by T.A. Barron
At length, the slope grew less precipitous. The ground beneath us didn’t tremble so violently. Mosses and grasses appeared between the cracks; a few scraggly pines clung to the mountainside. Although I knew that soon they would be covered by molten rock, the glimpse of green gave me a spurt of hope that we might yet escape.
Into what? Into the valley and fields that I could see below, warmed by the golden hues of the sun? I knew better. My destination lay far beyond, in the land of the dwarves. And the late afternoon light meant that I had barely two days left to get there.
The thought made me cringe. What did time matter now, anyway? I had no Galator—and no powers of my own. Only the prospect of facing a wrathful dragon alone. And yet, to my own surprise, I still felt sure I must try.
Over the continuous rumbling, I heard a shout. I turned, but saw only the narrow, overhanging edge of a crevasse, marked by a pair of twisted pine trees. The shout came again. Then I noticed, just beyond the pines, a pair of hands and a head topped with shaggy gray hair. Cairpré!
“Ionn!” I cried. “Stop here!”
The stallion halted abruptly. Even so, he looked at the oncoming rivers of lava and whinnied excitedly. I slid off his back. As fast as I could, I ran past the pines, then onto the jutting edge. Cairpré hung there, straining to hold on. Locking both of my hands around his wrists, I heaved with all my strength. I could hear the rumbling around us growing louder. At last one leg lifted over the lip of rock, then the other.
His face white with exhaustion, the poet gazed at me weakly. “Can’t . . . stand up.”
“You must,” I urged, hauling him to his feet. He slumped against me, unable to stay upright.
Without warning, a flying lump of lava struck the trunk of one of the pines. Its resiny wood exploded in flames, as the entire top half of the tree split off, collapsing across the overhang. A wall of fire leaped into the air, roaring furiously, cutting us off completely.
As I stared into the scorching flames, another wall of fire ripped across my mind. The blaze . . . my face, my eyes! I can’t cross that. Can’t!
I staggered, nearly stepping off the edge of the overhang.
“Merlin,” panted Cairpré. “Leave me . . . Save yourself.”
His legs buckled completely. I struggled just to stand. Beyond the blazing tree, I heard the approaching roar of descending lava. And, in my ear, the labored breathing of my friend.
From somewhere I could not fathom, I found the strength to lean his limp body over my back. With a groan, I lifted him and tottered ahead into the flames. Fire slapped my face, singed my hair, licked my tunic. A branch caught my arm, but I shook free. Stumbling, I fell forward.
Onto solid rock. Ionn whinnied, stamping impatiently. Oncoming lava spat at us. I heaved Cairpré over the horse’s broad back, then mounted myself.
Ionn bounded off, widening the gap between us and the molten river of rock. The slope became less steep, giving him sounder footing. Still, it was all I could do to keep both myself and the unconscious poet on his back. Downward he pushed—until, at last, the slope merged into the rocky hillocks. Moments later, we came to the edge of the narrow valley. Ionn instinctively avoided Bachod’s village, crossing onto the higher ground on the valley’s opposite side.
Behind us, the cliffs continued to glow with orange lava. Above, the sky darkened with clouds of smoke and ash. An immense column of steam rose in the distance, perhaps from lava flowing into the sea. Yet the mountain’s tremors had all but ceased. The eruption, it appeared, had spent itself. The land grew steadily quieter.
By a small spring, bubbling through a ring of ice, we rested. I doused Cairpré’s head in the spring, which at first made him cough but soon encouraged him to drink. Before long, he had revived enough to talk, and to share some of his salted meat, though his face remained quite pale. Nearby, Ionn tugged at some clumps of grass.
The poet eyed me gratefully. “That was a test of flames, my boy. The mountain’s as well as your own.”
I tore at a slice of meat. “The greater test is still to come.” I hesitated, almost afraid to ask the question most on my mind. “Did you see Hallia?”
The poet hesitated before finally responding. “Yes. I . . . saw her.”
“Is she all right?’
Somberly, he shook his gray mane. “No, Merlin. She is not.”
I swallowed. “What happened?”
