The Rock of Ivanore

by Laurisa White Reyes

  Marcus thought of the satchel that hung from his shoulder. “I would like to mend this thing,” he said.

  “Leather is organic; it has been taken from a living thing, as has wood, flesh, and foliage,” explained Xerxes. “You can manipulate energy or inorganic materials to affect it, but to transform an organic object itself is nearly impossible. Not even the great Zyll will do it.”

  “Why is it impossible?”

  Xerxes clicked his beak impatiently. “Enough questions. Time for your lesson.”

  Marcus leaned Xerxes against the nearest tree. He wanted to know more about the limits of his magic, but he dared not irritate his new teacher.

  “You will liquefy that stone over there,” directed Xerxes. “Take out your key. Harvest your energy and bring it into focus.”

  The stone was unimpressive, just a round rock about the size of a bread loaf. Marcus held out the key and closed his eyes. He tried to form an image of the stone in his mind, tried to see it softening and melting upon his command. He could not, however, locate the energy he needed for such a feat—at least not in the dark.

  “I can’t do it,” he said, shaking his head, annoyed with himself. “There’s no energy here.”

  “There is always energy,” replied Xerxes. “As long as your heart is beating and your lungs take in air, there is energy.”

  “Maybe that’s true, but I can’t even light a fire.”

  “That will come in time,” said Xerxes, though the exasperated tone in his voice was far from comforting. “Try it again, but first you will need to douse the key’s glow so that it can work the other spell.”

  Marcus let the key dim. He turned his thoughts outward. Once again Marcus imagined the stone transforming into a pool of liquid granite. He reached deep inside himself, drawing on his own life force for the energy he needed to perform the task. The key’s temperature rose slightly in his hand. Marcus grinned in spite of himself, for he sensed the stone’s core absorbing heat.

  Without warning, the stone exploded. The loud blast resounded off every tree and boulder. Bits of rock and soil shot out in all directions and rained down around Marcus. When the dust began to settle, Marcus brushed fragments of his failure from his hair, face, and shoulders. He was just wiping Xerxes free of it when Kelvin burst through the trees gasping for breath. Marcus was relieved that Kelvin had had the sense to bring a lighted stick with him.

  “What was that?” Kelvin asked, his eyes scanning the area for signs of danger. “It sounded like an explosion—or thunder.”

  Marcus shrugged dumbly, too shocked to speak.

  “A storm must be gathering in the mountains,” continued Kelvin, though his expression was one of uncertainty. “We should try to reach Noam before it rains.” Kelvin turned and headed back toward the camp, kicking aside several small pebbles as he went.

  “Thunder?” asked Xerxes once Kelvin was out of earshot. “Why didn’t you answer him?”

  “I panicked,” replied Marcus. “What should I have said?”

  “There is no need to hide your magic from him,” Xerxes explained. “He knows you are Zyll’s apprentice.”

  Marcus placed the key back in his pocket and started for camp. He felt weary and out of breath. “I’m sorry about the stone,” he said, shaking off the feeling. “I’ll do a better job of transmutation tomorrow.”

  Xerxes fluffed his wooden feathers and shook his head. “Perhaps, for the time being, you should concentrate on something less complicated,” he said, “like staying out of danger for at least one day!”

  Ten

  arcus, Clovis, and Kelvin reached the mouth to Vrystal Canyon a few hours after sunrise. They set down their packs on a large moss-covered boulder and ate a bit of cheese for breakfast. When they were finished, Marcus stood at the canyon entrance and stared into the dark, narrow passageway flanked on either side by towering granite cliffs.

  “Is there any other way around these cliffs?” Marcus asked, tucking the remainder of his food into his satchel.

  Kelvin sharpened the edge of his dagger against a bare patch of stone. “Along the shoreline, maybe, but we would have to go through the forest.”

  Marcus surveyed the dense tangle of forest undergrowth. “Impossible,” he concluded with a shake of his head.

  As Kelvin sheathed his dagger and bent to adjust the scabbard at his waist, Marcus glimpsed what appeared to be some sort of pendant tucked just inside Kelvin’s shirt. When Kelvin noticed his gaze, he quickly pulled up his collar around it.

