The Great Tree of Avalon

Prologue: One Dark Night

   A flame vent erupted on the cliffs, blasting the darkness like an angry dragon.

Well, OK, as opening lines go, we've all seen worse. "Angry dragon" seems a rather blatant way to tell people "hey! fantasy novel here!" and it's a little strange to blast darkness, but, sure, why not?

   Then another. And another.

Ah, hold on. My forgiveness doesn't extend to the second and third sentences in the book being sentence fragments. It puts me in mind of the fourth paragraph of David Moser's "This Is the Title of This Story, Which Is Also Found Several Times in the Story Itself": Introduces, in this paragraph, the device of sentence fragments. A sentence fragment. Another. Good device. Will be used more later.

All across the cliffs, among the highest in Fireroot, tongues of fire shot upward, licked the air, then vanished behind veils of ash and smoke.

Nor does my forgiveness extend to pushing the cliché "tongues of fire" to the point where the tongues lick the air.

Rotten as sulfurous eggs,

In other words, "sulfurous." I suspect he meant "Sulfurous as rotten eggs" and got confused, or else he started to write "Rotten as rotten eggs" and realized how stupid that sounded but managed to change it to something only somewhat less stupid.

blacker even than the black rocks of this ridge,

You can't be blacker than black. That's what black means.

the heavy smoke swirled under cliffs and poured out of crevasses. Fire plants, shaped like ghoulish hands, flickered strangely as they stretched glowing fingers at anything that moved.

Strangely, I don't really have a very good concept of what ghoulish hands look like, so that simile fell pretty flat for me. Nor does it especially tell me what a fire plant is, or whether it's flickering strangely from some internal combustion or from the flame vents, or why their fingers are glowing....

   But nothing moved on the cliffs.

Hold on—I thought the fire plants were stretching toward anything that moved. Does that mean they were perfectly still? Because if there's...

Nothing but smoke, and ash, and spitting flames.

Oh, right, I remember the smoke and ash and flames. So it's not quite true that nothing moved on the cliffs, but an exception like that isn't so...

Nothing...except two shadowy shapes that crept steadily higher.

...terrible, given that—wait, what? I thought nothing moved? Or nothing but the smoke. At this rate, we're going to get to "Nothing moved on the cliffs. Nothing, that is, except two shapes. And the two that followed them. And a small caravan they brought for supplies, as well as fifty pack mules...."

   It was night, and the two shapes, a pair of burly men, knew well that darkness brought added dangers. Yet this particular night had lasted for months on end, its blackness broken only by the ceaseless fires of the cliffs. For this was the Year of Darkness—a time long dreaded, ever since the Lady of the Lake had made her infamous prophecy that all the stars of Avalon would go dark, and stay dark, for an entire year.

See, that was just stupid. We don't know the dangers of the day—though presumably the tongues of flame are high on the list—and now we learn that there are added dangers without any real concept of what they are. But given that this night had lasted for months, "darkness brought added dangers" doesn't make any sense. It's not like these two shapes could have just said, "Well, hey, other shape, maybe we should wait until it's light out, huh?" (Also, while we're here: "broken only by the ceaseless fires of the cliffs"? Perhaps the citizens of the area should invest in a few lanterns.)

   Even so, the fact that night had swallowed all Seven Realms of Avalon—all seven roots of the Great Tree—was not the most terrible part of the Dark Prophecy.

No, far worse, the Lady had warned the People of Avalon that soon Capital Letters would engulf the Seven Realms, and Special Significance would soon Bring Their Doom.

No, far worse, the Lady had also foretold that in this year of darkness, a child would be born—a child destined to bring the very end of Avalon. The only hope, she had added,

Stop. Just stop. If this child is destined to do X, then how the hell can there be any hope? It's like the immovable object and the irresistable force. If the hope succeeds, then the child was pretty clearly not destined to bring the end, was he? He was destined to try until the hope stopped him.

would come from someone else, someone she called the true heir of Merlin. Yet who that might be, and how he or she could ever defeat the child of the Dark Prophecy, no one knew.

