by T.A. Barron
Stangmar’s face reddened. “You have no understanding of these things. No understanding at all!” He pushed the tip of the sword against my neck.
With difficulty, I swallowed. “Rhita Gawr is not your friend. He is your master, and you are his slave.”
Eyes aflame, he prodded me toward the Cauldron.
“Would Elen—your wife, my mother—want this?”
Stangmar’s rage boiled over. “We will spare the Cauldron and strike you down with this very sword!”
With that he lifted his weapon to whack off my head. Seeing my opening, I concentrated on Deepercut, lying on the floor just behind him.
To me, Deepercut. To me!
But I was too late. The sword had only just begun to move, tilting up on one edge, when the grim king planted his feet firmly to deliver the blow.
As his rear foot came down, however, it grazed the upturned blade of Deepercut. The black edge, with the power to slice deep into the soul, pierced his leather boot and pricked the base of his heel.
Stangmar cried in agony and crumpled to the ground. The shadows flailed, seeming to shake the very throne. The ghouliants, swords drawn, started to come to the king’s aid. But he raised his hand. Abruptly, the soldiers halted.
Slowly, Stangmar lifted his head. He gazed up at me, his face growing softer by the second. His jaw loosened. His eyes widened. Only the frown did not change.
“You spoke the truth,” he declared, speaking with difficulty. “We—that is, I—confound this royal speech! I . . . am no more than a slave.”
The throne rocked violently from side to side.
Stangmar turned to the thrashing shadows. “You know it is true!” he cried. “I am nothing more than your lowly puppet! My head is now so filled with your threats and delusions that it spins as incessantly as this cursed castle!”
At that a chilling, hissing sound arose from the shadows. They ceased their wild movements and started shrinking, congealing into something still darker.
The king struggled to stand, but the wound had made his whole lower body immobile and he fell back. Somberly, he faced me again. “You must understand. It was never our—that is, my—intention that Fincayra should come to this! When I made that first promise, I had no idea what grief it would bring.”
“Why?” I demanded. “Why did you ever make a promise to Rhita Gawr?”
Stangmar’s brow furrowed. “I did it . . . to save Elen.”
“Elen? My mother?” All at once, I remembered her final words about my father. If ever you should meet him, remember: He is not what he may seem.
“Yes. Elen of the Sapphire Eyes.” He took a deep breath and exhaled very slowly, his elbows propped against the stone floor. “When she gave birth to you on the shores of Fincayra, it broke one of our oldest laws, one handed down by the spirits themselves, that no one with human blood should ever be born here. Otherwise, humans would have a birthright to a world that is not their own! The punishment for this high crime has always been harsh but clear. The half-human child must be exiled forever from Fincayra. And, what is worse, the human parent must be thrown into the Cauldron of Death.”
He tried again to stand, with no success. The ghouliants, who appeared increasingly agitated, started toward him again. The ghouliant holding Trouble joined with the others, his sword in one hand and the struggling hawk in the other.
“Stop!” ordered Stangmar. “I do not need your miserable help.”
The ghouliants obeyed, though they continued to watch warily, fidgeting with their swords. Meanwhile, the shadows on the throne continued to shrink. As they condensed, they grew thicker and darker, like the center of a gathering storm.
Stangmar shook his head. “I did not know what to do. How could I condemn to death my own fair Elen? She lifted me higher than the trees I once climbed as a child! Yet I was the king, the one responsible for enforcing the laws! Then Rhita Gawr first came to me. He offered me his help, in exchange for my help in solving a problem of his own.”
“What problem was that?”
Stangmar looked away. “Rhita Gawr told me that he had learned in a dream that his gravest danger would come from a child who was half human and half Fincayran. So, knowing of you, he believed that as long as you lived, you would pose some sort of threat to him.”
My whole body trembled, even apart from the quaking of the floor. “So you agreed to kill me instead of her?”
“I had no choice, don’t you see? Rhita Gawr promised to protect Elen and all of Fincayra from any punishment by the spirits for this violation of the law.”
“And you promised to throw me in the Cauldron!”
