by T.A. Barron
Suddenly, he reached a place where the tunnel narrowed. The walls pinched closer and closer, squeezing him on all sides. He grimaced, trying to work his way lower. But progress was painfully slow.
Ugh, he thought, I never thought I’d wish to be more smallsy!
Just then another thick cloud of smoke passed over him—making it impossible to breathe. All he could do was hold his breath until it passed. But what if it lasted too long?
He stifled a cough, knowing that any sounds would echo down into the wyverns’ cavern. When he couldn’t hold his breath an instant longer, he drew a sharp breath—but it was all smoke. He coughed loudly, unable to help himself, again and again.
Finally, the thick cloud passed. Cleaner air filled the tunnel—as well as his lungs. With great effort, though his throat felt raw, he made himself stop coughing.
Taking advantage of the burst of good air, Shim squeezed himself lower. The walls scraped him brutally. But he moved gradually downward, slowly edging nearer to the nest of wyverns.
Just as he placed his foot on a nub of rock—it broke off! Suddenly, he slid downward, out of control, unable to stop. Desperately, he thrust out his arms, his legs, and also his head—anything that might arrest his fall.
At last, he slowed himself enough to grab hold of a narrow lip of stone. He hung there, panting. Though he’d stopped falling, he ached all over, sporting bloody scrapes on all his limbs as well as his neck and shoulders.
A loud shriek erupted from below. The cry of an angry wyvern!
Had he been discovered? Had that falling rock alerted the wyverns to his approach, so that they were waiting to devour him as soon as he reached their cavern?
For several seconds, he waited. How, he wondered, was this going to end?
Hearing no more angry cries, he continued to climb downward. After a while, the tunnel began to widen slightly. He started to hear new sounds from below—snarls and growls, but no more shrieks.
The first hint of light drifted up into the tunnel. Meanwhile, he heard the scraping of claws on stone and the crackling of fire. He smelled, apart from smoke, meat roasting and a hint of sea breeze. Yet the most powerful smell overwhelmed everything else, and couldn’t be mistaken.
Wyverns.
Carefully, he drew closer to the end of the tunnel. Though it had widened considerably from the narrowest section, it remained snug enough for him to brace his body as he descended. The light grew steadily stronger, as did the smells and sounds.
At last—he reached the bottom of the hole. Painstakingly bracing himself against a rock that protruded from the lower rim, he peered down into the space below.
Purple wyverns filled the cavern. Two were wrestling on the floor, another pair were comparing the size of their jagged wings, and one lay sleeping by the wall. Near the entrance was an enormous pile of shiny objects—gold coins, silver goblets, and all sorts of precious jewels. At the top of the pile, in a place of honor, sat an orange crystal that glowed from the reflection of the fire . . . as well as its own inner light. The Leaper.
Shim clenched his jaw angrily as he looked at the sixth wyvern, the largest of the group, who sat next to the pile. Gasher looked as smug as he could be, enjoying the glint of the crystal, despite his many battle scars. Among the worst of those, Shim noted with satisfaction, were the jagged scar on the wyvern’s jaw and the missing scales on one of his wings.
Directly below Shim, the remains of an ox sizzled on a huge spit. Just beneath the carcass, a roaring fire blazed, its smoke curling up toward the tunnel.
Suddenly, Shim spied a quick flash of light on the cavern wall. Blue light! After the flash died away, he saw a tiny little form crouching there on a ledge.
There you are, brave Elf.
The friends’ eyes met. Across the cavern, they watched each other, poised to leap into action. Both of them knew that this was their only chance to take back the precious crystal and keep its great power from being turned into a weapon by Stangmar or Gawr. And both of them also knew that their chances of success were exceedingly small. How could they possibly prevail?
Shim’s thoughts, though, had turned to a more immediate question. How was he ever going to get down from this perch . . . without getting smashed or burned to a crisp?
At that instant, the rim rock supporting his weight broke loose.
22.
TRUE OF HEART
As the rock broke off, Shim tumbled downward, plummeting into the wyverns’ cavern. Straight toward the blazing fire below!
