The Eternal Flame (24 page)

“Do you, now? But do you know that, when you saw me tear out the heart of that guard, I was moving quite slowly, just to savor the experience?”

Lleu kept advancing.

The changeling’s gaze flitted across the mayhem of battle. No one was looking his way, so he could safely dispose of this foolish priest. And if there happened to be any witnesses . . . why, it would take just another instant to destroy them, too. Besides, the whole conflict was now almost over, so there was nothing to lose.

Just as Lleu took another step toward him, Neh Gawthrech instantly changed forms. Fangs, curved like the blades of scythes, suddenly appeared on the now-triangular head, along with scarlet eyes that flamed with wrath. Deadly claws sprouted from long, scaly arms. Muscular legs flexed, down to the clawed toes, ready to rip apart their victim. The changeling pounced, leaping right over Lleu’s sword, and then—

Crashed to the muddy ground, an arrow buried deep in his chest. The changeling writhed, clawed at the air, then fell completely still.

Lleu was so surprised that he could only stare in disbelief at the motionless body. Finally, he looked up. The archer whose arrow had saved him was just emerging from behind a muddy boulder. Lleu took a sharp breath, for the sight was almost as much of a shock as what had just occurred.

“Morrigon,” he said in amazement. “You—”

“Saved yer life, I know.” The old man stared at the ground as he stepped closer, examining the scaly, reptilian form of the beast he had unwittingly served for so many years. He ran his hand through the white hair above one ear, his expression a mixture of outrage, confusion, and disgust.

At last, he turned his bloodshot eye toward the priest. “Don’t get the wrong idea, now,” he snarled. “The ideas he spoke about, the rules he taught us—all that was right an’ true.”

Lleu glanced down at the bloodied body of Catha, whose eyes were just barely open. “As true as the form of a changeling.”

“Don’t get smirky, priest! I shot him, yes, but I was jest about to loose me arrow at
you.
Then he changed—I saw him meself—an’, well . . . I switched me target.” His voice dropped lower. “But don’t fool yerself. I don’t like ye any better than I did afore.”

Turning back to the corpse, Morrigon kicked the changeling’s clawed hand. “How could ye do that?” he railed bitterly. “To all o’ us who believed.”

“Morrigon,” said Lleu gently, lowering his sword. “I know this is hard for you. But will you help me now? Will you bring others over here to see the real Belamir, so we can finally stop this war?”

Slowly, the old man lifted his face, distorted by feelings he couldn’t begin to describe. “No,” he declared. “Belamir, mayhaps, was false. But not his cause.”

The lanky priest peered at him sternly. “Are you sure?”

Morrigon averted his eyes. For an instant he seemed to waver. Then, abruptly, he reached for another arrow, nocked it, and aimed at Lleu. “Now, get yerself out o’ me sight! Afore I do what I should’ve done last time.”

Before Lleu could answer, a gobsken warrior leaped at him. Still clutching the falcon, Lleu slashed with his sword. Once again, he was fighting for his life.

Morrigon made no effort to help him. In fact, he didn’t even bother to watch. For he was staring, once again, at the contorted body of the changeling at his feet.

Not many paces away, someone else who wore a Drumadian robe was fighting for her life. Llynia jumped backward, desperately trying to escape the fire ox eager to impale her on his horns. The ox’s nostrils flared as he charged again. Once more, she spun away—but her foot slipped in the mud.

She reeled and crumpled to the ground. Now she was helpless! The ox lowered his fearsome head for the kill. Starlight glinted on his horns, as red as her own blood.

Just then, at the edge of her vision, she spied a band of gnomes, her allies, raising their spears to attack the vicious beast. But she knew they were too late. Even if their spears struck down the ox, he would have already killed her.

With an angry bellow, the ox lunged forward. His horrible horns shot straight at Llynia. She shut her eyes, too frightened even to utter a final prayer as she died.

But she didn’t die. She heard the gnomes’ spears pierce the beast’s hide; she heard his roar of pain and the thud of his body hitting the ground. Why, though, hadn’t she felt his horns plunging into her chest?

She opened her eyes. The sight that greeted her was almost as terrible as the prospect of her own death. For she suddenly realized that someone had thrown herself onto the ox’s horns to take the impact, trading Llynia’s life for her own.

Fairlyn.