  “This is the only route,” said Kelvin. “So if we want to reach Noam today, we’d better get going.” He hoisted his pack to his left shoulder and disappeared into the canyon. Marcus let his eyes wander upward to scan the heights of the jagged skyline gaping open like a set of hungry jaws. The sight made him shiver.

  He turned to Clovis, who was nursing another bloody nose. “Ready to go?”

  Clovis shook his head. “I’ll be here a while, I’m afraid,” he said apologetically. “Why don’t you go on ahead? I’ll catch up later.”

  Marcus felt almost guilty for accepting the offer. He was anxious to reach Noam before nightfall. And Clovis would soon follow, he reasoned. After a quick good-bye, he hurried to catch up to Kelvin.

  Daylight seemed to vanish the moment Marcus entered the canyon. A strange whooshing sound echoed off the canyon walls as a gust of wind shot through with a powerful force. Kelvin waited just inside. The boys covered their faces with their capes until the air grew still. Then they ventured forward slowly, steadily.

  The walls were so close together Marcus could stretch out his arms and brush his fingers along both sides. They felt smooth, like the flat, round stones he had found in the old riverbed near his home, and they were covered in a thick layer of green algae.

  “Zyll said this canyon is nearly as old as the island itself,” Marcus said. “Legend has it the mountain shook one day and split wide open like a melon.”

  Kelvin shifted his pack from one shoulder to the other. “That’s why it’s legend. Look here.” He scraped away some algae with his knife, revealing a patch of smooth rock. “A sudden rift would have left rough surfaces, like when a stone heats up in the fire. Pour water on it, and it’ll crack and break open. The inner surface is always coarse and uneven.”

  “A ravine, then, made over time by moving water?” suggested Marcus.

  “Maybe,” replied Kelvin, though his face expressed doubt. “But we’re walking on dry ground. And there’s no evidence of any river, even a dry one.” Kelvin replaced the dagger in its sheath. “The moisture seeps in through the cavern walls themselves. I believe we’re passing through an underground reservoir. I just hope we make it through before sundown. Soon this place will be swarming with Grocs.”

  “Grocs?” Marcus shuddered. “They wouldn’t bother us, would they?”

  “As a rule, they hunt in the mountains. But last week a merchant from one of the coastal villages was attacked not far from here.”

  “Did he say what it was? What it looked like?” asked Marcus.

  Kelvin shook his head. “The creature struck once, but it ran off before the merchant could get a good look at it. He showed me where it bit him, though,” added Kelvin. He held up his clenched right hand. “It took a chunk out of his thigh as big as my fist.”

  The boys continued on, and though they were certain it was approaching midday, the air around them grew darker with each passing moment. Marcus’s thoughts turned homeward. He tried to imagine what Zyll might be doing at that moment. Probably drawing water from the well, he realized, or preparing supper.

  A little wave of melancholy passed through Marcus. “Do you think they’ll miss you?” he asked Kelvin, more from a need to redirect his own thoughts than a need for an answer.

  “Who?” Kelvin asked.

  “Your mother and father. I saw you with them at the ceremony.”

  Kelvin’s pace remained steady. “They’re not my mother and father.” His words were spoken as if
stating a fact, no hint of emotion in his voice.

  Marcus recalled that in all the years he had known Kelvin, the first time he had ever seen Mr. and Mrs. Archer was at the ceremony. Even at that momentous event, there was not the same affection between them as was visible between the other boys and their families. He had never considered the possibility that there might be another orphan beside himself in Quendel.

  “If they aren’t your parents, who are they?”

  Before Kelvin could reply, a sharp and sudden cry stopped them in their tracks. Their hearts pounded so fast from the scare that Marcus thought they could almost hear one another’s heartbeats.

  “What was that?” he whispered. Kelvin held up a hand to silence him. Several yards ahead from where they stood, the walls curved so that their path was blocked from view. Neither boy dared to guess what might await them around the bend.

  They did not have to wait long to find out.

  Eleven

  elvin drew his dagger. Marcus placed his hand on his walking stick, preparing to draw the sword. They advanced slowly until a figure stepped into view.

