A Wizard's Wings Page 23

  Lleu beamed at me, his round face alight. “Like ye, master Merlin.”

  I wiped my chin, then tilted my head toward the spot up the slope where I’d left Dinatius. “What about . . . him?”

  “Still unconscious,” my mother replied grimly. “I made myself set the bones of his legs. I should tell you, though, it took all my will not to break them again.”

  “I understand, believe me.” Reaching beneath my vest, I felt the soft compress of seaweed she’d placed over the gash. “I’m grateful to those healing hands of yours.”

  “They did very little, really.” Her eyes glinted with a mixture of puzzlement and pride. “Once I cleaned them, your sinews practically bound themselves together. Yes, and right as I watched! I’ve never seen anything like it, Merlin.”

  “Your skill at work, that’s all.”

  “No, your magic at work.” She peered at me. “It’s that strong.”

  Stiffly, I moved the shoulder. “Nothing would have happened if you hadn’t made me stay for a bit. And really, you did remarkably well for just an hour’s time.”

  She winced slightly. “It’s not been just an hour. It’s been a day.”

  “A day!”

  She nodded. “You passed out, right here, when I started working on you. That was yesterday morning.”

  “A whole day!” I turned toward the snowy hills on the eastern horizon. Only a few hours remained. How could I ever get to the other end of Fincayra before sundown? Rhia would be there, waiting, I felt sure—along with anyone else she’d convinced to come. I couldn’t let her down. Couldn’t! Yet . . . what could I do now? It was hopeless!

  Elen touched my forearm. “I’m sorry, my son.”

  I said nothing, but kept peering at the horizon. The gateway between the worlds . . . the fight to save our homeland . . . the final confrontation with Rhita Gawr . . .

  Lleu tugged on my legging. Angling his round face upward, he asked, “Why is you so sad?”

  Elen answered for me, patting the boy’s shoulder. “Because there’s no way now for him to do what he feels he must.”

  Lleu scrunched his nose doubtfully. “But you said—when you telled us that story about the seven labors of Here . . . ah, whatever his name was—there’s always a way.”

  “This time,” she said somberly, “there isn’t.”

  My jaw clenched, and I growled in frustration. There’s always a way. But what could it be? A cold gust of wind slapped my face, piercing even the vest’s layers of woven flowers. I folded my arms, trying to keep warm. Suddenly I caught my breath. Perhaps . . .

  Raising my arms high above my head, I looked up into the cloudless sky. “Aylah!” I cried, my voice wavering in the wind. “Ayylahhhhh.”

  I felt no new presence, not even the faintest smell of cinnamon.

  “Aylah! Come to me, O sister of the wild wind. Wherever you are, come to me! I need your help.”

  Still nothing.

  Stretching my arms higher, and every one of my fingers, I tried once more. “Aylah, please! Carry me to the circle of stones, before this day ends.”

  Not even another bitter gust answered my call. Dejected, I lowered my arms. My gaze met Elen’s. With a sigh, I said, “It’s useless.”

  She gave a slow nod. “If only you could fly, like the people of old. Or use Leaping, like the mage you will surely become.”

  “Or maybe . . . ,” I replied, my chest swelling with the strength of a new idea, “like the mage I am now.”

  She studied me, her expression moving swiftly from surprise to belief. “Why, of course! If you can cause an island to return to its shore . . .”

  I slammed my fist into my open palm. “Yes! There’s at least a chance.”

  “Takes me with ye,” pleaded Lleu. “If ye be goin’ anywheres, I want to come.”

  I gave his woolen scarf an affectionate tug. “No, my friend. This trip’s too dangerous. If my powers go awry, I could end up at the bottom of the sea, or under a pile of rocks somewhere. And if they actually work—well, the perils will be just as great.”

  “I don’t care, master Merlin.” His eyes narrowed. “Takes me.”

  “Sorry, Lleu.” I glanced at Elen. “I’ll need you to stay here, to take care of her.”

  “That will be hard,” she declared, “since I’m coming, too. Now that we’re back on the mainland, and without any more Slayer to worry about, the children will be fine. They’re quite good at fending for themselves. As to the littlest ones, I could ask Medba to watch over—”

  “No!” I proclaimed, grinding the heel of my boot into the soil. “Neither of you will come.” I squeezed my mother’s arm. “Please. You must trust me on this.”

