by T.A. Barron
His boots thumped on the stone floor, slowing only to stomp on a tattered gray moth who had landed in front of him. Kulwych chortled to himself as he heard the crunch of its body. It was satisfying to know that, to some creatures at least, he was still the undisputed master.
The permanent scowl on his lipless mouth deepened. Things hadn’t been going as he’d planned. No, not at all.
He rounded a bend in the corridor, his one remaining eye trained on the door ahead. Behind that door, Rhita Gawr waited for him. And behind that door, he himself was merely a moth, waiting to be crushed.
In the years since that wretch Merlin had mutilated his face, Kulwych had craved more than anything else the chance to rule the world of Avalon. To rid it of the stench of Merlin, and to remake it as he chose. He had prayed for help to his lord on high, the great Rhita Gawr, and done everything the spirit warrior had demanded. Why, he had even managed to create a crystal of pure élano in the lake of the White Geyser—despite the meddling of that runt wizard who thought himself the heir of Merlin.
But what, Kulwych wondered, had all this gained him? All those years of suffering alone, of waiting, of planning, and of gathering an army of slaves to build his secret dam?
The brow above his lone eye rose hopefully. For there was, even now, a chance. If he could somehow stay clear of Rhita Gawr’s wrath—and help him conquer this world—the spirit lord would eventually turn his attention elsewhere. To other worlds: Earth, for example, where that miserable Merlin had gone.
In that event, someone loyal to Rhita Gawr would need to remain in Avalon. To rule it in his name. To destroy any foes who dared resist. And to—
He reached the door. The burly gobsken guard, the replacement for the one Deth Macoll had killed, instantly drew back to let him pass. Behind the gobsken’s slitlike eyes, Kulwych sensed a touch of fear. This always pleased him.
“Mmmyess, you gobsken trash. You know who is really your master.”
He pushed open the door. From the darkness within, brightened only by a pulsing bloodred light, came a harsh voice: “And you, my little sorcerer, know who is really yours.”
Kulwych gulped. “Y-yes, my lord.” He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and gazed at Rhita Gawr.
“Why do you stare at me like that, Kulwych? Are you sorry now you called for my help?”
“No, my lord. Never! I was just . . .”
“Just what?” hissed the voice.
“Amazed, Master, at how you have grown. You have changed so much since you first arrived in Avalon! No longer are you just a rope of smoke, or a snake that floats upon the air—but a great serpent. Even in the time since I left you this morning, to go check on Harlech’s weapons makers, you have grown in size.”
“And also, my pet, in power. More than you know.”
Rhita Gawr, whose serpentine body had been wrapped tightly around the bloodred crystal of vengélano, uncoiled himself. Streaks of rusty light shimmered over his lengthy form, flashing on the black scales that had only just started to grow. Behind the triangular, snakelike head, a pair of bony nubs had appeared—the first sign of emerging wings. Already he looked less like a serpent . . . and more like a dragon.
As much as Rhita Gawr’s shape had changed, however, there was still a trace of himself from weeks before—a hint of the smokelike being who had resembled a shadow more than anything alive. His eyes. For this serpent’s eyes were not merely black. They were absolutely empty. Bottomless beyond any pit or crevasse. Empty of all but nothingness.
Those eyes were the void.
As Rhita Gawr pulled himself away from the corrupted crystal, he began to spin slowly. Around and around in the cavern, his barbed tail nearly touching his head, he twirled in a grim but stately dance, to a music that only he could hear. This was the music of power, swelling inside him. Of conquest, growing closer. And of triumph, nearing fulfillment.
As he spun within the dark cavern, black sparks exploded whenever he brushed against the walls. Often his laughter erupted as well, echoing all around. And then Rhita Gawr started to speak. As often as Kulwych had heard that voice, the sound still made his knees wobble and his mouth go dry.
“Now, my little plaything, let me tell you what I have done. I have used the power of this crystal to call an army to my aid.”
“Bu-but, my lord, I have already begun to assemble the warriors you asked for.”
