The Eternal Flame (23 page)

“Scree! It’s you.”

“You look surprised,” he said dryly, pumping his wings as he carried her away from Harlech. Gently, he shifted his talons so that they would pierce only her bark cloth robe and not the skin of her shoulders.

Still trying to comprehend everything that had just happened, she blinked at him and mumbled, “I had shot my last arrow . . .”

“A good thing, too! If you still had any left, you might have greeted me the way you did the first time we met—and shot me out of the sky.”

The elf maiden didn’t laugh. Instead, waves of grimness washed over her face. “Scree, I’ve done some terrible things.”

His large, yellow-rimmed eyes glanced down at her. Finally, he spoke, his voice so quiet that it was barely audible over the din of battle beneath them. “So have I, Brionna. So have I.”

Their eyes met. For the span of several wingbeats, they spoke only through that shared gaze—a gaze that held all the grief, shame, and loss they had experienced in the recent past. Yet it held, as well, something else: a fragile hope, as slim as a feather, for the future.

Reversing his wing strokes to land softly, Scree set her down by a shallow brown stream, some distance away from the fighting. Even so, as he released his talons from her robe and landed next to her, a ceramic spear splattered on the mud of the stream bank. Scree spun around and glared so wrathfully at the gnome who had thrown it that the squat little warrior turned and fled.

The eagleman turned back to Brionna. “You should—” He caught himself, then started again with a less argumentative tone. “You might consider . . . staying out of the battle now. You’ve done your share, and more.”

She looked at him uncertainly. “What about you?”

Scree dragged his talons through the muddy ground. “Me, I’m going back in there. I have a meeting—with that worm who attacked you. He got away from me once, back at the dam, but it won’t happen again.” His eagle eyes narrowed. “What can you tell me about that evil bolt of light he shot at you?”

“It came from a claw, born of his master’s sorcery.” She shuddered at the memory. “Harlech wears it around his neck.” She grabbed Scree’s feathered shoulder. “And something important! The claw needs some time to regain its power. How much time, I don’t know. But it gives you—”

“A chance,” he finished. “That’s all I need.” With the feathers of his wing, he brushed her cheek. “Keep safe, now. Please.”

Her elven eyes sparkled. “Only if you will.”

He nodded. “I’ll do my best.” Stepping back, he leaped into the air with a mighty downstroke of his wings. As he rose, he released the piercing cry of his people, a cry part eagle, part human, and thoroughly terrifying.

Brionna watched him go, fingering her braid thoughtfully. For the first time in this long afternoon, she felt, to her considerable surprise, glad to be alive. Then, viewing the melee on the plains, her expression turned grim. She started walking back toward the fighting, her feet squelching in the mud. Her eyes scanned the terrain, searching for another quiver of arrows. For she, like Scree, had more work left to do.

It took just a few seconds for Scree, flying over the battlefield, to spot Harlech. The burly man stood right where he’d been, near the pile of dead gobsken, whose tangled bodies formed a gruesome burial mound. Harlech was cursing angrily, swinging his broadsword through the air.
No doubt he’s upset at having missed his target,
the eagleman thought as he sailed closer.
Guess I should offer him another one.

Before swooping down, he scanned the area, looking for the other eaglefolk who had come here with him from Fireroot. To his satisfaction, he saw many Bram Kaie warriors already engaged in battle, aggressively hunting ghoulacas. Led by Cuttayka, the burly captain of the Clan Sentries, they tore into the packs of ghoulacas, slashing with talons and beaks. Their black-tipped wings gleamed like shards of obsidian in the sky. Even young Hawkeen, the golden-eyed lad who had traveled so far to stay at Scree’s side, fought viciously, doing more than his share to terrorize Kulwych’s killer birds.

Scree smiled slightly, for he could tell that Hawkeen would become, in time, a warrior to be greatly feared. Perhaps he, like Scree, would someday lead his people into battle. And perhaps he, too, would discover that, even amidst life’s broken wings of sorrow, there might yet be a single feather of surpassing beauty.

Something else pleased Scree, as well. The Bram Kaie had rejoined the flocks of their fellow eaglefolk. It would take quite some time, no doubt, to regain the respect—let alone the trust—of other clans. But the fact that Bram Kaie warriors were here, fighting alongside the rest of their people, was at least a beginning.