“I did. Sometime before the end of your seventh year. For that entire time, I kept my promise a secret from Elen. I only told her that the spirits had agreed that she need not die, and you need not be exiled. She was so relieved, I could not bear to tell her the truth. She trusted me completely.”
His voice took on a faraway tone. “As it happened, during that seven years, the alliance with Rhita Gawr grew more and more strong. And necessary. He alerted me to the giants’ plot to overrun Fincayra. He helped me to cleanse our land of dangerous enemies. He gave me a castle where I could be truly safe. He . . .”
The words trailed off as the king slumped lower. “He made me his slave.”
Touched by his anguish, I completed the story for him. “And when Elen—my mother—found out that she had been spared only so that I could die, she fled Fincayra, taking me with her.”
Stangmar gazed at me in despair. “So in the end, I lost you both.”
“And so much more,” added Rhia, standing next to the corpse of the beheaded warrior goblin.
I nodded, then turned to the ghouliants. For some reason, they had drawn closer about the throne, surrounding it with their bodies. Yet despite the nearness of the other soldiers, Trouble continued to wriggle and flap his wings fiercely. The ghouliant who held him did not seem to notice that one of the hawk’s talons had almost pulled free.
“Too true,” admitted Stangmar. “Rhita Gawr has assured me that if I can find my half-human son and put him to death, my power will then be complete. But what he really means is that I will have done his bidding—ridding him of whatever threat you might represent. So who, I ask, is ruler now?”
At that instant, the ghouliants stepped in unison away from the red throne. Parting like two curtains, they revealed an impenetrable knot of blackness writhing on the seat. Darker than the Shroud itself, the shifting knot released a shrill, shrieking hiss. With the sound came an icy gust that chilled me to the marrow of my bones.
“Rhita Gawr!” shouted Stangmar, desperately trying to raise himself off the floor.
The knot of darkness leaped off the throne, flew past Rhia, and landed on the floor next to Deepercut. Before I could even take a breath, it wrapped itself completely around the silver hilt. Like a dark hand of evil, it raised the sword and slashed at Stangmar, slicing one side of his face from ear to chin. Blood streaming down his jaw, the king howled in pain and rolled to the side.
Suddenly Stangmar froze. His expression began to change from terror to wrath. His eyes narrowed, his frown tightened, his fists clenched so hard they went white. Then, to my shock, he grabbed the other sword and jumped to his feet. He stood beside me, proud and strong despite his bloody face.
“Help us!” I cried.
But instead of aiming his sword at the black knot holding Deepercut, he pointed it straight at me. “You are a fool, boy! We are not so easily defeated as that.”
I backed away. “But you said—”
“We said nothing of importance,” he declared, with a wave toward the undulating mass of darkness that was Rhita Gawr. “Our friend here has healed us! By striking us with the edge that can heal any wound, he has cured our whimpering soul. And in doing so he has brought us back to our senses. We know who our enemies are, and now we will strike you down!”
Rhia started to charge at the king, but two of the ghouliants stepped in
front of her. She tried her best to dodge them, but they blocked her path.
As Stangmar drew back his sword, preparing to run me through, Rhita Gawr gave another shrieking hiss. Stangmar faltered. Slowly, he lowered his weapon.
Looking somewhat ashamed, the king shook his head. “We would not fail you again,” he protested. “We were deceived! Deluded! Allow us to fulfill our promise to you now.”
An angry, ear-splitting hiss was Rhita Gawr’s only answer. As Stangmar looked on obediently, the pulsing knot of darkness lifted its own sword once again. Swinging the blade around, Rhita Gawr prepared to end my life.
Just then, another shrill cry filled the hall. Trouble had finally broken free from the ghouliant’s grip. As the soldier tried in vain to pierce the hawk with his sword, Trouble soared toward the ceiling of the great hall.
Swooping up to the highest possible point, the merlin released a screech that echoed from every wall. He careened sharply in the air, pausing for a split second above our heads. Then this small but spirited creature, whose life ever since our first meeting had consisted of one brave deed after another, did the bravest deed of all.
