The Great Tree of Avalon (12 page)

“Jest how, Master?” Harlech edged closer to the shadows. “Can ye tell me?”

The white hands rubbed together. “This much I will say, all your feeble mind can hold. With the help of that staff, I will make something powerful—so powerful that, before long, I will control all Seven Realms, the very roots of the Great Tree . . . roots that support the entire Tree, give it strength, and produce the élano that runs through its veins. And as the roots go, my Harlech, so shall the Tree. All of Avalon, to its remotest branches, will then be in my grasp! Mmmyesss, as surely as the spirit lord Rhita Gawr rules on high.”

Harlech brushed a bead of sweat off his temple. “But Master, won’t yer enemies try some tricks to stop ye?”

“Tricks, mmmyesss. But I have something better than tricks. I have knowledge! Just as no one else in Avalon knows what I have built here, at the wellspring of High Brynchilla, no one else knows that Merlin’s staff is still in Avalon.”

“The true heir—”

“All right, he himself probably knows! But no one else. Not even the child of the Dark Prophecy, whose help I have long awaited . . . not even he knows about the staff. Unless, of course, he can read entrails as well as I can.”

The mirthless laugh came again. “For you see, my Harlech, I have learned something just this morning, from a wild boar that one of my ghoulacas found in Fireroot. A boar whose bloody entrails told me what I have been seeking to learn for seventeen years.”

He cracked his white knuckles in delight. “I know where it is, my Harlech.
I know where the staff is hidden.
”

A wild wind rose out of the canyons, shrieking as it passed, hurling sand and shards of stone from the quarries. Harlech winced as the gust blew over him—whether from the biting shards, or his master’s words, or both.

As the wind died down again, the voice from the shadows clucked with amusement. “You needn’t worry, though, my Harlech. Just do as your master says, and your own entrails will be safe.”

Looking unconvinced, Harlech’s hands played nervously with the handles of the daggers, club, rapier, and broadsword dangling from his leather belt. “As ye wish, Master.”

Just then a mother nuthatch, blown so hard by the wind that she almost hit the tower, flew over them. In her beak she held a writhing slug, food needed by her three fledglings, who were now peeping hungrily from their nest in the boughs of a cedar on the nearest edge of Woodroot. But the sight of the sorcerer in the shadows—and the teams of slaves working on the dam—made her flap her wings in sudden fright. She shrieked, dropping the slug.

In one swift motion, Harlech whipped out his broadsword and sliced through the air. The bird’s shriek ended abruptly as her headless body spun into the shadows, followed by a pair of drifting feathers. The head itself struck the side of the redrock tower and bounced to the ground.

Harlech glanced down at the head, its eyes frozen wide with terror. He gave a sharp kick with his boot. The head took a final, brief flight, then rolled across the rocky ground and fell into the quarry pit.

“Swift work, my Harlech. I have relied on our remoteness to keep us safe. That, and a spell to ward off any small beasts that might stray too close to this canyon—and our little project. Even so, the cursed wind still tries to thwart me. And yet we simply can’t have any spies discovering our plans, can we?”

Harlech’s upper lip curled in satisfaction. He blew a bloody feather off the blade and sheathed his sword. “No, Master.”

“So now . . . do you have the slave I need?”

The man tensed again. He fidgeted, thinking hard. “Er,

I’m not sure, Master. Ye needs one wid fight, ye say. An’

what else?”

The sorcerer’s voice lowered ominously. “With a brain—bigger than yours! Mmmyesss, so it can understand language.”

“Language, Master? What kind do ye mean? The oxen’ll speak theirs, the bears’ll do theirs, and those damn wolves’ll go a-howlin’ theirs, ’specially when they’re feelin’—”

“Silence!” spat the voice. “I mean the only language that matters, the only language that truly deserves that name.”

“Aye, ye mean
human
.”

“Yes, and there will soon be one human who speaks no more, if he doesn’t work faster.”

Harlech gulped. “Me pardons, Master, but . . . er, we don’t have any human slaves, as ye know. As ye commanded, these many years ago. Only dumb beasts.”

The pale fingers stretched out and clutched at the air, as if they were squeezing someone’s neck. “Dumb beasts is right! I didn’t say the slave should
be
a human. Just that it should
understand
a human. To grasp my instructions!”

