The Great Tree of Avalon

  But that wasn’t enough. Massive, curved beaks jabbed at his eyes, hands, and neck. Transparent wings battered him from all sides. He stumbled, falling to his knees. His arms ached from wielding the heavy hammer, and blood ran down the side of his neck. He tried to get up, but couldn’t. He knew he’d lost his chance to stop the sorcerer.

  A talon raked his cheek, just below his ear. He reeled backward and dropped the hammer. The ghoulacas’ shrieks rose to a frenzy as they sensed the kill. All he could see were talons and beaks and blood.

  Vaguely, Tamwyn heard another kind of shriek—deeper, not so shrill. He realized, dimly, that he’d heard that cry before somewhere. A sudden thrill ran through him. That’s the voice of an eagleman.

  “Scree!”

  The winged warrior pounced on the ghoulacas with such fury that they didn’t even know what struck them. Scree was everywhere at once—slashing with his talons, kicking with his legs, slapping with his silvery wings. He moved so fast that his feathered body was almost as hard to see as the transparent ghoulacas.

  The birds screeched in pain and confusion. One fell to the dam, talons up. Another ended its cry with a sharp snap as a swipe of Scree’s wing broke its neck. The third tumbled over the edge of the dam and splashed into the white lake.

  Tamwyn’s eyes connected with Scree’s. As one brother rose shakily to his feet and the other hovered just above with great wings outstretched, their gaze seemed almost a solid thing, an unbreakable rope tied between them. In that moment, nothing else mattered—not their seven long years apart, not the struggles and doubts they had both endured, not the battle that continued to rage across the dam.

  Everything that Tamwyn felt came together in a single word. “Scree.”

  “Hello, Tam.”

  Just as Scree started to land, Tamwyn noticed a reddish blur right behind the eagleman. Too late!

  Another pair of ghoulacas shrieked wrathfully as they slammed into Scree’s back. He spun through the air, out of control. The deadly beaks and talons streaked toward him. He flapped furiously, trying to right himself, but there wasn’t time.

  Tamwyn grabbed a chunk of stone and threw it at the ghoulacas, but missed. Meanwhile, the killer birds lunged at Scree in midair. Talons ripped at his face, gouging at his yellow-rimmed eyes. One ghoulaca reared back, about to plunge its beak into Scree’s chest and rip out his heart.

  “No!” shouted Tamwyn.

  An arrow whizzed out of nowhere and pierced the ghoulaca’s beak. It was shot so hard, and so accurately, that it passed right through the bird’s head and struck the other ghoulaca somewhere on its breast. Both attackers screeched one last time and fell lifeless onto the dam.

  Astonished, Scree hovered in the air, turning to see who had shot the arrow that had saved him. When he saw Brionna, standing at the edge of the fray, lower her longbow, his jaw dropped open. The elf maiden’s face was full of suffering, though she stood erect and proud.

  “Now we’re even,” she called with some satisfaction.

  “Not nearly,” Scree shot back, feeling his old anger swelling—along with the pain in his wing.

  Brionna wheeled around and plunged back into the crowd of battling men and slaves. At the same time, the eagleman spread his silver wings wide and glided to a landing beside Tamwyn. Again, for a timeless moment, the two of them looked at each other.

  “So, baby brother,” Scree said at last. “Looks like you’ve got yourself some trouble here.”

  Tamwyn nodded grimly.

  “Huge odds against you?”

  Another nod.

  “Almost no hope?”

  Another nod.

  Scree brushed his wing against his brother’s shoulder. “Sounds just like old times.”

  Tamwyn smirked. “Took you long enough to find me. Were you waiting to see if I grew wings of my own?”

  “No. Guess I was just waiting for someone to steal the staff.” His eagle eyes narrowed. “But I never guessed she’d lead me back to you. Anyway, where is it now? Do you know?”

  “Over there.” Tamwyn pointed at the cloaked sorcerer, now almost at the boat. “Go get it, Scree—while there’s still time. But take care! He’s a sorcerer.”

  The eagleman’s eyes gleamed at the sight of the stolen staff. Then, turning back to his brother, he urged, “You come, too! If he uses magic, it’ll take two of us. So if I can’t take the staff—you will.”

  “No, Scree.” Tamwyn’s throat burned, from more than the gashes on his neck. “I can’t touch it. Can’t.”