At the very instant that the sword started slicing toward me, Trouble beat his wings mightily and plunged faster than an arrow into the very center of the black mass. Taken by surprise, Rhita Gawr let go of the sword, which flew across the hall, skittering over the stones. As the cold arms of blackness wrapped around Trouble, he slashed and pecked and whipped his wings furiously. Hissing and screeching, the dark knot and the merlin rolled over each other on the floor.
Desperately, I searched for some way to help Trouble. But how? I could try wielding Deepercut, but he and Rhita Gawr had embraced each other so tightly that I couldn’t possibly hit one without hitting the other. I could try using my powers to strike a different kind of blow, but that would surely fail for the same reason. My heart burst to watch—yet that was all I could do.
Trouble fought on valiantly. Still, Rhita Gawr’s chilling embrace and superior strength proved too much. Slowly, inexorably, the mass of darkness was swallowing the bird. Consuming him, bit by bit. First his talon. Then his wing. Then half of his tail. And, in a few more seconds, his head.
“Oh, Trouble!” wailed Rhia, still flanked by the ghouliants.
With a final, piercing whistle, the merlin lifted his head as high as he could, then plunged his beak right into the uttermost heart of the blackness. Suddenly, a thin edge of bright light surrounded the grappling pair. A strange, sucking sound rent the air, as if the wall separating two worlds had been ruptured. Both the dark mass and the hawk it had consumed grew swiftly smaller, until only a tiny black speck remained, hovering in the air. An instant later, that too disappeared.
Trouble was gone. Though he had somehow taken Rhita Gawr with him, I was as sure that the wicked spirit would one day return as I was sure that my friend would not. My sightless eyes brimming with tears, I bent to pick up a lone feather that had come to rest on the floor by my feet.
I slowly twirled the banded brown feather between my fingers. It was from one of Trouble’s wings, the same wings that had borne me aloft not so long ago. Those wings, like myself, would never fly again. Gently I slipped the feather into my satchel.
Suddenly the point of a sword pushed at my chest. I looked up to see Stangmar, half his face and neck smeared with blood, scowling at me.
“Now we will fulfill our promise,” he declared. “And in the way it was meant to be done. So that when our friend returns, he will know beyond doubt where our loyalty lies.”
“No,” pleaded Rhia. “Don’t do it! This is your chance to be a true king, don’t you understand?”
Stangmar snorted. “Waste not your breath on such lies.” He turned to the ghouliants. “Guards! Throw him into the Cauldron.”
38: ANCIENT WORDS
Instantly, the ghouliants not guarding Rhia tramped across the hall, converging on me. Swords drawn, faces emotionless, they began marching me toward the Cauldron of Death.
I did not even try to resist them. Whether from the loss of Trouble or from the continuous shaking of the floor, my legs felt wobbly and weak. Moreover, even if my powers could have helped me now, I had no heart to try anymore. My only thoughts were of the empty place on my shoulder.
Rhia tried to run after me, but the soldiers restrained her.
Grimly, Stangmar watched. He stood as rigid as a statue, his eyes smoldering, his hand squeezing the hilt of his sword. The dried blood on his face had turned the same color as the Blighted Lands of his realm.
Pace by pace, the procession drew nearer to the Cauldron. It seemed to glower at me as I approached, dark and silent as death itself. For a moment I considered throwing myself into it willingly, in the hope that I might be able to destroy the Cauldron as well as myself. But even that small satisfaction would not be mine, for the ghouliants were flanking me so closely that they would surely have killed me before I broke free.
Crestfallen, I turned to Rhia. Reaching through a gap between two of the soldiers, I extended a bent forefinger toward her. Although her eyes were clouded, she returned the gesture, symbolically wrapping her finger around mine for the last time.
The ghouliants stopped just short of the Cauldron. Although it reached only up to my waist, its iron mouth yawned so wide that a fully grown man or woman could easily have fit inside. And within that mouth lay only blackness—even thicker and deeper than the Shroud. The ghouliants shoved me almost to the Cauldron’s rim, then turned to Stangmar, awaiting his orders.
