The Raging Fires (11 page)

My cheeks burned. “Where did he get such an idea?”

“That be simple.” Her taut lips scowled at me. “It be true.”

“But it’s not!” I started to stand, but she slashed at me with the blade until I sat down again.

“So I, Urnalda, made a pact with Wings of Fire. Indeed I did! We agreed that if I could deliver you to him, he would leave my people in peace. Forever. But dragons be not patient. He refused to wait very long.”

She stabbed at the ashen earth. “We agreed to meet tonight. If I did not yet have you as my prisoner, he promised me just one more week—seven days, no more. If, on the night of the seventh day, I could not produce you—then he vowed to annihilate every last one of my people. And anyone else in his path until he found you.”

“But I never killed his young! How could I? For months, I haven’t done anything but work on my instrument.”

“Bah! You could be slipping away quite easily, with no one ever knowing.”

“It’s not true.”

She looked at me skeptically, her eyes glowing like a dragon’s flame. “In many ways, it be a bold and visionary act. Rid this land of dragons! Destroy their despicable race altogether!” She twisted the sword into the ground beside me. “Yet you should be knowing that it bring harm to the dwarves. The people of Urnalda.”

“I didn’t do it, I tell you!”

Raising the weapon, she swung it over my head, barely missing me. “It be in your blood to kill! Do you deny it? You relish the feeling of power, of strength. You know my words be true, Merlin! Look what Tuatha’s only son—your father, Stangmar—did to the dwarves and the rest of Fincayra! He poisoned our lands. He murdered our children. How can you tell me that you, his own son, be any different?”

“But I am!” I pushed myself into a crouch. My second sight, no longer spinning, focused on Urnalda’s flashing eyes. “I am the one who finally defeated him! Haven’t you heard that? Ask Dagda himself if you doubt me.”

The enchantress grunted. “That means nothing. Only that you be still more ruthless than your father.” She pricked the edge of my sword with her fingernail. “Answer me truly. Do you deny that you would be glad to see Fincayra rid of dragons forever?”

“N-no,” I admitted. “I can’t deny that. But—”

“Then how can I believe you be not the killer?” She thrust the sword at my neck, holding the tip just a finger’s width away. Her lips curled in a snarling grin. “Now, however, you must understand. Whether or not you really did it be unimportant. Yes, irrelevant.”

“Irrelevant?” I slammed my fist on the charred soil, sending up a cloud of ash. “It’s my life you’re talking about.”

“And the life of my people, which be much more important.” She nodded, clinking the conch shells dangling from her ears. “What counts be that the dragon
believes
that you be the man who killed his young. Whether or not you really be him—that be meaningless. All he needs be a few bites of man flesh to ease his appetite for revenge.” She leaned closer, pressing her bulbous nose against mine. “You be the man.”

In desperation, I started crawling toward my staff. Urnalda, though, moved too quickly. Waving her hand in the direction of the staff, she caused it to rise off the ground and twirl in the smoky air. The two dwarves looking on gasped in amazement.

“Now,” she snapped, “do you doubt that I stripped you of your powers? Do you think to use your wizard’s staff against me?” Before I could answer, she spat out a strange incantation. With a sizzling flash of scarlet light, my staff completely disappeared.

My chest ached with emptiness.
My powers. Gone! My staff, my precious staff. Gone!

Urnalda examined me severely. “Undeserving as you be, I still be merciful. Oh yes! I be leaving you with your second sight so that you will give the dragon the satisfaction of believing you can defend yourself—at least for a minute or two. That way, after he slays you, he be more likely to keep his bargain. For the same reason, I give this back to you.”

She hurled my sword high into the air, at the same time barking a command. It fell back toward me, before suddenly swerving in midair and sliding straight into the scabbard at my waist. “Be warned, though,” she growled. “If you be thinking about trying that blade against me, I be using it to cut your legs as short as my huntsman’s over there.”

The recently shortened dwarf, clasping his baggy leggings, released a whimper.

Urnalda drew in her breath. “Now be the time. Up, I command you!” She pointed with her staff toward a rocky, pyramid-shaped rise across the plateau. “March to that hill. The dragon be arriving there soon.”

