The Eternal Flame Page 5

  Flipping fire dragons, what could that be?

  A dark shadow fell over him. At the same instant, he felt a powerful rush of two emotions—fear and rage. But the emotions weren’t his own. Tamwyn sensed, before he’d even turned around, that they were coming from whoever had cast the shadow.

  He spun around.

  Drumalings! Tall and treelike, two of the creatures towered over him, the barkless skin of their knobby, many-limbed bodies glinting in the starlight. Like the drumalings who had nearly killed him before, this pair had faces midway up their scraggly bodies. Each had a ragged slit for a mouth, as well as a lone, vertical eye almost as narrow as a twig.

  The unblinking eye of each drumaling stared down at Tamwyn. He held their gaze. As with the drumalings he’d met in Merlin’s Knothole, he sensed no thoughts from them—only simple, raw feelings. Right now he detected a steady undercurrent of anxiety, mixed with a hint of anger. Making no sudden movements, he quickly sheathed his dagger, stuffed the harmóna wood into his pack, and slipped the leather strap over his shoulder.

  At the very instant he finished, he sensed a new flood of wrath—and the drumalings charged. Swinging their long arms studded with thick tufts of grass, they surged through the bushes, slamming down their heavy roots. Just as Tamwyn fled, those roots smacked against the stream bank where he’d been sitting, spraying mud and wood chips everywhere.

  He bolted, leaping over the stream and hurdling the dense shrubbery on the other side. Hearing the crash of broken branches right behind him, he didn’t have to glance back to know that they were pursuing. Whether they considered him prey or a vile intruder, they clearly wanted to crush his every bone.

  He dashed through the waving grasses, which swished against his leggings. For a second he considered transforming himself into a bounding deer, as he’d done once to save Elli’s life. But he knew that wasn’t possible, even to save his own. The bulkiness of his load, especially the torch across his back, kept him from striding freely enough to release the magic. All he could do was sprint as best he could on two legs.

  They were gaining! Not far behind, the slamming of roots grew louder. Now he could hear the whoosh of air from the drumalings’ waving limbs, a sound that chilled him more than any winter wind.

  Spying one of the steaming pools of sap, he veered higher on the slope to run toward it. With the drumalings’ limbs practically brushing against the back of his neck, he took a desperate chance—and hurled himself straight over the bubbling pool. The smell of resins overwhelmed him, searing his throat and burning his eyes. He landed on the other side, barely clearing the rim of the pool, and rolled to a stop in the grass.

  Anxiously, he looked up, peering into the greenish steam over the pit. Had he lost them? Slow-witted creatures that they were, they might just think he’d vanished, and give up their chase. Or maybe they, too, had tried to jump, and fallen into the resiny cauldron.

  No such luck. He saw the pair of drumalings charging around the pit. On each of them, the lone eye had reddened with rage. Their roots slapped the pit’s edge, splattering hot sap onto the grass.

  Tamwyn leaped to his feet. How could he ever escape these vicious beasts? He glanced around, then spied the outcropping of stone where the strange, hunchbacked giants had been dancing. Seeing no sign of them, he realized that they must have left while he was working on the harp. He took off, sprinting toward the outcropping, hoping to climb up into its fingerlike spires before the drumalings could get him. There was at least a chance that those spires might shield him from their battering limbs.

  Even as he approached the outcropping, he could feel his pursuers just behind him. But now that he was nearly there, he realized that the stone would be nearly impossible to climb. Unlike the rougher rocks on top of the ridge, it was polished as smooth as a river boulder, up to a height well above his head.

  Nothing to grab. Nothing to hold his weight.

  A drumaling’s limb swatted his shoulder, nearly knocking him to the ground. Stumbling, he dodged another blow. Madly, hoping to find some way to climb, he ran around the outcropping to check the other side. He hurtled around the corner—

  And slammed straight into a giant, hairy mass. As he hit the ground, a wrathful roar shook the air. Tamwyn found himself staring up into the eyes of a huge, hunchbacked monster.