  She drew a long, hesitant breath. In a faint voice, she said, “I do trust you, my son. Even as I fear for you.”

  “Much as I fear for you, and everyone else in this land. Which is why I must do this.” With a wave at Dinatius, lying on the dirt, I added, “He’s the one person I will bring along. That way, wherever I end up, he’ll be with me—not with you.”

  Glumly, she nodded, as did the small boy at her side.

  “I’ll see you again,” I declared, not entirely believing my own words. “Both of you.”

  With that, I turned and started pacing across the slope. As I reached Dinatius, he moaned and stirred slightly, rolling his head on the soil. For an instant I paused, watching him, then bent to retrieve my staff. Grasping the cold wood of the shaft, I jammed its tip into the ground. The wind pressed against my back, whistling in my ears. But I stood firm, just as I intended to stand before Rhita Gawr.

  For some time I remained there, as rigid as the staff itself, pondering the highest of the magical arts—the power of Leaping oneself. I couldn’t be sure I was really ready. My gaze wandered to the upper rim of the mound, and I felt a sudden urge to climb up there and check the wreath of mistletoe for any signs of life from my magical seed. But I resisted, knowing I needed to concentrate on the one task that mattered.

  Leaping. All the way to the circle of stones.

  The gusts swelled, causing me to clasp the staff even more tightly. My hand, I realized, was wrapped around the mark of Leaping itself, burned deep into the hemlock: a star within a circle. Much time had passed since Gwri of the Golden Hair gave me that mark—and also predicted that a bough of mistletoe awaited me here. Yet the moment of our meeting glowed as bright in my memory as the shimmering circle of light that always surrounded her. She had told me then that the true magic of Leaping lay in the hidden connections that bound all things to one another, even things as diverse as air, sea, mist, soil, and every person’s hand. For all those things and more have a part in what she called the great and glorious song of the stars.

  I thought of the great stone pillars, so far from this spot, where I needed to go. Once they had witnessed the Dance of the Giants, and in just a few more hours they would witness the meeting of two worlds. Dagda’s warning echoed in my mind: Fincayra’s only hope lay in enough of its people, from many different races, coming together at the circle of stones. But in the time since Dagda had spoken, I hadn’t been able to do anything at all to help that happen. Rhita Gawr, through his puppet Dinatius, had seen to that.

  And yet . . . one chance remained. Yes, and her name was Rhia. I looked eastward, toward the distant hills, certain she was on her way, right now, to the circle. Even if she hadn’t found a single ally, she would come. Alone, if necessary.

  Who else could I count on? Not Shim, who might well have fallen prey to Urnalda’s schemes. Not Hallia, who could still be searching the dragon lands in the far north. Not Cairpré, who, like my mother, would be elsewhere. And not my shadow. That I regretted especially, for as rudely and impertinently as it often behaved, it was still part of me. I dearly wished I hadn’t driven it away.

  I sagged a little, leaning against my staff, as I thought about Hallia. Like honey on a leaf. The phrase, which rang so true on that day in Druma Wood, seemed hollow now. Not because Hallia and I lo
ved each other any less, or no longer yearned to run together as deer, but because the ground had shifted beneath our bounding hooves. Our whole world, our whole future, was now uncertain. But no! We could never live apart from each other, just as we could never live apart from our homeland.

  Our Fincayra.

  Planting my boots securely, and making sure that one of them was touching Dinatius, I gazed up at the crystalline sky. It was time to go. Slowly, I opened my heart, my mind, my spirit to the magic of Leaping. I summoned its powers, calling to all the places where it lay hidden—the embracing air, the bottomless sea, the mist ever swirling, the wondrous soil, and my own living hands.

  At first, I felt nothing beyond the chill of the ocean wind, which blew my hair and flapped my vest. Then, gradually, from some strange quarter, I felt a hint of warmth. It wasn’t in the air, nor outside me at all. Rather, it swelled within my veins and pores and very bones, filling me like a drinking horn. Steadily it gathered in force, a wave of warmth that flowed through my whole body.