Rhia pleaded with the king. “Don’t, please!”
Stangmar paid no attention. His voice rising above the rumble of the ever-spinning castle, he gave his command.
“Into the Cauldron!”
At that instant, a tiny figure dashed out of the shadows near the stairwell. With only a fleeting glance at Rhia and myself, Shim sped across the floor, his small feet slapping on the stones. Before the ghouliants realized what was happening, he clambered up to the rim of the Cauldron. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then threw himself into its mouth.
A thunderous explosion shook in the hall, rocking the revolving castle to its very foundation. Although the spinning never ceased, the power of the blast caused the rotations to wobble erratically. I tumbled to the floor, as did Rhia and several of the ghouliants. Torches fell from their mountings, sizzling on the stones. The Flowering Harp swayed precariously from the wall, held by a single string.
As the sound of the explosion reverberated among the walls, as well as the Dark Hills beyond, I regained my feet. What I saw was the Cauldron of Death, split into two great halves. And there, in the center of the destroyed Cauldron, lay the body of the little giant.
“Shim!” I bent over my companion, tears again filling my eyes. My voice a mere whisper, I spoke to the corpse. “You always wanted to be big. To be a true giant. Well, a giant you are, my friend. A giant you are.”
“What treachery is this?” Stangmar slashed his sword through the air as he raged at the ghouliants. “We told you to find any other intruders!”
Angrily, he grabbed one of the ghouliants’ swords and thrust it straight into the soldier’s belly. The ghouliant shuddered, but did not utter any sound. Then he slowly pulled the sword out again, facing Stangmar as if nothing had happened.
Stangmar strode up to me, still kneeling at the edge of the shattered Cauldron. His face taut, he raised his sword high above me. As I turned toward him, my head tangled with black hair so like his own, he hesitated for an instant.
“Curse you, boy! The sight of you—and the cut of that cursed blade—has awakened feelings in us. Feelings we thought we had forgotten, and wish only to forget again! And now our task is twice as wretched. For though we must do what we must do, the pain will be all the greater.”
Suddenly, Stangmar’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. He faltered, stepping backward in fright.
For within the remains of the Cauldron, a strange thing was happening. As
if a gentle breeze had started to blow through the hall, the hairs on Shim’s head were stirring, quivering. Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, his nose started to grow larger. Then his ears. Then the rest of his head, neck, and shoulders. His arms too began swelling, followed by his chest, hips, legs, and feet. His clothes expanded with him, growing larger by the second.
Then came the greater miracle. Shim opened his eyes. More amazed, perhaps, than anyone else, he groped at his expanding body with his swelling hands.
“I is getting bigger! I is getting bigger!”
By the time Shim’s head was pushing against the ceiling, Stangmar recovered his senses. “It’s a giant!” he cried to the ghouliants. “Attack him before he ruins us all!”
The nearest ghouliant dashed forward and ran his sword into the part of Shim’s body that was closest. That happened to be his left knee.
“Oww!” howled Shim, clutching his knee. “Stingded by a bee!”
Instinctively, the once-little giant curled himself up into a ball. This only made him an easier target, however. The ghouliants gathered around, poking and stabbing him with the fury of an angry swarm. Meanwhile, Shim’s body continued to expand, with no sign of slowing. Before long, the pressure of his shoulders and back against the ceiling made it start to buckle. Chunks of stone rained down on us. A hole opened in the ceiling.
One of the towers on the battlements fell, crashing into Shim’s still-growing nose. But instead of making him curl up tighter to escape harm, the blow made something else happen. It provoked his wrath.
“I is angry!” he thundered, swinging his fist, now nearly as large as the king’s throne, through a section of wall.
Stangmar, visibly frightened, started backing away. Following his lead, the ghouliants also retreated. The two Fincayran men, who had been cowering by the throne, dashed madly for the stairs, tripping over each other in their haste.
I ran to join Rhia, pausing only to retrieve Deepercut, which lay near the stairwell. Together we huddled in a far corner that seemed safe—for the moment, at least—from falling stones.