Even as he plunged, limbs flailing and hair blowing, a split-second memory flashed across his mind: the last time he’d fallen. But that fall was very different—through the arms of someone enormous, someone mysterious. And that fall wasn’t into a blazing fire.
Instantly, he snapped back to the present—just in time to smash into the ox carcass roasting over the flames. Crash! He slammed into the ox, snapping the wooden spit and causing an explosion of flaming coals, burning ox meat, and sizzling sparks.
He bounced off the carcass and flew through the flames so fast that he avoided getting roasted; only his hair and leggings were singed. With a thud, he landed on his back on the cavern’s stone floor, shaken but still alive. As he sat up, the entire cavern burst into chaos.
Gasher, along with the rest of the wyverns, shrieked in surprise. Countless hot coals and sparks rained down on them. Havoc erupted.
The wyvern who’d been fast asleep woke abruptly when a big shard of burning wood from the spit landed right on his snout. Screeching in pain, he whipped around—and struck another wyvern in the face with the heavy ball of bone at the end of his tail. That wyvern, thoroughly enraged, roared in fury and pounced on her attacker, shredding part of his wing with her massive claws. As they wrestled viciously, those two wyverns rolled into another one—causing him to shriek and attack them both ferociously.
While all this was happening, Elf watched from her ledge. She knew that her only hope to help Shim get the crystal was to buy him some more time. And the best way to accomplish that was to add to the chaos. Which was why she decided that instant to do the bravest thing she—or any luminous faery—had ever done.
She leaped into the air. Like a glowing blue missile, she flew directly at Gasher’s face. With every bit of strength she could muster, she hurled herself right into one of his wide purple eyes.
“Aaaarrrghh!” roared the dragon-like beast in agony. Rearing back, he clawed at his face to remove whatever had struck him.
Elf, meanwhile, dropped to the cavern floor. Stunned by the impact, she lay there unconscious, her radiance almost gone. She was helpless to prevent one of the wyverns from stepping on her or rolling over her, which would surely crush her to death.
Unaware of Elf’s sacrifice, Shim regained his feet. As fast as his little legs could scurry, he ran to the wyverns’ pile of treasures. He jumped onto the glittering mass of goblets, nuggets, jewels, belts, daggers, crowns, amulets, bracelets, and coins. Swiftly, he climbed to the top—and grabbed the most precious treasure of all.
The Leaper.
The crystal’s orange glow, magnified by all the flames around the cavern, made it seem like it was itself on fire. But it felt as cold as a river stone in Shim’s hands.
Anxiously, he glanced over at Gasher. The enormous purple wyvern, who was angrily clawing at his face for some reason, hadn’t yet noticed him. Nor had any of the other wyverns, too busy screeching, slamming, and slashing at each other to pay any heed to an intruder.
Where is Elf? he wondered, scanning the cavern. But he saw no sign of her. All he could do was hope she was unharmed—and would soon join him.
He hefted the crystal. To his former self, it would have been smaller than one of his fingernails. Now, though, it completely filled one hand. Just to be safe, he held it with both of his cupped hands. How was he supposed to make it work its famous magic? Cou
ld he actually get it to carry him and Elf to safety before their time ran out?
Peering at the Leaper’s glowing facets, which shimmered with light, Shim couldn’t shake the feeling that it was somehow alive. Like a crystalline eye, it seemed to be watching him. Observing him closely, inside and out. Deciding, perhaps, whether he was truly worthy of its help.
What had Elf told him about its power? That it could move people instantly, taking them far away in just a heartbeat. Glancing again at Gasher, who had stopped clawing at his eye and seemed to be rapidly regaining his composure, Shim thought anxiously, A few heartbeats is all the time I have.
His mind raced. What else had she said? That the Leaper could only be used by a certain kind of person, someone whose heart was true and whose motives were right.
Well, he knew for certain that his motives were right—to get him and Elf out of here, and very far away, before they were totally destroyed by wyverns! So that left only one question: Was his heart really true?
