by T.A. Barron
“But where did she go?” pressed Elli, leaning her shoulder against the spruce’s trunk.
“Who cares?” asked Tamwyn. “Maybe she went back to join Belamir.”
Elli frowned. “Maybe. She failed at her quest to see the Lady. In her eyes, she’s now a disgrace to the Society.” She shook her head, bobbing her mass of brown curls. “But Belamir?”
“A perfect match,” growled the sprite on her shoulder.
Tamwyn stepped closer to her, even as he studied the circle of green flames crackling mysteriously between the boulders. “They had a talk together . . . after you left. Belamir—”
“Oh, sure,” she snapped angrily. “Bet you joined right in, too! Or did you just sit there and eat melons while they berated me?”
“They didn’t . . . well, they did some. But then they—”
“Are we ever going into that portal?” demanded Nuic. “Or are you two going to bicker until the last stars go out?”
Elli scowled at Tamwyn, then turned to the portal. “We’re going.”
She peered into the green flames that smelled ever so slightly of sweet resins. Of magic. And of élano. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “the last time I came through a portal, just a month ago, it was to leave Mudroot. Forever! I never want to go back there, ever again. All those horrible gnomes! Don’t even want to think about going back there.”
“Hmmmpff,” grumbled Nuic. “Then you shouldn’t . . .”
Neither Elli nor Tamwyn heard the rest of his sentence. For just at that instant, Henni did something highly dangerous, absolutely foolish—and very entertaining. After all, how often do you get the chance to shove people headlong into a flaming portal?
34 • The Mudmakers
First, there was a loud crackle of flames. Then, all at once—rivers of green light, pulsing endlessly, flowing deeper and deeper . . . the sweet smell of resins . . . flashes of green, rays of rich brown . . . more resinous smell, stronger by the second . . . the sound of breathing, full and deep . . . life, death, and rebirth—all connected to the smell, the sound, the living Tree. At last, there was a new light growing . . . a loud crackle . . . and green flames again.
Tamwyn, Elli, Nuic, and Henni hurtled out of the portal. They landed on top of each other, so tangled and disoriented that it took them a moment just to figure out whose legs and arms were whose. And to realize that they lay in the middle of a vast brown field of mud.
Everywhere, as far as they could see, stretched the rolling brown plain, broken only by dozens of scattered mounds that looked like tree stumps covered in mud. The portal itself lay flat beside one such mound, its shimmering flames licking at the brown hump’s base. Overhead, thick clouds covered the sky so completely that not a single star could be seen.
“Mudroot!” cried Elli in despair, as she lifted her hand from the muck with a loud slurping sound. “It can’t be! We’re not . . . we can’t—”
“We are.” Nuic, now fiery orange, brushed a clump of mud off his shoulder. “Hmmmpff. I told you it was dangerous to think of Mudroot back there . . . especially with a hoolah around! We’re a long way from Fireroot.”
“Eehee, I know,” laughed Henni from the tangle of bodies. “But not far from the town of Hoolahome, so I could take you to meet all my cousins!”
Tamwyn found Henni’s big hand and yanked it toward him. “You dung-brained dolt! You’ve got as much sense as a gobsken’s hairy ass, you know. We could have all been killed!”
“Oohoo, oohoo, I know. Next time I’ll do better, I promise. Eeheeheehee, oohoo eehee.”
Tamwyn’s eyes blazed. He pulled Henni’s hand so hard that the hoolah flew into the air and landed with a splat in the mud. “I made a mistake not killing you after the Rugged Path. But this time, no—yaaaaah!”
A glob of mud, propelled by Henni’s free hand, flew straight into Tamwyn’s mouth. He coughed, spat it out, and leaped at the hoolah. Henni, laughing so hard he could barely stand, still managed to sidestep the lunging body. Tamwyn skidded and landed face-first in the wet mud.
“Eehee, eehee, hoohoohahahaha! You’re more fun than ever, clumsy man.”
“Wait, Tamwyn,” called Elli, unsticking herself enough to stand. The mud oozed over her feet and came halfway up to her calves. “Don’t waste any time on him. We’ve got to find the staff, remember? Before we lose any more stars.”
“Sure, sure. Right after I kill this moron!”
