by Robin Jarvis
“You idiot!” Kernella wailed, slapping her brother. “Look what you’ve done!”
The Wyrm writhed and twisted and glowered down at them. Both Kernella and Bufus threw their hands in front of their faces.
Sprawled on the quaking ground, Gamaliel stared up at the nightmarish vision and waited for it to strike. But the stone serpent did not attack. The forbidding face descended slowly, the jaws closed and the impossibly deep roar ceased. With a crunching of scales the repulsive body unwound and spread itself around the cavern until the forked tip of its tail was switching in front of its eyes and it encircled the shrine completely.
“What a song and dance,” Nest said mildly. “Still, it does him good to have a stretch now and again.” He looked at the werlings’ petrified faces and chuckled.
“Why so dismayed?” he asked. “Gamaliel Tumpin has done well. He has chosen Sacrifice and that blessed choice will prove to be the saving of you all. It would behoove you to thank him, while there is time.”
Bufus and Kernella gawped in astonishment. They could not believe Gamaliel had got it right when they had been so mistaken.
“But it’s a monster!” Kernella squawked.
“He has such a sweet nature,” Nest assured her. “A trifle clumsy, but he can’t help his size any more than you can help being so covered with freckles. He does love to have his chin scratched, so bear that in mind. Dear me, child, have you not yet learned to look below the surface? How many more lessons must you endure? If Myth here had been chosen, well … he exhales poison—nasty filthy habit.”
Gamaliel lumbered to his feet, feeling awkward and apprehensive. He eyed the great Wyrm warily then mumbled, “Can we ask the three questions now?”
“You may indeed,” Nest replied, with a slight bow. “I will do my best to answer, although I feel the tiredness stealing over me again, so make it swift.”
“How do we get out of this crazy place?” Bufus snapped.
“There are many ways out,” the creature laughed. “It depends whither you wish to go.”
“Back up there of course!” Kernella told him.
Nest looked at Gamaliel. “There are many places you could go,” he said. “But here is yet another choice. Only one is the right spot for you to be in this desperate hour. Which shall it be?”
“I don’t know,” Gamaliel answered. “I thought back to the tower, but are you saying we should go somewhere else?”
“Is that your second question?”
“No,” cried Kernella. “We must go back to Finnen. Is he all right?”
The creature in the lantern turned to her. “Hear me now, mistress,” he told her gravely. “The watchtower is under siege and Prince Tammedor is slain. If you return thither, Finnen Lufkin will not be there to meet you. He has a grimmer task ahead of him. The last battle for Dunwrach is fast approaching. Blood will be shed on many sides, for the pulpy fruits of treachery are now being harvested, and they are the most bitter.”
“The Lubber is dead?” Bufus uttered dismally. “That stinks!” He kicked the lower step angrily. He had liked the Tower Lubber and regretted the harsh things he had said to him.
“Such is the price of war,” Nest said. “And many more will die before a new day dawns. Enemies unlooked for will ride under bough and branch tonight.”
Gamaliel felt numb. The news of the Tower Lubber’s death stunned him. He thought of the years Prince Tammedor had waited to be reunited with his true love and how painfully brief that eventual meeting had been. He hoped Liffidia and Tollychook were safe—but what was going to happen to Finnen?”
Kernella was wringing her hands in alarm. “Are we going to die?” she cried, unable to keep the question bottled in any longer.
“That is a very poor third and final question,” Nest answered.
Gamaliel whisked around. “That wasn’t it!” he denied, clapping his hand over his sister’s mouth. Kernella pulled his fingers away frantically. She was already regretting asking the stupid question.
“No, don’t tell us!” she gabbled hastily. “I was scared and upset; I don’t want to know. It just popped out without me thinking.”
Nest gave a little sigh. “Yet it has been given voice,” he said solemnly. “And I must answer.”
“My big fat mouth,” Kernella warbled reproachfully.
