The Lost Years (21 page)

Shim swallowed. “All right. I goes. Maybe not alls the way to the castle, but I goes.”

“Are you sure? We won’t find much honey over there.”

He answered by starting to wade into the river. He made his way for a few paces, struggling against the water. As he neared the partly submerged boulder, though, he stumbled. Suddenly he found himself in much deeper water. He shouted, thrashing his little arms. I leaped to his aid just before he went under. Hauling him onto my shoulders, I began to cross.

“Thanks you,” panted Shim. He shook himself, spraying water all over my face. “This water is muchly wet.”

Carefully, I stepped through the surging water, using my staff for support. “I’d be grateful if you’d keep your hands away from my nose.”

“But I needs a handle to holds on to.”

“Then hold on to your own nose!” I exclaimed, certain now that I had made a mistake to let him come along.

“All right,” he replied with such a nasal voice that I knew he was holding tight to his own nose.

With every step through the rapidly flowing river, I felt something pulling backward against my leather boots, tugging me back toward the forest. It was not the current itself. Rather, it seemed that hundreds of invisible hands were trying to restrain me from leaving the Druma. Whether these hands were in the water, or in myself, I could not tell. But my feet grew increasingly heavy as I neared the opposite bank.

A feeling of foreboding swelled in me. At the same time, I felt an image forming in my mind, an image from some source other than my second sight. I saw strange lights, dozens of them, moving toward me. Suddenly I realized that my hidden powers were at work. This was going to be an image of the future!

“No!” I cried, shaking my head so violently that Shim had to grab my hair to avoid falling off.

The image disappeared. The powers receded. Yet the feeling of foreboding remained, deeper than before.

As I crossed onto the eastern bank, Shim wriggled down from my shoulder. Not without punching me in the ear, however.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“For makings me holds my nose all that way.”

The thought of throwing him back into the river crossed my mind, but somehow I resisted. And my anger was swiftly crowded out by the closer view of the orchard. The trees, thin and tormented, looked considerably more frail than even the oldest trees in the Druma. Indeed, those farthest away from the river seemed positively sickly, mere ghosts of living things. We had arrived in the Blighted Lands.

I approached one of the sturdier trees, whose branches draped over the river. Reaching up, I plucked a small, withered fruit. Turning it in my hand, I puzzled at the leathery toughness, the rusty brown color, the wrinkled skin. Sniffing it, I confirmed my suspicion. It was an apple. The scrawniest apple I had ever encountered.

I tossed it to Shim. “Your supper.”

The little giant caught it. He looked unsure as he brought the fruit to his lips. Finally, he took a bite. The bitter expression on his face said it all.

“Bleh! You wishes to poison me!”

I smirked. “No. I didn’t think you’d take a bite.”

“Then you wishes to trick me.”

“That I cannot deny.”

Shim placed his hands on his hips. “I wishes the girl is here!”

Grimly, I nodded. “I do, too.”

At that instant I saw in the distance, beyond the last row of trees, a band of six figures marching out of the eastern plains. They seemed to be heading straight for the orchard. Warrior goblins! Their swords, breastplates and pointed helmets gleamed in the late afternoon sun. I watched them disappear behind a rise. Although the slope hid them, their gruff voices grew steadily louder.

Shim, who had seen them too, stood petrified. “What is we goings to do?”

“Hide someplace.”

But where? From where we stood, I could not find even a single rock to crouch behind. The withered vegetation offered no protection. The slope along the bank ran low and smooth, with not so much as a gully.

The goblins neared the top of the rise. Their voices grew louder, as did the heavy stamping of their boots. My heart raced. I scanned the terrain to find any possible hiding place.

“You!” whispered a voice. “Over here!”

I turned to see a head poking out from among the roots of the trees at the far end of the orchard. Shim and I dashed to the spot. We found a deep, newly dug ditch that had not yet been connected with the river. In the ditch stood a broad-shouldered, sunburned man with a strong chin and brown hair, the more so because it was flecked with dirt. Below his bare chest, he wore loose leggings of brown cloth. He gripped his shovel as effortlessly and securely as a practiced soldier grips his sword.

He waved at us with his shovel. “Get in here, lads. Quick.”