“Well, when the eruption first started, I was a good way up the slope, waiting for Bachod.” He paused, weakly running his hand across his brow. “We were supposed to meet there. He was late, and I was growing concerned. The lava mountain seemed to be waking up. All of a sudden, he appeared. Riding on the back of one of those infernal creatures! Rags and rat holes, I was a fool to trust him.”
He grimaced. “I did my best to escape, but he finally chased me to the edge of that precipice. Clumsy me—I fell over, barely catching myself. The vision grows dim, Though ever more grim. He dismounted, drew his sword on me—when suddenly Hallia bounded over the crevasse. Seeing her, Bachod cursed and leaped onto the kreelix again. Off they flew, chasing her up the slope.”
My jaw dropped. “Up the slope? But the lava . . .”
“She knew just what she was doing. If she led him down into the more level terrain, she would have had fewer places to hide. Higher on the slope, she could avoid him longer, buying me a little more time.”
“Buying your life with her own,” I added bitterly. “So either Bachod got her, or the lava did.”
“I fear so. Neither of them came back. But Bachod, I presume, survived. He probably just left me for dead and went about trying to save as many of his kreelixes as he could. Their hideaway, I’m sure, was somewhere up in the cliffs.”
He twisted a willow shoot with his finger. “I’m sorry, my boy. Dreadfully sorry. I haven’t felt this wretched since . . . I parted from Elen.”
The pain in his voice seemed to echo somewhere inside me. For several minutes, we sat in silence, hearing only our own thoughts and the swirling waters of the spring. In time, Cairpré offered me a few slices of dried apple. I chewed for a while, then told him about my discovery of the Wheel of Wye’s true voice, my choice of a question—and the incomplete answer. His fists clenched as I described the destruction of the oracle, as well as the Galator.
As I concluded, a slight breeze wafted over us, fluttering my charred tunic. “If I’m going to face Valdearg, I must leave soon.”
“Are you sure you want to do this, my boy?’
I splashed some cold water on my face. “Yes. I only wish I knew what to do when I get there. If, that is, I can make it past Urnalda. After the way I escaped from her, she’ll probably want to punish me herself before turning me over to Valdearg.”
The poet broke an apple slice in two. “I’ve been thinking about your last encounter with her. It doesn’t make sense that she, as a creature of magic herself, would use negatus mysterium against you.”
“She sees me as her people’s archenemy! Or, at least, as their only shield against the dragon. And she’s arrogant enough to use any weapons she might have against me.
He frowned, but said nothing.
“If only there were some way I could convince Valdearg that he shouldn’t be fighting me—but Bachod, who killed his young, and Rhita Gawr, who made it possible.”
Cairpré gnawed on the dried fruit. “Dragons are difficult to convince, my boy.”
“I know, I know. But doing that could be my only chance of stopping him from devastating everything! I certainly can’t defeat him in battle. Not without the Galator.”
“It’s just possible that the wheel, like most oracles, might have meant more than one thing by what it said.”
I leaned closer. “What do you mean?”
The poet’s eyes lifted toward the cliffs, glowing now both with trails of lava and the light of the setting sun. “I mean,” he answered slowly, “that it said the powers of the Galator were very near. That could have meant the Galator itself wa
s near—as, indeed, it was. Or it could have also meant its powers were very near. Nearer than you knew.”
“I still don’t understand.” Rising, I stepped over to Ionn. The stallion raised his head from the tufts of grass and nickered softly. Running my hand along his jaw, I pondered Cairpré’s words. “We knew so little about the Galator’s powers—except that they were great.”
He stroked his chin. “Were they any greater, do you think, than whatever power brought you and Ionn back together after so many years? Than whatever power gave you the strength to carry me through those flames?”
“I don’t know. I only know that any powers I can find, I’m going to need.” Drawing in my breath, I pulled myself onto the stallion’s back. He gave his head a bold shake as he anticipated my command. “Let us ride, my friend. To the land of the dwarves!”
28: GALLOPING
Down the narrow valley we rode, and into the night. Ionn’s massive hooves thundered in my ears, reminding me of the erupting mountain we had fled. As he pounded over the stones, weaving among the hillocks, his black mane no longer glowed with the reflected light of lava. How often, as a child, I had clung to that very mane . . . I wondered whether this ride, out of one set of flames and into another, would be our last.
