The Raging Fires (20 page)

Suddenly the hooded man leaped to his feet. A rusted dagger glinted in his hand. Before I could draw my own blade, he kicked over the table, knocking me backward into Hallia. We fell in a heap on the floor.

The man, bundled in his heavy cloak, scurried past us. Even as we regained our feet, the creaky door slammed shut. I ran after him, pulled open the door, and scanned the rain-soaked road, the stone huts, the dreary field. No sign of him anywhere.

Pushing the wet locks off my brow, I turned back to Hallia. “He’s disappeared.”

“Why would he do that?” she asked, shaken. “We didn’t threaten him.”

“Ye came too awfully close, me dear.” It was the white-haired man, having rid himself of the load of peat. Still, he hunched so low that his wrinkled brow came no higher than the middle of Hallia’s chest. “Ye disturbed his privacy, ye see.”

She scowled. “Such a friendly village.”

The old man gave a tense, wheezing laugh. “So friendly, me dear, it don’t even have a proper name. Or any longtime residents, but for master Lugaid, who owns this public house, an’ me, old Bachod. An’ a few lame sheep.” He glowered at the bearded man by the fire. “It’s a mean-hearted place, me dear, I can assure ye that. Jest a place worth avoidin’, if ye can.”

With a heave, I righted the table. “Do you mind if we sit here a little while? Just to dry off.”

Bachod’s white hairs, toppling over his ears, wagged from side to side—along with his greasy moustache. “As long as ye pay before ye eat any thin’, master Lugaid shouldn’t object.” He pulled out a rag and began wiping the table. “Jest mind who ye sit near, if ye wish to stay healthful.”

“We will.” I brushed some moldy cheese off a chair, then sat down next to Hallia. “By the way,” I asked, as nonchalantly as I could, “where does that old road out there lead? Surely not up into the cliffs.”

The old man continued wiping. “Ah, that little pathway is older than meself, older than the rocks perhaps. It jest curves about this valley like a coilin’ snake, not leadin’ anywhere.” His raspy voice lowered a notch. “Some say it was the ghosts who made it.”

“Ghosts?”

“From up the mountain. Ye haven’t heard of ‘em, me lad? Well then, ye needs to know, that’s certain, since ye’re journeyin’ hereabouts.” He ceased wiping and glanced around fearfully, as if the chairs and tables themselves might be listening. Finally he rasped, “They’re angry. An’ so very vengeful. Yer life is safe, perhaps, in this little valley. But anywhere on the mountain . . . well, ye’d rather be pierced by a thousan’ spears before lettin’ ‘em take ye.”

Nervously, he tugged on his moustache. Then he turned to Hallia. His voice lowered ominously. “Death—that’d be a kindness, though, compared to what they’d be doin’ to yer heart, to yer innards, an’ worse yet, to yer everlastin’ soul, if they found ye was . . . a deer person.

Her eyes swelled to their widest. In a flash, she bolted for the door, threw it open, and vanished into the rain.

I glared at Bachod. “You old fool!”

He shrunk away from me. “Jest wanted to be helpful, I did.”

Tempted as I was to give him a fright of his own, I turned and sprinted after Hallia. Just as I reached the doorway, I caught a glimpse of her dashing behind the hut with the fallen roof. Beyond, darker than even the sky itself, I could see the ragged edge of the cliffs rising above the valley.

“Hallia!” I cried, charging after her. Mud sprayed from my boots, as rivers ran down my neck and arms. Thunder slammed against the mountainside.

Sliding to a halt by the collapsed hut, I peered into the torrent. Nothing. Nothing but rain.

At that instant I heard a whisper just behind me. “M-e-e-erlin.”

I whirled around. There, under an overhanging slab of rock, all that remained of the crumbled roof, cowered Hallia. Ducking under the slab, I joined her in the hollow. I placed my arms around her sopping shoulders, holding her shivering body close to mine.

Several minutes passed. The downpour did not relent. At last, though, her shivers subsided. She began to breathe more normally. I felt her relax, leaning her head against my shoulder. Rain splattered all around, as a chill wind sliced through our clothing. Yet somehow I did not feel cold.

All at once, Hallia stiffened. Before I could move, the blade of a dagger pressed between my shoulder blades.

23:
D
AGGERPOINT

Steady now,” growled the voice behind me. The dagger pressed tight against my back.