   "Aaaghh!"

Oh, good, at least the characters in the novel are as pained by the prose as I am.

   The man's pained cry echoed over the cliffs. "Damn lava rocks. Burn me feet, they do."

   "Shuddup, ye blasted fool!" spat his companion, crouching nearby. "Afore ye ruin everthin'."

Indeed! Shuddup afore ye kill wha hope we had left wit' yer lousy dialect. (Since nothing's moving on the cliffs, one might wonder how the hell screaming is going to affect much of anything.)

   The first man, still rubbing his feet through the burned-out soles of his boots, started to reply— when he caught sight of something above them, at the very top of the cliffs. "Look thar," he whispered, staring at a great tangle of branches, half lit by flames, that seemed to claw at the black sky.

So far, the sky's been licked by flames and fingered by plants. Now it's clawed by branches, and if this keeps up it's going to have a pretty strong sexual harrassment suit against the earth. Perhaps the Lady of the Lake was prophesying a Sexual Harrassment Suit? Of Doom?

   "Where?"

   "Sure, but thar's jest the place to find both, I say. Ossyn, if ye wasn't me dumb liddle brother, I'd chuck ye right off this cliff. A dead flea's got more brains!"

Clearly this planet has entirely the wrong quality of rogue. Anyone else wondering if we could just cast this book aside and read about Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser? Or, really, any rogues who have a better idea of their mission than "a child and some sort of stick" and a better idea of where to find it than "maybe a nest"?

   Ignoring his brother's growl, he went on. "Look, ol' White Hands got us here all right, didn't he? An' promised us we'd find the child he wants. The one he calls the true heir o'—"

   "I don't give a dragon's tooth what he's called, just as long as White Hands pays us good as he promised. What's yer point?"

Just in case the dialect and insults didn't clue you in: these are no lovable rascals, but lowlife mercenaries. And while we're stopped, let me take a moment to point out that, fantasy novel or no, you can't just replace earthly swear words and oaths with random fantasy references and hope they sound cool.

   Using the sleeve of his ragged cloak, Obba wiped some sweat from his eyes. "Me point is, think about what White Hands said. On top of the flaming cliffs, you shall find the child. Them's his exact words. An' then he says to us: Beware the eagle-mother, who will do anything to protect her young. Don't that make it clear 'nuf? The child's in a nest."

Not only is "White Hands" a terrible nickname, it's clear that "Dragon Droppings For Brains" would be a better nickname, given that he's the sort of person who sends these two clods out without better directions. (And I'm starting to suspect that they're faking that accent, given how easily they slip into formal, unaccented speech.)

   "Clear as smoke," his brother retorted,

So far, the characters have "spat," "whispered," and "retorted" their utterances. It's one of those dark unpleasant worlds where no one can just "say" anything. (Well, White Hands did. Maybe that's why he didn't come on this journey; his dialogue just isn't interesting enough.)

waving away another plume. "Even if thar is some eaglechild hidin' up thar, it could be the wrong one. Could be any ol' child—or even the Dark child that everyone's jabberin' about!"

Tell me honestly. Have you ever, ever heard anyone actually use the word "jabbering"?

   Obba reached over and grabbed his sleeve. "Use yer brain, will ye? There ain't hardly any children bein' born this year—not in any realm, remember? An' lots o' those that are born get killed straight away, fer fear they could really be the Dark one. So if we do finds any child up here, it's more'n likely the right one."

   His eyes gleamed savagely, reflecting the flames. "Anyways, we don't really care, do we? If ol' White Hands wants to pay us fer a child, we brings him a child.

Remember, dear reader: base mercenaries. We wouldn't want you to get too attached to these two. Just in case something happens to them.

An' if he wants to believe that the true heir is so young—foolhardy if ye ask me—that's his own friggin' folly! Besides, didn't his liddle entrails readin' also tell him the child wouldn't come into power fer seventeen years? That's plenty o' time fer us to vanish wid all our coins."