Air, as cold as the first breath of winter, rushed over me. Tears streamed down my cheeks from my useless eyes. Though I told myself they came from the wind, I knew they also came from the memory of the many faces I might never see again. Cairpré. Rhia. My mother. And another face, full of intelligence and feeling, with brown eyes that shone like pools of liquid light.
As Ionn galloped, I glanced back at the cliff walls, streaked with bands of orange. I shuddered to think that, somewhere up there, lay the lifeless body of a doe. Whether Hallia had been destroyed by the kreelix or by the onslaught of lava I would never know. It gave me no comfort to imagine that now, at least, she had rejoined her brother.
Ahead, the remaining rays of twilight faded, revealing a few quivering scenes—a twisted tree here, a pair of tilting boulders there. Behind, heavy clouds of ash, darker than night itself, rose into the sky. The rumbling cliffs soon vanished, obscured by the hillocks, which themselves started to diminish as the valley widened. In time, stretches of thick, ragged grass replaced the meager tufts that had interspersed the stones. The valley opened into an expanse of rolling grassland that I knew to be the eastern reaches of the Rusted Plains.
My arms embraced Ionn’s broad neck, while my legs pinched his heaving chest. Galloping, galloping, we drove across the plains. Night deepened around us. But for the occasional howl of a wolf in the distance, the only sounds were the relentless pounding of the stallion’s hooves and the continuous surging of his breath. Once or twice I almost dozed, but awoke with a start just before I tumbled off his back.
As dawn’s first light dappled the grasses, Ionn whinnied and veered to the north. Minutes later, I glimpsed the sparkling surface of a braided stream ahead. Ionn slowed to a trot, then pranced to the water’s edge. Stiffly, I dismounted. On unsteady legs, I stepped to the stream and thrust in my whole head. Even with the frigid water washing over my ears, I could still hear the pounding of hooves.
We drank deeply. Finally, we lifted our heads in unison. While I stretched my neck and back, Ionn frisked a bit, seeming to shake the weariness from his bones. I beckoned him toward some tall clusters of grass, but he moved there only reluctantly. I could tell that he, like myself, knew that our time was fast disappearing. Only after he saw me pull some shriveled berries from the vines on the bank did he, too, take time to eat. Soon he nudged my shoulder to mount again.
Onward we rode. The plains rose and fell like gentle waves, tinted with the yellows and tans of autumn. Following the arc of the sun overhead, we pushed westward. By the time the ridges of mist-shrouded hills lifted on the horizon, late afternoon light painted the grasses. As the plains stretched before us, I continued to scan the vista, searching for the fog-filled banks of the River Unceasing. There, I knew, lay the outer edge of the dwarves’ realm.
Despite the continual thumping of Ionn’s back against me, I felt always aware of the emptiness within my chest. What I would give to sense my old powers coursing through my veins again! To grip the shaft of my staff again.
Was there any chance that Urnalda might be convinced to restore my lost powers? I grimaced, knowing the answer. If she hadn’t believed me before I humiliated her—escaping from her very grasp—she would surely not believe me now. Her wrath toward me no doubt rivaled the dragon’s. Besides, I doubted she could restore my powers in any case. Cairpré’s doubts notwithstanding, I could feel in my depths that they had been utterly destroyed, no less than the Galator itself.
The grasslands seemed to stretch on forever. Another day ended, marked by another sunset. Deep into the night we pressed ahead, with no moon to light our way. I could feel Ionn’s muscles straining to keep running. My own back and shoulders ached; my head swam with dizziness and exhaustion.
Sometime after midnight, a new rushing sound mixed with the wind. We pitched forward. Suddenly the stallion neighed and turned sharply. Panic flooded me, along with the fear that Ionn had stumbled. Then a cold wave slammed against my right leg, splashing the side of my face.
The River Unceasing! His mighty frame leaning into the current, Ionn waded deeper into the waterway. Turning, I viewed with my second sight the ragged mounds lining the bank behind us. Though I caught no more than a whiff of the stench of rotting flesh, that was enough to rekindle the memory of the devastated eggs—and the last of the hatchlings. Somewhere nearby, I knew, her immense young body lay rotting. And not far away, the body of Eremon lay under a mound of river rocks. Through the surging water and chilling spray Ionn pushed, though not fast enough for me.
