The Lost Years (31 page)

Gathered around Stangmar’s throne stood five or six ghouliants, their faces as hollow as corpses’. Two Fincayran men stood among them, their coal black hair brushing against the shoulders of their red robes. One of the men stood tall and thin, like a great insect, while the other was built like the stump of a thick tree.

Recalling what Cairpré had told me, I scanned closely the faces of the two men, wondering if one of them might actually be my own father. Yet as much as I had once longed to find my father, I now dreaded the prospect. For I could only despise a man who would serve a king as wicked as Stangmar.

I just want to know him,
I had said to Branwen at our last conversation.
It is better you do not,
she had replied. Alas, if he had fallen to the state of the group before me, I now understood why.

Rhia, seeing me, struggled ferociously to free herself. The warrior goblin merely wheezed in laughter and held her more tightly.

“We suspected you would come here eventually,” declared Stangmar with his fixed frown. “Especially with your friend here to bait the trap.”

I started, wondering why he should care where I was. Then I realized that Stangmar still believed that I wore the Galator, the last Treasure he had long been seeking. How I could take advantage of that mistake, I was not certain, but I resolved to try.

Rhia struggled again to break loose, to no avail. As she twisted in her leafy clothing, I caught the barest whiff of the freshness of the forest we had left behind.

I stepped closer, planting my staff on the stones to help keep my balance on the slowly spinning floor. “Let her go. She has done nothing to harm you.”

The king’s eyes burned, as the shadows danced over his features. “She would if she could. As would you.”

At this, both of the Fincayran men nodded in agreement, while the ghouliants in unison laid their hands on the hilts of their swords. The taller man glanced at me, his face tight with worry. He leaned toward the king and started to say something, but Stangmar waved him silent.

Just then the ghouliant from the dungeon marched up the stairs behind me. Although his face had been savagely scratched, he showed no sign of bleeding. In one of his hands he held Trouble by the talons, so that the upside-down bird could only flap his wings and whistle angrily.

“Another friend, is it?” Stangmar’s shadowy face turned to a pair of ghouliants. “Go see if there are any more.”

Instantly, the two soldiers rushed past me and descended the stairwell. I then remembered that I had lost track of Shim. I could only hope that my small companion had found a secure place to hide.

Frantically, I turned from Rhia, smothered in the arms of the warrior goblin, to Trouble, dangling helplessly in the grip of the ghouliant. “Set them free!” I shouted to the king. “Set them free or you will regret it.”

Stangmar’s frown deepened. “We are not accustomed to taking orders from a mere boy! Especially when that boy also threatens our royal person.”

Despite the continuous wobbling of the revolving castle, I stood as tall and steady as I could.

Then Stangmar leaned forward in his throne. For an instant the shadows departed from his face. With his square jaw and intense eyes, he looked even more handsome, while no less rigid, than before. “Nevertheless, your valor impresses us. For that reason, we shall be merciful.”

Suddenly the shadows reappeared, moving frantically across his face, his chest, and the gold circlet on his brow.

“We know what we are doing!” he growled, though it was not clear to whom. Regally, he waved to the goblin holding Rhia. “Set her free, we command you. But watch her closely.”

The warrior goblin grimaced, but obeyed. Roughly, he shoved Rhia onto the stone floor in front of the throne. Trouble, still hanging upside down, screeched wrathfully at the goblin. But he could do no more.

“What about the hawk?” I demanded.

Stangmar leaned back in his throne. “The hawk remains where he is. We trust him as little as we trust you! Moreover, keeping him as he is will encourage you to cooperate.”

My spine stiffened. “I will never cooperate with you.”

“Nor will I,” declared Rhia, shaking her brown curls.

Trouble screeched again, making his own position clear.

For the first time, Stangmar’s frown eased slightly. “Oh, you shall cooperate. In fact, you already have! You have brought us something we have long desired. You have brought us
the last Treasure
.”

I winced, but said nothing.