Still spinning, the monstrous being growled, “Not them, Kulwych! I have called an army of my own—immortal warriors, from the Otherworld.”
The sorcerer froze, amazed. “Immortal warriors?”
“Naturally, my pet. Do you think I would rely solely on your motley band of humans and gobsken? And on your limited skills as commander?”
Kulwych’s scarred face flushed at this insult, but he kept his slit of a mouth closed.
“They will play a part in my triumph, as will you. But to prevail, I need something stronger. And so I have called to my army of spirits. Yes, and bound them to me through this crystal. Soon they shall enter this world just as I did. They will gather in the stars, growing swiftly stronger. And by the time they are ready to fight, I will have joined them on high. Then I will lead them back down to these wretched realms and finish the work that you have only begun.”
Kulwych lowered his head. Like the moth in the cavern, he could feel the approach of the heavy boot that would soon crush whatever remained of his life. And his dreams. “And then,” he whispered hoarsely, “I suppose you will discard me.”
The near-dragon that was Rhita Gawr finally stopped circling. His empty eyes studied the sorcerer for a moment, glittering subtly from the light of the bloodred crystal. And from satisfaction, as well.
“No, Kulwych, though your haughtiness has tempted me to do just that. As long as you remain loyal to me, and humble in my service, I will do something else with you.”
The sorcerer lifted his head slightly. “And that is, Master?”
“I will make you the ruler of Avalon.”
Kulwych started, as if a bolt of black lightning had just landed right on him. “Ruler? Mmmyesss?”
“That is right. While I use Avalon to reach other worlds—starting with mortal Earth—you will remain here. And rule it in my stead.”
Kulwych could hardly believe what he’d heard. “Truly, Master, I—”
“Spare me your sniveling gratitude! Now tell me the state of your own little army.”
The sorcerer snapped to attention. “All goes according to plan, my lord. While Harlech’s gobsken are making sturdy weapons, I have sent my ghoulacas all through the realms to contact your allies: humans frustrated by the infantile morality of the Society of the Whole, gobsken, ogres, trolls from the mountains, and changelings where I could find them. I have even won the allegiance of a clan of renegade eaglefolk, ruled by Quenaykha.”
He paused, smirking. “And it was surprisingly easy to turn Belamir’s Humanity First movement to our advantage. The rank and file may not know it, but they are now entirely at your service.”
“So you have infiltrated their leadership?”
Kulwych’s lipless mouth turned upward. “Mmmyess, my lord, at the absolute top.”
“Good. And these allies know the plan?”
“Only enough to aid you, my lord. They are not all as capable as humans, you know.”
The deep, hissing sound from Rhita Gawr’s throat made Kulwych stand rigid again. “I have told them all,” he said nervously, “to gather in Mudroot, on the Plains of Isenwy. And to make no secret of their movements, so that we can lure as many creatures as possible—creatures still loyal to the Society—into going there, as well, to do battle.”
“Very good, my pet. You have done as I asked, without even knowing the details of the trap I have prepared.” The triangular head lifted so that it faced Kulwych, eye to eye. “Blind obedience is a quality I cherish, you see.”
“Of c-c-course, my lord.”
“My ultimate triumph, Kulwych, is but a
few weeks away! It gathers, even now, like a violent storm. And when the great horse dies, the storm will come. Ah yes, it will come.”
Kulwych’s scarred cheek twisted. “I . . . I am sorry, Master, but—”
“You still do not understand?” The bottomless eye moved closer. “Know this above all: No matter how well those wretched humans, elves, and others who still honor Merlin may fight against your army, they will be doomed from the start! You must spread the word among our allies who will converge on the Plains of Isenwy to hold back from war, until they see my sign from the stars.”
“Sign?”
“I shall snuff out the central star—the brightest light—in the constellation mortals call Pegasus, the great winged horse. That star, known as the Heart of Pegasus, is more than it appears, much more. And so, when I make it go dark, something marvelous will happen. When the Heart stops beating . . . the great horse dies.”
