Rise of the Pendragon (Islands in the Mist Book 3)

by J. M. Hofer

  “Bloody hell,” Uthyr murmured with awestruck disgust.

  ***

  Taliesin crept closer. The white dragon was feeding upon one of several corpses entwined within a huge root system that stretched over their heads in all directions. The grisly scene was illuminated by the dragon himself, its gory tragedies brought to life by the pale light his scales gave off. It was only a moment before the dragon noticed something had changed in his domain. Abruptly, he ceased his horrible crunching of bones and tearing of flesh, and sniffed the air with his giant snout.

  “Start digging,” Taliesin commanded in a harsh whisper to Bran and Uthyr, pointing toward the mass of dirt and roots over their heads.

  Bran and Uthyr followed his orders without question. They clambered up a giant root in order to reach the ceiling of earth above and began shoving their spears into it, causing great chunks of earth to fall down into the dragon’s lair below.

  The dragon turned his head in Taliesin’s direction, catching his scent. His huge body uncoiled as he slithered toward him, until Taliesin came face to face with his terrible head.

  Your smell nauseates me. You do not belong here.

  “No, I don’t,” replied Taliesin, for he knew the language the dragon spoke. “I’ve strayed and found myself in this place. I wish to leave and disturb you no more, oh, mighty…”

  “Nidhoggr,” the dragon replied, speaking aloud for the first time. He came so close Taliesin instinctively backed away, his heart pounding against his ribcage. Within moments, something new captured Nidhoggr’s attention. Just as the red dragon had done, he stretched forth his tongue toward the Brisingamen around Taliesin’s neck and tasted it. “Goooooold,” he hissed with delight.

  “Yes, gold. It is the Brisingamen, and it belongs to the goddess Freya. I have come to return it to her.”

  “You will return nothing to anyone, for you will soon be dead.” The dragon caressed Taliesin’s neck and body with his rough tongue. “I shall let you lie a good long time, to be certain your sweetness has turned to rot, and then I shall feast upon your maggot-filled carcass.”

  “Then you cannot burn me with your breath,” Taliesin reasoned. “A thing that is burned shall never rot.”

  “That is true,” the dragon conceded.

  “Nor can you crush me with your jaws, for my blood tastes like the juice of summer apples, and you would certainly suffer from the taste of it as a man suffers poison.”

  The dragon hissed again. “I am patient. Eventually, you will die like all the others.”

  Taliesin hoped Bran and Uthyr were near the surface. He did not have much time. He frantically reviewed everything he had in his crane bag that might serve to save their lives, besides the Brisingamen—which, of course, he could not part with. What could he tempt the dragon with? Arianrhod’s feather? Nimue’s hair? The silver apple? At last it came to him—my harp. “I have something much bigger than this, also trimmed in gold,” he ventured. He unslung his harp, letting it flash seductively in the eerie half-light emanating from Nidhoggr’s scales. He began playing a slow and mesmerizing rhythm, humming as he played, moving the harp in tandem with the undulating melody. The dragon’s eyes glazed over, and his head began to tilt in unison with the harp, following the golden light reflected off its surface. Taliesin’s heart began to calm somewhat as he realized it was working. He shot a furtive glance up to see how Bran and Uthyr were progressing. Bran was gone, and Uthyr was climbing up a rope. Now it was his turn. Ever so carefully, he moved toward the opening, positioning himself beneath it. Then, disguised as lyrics, he sang, “With your rope, make a noose, and then looooower it down, wide enough to swallow me whooooole…”

  Down came the rope. Taliesin maneuvered it around himself without dropping a note, working it under his arms and around his ribcage. “Now, then, sloooooowly… raaaaaise me up…”

  Taliesin felt the rope tighten, and his body lifted slowly off the ground. The dragon’s eyes stayed trained upon the harp. Once he was there at the ceiling, he cried out, “NOW!”