Shim gulped. Fears flooded his mind. Just as he wasn’t big anymore, he probably also wasn’t brave or good or worthy. Maybe, back when he’d been a great and powerful giant, he’d possessed an equally great heart—one that was loyal and honest, caring and true. But that wasn’t remotely possible now, in his shrunken little form. Why, he was really as far from having a true heart as he was from being a true giant!
Even so . . . he needed to try. His hands shook with concentration as he whispered, “Leaper! Get us out of here! Send Elf and me somewhere else. Right now. Before it’s too lately!”
Nothing happened.
“Please, great crystal. Get us out of here!”
Nothing.
Anxiously, Shim looked again at Gasher, who was doing his best to stop the other wyverns from killing each other. He roared wildly, jumped into the fray to separate combatants, and forcefully smacked one on the head with his massive tail ball. Seeing that wasn’t enough to restore calm, he hurled another wyvern into the wall, hard enough to rock the entire cavern.
Shim knew that, as focused as Gasher was now on subduing the others, it wouldn’t last long. Soon the wrathful beast would turn his attention back to the pile of treasures—and to the intruder who was trying to steal the most valuable one of all.
Just then, Shim heard a familiar whirring of wings. He spun around to see the faery flying toward him, a bit wobbly but clearly alive.
“Elf! Where in the worldly world have you been?”
“Oh, just helping out,” she said blithely as she returned to her perch on his shoulder. Giving his neck a nudge with her wing, she teased, “Though when it came to causing a distraction, you didn’t need much help from me.”
In no mood for humor, he replied, “Well, I sure do now! I’m a failure with this crystal, Elf. Nothing I do is working!” He grimaced. “I’m just not . . . true of heart.”
“You certainly are!” she objected, chiming her bells vigorously. “Come on now. Try again.”
Squeezing the crystal with both hands, he said in a fervent whisper, “Please, Leaper. Help us escape! Now, while we still—”
Abruptly, he stopped, sensing something new at the edge of his vision. Turning, he saw it—and froze. Gasher was looking straight at him!
Having finally succeeded in restoring calm, the wyvern had swung around to face the pile of treasures. And discovered a robbery in process!
Gasher roared in rage, loud enough that several stalactites broke off the ceiling, plunging down like stone daggers. One of them impaled another wyvern in the neck, making him howl in pain. But Gasher took no notice. All his focus—and all his rage—remained squarely on the thief who had dared to enter his cavern.
Suddenly—Gasher ceased roaring. His gaze met Shim’s. As the two pairs of eyes, one purple and one pink, stared at each other, the wyvern’s expression changed. Though he still looked every bit as angry and vengeful as before, his face now showed something different.
Recognition.
Sure, Shim was much smaller in size than when they had met before. But with his bulbous nose, pink eyes, and wild hair, he still looked enough like the giant who had caused Gasher so much injury and humiliation that the wyvern recognized him. And hated him with every cell in his gargantuan body.
Gasher roared again, so loud that Shim’s ears almost burst and Elf nearly fell off his shoulder.
Knowing they had no time to spare, Shim hastily turned back to the crystal. Though he couldn’t hear his own voice over the wyvern’s roars, he pleaded, “I know I’m not a bigly giant. But I promise you, my heart is true!”
Drawing a quick breath, he added, “And my motives are right, too. Just to save our lives! That’s all I’m asking!”
From the corner of his eye, he could see Gasher raise his deadly claws to attack. Then the wyvern leaped right at him!
Even as Gasher’s immense body lifted into the air, flying toward him, Shim was seized by a new idea. Maybe his motives really weren’t right, after all. Could they be just too small, too selfish?
He closed his eyes, concentrating. “Do this not just for me, not just for Elf. Do this, I beg you, for all of Fincayra! To save this whole beautifullous world! To keep your power from falling into the hands of the evilous king in his castle!”
He felt, on his neck, the hot breath of Gasher. And he knew for sure that time had finally run out. Yet . . . he also knew, in a way he couldn’t describe, that he’d done his best.
