The Lost Years (27 page)

Shim and I tore across the rocks, trying not to stumble. Darkness pressed closer. We did not know where we were going, nor did we care. We only knew that the goblins were gaining on us.

In a desperate effort to lose them, I veered sharply to one side. Shim followed closely, and we crossed over the ridge. The vista before us could not have been more chilling. Against the darkened sky, more hills loomed even darker. Worse yet, the valley below us looked utterly black, but for the glint of hundreds of tiny lights. Despite the goblins at our backs, we hesitated for an instant.

A spear whizzed past, passing between my head and the top of my staff. Even as the spear clattered against the ground, to a chorus of raspy curses, we plunged down the slope. My foot struck a rock and I fell, sprawling. Shim waited long enough for me to roll back to my feet, grab my staff, and resume running. We charged downward into the black valley.

Total darkness swept over us like a wave. The ground became wet and mushy under our feet. The air turned rancid. Before long we splashed through something like an enormous puddle, covering a bed of oozing murk.

All at once I halted, causing Shim to run straight into my back.

“What is you stopping for?” he demanded angrily.

“Listen.”

“I hears nothing, except the throbbings of my tenderly nose.”

“That’s just it. The goblins stopped. Somewhere back there.”

“You is right.” The little giant shifted nervously in the murk. “Do you think they is scared to goes here?”

I felt something cold oozing into my leather boots. “We may be in . . . the Haunted Marsh.”

As if in answer, a faint, wavering light appeared some distance away. It hovered in the darkness, seeming to examine us. Then another appeared, followed by another. Soon more than twenty of the eerie lights swam around us, moving slowly closer.

Shim squeezed my hand.

A reeking smell, like festering flesh, drifted over us. I gagged, my lungs rebelling. As the lights drew nearer, the smell grew stronger.

Then came a thin, unsteady wailing. An ancient dirge pulsing with anguish, with undying pain. The wailing made me cringe, as it welled out of the ground, the lights, the rotting air. It came from one side. It came from the other. It came from every direction at once.

Shim released a terrified shriek. Letting go of my hand, he dashed away from the cluster of floating lights.

“Wait!”

I hurled myself after him. I had only gone a few steps, however, when something caught my foot. I tumbled headlong into a puddle of slimy liquid. Pulling myself and my staff free, I shook the murk from my arms. They stunk of mold and decay.

The ominous lights circled, gathering again. The wailing swelled. The stench of death flooded over me.

“Shim!”

No answer.

“Shim!”

Then came a scream.

The lights pressed closer, staring down on me like so many eyes. So this was how my quest would end! I would have rather drowned in the sea off the coast of Gwynedd than die like this, wretched and alone.

Yet the loss of my own quest pained me less than the loss of Rhia. She, like the brave merlin, had given her life for me. I did not deserve such friendship. Yet she did not deserve to die. She was so full of life, so full of wisdom that I did not begin to comprehend. The pain of losing her made my heart sting, as if it were on fire.

Suddenly I realized that the Galator was blazing with heat against my chest. I tore it out of my tunic and held it high. The jeweled center sparkled with its own green light, pushing back the darkness just enough that I could see my own hand and arm.

The eerie lights faltered, stopped their advance. The wailing ceased. A touch of freshness wafted on the air. At the same time, the Galator’s glow started to expand. In a few seconds, the circle of green illuminated my entire body as well as my staff.

“Shim! Where are you?”

“Here!” Soaked in murk, he staggered to my side. His chest, legs, arms, and one side of his face dripped with black ooze.

As the glowing circle expanded, the floating lights wavered, then slowly drew back into the darkness. The wailing resumed, but transformed into an angry murmur.

Heartened by the retreat of the lights, I pressed ahead. I would find some way out of this swamp, whatever it took.

Holding the Galator above my head with one hand, grasping my staff with the other, I made sure Shim held tight to my tunic. Then I started to trudge through the marshy pools. The mud was soft and sticky, sucking at my boots. Suddenly I stepped into a shallow pit. I fell forward with a splash, almost dropping the pendant. Instantly the eyes of light crowded closer and the murmur swelled louder.