At last, the stallion clambered up the far bank, his hooves slapping against the mud. Spray, luminous in the starlight, glistened on his coat. I stroked his neck. “Let us rest, old friend. You need it, as do I. But not here. Find us a secluded spot down the river, where no dwarves or dragons are likely to disturb us.”
Moments later, we came to a patch of fragrant fern. I dismounted and crumpled to the ground. Though I glimpsed some edible mushrooms, I was far too tired to eat them. With my back hunched, my head between my knees, I fell into a fitful sleep. I dreamed of running through an endless field of fire, with no chance to rest, no chance to escape.
The sun was already riding high when Ionn’s wet nose nudged my cheek. With a start, I awoke. Whether from perspiring in my dreams or from the misty air, my tunic was soaking wet. Worse, it was nearly noon. Nearly half a day’s travel, I remembered well from my first run as a deer, lay before us. After a brief meal of mushrooms for me and fern stalks for Ionn, we set off again.
Through the meadows and stands of cedar we rode, following the staircase of plateaus into the heart of the dwarves’ realm. As the sun dropped lower, the air grew smokier and the signs of recent burning more common. Alert for any dwarves, I scanned the charred fields and scorched rocks that had replaced the verdant lands along the river. No trace of them . . . yet.
The setting sun spilled crimson over the ground as a tall, pyramid-shaped hill came into view: The place where Valdearg would land. “There,” I pointed out to Ionn. “That’s where we go. But tread carefully. The dwarves could be—”
At that instant, a tumult of shouts filled the air. From behind boulders and bushes, from out of trenches and gullies, leaped an army of the stocky warriors. Waving their spears and slashing their swords, they formed a line between us and the hill. Ionn’s ears flicked forward. Galloping ever faster, he bore down on them.
As we neared, more dwarves joined the barrier, their beards and helmets glowing red in the sunset. Now their line was at least four deep. Short as they were, they stood as firmly as oak trees planted in our path. Yet the stallion’s speed did not slacken.
Out of the middle of the line jumped a paunchy dwarf wearing a conical hat and a black cloak. “Stop!”
Urnalda cried, swirling her cloak about her. “This be my command!”
Ionn only galloped harder. I leaned forward, peering straight into the eyes of the enchantress who had stolen my best hope.
Seconds before the great hooves trampled her, Urnalda raised her staff, as if preparing to stop us by magic. But before she could, Ionn abruptly changed direction, swerving to the right. Somehow, I managed to stay on. He plunged toward a thin section of the line and, with a powerful leap, sailed right over the heads of the awestruck dwarves.
Soon the angry shouts faded behind us. The pyramid-shaped hill loomed closer. Then, without warning, a violent rumbling filled the air.
29: BATTLE TO THE LAST
Like a landslide on high, the rumbling rolled out of the sky, overwhelming Ionn and myself, shaking the charred ground beneath us. An outcropping of rock on the summit of the pyramid-shaped hill broke loose, clattering down the slope. Ionn reared back, arresting his gallop, as we both turned toward the source of the sound.
Valdearg, wings outstretched, plunged at us with incredible speed. Caught by the rays of the setting sun, he looked at first like a clot of crimson against the smoky sky, though soon armored scales of green and orange showed along his tail and wings. Then, as he banked to one side, his terrible claws flashed brightly. Closer he came, and closer, until we could see the smoldering yellow of his eyes.
Writhing columns of smoke poured from his flared nostrils. Beneath his nose, the scales had been so blackened that he seemed to wear a thick moustache. Immense slabs of charcoal clung to the rims of his orange ears, flaking off every time the ears twisted. Several of his claws sported black humps, resembling knuckles. More lumps of charcoal, I thought at first—until the truth struck me like a hammer: They were skulls, burned in the fires of his wrath, worn like so many decorative rings.
As if entranced, we did not move as the dragon descended. Waves of rumbling rolled over us. If the sky itself had ripped apart, I thought, the noise couldn’t have been louder. I was wrong. Soaring straight at us, the dragon opened his cavernous mouth. Row upon row of dagger-like teeth glinted in the reddish light. The gargantuan chest rippled and contracted, releasing an explosive roar so loud that I almost toppled from Ionn’s back.