   A slow grin creased Ossyn's face. "Maybe yer not such a woodenbrain after all." Suddenly he yelped, as a clump of hot ash blew into his eye. "Ogres' eyeballs!" he swore.

By the beard of the great goat! Perhaps I didn't make clear that you can't just make up random fantasy references and call them oaths. And once again, a character can't manage to merely "say" something.

"Whatever we're paid won't be 'nuf." He swung his fist at the smoky air—and smashed his brother hard on the ear.

   Obba howled, then punched him back in the gut. "Ye clumsy troll! Any pay's too small wid all yer foolishness." He slumped against a cracked boulder, tugging the hunting bow on his shoulder. "But we won't get paid nothin' if we don't—ehhhh!"

Did we mention that they're mercenary?

   He leaped away from the boulder just as three fiery fingers pinched his rear end.

Good, good, now he can be a witness in the sky's sexual harrassment suit (of Doom).

Tripping, he sprawled forward and sent some loose rocks clattering down the cliff. He landed hard—right on his scorched bottom.

   "Owww," he cried, flipping back over onto his knees. "Ye fried me friggin' bacon!"

Fried. Me. Friggin'. Bacon. I don't think I could write this badly if I tried. (We're up to speech verb number five that isn't "say".)

   Obba clutched his sore rear end with one hand, while shaking a blackened fist at the fire plant that had singed him so badly. And so rudely.

Oh yes. Inanimate objects can be so very rude. I feel like there needs to be a trombone's "wah wah waaaaah" sound effect here.

"Ye cursed plant! I'll—"

   "Shushh," hissed Ossyn suddenly, pointing at the nest above.

(That's speech verb number six.)

   A rustle—then a pair of enormous wings slapped the air. Spanning nearly three men's height, the wings rose out of the nest, glowing orange from the fires below. Upward on the swells they rose, bearing the feather-covered body of an eaglewoman. As she flew, her feathery legs—and sharp talons—hung low, while her head, which kept its human form, turned toward the cliffs. Beneath streaming locks of silver hair, her fierce eyes flashed.

Beware, beware, the flashing eyes, the flowing hair that are the hallmarks of clichéd fantasy novels. And those are just the lowest points in a paragraph of low points: silver hair? Her head "kept" its human form...instead of changing shape, or what? Eaglepeople might be shapechangers, or partial shapechangers, but at the risk of slowing this narrative down any further, it would be sort of nice to know, especially since we're about to spend a lot of time with them.

   The eaglewoman raised one wing. Instantly she veered away, following the ridge line. A screeching cry—part human and part eagle, loud enough to freeze the two men's hearts— struck the cliffs. She sailed behind the rocky rim and vanished into the night.

   At last, the brothers breathed again. They traded relieved glances. Then, hit by the same idea, they started scurrying up the cliff toward the nest—although Obba did pause to glare at a certain fire plant. It just sputtered noisily, almost like a wicked chuckle.

Cue the trombone.

   Higher and higher the two men climbed. Several minutes later, they reached the top, a long ridge of steep cliffs broken only by a few pinnacles of rock. And by one enormous nest, a mass of broken branches and twisted trunks that the eaglefolk had carried all the way from the lowland forests in their powerful talons.

Remember the opening of this thing? In case you were lucky enough to block it out, that was the bit with the random sentence fragments and the "nothing moved. At all. Oh, except...." Perhaps you thought that was an isolated, innocent mistake. Lay that thought to rest, as here we have another sentence fragment ("And by one enormous nest....") that's also a belated exception to a generalization. If only the author didn't keep setting up strong images and then forcing us to edit them, we might be enjoying this novel!

No, not really.

The brothers clambered up the side of the nest. With a wary glance at the sky, they jumped down inside.

   And one thing more.

"Oh yes and also..." sentences are rapidly gaining on check-"say"-in-the-thesaurus verbs.