He hurled a clump of mud at Henni’s head. The missile splatted right in the middle of one of the hoolah’s circular eyebrows, like an arrow in the center of a target. While Henni tried to wipe his eye, Tamwyn pounced on him. They fell back into the morass, rolling and kicking. Globs of mud flew in all directions.
“Lovely,” snarled Nuic. “A mudfight.”
Suddenly something whizzed through the air, brushing the side of the nearest mound and landing in the mud by Elli’s feet. A spear! Though it was twisted and only as long as her leg, its hard ceramic shaft gleamed dully. She froze, unable to breathe. Gnomes!
Elli had seen such spears before—in the gnomes’ attack on her village that left both her parents dead. And in those six years of slavery that followed, when she toiled in their dingy pits where no starlight ever reached. Even after she’d finally escaped, she still heard the whizz of those spears in every gust of wind, felt the jab of their pointed tips whenever someone touched her ribs. Only after Nuic had started riding on her shoulder, grumping constantly, had she begun to forget. And now a gnome spear had struck the ground right beside her!
She screamed. So loud was her cry that Tamwyn and Henni instantly stopped wrestling in the mud. As soon as Tamwyn sat up, looking like a mud mound himself, another sound echoed over the plains. It was a frightful mix of shrieks and howls, the sound that sent most creatures in this realm fleeing for their lives: the war cry of gnomes.
Tamwyn and Henni, covered in mud, stumbled to their feet. Almost at once, the wave of battle broke over them. Spears shot past, one of them grazing Tamwyn’s muddy ear. Before Henni could pull out his slingshot, let alone load some pebbles from his pocket, a shrieking gnome tackled him from behind. While the gnome was no taller than Henni, he was far stronger, with muscular arms and jagged-toothed jaws just made for ripping flesh. The gnome battered Henni brutally in the face, then took a bite out of his shoulder. Henni wailed in pain as the gnome seized him with grimy, three-fingered hands—and started to bite his neck.
Just then Tamwyn kicked the gnome in the side—so hard that several bones splintered. The gnome howled and spun a full somersault before hitting the ground again. Immediately, Tamwyn grabbed his leg, swung him around, and let go right at the moment two more gnomes charged. His aim was perfect. The writhing body crashed full force into the attackers, knocking them flat.
“Let’s go!” cried Elli. “Back into the portal, while we can.”
“You and Nuic first! I’ll watch your backs.”
She glanced at him with a look of gratitude . . . and something more, something like real friendship. Then, scooping up the sprite, she sprinted toward the circle of green flames.
Tamwyn’s feet squelched in the mud as he darted over to Henni. The hoolah’s shoulder was bleeding profusely, but Tamwyn pulled him upright and shoved him toward Elli— just as several more gnomes descended.
A blizzard of spears whizzed through the air. Tamwyn heard Elli scream again, louder than before. A pair of burly arms wrapped around his neck, while someone slammed into his side. He fell to one knee, but twisted out of the neck grip and grabbed one of the gnomes. Holding the squirming warrior by the tuft of hair on his head so that he couldn’t bite, Tamwyn lifted him just in time to meet three flying spears. The gnome shrieked as the spearpoints drove into his chest.
Tamwyn whirled around to see what had happened to Elli. “Nooooo!” he shouted. “Dear Dagda, no!”
She lay sprawled on her back beside the portal. Her eyes stared lifelessly at the clouds, while green flames licked her curls. A broken spear
shaft stuck out of her ribs. Blood seeped steadily from the wound, staining her priestess’s robe. Beside her knelt Nuic, his color bloodred, quivering uncontrollably.
In that instant, a new sensation surged through Tamwyn. It wasn’t rage, or sorrow, or the will to live, though it sprang from all those emotions. And from something else, deeper than any emotion—richer, stronger, and wilder.
Power. He felt like a volcano about to erupt—not with lava, but with this indefinable burst of power. It coursed through his veins, pulsed with his heart, and swelled in his lungs. Even as he saw more gnomes pounding toward him, spears raised high, he felt no fear. Only readiness for whatever was about to come.
The power pushed its way to the surface, past bone, muscle, and flesh. It was as if he’d swallowed a star, whose light fought to shine through every pore of his skin. Across his whole body, it radiated, wild and alive.