  The being that stood before them now was not at all the fierce monster Marcus had expected. Rather, it was nothing more than a little boy with hair black as ebony and eyes the color of amber. His face was gentle, beseeching, his clothes rags. The boy stepped forward, his hands held out in front of him. Kelvin’s dagger remained poised.

  “Stay there!” Kelvin demanded.

  The child shrank back in fear. Marcus, embarrassed by Kelvin’s behavior, started toward the boy, but Kelvin held him back.

  “Who are you?” said Kelvin roughly.

  The boy bowed his head in an expression of servitude. “I am sorry,” he said. His voice was soft and pleasing, like the gurgle of a gentle brook. “I did not wish to startle you. My name is Bryn. I have run out of food and water. I have no money, but I will work for it if you’ll let me.”

  There was something unusual about the boy, something Marcus could not quite put his finger on. He told himself to be wary, that these parts were known to be swarming with undesirable creatures. But despite his anxiety, he also felt drawn to the child’s pitiable countenance and wanted to help him.

  “Kelvin,” Marcus said, “we can spare a little food. He looks hungry.” But Kelvin remained rigid as a stone, a look of utter contempt in his face.

  “We don’t have enough for three,” Kelvin replied. “Move on, boy. Try your begging on someone else.”

  Bryn threw up his hands in a pleading gesture and dropped to his knees. “Do not send me away, I beg of you! Here . . .” and the boy scrambled froglike past them to where a heap of dried moss lay in the dirt. “It makes good kindling! Let me gather it along the way for your evening fire.” He swept the entire bundle of moss into his arms and made as if ready to follow his new masters to the ends of the earth.

  Marcus stepped between Bryn and Kelvin. “He’s just a child,” he reasoned. “How much would he eat, really? Why not let him come along? He might be useful to us.”

  Kelvin, grumbling, nodded his consent and sheathed his dagger. “Marcus, give him some bread if you like, but if there is any trouble, any trouble at all, or if he slows us down—”

  Bryn bowed so low to the ground that his breath disturbed the dust at his feet. “Thank you, good master. I will be no trouble, I promise.”

  The three of them now continued their journey in the direction from which the boy had come. They had not gone far when another sound pierced the air. Xerxes’ now-familiar shriek from the night before echoed against the canyon walls.

  “Turn around!” Xerxes’ voice seemed alarmed. “Turn around, you stupid boy!”

  Marcus held back and waited until Kelvin and Bryn had walked a good distance ahead of him. The eagle’s eyes had a wild look in them, and Marcus wondered what could cause such fear in the magic walking stick.

  “Don’t cry out like that,” scolded Marcus in a whisper. “The others will hear you.”

  “No one can hear me but you. That is the curse of my existence,” bemoaned Xerxes. “Only he who bears me can hear my words. It was Zyll’s wish when he made me.”

  “But Kelvin heard your scream last night.”

  “And that is all he will ever hear. Mr. Archer is nothing but a brainless, arrogant fool. And whether you are brighter than he remains to be seen.”

  Marcus was becoming impatient. “Well, what did you want to tell me?”

  “I saw something above,” answered Xerxes. “’Twas only a shadow, but something is there, I tell you!”

  “What do you mean? What shadow?”

  “I do not know if it is the shadow of man or beast, but I have seen it several times now. It is stalking us from above.”

  Marcus turned his gaze upward to the top of the canyon, which was nearer now than it had been at its mouth. The cliff’s edge was perhaps no more than twenty feet high, and the gap at the surface was so narrow Marcus guessed that a man could easily straddle it. The hairs on the back of his neck grew stiff, and a feeling of dread overcame him. Was it possible that someone—or something—was watching them from above?

  Marcus let his question form words on his tongue. “Why would anyone follow us?” he asked. “We don’t have anything worth stealing.”

  “Perhaps you are not the object of a thief’s design,” answered Xerxes. “Perhaps he is the hunter, and you . . .”

  Here Xerxes’ voice dropped to a whisper. “You are the prey!”

