The Eternal Flame (27 page)

Somewhere from his distant past came a half-remembered voice, asking a question that had haunted him all his life.
So his name means Dark Flame ? I wonder, then, which will it be. Will he bring to Avalon the light of flame . . . or the dark of night?

“Which will it be?” he demanded aloud. “Come on, Tamwyn! Which will it be?”

Fires burned within his brain, scorching his every thought. But those were fires of doubt and uncertainty, not at all what he needed. What did he even know, really, about the fire he had so often coaxed into life when he camped? That it was hot enough to cook by. Bright enough to read by. And also full of opposites: fragile yet strong, useful yet dangerous.

He squeezed the pole, concentrating, so hard his fingers went white. How was magical fire different from a campfire?
Magical fire,
Gwirion had once told him,
must be kindled within.

But where could he find the power to do that? Where could he find the spark, the flames, that he needed?

Then he recalled something else that the fire angel had said.
You have your own inner flames, Tamwyn, though they cannot be seen. For they reside in the soul.

“In the soul,” Tamwyn repeated. He spoke to himself, to the torch, to the seven darkened stars of the Wizard’s Staff.

In the soul.

All at once, he understood. He turned his thoughts inward, drawing strength from his innermost fires—kindled from passion, hope, and love. For the Great Tree of Avalon, his world of many wonders. For the Thousand Groves connected to its branches. For all the people he loved, who had helped him in countless ways. Gwirion. Basilgarrad. Brave Ahearna—and yes, even Henni. Scree, wherever he might be now. Rhia, who had urged him to create his own destiny. Palimyst, the wise craftsman. Ethaun, who had repaired his broken dagger. Crusty old Nuic.

And, of course, Elli.

He opened himself to those passions, those loves, feeling the warmth of their fires. Stronger they grew, and stronger still.

“Now, my torch,” he commanded. “Burn! Burn for Avalon, and for us all.”

With a brilliant flash, the torch burst into flames. Tamwyn held it before his face, feeling its heat, watching its glow. At every stroke of the great dragon’s wings, a whoosh of air blew across the torch. Yet its fire never wavered.

Turning toward the central star, Tamwyn gazed at its enormous rim—a pale, glowing ring that swept across the sky. It encircled a gigantic well of darkness, a doorway to the world of the spirits. The only darkness deeper than that well was the eye of the warlord who had just fallen into it.

The young wizard drew a deep breath, concentrating on his fires deep within. Then he blew very gently, as if he were coaxing a small, shimmering coal into flame.

A single spark lifted off the torch. As small as it was compared to the star, it glowed with remarkable radiance. Directed by Tamwyn’s guiding breath, it floated away from Basilgarrad, dancing over the dragon’s outstretched wing. It continued to fly, this tiny dot of light, all the way to the darkened star. At last, it disappeared within the shadowed center.

Nothing happened. Tamwyn held his breath, waiting. Beneath his feet, he felt the vibrations of Basilgarrad’s voice emitting a deep, expectant rumble.

Suddenly, with a great
whooooosshhh,
the star burst into flames. Iridescent curtains of flame filled the entire rim, shooting out radiant beams that brightened the sky. Tamwyn’s eyes gleamed like smaller stars at this sight, while Basilgarrad raised a wing and spun them around in a celebratory circle.

The doorway had been closed. With Rhita Gawr and his warriors on the other side.

In rapid succession, Tamwyn repeated the process six more times. Blowing on his magical torch with care, he sent a spark into each of the other darkened stars of the constellation. All of them burst into wondrous flames. The barrier between Avalon and the Otherworld had, at last, been fully restored.

With satisfaction, Tamwyn gazed at the seven lustrous stars of the Wizard’s Staff. Not since the night he crawled into a heap of dung to stay warm, the night this whole adventure began, had he seen all seven of them alight. And he had never seen them like this—so very near, so very bright.

Only once before, he knew, had these same seven stars been rekindled. That was over three hundred years before, at the end of the Age of Storms. On that memorable day it was Merlin himself, riding this very same dragon, who had brought back the light to the Wizard’s Staff.

Today, someone very different had accomplished the same feat. He was much younger, far less experienced, and not skilled at much beyond wood caning. Yet he had somehow succeeded. Despite the ambiguity of his name, and the uncertainty of his destiny, he had finally answered that half-remembered question from long ago.