He felt his skin crackle. And move. No—not his skin, but the mud that covered him.
Suddenly the nearest gnome let out a wail of fright. As Tamwyn spun around, something fell off his back and splatted on the ground. A beetle! Huge and hairy, the gray-colored beetle crawled across the mud, snapping its dagger-sharp pincers.
Before Tamwyn could move again, another beetle dropped off his back. Then came another, from his forearm. More and more fell off—from his neck, his chest, his thighs.
“Ugh,” he moaned in disgust. “Where did they come from?”
He shook himself vigorously, sending another fifteen or twenty beetles to the ground. Then he thought of another, even more troubling, question: Was that all I was feeling . . . a mass of beetles on my back?
Meanwhile, the gnomes had started shouting—cursing, he felt sure. But the tone of their harsh, guttural voices had changed completely. They were afraid now. Already they were retreating, scattering across the muddy plains. Somehow they had gone from the attackers to the attacked.
Are they so afraid of the beetles? Tamwyn brushed the last one off his arm and looked at them crawling away. Instead of pursuing the gnomes, they just burrowed into the mud with their pincers. They really didn’t seem very dangerous. Grotesque, maybe, but not dangerous. So what scared off the gnomes?
He turned back to Elli. At the sight of her limp form, soaked in blood, all his confusion was swept aside by a different feeling. Anguish. His stomach twisted inside him.
He knelt by her side and peered into those hazel eyes that now seemed so vacant. Elli hadn’t always been easy to be around, to be sure. Yet some of that he’d brought on himself: Smashing her precious harp was a colossally stupid thing to do. He’d never really told her that he was sorry, either. And now . . . he never would.
He looked at her shoulder, where Nuic so often sat. And he could almost hear her laugh with the joy of a meadowlark when she realized who the Lady really was—and who had been her faithful maryth. No doubt about it, Elli truly loved Avalon! And lately he’d been noticing something else about her, something beyond her hot temper and savage tongue, something that made him feel . . . intrigued.
She didn’t deserve to die!
He slammed his fist against his thigh, spraying Nuic with mud. But the sprite said nothing.
Hearing some movement behind him, Tamwyn turned his head. It was Henni, sitting cross-legged, his face uncharacteristically glum. In fact, Tamwyn had never seen any hoolah look so genuinely sad—about anything. At first he thought that Henni was upset about his own shoulder, which was badly torn and bloody . . . but then he realized that Henni was gazing straight at Elli. Could it be, Tamwyn wondered, that he actually regrets what he did to bring us here?
He just grimaced and turned back to Elli. First my father, then my mother, then Scree. And now her! It was all coming clear. This is what happens to anyone who gets too close to the child of the Dark Prophecy.
Gently, he took Elli’s hand. It still felt warm with life. He squeezed it slightly . . . and then caught his breath. A pulse! A real pulse—very weak, but there nonetheless.
He grabbed Nuic by the arm. “She’s still alive! Nuic, do you hear me? Still alive! Is there any way to save her? Anything we can do?”
The old sprite’s bloodred color darkened. “No, no. Too far gone. Nothing can save her now, not even a mountain of healing herbs.”
“Wrong you are, ancient sprite.”
Nuic, Tamwyn, and Henni all jumped at this strange new voice. It spoke in the Common Tongue, but with a lilt that seemed more like music than language. And the voice sounded soft, as well, as if someone very large were whispering right into their ears. Yet there was no one, large or small, to be seen.
“Who are you?” croaked Tamwyn.
“See now you shall,” the voice declared in its resonant whisper. “Behold the mudmakers.”
Nuic’s color flashed a surprised golden yellow, then returned to red.
All at once, the stump-shaped mound beside the portal began to bulge at the top. Its sides rippled, then started to bubble like a thick brown stew on the boil. Then, slowly at first, it lengthened, growing taller and straighter. It grew to Henni’s height, then Tamwyn’s, then kept on growing. Finally, when it reached almost twice the height of Tamwyn, a rounded head rose out of what seemed to be shoulders. It had enormous, deep-set eyes, as dark brown as everything else on its body. A thin, curving line opened as its mouth. Meanwhile, from the creature’s sides appeared four slender arms with huge hands, each of which had three delicate fingers as long as a man’s forearm.
