Merlin 01 - Lost Years of Merlin 1 - The Lost Years by T. A. Barron

Author:T. A. Barron
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Puffin Books
Published: 1995-12-31T18:30:00+00:00

22: ENCOUNTER IN THE MIST

I emerged from the cave into the swirling mist. I could barely make out Rhia, even though she was only a few paces away. Beside her stood Shim, so covered with sticks and dirt and leaves that he looked more like a miniature mountain than a miniature person. Glancing down at the Galator, I noticed that it no longer glowed.

Rhia sat in a small grove of elms, where five young saplings had sprouted around an elder. She watched me exit the cave, clearly relieved. Then she leaned close to the old elm tree in the center of the grove. She began talking with it, whispering in low, swishing tones. In response, the tree rocked slowly on its roots, creaking with a voice that seemed terribly sad.

In time, Rhia turned to me, her eyes clouded. “This tree has seen more than two hundred springs in Druma Wood. Yet now it’s sure it has seen its very last. It weeps every day for the future of its children. I told it not to lose hope, but it said it has only one hope left. To live long enough to do at least some small thing to keep the Druma safe from warrior goblins. But it expects just to die of grief instead.”

Shim, standing beside her, rubbed his dirt-caked nose and looked down.

I could only nod sadly and watch the streaming mist. All at once I picked up the sweet scent of apple blossoms.

“You sssseem sssso very glum,” said a familiar voice.

“Cwen!” Rhia leaped to her feet. “What ever brings you here? You almost never go out walking anymore.”

Passing a branched hand before her face, Cwen emerged from the mist. “I sssshouldn’t have followed you.” She hesitated, a touch of fear in her teardrop eyes. “Issss it possible you can sssstill forgive me?”

Rhia’s eyes narrowed. “You have done something terrible.”

At that instant, six huge warrior goblins stepped out of the mist. Swiftly they surrounded us. Their thin eyes glinted beneath pointed helmets, their muscular arms protruded from shoulder plates, their three-fingered hands grasped the hilts of broad swords. Beads of perspiration gathered on their gray-green skin.

One of them, wearing red armbands above his elbows, brandished his sword at Cwen. In a wheezing, rasping voice, he demanded, “Which one has it?”

Cwen glanced furtively at Rhia, who was glaring at her in astonishment. “They promissssed me I could usssse the Galator to make mysssself young again.” She waved her shriveled fingers. “Don’t you ssssee? My handssss will wither no more!”

Rhia winced with pain. “I can’t believe you would do this, after all the years—”

“Which one?” rasped the goblin.

Cwen pointed a knobby finger at me.

The warrior goblin stepped into the grove of elms and aimed his sword at my chest. “Give it to me now. Or shall I make it very painful for you first?”

“Remember what you ssssaid,” urged Cwen. “You promissssed not to harm them.”

The goblin wheeled around to face the aging treeling. A thin smile curled his crooked mouth. “I forgot.

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