  “This is no time for modesty, Tam! You’re—”

  “The child of the Dark Prophecy,” he finished, his voice hoarse. “If I touch it, something terrible could happen.”

  Scree’s yellow-rimmed eyes squinted at him. “Come on, will you? You’re about as likely to be the Dark child as I am to be the true heir of Merlin!”

  Tamwyn caught his breath. “You mean . . . you’re not?”

  The eagleman winced. “No, as much as I wanted to be. Even said those words: I am the true heir of Merlin. But nothing happened! So I guess I’m just the staff’s guardian.” A shadow seemed to pass across his face. “Though with the, ah, mistake I made a while back, I’m a pretty poor one.”

  Tamwyn squeezed his brother’s wingtip. “Whatever you did, it can’t be as stupid as the things I’ve done.”

  Scree just grunted. “We’ll see. Right now, let’s go get that—”

  “Garr, so yer the scummy eagleman!”

  They spun around to face Harlech. In one arm, his spiked club dripped with fresh blood and clumps of fur. In the other, his broadsword, though broken at the tip, glinted dangerously. Two daggers and a rapier hung from his belt.

  He kicked at the talons of a dead ghoulaca. “I seen ye kill me ghoulacas just now. Thinks yer big an’ brave, don’t ye? Well,” he snarled, “let’s see how ye do against a real foe.”

  The scar on his jaw shone purple. “Fight wid me, eagleman! Or are ye scared?” Scowling, he spat onto Scree’s wing feathers.

  The yellow eyes flashed. Out of the side of his mouth, Scree snapped, “Go now, Tam! Do what you can. I’ll join you the second I’m done with this ogre.”

  Torn, Tamwyn hesitated. He looked from the pair of warriors to the shoreline below the dam—where the sorcerer was just about to climb into the white boat.

  “Go!” commanded Scree, ducking to avoid Harlech’s first swing of his sword.

  Tamwyn ran, his bare feet pounding over the stones. As he neared the dirt ramp on the other side, he knew he didn’t have time to climb down to the water’s edge. The sorcerer would be already on the lake before he could get down there. There was no way to stop him!

  Except one. Tamwyn veered toward the side of the dam, right above the boat. Even as the sorcerer raised his leg to step into the vessel, Tamwyn leaped off the high wall.

  He flew through the air, legs kicking. Wind howled in his ears. At the very instant the sorcerer sensed something above him and looked up, Tamwyn landed right on top of him.

  40 • Just the Faintest Heartbeat

  On top of the dam, dozens of courageous horses, stags, does, and wolves fought on, locked in battle with their former masters. Whips seared the air, voices howled and whinnied, claws raked the red stones—and blood aplenty flowed. More than half the ghoulacas lay dead, many pierced by Brionna’s arrows, and more lay wounded on the ground. Without the birds’ help, the men found themselves more evenly matched. What the beasts lacked in weapons, they made up for in sheer ferocity.

  As the battle raged on, the golden burst of starset lit the sky. None of the creatures struggling for their lives atop the dam could pause to appreciate the luminous lines that traced the redrock canyon walls, the border forest above the clear-cut, or the wind-whipped waves of the great white lake. And yet, as rose-gold hues touched the world around them—from the highest spray of the white geyser at the top of the canyon to the deepest trench in the dry bottom of Prism Gorge—they knew that this day would end with e
ither freedom or death.

  Toward one end of the dam, two powerful warriors battled. One wielded a club and blade; the other, sturdy wings and talons. Neither held the advantage, though both bled from several wounds.

  “C’mere an’ fight, ye gutless bird!” cried Harlech. The huge man jumped to slash at Scree, who was hovering just above him.

  “What’s the matter, old man?” taunted Scree, flapping his wings to stay out of reach as he waited for an opening to plunge. “Tired already?”

  Harlech roared and hurled his club right at the eagleman’s head. Scree dodged it easily. Before the weapon fell back to the dam, he dived down at the seething warrior.

  But Harlech was ready. With amazing speed for such a big man, he spun aside and whipped out his rapier. Savagely, he thrust the narrow blade at Scree’s chest. He missed—but cut the eagleman’s feathered leg.