There, at the far side of the nest, lay a small, naked boy. Warmed by the smoky fumes from the vents, he needed no covers beyond the three or four feathers that lay lightly on his chest. He had only just hatched. That was clear from the temporary freckles that covered his entire body below his neck—freckles that marked the places where, as an adult, he would be able to sprout feathers at will. But for the unusually long hairs on his forearms and lower legs, the hooked nose, and the sharply pointed toenails, he looked like a human child of five or six.

   "Get him!" whispered Obba, seizing his bow. "I'll watch fer danger."

Oh, well. It's a repeat—we already had "whispered"—but chalk up another one for say-verbs.

   "Ye mean the mother?" Ossyn shoved his brother jokingly. "Or them fire plants?"

   "Move it," growled Obba. But just in case, before he looked skyward, he glanced behind himself for any sign of flames.

Get it? Get it? Ahaha what a knucklehead that Obba is.

   Meanwhile, his brother untied a cloth sack from around his waist. A plume of smoke blew past, but he stifled his cough. Stealthily, he crept across the nest, until he stood right over the eagleboy. His smirk faded as he gazed down at the child. "Do ye really think he'll pay us all that coin fer jest a scrawny liddle birdboy?"

   His brother nodded. Swiftly, he grabbed the sleeping child by the ankle, lifted him high, and plunged him into the sack.

(Another whisper. That's eight.)

   But not before the boy awoke. With eagle-fast reflexes,

Oh yes. Eagles are known around the world around for their reflexes.

he swung out his arm and caught hold of the sack's rim. Twisting, he freed one leg, let out a shrieking cry, and slashed sharp toenails across his attacker's face.

   Almost before he hit the nest, the eagleboy wriggled free. His yellow-rimmed eyes flashed angrily,

Look out! More flashing eyes!

and he jumped to his feet. His mouth opened to shriek again. Just then a heavy fist slammed into the eagleboy's head. He reeled, lost his balance, and fell into a heap amid the feathers.

   "So thar," spat Obba,

"Spat" is a repeat, but that's...oh, I've lost count.

rubbing his fist. "He'll sleep plenty good now." He rounded angrily on his younger brother. "Look what ye did, ye clumsy troll! Quick now, stuff him in yer sack. Afore the mother comes flyin' back."

   Obba picked up a branch and hurled it at him. "Ye bloody fool! This whole blasted nest is made o' sticks! Hundreds an' hundreds o' sticks. Jest grab one an' shove it in the bag. Afore I shove it in yer ear."

Somewhere, in another universe, Dark Helmet is shuddering in his, well, helmet. "Evil will always triumph because good is dumb," he told us, but here we have White Hands, who can't be good or he wouldn't have hired people with funny accents, being too stupid to hire competent help. Sure, it's dark, and all the smart people are staying home, what with all those added dangers of the darkness. But evil can't possibly triumph at this rate.

   "But what if it's not the right—"

   The eaglewoman, eyes ablaze,

The eyes have stopped flashing and started burning. Run! No, no, it's not the rogues who should run, it's the reader.

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.

Eagles can hover, you know. It's their reflexes. Incidentally, you know what might actually be worse than eyes that flash and burn?

Whimpering, he looked up into those golden orbs

Eyes that are called "orbs," that's what.

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.

Ooooh, that dash had me in suspense for a carriage return or two.

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.

Silence. Except all that noise. Have the belated exceptions pulled ahead yet?

   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."

You might not have gotten this yet, so let me take a moment to remind you: bad guys. Guys who are bad. In case you were in doubt after all the kidnapping and killing noble silver-haired women, Obba's someone who cares more about money than the life of his brother. Oh, he's a nice, human, well-rounded character, because he did feel that moment of grief, but basically, bad guy.

   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.

   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.

Firebrew. Oh, the idiocy. Incidentally, he drinks when he should be working. Did we mention bad guy?

   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.

Aw, but at heart Obba's really jest a down-home guy who briefly mourns the loss of a brother and has wacky adventures with fire plants.

   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.

   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.

In case it wasn't clear, he's...oh, forget it.