He had brought to Avalon the light of flame.

33
•
Prayers

Just as a sudden stab of pain surprised Rhita Gawr, a different turn of events surprised the warrior Harlech. For the tremors from Elli’s remarkable feat had also reached the muddy Plains of Isenwy.

“ ‘Tis a difficult choice,” Harlech declared, peering smugly down at Scree. The eagleman’s silver wings were now drenched with mud and splattered with his own blood. “But methinks ye’d look even uglier without yer head. So we’ll save that part fer last.”

He smirked, toying with the claw that hung from the leather cord around his neck. The claw twirled slowly, gleaming an intense shade of red. “So, birdboy, I’ll start by removin’ yer wings. Slice them off, I will, one by bleedin’ one. An’ then I’ll jest take care o’ yer head.”

Scree’s yellow-rimmed eyes flashed proudly. He was trapped, he knew, and about to die. Even worse, he would never be able to stop this murderer from harming Brionna. But despite all that, he wasn’t going to add to Harlech’s satisfaction by showing a single feather’s worth of fear.

The big man took a step closer, his belt of weapons clanking as he moved. “Kulwych wants me to hurry an’ finish this battle, quick as I can, so I need to get on wid killin’ ye.” He sniggered maliciously. “But I’m
sure
there’ll still be time to play wid that pretty she-elf o’ yers, when I find her again. Mmm, that’ll be fun.”

Although those words made Scree’s temples pound with rage, he forced himself not to respond.

Then Harlech bent lower. “Ye know why the hurry? We’re expectin’ a liddle visit, that’s why.” He grinned, savoring the chance to reveal this news. “From Rhita Gawr.”

Despite himself, Scree stiffened and exclaimed, “Rhita Gawr! Here?”

“That’s right, wingboy. But there’s no need fer worry. Ye won’t be around to see it happen.” Slowly, he lifted the glowing object. “All right now, claw. Cut off his puny liddle wing.”

Harlech’s grin broadened. This was a moment he’d been anticipating for quite some time. He concentrated his thoughts, as he had so many times before in this battle, and waited for the beam of light—the most savage blade he’d ever wielded—to appear.

Nothing happened. He looked down at the claw. The grin suddenly disappeared from his face, just as the red light had suddenly disappeared from his weapon of sorcery.

“Garr . . .” he said, confused. Then, with the swiftness of a seasoned warrior, he changed plans. He reached for the broadsword that he’d dropped on the ground a few minutes before.

Scree, though, moved faster. Leaping to his feet with a spray of mud, he swung his uninjured wing at Harlech. The bony edge of the wing slammed into the man’s neck, knocking him sideways with such force that he tripped over a dead gnome and splatted onto the wet soil. As Harlech rose shakily to one knee, Scree tried to rake a bloodied talon across his face.

But this time Harlech moved unexpectedly fast. He fell back, avoiding the talon, then grabbed the eagleman’s leg. Twisting, he threw Scree to the ground.

Even as the warrior reached for one of his daggers, though, Scree deftly rolled over and jabbed the tip of his wing into Harlech’s head. The burly man stumbled backward, bleeding from the gash in his jaw. A second later, Scree pounced on him, making him drop the dagger. Its blade plunged into the mud, buried halfway to the hilt.

The two combatants crashed to the ground, wrestling with all their strength. Scree butted with his head and tore with his talons; Harlech punched and pummeled with all four limbs. Curses flew, even when they finally separated and circled each other warily, for both warriors knew that this fight would end only when one of them finally died.

Their brutal struggle continued, stretching into hours that called on their deepest reserves of strength and cunning. Meanwhile, the situation began to shift on the battlefield. Without the help of Harlech’s claw, and without Belamir to inspire his loyalists, the allies of Avalon gained momentum. And with no sign of the rumored aid for the gobsken army, the allies began to believe that they might actually prevail.

Courageous eaglefolk assailed the fierce but dim-witted ghoulacas, driving them out of the sky. Drumadians and other men and women, while still outnumbered, slashed away relentlessly at gobsken and gnomes. Increasingly, the Drumadians fought side by side with elvish archers, whose arrows rarely missed their targets. Tall tree spirits, squat dwarves, and maryths of all kinds joined in the fray, swinging their branches, axes, and hooves. Meanwhile, grim-faced flamelons terrorized the enemy by bombarding them with burning spears and flaming balls of tar.