  Scree landed on the dam, wincing in pain. Yet he didn’t rest, even for an instant. Even as he touched down, he swung his wounded leg around with lightning speed. One talon ripped across Harlech’s waist and severed his belt, knocking both his daggers to the ground. When Harlech glanced down, Scree swung the bony edge of his wing with brutal force into the warrior’s jaw.

  Harlech stumbled, momentarily dazed. Sensing the advantage, Scree lunged at him. But Harlech recovered quickly, sidestepping and slashing both swords at his foe.

  Scree kicked out, knocking one of Harlech’s arms aside. The rapier clattered on the stones. The warrior roared angrily, bending to pick it up—but the eagleman saw his chance. With a vengeful cry, he hurled himself at Harlech. But one of Scree’s talons caught on the nearly invisible wing of a fallen ghoulaca, dragging him off balance and sending him sprawling.

  Before he’d even rolled over, a bulky shadow fell over him. He stared up into the face of Harlech, whose wide mouth curled in rage.

  “Yer jest . . . a rotten liddle bird, y’ar,” he sneered, panting hard. “Not a real man!”

  Scree grimaced, even as his golden eyes flicked to both sides, looking for some chance of escape. But there was no way! He was completely trapped.

  Harlech raised both swords high. His powerful biceps flexed as he prepared to drive them down into his enemy’s chest. With a heave, he thrust downward.

  “Die now, ye—aaaaagghh!”

  Harlech fell sideways, dropping to one knee. His rapier skidded across the stones. Scree instantly rolled over and bounced upright. Ready to take to the air at any instant, he stood facing Harlech, who was getting up again. Just then someone scurried over to Scree: the squat, big-bottomed warrior who had rescued him.

  “Shim, you old stump! How’d you do that?”

  The shrunken giant raised the stone hammer that Tamwyn had dropped. “Blue scat? What an awfulsly weapon! Even worse than this hammer I uses to smack his knee.”

  Scree rolled his eyes—still keeping his attention on Harlech, who was limping badly. “Guess I’m glad I brought you here, after all.”

  Shim’s massive nose scrunched uncertainly. “Bought two beers at the ball? You’re not speaking sensibensibly, not at all! But anyways, I’m verily glad you bringded me here, even with your pokily toes in me rump. Certainly, definitely, absolutely.”

  The eagleman’s wing tousled Shim’s mop of white hair. “Sorry to put you through that.”

  “Blue scat?” Shim scanned the ground nearby, looking disgusted. “I was hoping I didn’t hears you rightly.”

  Suddenly Harlech roared and charged again. Scree had just enough time to knock Shim out of the way and take to the air, slashing at the burly warrior with his talons. Their deadly duel had resumed.

  • • •

  Finally, Brionna found him.

  Granda lay motionless, near the middle of the dam, his back against a split block of stone. She dashed over to him, leaping over the body of a dead wolf. Her heart pounded hopefully. Oblivious to the chaos encircling her, she dropped her longbow and knelt by his side.

  His frail body seemed so small. Thin trails of dried blood ran through his ragged white beard. The elf’s green robe, woven of riverthread grass, was tattered and smudged with blood, yet still carried the slightest scent of lemonbalm.

  Gently, she took his hand. Still warm! Yet the warmth grew less by the second. It was fleeing as fast as the gusts of wind that blew across the gleaming lake. She felt no pulse, heard no breath at all. Either he had just died or was on the very edge of death.

  “Granda . . .” She bent over him, her eyes dry and unblinking. “Don’t die, Granda.”

  Raising her head, she glanced around at the battle that still choked the top of the dam. Fighting, carnage, and death were everywhere. And courage, too: It seemed that the slaves who had not escaped or been killed were at least holding their own. One brave hawk was holding off a slave master by beating wings in his face, so that a young fawn could escape. But where was Elli? Just a little of her healing water might bring him back, as it had done for Brionna.

  She cried out into the melee, “Where are you, Elli?” She could go and try to find her . . . but no, she just couldn’t leave his side. Not now—nor ever again.

  The elf maiden drew a halting breath. How had it come to this? What had Harlech and the sorcerer done to him while she was away? “How could I have been so stupid to leave you, Granda? This is my fault. All my fault!”

  Brionna lifted his head and held it close to her chest. She kept hold of his hand, squeezing tightly. During the battle, her old whip wound had broken open and started bleeding, so a stark slash of blood now stained the back of her robe.