We did not hesitate to follow the command. I tossed aside my staff and dived into the ditch. Even as Shim dived in behind me, the goblins marched over the rise and entered the orchard. Quickly, the man covered us with dirt and leaves. He left only a small hole where each of us could breathe.

“You there!” called a goblin’s voice. From beneath the blanket of dirt, it sounded a bit higher, though no less grating, than the voice of the goblin who had led the band in the Druma.

“Yes?” answered the ditchdigger. He sounded perturbed at being interrupted in his work.

“We’re searching for a dangerous prisoner. Escaped this morning.”

“From who?” asked the man.

“From guards, you buffoon! Former guards, that is. Lost their prisoner, then their heads.” He gave a high, wheezing laugh. “Have you seen anybody cross this river? Speak up, man!”

The laborer paused for some time before speaking. I started to wonder whether he might yet give us away.

“Well,” he said at last, “I did see somebody.”

Beneath the dirt, my stomach clenched.

“Who?”

“It was . . . a young man.”

Sweat, mixed with dirt, stung my lips. My heart pounded.

“Where and when?” barked the goblin.

Again the man paused. I debated whether I should try to bolt, hoping to outrun the warriors.

“A few hours ago,” answered the laborer. “Heading downstream. Toward the ocean.”

“You’d better be right,” rasped the goblin.

“I’m right, but I’m also late. Got to finish this irrigation ditch before nightfall.”

“Ha! This old orchard needs a lot more than a ditch to save it.”

Another goblin voice, slower and deeper than the other, joined in. “Why don’t we chop down a few of these trees to lighten this poor fellow’s load?”

The whole band wheezed in laughter.

“No,” declared the first goblin. “If we’re going to catch the prisoner by nightfall, we have no time to lose.”

“What did they do with that fool girl?” rasped another goblin as the band marched off, boots pounding on the soil.

I pushed my head out of the dirt too late to hear the full reply. All I caught were the words
of the king
and, a bit later,
better off dead.

I shook the dirt off my tunic. As the gruff goblin voices faded away, finally swallowed by the sound of the churning river, I crawled out of the ditch and faced the man. “I am grateful. Most grateful.”

He planted his shovel in the loose dirt, then extended a burly hand. “Honn is my name, lad. I may be just a common ditchdigger, but I know who I like and who I don’t. Anyone who is an enemy of those overgrown toads is surely a friend of mine.”

I took the hand, which nearly swallowed my own. “I am called Emrys.” I nudged the pile of dirt beside my foot. “And my brave companion here is Shim.”

Shim popped out, spat some dirt from his mouth, and glared at me.

“We must go now,” I said. “We have a long journey ahead of us.”

“And where are you bound for?”

I drew a deep breath. “For the castle of the king.”

“Not the Shrouded Castle, lad?”

“Yes.”

Honn shook his head in disbelief. The gesture revealed his ears, somewhat triangular in shape and pointed at the top, beneath the mat of brown hair. “The Shrouded Castle,” he muttered. “Where the Seven Wise Tools, hewn ages and ages ago, are kept. I remember when they belonged to the people. Now they belong just to the king! The plow that tills its own field . . . the hoe that nurtures its seeds . . . the saw that cuts only as much wood as is needed . . .”

He caught himself. “Why do you want to go there?”

“To find someone. A friend.”

He stared at me as if I had lost my mind.

“Can you tell me where the castle sits?”

Raising his shovel, he jabbed it at the air in the direction of the Dark Hills. “That way. I can tell you no more, lad, except that you would be wise to change your plans.”

“That I can’t do.”

He grimaced, studying me with care. “You are a stranger to me, Emrys. But I wish you whatever luck there is left in Fincayra.”

Honn reached for his shirt beside the ditch. He pulled out a worn dagger with a narrow blade. He twirled it once in his hand, then handed it to me. “Here. You will need this more than I.”

26:
T
HE
T
OWN OF THE
B
ARDS

I strode across the tundra, trekking toward the rising waves of the Dark Hills. My satchel of herbs felt heavier, now that it also carried Honn’s dagger. As my boots crunched on the dry, crusty soil, my staff clicked against the ground. Every so often my shoulder rubbed against the staff’s knotty top and I caught a faint scent of hemlock.