He plunged down to the muddy plains, landing right behind Harlech. Hearing the rustle of wings, the hulking man whirled around. The claw, glinting only slighdy, slapped against his chest.

“So,” Harlech sneered, “Ye finally decided to show yer gutless self, did ye?”

“Sure,” answered Scree. “You were just so much fun to play with last time, I couldn’t resist.”

The man growled, raising his sword and hatchet. “C’mere an’ fight, then. Or are ye too afraid?”

Scree circled slowly, keeping his wings open just enough to fly at an instant’s notice. The feathers shimmered, bristling as he moved; the veins in his chest and thighs pulsed with power. His talons, as sharp as daggerpoints, carved furrows in the muddy ground. Should he attack now, he wondered, hoping that the claw hadn’t yet regained its deadly power? Or should he wait until he dodged the next blast, before rushing in for the kill?

Suddenly Harlech tripped on a fallen gobsken, stumbling so badly that he nearly dropped his weapons. Sensing his opportunity, Scree abruptly made his decision. With a whoosh of wings, he leaped into the air and launched himself at his foe, talons extended.

A trick! Harlech, having faked his fall to lure Scree closer, swung around and hurled his hatchet at the eagleman’s head. Scree ducked, barely avoiding the blow. But in that same instant Harlech lunged, slashing his broadsword with terrible ferocity.

Scree jumped backward, flapping his wings to rise out of reach—but not before Harlech’s blade sliced his lower leg. Blood ran down the feathers, turning his talons red.

“First blood fer me, wingboy.”

Scree hovered above the warrior’s head. His eyes gleamed angrily. “Next blood for me, you worm.”

Heedless of the risk from Harlech’s claw, Scree released a screeching cry and fell on his enemy. Feinting with his uninjured talon, he slammed the bony edge of his wing into Harlech’s head. The big man reeled, but somehow kept his balance. He planted his boots on the mud, ignoring the bleeding gash on his temple.

While their battle continued, another warrior was wandering not far away. Despite his best efforts, Shim felt quite useless, unable to assist his army. He was simply too small—or, to use his word, shrunkelled—to assist anyone; too slow, with his lumbering waddle, to chase anyone; and too deaf, with his old ears, to hear anyone. So he wandered the battlefield aimlessly, searching for some way to be helpful.

At last, he found it. There, just beyond the body of a dead fire ox, a giant sat crumpled on the ground. The immense creature was being mauled by no fewer than six ghoulacas, who were trying viciously to peck out their enemy’s eyes. Only the size of the giant’s hands, wrapped tightly around his or her face, was keeping the attackers from success. But those hands, by now severely shredded by the ghoulaca’s talons, wouldn’t last much longer. The victim then did something exceedingly rare for any giant: He or she whimpered painfully, trembling under the assault.

Shim stared, aghast. Although he had often been shunned by other giants since being cursed to shrink down to a dwarfs size, that cry of pain from one of his own people brought back all his old loyalties. A frenzy of wrath overwhelmed him. Waving his little arms, he charged forward, shouting, “Away with you, beastly birds! Neverly harm another giant, or Shim will plucker every one of your unsightly feathers! Certainly, I—”

He tripped on one of the fire ox’s horns and fell with a splat on the ground. At that same instant, a band of eaglefolk led by Cuttayka swooped down on the ghoulacas, chasing them away. By the time Shim raised his muddy face, all that remained of the killer birds were their frightened shrieks echoing in the distance.

“Hah,” chuckled Shim, wiping a glob of mud from his eye. “Guess I’m still a bit giantly yet.”

Slowly, the enormous giant he’d saved lowered those bloodied hands and gazed at him with limitless gratitude. It was the sort of look that only a true hero deserves.

Shim, however, stepped backward. His eyes widened with terror; his entire body, right down to the tip of his swollen nose, trembled: For he recognized this giant just as if she had stepped out of his worst nightmare. It was none other than Bonlog Mountain-Mouth—the Very giant who had cursed him centuries ago!

He turned to run, waddling as fast as he possibly could. But it wasn’t fast enough. Bonlog Mountain-Mouth grabbed him between her thumb and forefinger. She lifted him, legs still churning, into the air, until he was suspended right above her huge, drooling mouth.