  7 • A Terrible Weapon

  The heavy door to Kulwych’s underground cavern swung slowly open. Meanwhile, the sorcerer stood inside, waiting, feeling rather pleased with himself. For he could sense, even now, the fear in the sturdy warrior who was about to enter the cavern—could smell it, as easily as if it were the pungent odor of a rotting carcass.

  The big man strode inside, doing his best to look brashly unafraid. As broad as a boulder he stood, his face looking even more threatening than usual in the throbbing red glow of the crystal, which sat on a stone pedestal in the center of the cavern. His hands, as big as bear paws, clasped his wide leather belt that bore a broadsword, a rapier, two daggers, and a spiked club.

  For a second he paused, peering into the gloom. Then, noticing Kulwych standing motionless by the dank stone wall, he tensed. “Ye called, Master?”

  “Mmmyesss, my Harlech,” spat the sorcerer’s voice. “I have news for you.”

  “Good news, Master?” The warrior licked a bead of perspiration off his upper lip.

  “Good, mmmyesss. Better than you can possibly comprehend.”

  Harlech bristled at the insult, but said nothing.

  Pressing together the palms of his pale hands, Kulwych took a moment to examine his fingernails. Then, with the barest hint of a grin, he turned his lone eye toward the warrior. “You see, my Harlech, I will now show you why your victory in the coming battle at Isenwy is absolutely assured.”

  “Assured?” Harlech’s usual grimace lessened, while his big fingers toyed with the handle of his broadsword. This was, indeed, good news. “Show me, Master.”

  “In a moment. But first, remember your goal. You shall crush that pitiful alliance of elves, aging priests, and eaglemen. Do you understand, Harlech? Crush them. And you shall do it even before my lord Rhita Gawr descends from the sky! Why? Because I want him to see that my army is powerful—immensely powerful. And that I am unquestionably ready to rule Avalon.”

  “Yes, Master.” Harlech nodded expectantly. “Yer right to have such confidence in me troops o’ gobsken. Many o’ them are already marchin’ on Isenwy. Garr, I was jest—”

  “Silence!” The sorcerer’s harsh command echoed inside the chamber, finally melting into the sound of water trickling down the walls. “I have no confidence whatsoever in your troops, or even in my pet ghoulacas, who will fly into battle on your side.”

  Visibly, Harlech winced at the mention of those deadly, nearly transparent birds whose bloodred talons had ripped apart his flesh more than once. Only thanks to his experience as a fighter, and his array of weapons, had he survived their attacks. While they might be useful allies in battle, there was no way to control them—or to ensure that they attacked only the opposing forces.

  “Nor,” Kulwych continued, “am I willing to rely on the help you will get from Belamir’s people.” He chortled quietly. “Although we have infiltrated his Humanity First movement at the very top.”

  “An’ so, yer good news?”

  “Is this.” Kulwych stepped closer to the throbbing crystal, and at the same time, pulled from his cloak an object that glowed with the same malefic light. Holding it by its leather cord, he dangled it before Harlech’s face.

  “B-b-but,” protested the warrior, “it’s jest a claw.”

  Instantly, a bolt of bright red light shot out from the claw. It struck Harlech’s rapier with an explosive craaaaack! so loud that chips of stone fell from the ceiling. The blade itself burst into intense flames, which burned fiercely for a few seconds and then vanished. Along with—

  “Me sword!” In a panic, Harlech searched all around to find the rapier. He checked the loop where it had hu
ng, the rest of his weapons belt, and the cavern floor. But it was nowhere at all.

  Kulwych’s throaty cackle filled the chamber. “I could have taken off one of your ears, my Harlech, but I decided you might need that in battle.”

  The warrior could only gape at him, unable to speak. His large hand continued to grope at the spot where his rapier had hung only a moment before.

  “So you see, my Harlech, this is much more than just a claw.” He twirled the necklace in the flickering rays of the crystal. “It is a weapon. Mmmyesss, a terrible weapon.”

  Managing to swallow, the warrior asked, “How . . . does it work, Master?”

  “It draws from the power of the vengélano crystal, you see. It is connected to the crystal, and bound to that power—just as Rhita Gawr’s warriors, who were called from the Otherworld by the crystal, are also bound to that power.”