As I regained my balance, the menacing lights pulled back a little. It took me a moment to extract my staff from the grasping mud of the pit, though it finally came free with a loud slurp. We slogged onward. I could tell, however, that Shim could not travel very far in this terrain. Although he was struggling to stay with me, the water was up to his waist, and the work of pushing through it was tiring him fast.

My own legs, as well as the arm holding the Galator, began to feel increasingly heavy. Nevertheless, I helped Shim climb up to the shoulder of my arm holding the staff. It was the same shoulder that Trouble had once claimed as his perch. But this load felt much heavier than the hawk ever did.

Each step grew more difficult, each breath more labored. I felt weaker and weaker, as if the marsh itself was sapping my strength. My shoulder ached. The murk from Shim’s legs dripped onto my face, while the rancid taste burned my tongue.

As my stamina faded, the lights pressed ever closer. The murmur swelled, like a pack of wolves howling in my ears. The marsh seemed endless, stretching far beyond the limits of my flagging endurance.

My powers! Should I try to use them? I needed them so much. Yet I feared them so much. The flames rose again in my mind, snapping at my face, searing my flesh, scorching my eyes.

Suddenly I stumbled. I fell to my knees, barely hanging on to both my staff and the Galator. Shim gave a shout and clung to my neck, sobbing. Again the lights crowded around, waiting to see if I would rise again.

With all my remaining strength, I pushed myself out of the slime. I tried to lift the Galator, but could not bring it higher than my chest. I took another exhausted step—and stumbled again.

I heard the Galator smack against something hard, like stone. I heard Shim scream as the murmur grew almost deafening.

Then I heard no more.

32:
D
ARK
F
ATE

Is you alive?”

“Not sure,” was my only answer. I sat up and shook the fog from my second sight. Shim sat on one side while my staff, caked with rancid-smelling mud, lay on the other.

Shim, his small face lined with worry, pulled on my tunic. “Where is we?”

Surveying our surroundings, I took in the strangest room I had ever seen. Polished stone walls, floor, and ceiling enclosed us, without even a slit for a window. Yet a quivering blue light filled the room, like the light from a candle just before it burns out. But no candle could be seen.

I shivered, though not from cold. I could not be certain why, but a feeling of foreboding hung in the air. As if Shim and I were about to be sliced up for someone’s supper.

Shim slid closer. “This place is frighteningly. Like a dungeon.”

“I agree.”

Suddenly he pointed. “Bones!”

With a start, I viewed the shadowy pile next to us. It was indeed a mass of bones, picked perfectly clean. In the quivering light I could make out ribs, leg bones, and more than a few skulls. People’s skulls. I swallowed, wondering whether our own remains would soon rest there.

Then I noticed that several other piles, though not of bones, surrounded us. One held thin slabs of gray stone, stacked almost as tall as my staff. Another contained polished balls of wood, carved in varied sizes and etched with strange signs. Some smaller than fingernails and others larger than heads, the balls seemed to have been carefully arranged for some purpose. Still another pile contained bundles of sticks, sorted by size as well as number. In the far corner of the room, I noticed strange white cubes marked with black dots on their sides. Spools of black and white yarn were piled here, bizarre shells from the sea there. Iron bowls overflowed with pebbles and seeds of many shapes.

In the middle of the floor sat a thick, square rug that was divided into smaller red and black squares. On many of these squares stood carved wooden pieces, each of them about as high as my waist. Attacking dragons, galloping horses, howling wolves, warring goblins, kings and queens, plus others I could not begin to recognize. Back in Caer Vedwyd, I had heard of the game called
esches,
sometimes shortened to
chess,
but that game was played on a board, not a rug. And in any event, chess pieces did not include dragons. Or goblins.

On the stone wall opposite us, a dense jumble of blue markings wavered in the light. Columns of slashes, dots, and squiggles, running in several directions, covered much of the surface. There were thousands of squares, triangles, and meshes of crossed lines, as well as circles divided into sections, much as a round loaf of bread is sliced. There were runes, letters, numbers, and symbols squeezed over and under, inside and outside, the rest of the markings.

“Too bad,” growled a deep voice behind us.