Harlech started to edge away. “The-there’s them dwarves, they kin speak human tongue. B-but no, they never foller orders. Stubborn as blind one-eyed jackasses! Jest this mornin’ I cut the ears off o’ that—”

“Harlech!”

“W-well . . . there’s a wild horse, Master, a right smart mare indeed. M-m-mebbe she’d do. But,” he added nervously, “fer them two lame legs.”

One of the white hands flashed out from the shadowed wall and grabbed his wrist. “Something better, Harlech. Think fast.”

“
Aaaargh!
” The big man’s face twisted as waves of pain surged through his arm. Sweat poured off his brow, stinging his eyes. “I, I . . . don’t know, M-M-Master.”

The white hand flexed ever so slightly. Harlech yowled again and fell to his knees. The sword blades clanged against the ground as he writhed.

“Elves!” he blurted, twisting to free himself.

The white hand released him. “Elves? I don’t recall seeing any such creatures here. When did you capture them?”

“Only a few days ago, Master.” Harlech rubbed his wrist under the burned sleeve of his shirt. “Two o’ them, an ol’ geezer an’ a she-elf. His kin, mebbe. Useless in the quarries, too thin an’ weak. An’ that she-elf, too damn sassy. So I been puttin’ them to use haulin’ ropes for the barges.” He grinned maliciously. “They don’t seem to likes followin’ orders.”

“How did you come by these elves?”

“Garr, I done snared their horses o’er in Woodroot. Then they tracked me, an’ tried to waylay me wid their bows an’ arrers. I bested them, but lost two o’ me best men. After all they’d seen, me first thought was to kill them quick. But then I thinks—no, Harlech, here’s a better idea. Jest bring them back fer slaves.”

“Mmmyesss, well done. Elves are haughty creatures, thinking themselves the equals of humans. But they should be intelligent enough for the task. And from what you say, they should be . . . persuadable. Bring them to me at the Overlook.”

The dark figure left the shadow of the tower, drew the hood of his gray cloak tight, and slunk away along the rim. Harlech watched the sorcerer leave. After a few seconds, he cursed silently and wrenched himself to his feet, still rubbing his sore arm through the hole in his sleeve.

Harlech glanced down into the quarry pit, where two of his men were whipping an unruly mare. He nodded in approval, then started down the road that led to the top of the dam. That was where most of the work was happening now, as the final layers of stone were being moved into place. And that was where he’d find those elves, slacking off, no doubt.

His heavy boots pounded on the road, sending up clouds of red dirt. Though made by slaves only a few months before, this road already showed many ruts and holes from all the tree trunks and blocks of stone that had been dragged along its length. The whole project was nearly done, but he made a mental note to get some slaves up here to make repairs on the road. Slaves were best off staying busy, right up until the moment the master had no more use for them. And then . . . Harlech smiled savagely.

Just as he rounded the final bend beneath the hill, a slim figure came hurtling around the curve from the other side and smashed right into him. Both tumbled over on the dirt. Harlech, though surprised, drew both his daggers at once. He rolled on top of whoever it was and pointed his blades at the angry face. A face with deep green eyes, pointed ears, and an extremely sharp tongue.

“Get off me, you giant turd! Before I . . . ”

“Why, if it ain’t the she-elf,” Harlech said with a savage grin. “Saved me the trouble o’ fetchin’ ye wid forcible means, ye did.”

“I’ll save you nothing,” declared the young elf. She tried to twist free, but he grabbed her by her long braid of honey-colored hair and yanked her back. She glared up at him—then spat right in his eye.

Harlech growled with rage and pressed his daggerpoints against her throat. “Slipped outa yer chains, did ye? Tryin’ to run away? Lucky I ain’t free to slice off yer pointy ears, ye liddle snake. Cuz iffen I could, ye’d be bathin’ in yer own blood right now.”

“Snakes don’t have pointy ears, you dolt.” She started to say more, then froze, as her eyes shifted to something behind the warrior. “No, Granda!” she shrieked. “Just get away!”

In an instant, Harlech turned, dodged the swipe of a wooden cane, and threw out an arm that tripped the old, white-bearded elf who had tried to strike him. Before the elf could rise again, Harlech sheathed his daggers and grabbed both of the elves around their necks. His fingers squeezed so tight, they both coughed, barely able to breathe.