In the last remaining instant before the wyvern’s jaws closed on him, Shim suddenly heard voices. A surprising chorus of voices. They filled his mind, speaking with such clarity that they drowned out the wyvern’s furious roars.
“You may not look like a giant,” called the greathawk Rowallon from her tree, “but you can still do giant-size things.”
“Yes,” agreed the seer Lunahlia, swishing her long white hair. “Always remember that you really are a giant.”
Olwen watched him with oceanic eyes. Then she said in her watery voice, “I can see the giant in you, even now.”
“Your body may be smaller now,” declared Elf with a shake of her bells. “But you’re still the same brave hero.”
Last of all came the voice of someone he could almost—but not quite—recall. And though he couldn’t name the speaker, he heard, finally, all of her words: “Bigness means more than the size of your bones.”
Just then, Gasher’s teeth-studded jaws snapped closed—on thin air.
Shim, Elf, and the crystal had completely vanished.
23.
FORTRESS
Shim opened his eyes, utterly amazed to be alive.
Lying on his back in a grove of birch trees, he smelled the rich, loamy scent of forest soil. Still not sure he was really alive, he gazed up at the tracery of white-bark limbs and supple green leaves, with the late afternoon sky beyond. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves, making them whisper and swish.
Suddenly, he heard another sound—the familiar whirring of tiny wings. Right above his face appeared the faery he knew so well, her entire body pulsing with blue light. With a harmonious jingle of her antennae, she landed on his nose.
“You did it, Shim. You freed the magic of the Leaper!”
“Well, amazingishly . . . I guess that’s so.” He squinted, trying to focus on her while she stood on the tip of his nose. “And you did your part, too, my wingedly friend.”
Elf laughed with a peal of bells. “All I did,” she said modestly, “was give that miserable Gasher a headache,”
Squinting harder, Shim replied, “You’re going to give me a headache, too, if you stay in that crossly-eyed place much longer.”
“Happy to move,” she answered cheerily. “But don’t start bossing me around now. Just because you saved our lives, humiliated that wyvern, stole the crystal, and protected Fincayra.”
“All in a day’s work,” he said wi
th a grin.
“A giant day’s work.”
His grin widened.
As he sat up, still feeling surprised to be in one piece, Elf lifted off and settled herself on his shoulder. With a jolt, he realized that he didn’t know what had happened to the Leaper. Had he lost it? Had it disappeared for good?
Relief swept through him like a powerful river as he saw where it rested. In his hand! He squeezed it, sending it a silent, simple message of gratitude.
Clasping the crystal, he slid it into the biggest pocket of his leggings. He noticed that his leggings’ barkcloth material had been repaired several times, carefully stitched together by someone. Touched by that person’s kindness, he wondered who could have done it.
A sharp pang of loneliness and loss struck him. Who was that kindlyish person? And why can’t I remember?
He stood, planting his bare feet on the moist forest soil. All of a sudden—he stiffened. For there, in the vale, just below the hillside grove where they’d landed, was the very last thing he expected to see.
“The Shrouded Castle,” he exclaimed. “Stangmar’s new fortress!”
The faery’s bells shuddered.
They stared, aghast, at the fortress. Almost finished, it bore imposing turrets and battlements, as well as dozens of murder holes for warriors to shoot arrows from or pour boiling oil on any unwanted visitors. Hundreds of gobsken warriors, muscles bulging under their sweaty green skin, labored to haul the remaining materials—heavy stones for walls, iron bars for windows, and hefty beams for archways.
Ghoulliants, meanwhile, floated around the castle’s perimeter, shrieking commands and herding gobsken. Even from the distant hillside where they stood, Shim and Elf could see the hollow eyes and decomposing flesh of the ghoulliants’ faces.
Shim moaned painfully. It felt like a living nightmare to encounter these warriors again, seeing them for the first time since their horribly brutal attack on Varigal. Some of these very same laborers, no doubt, had impaled his friends and neighbors with poisoned spears or sliced off giants’ hands with broadswords.