We spun around to see a pale, hairless head poking through the crack of a door. Slowly, the door swung open, revealing a body as round as the head, wearing a robe resembling a cloth sack with several pockets, a necklace of rough stones, and bare feet. I froze, fearful that this was another shifting wraith. Or perhaps something worse.

The hairless head, with rows of wrinkles gathering about two triangular ears, leaned toward us. One large, shriveled wart sprouted like a horn from the middle of the forehead. Eyes even blacker than my own watched us, unblinking, for several seconds. Then the mouth full of misshapen teeth opened again. “Definitely too bad.”

Reaching for my staff, I scrambled to my feet, which was made more difficult by Shim’s clinging to my leg. “Who are you?”

“Almost no chance they’ll live out the day,” muttered the strange figure, entering the room. “Definitely too bad.”

Though my voice quaked, I repeated my question. “Who are you?”

The black eyes, seeming terribly old, observed me for a moment. “That’s a difficult question, my pet.”

Something about the words
my pet
made me cringe.

“Who am I?” continued the creature, pacing slowly around us like a vulture examining its carrion. “Hard to tell. Even for me. Today I’m someone, tomorrow someone else.” The wrinkled face bent toward me, showing more crooked teeth. “And who are you?”

I gave a sigh. “The truth is, I’m not really sure.”

“At least, my pet, you are honest.” The circling continued, the bare feet slapping on the stone floor. “Perhaps I can tell you a bit about who you are. Though I should warn you, it’s rather disappointing. For starters, you are too skinny to provide more than a mouthful or two, even with your little friend thrown in.”

Shim squeezed my leg harder.

“Worse still, my pet, you look far too weak to be of any help to my wager. And I do
so
detest losing.”

An icy finger ran down my spine. “I know who you are. You are Domnu.”

“Very clever, my pet.” The hairless hag stopped circling. She ran a hand across the top of her head, ruminating. “But cleverness won’t be enough to win my wager.”

“What wager are you talking about?”

“Oh, nothing of any importance. I merely made a little wager with someone who expects you not to survive until tomorrow.” She shrugged. “Die today. Die tomorrow. What difference does it make? I should not have bet on you, but I could not resist the odds.”

I shuddered, remembering what Cairpré had said about this being whose name means Dark Fate.
Neither good nor evil, friend nor foe. She simply is.
“Who did you wager against?”

Domnu’s bare feet slapped across the stone floor as she moved to the wall covered with strange markings, still trembling in the unsteady light. She spat on the index finger of her left hand, which immediately turned blue. Then, using the finger as a paintbrush, she stretched to reach as high as she could and drew a squiggly line through one of the circles.

“Time to start using a new wall,” she grumbled. With a glance in our direction, she added, “Must keep score, my pets. I do dislike losing a wager, but I must keep score. And it certainly does look like I will lose this one.”

“You mean,” piped Shim, “that we is going to die?”

Domnu shrugged again. “It certainly looks that way.”

I demanded, “Who did you wager against?”

“No one you know. Although he does seem to have developed a genuine dislike for you.”

“Who?”

She scratched the back of her bald head. “That fool Rhita Gawr, of course.”

“Rhita Gawr? The spirit battling Dagda?”

Domnu grunted carelessly. “I suppose so. At least it was so a few thousand years ago when last I checked. But as to who is winning and who is losing, my pet, I have no idea. They must keep their own tallies.”

“But it’s not a game! It’s serious.”

Domnu stiffened. “Games
are
serious, my pet. As serious as life itself, for that too is just a game.”

“You don’t understand.” I stepped closer, with Shim still holding tight to my leg. “Their battle is for all of Fincayra. As well as the Earth. And more beyond that.”

“Yes, yes,” said the hag, yawning. “They have an ongoing wager.”

“No! It’s more than that.”

She stared at me, dumbfounded. “More than that? How can anything be more than that? A wager is the purest chance of all! Make your choice, place your bet. Then whatever happens, happens. Up or down. Life or death. It doesn’t matter, as long as you collect your winnings in the end.”

I shook my head. “It
does
matter. Whether Dagda or Rhita Gawr wins will determine—”