Llynia crawled to the side of the lilac elm, this gentle creature who had taken a maryth’s vow of loyalty to her years ago—and had stayed true to that vow until Llynia herself broke their compact by leaving the Society of the Whole. Seeing the horns anchored deep into Fairlyn’s trunk, just below her large brown eyes that now stared lifelessly at the sky, Llynia winced painfully. She knew that Fairlyn, like all tree spirits, could live on indefinitely after her host tree had died. Yet she also knew that a tree spirit could still perish, either from grief or from wounds received in battle.

And now,
thought Llynia,
you are dying from both.

Blinking back her tears, she gazed at Fairlyn, whose branches had snapped and whose trunk had split wide open with the force of the blow. Most of the purple buds that dotted Fairlyn’s boughs were covered in mud. And, as a sure sign that her life had ended, she emitted no smells at all. The only aroma that surrounded her now was the stench of death.

Llynia, once so proud that she believed the Lady of the Lake would never want to see anyone but her, lowered her head onto Fairlyn’s torn trunk. And sobbed.

Suddenly she felt a soft tapping against her back. She sat up, just as the lone branch that had touched her so tenderly fell away. She swallowed, unsure whether it had been just a gust of wind . . . or something more.

Then, so subtly she could not be certain it was real, she smelled the faraway aroma of lilac blossoms.

29
•
To Do What Mortals Must

The battle upon the plains of Isenwy raged on. Mud and blood, in equal proportions, splattered faces, clothing, and weaponry.

Rumors swirled like whirlwinds across the battlefield. Some of them claimed that the warrior Harlech carried a whole slew of terrible, invincible weapons. Others predicted dire events—that the stench of corpses would attract more flesh-eating ghoulacas to the battle, or that the flamelons would soon betray their allies and join with the gobsken. But most of the rumors involved the superior forces that were expected to come soon to the gobsken’s aid. While some people guessed that those forces would be another army of gobsken or a company of trolls, most people believed that the new forces would be even more powerful—and even more devastating.

A dragon, perhaps. Or a group of dragons, whose leader would bear the sorcerer Kulwych. Or, worst of all, the spirit warlord Rhita Gawr.

No one, it seemed, knew the truth. But the expectation of such an arrival felt just as tangible as Malóch’s muddy terrain. As a result, both sides battled still harder: the soldiers of Kulwych, out of growing hope; the allies of Avalon, out of mounting dread.

All the while, individuals fought and died, cursed and prayed. At the same moment that Lleu slashed away with his sword, and Llynia wept over the body of her friend, another person nearby fought valiantly—but with an unusual weapon.

A lute.

The old bard, surrounded by gnomes, swung at them awkwardly with his musical instrument. All the while, he tried (with mixed results) not to trip over his own cloak. As his lute swept through the air, nearly brushing the gnomes’ spear tips, it trembled with deep, whooshing notes.

Whether because they were simply amused, or because they just weren’t sure what to make of this bizarre warrior with the lopsided hat and the beard that grew sideways, the gnomes didn’t immediately hurl their spears. Instead, they merely watched. They grunted among themselves, keeping just out of reach of the swinging lute.

Finally, one of the gnomes climbed on top of a mud-covered boulder and called out some harsh, guttural commands. Slightly taller than the others, he wore jagged stripes of blue body paint on his chest and arms. On his three-fingered hands, red ceramic rings gleamed in the starlight. Hearing him shout, the rest of the gnomes ceased talking, planted their feet, and lifted their spears higher.

The warriors were just about to hurl their weapons at the bard, ending his songs forever, when an arrow whizzed through the air. It struck one of the gnomes, who lurched backward and splatted on the mud. An instant later, another arrow flew. This one caught a gnome in the thigh, making him crumple in pain.

In the confusion that followed, Brionna sprinted over to the bard, her loose elven robe fluttering as she ran. “Come!” she cried, tugging on his sleeve. “Hurry, old man.”

His wrinkled face shone with gratitude. Grasping his lute firmly, he started to follow her.

Too slowly. The gnomes’ leader stamped his foot on the boulder and barked some new commands. Quickly, his band of warriors regrouped. They surrounded the elf and the bard, grunting irately among themselves. In unison, they hefted their spears, ready to throw.