Shim, grumbling to himself about madness, struggled to keep pace with me. But I would not slow down for him. We had no time to lose. Over and over the goblin’s words
better off dead
echoed in my mind.

Despite the blades of grass, clumps of bracken, and groves of scraggly trees that managed to survive on this tundra, the dominant colors of this plain, stretching to the dark horizon, were dull grays and browns, tinged with rust. Several times I looked over my shoulder at the fading green hills of Druma Wood, trying to recall the lushness of that land. As the sun sank lower against our backs, our shadows grew longer and darker.

I noticed in the distance a stand of dark, leafless trees. Then, drawing nearer, I realized the truth. What had looked like trunks and limbs were really the skeletons of houses and stables—all that remained of a village about the size of Caer Vedwyd. No people or animals were left. The buildings had been burned to the ground. The stone walls had been torn apart. By the side of the ash-strewn road through the village, a wooden cradle, once the bed of a child, lay in splinters. Why this village had been destroyed, no one remained to tell.

We pushed on toward the Dark Hills. Although I stretched both my ears and my second sight for any sign of goblins, I found none. But that was no cause to relax. The first hint of sunset already streaked the sky. In another hour, night would fall. I could only imagine what creatures might prowl this terrain after dark.

Meanwhile, Shim fell farther behind. He kept stopping to rest, I kept urging him to move. His strength was ebbing, just like my vision. Reluctantly, I concluded that we would need to find some sort of shelter before the day ended. Where, though? This desolate plain didn’t offer many choices.

We continued to trek over the long, gradual rises and depressions of the land. As our shadows grew, so did my fears. Strange howling sounds, half wolf and half wind, reached our ears. Despite my pleas, Shim lagged ever more.

At last, as I topped a rise, I glimpsed a village below. Warm yellow torches blazed in the streets, while fires burned in the hearths of low houses made of mud brick. My mouth watered when I realized that the smell of burning wood mingled with roasting grain.

Shim approached and traded glances with me. With a joyful cry, he started running down to the village gates. Clumsily, but full of hope, I ran after him.

A man, sitting on the ground by the gates, suddenly leaped to his feet as we came near. He was tall and gaunt, and he held a spear. He wore a simple tunic. A thick black beard covered most of his face. But his unusually large, dark eyes were his most striking feature. Even in the dwindling light, his eyes shone eerily. Yet I could not shake the feeling that their light came less from intelligence than from fear. Indeed, his eyes seemed nearly crazed, like the eyes of an animal frightened to the very edge of death.

Bracing himself, the man pointed his spear at my chest. Though he said nothing, his expression was grim.

“We come in peace,” I declared. “We are strangers in this land and seek only some shelter for the night.”

The man’s large eyes opened still wider, but he said nothing. Instead, he thrust his spear closer, nicking the wood of my staff and barely missing my hand.

“We is hungry,” moaned Shim. “Hungry and sleepy.”

Again the silent man thrust his spear at us. Only then did I notice the sign behind him, hanging at an angle from one of the gate posts. Carved into a weathered slab of wood, it read,
Welcome to Caer Neithan, Town of the Bards.
Below that were inscribed the words
Here song is ever,
but the phrases that followed had been damaged somehow. I could not be sure, but they seemed to have been scraped away.

Through the gates, I watched a woman, tall and dark like the man, scurry across the town square. Before she slipped into one of the houses, she paused to beckon to two children, perhaps four or five years old, their black hair falling over their shoulders. They darted up to her and the door closed with a slam. It struck me as odd that we heard the padding of their bare feet, but not their voices. The woman, as well as the children, were as silent as the man with the spear.

Then I realized that, in this entire village, not a single voice could be heard. No babies crying. No friends laughing. No neighbors arguing over the price of wheat, the cause of lice, or the likelihood of rain. No sounds of rage, or joy, or sorrow.

No voices at all.

The man jabbed again with his spear, nearly brushing the folds of my tunic. I backed slowly away, still pondering the eerie glow of his eyes. Through my frown, I said to him, “Whatever happened to you and your village, I am sorry.”