Rhita Gawr paused. “Do not trouble yourself with trying to understand all this, my Kulwych. All you need to know is that, in that very moment, I shall lead my immortal warriors out of the sky! We will descend on our foes—and destroy them completely.”
Vigorously, the sorcerer nodded. “I see, I see! A most excellent plan, my lord. The battle will be a truly historic triumph.”
“That it will, Kulwych. How tragic you won’t be there to witness it.”
The sorcerer’s knees buckled, and he leaned against the dank stone wall. “Won’t be there?”
“No. For I need you to stay here, to guard this crystal. It is far too precious to risk losing, you see. My spirit army is bound to it now. I could take it with me up to the stars, but then it would not be here in the root-realms to assist your troops.”
Kulwych’s curiosity overcame his bristling disappointment. “And just how will it help my troops?”
“Soon enough, my pet, you shall see.”
“But Master . . . must I be the one to stay? And miss your triumphant battle?”
“Yes, Kulwych. For you shall have a battle of your own, I expect. One you will find most rewarding.”
The sorcerer’s only eye opened wider. “Against whom, my lord?”
A long, crackling laugh echoed in the cavern. “Against your dear friend, Deth Macoll. Just as I have no doubt that he will kill the young priestess and take her crystal of élano, I have no doubt that he will return here—but not to deliver it. He will try to take the vengélano crystal, as well, making himself a power I must contend with. And of course, he will hope to kill you in the process.”
Kulwych’s white hands curled into fists. “I shall be ready for him.”
“Good,” answered Rhita Gawr, slashing his tail against the cavern wall in a shower of sparks. “Then I am most pleased.”
24 • Food for the Gray Wolf
Retch, retch, and retch again.
That was all Tamwyn could do when, at last, he awoke. For several minutes, he just lay on his side, curled into a ball. The spasms of coughing and sputtering continued as he expelled as much water as he could from his stomach and lungs. Finally, the convulsions ceased. But the waves of pain that coursed through his body did not.
He took a few gulps of air, coughed again, and breathed some more. Though more than half drowned, he was, at least, alive. But where?
Slowly, head spinning, he propped himself up on one elbow. It took a long moment before his eyes could focus, let alone move as he willed. Then, ignoring the sharp pains in his ribs and all down his neck, he lifted his head just enough to see his surroundings.
He’d landed on another ledge, next to the upward-flowing waterfall. Like the ledge where he’d begun his journey, it was covered with emerald green moss and shallow pools of water—some of which, he suspected, had been vomited out by him. Through the drifting spray of vapors, he could see the twin cascades of water and light, one spiraling up while the other twirled down. The rising water pounded relentlessly—as did his head.
He closed his eyes, trying to stop his gaze from spinning. Then he recalled that phrase from Krystallus’ scroll, something about the view from Merlin’s Knothole—that it was almost as dizzying as the journey. Well, he couldn’t imagine anything more dizzying than the ride he’d just taken. Was it possible that he’d found his way closer to the Knothole?
Weakly, he nodded. Maybe he had—with some help from that crazy hoolah, who had all the brains of a headless troll.
He opened his eyes again. Wait until I get my hands on him.
But Henni was nowhere on the ledge. Nowhere at all! Maybe, because he was smaller and lighter than Tamwyn, he’d been carried higher by the rising cascade.
Then a second pang struck. He glanced down at his pocket to see how Batty Lad had fared, and discovered that a big piece of his tunic had been ripped away. The cascade had taken a good amount of cloth—as well as his quirky, green-eyed friend.
Batty Lad! Tamwyn shook his sopping wet head. It’s all my fault. I should never have let you come on such a dangerous quest. Poor little fellow . . . I’d only just begun to get to know you. And hadn’t even started to figure out what you really were.
Gone! Both of them. He hung his head for a long moment.
In time, he raised it again. “By the crooked teeth of Babd Catha,” he cursed, his voice smothered by the roar of water. “I’d kill Henni all over again, if I could.”