Shadows flickering over his face, Stangmar spread his arms to indicate the objects displayed on the walls. “Here in this hall we have collected many articles of legendary power. Hanging on the wall above our royal throne is Deepercut, the sword with two edges: the black one, that can slice into the soul, and the white one, that can heal any wound. Over there is the famous Flowering Harp. That silver horn is the Caller of Dreams. Beside it, you can see the plow that tills its own field. No more will these Treasures or the others pose any risk to our sovereignty.”

His face hardened as he pointed to an iron cauldron set by the opposite wall. “We even have the Cauldron of Death.”

At the mention of this object, the two men in red robes traded knowing glances. The taller one shook his head somberly.

“Yet the one Treasure we have most wanted is the one not hanging from our walls.” Stangmar’s voice boomed inside the hall, drowning out even the steady rumble of the spinning castle. “It is the one you have brought us.”

I knew that he would soon discover that I did not have the Galator. Emboldened by the certainty of death, I squared my shoulders. “I would never bring anything that could help you.”

The grim king observed me for a moment. “You think not?”

“I know not! I once carried the Galator, but it is no longer with me. It lies beyond your grasp.”

Stangmar, his face shadowed, eyed me coldly. “It is not the Galator that we seek.”

I blinked. “You said you were seeking the last Treasure.”

“We are indeed. But the last Treasure is no mere item of jewelry.” The king clasped the arms of his throne. “The last Treasure is my son.”

A wave of horror flowed through me. “Your . . . son?”

Stangmar nodded, though his face showed no joy. “It is you I have been seeking. For you are my son.”

37:
D
EEPERCUT

Dark shadows played across the king’s features, while his large hands squeezed the throne. “And now we must complete the promise we made before you fled with your mother.”

“Promise?” I asked, still reeling from Stangmar’s revelation. “What promise?”

“Do you not remember?”

I looked morosely at the man who was my father. “I remember nothing.”

“That is fortunate.” Stangmar frowned more deeply than before. The shadows wavered on his face, even as they spread slowly down both of his arms. The king clenched his fists, then pointed to me and issued his command. “Throw him into the Cauldron.”

In unison, the ghouliants turned toward me.

Trouble, still in the grasp of one of the ghouliants, beat his wings and struggled to free himself. His enraged screeches echoed in the cavernous hall, rising above the rumbling of the spinning castle.

“No!” cried Rhia, jumping to her feet. Quick as a viper, she leaped at Stangmar, closing her hands around his neck. Before his guards could come to his aid, the king wrestled himself free and threw her back to the stone floor. She landed in a leafy heap at the boots of the warrior goblin.

Rubbing the scratches on his neck, the wrathful king stood up. His entire body writhed in shadows. He barked at the goblin, “Kill her first! Then we shall deal with the boy.”

“Gladly,” rasped the goblin, his narrow eyes alight. He reached for the hilt of his sword.

My heart pounded. My cheeks burned. Rage surged through me, the same violent rage I had felt against Dinatius. I must stop this from happening! I must use my powers!

Then searing flames engulfed my mind. The stench of charred flesh. My own flesh. My own screams. I feared those powers, no less than I feared the Cauldron of Death.

The warrior goblin, grinning savagely, slowly lifted his sword. Its blade glinted in the torchlight. In the same instant, Rhia turned toward me, looking at me with sorrowful eyes.

A new feeling, more powerful even than my rage and fear, filled my heart. I loved Rhia. Loved her spirit, her vitality.
You are all that you are,
she had said to me once. Then the words of the Grand Elusa, spoken within her glowing crystal cave, came back to me.
The last Treasure carries great powers, greater than you know.
My powers were my own. To fear, perhaps, but also to use.

The goblin’s powerful shoulders tensed for the blow. Trouble screeched again, fighting to free himself from the ghouliant’s grip.

But what about my promise? Again I heard Rhia’s voice:
If someone gave you special powers, they are for you to use.
My mother, her sapphire eyes piercing into my soul, joined in.
All God asks is that you use your powers well, with wisdom and love.

Love. Not rage. That was the key. The same love that caused the Galator to glow. The same love for Rhia that filled me now.

Make your move!
commanded the voice of Domnu.
In chess, as in life, your choice will make all the difference.