  Send us there, I beseeched. Send us to the circle of stones.

  A sizzling flash of light exploded in the air, encircling us like a blazing cloud. An instant later, it vanished—as did we.

  30: FIRST TREMORS

  The blazing cloud faded, shooting glowing sparks and fiery trails into the air. At my feet lay Dinatius, still unconscious, though he continued to moan and twitch within the cord that bound him. Bare ground still supported us. But this ground felt different, flatter as well as harder. As the fiery cloud dissipated, I could see that the ruins of the ancient mound, strewn with broken weapons and forgotten treasures, had disappeared.

  Instead, a ring of mammoth stones surrounded us. The stones, which rimmed the top of a rounded hill, stood in a stately circle—some upright, others leaning to the side, and still others supporting huge crosspieces. The circle of stones!

  Triumphantly, I rammed my staff into the ground. I’d done it. I’d traveled by Leaping!

  In the gaps between the stones, I caught glimpses of the surrounding hills, patched with snow and stands of leafless trees. But there were no trees on this hillside. Nothing stood here but pillars of stone—with one exception. A lone, moss-covered boulder rested near the edge of the circle, looking like a small, shaggy mountain.

  Then I noticed something odd. While snow crusted much of the ground outside the circle, even dappling the pillars themselves, not a single flake of snow lay within the ring itself. And something else: The color of the ground seemed unusual, not quite right. Lighter somehow. Yes, that was it. The soil itself, and the few brittle blades of grass, seemed subtly whitened, as if they’d been infused with mist. Bending low, I lay my open hand on the turf. It felt strangely warm.

  I scratched my nose, thinking. It could, I supposed, have been caused by my Leaping, which required a great concentration of power. And yet I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that it was something more, something ominous.

  I glanced at the sun, shining high overhead. Under its rays, the air felt chilly, but not unbearably cold. In just a few more hours, it would set—for the last time, perhaps, on the Fincayra I knew.

  My gaze moved to the encircling stones. Rough-hewn and immense, they seemed part of the land, and equally old, pillars of time as well as of rock. And they seemed quiet. Intensely quiet. Almost as if they were waiting, and watching.

  Where was Rhia? I scanned the distant hills, searching for any sign of her. Nothing. And no trace of anyone else, either. Not a single canyon eagle perched on the pillars; not a single man or woman stood beside me in the circle. No living things at all. My stomach churned. Was it possible, in Fincayra’s time of gravest need, that no one would come to help?

  Stiffly, I worked my left shoulder. Though rapidly healing, it still felt weak. Too weak, I feared, to help much in battle. I hefted my staff, swinging it savagely over my head as I’d done in my fight against Dinatius.

  Suddenly a spear whizzed through the. air, passing just over my head. At the same time, I heard a chorus of raucous cries. From behind several pillars raced at least twenty warrior goblins, fully armed with daggers, swords, and spiked clubs. They charged straight at me, their thin eyes glinting under their pointed helmets.

  Roaring and snarling like ferocious beasts, they rushed forward. Their three-fingered hands grasped their weapons tightly, while countless scars marked the gray-green skin of their arms. I knew from past encounters with warrior goblins that some of those scars came not from battles, but from the ritual slicing of their skin that they performed afterward, using their own blades. And I knew, as well, that each scar represented one more foe they had slain.

  Instinctively, I stretched out my arm toward them. Howling winds erupted from my fingers, blasting them so fiercely, they couldn’t advance. Several lost their footing; others were forced back out of the circle. One of them stumbled backward into another member of the band, causing them both to fall down. Before the first one could rise again, the goblin he’d knocked over smashed him brutally in the head with his club, leaving him senseless.

  The winds, though, could not stop the goblins’ advance for long. They spread out rapidly to attack me from several sides. Many hurled poison-tipped spears. Halting the winds, I drew my sword, hearing its resonant ring once more. I darted around the circle, rushing any goblin who ventured too close. One I slammed in the chest with the head of my staff. The blow, though struck by my weak arm, tore off his breastplate and sent him sprawling.