“You great hefty lump!” Bufus snarled at her. “Gone and wasted our last question. You Tumpins are rubbish.”
Nest gazed at each of them in turn and took a long breath. “Of you three who stand here, before the Shrine of the Wyrms of Dunwrach,” he began, “only two will see the rising of the dawn.”
“One of us is going to die?” Gamaliel murmured, appalled.
Bufus jerked his head back and grinned. “That’s fine by me!” he said darkly. “I’ve been ready since Mufus was killed.”
“But it might not be you!” Kernella hissed, afraid and panicky. “It could be me! Oh, why did I have to ask?”
Gamaliel looked at them sorrowfully. The Doolan boy was miserable without his brother and Kernella was beside herself with dread. But grief and worry would have to wait. He stirred himself and moved closer to the lantern.
“Please,” he began. “You still haven’t answered the first question. “Where are we to go? If not the tower, then where? What should we do? Can anything even be done?”
The shining creature smiled sadly at him. “I have said too much,” he tutted. “Advice is a danger at the best of times. But this small crumb I will spare you. Evil must always be fought. It must never be allowed to flourish unchallenged. Resist it always. Every precious life is worth the losing if it keeps evil at bay but a moment longer. It is who and how you fight that defines you.”
“Oh, blah blah!” Bufus groaned impatiently. “Just tell us where we’ve got to go!”
Nest’s eyes sparkled at him. “Though fire burns the homely sky and knights march upon your friends,” he said, “and though fearsome riders storm the forest, your best road leads elsewhere. Seek the dolmen, the ancient stones known as the Devil’s Table. When the first shades of dusk creep through the grasses, you will find someone close by who can aid you more than I.”
“The Devil’s Table?” Gamaliel asked. “Where is that?”
Nest rubbed his eyes sleepily and the radiance began to flicker and dim.
“The Wyrm will take you,” he said with a yawn. “If you ask Sacrifice politely, he will bear you thither, for those old stones are but markers along the ancient serpentine trackways and he knows the route well. He is the answer to your question and will see you safe through the darkness.”
The werlings turned to where the enormous head of the Wyrm watched them. The bent crown on his head looked extremely foolish but he was still a frightening sight. His great jaws opened slightly and rows of jagged teeth sawed the air.
“You’re kidding me!” Kernella exclaimed, shaking her head resolutely. “I’m not going anywhere near that!”
Bufus laughed at her, then strode fearlessly up to the terrible stone face and crouched in front of those cruel-looking fangs. Stretching out his hand, he reached under its chin and gave it a vigorous scratch.
The bulging eyes rolled back and a peculiar, hollow purring vibrated through the serpent’s body.
“He likes it!” Bufus declared.
“You’re a braver wergler than me,” Kernella told him.
“Always did like that,” Nest murmured drowsily. “From the beginning of days, before the ice, before the ways were lost. Now climb up and hold tight to those horns of his.”
The Wyrm twisted his vast head to make it easier for them to clamber on and Bufus ran around to be the first on board. Kernella and Gamaliel hung back. The girl was anxious, but her brother wanted to continue speaking to Nest.
“Who are we going to find at the Devil’s Table?” he asked. “What sort of creatur
e is it?”
Nest curled up snugly and closed one eye. The cavern fell further into gloom.
“He is one whom you have forgotten,” came the mysterious answer. “But it is his wisdom you need more than mine, young Master Tumpin. Now let Sacrifice take you from this place and do not try to find the shrine again, for you shall not. I must return to the dream, I’m so very, very …”
He pulled the front of the lantern closed and the glazed holes in the copper glimmered dimly.
“It’s going to get pitch black in here again!” Bufus warned them. “Get on while you can still see.”
Gamaliel took one last look at the egg-shaped lantern and scrambled onto the serpent’s head.
“Come on,” he told Kernella.
His sister pulled a reluctant face. “I’ll wait for the next one,” she joked nervously.