Just as the warrior goblin started to bring down his sword on Rhia’s head, I focused all of my concentration on the great sword Deepercut, suspended from the wall just behind the throne. The flames rose again in my mind, but I persisted, pushing them back. Beyond the gleeful snort of the goblin, I heard nothing. Beyond the sword and the iron hook that held it, I saw nothing.

Fly, Deepercut. Fly!

The iron hook burst apart. The sword ripped free of the wall and flew toward the goblin. Hearing it slice through the air, he turned. Half a second later, his severed head rolled onto the stone floor.

Rhia screamed as the heavy body fell on top of her. Stangmar roared in anger, his face a mass of shadows. The two red-robed men cried out and stepped back in fright. Only the ghouliants, their faces utterly blank, stood watching in silence.

In the commotion, I let go of my staff and raised my hands high. Deepercut spun through the air toward me. With both hands, I seized the silver hilt.

The ghouliants, seeing this, drew their own swords. Moving as a single body, they rushed at me. Suddenly the voice of the king rang out.

“Stop!” His downturned lips released a long, low snarl. “This duel is ours. No one else’s.” The shadows roiled across his body. For an instant, he hesitated. Then, with a violent shake, he declared to someone only he could see, “We said this duel is ours! We need no help.”

Bounding down from the throne, he swiftly retrieved the sword of the fallen warrior goblin. Glowering at me, he slashed his blade through the air. Only then did I notice that the shadows had again departed from his face. Stranger yet, when I glanced at the red throne, the dark shadows were still there, hovering just above the seat. I felt gripped by the feeling that, somehow, those shadows were watching me closely.

“So,” he taunted, “you have
the powers,
do you? Just like your grandfather before you.” He took a pace toward me. “But even with all his powers, your grandfather could not escape a mortal death. Nor will you.”

I barely had time to lift Deepercut to block Stangmar’s first swipe. The swords clanged, echoing among the stone arches of the hall. The force of his blow made my sword vibrate down to the hilt. My hands strained to hold on. I realized that Stangmar had the triple advantages of greater strength, more skill, and—even with my improved vision—better eyesight.

Despite all this, I fought back as well as I could. Although the spinning floor and its constant vibration threw off my balance, I pressed the attack. Slashing wildly, I parried and dodged. Sparks flew when our blades clashed.

Perhaps my sheer ferocity made Stangmar cautious. Perhaps Deepercut itself somehow strengthened me. Or perhaps Stangmar was merely toying with his prey. Whatever the reason, it seemed as we worked our way up and down the hall studded with precious objects, that I was actually holding my own.

All of a sudden Stangmar drove down on me. With a powerful blow that rang through the hall, he smashed into Deepercut. The sword ripped from my hands and clattered to the stone floor.

The king brought his sword to my throat. “Now we shall keep our promise.” He indicated the terrible Cauldron by the wall. “Go.”

Still panting, I stood my ground. “Who made you promise to kill me?”

“Go.”

“And why should that promise mean so much to you, when you have broken all of your promises to your own people?”

“Go!”

I folded my arms. “You promised Rhita Gawr, didn’t you?”

Stangmar’s frown hardened, even as the shadows danced over the throne. “Yes. And you would be wise to speak of our good friend with respect. Now go!”

I looked imploringly at the man whose eyes and hair mirrored my own. “Can’t you see what Rhita Gawr has done to you? To your realm? He wants you to poison your lands. Blacken your sky. Terrify your people. And even . . . kill your own son!”

As I spoke, the mysterious shadows thrashed wildly on the throne.

Stangmar’s face reddened. “You have no understanding of these things. No understanding at all!” He pushed the tip of the sword against my neck.

With difficulty, I swallowed. “Rhita Gawr is not your friend. He is your master, and you are his slave.”

Eyes aflame, he prodded me toward the Cauldron.

“Would Elen—your wife, my mother—want this?”

Stangmar’s rage boiled over. “We will spare the Cauldron and strike you down with this very sword!”

With that he lifted his weapon to whack off my head. Seeing my opening, I concentrated on Deepercut, lying on the floor just behind him.

To me, Deepercut. To me!

But I was too late. The sword had only just begun to move, tilting up on one edge, when the grim king planted his feet firmly to deliver the blow.