Weakly, I struggled to my feet. My mind reeled, even as my body ached. I had feared—even expected—that I would lose my life in the end to Valdearg. But not like this. No, not at all like this.

And although some of my strength had returned, I felt more than ever that emptiness in the middle of my chest. As if my very center had been torn away. My future as a mage was already clouded—bad enough. But now whatever powers I possessed, those gifts of magic I barely even understood, had vanished. And with them, something more. Something very close to my soul.

12:
T
O
C
IRCLE A
S
TORY

Just then one of the huntsmen cried out. All of us turned to see a large doe bounding across the darkened plateau. With grace and speed, she sprinted over the rolling plain like a flying shadow. I could not tell whether it was the same wide-eyed doe from the gully. I could only hope that her legs would soon carry her far away from this land of ruthless hunters—and traitorous allies.

“Mmmm,
venison.” Urnalda clacked her tongue. “Quick! Before it be gone.”

Before she had finished her sentence, the arrows were already nocked. Both dwarves, brawny arms bulging, drew back their bows. This time, I felt sure, at least one of their arrows would find its mark. And this time I could do nothing to prevent it.

An instant before they let fly, the doe leaped high into the smoke-streaked air. For a heartbeat she hung there, floating, the perfect target.

“Shoot!” commanded Urnalda. “I said—”

An immense bulk suddenly plowed into her from behind. With a terrified screech, she flew into the pair of dwarves, sending their arrows skittering across the ground. The huntsmen, just as surprised as Urnalda, collapsed under her weight. Apparently stunned, she lay on top of them, moaning. The recently shortened dwarf tried to free himself and stand, but tripped over his loose leggings. He landed directly on Urnalda’s face, crushing one of her shell earrings.

Simultaneously, a huge rack of antlers scooped me up and lifted me into the air. I toppled backward, falling across an enormous neck, bristling with fur. The stag! All at once we were bounding across the plain. It took all my strength just to hold on, my legs entwined with the antler points and my arms wrapped around the powerful neck. Coarse fur scratched my cheeks as the great body bounced beneath me. Soon the cries of the dwarves faded away and all I could hear was the pounding, pounding of hooves.

I have no idea how long I rode this way, though it seemed half the night. The muscles of the stag’s neck felt as hard as stone. Pound, pound, pound. At least once I fell off, thudding into the ground. In a flash, the antlers scooped me up again and the brutal ride continued.

Finally, dazed and bruised, I tumbled off again. This time, no rack of antlers retrieved me. Rolling onto my back, I felt the coolness of wet grass against my neck. My battered body gave way, at last, to exhaustion. Vaguely, I thought I heard voices, almost human but different somehow. Finally, my head pounding as incessantly as the hooves, I fell into heavy slumber.

When I awoke, it was to the sound of a stream. Water bounced and splattered somewhere nearby. Finding myself facedown in a bed of grass, I turned over stiffly. My neck and back ached, especially between my shoulders. Bright light! The sun rode high above, warming my face. The air, while still mildly smoky, seemed lighter and clearer than last night.

Last night! Had all that really happened? Despite the painful stiffness of my back, I sat up. Suddenly, I caught my breath. There, seated on a toppled tree trunk beside the bubbling stream, sat a young woman about my own age.

For a long moment she and I sat in silence. She seemed to be looking past me, at the stream, perhaps out of shyness. Even so, I could tell that her immense brown eyes were watching me cautiously.

Handsome did not describe her—just as, I well knew, it did not describe me—yet there was a strong, striking air about her nonetheless. Her chin, unusually long and narrow, rested upon her hand. She seemed relaxed, yet poised to move in a fraction of a second. Her braided hair glinted with the tans and auburns of marsh grasses. The braid itself swept across her shoulder and over the back of her yellow robe that seemed to have been woven from willow shoots. She wore no shoes.

“Well, well,” declared a deep, resonant voice. “Our traveler has awakened.”

I spun around to see a tall, broad-chested young man approaching us through the grass. Wearing a simple, tan-colored tunic, he stepped with long, loping strides. His chin, like the girl’s, jutted strongly. He possessed the same rich brown eyes, though not quite so large as hers. And he, too, had bare feet.