   All of a sudden he stopped short. There was the tower, all right, just ahead. Looking taller than he'd guessed—as tall as a full-grown oak tree. And it seemed more rickety than ever. But what was that? Moving in front of the green flames?

   A woman! Young. Peasant stock, by the looks of her shredded robe and scraggly red hair.

Just in case you weren't sure whether this woman would be a Good Guy just because she's clearly in some sort of opposition to Obba, she's got red hair. (And she's a peasant. Peasants, in that classic fantasy irony, are often noble.)

Obba smacked his lips. Now things were really looking up! Maybe he'd have a bit of fun before heading back through the portal with his prize.

Right. He's a greedy, alcoholic, abusive kidnapper. But just in case you didn't get it, he's now planning to have "a bit of fun" with a young woman. Maybe he's only going to challenge her to a game of checkers?

   Quietly, he slunk closer, ducking behind a blackened boulder. He studied his prey. She was facing the green flames, with her back to him. Probably warming her hands. Suddenly he roared and charged straight at the poor woman. Startled, she screamed and whirled around, nearly losing the bundled infant she held in her arms.

Red haired peasant, and with an infant. And she's "prey" and a "poor woman." But I'm still not clear on who the Good Guy is and who the Bad Guy is.

   Just a few paces away, he halted. With a lopsided leer, he dropped his sack, which hit the ground with a thud. Then, arms open wide, he rasped, "C'mere, me liddle flower." His crooked teeth glowed green. "Time fer gettin' warm on this cold night."

Aha. Lopsided expression, crooked teeth, bad pickup line. Maybe he's evil.

   She shook her wild red mane.

Not just hair, a wild red mane. Maybe she's good?

"Go away!" she cried in the Common Tongue, though with an accent that Obba hadn't heard before. "Before you meet the greater cold of death."

In case you're ever in an alley with an attacker who wants you to "warm" him: "Go away before you meet the greater cold of death" is a terrible comeback. Don't use it.

In case you're ever writing a novel: "cried" and, before it, "rasped" are not substitutes for "said." Don't use them.

And in case you're ever writing a fantasy novel: "the Common Tongue" is not a substitute for actually thinking through the world's languages. Don't use it. ("Hiroko stepped off the plane in Russia. 'Which way to a taxi?' she asked in the Common Tongue." Hardly.)

   "So yer a bold one, eh? Jest how I likes me flowers."

Terry Pratchett lampooned this something like twenty years ago, "'I like a girl with spirit,' he said, incorrectly as it turned out." It was already ludicrously clichéd at the time. It's no better now.

   He moved closer, knowing that she was trapped between him and the tower. Even if she did know that the green fire was really a portal, she wasn't likely to try to escape that way, unless she knew the special chant to protect a baby. By the wizard's beard, this was going to be easy!

   "Shall what, me blossom?" For the first time, he noticed her eyes: fiery orange, upturned at the corners. Flamelon eyes. So, she isn't human at all. Jest one o' them fire-people.

Fiery orange eyes. On the upside, it's now OK if her eyes flash or blaze. On the downside, that's another easy color-code way to tell that she's one of the Good Guys.

   "Now c'mere, afore ye gets me angry." He stooped to grab a rock. "So I don't have to hurt yer liddle one."

   Obba advanced on her. "Time fer pickin' flowers, heh heh."

Heh. Heh. Oh god make it stop.

   "Go away, I said!" Trembling, she raised her left hand, as her fingertips began to glow like fire coals. Bright orange they turned, sizzling and crackling with growing heat, preparing to hurl a firebolt into the very heart of her attacker. Her arm straightened, her fingers pointed, when —

Once again, the Dash of Suspence! Whatever will happen!

   Obba's rock flew into her forearm, cracking her bones. She cried out in pain as the glow faded from her fingers. Stumbling backward, she fell, dropping her baby on the ground. She crawled toward the shrieking bundle.

   But Obba got there first. He lifted the infant high in the air, out of her reach. His eyes burned like flame vents. "Now, now there. Lemme jest quiet yer liddle one."