All the way back up the road he dragged them, battering their bodies against jagged rocks and deep ruts. His grip around their necks never slackened. When he reached the stone tower, he turned roughly and hauled them along the rim for quite some distance until he reached a ledge that overlooked the steepest wall of the canyon. By the time he dropped them at the ledge, the elves’ once-green robes of sturdy barkthread were torn and splattered with blood. Both elves lay motionless.

A low cackle sounded from the shadows under a huge, rectangular stone at one side of the ledge. The monolith’s face had been carved with intricate runes useful in the dark magic of disemboweling creatures while they were still alive: spells to keep their writhing to a minimum; chants to cast their heart or intestines or stomach in just the right way so that hidden truths could be revealed from organs and blood; and, of course, incantations to keep the sensation of pain as strong as possible—since pain often prolonged the victim’s life. Beneath the monolith, the remains of a freshly killed wild boar lay scattered on the ground.

“Excellent work, my Harlech. Excellent.”

As Harlech stood watch over the limp bodies of the slaves, the cloaked figure turned and stepped closer to the very edge of the canyon, now nearly full of white water. Here he stood, pale hands outstretched to the view before him. The vast dam, built of stone and magically strengthened mortar made from the white water itself, spanned the gorge, binding together its red rock walls. One face of the dam was covered with scaffolding, sliced from trees that once grew on the rim closest to Woodroot. The other face held back the lake full of water from the White Geyser of Crystallia. Wind whipped the lake’s surface, making waves that slammed against the barrier of stone. Far in its depths, phosphorescent flecks sparkled in the whiteness. Like a beast caged against its will, the great lake heaved and frothed, trying to break free.

Below the dam, Prism Gorge looked as dry as a fire dragon’s throat. Only a year ago, before construction began, white water tumbled through this place, sparkling day and night with a phosphorescent glow, before separating into seven rushing rivers of different colors. But now only the dark shadow of the dam towered over the gorge. No more water, not even a trickle, ran down the seven smaller canyons. The only motion came from the many enslaved creatures who were still toiling at the base of the dam.

Hundreds more slaves could be seen on the scaffolding, the canyon walls, and the top of dam. Horses, deer, oxen, goats, and dwarves, their legs and necks chained, hauled blocks of stone from the quarries to the barges. Ropes, boards, tools, and other lighter materials were carried by teams of haggard owls, cranes, crows, and condors. And flocks of tiny light flyers hovered in shadowy places, giving enough light for the masons to fit their stones—and the slave drivers to crack their whips. Whatever task these slaves performed, they didn’t understand the purpose of their labors. All they understood was that they had lost forever their freedom. And that their only escape from this torment of labor, hunger, and cruelty would be death.

Beneath his hood, the cloaked figure clucked in satisfaction. The monstrous project was nearly done. Only two weeks left—three perhaps, given the sluggishness of these slaves. And then, after tapping the power of Merlin’s staff, his life’s greatest dream would become reality. With the help of Rhita Gawr, he would control Avalon, destroy his enemies, and eliminate forever the influence of Merlin. Then he would remake this world in another design—a design befitting the greatest sorcerer of all times.

Suddenly the young elf woman coughed and rolled onto her side. Though her braid was coated with dirt and blood, it still shone with light. The cloaked figure lowered his hands and moved closer, watching her from the shadows. After more spasms of coughing, she opened her eyes.

What she saw first nearly made her retch. Intestines, a bladder, and a shredded liver, all still bloody, were strewn across the rock ledge. Just beyond them lay the disemboweled body of a young boar—killed not for its meat, nor even for its fiery orange tusks, but for a purpose far more despicable. Entrail reading! She had heard stories of evil sorcerers on mortal Earth who practiced that art. But here in Avalon?

Clenching her teeth, she rolled over. There lay her grandfather! As still as stone. She crawled weakly to his side and lay her head on his chest, just below his ragged white beard. “Breathe, Granda. Breathe!”

Nothing.

She planted her hands upon his ribs and pushed—once, twice, three times. “Breathe! Oh, please . . . breathe.”

Still nothing.

“Here now,” bellowed Harlech. “Yer not pushin’ hard ’nuf. Try this!”

He kicked his heavy boot into the side of the old elf’s chest. With a sickening crack, several ribs snapped. The elf’s slim body lifted right off the ground, rolled in the air, and landed hard.

“No! Stop!” shrieked the elf maiden, diving to catch hold of Harlech’s leg.