The light was growing ever more feeble and darkness was pouring down from above.
“Hurry!” Gamaliel shouted at her.
Taking a deep breath, Kernella took his hand and hauled herself up.
“Grab hold!” Bufus advised them.
They wrapped their arms around the horns and the Doolan boy yelled, “All right, you giant bird’s breakfast—take us to the Devil’s Table!”
Sacrifice lashed his tail then swung it in a high sweeping arc around the cavern walls as his snaking body began to move forward. Around and around the massive Wyrm went, picking up speed with every revolution. Kernella clamped her eyes shut and held on grimly. Bufus yodeled with relish and Gamaliel saw the shrine whirl by. The lantern light was almost gone now. He could just make out the glazed holes but nothing more. The strange luminous creature within was dreaming and Gamaliel knew they would never meet again. But what Nest had told Gamaliel had placed a cold shadow over the young boy’s spirit, and his thoughts were troubled.
The darkness rushed by. The serpent was tearing around ever faster, roaring and growling. Then, suddenly, with a thrash of his enormous body, he left the ground completely. He flew over the curving wall, spiraling higher and higher. The conical steps of the shrine were left far below and the monstrous Wyrm raced into the absolute night at the top of the cavern.
“We’re going to smash into the ceiling!” Gamaliel yelled.
Without opening her eyes, his sister screamed. Bufus was whooping hysterically, and Gamaliel’s own terrified shrieks joined them.
* Chapter 9 *
Apotheosis
THE SUN HAD JOURNEYED FAR into the western sky when Rhiannon Rigantona rode her horse up the slopes of the Hollow Hill. She did not pause until she reached the summit. Only then did she allow the poor beast to rest. The silver-white mare snorted and stamped, its sweat-smeared flanks shivering.
The hilltop was bare, save for solitary clumps of heather and gorse and one nub of stone that resembled a worn-down tooth. It commanded the best view of her wild land.
The gilding glory of the late afternoon blazed over the High Lady’s white mantle, and if any spied her from a distance, they would have thought the hill was tipped with flame.
Sitting erect in the saddle, her dark eyes surveyed the country spread beneath her.
Hagwood stretched far in every direction. The leafy ocean of the vast forest rippled and shimmered. Far away, three wooded humps broke the undulating surface and, to the south, the pine-crowned crag known as the Witch’s Leap thrust into the sky.
The High Lady glanced to the east, where the watchtower was only a hazy finger of stone jutting above the horizon. Knowing her sister was grieving inside that broken fortress drew a smile upon Rhiannon’s face.
“Mourn long and keen, sister,” she hissed. “At last I have hurt you deep.”
Her eyes lingered on the remote tower a moment more, then she turned the horse and gazed on the bare cold hills to the north.
“Soon,” she murmured. “Soon.”
“My Lady?” asked the owl on her shoulder.
Rhiannon only smiled in answer and looked westward. The full gold of the lowering sun flamed over her symmetrical features.
Beyond the edge of the forest, the sheet of water called the Lonely Mere looked like a fiery lake under the apricot sky. Farther still, the country became wild, rolling, scrubland.
“Yonder my realm ends,” she said. “And many leagues hence stands the nearest inhabited farm. So many isolated dwellings of man surround us. And then there are small hamlets and villages, market towns and the germ of cities.”
“Man is a creeping pestilence,” the owl commented. “He breeds too swiftly and often and his whelps gobble up the land. Thy kingdom alone is safe from the rash of his accursed huts. Never again shall he dare to live so close to Hagwood.”
A single crease furrowed the High Lady’s smooth brow. “Hagwood was always too small for me,” she breathed. “If I could be free of fear, then my rule would extend farther than the wind blows.”
The owl fluttered its eyelids in surprise. “That would be a kingdom indeed!”