Nonono, her eyes are allowed to burn. His eyes, no.

   "Stop!" Still on the ground, she kicked at him. But he just stepped aside, chuckling, as the baby in his hands wailed loudly.

   Obba planted his feet, ready to smash this noisy creature against the rocks of the ridge. "Yer goin' to crack right open now, jest like an egg."

Infanticide. I think all that's left is idolatry, and perhaps dishonoring his mother.

   "Nooo!"

You can tell she means it! She put an extra two o's into it!

   His arms tensed. He started to throw.

   At that instant, something hard rammed into him. Not a rock—but a head. The head of the eagleboy!

Exclamation point. This is exciting.

   Obba staggered backward and fell hard against the tower. The baby slipped from his grasp. Springing, the woman caught her son and rolled aside.

   Something pricked the eagleboy's shoulder. A talon!

Exclamation point.

It closed on his shoulder, grasping him firmly without slicing his skin. He looked up anxiously, relieved to see his mother's face again.

   But it wasn't his mother!

Well, duh, she's dead. That didn't warrant an exclamation point.

In a blur, as the boulders came cascading down, he saw a powerful eagleman swoop just above him. One talon held his shoulder, while the other grabbed the huddled woman and her child. The eagleman's great wings carried them to safety, whooshing like the wind.

   With a great, grinding crash, the spiral tower collapsed. Shards of stone and clouds of soot exploded into the sky, merging with the plumes of smoke. The rescued people escaped by the breadth of a single feather.

For maximum drama.

Obba wasn't so fortunate: His dying, anguished thought was of all those precious coins he would never get to see.

JUST IN CASE YOU DIDN'T GET IT. In about five paragraphs, we can expect this strange red-haired, orange-eyed woman to look back at the ruins and muse, "That horrid man. Dying there under those rocks, and he was probably just thinking of money." Just in case you got it but forgot.

   The eagleman veered, flapped once, then set them down on a broad, flat stone at the edge of the cliffs. He landed a few paces away. For a moment he just gazed at them, his golden eyes aglow—not from the flickering fires all around, but from a far stranger fire within.

   Before them now stood a man. Indeed, a very old man. His tangled, white beard fell below his waist; his ancient eyes seemed to be laughing and crying at the same time; his nose seemed almost as hooked as an eagle's beak. He wore a long robe of azure blue, flecked with runes that shimmered like mist in morning light. Upon his head sat a miserable, half-crushed hat, whose pointed tip leaned to one side.

White beard, check, strange eyes, check, blue robe, check, mystic symbols, check, pointed hat, check. Wait, where's his staff? What kind of caricature leaves his staff at home?

   The woman gasped, bringing her hand to her mouth. "I know you," she muttered. "You are—"

You only mutter something when you don't want someone else to hear it, but she's muttering this directly to him. The frequent trip to the thesaurus descends from the sublime to the ridiculous.

   Instantly he raised his hand in warning. "Speak no more, my dear. Not here." His dark eyes roamed over the ridge, hovering briefly on the smoking pile of rubble—all that remained of the spiral tower of rocks. "Eyes may be watching, ears may be listening. Even now."

Speaks in cliché, check. But the staff! The staff!

   He leaned toward her, one of his hands twirling strands of his beard. "You know me, yes. And you know that I have come all the way here for good reason. To save the life of someone most precious—not just to me, but to the entire world of Avalon."

   The eagleboy winced at these words.

Let's review for a moment. When we met this boy, we learned that "he had only just hatched." But he understands English—sorry, he understands the Common Tongue? Barron isn't even trying at this point.

His whole body trembled, but still he tried to stand up straight. Gently, the woman placed her hand on his shoulder. He shook it off, without even turning to look at her. Rather, he kept his yellow-rimmed eyes focused on the old man.

   Doffing his misshapen hat, the elder bent down on one knee. His long, hooked nose almost touched the eagleboy's. "Your name is Scree, is it not?"