Brionna didn’t need to glance around to know that they couldn’t escape. Too many spears were aimed at them. Even if she was able to get off one final shot at the leader, both she and the bard would surely die.

Gravely, she turned to the elder. What she saw in his dark eyes, though, surprised her. There was none of the despair that she herself was feeling. Rather, the bard looked at her with an expression that seemed inexplicably peaceful.

At that instant, the gnomes’ leader released a loud shout. It was not a command—but a shout of rage. For the mud-covered boulder beneath him had suddenly started to swell, expanding on all sides.

Though he waved his arms wildly to keep his balance, the blue-painted gnome fell over backward. He hit the ground with a spray of mud. Two gnomes rushed over to drag him away from the spot, while another dropped his spear and ran, disappearing into the surrounding fray.

Meanwhile, the boulder continued to grow, its surface bubbling like brown lava. Slowly it lengthened, growing taller and taller. At last, when it stood nearly twice the height of Brionna and the bard, it sprouted four slender arms, each with three delicate fingers as long as one of the arrows in Brionna’s quiver. Then a rounded head appeared atop its sloping shoulders. Deep-set eyes, as brown as the rest of its body, peered down at everyone.

The elf could only stare back in utter amazement. She knew, from her grandfather’s tales, that she was looking at a mudmaker—one of the most elusive creatures in all of Avalon. And also one of the most magical. According to lore, these strange beings had been given a wondrous power by the wizard Merlin himself: the power to Make, to form new creatures out of the mud of Malóch. Creatures as beautiful as the caitlinott bird, whose every feather shone with all the colors of the rainbow, or as immense as the elephaunt, whose enormous bodies broke the first trails through the jungles of Africqua, had been crafted by the mudmakers.

The tall brown figure raised her many arms. “Flee, gnomes!” she commanded. “Or feel you shall the wrath of Aelonnia of Isenwy.”

With a round of guttural shrieks, most of the gnomes scurried off. Only the leader remained, a scowl carved on his face. Shakily, he raised his spear. But when Aelonnia raised one of her flat feet, squelching noisily, and took a step in his direction, he released a terrified whimper and fled into the battlefield.

The mudmaker swayed, then turned to the young elf and the old bard. For a moment she studied Brionna, then said in a resonant whisper: “A child of Tressimir you are, I perceive.”

The elf maiden swallowed. Nervously, she bowed, feeling the pinch of the scar across her back. “His granddaughter. My name is Brionna.”

Aelonnia’s round head bobbed slightly. “So it is. Your name means
strength
in the ancient tongue of Lost Fincayra. And feel sure, I do, that you have needed all your strength in recent weeks.”

Brionna trembled, but managed a nod.

The mudmaker’s deep eyes turned to the bard. As she peered at him, her long fingers moved thoughtfully, as if they were strumming an invisible lute. “And you,” she observed, “a most unusual warrior do seem.”

“Olewyn the bard, at your service.” He grasped the brim of his hat, whose crown curled like the petals of a spinflower, another of the mudmakers’ creations. Then, with a flourish, he bowed.

Rising again, he declared, “It is an honor to see you, Aelonnia of Isenwy. As it is to visit Malóch, even at this time of terrible conflict.”

His hand stroked his silvery beard, which shimmered in the starlight. “For despite all the bloodletting around us, Malóch remains the true soil of Merlin’s magical seed, still blessed with the seven sacred Elements of Avalon:

“
Earth, mud of birth;
Air, free to breathe;
Fire, spark of light;
Water, sap to grow;
Life, fruit of soul;
LightDark, stars and space;
Mystery, now and always.
”

Aelonnia drew a deep, slow breath, as if she were inhaling the power of those words. “All the gifts of Dagda and Lorilanda, they are.”

Brionna, though, furrowed her brow. With a discouraged wave at the battle raging all around them, she asked, “Where are Dagda and Lorilanda now, when wre most need them?”

“Doing what they must, they are.” The mudmaker’s delicate fingers stirred, weaving mysterious designs in the air. “Just as we mortals ourselves are obliged to do.”

Even as Aelonnia’s rich whisper filled Brionna’s mind, pushing aside briefly the din of battle, the elf maiden thought of another mortal who was doing what he must.
Scree,
she called silently,
I wish I knew where to find you in all this mess! Are you still fighting Harlech? And still alive?

The answer to both questions, as it happened, was yes.