  Kulwych studied the claw with admiration. “To use it, all you need to do is concentrate on whatever object—or whatever person—you’d like to destroy. Then let the power go to work! After each bolt, you must wait a few seconds before using it again, so that its strength can gather anew.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That is all, my warrior.” Handing the necklace to Harlech, he smirked. “Now even you and your unruly gobsken cannot fail.”

  Cautiously fingering the glowing claw, Harlech hung it around his neck. Slowly, he nodded. “Methinks I’m goin’ to like this new weapon.”

  “You will indeed. Just wait until after the parley before you start to use it.”

  “Parley?” Harlech almost spat the word. “Yer askin’ me to parley wid me enemies afore the fightin’ starts? Only a coward does that.”

  Kulwych hissed with annoyance. “And only a fool questions his master! If you call a parley, they will think you are weak, and will be tempted to start fighting even sooner. How many times must I remind you? I want this battle over and done before Rhita Gawr arrives! That is why I have spread the rumor among the elves that, if they wait too long, superior forces will come to your aid.”

  The sorcerer nodded. “That is true, of course. Superior forces will come to your aid. But thanks to your new weapon, you will not need them. By the time those forces arrive, the mortals will have been vanquished.”

  Gradually, the look of uncertainty on Harlech’s face shifted to something more malevolent. “There’s one person, Master, I’m ‘specially hopin’ to kill.”

  “And who is that?”

  “An eagleman. Fought me back there on yer dam. Bested me even, but only since he had them blasted wings to fly out o’ reach.”

  “Then I suggest you rid him of his wings, Harlech. Before you rid him of his head.”

  For the first time in a long while, the warrior smiled. “As you say, Master.”

  The sorcerer rubbed his smooth hands together. “I share your anticipation, mmmyesss. For there is someone whom I, too, am eager to kill.”

  His eye narrowed maliciously. “Now go. Rush to the nearest portal, at the gobsken fortress in Rahnawyn, and then on to the Plains of Isenwy. Hurry now, Harlech! And do not return until you have slaughtered them all, every last one.”

  8 • Voice from the Shadows

  Elli, chewing on her latest handful of moss, savored its sharp, peppermintlike flavor. Everything else in this realm of eternal night seemed to dull her senses, not awaken them.

  Certainly, there wasn’t much to see. The circle of light from her glowing amulet illuminated only herself, the sprite cradled in her arm, the mossy turf under her feet, and the dry streambed on her right—which Nuic believed could lead them from the Vale of Echoes to the Lost City of Light. The only other thing she could see was the utter darkness of Shadowroot.

  So thick lay that darkness upon the land, blanketing everything, it seemed to muffle any sounds. Since they had left the Vale—which felt like a full day ago, although Elli found it impossible to keep track of time—the only sounds she had heard were the scrunching of their feet on the stubbly moss. And, of course, Nuic’s ongoing grumbles of misery: his way of cheering her up.

  Yet he wasn’t succeeding. In addition to the gloominess of her surroundings was the memory of their narrow escape from the death dreamer. How could I have been such an idiot? she asked herself, staying alert for more trouble as she walked. In that moment of weakness, she had nearly lost her life—as well as her chance to destroy Kulwych’s crystal, which was her only hope of helping all the people she cared about.

  She had come perilously close to losing that chance forever, letting it wash away with those evil waves. Worst of all, when she was honest with herself, she had to admit that the dream, and those waves, hadn’t seemed at all evil. Rather, they had felt comforting, alluring, and supremely tempting.

  “You’re making fists again, Elliryanna.” Nuic’s voice, and the reddening tones of his skin, nudged her out of her thoughts.

  “Just practicing for Kulwych,” she replied, doing her best to sound lighthearted. “I’m fine.”

  “Hmmmpff. If you’re fine, then I’m a pink-eyed cookarella bird.”

  Elli surprised herself by laughing. And the mere sound of her own laughter made her feel a tiny bit better. Maybe there’s still hope after all, she mused. Then, glancing down at the little fellow she carried, she felt a strong surge of gratitude. Thanks to you, my friend. Without you I’d still be wandering around the Drumadian compound, an apprentice priestess third class without a clue.