The creature peered down at the three of them gathered by Elli’s body, then bent several long fingers. “Appear rarely we do, very rarely.” This time Tamwyn caught the distinct feeling that the voice was feminine.
“Yet come always we shall to greet another Maker.”
Once again, Nuic flashed a surprised yellow.
Puzzled, Tamwyn shot him a glance. But the sprite just ignored him and kept staring up at the gigantic brown being who towered over them.
“Aelonnia of Isenwy am I, guardian of Malóch’s southernmost portal. And these,” she whispered with a wave of one great hand, “are the other mudmakers of our clan.”
They turned to see dozens more tall brown figures striding gracefully toward them across the plains. As the mudmakers walked, their wide, flat feet squelched noisily. Soon they stood in a circle around the portal, swaying slowly like poplar trees in a breeze.
“Can you save her?” pleaded Tamwyn. He squeezed Elli’s hand more tightly. “You said there was some way to save her.”
“A way there is,” answered Aelonnia. “But surely, as a Maker, you know that already.”
“But I don’t know! And she’s dying! I’m just Tamwyn, from Stoneroot—a wilderness guide when I can find the work.” He frowned. “And some other things you don’t want to know.”
Aelonnia bent her enormous body until her head hung just above his. “No.” Her voice vibrated like the lowest strings on a colossal lute. “You are a Maker, a man of wizard’s blood. How else could you have given life to the mud a few moments ago?”
Tamwyn’s head was spinning. “Me? Life? Mud?”
“The beetles, you fool,” grumbled Nuic. “Are you really so stupid?”
“Yes,” Tamwyn declared. Then, lifting his face again to the mudmaker, he said, “Just tell me what to do for Elli! The rest can wait.”
Aelonnia reached out two of her arms and spun him around so that his back was to Elli and the flickering flames of the portal. Gently, she turned his head slightly to the left. “That way lies the Secret Spring of Halaad, whose location is hidden to all but our clan—or a true Maker such as you. Heal your friend, it can! Yet go swiftly you must, very swiftly. For I feel her life melting away into the soil, even now.”
“Hurry!” shouted Nuic, his body rippling red and orange.
Tamwyn looked out at the rolling morass before him, stretching as far as he could see, and swallowed. He knew what he must do. He just didn’t know if he could do it.
35 • The Secret Spring
/> Tamwyn drew a deep breath and started running. The circle of mudmakers parted to let him pass. As his feet clomped clumsily over the morass, sinking up to his calves in muck, he wished that all those enormous brown eyes weren’t watching him. Now they could see what he really was—a clumsy, thickheaded man, and no more.
And yet he knew down inside . . . he had to run like a deer. Had to! It was the last chance for Elli. The only chance.
Stomp, squelch, stomp, squelch went his feet. No traction here. He’d run like a deer once before, in that valley, though he didn’t really know how. But that was, at least, on solid ground. Here, nothing was solid! Just spongy. Every single step was a chore. His thighs were aching already, and he’d only gone two dozen paces. How could he possibly change himself to run with the speed and grace of a bounding stag?
You can change anything, Tamwyn. Anything! Your path through the forest, or your path through life. The words of the Lady of the Lake—Rhia—came back to him in a flash. She seemed very close, as if she were really riding on his shoulder, much as Nuic had ridden on hers.
He plodded on. Stomp. Squelch. Mud oozed between his toes, clung to his soles, caked upon his ankles and calves. At this rate he’d never reach the healing spring in time!
Desperately, he tried to imagine the way a deer would run. So fast, they bounded, and so easily, they almost seemed to be running on air. No—running as air. Part of the breeze, the wind. Light as the air itself.
He remembered that fluffy white seed, borne by the wind, that he’d raced in that valley. Faster he ran, and faster. His feet seemed a bit lighter now, his strides a touch easier. Like a windblown seed. He leaned farther forward, stretching his neck and reaching ahead with his arms. Like the wind itself.
Stretching . . . reaching . . . running with the lightness of the wind. His knees bent backward. His strides grew longer, surer, and stronger. Stretching. Suddenly he felt his hands touch the ground. Or were they really his hands? Reaching. His back pulled longer, as did his neck. Running. His nose lengthened, merging with his chin. Wide, sensitive ears pressed flat against his head, just behind his rack of antlers.