Sitting up, he checked himself more closely. He gingerly moved his arms, legs, and neck. Stiff and sore as they were, nothing seemed broken. And he did still have his pack, his water flask, and somehow, his staff. As well as whatever parts of his brain hadn’t been drowned.
All that aside, though, he was now alone.
Completely alone.
But where? All he knew was that he was somewhere inside the vast expanse of the trunk of the Tree, much higher than the level of that tunnel with the mysterious, brightly painted mural. Besides that, though, he knew nothing. He was more lost than ever! Once again, he wished for some sort of compass that could help him find his location—and his way to the Knothole.
And, after that, the stars. The very stars that Rhita Gawr had darkened—and that would soon bring forth those strange, evil shadows.
With painful slowness, he rose to his feet. He stood there, wobbling unsteadily, until he remembered to pull out his staff. For a while, he just stared at the spiraiing waterfall that had brought him here. Then, turning around, he realized that this ledge connected to another tunnel. He’d have to explore it, wherever it might lead.
Aching all over, he started to walk. Like the one he’d trekked through lower down, this tunnel ran horizontally. As he entered, the curtains of moss that clung to the walls soon faded away, revealing the coarse brown wood beneath. Grainy whorls and knots were everywhere, sometimes protruding as rough-hewn crystals that twisted into themselves, sometimes undulating like wooden waves. Tamwyn moved deeper into the tunnel, his footsteps punctuated by the cluck, clack, clack of his staff.
Suddenly he heard a long, agonized shriek. He’d never heard a voice like that before, but he knew at once it came from a creature at the very edge of death. And it came from farther down the tunnel.
Despite his aching limbs, he hurried on, half-running and half-limping. He ducked just in time to avoid a curling brown stalactite, then turned a corner. The tunnel abruptly widened, opening into a cavern where several passageways intersected. About half as large as the Great Hall of the Heartwood, the cavern overflowed with plant life. Plants of many shapes and colors sprouted from both sides, as well as the ceiling. One variety, with broad, flat leaves, reminded Tamwyn of the bluish green lichen that grew on the bark of Stoneroot’s oaks. But here, in the trunk of the Great Tree, the lichen was much bigger, nearly the size of holly bushes.
The shriek came again, reverberating in the cavern. He veered to the left, burst through some shrubbery, and saw a huge brown butterfly being brutally mauled by three gigantic insects. The attackers looked very much like the red-backed termites that Tamwyn had often found
chewing on the wood of a fallen branch, but hundreds of times larger. Each of these monsters was at least three times as long as Tamwyn was tall. And given their huge girth, probably ten times as heavy. On top of that, like their smaller cousins, these termites had powerful pincers that could easily rip or crush any wood.
Or any flesh. Right now, two of the termites were tearing at the butterfly’s body while one had its jaws closed around a torn wing. Feebly, and without much success, the butterfly was flailing one leg, trying to fight back.
From the corner of his eye, Tamwyn spied another creature, an immense gray wolf with pale green eyes who lurked in the brush. Though fully twice the size of any wolf from the lower realms, the powerful creature moved as gently as a breeze through the bushes. He’s stalking, Tamwyn realized. Waiting to eat whatever is left of the termites’ prey.
His brow furrowed. He’d seen, many times in the wild, predators killing their food. But there was something disturbing about the way these giant termites were mauling the butterfly. Somehow he sensed that they weren’t killing out of hunger, but out of sheer malice.
And that’s wrong. Totally wrong.
Tamwyn leaped over a lichen bush with a wild shout. With his dagger broken, his only weapons were the staff—and sheer ferocity. He used them both to the fullest, clubbing the termites with all his strength, kicking at their enormous eyes, all the while spinning and jumping to avoid their pincers.
He slammed one in the head, just behind its eyes, so hard that it oozed something gray and fell still. Another, who had been ripping into the butterfly’s leg, received a jab to the belly that cracked several armored plates. It released the leg and, with a roar of rage, leaped straight at Tamwyn. Just in time, he dodged out of reach—and then saw something that made him freeze.
