by T.A. Barron
He kept running, disappearing behind the blacksmith’s house. In frustration, I looked down at my shadow. “Drat! He may be a terrible guardian, but I’m even worse as a wizard.”
The shape on the snow waved its arms at me.
“Try again?” I sucked in my breath, then nodded slowly. “Yes, yes, you’re right. I’ll look for someone else. And hope to fare better this time.”
Seeing no one else about, I walked across the common to one of the larger houses. As I ascended its porch steps, I heard someone’s feet scurrying inside. A child called out: “It’s a stranger, Mama! Looks like a beggar.” Grimacing, I rapped on the door. No one answered. Again I tried, with no more success. Angrily, I stamped my boot on the porch and left.
At the next house, the door at least opened—before it slammed in my face. Seething with frustration, I strode back to the common. I paced around, wondering which house to try next.
A sudden, shrill scream pierced the air, stopping me in my tracks. Another child with wet leggings? But no, there was something different, painfully different, about this cry. Again it came, from somewhere behind the thatched shed in the goats’ pen. Grabbing the hilt of my sword, I dashed toward the pen and leaped over the snow-covered railing.
I rounded the corner of the shed. There, on the straw beneath the overhanging roof, huddled a small, disheveled boy, squealing piteously. Standing with one foot on the child’s forearm, ready to slice off his hand, was a massive, square-shouldered figure. Beneath those shoulders, where arms should have been, hung a pair of wide, gleaming swords.
15: SLAYER
Halt!” I commanded. “Release that boy!”
With a flash of light on his deathly blades, the warrior kicked his prey aside, spraying straw in all directions. The small boy crawled, whimpering, deeper into the shed, trying to hide behind one of the goats. At the same time, his attacker whirled around. Seeing me, he stepped boldly into the center of the pen, his boot prints blackening the fresh-fallen snow. He faced me squarely, looking the very essence of brutality. He stood a full head taller than most men, with plated armor on his broad shoulders and chest. A mask, fitted with the skull of a man, covered his face. And at his sides hung a pair of heavy, double-edged swords.
“So,” he bellowed, “the cowardly whelp of a wizard hides no more!”
“You are the coward,” I shot back. “You who hunts down innocent children.”
He glowered at me, his weapons twitching. “I have my reasons. Sweet death of Dagda, I do.”
My hand, starting to draw my own sword, hesitated. Something about the warrior’s voice struck me strangely. Had I heard it somewhere before? Or dreamed it, perhaps? That must be it: another one of my dreams come hauntingly true.
“What is your name?” I demanded, planting my feet as best I could on the slippery snow. “And why should I not strike you down here and now?”
The massive man took another stride toward me. “Call me Slayer,” came the voice from behind the skull. “For that is how you shall know me.”
With a roar, he rushed at me, swiping both his blades at my chest. I had barely enough time to draw my sword, which rang in the air. Suddenly, with a flash of metal, the angle of his blades changed. They were coming at my knees! Just a fraction of an instant before they sliced into me, I leaped backward, barely avoiding them.
Seeing me land off balance, he charged at me with surprising speed. His hefty shoulder crashed into my side, sending me sprawling into the railing. Snow and bits of straw flew across the pen. I rolled away as his blades bit into the wooden rail, which splintered from the force.
Quickly, I pulled my staff out of my belt. Now I held two weapons, as he did. Again he bore down on me, this time swinging for my head. I ducked as his blades passed over, so close I felt the whoosh of air just above my ear. Both of his swords slammed into the top of my staff. Though the reverberations from the blow jangled me down to my ankles, the staff held firm, sending off a blaze of blue sparks. Taken aback, he retreated a step, which gave me time to move away.
Aha, I thought. This staff is made from more than wood. Just as I am made from more than muscle and bone! Magic—that’s the way to quash him. And while my staff’s magic remained unpredictable, even for me, I possessed plenty more magic that I could control. And use!
Spinning on my heels, I flung a powerful spell at his swords. Grow heavy. Too heavy to lift. At once, streaks of black flowed down from his shoulders, wrapping around his blades like dark webs. In an instant both swords were swathed completely in black.