  “Diiie!” cried another, attacking from behind. His broadsword slashed my legging, grazing my thigh. I whirled around, sweeping my own sword. The blade bit deep into his brawny arm. He roared in pain, dropping his weapon. I kicked him hard in the abdomen, knocking him backward into a pair of attackers. All three fell together in a tangle of limbs.

  My left shoulder began to throb. I was still holding my own, but I knew that couldn’t last for long. The warrior goblins were too numerous, and I was tiring quickly.

  Two of them hurled themselves at me from opposite sides. I stepped back, and they smashed into each other with the force of falling trees. Swiftly, I drubbed them in the heads with my staff. At the same time, I sensed something coming at me from the rear, and spun around.

  Six warriors, arms interlocked, were charging as a group. I struck the ground with my heel, even as I uttered the command to ignite a scarlet ball of flames on the spot. Then I kicked hard, flinging the blazing sphere into the assailants. But my aim went awry. The fireball brushed the shoulders of two of them, making them roar all the louder, but did no further harm. It merely sailed past and struck a stone pillar, exploding into sparks.

  The line of warrior goblins bore down on me. In seconds, we would collide. Glancing behind, I saw several more attacking, swords and spears upraised. Panting heavily, I knew that I couldn’t defeat all of them at once. At the edge of my vision I saw one especially brawny goblin, wearing purple armbands, charging at me. He bellowed fiercely, thrusting his spear point at my ribs.

  Just then, a sharp tremor rocked the stone circle. The jolt knocked me to the ground, sending rumbling reverberations through my whole body. Likewise, the brawny warrior goblin lost his balance and slid sideways, barely brushing me with his spear. The interlocked group reeled as the ground shook beneath them, falling over one another in a writhing mass. All around the ring, goblins tumbled.

  Before anyone could get up again, another tremor struck. And another, louder and stronger still. Then came another, more powerful yet. The rumbling quakes came faster and faster. The warrior goblins, struggling to stand, raged and cursed and beat on one another with frustration—as well as growing terror. For they knew, as did I, the one force on Fincayra that could shake the ground that way.

  “Shim!” I cried in a lull between the great footsteps. “We’re here in the circle!”

  Thanks to my staff, I clambered to my feet. That lasted only briefly, because one of the leaning pillars, shaken loose by the incessant pounding, smashed to the g
round just a few paces away. I fell back in a heap, landing on top of Dinatius, slicing my forearm on the tip of one of his blades. But I was lucky compared to the goblins: Judging from the agonized shrieks, at least three of them had been crushed beneath the falling stone.

  At that very moment, the enormous, wild-haired form of Shim reached the top of the hill. He bent down over the circle of stones, lowering his massive hand to the ground. To my astonishment, when he opened his palm, out leaped a host of squat, muscular figures, each of them armed with double-sided battle-axes.

  Dwarves! Some carried barbed pikes and stone-tipped spears as well; a few also bore a dagger between their clenched teeth. They wore light but sturdy chain-mail vests, and wide belts above leather leggings. Their beards, whether black or red or gray, had been trimmed to a sharp point, ready for battle.

  Instantly, the dwarves set upon the confused warrior goblins. At the same time, more dwarves lowered themselves skillfully from Shim’s arm or slid down the edge of his baggy vest. Even though the largest of them stood only half as tall as their enemies, they were ferocious fighters, agile as the wind, and completely fearless. They hacked away ruthlessly at the goblins, who fought back with equal fury, all the more because the tide had turned against them. For his part, Shim plucked several terrified warrior goblins between his thumb and forefinger, then flung them off into the distance like rotten pieces of fruit.

  Even as I rejoiced at the dwarves’ arrival, it struck me that one of their number was missing. Nowhere could I see Urnalda.

  Shrieks and cries of warfare, together with the clanging of axes and spears against broadswords, echoed within the ring of stones. Gore marred the snowless ground, while blood stained the pillars. Within a few minutes, the last of the warrior goblins fled or fell, ending the skirmish.

  A deep-chested roar rose from the dwarves. They waved axes and pikes in the air, triumphant in victory. Soon, though, the cheering ceased, as the battle’s losses came clear. Several dwarves had been badly wounded, and at least half a dozen lay dead on the hard soil. Immediately, the survivors began the gruesome work of tending to those in need.