  Taliesin’s loud cry broke the spell, and the dragon hissed in anger. Bran and Uthyr yanked the rope from above to bring him to safety, but the edge of his beautiful harp got caught upon the lip of the passage and was wrenched from his hands. Taliesin cried out in shocked despair. Sickness swallowed him as he watched it fall, as if he had let a small child plunge to his death. With the resistance gone, Bran and Uthyr successfully pulled him to safety. Uthyr yanked him away from the opening while Bran kicked rocks and soil back down into the pit until the sound of Nidhoggr’s fury could be heard no more.

  When the ordeal was over, Bran sat down, heaving, next to Taliesin. He let out a long sigh as he put a reassuring arm around his shoulders. “I’m sorry about your harp.”

  Taliesin nodded but could not speak, feeling as if he had lost one of his limbs. He felt thankful Bran had not said, “We’ll find you another.” He wanted no other.

  ***

  Uthyr gazed overhead, taking in the strangeness of their surroundings. They were standing at the base of a tree so massive that its roots rose up to the height of mountains on either side of where they stood, making its size unfathomable.

  “We stand at the base of the Yggdrasil,” Taliesin said, his head tilted back all the way. “The Saxon gods live in the worlds held by the boughs above.”

  Both Uthyr and Bran looked at him skeptically.

  Bran stared up in dismay. “We have but one rope and no tools for climbing. Even if we did, I see no end to this tree. It stretches on forever, in all directions. We could climb for years and never find these worlds you speak of.”

  “I suggest we try and find some food and water then,” Uthyr said.

  “Agreed.” Bran hoisted his pack and turned to the right. “This way?”

  Neither of his companions had any objections. They fell in step behind Bran and followed him through the strange landscape, navigating their way around massive roots that sometimes took the better part of an hour to cross over or walk around. It was a slow and arduous journey, made more so by the fact that they had no definite destination they could focus on working toward.

  As they walked, Uthyr asked all manner of questions of both Bran and Taliesin. They answered as best they could, for there were many events in their past that defied explanation and warranted disbelief. After the events of the past week, however, there was no reason for Uthyr to doubt any of their stories, no matter how fantastic they might seem.

  “Wait!” Taliesin cried out, stopping in his tracks. “Do you hear that?”

  The others stopped and listened. After a moment, Bran nodded. “Yes. Water.”

  “This way.” Taliesin forged ahead. His mouth began to feel much drier at the sound of the water, desperate for a drink. They found a place where water cascaded down over a rock ledge before plummeting into a gorge below. Though slippery and treacherous to reach, they all agreed it was worth the risk. Carefully, they inched their way to a place where they could reach the water and gratefully filled their goatskins and drinking horns.

  “Ha!” Bran cried out, looking exhilarated after a long draught. He seemed giddy. “My pain is fading…oh, thank the gods. This alone was worth the journey.” He filled his goatskin, smiled and leaned against a rock, looking more relaxed than Taliesin had ever seen him. “It’s better than ale.”

  “Watch your tongue, Bran of the Oaks,” Uthyr said in mock reproach. “Actually, though, I believe you’re right.” He moved his arms and legs a bit and tested out the mobility of his neck. “I’ve never felt better. No aches, no pains, and no soreness from the march...”

  Taliesin likewise noticed changes in his body after drinking the water. His thoughts became exquisitely clear, and colors and patterns grew much brighter and crisper. His body felt light and full of energy, and his hunger was gone. “Must be water of the Gods,” he supposed, gazing up at the column of silver flowing down from above.

  “And now?” Uthyr asked. “Is it safe to assume ther
e is a lake at the end of this glorious torrent that we might find divine-tasting fish in?”

  Bran smiled. “I like your thinking.” He looked expectantly at Taliesin, who nodded in agreement.

  They followed the flow of the water until they found themselves unable to go any further, for it poured over a sharp cliff and into a deep and narrow gorge. The gorge had been carved by an immense, raging waterfall that put the one they had drunk from to shame. It was a hundred times wider and sailed down the massive trunk of the tree from a source several miles overhead that they could not see. The water crashed and churned down at the bottom of the narrow gorge, and then disappeared into a cloud of mist.

  Bran led the way down, enthusiasm in his step, picking out the best path for them to follow. After a few hours, they could see beyond the mysterious cloud. The cloud marked a place where the water fell again, several hundred feet, into a large lake, sheltered by a semi-circle of mountainous, undulating roots.