I felt Hallia standing by my side, as alert as if she were facing a pack of wolves. Water streamed off the overhanging slab that sheltered us, splattering my left arm. Trying to remain calm, I sucked in my breath. “We have no wish to harm you, good sir. Let us go in peace.”

“Fancy words! You must have been mentored by a bard.”

Despite the knife, I started. Something about the phrasing, if not the voice, sounded vaguely familiar. Yet I couldn’t quite place it.

“Tell me the truth,” the man in the shadows demanded. “Have you also learned to play the psaltery?”

Heedless of any danger, I whirled around. “Cairpré!” I threw my arms around him.

“Well met,” declared the poet, tossing back his black hood.

Hallia gasped. “You know this . . . ruffian?”

The gray mane bobbed as Cairpré nodded. “Well enough to know that I don’t like to use a dagger for anything more dangerous than slicing bread.” He slipped the blade in its sheath. “I do hope I didn’t give you a fright.”

“Oh, no,” snarled Hallia, her eyes darting over the shadowy hollow. To my chagrin, she edged away from me. “I had simply forgotten, for a moment, about the treacherous ways of men.”

Cairpré’s eyes, deeper than pools, regarded her thoughtfully. “You are a deer woman, I see. Of the clan Mellwyn-bri-Meath, if I am not mistaken.”

She bristled, but said nothing.

“I am Cairpré, a humble bard.” He bowed his head slightly. “I am pleased to meet you. And my heart is pained, for I can see that my own race has brought suffering to yours.”

Her doe-like eyes narrowed. “More than you could imagine.”

“I am sorry.” Cairpré regarded her for another moment, then turned to me. “My disguise was necessary. As was that little scene in the tavern, when I feared you might come close enough to recognize me. Bachod, the old waiter, is—”

“A fool,” I declared.

“Perhaps.” He wiped a raindrop from the tip of his nose, as sharp as an eagle’s beak. “Yet he knows more than he lets on, good fellow. Though his learning comes not from books, he is really, I think, a bard at heart.
Though speech be unlearn’d, The wisdom be earn’d.”

He glanced again at the black cliffs. “He has already helped me more than he knows, by sharing a few old stories about this land. But to avoid raising any suspicions, I’ve kept my own identity secret. So Bachod thinks I’m just a wandering bard. He has no idea who I really am, or what brings me here.”

The cold wind strengthened, and with it, the downpour. Thunder reverberated again and again among the craggy cliffs. As Hallia and I both drew deeper into the hollow, trying to avoid the drenching gusts, I tried to catch her eye. Yet she avoided my gaze.

Shielding his brow from the rain, Cairpré peered out of the overhang at the massive clouds that had converged above the valley. “The storm is worsening, I fear. We may be caught here for some time.”

Still disbelieving we were together again, I shook my head. “What
does
bring you here, old friend? Are you, too, searching for the Galator?”

The poet’s expression darkened. He moved to avoid a new trickle of water from the slab above us. “No, my boy. Not the Galator.”

“What, then?”

“I seek the person responsible for the return of the kreelix.”

Hallia tensed, as did I. “The kreelix? What have you learned?”

“Precious little, I’m afraid.” Gathering his cloak, he sat down on the wet stones, motioning for us to join him. I did so, while Hallia remained standing apart. “Suffice it to say that shortly after you and Rhia departed, I set out myself—to learn whatever I could. Kreelixes have been gone for ages! Their return threatens the life—not just of you, my boy, though that’s weighed heavily on my mind—but of all creatures of magic. Indeed, of this whole island.”

His bushy brows drew together. “Rags and rat holes, it was hard to leave Elen! Yet I knew that my path could be dangerous, almost as dangerous as your own. Even so, she wanted badly, very badly, to come with me. If she hadn’t already promised to wait for Rhia in the forest, I could never have stopped her.”

Sadly, I grinned. “Rhia’s promise to come back was the only thing that kept her from staying with me, as well.”

“No doubt. You two, as brother and sister, couldn’t be closer.
So thoroughly bound, As roots to the ground.”

In the shadows, Hallia shifted her weight. And, though I couldn’t be certain, she seemed to edge a tiny bit closer.

Cairpré’s fist clenched. “Devourers of magic! I’ve spent many hours wondering who or what could have brought even one of them back.” A sizzling blast of lightning struck the mountain, followed by a crash of thunder. “And I’ve concluded that there could be only one source so wicked, so cruel, to have done it.”

Before he could say the name, I did. “Rhita Gawr.”