"Scree." His parents were, one assumes, Scraw and Scraah. It's a good thing eaglepeople are rare, because they can only manage five or six names, total.

   Stiffly, he nodded.

   And it kept right on growing. Thicker and longer it grew, right before the amazed eagleboy, until it was a full-size staff, gnarled and twisted along its whole length.

Oh, there's the staff. Thank heavens, I was starting to lose all faith in our mysterious visitor.

Strange runes, carved on its sides, glowed mysteriously. The old man paused a moment to study the staff, turning it slowly in his hand. Then, with a sigh, he tapped its knotted top. The runes shimmered and vanished completely.

It's a shame I wasn't counting clichés, because "runes that vanish completely" is probably about number three hundred.

   "Your staff." He took the eagleboy's small hand and placed it on the wood below the handle. "It has served me well, over many long years. And now, I hope, it will serve you."

   "Good. The word of an eagleboy is worth a hundred wizard's spells."

Awwwww. How touching. And cute. Look, he's passed on his staff, isn't he supposed to keel over dead soon? Please?

   The boy's shoulders straightened. He took the staff, hefted it, then brought it close to his chest.

   The elder's expression brightened for an instant, then turned somber again. "Are you too young to have heard of the Dark Prophecy?"

He just hatched! Oh god, why do I bother.

   He just frowned.

   At last, his face grave, the old man arose. He placed one hand behind his hip and straightened his creaky back. "Ah, to be an eagle all the time," he said wistfully. "Flying is far more pleasurable than standing or strutting about! And better on the back, too."

He did it! He did it! Barron managed to have someone just say something instead of spitting, muttering, howling, whispering, or ejaculating it. Of course, he had to ruin it with an adverb, but it's a start.

   Once more he fixed his gaze on the eagleboy. "This is no small task I leave you my young friend. It will be lonely. And dangerous. And long—as long as seventeen years.

Good thing the Bad Guys were nice enough to tell us what this meant before they died.

But this, at least, I can promise. One day, you shall have great wings of your own. And then you shall fly! High and far, you shall fly."

   "His name means Dark Flame in the language of your people, does it not?"

Of course it does. What a fine name to give your child. You wouldn't want to name your child "Great Hope" or "Cute Widdle Toes" when you could work the word "Dark" in there.

   Hesitantly, she gave a nod.

   He reached toward the infant and placed the tip of his bony finger upon the tiny brow. "Unlike your new brother, you will have no wings of your own. And yet, perhaps...you might find your own way to fly."

I'd bet this is foreshadowing. But to find out I'd have to make it the rest of the way through the book...

   Smiling ever so slightly, he took a step back, so that he stood on the very edge of the cliff. In a ringing voice, he said: "Farewell, my good people. I doubt we shall ever meet again." He paused, viewing them with eagle-bright eyes. "Yet I shall still be with you."

Said, with no adverb but an adverbial prepositional phrase. He can't quit cold turkey, but he's definitely easing off. The adverbs, meanwhile, are drifting to the other actions: he can't just smile, he has to smile slightly. Ever so slightly.

   Once again the woman put her hand on the eagleboy's shoulder. And this time he let it stay.

   He didn't seem to hear. Shimmering light glowed all about his body, and he transformed again into a great eagle. Wings spread wide, he leaped into the air and surged upward. Higher and higher he climbed—then suddenly veered back toward the cliffs.

Incidentally, this is the second time in the chapter that Barron has written "higher and higher (someone) climbed." It's a very clichéd way of phrasing the idea of "climbing higher and higher," which may well explain why Barron used it twice rather than finding an original phrasing either time.

With a screeching cry that rolled across the ridge, he plunged toward the smoking stack of rubble.

   Just before hitting the rocks, the eagleman tucked his immense wings behind his back. He shot downward, gaining speed. But he did not crash. Instead, he dissolved straight into the stones, leaving only a whoosh of wind...and then silence.

Oooooooh, spoooooky. Eerie. I wonder if he was magical or something. But mostly I wonder why anyone would keep reading this book.