  Bran pointed. “There’s our fishing pond.”

  Uthyr nodded. “Sure enough. Let’s go.”

  They scrambled down the slippery terrain to the lake, reaching it some hours later. But it was no ordinary lake. Near the shore swam three beautiful swans, and they, too, like everything else in that strange land, were of an abnormally large size.

  “They look like angels, kneeling in prayer upon the water,” Uthyr observed, mesmerized.

  “You have the heart of a poet.” Bran turned toward him with an impressed smile. “Watch out, Taliesin, or our noble Uthyr may soon outshine you in the courts.”

  Taliesin smiled, but did not take his eyes off the swans. Something about them stirred his blood. “Be careful,” he warned.

  “Is that a threat, young bard?” Uthyr joked.

  “No,” Taliesin clarified with a half-smile, “not of me—of the swans.” He shook his head warily. “They’re not what they seem.”

  “Perhaps we can speak to them,” Bran suggested. “Do we have anything we could offer them?”

  “We must first find out what they desire.” Taliesin walked to the edge of the lake. Within the water, thousands of faces and images floated and swirled, like millions of tiny fish. They were similar to what he had seen in the murky waters of Lake Tegid, but far vaster and varied. Bran and Uthyr stood beside him, spears at the ready, by their sides.

  “How do we get them over here?” Uthyr asked after a few minutes.

  As if the swans had heard him, they turned and glided in their direction, sending smooth wakes across the lake. As they neared, Taliesin realized they were at least ten times the size of any swan he had ever seen before. By the time they arrived at the shore, the three of them had to tilt their heads back to see their heads.

  “I don’t like this,” Bran murmured, backing away and preparing to throw his spear if necessary.

  Uthyr followed his lead. “I don’t either.”

  Before they could discuss their plan of action, the swans stretched their wings and transformed. After a series of both beautiful and grotesque contortions, the swans became giantesses. They stood before them, as tall as trees, water lapping at their waists.

  “We have to stay now,” Taliesin said to his companions. “Try not to anger them.”

  “And how are we supposed to know what will anger them?” Uthyr protested.

  “Just try not to look threatening,” Bran suggested, setting his spear down.

  Uthyr shot him a look of concern, but one of the giantesses appeared pleased by Bran’s gesture. She reached out, extending her right hand high over Bran’s head, and then crouched down and reached into the water with her left. She pulled out a long golden thread. She kept pulling it up until it grew taut, pointed to him, and then let go of it. Bran watched as it slowly moved back into the pool’s depths, glinting. Images swirled around the thread—people and places he knew. I see my mother…and my sister…the woods when I was young…What magic is this? He stared, mesmerized, until the thread disappeared completely back into the water.

  The second did the same to Uthyr, who looked into the water with the same attention Bran had. He watched awhile, but clearly did not enjoy what he saw. Tears welled in his eyes. He turned to hide his face from them.

  The last placed her hand above Taliesin and reached into the pool. She, too, pulled out a golden thread, her face peaceful like the other two until she encountered what appeared to be a bead in the string. Taliesin saw, upon closer examination, that it was a well-tied knot. She pulled and pulled, revealing one long thread after another, all tied together with strong knots. On and on she pulled, but the string never became taut.

  The three giantesses looked at Taliesin with a curious malice, clearly disturbed by what was happening.

  “I don’t think they like your thread,” Bran muttered, eyeing their slow yet massive assailants. “Let’s get out of here. We’re no match for them.”

  The giantesses moved toward them with menacing expressions, rising out of the water.

  “Run!” Bran yelled.

  They fled the strange pool and its frightening residents, but found themselves up against a giant root, smooth and unclimbable. The giantesses soon closed in on them.

  “What do we do now?” Uthyr asked.

  Taliesin felt through his bag until his fingers landed upon the owl feather Arianrhod had given him. The moment he touched it, his mind and body became deeply aware of every physical detail of the owl’s form. He sensed the owl more clearly than any creature he had ever shadow-slipped into. He knew what to do. He concentrated on feeling the owl’s wings within his own arms, the owl’s body around his ribcage, her talons within his feet. Soon he felt his arms stretching and his legs disappearing. In a panic, he took off the Brisingamen, threw it in his crane bag, and then tossed it to Bran. “Hold this!”