Slayer staggered, as if struck by some invisible blow. He started to raise his weapons again, but faltered, straining mightily to hold them aloft. At last, he doubled over from the weight, as his blades crashed to the ground. Outraged, he roared aloud, straining to lift them. But they wouldn’t budge.
I started to gloat—when I felt a strange sensation in the hand holding my own sword. To my shock, black threads poured out of the hilt, encircling the entire blade. Suddenly it felt heavy, too heavy to hold. Despite my efforts, it slammed down in the snow. Hard as I tried, I could not lift it again.
The same spell! He’s thrown it at me! Or had I just aimed my own spell poorly? In either case, all our blades were now useless.
Urgently, I recited the counter spell, crafted to unwind the enchantment’s power. It took several seconds, owing to its complexity in both words and tones. And I took extra care to aim it exclusively at my own sword. At the instant I finished, the dark web withdrew, melting back into the hilt. My sword moved freely again. I lifted it, swinging it over my head with a shout.
An equally fierce shout came from my foe. He, too, had used the counter spell! I felt a rush of awe, tinged with fear, that he knew such intricate magic. Who could he be, to possess such power?
Just then he hurled himself at me again, slashing his weapons wildly. I had no time to think. All I could do was block his strikes with my upraised staff. Sparks sizzled in the air.
He beat at me ceaselessly, giving me no chance to return the attack. My arms ached from fending off his blows. Harder he pressed, and harder. All at once I realized his plan: He was backing me into the shed! In a few seconds I would be cornered, unable to maneuver. The shed’s wall loomed on one side, the railing on the other.
I must get out of here! Another enchantment? Yes—one that would buy me a little time. Enough to devise a plan of my own! My mind whirled, even as my elbow jammed against the wooden wall.
Dodging a thrust, I threw myself to the ground. As soon as my hands hit the ground, I knew what to do. Lunging forward, not just with my feet but also with my hands, I felt new power coursing through my limbs. With a surge of strength, I leaped as high as I could. Slayer’s blades sliced through the air, barely missing the tan-coated back of the stag who bounded over the railing to safety.
Sleek and strong, I ran across the common, my hooves pounding over the snow. Finally, I turned my antlered head around. I expected to see my attacker staring at me, bewildered, from behind the goats’ pen.
Instead, a blur of brown came rushing at me. Another stag! How could that be? I jumped out of the way, but not before a sharp point of his antlers ripped into my flank. A wrenching pain twisted through my hindquarters. Blood streamed down my leg. With great effort, I bounded away.
Across the whitened ground we tore, my pursuer gaining on me with every stride. I veered sharply, leaping onto the porch of one of the houses, but the stag followed me. Hooves clattering, we ran down its length. Despite the deepening pain in my leg, I managed to jump just high enough to clear the row of snow-filled flower boxes on the far end.
When I landed again on the common, my injured leg buckled under me. My belly skidded over the cold snow. But I willed myself to stand again, scrambling out of the way just as the other stag plowed through the spot. Off I raced, swerving into the blacksmith’s forge. I careened, and my flashing hooves knocked over the bellows. Down it crashed, sending up clouds of soot and ash. My eyes burned, my leg throbbed, but I d
ashed through the dark clouds and out again into the snow.
As I hurtled across the common, the other stag drew close enough that I could hear his heaving breaths. His antlers grazed my wounded leg again. Around one house and behind another I ran, trying my best to evade him. But none of my maneuvers worked. I was tiring rapidly. I needed something to hide behind, even for a moment. Seeing an old wooden wagon, tilting from a broken wheel, I dashed toward it and threw all of my strength into a desperate leap. If only I could clear it—
But no! My foreleg struck the wagon’s side, pitching me out of control. I slammed with a thud into the wooden bed, splintering the planks under my weight. Spinning helplessly, I slid through the snow. When I came to rest at last, I was no longer a stag, but a man. My left thigh ached terribly; my legging was torn and bloody.
The other stag bounded around the wreckage of the wagon. As I watched in horror, he metamorphosed, changing into the sword-armed warrior. So he, too, knew the magic of the deer! Chortling with satisfaction, he stepped toward me, raising his gleaming swords to slay me at last.