  “Come back, Granda. Come back . . . please.”

  He showed no sign of life; his hand felt almost cool. Tressimir, the legendary historian of the wood elves, lay as still as the stone beneath him. It was said among the elves that Tressimir could name every living tree in the forests of El Urien—and tell the story of all the sights and sounds and smells that tree had known across the seasons. If he were to die, the loss to his people would be enormous.

  The loss to Brionna, though, would be greater still. For he was her only family. Her best friend.

  Her Granda.

  “Brionna!” Elli’s voice rang above the din of battle.

  The elf maiden turned, new hope in her face.

  Elli rushed over, dodging the dead wolf, and knelt beside them. She and Brionna exchanged one look, which communicated all they needed to say. Then she set down Nuic, whose dark red color deepened the instant he saw Tressimir. Seconds later, she was dribbling some of the precious water from her gourd into the old elf’s mouth.

  Gently, Elli tilted back his head to help him take the water. The elf’s tongue was so dry that it seemed to soak in all the liquid, so she poured in some more, splattering his ragged white beard. All the while, she—like Brionna—held her breath, hoping.

  Nothing happened.

  Elli poured more water from the Secret Spring into his mouth. Still nothing.

  In Brionna’s hand, Granda’s flesh grew colder. She squeezed even harder, unwilling to accept the idea he might not revive. Still no tears came to her eyes.

  Elli lay her head on the old elf’s chest, listening for his heart. She waited an endless moment. Just the faintest beat—that’s all she needed to hear above the roars and shouts and brays of battle.

  But she heard nothing. At long last, she lifted her head. She turned slowly to Nuic, whose liquid purple eyes understood right away, and then to Brionna.

  “I’m sorry . . .”

  Brionna just stared at her. It couldn’t be true. Couldn’t be. Then she held Granda’s limp hand up to her face, pressed it against her cheek, and cried.

  41 • A Gaping Hole

  Tamwyn landed right on the sorcerer’s shoulders, crumpling him like a mushroom crushed underfoot. The staff flew out of his hand and slid across the redrock bank, rolling down to the water’s edge.

  For an instant, Tamwyn lay on the rocks, not so dazed that he didn’t realize this was his chance to take back
the staff. There it lay, the knobby piece of wood—right beside the white boat. He could lunge for it—grab it—prevent the sorcerer from ever using it.

  But he hesitated. What will happen if I touch it? All the power of the staff . . .

  The sorcerer sat up and shook his head, still covered by the hood of his gray cloak. Seeing Tamwyn, he leaped to his feet with a spray of dirt and pebbles. In one swift motion, he gathered up the staff. He stood by the lapping water of the lake, holding high his prize, as the wind howled overhead. From under his hood, he glared down at this fool who had dared attack him.

  The sorcerer extended one pale hand, with smooth skin and perfectly clipped fingernails, toward Tamwyn. Before the young man could even move, a bolt of fire seared through his entire body. He shouted in pain as flames blazed inside his brain, chest, and limbs. I’m burning! Burning!

  Calmly, the sorcerer held him like this, watching him writhe in agony. Several seconds passed. At last, the pale hand dropped. A chortle of satisfaction bubbled from the sorcerer’s throat, as Tamwyn lay on the rocks, free of the flames but too stunned to move.

  “Who are you, wretch? How dare you interfere with my plans?”

  Weakly, Tamwyn sat up. He still winced from the intense burning behind his eyes. “Your plans are to destroy Avalon,” he spat.

  Under his hood, the sorcerer nodded. “Quite so.” He glanced up at the sky, where the lone star of the Wizard’s Staff winked with its very last light. “Mmmyesss, the end of Merlin’s Avalon . . . and the beginning of another.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The sorcerer ground the tip of the staff into the rocks beside the boat. “I care nothing about what you think! Now tell me, wretch. Who are you?”

  Tamwyn sat up straight, though fire still seared his every muscle and bone. “I am one of many who will fight you—and stop you.”

  A throaty cackle came from beneath the hood. “You believe that, mmmyesss? Well, I do not.” He burst into a high, hissing laughter. “You are the prophesied heir, aren’t you? Ha! So this is the best that Merlin could do! A ragtag boy with no more magic than my thumbnail.”