  He had done so just in the nick of time, for his arms and fingers began to lengthen and grow feathers. He had often shifted into the mind of an animal, but never had he physically become one. He steeled his nerves against his fear and let the transformation complete itself. He became an owl the size of the giantesses, his wingspan easily twenty feet wide. He flew out in front of Bran and Uthyr, flapping his wings in the direction of their assailants, beating them back. They covered their faces, and Taliesin seized his chance. He hovered above his companions, and then, as gently as he could, gathered them up in his talons. Once he was certain they were secure, he surged up into the boughs of the Yggdrasil.

  For at least a mile he rose, looking for a safe place to put down his passengers. As he climbed higher, he noticed some of the boughs bore enormous spheres, like heavy fruit hanging upon their limbs. Perfect. Like a flash, he remembered the tree he had seen when he had first peered within the Brisingamen—the tree with its many worlds cradled within its branches. He flew into one the Brisingamen had shown him often—one with inviting green hills and blue sky. He dove into the sphere and scanned the land below for a good place to set his companions down. He chose a wide field, dropping them as gently as he could into its waist-high wildflowers. He then took to the sky again to survey the land he had brought them to. There would be no point in staying if they would only encounter more danger. His keen eyes allowed him to see every detail below. He flew for miles, memorizing every hill and valley, field and forest, house and village, until he felt he knew the land well enough to return to his companions. His scouting done, he returned to where he had deposited them, landed nearby, and concentrated on resuming his own form.

  Nothing changed.

  Taliesin felt a surge of panic. What do I do? He pictured Arianrhod. Good lady, please help me! Still, nothing changed. He screeched and flapped his wings, growing ever more distraught. What have I done? He thought of waiting until nightfall and flying to Caer Sidi to entreat her help, but, judging from the sun’s position, it would be hours before he could.

  “Well, that was some trick!” Bran praised as he landed. “What did you see?” He quickly realized the futility of his question. “Ah, sorry
—I’ll wait until you change back.”

  Taliesin stared at him, but could do nothing else.

  “You can change back, can’t you?”

  Taliesin moved his head back and forth—that, at least, was a human movement owls were even more talented at.

  “Oh, no…” Uthyr said.

  Bran looked into his large eye. “You don’t know how to change back?”

  Taliesin shook his head again.

  Bran’s face twisted into one of deep concern. “Well, how did you do it in the first place?”

  Taliesin stretched his wing out. Arianrhod’s feather stood out quite clearly, its silver color glinting in the sunlight. He touched the silver feather with his beak.

  “That? That feather? That’s how you did it?”

  Taliesin bobbed his head.

  As Bran took hold of the feather to inspect it, Taliesin felt it dislodge slightly, which gave him an idea. He took it in his beak and plucked it out of his wing. To his deep relief, he felt his body begin to morph back into its true form. Moments later, he stood once more upon human legs with Arianrhod’s feather pinched tightly between his restored thumb and forefinger. He looked at his companions and let out a sigh of relief.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Vanaheim

  Bran, Uthyr and Taliesin found themselves surrounded by fields and rolling hills dotted with grazing cattle, bathed in misty sunlight and a warm summer breeze.

  Uthyr was staring at Taliesin, his brow furrowed with concern. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’ve been turned inside out.”

  Uthyr simply nodded as if they were discussing a headache.

  How can he be so calm? Bran wondered. He had to ask. “My lord, I find it surprising you’ve not been more disturbed by the things we’ve encountered lately.”

  Uthyr sighed and gave him a half-smile. “Believe it or not, I’ve seen stranger magic.” He glanced toward Taliesin. “We have one among us much like Master Taliesin, whom Emrys and I have known from the time we were young boys. Though we were raised as Romans and Christians, my brother was wise enough to know the Old Ways of these lands must be understood and respected if he was to rule them one day. Myrthin educated us both to that end.”