasses, ferns, and mosses needed water. So did the birds who sang plaintively from the bushes, and the newts who scurried away on the rocks. Usually, at this time of year, when new snow started falling on the high peaks, these hills sang with freshwater streams. But now the bland-colored stones and dry gullies didn’t sing at all.
16 • Emissaries of the Gods
This is the noisiest bunch I’ve ever trekked with. Tamwyn shook his head in dismay—though just gently, since he didn’t want to drop any of the gear piled high on his back. That would only give Henni something new to harass him about. Really, they make about as much noise as an army of gnomes.