Shim nearly passed out. That was the very mouth whose gargantuan, saliva-drenched lips had tried to kiss him at the Battle of the Withered Spring. Even though, in that ancient battle, he had accidentally saved her life, as soon as she tried to thank him with a kiss, he had fled into the mountains. To punish Shim for this humiliation, she had cursed him to lose his giant size. And still not satisfied, she had hunted Shim for many years afterward. The wrath of a spurned giantess knows no bounds.

Now, Shim knew, she would finally have her revenge. “Please, mistress Mountain-Mouth,” he begged, “have some mercifully on this poor shrunkelled fellow.”

She ignored his pleas. As rivers of spit gushed from her cavernous mouth, she brought him closer. He closed his eyes, certain now that she was going to eat him.

Instead, she puckered her enormous lips and did something that seemed, to Shim, even worse. She kissed him! Her lips smacked so loud that he thought the whole world had exploded.

To his astonishment, it had not. Nor had Bonlog Mountain-Mouth any more punishments in mind, although that one had been horrible enough. She dropped him back on the muddy ground, then stood to depart. Even though it was hard for Shim to see through the mound of sticky saliva that oozed down his face, he thought that, perhaps, she gave him a wink.

As she stomped off, shaking the plains with her weight, Shim felt a strange sensation. All the cries and shouts and clangs of the surrounding battle abruptly halted, making him wonder whether the noise of her kiss had destroyed what little hearing he had left. At the same time, though, he felt a warm breeze, laden with the scent of honey. It stirred his scraggly white hair, even as it entered his body, stirring ancient memories in his bones.

Miraculously, his nose started to swell even larger. His hands, too, grew in size, as did his feet. All across his body, skin expanded. His woolen vest, which for so long had billowed around his chest from being too large, grew tight—and then started to rip into shreds.

Shim, incredulous, rubbed his eyes with his swelling hands. “I is getting big,” he cried. “As big as the bigliest tree!”

28
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A Faraway Aroma

Across the battlefield from the astonished Shim, a tall priest fought bravely. He also fought alone, except for the badly wounded falcon who lay cradled in his arm.

Lleu slashed brutally at a line of gobsken warriors. He spun and dodged with agility surprising for someone not trained in swordsmanship, holding the injured Catha in one arm and his broadsword in the other. Several gobsken who confronted him found themselves sliced or skewered. Others, surprised by his ferocity, simply backed away, certain that one lone priest couldn’t get very far in their ranks.

Lleu, however, never intended to advance very far. He had only one goal—beyond hoping that Catha might somehow survive, which he knew would take more help than mere mortals could provide. That goal was to break through the line of gobsken to the solitary person standing behind them, a person he meant to challenge.

Belamir. Although he wore the soiled garb of a gardener, and carried no weapons beyond spades and shears, the expression on his face didn’t fit the image of a thoughtful man of the soil. His eyes spoke of hatred, both for the fools who followed him and the greater fools who dared oppose him. Coldly, he watched the slaughter of the women and men of his village, toying impatiently with his necklace of garlic bulbs.

He was eager for this battle to end. Only then, as Kulwych had instructed, could he reveal his true identity: Neh Gawthrech, feared even among his fellow changelings. And only then could he have the satisfaction of destroying anyone still alive who might pose a threat to the sorcerer’s absolute rule. Or to his own role as Kulwych’s chief aide. That included Harlech, whose puny brain could fit inside an acorn, and Morrigon, whose simpleminded brutality had been useful to Belamir’s Humanity First movement, but who would almost certainly resist serving under a changeling.

He rubbed his chin, using his hand with the broken thumbnail. As he watched the course of the battle, another look slowly came into his eyes. A look of satisfaction. His time had almost arrived. Although the fighting had already lasted beyond what he had anticipated, it wouldn’t last much longer, thanks to Harlech’s claw—a poor substitute for a changeling, but still reasonably effective.

Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he saw the glint of a blade. He spun around, so swiftly his feet kicked up flecks of mud. Placing his hands on his hips, he faced Lleu, who now stood only a few paces away. The man’s thick eyebrows arched severely, while blood stained his torn robe; he looked much more like a warrior than a priest.

Even so, Belamir shrugged calmly. “I suppose you have the temerity to think you can kill me.”

“Yes, I do, by the light of Dagda.” Lleu advanced, pointing his broadsword straight at his foe. “Because I know what you really are. And how fast you can move.”