At once, I knew that these two were brother and sister. At the same time, I felt the gnawing sense that they were somehow more, and less, than they appeared. Yet I couldn’t quite identify how.

Pushing myself to my feet, I nodded to both of them. “Good day to you.”

The young man nodded in return. “May green meadows find you.” He held out his hand, although the motion seemed slightly awkward for him. We clasped, his sturdy fingers curling around my own. “I am Eremon, son of Ller.” He cocked his head toward the trunk. “That is my sister, Eo-Lahallia. Though she prefers to be called just Hallia.”

She said nothing, but continued to watch me warily.

He released his grip. “We are, you could say, people of these parts. And who are you?”

“I am called Merlin.”

Eremon brightened. “Like the hawk?”

Sadly, I smiled. “Yes. I had a friend once—a dear friend. A merlin. We . . . did much together.”

Eremon’s wide eyes gleamed with understanding. He seemed to know, somehow, what I had left unsaid.

“Unlike you,” I went on, “I am not from this region. You could, as you did before, call me a traveler.”

“Well, young hawk, I am glad your travels brought you here. As is my sister.”

He glanced toward her hopefully. She did not speak—although she shifted uneasily on the trunk. And while she continued to avoid my own gaze, she shot a direct look at Eremon: a look of mistrust.

Turning back to me, he indicated the patch of matted grass where I had been sleeping. “Your travels have drained you, it seems. You might have slept a full week if your fitful dreams hadn’t wakened you.”

A full week.
All that remained—and now, less! Valdearg would return one week from last night. To devour me. And if not me, everyone and everything in his path.

Seeing me suddenly tense, Eremon placed his hand upon my shoulder. “I have not known you long, young hawk. Yet I see you are troubled.” His gaze flowed over me like a wave washing over a rocky shore. “I have the feeling, somehow, that your troubles are also ours.”

Hallia sprang to her feet. “My brother!” She paused, hesitant, before saying any more. At last, in a voice quieter but no less resonant than Eremon’s, she asked, “Shouldn’t you . . . wait? You are, perhaps, too quick to trust.”

“Perhaps,” he replied. “Yet the feeling persists.”

Still without looking straight at me, Hallia waved in my direction. “He only just awoke, after all. You haven’t even . . . circled a story with him.”

Puzzled, I watched Eremon close his brown eyes thoughtfully, then reopen them. “You are right, my sister.” He turned to me. “My people, the Mellwyn-bri-Meath, have many traditions, many rhythms, some of which have come down to us all the way from Distant Time.”

With the agility of a sparrow turning in flight, he moved to the stream’s edge and knelt by a strip of soft mud. “One of our oldest traditions,” he continued, “is to circle a story, as a way of introducing ourselves. So in meeting someone from a different clan, or even a different people, we often invoke it.”

“What does it mean, to circle a story?”

Eremon reached into the stream and pulled out a slender, gray stone. He shook the water from it, then drew a large circle in the mud. “Each of us, starting with you as the newcomer, tells part, but only part, of a tale.” Using the stone, he divided the circle into three equal portions. “When we have finished, the parts combine, giving us a full circle.”

“And a full story.” I stepped to the stream bank and knelt beside him. “A wonderful tradition. But must we do it now? I am, well, much better at listening to stories than telling them. And right now my thoughts are . . . elsewhere. My time is short. Too short! Indeed, I really should go.” Under my breath, I added, “Though I’m not quite sure where.”

Hallia nodded, as if my reaction had confirmed her suspicions. “Now . . . see there?” she said to her brother, her voice still hesitant, but urgent all the same. “He does not like stories.”

“Oh, but I do!” I pushed some hair off my brow. “I have always loved stories. It’s miraculous, really, where they can take you.”

“Yes,” agreed Eremon. “And where they can keep you.” He studied me. “Come, young hawk. Join our circle.”

Something behind the rich brown of his eyes told me that staying a moment longer, in this particular place with these particular people, could be important. And that my part of the story would be heard with interest—and judged with care.

“All right, then,” I replied. “How do I begin?”

“However you like.”

I bit my lip, trying to think of the best way to start. An animal—yes, that felt right. One who lived as I did now: alone. I filled my lungs with air. “The story begins,” I declared, “with a creature of the forest. A wolf.”