The remnants of the Humanity First movement scattered, as new rumors spread that a changeling had secretly joined their ranks. Swarms of faeries flew into ogres’ faces, tormenting them until the archers could move in. The trolls fared no better, because as ferocious as they were, they were no match for the giants—especially one particular giant, who clearly enjoyed his enormous size, almost as if he had lost it for a time and only just regained it.

Unnoticed by anyone except for the tall mudmaker standing nearby, the portal’s green flames suddenly crackled. Out from the flames stepped Elli, holding Nuic in her arms. All she needed to do was to glance down at the sprite, whose skin was frosty white, to know that he had found the ride as terrifying as she had.

“Hmmmpff,” he grumbled, meeting her gaze. “It’s one thing to follow someone—even a bubble-brained priestess—into a portal. But to follow someone into a
damaged
portal, well, that’s sheer idiocy.”

She smiled at him. “That’s why you’re my maryth. We’re perfect for each other.”

“Perfectly insane, you mean, Elliryanna.”

She didn’t answer. For she had just started to take in the sheer horror that surrounded them on the battlefield. Bodies that had been mutilated, stabbed, and slashed lay everywhere. Whether they belonged to gobsken or gnomes, women or men, dwarves or stags, the brutal reality remained the same, and the poignancy of it struck her like a spear. This place was more dead than alive.

Elli turned herself around, scanning the bloody terrain for any sign of her friends. But she saw nothing of Brionna, even in the band of archers from Woodroot who were pursuing a pair of ogres. Nor of Scree, whom she had hoped would have found his way here with the other eaglefolk. Then, at last, she spotted Lleu.

Looking terribly somber, he was sitting on the corpse of a gobsken warrior he had just felled. By his side lay a bloodied sword. And on his lap rested a small bird, whose head he was tenderly stroking.

“Catha!” she cried. She ran over, carrying Nuic.

Lleu looked up, his expression grave. If he was surprised to see her, he didn’t show it. All his thoughts were bound up with his most loyal friend, whose last morsel of life was just about to disappear.

“By the light of Dagda,” he said morosely, “there is no way I can save her.”

Elli pinched her lips, seeing the deep gash in the falcon’s breast. “No,” she answered, “but maybe I can.”

She knelt by Lleu’s side, oblivious to the shouts of battle and cries of anguish that echoed all around them. Pulling out her water gourd, she poured several drops on the wound. The healing water, which Tamwyn had found at the Secret Spring of Halaad not far from this very spot, started to bubble and foam. Next, Elli gently pried open Catha’s beak and poured some more drops inside.

Steam began to rise from the wound, as the flesh started to close. Feathers, torn and soiled, sprang back to their normal shape and color. One wing shuddered, then the other. At last, Catha opened her eyes—as Lleu gasped in delight.

The falcon released a joyous whistle, then rolled onto her feet. Standing in Lleu’s lap, she peered up at the priest for several seconds, then turned her grateful gaze on Elli. With a vigorous ruffle of her wings, she lifted off and flew back to her customary perch on Lleu’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said to Elli. He paused to reach up and stroke Catha’s side. “You came just in time, the answer to my prayers.”

She watched the revived falcon, then replied, “Papa used to say that the gods answer prayers of those—”

“Who truly believe,” he finished, grinning. “He told me that, too.”

Elli was about to respond, when Nuic tugged sharply on her sleeve. “If you’d like to see the answer to another prayer, look up there.” His little arm pointed skyward, and his colors shifted to a thankful shade of blue.

“The Wizard’s Staff!” exclaimed Elli. “Its stars are shining again.”

“Incredible,” said Lleu, raising his bushy brows in awe. “They only just changed! The last time I looked up, when I asked Dagda and Lorilanda for help not five minutes ago, they were all still dark.” He scratched his chin. “Whatever do you think happened up there?”

“I don’t know,” declared Nuic, “but my guess is that a certain bumbling wilderness guide does.”

Elli, her eyes aglow, turned to the sprite. His color had changed to flashing gold, a sure sign of amazement. Yet whether he was more amazed by the stars themselves or by the possibility that Tamwyn had done such a thing, she couldn’t tell.

Suddenly a dark shadow fell over them. Catha screeched, though it sounded more like a cry of astonishment than fear. A pair of enormous hands scooped all of them up, lifting them as easily as if they were just a few blueberries.