The Great Tree of Avalon Read Free

night and talons slashed like daggers above their heads. Ossyn screamed as one talon sliced his arm. He staggered backward, dropping the sack on the downy branches. Blood gushed from his torn limb.
    The eaglewoman, eyes ablaze, swooped down upon him. Her wide wings flapped so that she hung just above this man who had dared to try to steal her child. Whimpering, Ossyn looked up into those golden orbs and saw no mercy there. With a wild screech that rattled the very timbers of the nest, she raised her talons and—
    Flipped suddenly onto her side, thrown over by the force of the black-tipped arrow that had just slammed into her ribs. Her lower wing dragged across the branches, sweeping up Ossyn’s cowering body. Together, they rolled across the nest, burst through the rim, and tumbled down onto the rocks below. Their shrieks echoed, pulsing in the air.
    Then . . . silence. Only the hiss and sputter of flame vents rose from the cliffs.
    On wobbly legs, Obba dropped his bow and stepped over to the edge. Looking down into the blackness below, he shook his head. “Ye clumsy fool . . .” He stayed there a long moment, resting his chin on a barkless branch. At last he turned toward the sack that held the limp body of the eagleboy. And slowly, he grinned.
    “Well, well, me liddle brother. Guess I’ll jest have to spend yer share o’ the pay.”
    He bent to pick up the sack, then stopped. Remembering Ossyn’s point about the stick, he grabbed a straight, sturdy branch from the floor of the nest and thrust it in with the eagleboy. Then he swung the sack over his shoulder, climbed over the side, and skidded down the wall of interwoven branches. Finally, his boots thudded against solid rock.
    Obba stood on top of the cliffs, checking warily for flame vents. And, even more, those pesky fire plants! Then he spied what he wanted—a spiral-shaped tower of rocks on the ridge of cliffs—and off he strode.
    Now fer the easy part , he told himself. No more crawling or climbing! All he needed to do was follow the ridgeline to that tower. Why, he could almost just ignore the putrid flame vents . . . and pretend he was out for an evening stroll. Like some village elder, maybe. An elder who would soon be very, very rich.
    So why not enjoy himself a bit? He stopped, dropped the sack, and uncorked a small tin flask. Firebrew, the locals called it. With good reason! He took a sizable swig, feeling the burn go right down his gullet. And then another.
    Aye, that’s better.
    He burped and grinned again, this time a bit crookedly. Peering down at the sack on the rocks, he thought it might have stirred a little. One swift kick with his boot took care of that. The boy inside groaned, and the sack lay still as stone.
    Again he took up the load. Strange, walking seemed a bit trickier now—as if some little tremors were making the rocks wiggle under his feet. No cause for worry, though. As long as he kept his distance from the steep edge of the cliffs, he’d be fine.
    Now he could see the flecks of green flame at the base of the spiral tower. Just like White Hands had said. That old schemer sure did have this whole thing figured—the cliffs, the child, even the eaglewoman. Obba nodded grimly, patting the strap of his empty quiver. And he recalled the final instructions: Just bring the child through the portal of green flames, say the chant, and let my power guide you home.
    A pair of sizzling fingers sprang out of a crack and clutched at his boot. Obba sidestepped, nearly tripping. Those tremors again! The whole ridge seemed to wobble under his feet. With a glance at the spiral tower, he wondered how it stayed upright in all this swaying.
    Ah, but he had other things to think about now. More important things, like his payment. He could almost feel the heft of those coins, hear them clinking in his palm—his share as well as Ossyn’s. Ha! An’ he called me woodenbrain.
    All of a sudden he stopped short. There was the tower, all right, just ahead.