I tried to stand, but collapsed weakly. My sword and staff, left behind in the goats’ pen, could not help me now. Desperately, I wriggled backward through the snow, even as Slayer’s shadow fell over my own.
My shadow? Perhaps it could do something. But no, I needed something stronger than that. Much stronger. Something as powerful as the wind itself. Yes! That was it. Even as the deadly blades flashed in the air above my chest, I hurriedly whispered the incantation to summon a windstorm, taught to me by Aylah herself. And I finished with the plea: Blow him far from here, O tempest. Far away from here!
A sudden gust shrieked through the village, blowing over chairs and tools and water jugs. Doors flew open; a pair of wooden shutters pulled off from a window and sailed away. Cloaks and sticks and snowflakes swirled in the air, lifting off like so many flocks of birds.
“No!” bellowed the warrior as the wind threw him backward, then carried him up into the air. “Nooooo!”
He flailed and struggled, cursing at the unseen enemy that had borne him aloft. Then, as he flew over the nearest row of houses, a new gust whipped through the village. Ferociously it blew—in the opposite direction! Despite my efforts to cling to the corner post of one of someone’s porch, I myself was lifted high above the ground. In the swirl of debris, I caught a glimpse of my sword and staff, also airborne.
Through the air I tumbled, rolling and spinning, helpless to stop myself. Winds screamed above and below me. They would cease, I knew, only when they had finally run their course: This spell had a life of its own. How, I wondered, could Slayer have known the incantation? His own magic was strong indeed. Far too strong to be used for such evil! Yet how could I possibly stop him when his powers so fully rivaled my own?
Turning over and over, I sailed through the air, unable even to grasp my wounded leg. I whirled past the edge of the village, then over trees bare of leaves, and fields whitened from snow. Weak and disoriented, I didn’t notice the winds starting to fade. Nor did I notice the rocky plateau drawing closer and closer beneath me.
With a resounding thud, I hit the ground. Over the flat stones I rolled, at last coming to a halt. Yet the world continued spinning, as it grew steadily darker. Before I lost consciousness, though, I felt something hard and pointed jab my ribs. It might have been a rock—or the head of a spear.
16: THE QUESTION
I awoke.
Darkness shrouded me, though not the darkness of night. Cold, hard stone pressed against my back. Was this the rocky plateau where I’d landed? No, no. The air smelled . . . different somehow. Dank and stale, with the slightest hint of something I knew I’d smelled before. What, though?
Fingers spread wide, I touched the flat stone beneath me. To my surprise, I felt the subtle grooves and ridges made by stone chisels, expertly wielded. So this was a tunnel, or a room underground! Reaching out with my second sight, I detected a wall rising steeply beside me. And another, on the opposite side. On each, a clasp of wrought iron had been placed to hold a torch, now extinguished—but at a height too low for a man or a woman.
All at once, I knew the smell: beard hairs, dense and tangled. And I knew this place, this underground realm, and those who had made it. Dwarves!
I sat up, half dazed. Suddenly I realized my leg didn’t hurt anymore. How could that be? My hand kneaded the muscles of my thigh. No pain whatsoever. And no scar! My leggings were no longer torn, having been mended with heavy, rough thread.
At that instant, the torches sizzled, sputtered, and flared into bright light, illuminating the entire room. Alas, I saw no sign of my missing staff or sword. Like my gaze, my shadow swept around the room searching for any sign of them. But the surrounding walls were utterly bare, broken only by a single, cast-iron door opposite me. It had been etched with intricate designs of dwarves laboring to carve stone, set jewels, and shape metal. Just then I heard the sound of boots clomping toward the door’s other side.
The heavy latch lifted. As the door swung open, a pair of stout dwarves marched in. Each of them stood to one side of the passage, crossing their burly arms that had been painted with strange symbols. Although they stood only as high as the middle of my chest, they would prove more than a match for most men. They stared at me with eyes like molten iron. Behind their beards, thick and black, their jaws clenched firmly. An assortment of weapons dangled from their bodies, including jeweled daggers, double-sided axes, and sturdy, oaken bows with quivers full of arrows. With their feet firmly planted, they seemed as solid as the stone floor beneath me.