  She nodded, knowing exactly what Nuic would say to that compliment—that she was still just an apprentice without a clue.

  Onward she walked, following the dry streambed. Just beyond the amulet’s circle of light, shadows seemed to coalesce, shift, and then melt away. What creatures, she wondered, lurked in this gloom? She squeezed Nuic a bit tighter.

  Hours passed, or what seemed like hours, as the trek continued. Her feet began to shuffle across the mossy ground. Would they ever reach the Lost City? And its library that Tamwyn had described? Without that library, and the map they hoped was there, it would be impossible to find Kulwych’s hideaway in time.

  She scowled. Even if we do get there in time, I still have no idea how to destroy Kulwych’s crystal.

  Suddenly she noticed a strange object on the ground ahead, just at the edge of her crystal’s light. As she stepped closer, she could see that, while it was no bigger than the broken bits of rock she’d seen lying amidst the moss, this was something quite different. It was smooth, almost glassy, and perfectly square. Strangest of all, it sparkled with color, a deep emerald green. When she reached it, she stopped to look more closely.

  “A piece of tile,” she announced in surprise.

  Nuic, twisting in her arm so that he could see, harrumphed. “Not just any tile. That, I’ll wager, is a piece of the city.”

  “The Lost City of Light?”

  The sprite nodded. “Its original name was Dianarra. Built by some sort of flaming creatures, according to legend—creatures who flew down from the stars.”

  While Elli had doubts about the legend, she remembered well Tamwyn’s description of the city—and the look on his face as he had told her about it. She glanced at the Galator, tied around Nuic’s middle, wishing she could look into it again right now.

  Following her gaze, Nuic placed his hands over the green crystal. “Thinking about that clumsy friend of yours, aren’t you? There will be another time to look in on him, Elliryanna. But not now. We have too much else to do right now.”

  “What I’d really like to do is talk with him again.”

  “Hmmmpff. Can’t understand why! Besides, you couldn’t do that through the Galator, anyway. You remember what Rhia said, don’t you? No matter how much you care for someone, you can only see him, not speak to him, through the crystal.”

  “I know, I know.” She started walking again, keeping close to the streambed. Ready to change the subject, she asked, “What do you recall about the city?”

  Nuic’s color, an inky brown, brighten
ed just barely. “Not much, really. That was over two hundred years ago. Mostly I remember how beautiful it was, with huge buildings, elegant facades, and colorful sculptures all around. And I also remember how busy it was, bustling with people from every realm. Some of them came through the city’s portal, the only one in Shadowroot. Others took a portal to the highlands of Fireroot, then trekked here, following this very streambed through the Vale, past the Evernight Peaks, all the way to the city gates. Of course, in those days the stream flowed with water. Just as the city blazed with light from thousands of torches—so bright they could even be seen, whenever the mists parted, from Fireroot’s coast.”

  Striding on the mossy turf, Elli noticed more scattered tiles. Several were also green, but some were glazed with scarlet and gold. She walked faster.

  “Then the dark elves’ civil war broke out,” Nuic continued. “No one outside Shadowroot knows what really happened, except perhaps a few museos who escaped to other realms. It’s all a great mystery! All we know for certain is that suddenly the lights of Dianarra were doused, and its portal closed.”

  Elli halted. A forbidding shape had appeared at the edge of her crystal’s light. Blacker than night itself, it loomed larger than anything else they had encountered on this darkened trek. She caught her breath, realizing what it was.

  “A wall,” she declared. “A huge wall of stone. And look! There’s a gap over there to the left.”

  “The gates,” observed Nuic. “Or what’s left of them. Well, what’s holding you back? Let’s go in.”

  But she merely shifted her feet on the ground, kicking a broken fragment of tile. “Nuic, what about the dark elves?”

  “Terrible people. Vicious fighters. Deadly to intruders—especially since they are able to see in the dark.”

  Elli groaned. “You’re not helping me feel any better.”

  “I’m just telling you the facts, my fainthearted wench. But there’s something else you should know about the dark elves. If what the bards sing is true, all the elves died in the war. Or at least nearly all of them.”