Grimly, he observed me. “Yes, Merlin. The nemesis of anyone—and any land—he can’t control.” His head, gray hairs dripping, swung toward Hallia. “That’s why he brought his terrible spells to this place. And why he tormented your clan into leaving your ancestral home.”

“But . . . why?” she whispered from the shadows. “This was our land. Our home.”

The poet waited for another roll of thunder to pass. “Because he needed no interference for a long time—long enough to breed and train the kreelixes. And your people knew too many of this mountain’s secrets. You might have gotten in his way. For to bring back those beasts, he needed to tap the mountain’s volcanic power. To unleash the
negatus mysterium
within its lava. That’s always been the case. Clan Righteous, the people who bred kreelixes long ago, often made lava mountains their hideaways for the same reason.”

Lightning struck the cliffs, etching our faces. I remembered, with a shudder, the emblem of Clan Righteous that Cairpré had described once before: a fist crushing a lightning bolt. “So do you think,” I asked hesitantly, “that Rhita Gawr has returned?”

“I cannot say. He may still be too enmeshed in his battles with Dagda, relying instead on mortal allies. Or,” he added gravely, “he may be nearer than we know.” The deep pools beneath his brows surveyed me. “Now, my boy. You said you’re seeking the Galator?”

I gazed out of the overhang into the darkening night, the wailing wind, the endless rain. “To use its power, if I can, to stop Valdearg.”

Slowly, he nodded. “As your grandfather did, long ago. Yet—why here? Is it hidden among the cliffs?”

“No. But an oracle is—the Wheel of Wye.”

“The Wheel! Rags and rat holes, my boy! If the Wheel of Wye exists, and I’m not sure it does, it could be every bit as dangerous as the dragon himself. Why would you ever risk such a thing?”

“I have no choice.”

“You always have a choice. Even when it seems otherwise.” He laid his hand on my shoulder. “Tell me where you have been since we parted.”

As rain slashed against the stone above our heads, I took a deep breath and began my tale. I told of my trek with Rhia, and my narrow escape from the living stone. My confrontation with Urnalda—and her treachery. The poet’s hand squeezed my shoulder tightly as I described the shock of how she destroyed my powers. And my staff. I went on, telling of my escape, of Eremon’s wondrous gift, and of our discovery of the mutilated eggs, the ghastly remains of Valdearg’s offspring.

Then, to the surprise of both Cairpré and Hallia, I described how I had found the last surviving hatchling—and tried to save its life. All through that long night. And how, with no magic left in my hands, I had failed.

Hallia, as gracefully as a falling leaf, sat down beside me. “You really did that? You never spoke of it.”

“I didn’t do anything worth telling about.”

“You tried.” Her eyes glistened in the waning light. “To save a life you didn’t need to save. Not the sort of thing most . . . men would do.”

“Perhaps not,” observed Cairpré. “But it was the sort of thing a wizard might do.”

I bit my lip. Then, as much to change the subject as to finish my tale, I continued. Briefly, I sketched the attack by the second kreelix—and Eremon’s sacrifice. I described (though it made me feel nauseated) the terrible whirlwind. And, at last, our encounter with Domnu. As I felt Hallia’s warm breath upon my neck, I explained the disappearance of the glowing pendant, and the hope, however faint, that the oracle might help me find it again in time.

After I concluded, the shaggy-haired bard watched me solemnly for a moment. The last hint of twilight ran along the ridges of his wet brow as he spoke again. “Rags and rat holes, my boy. You do seem to attract your share of difficulties.”

Hallia managed a spare smile. “That he does.”

I struck my own thigh. “I should start for the cliffs right now! Storm or no storm! Whatever hours I spend huddled here are wasted.”

Hallia started to speak, but a sudden clap of thunder cut her off. Finally, she asked, “You would risk climbing a sheer rock wall, slick with rain, in the dead of night? With spirits of evil near at hand? You are more foolhardy than brave.”

I started to rise. “But I must . . .”

“She is right, Merlin.” Again the poet’s hand squeezed my shoulder, coaxing me back down. “Here. In the time we have together, at least let me tell you what I know about the Wheel of Wye.”

Reluctantly, I nodded.

Gazing at the gloom beyond the dripping edge of the overhang, Cairpré ran a hand through his wet hair. “If indeed the Wheel exists, and you can manage to find it, the legends say that you will face a choice. A difficult choice.”

“The obstacle,” said Hallia. “The one Domnu predicted.”

Impatiently, I shifted on the stones, wiping some drops of water off my chin. “What choice?”