“What else is fitting for a goddess?” she answered. “My name should be feared and lauded in temples across the land and over the seas. Mortal men should make sacrifices unto me and abase themselves before my shadow. Is that so very much to ask for?”
“Not for thee, oh matchless Queen!” the owl fawned.
“But I can never attain divinity while the chance of death dogs my every thought,” she spat bitterly. “Oh, my provost, if I could only be free of that threat. Such a ruler as this world has never imagined would arise and I would set torch to this petty, squalid realm.”
The owl sank its head into its shoulders and feared to say any more. There were always new layers to its mistress’s malice and ambition.
Her merciless eyes returned to the western border of the forest and the ghost of a sneer marred her loveliness.
The owl could not begin to guess what new evil that expression portended.
Rhiannon jerked the reins and the mare began to descend the hill once more.
“Some corners are too green,” she observed.
CAPTAIN GRITTLE REMOVED HIS HOBNAIL BOOTS and thick woolen socks, then rubbed his calloused feet. A blissful expression passed across his knobby face and he grunted with pleasure.
After delivering Grimditch to the goblin nursemaid, he and Bogrinkle and Wumpit had returned to the spriggan quarters and were confounded to find them deserted. Every hard wooden bed was empty. Wumpit even searched beneath them, but no other soldier could be found.
Commanding his two subordinates to remain there, Captain Grittle had stomped off in search of answers—but none of the door guards would tell him anything, and Waggarinzil had laughed at him as a reward for his earlier insults.
Now, sitting on his bunk, he squeezed his toes and contemplated the rows of empty beds.
The spriggan quarters were sparsely furnished and had few comforts. Combat was their main passion and everything they owned pertained to that. Each spartan, regimented bed was separated by a rack of weapons and zealously maintained armor hung above the mean headboards. Special stout posts known as kill tallies stood at the feet of the beds and every notch represented a slaying. Many of the beds were decorated with trophies: garlands made from teeth, the occasional skull, inherited or stolen medals, carvings of warlike faces, the captured helms of fallen foes, a blanket made from hides stitched roughly together, jars of ears, and charms to bring glory in battle.
At the far end of the dormitory was a large snarling wolf’s head made of brass. It was a depiction of Batar, the spriggan god of war. Offerings were made to it before every battle, but the call out that morning had been so sudden there had been no time, and that disturbed Captain Grittle even more.
“Summat’s up,” he said for the thirtieth time. “The whole garrison emptied out. … That’s not happened since the dead King’s day.”
“And we missed it,” Bogr
inkle groused, lying on his own bunk with his shield as a pillow, as was their custom. “You and yer notions of plots and assassins and having a secret scout ’round. All we did last night was fall foul of the High Lady, and if She didn’t need us to ferry that barn bogle here, She’d have sent us for the chop.”
“Might still do that,” Wumpit added. “And don’t forget that pong of singed hair earlier. That weren’t normal.”
Captain Grittle glowered at his subordinates then began picking his scabbed legs where the blood moths had chewed him. He thought about rubbing filth into the tiny wounds and infecting them to encourage scarring, but trying to brag a victory over moths sounded piteously feeble.
To make himself feel better, he reached for the family medals hanging above his bed and pinned them to his breastplate.
“Then the Redcaps were droved out,” Bogrinkle put in. “There’s a big fight happenin’ someplace.”
“Our lot oughtn’t’ve gone into battle without making offerings to Batar,” Wumpit said gloomily. “The Big Bad won’t like that, mark me. Summat sore will happen.”
“How many of our lads bought it, I wonder?” mused Bogrinkle.
“If old Ruffnap’s finally curled up his ears,” the captain said quickly, “I bags his silver knives.”
They began arguing about spoils and only stopped when a slovenly milkmaid came sloping in with two large wooden buckets yoked about her fat neck and one grubby finger lodged up her nose. It was Squinting Wheyleen, a shiftless goblin girl with a lazy eye and two long plaits of seldom-washed hair that trailed in her buckets.