Then through the doorway strode a bizarre, yet regal, figure, wearing a purple robe adorned with silver runes and geometric designs. In one hand she held a wooden staff, weathered and blackened with age. In her other, she bore the remains of some sort of fruit pastry, which she crammed into her mouth and chewed avidly. Her brow glistened with a finely wrought band of jewels, mostly sapphires, though her unruly red hair sat like a thornbush on her head. Urnalda, enchantress of the dwarves, stood before me, her earrings of dangling shells clinking as she chewed.
Seeing her again made my stomach churn. I tried to disguise my dread, standing on the stone floor to greet her. But as I started to bow, she cuffed my ear with the tip of her staff.
Swallowing her pastry, she declared, “You be unhappy to see me.” Her sharp voice echoed among the walls of the chamber.
I rubbed my tender ear, striving to remain polite. “I am grateful to you for healing my leg.”
“That be true.” She shook her head, clinking her shell earrings. “Yet still you be unhappy to see me.”
I glared at her. “We didn’t part on the happiest terms, last time we met.”
She snorted angrily, and the two dwarves at the door reached for their axe handles. My shadow, sensing trouble, shrank down on the floor by my feet. But Urnalda raised her hand, saying, “Not yet. I still be feeling gracious toward our guest, the renowned wizard Merlin.”
“You mean you want something from me,” I snapped.
The guards, who had released their weapons, reached for them again. They turned their bearded faces to the enchantress, awaiting her command. Urnalda, though, seemed unperturbed. She nodded her adorned head, jostling her earrings.
“You be wiser, Merlin, at least a little.” A crooked grin creased the pale skin of her face. “But be you wise enough to win back your wizard’s staff? And your precious sword? That be not so clear.”
“My staff and sword?” I thundered. “You have them?”
“Mayhaps, wizard, mayhaps. Yet before Urnalda decides whether to help you, it be up to you to help Urnalda.”
Behind her, one of the guards grunted in approval. The enchantress whirled around instantly, jabbing a stubby finger at him. “I not be asking your opinion!” she spat.
His red eyes opened wide. “M-m-my apologies, Urnalda.”
“Good.” She shook her finger at him menacingly. “Be certain it does not happen again
.”
“Yes, Urnalda,” he replied, standing rigidly at attention. As soon as she turned around again to face me, though, the guard glanced at his companion and gave him a sly wink.
Immediately, the enchantress spun around, her purple robe swishing on the stones. She took a step toward the dwarf, who backed up against the iron door. “So now! You mock me, do you?”
“N-n-no, Urnalda,” he replied. This time, judging from the beads of perspiration on his brow, he was truly afraid. “By-m-m-my beard, I wasn’t.”
She hunched forward, her wild red hairs quivering with rage. “Then by your beard, you be a liar.”
Before he could object, she raised her hand and snapped her fingers. A scarlet flash lit the underground chamber, obscuring everything, even the torches. As the red light faded, a change in the dwarf’s appearance was clear: His tangled black beard had vanished. In its place sprouted a mass of bright pink feathers, delicately curling like the plumes of an exotic bird.
The guard, still unaware of the change, stood motionless. His companion, however, started to guffaw—until Urnalda silenced him with a glare. Anxiously, the transformed dwarf reached up to stroke his beard. Feeling feathers instead of hair, he released a terrible howl. He plucked a long pink feather, took one look at it, and bolted out the door. He ran down the passageway, his wailing cries reverberating among the stone walls.
With a sidelong look at the other guard, who was shivering to hold back his laughter, Urnalda turned her squat frame around to face me. Her cheeks, normally pale gray, were still flush with anger. As she studied me, her eyes narrowed. “Be you wanting your precious sword and staff?”
“I need them, yes. And now! For we have much work to do, you and I.”
The crooked grin returned to her face. “We? Now it be you who wants something.”
“That’s right,” I declared. “All Fincayra is in trouble.”
“Fincayra?” She sniffed, adjusting the jeweled band on her brow. “And why be that any concern for the dwarves, the people of Urnalda?”