  Twelve

  s Xerxes returned to his inanimate form, Marcus became aware of the silence around him. Bryn and Kelvin had walked ahead and were no longer in his sight. Marcus sensed that something was wrong.

  Marcus ran and within moments stumbled upon a gruesome sight. Kelvin lay unmoving on the ground. Bryn sat on his haunches beside him, his mouth stretched unnaturally wide like a python about to swallow its prey. His eyes glowed yellow. Upon seeing Marcus, the creature let out a deafening, animal-like howl.

  “Leave him alone!” shouted Marcus. He rushed forward, swinging Xerxes like a club. The creature named Bryn leapt out of the way and slashed at Marcus’s back with needle-like claws that had grown along its fingertips. Marcus fell to his knees beside Kelvin. He could feel the blood trickling down his back. Despite his pain, though, Marcus acted quickly. Drawing the blade from the walking stick, he again lunged forward. Bryn snatched the blade between its teeth and yanked it out of Marcus’s hands.

  His heart pounding, Marcus tried desperately to plan his next course of action. He reached for Kelvin’s dagger and brandished it in front of him.

  “Stay back!” he threatened with a shaky voice. Bryn’s boylike body had become distorted, its back humped and its limbs twisted. It laughed a deep, guttural laugh.

  “I’ve no time for games,” it said. “I’m hungry.”

  Marcus knew that he was no match for the creature. His only hope of escape lay with magic. As he wrapped his fingers around Zyll’s key, he felt a warmth sweep through his hand and up his arm to his shoulder. He tried to recall the instructions his master had given him about concentrating heat into fire, but panic numbed his mind. When he felt certain that he could indeed cast the proper spell, he realized with dismay that they were in a rock canyon with no wood of any kind in sight, and the moss Bryn had carried was now scattered about everywhere.

  The creature advanced toward Marcus, whose heart pounded against his rib cage like an animal clawing to free itself from a trap. Then it came to him. The walking stick! He still clutched the empty sheath in his fist.

  “Ignite!” he shouted. The tip of the wooden staff burst into flame, and the flame quickly swelled into a roaring ball of fire. “No, no! Too much fire!” Marcus cried.

  Bryn shrank back, shielding itself from the flame with its arm. The heat was so intense Marcus threw the staff away from him to prevent getting burned. Once separated from Marcus’s hand, the flame withered and died.

  Bryn immediately sprung forward, and Marcus brac
ed himself for the attack. But just as Bryn advanced, it was thrown back, sprawling on the ground and whimpering like a frightened child.

  Marcus spun round to see what force had repelled the attack and found himself gazing up into a face hidden by a dark, hooded robe covering its wearer from head to toe.

  Bryn did not wait for a second blow. The creature fled on all fours, disappearing into the ever-darkening night of the canyon.

  Marcus shook so hard with fright, his knees rapped together. The cloaked stranger stooped forward and picked up the blade with the eagle’s head. He held it out to Marcus. “Yours?” he asked. Marcus accepted it meekly and replaced the sword in the now blackened sheath. “You are brave,” the stranger continued, “but you would have been eaten alive.”

  Xerxes trembled in Marcus’s hand. “What nerve, lighting me on fire!” he scolded angrily. Marcus tried to ignore the bird’s complaint. His attention was focused on the man who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

  The stranger knelt beside Kelvin and laid his ear against the boy’s chest. “He is breathing. The Groc must have given him some sort of sedative. He will wake soon. Perhaps an hour or two.”

  “Groc?” asked Marcus.

  “That thing you just encountered, the changeling. Grocs are cunning creatures that take whatever form suits them—if it will get them a meal. I’m surprised he attacked in daylight, however. Grocs are usually nocturnal. They hunt at night.”

  Marcus shuddered, thinking of what might have been his fate had this man not arrived when he had. “How did you . . . where did you come from all of a sudden like that?” he asked.

  The man pointed to the top of the canyon. Marcus realized that as hard as it was to believe, he must have jumped from up there. This was the shadow that had been following them.

  “You saved my life and the life of my friend,” Marcus continued. “How can I ever repay you?”

  “No payment is required,” the stranger replied.