Fantasy Books by B. V. Larson

THE HAVEN SERIES

Volume I: Haven Magic

(First three books: Amber Magic, Sky Magic, Shadow Magic)

Volume II: Dark Magic

(Books 4 thru 6: Dragon Magic, Blood Magic, Death Magic)

Volume III: Dream Magic (Series finish)

Visit BVLarson.com for more information.

DREAM MAGIC

Haven Series VOLUME III

by

B. V. Larson

This book contains the exciting conclusion to the Haven Series.

Copyright © 2013 by the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

Contents:

Contents:

Book VII: Dream Magic

Appendix A: The Nine Jewels

Appendix B: Major Characters

Appendix C: Mythological and Historical Characters

Book VII: Dream Magic

Translated from the Teret, the compendium of Kindred wisdom:

Every night before the dawn breaks above us, our world is cold, the sky is black, and our souls struggle to awaken from the abyss of sleep. It is that moment of awakening that approaches us all now, the precise instant during which we must pass from sleep into dazed wakefulness—or perish in the attempt.

Let me attempt to explain: When a given era bumps into the next there is always a dark time of chaos in-between. We are in the midst of such a crucial time of change this very day.

It as if we have lived in darkness our entire lives, but are about to open our eyes and greet a new and promising tomorrow. It is true that such moments in history are often violent and unpredictable. However, for those of us who survive the coming transition, the future is filled with sunshine, warm fires and hot plates of fresh-cooked, dripping meat.

Look around you, Kindred, for you and I are all still dreaming! This is the moment before the awakening, but do not fear the new way of things to come. The morning will be better for those who live to see it than life is for all of us today. Fear, strife and war will ease and fade into memory for a generation.

At last, the time of insanity is finally ending, and the madness we have known for so many centuries is coming to an end. Our dreams will soon fly apart, and there will be naught left but their ghosts to haunt us once they are safely gone.

—Queen Gudrin of the Talespinners, written circa the Fifth Era of the Earthlight

Chapter One

The Witch in the Wood

After an unknowable number of years spent in a dark underground pit, Myrrdin had escaped his prison. He took the reins of a great living oak, using the power of the Green Jewel Vaul to do so. He freed himself from the earth and took his place in the heart of the tree he had animated.

During his long years of captivity, his thoughts had become twisted things. His spirit raged like one of the fresh Dead, and his new conception of justice was not entirely rational.

When he rose up into the Great Erm he had only a single thought in his mind: vengeance. He did not care if he was in the right or not, he only wanted to see his enemies die. He thought his victims might even agree with him on this point, for they were heartless elves.

Just or not, he slew as many as he could. Certainly, for the elves he killed that grim day, it did not matter if his cause was fair. They had been crushed down into the moist loam beneath the permanently shaded undergrowth, and they were no longer concerned with philosophical matters.

A dozen died, then a score—until Myrrdin couldn’t find any more of his kinfolk to slay. The thick roots of his shambling oaken body were encrusted with caked mud. The mud dripped, having been churned into a black mixture of soil and blood.

When at last he’d finished his task, he headed off into the trees. Inside the core of his living, raging self, he sang a lively tune only his ears could hear. It seemed to him this day was among the best in his long life.

He did not go far into the Great Erm. He waited there for only a few minutes, hunkering down behind a massive spruce as big as a mountain. When at last he could stand it no more, he charged back to the village, because he was not yet done.

He’d hoped to find those that had hidden from him wandering the wreckage, perhaps weeping for their loss. He was disappointed. He hunted for survivors, but found none. When at last he stopped trampling the village, the forest quieted to an almost unnatural stillness.

Myrrdin paused in his destruction, and the trees, which had echoed the din of murder not long ago, now stood silent and watchful. Myrrdin’s single exposed eye roamed the landscape. The elves were tricky and elusive. He knew this from centuries of experience. They were masters at both flight and remaining quietly hidden. So he waited like a cat outside a mouse hole, eager and staring.

At last, something stirred among the ruins of a crushed mushroom hut. There was a living thing beneath the debris. Myrrdin shivered with anticipation, and the great oak that encompassed his emaciated body shivered with him. Leaves the size of eagles rustled, despite the fact there was no wind.

Vaul itself seemed excited as well. The Green Jewel was somewhere within the great oak he drove as a man drives a horse down a lane. Myrrdin could feel the Jewel of Power whenever he stayed still, the way a hunter might feel his heart pounding within his own chest while listening for wounded prey.

Myrrdin didn’t stop to wonder at the Jewel’s excitement, nor at his own. During his long possession of the stone, he’d rarely wielded it this way; in anger. That it should now, after all these centuries, become a thing full of bloodlust and delight at the slaying of tiny creatures didn’t trouble him in the slightest. His only interest lay in what was at the bulbous feet of the monstrous tree with which he’d become one. There was something alive in that squashed mushroom hut, and he meant to destroy it utterly.

Finally, the squashed white meat of the mushroom tore apart and the creature trapped beneath it rose up from the wreckage, grunting. Myrrdin’s lone exposed eye narrowed in surprise, for this being was obviously no elf. While elves were always slight of build, quick of movement and lovely to look upon, this thing was lumpy and grotesque. When it moved muscles humped and twisted under the monster’s wart-crusted skin. Thick, gray bones jutted out and moved under that skin as if threatening to puncture through the hide.

“An ogre?” Myrrdin asked aloud. His voice sounded strange, even to him. His words were more like the croaking of a swamp frog than the light, melodious speech of the half-elven. This thought made him hate the elves all the more for what they’d done to him.

Hearing the wizard’s voice, the ogre looked around in surprise. Myrrdin found the expression almost comical. The creature clearly had no idea what had happened to the village and was probably a half-wit. It had most likely been asleep when Myrrdin’s rampage had begun.

Ogres were very tough; so strong and thick of body they were difficult to kill. Even the fantastic weight of a walking tree had not done the deed.

Myrrdin knew as he watched the dumb creature push away the rubble of the hut there was precious little revenge to be had here. Killing this monstrosity would be a kindness. He was not in the mood to show mercy of any variety, so he set his great tree into motion again wheeling away and turning toward the deep forests. He steered the oak like a man jerking a carthorse’s reins.

The tree obediently lurched into ungainly motion. With thumping, crashing sounds, it left the devastated elf village.

“Mother?” asked the ogre aloud.

Myrrdin paused. Was it possible this warped half-beast was addressing him? He wheeled the tree again and stooped slightly to regard it.

The ogre now stood atop the ruins that had once been an elven home. It looked around in confusion, furrowing and unfurrowing its brow in turns.

“Mother?” it called again.

Finally, Myrrdin began to understand. His lips thinned and curved, forming a tiny smile. He’d forgotten the origins of all ogres: they were half-elven, half-human hybrids. Among all the possible creatures that may issue from elf-human mating, ogres weren’t the worst, but they certainly weren’t the best, either. All ogres were males, and if they did mate with another being they were likely to spawn even more vile things than themselves—nothing as simple and natural as another ogre.

Myrrdin thought it very likely that this ogre was a young beast, only recently whelped by a female in this very village. It did him some good to think that he’d probably killed the ogre’s mother. She was not fit to live if she created such an abomination.

Still, he was curious about the ogre. Why was it living here amongst the elves? Why was it so young—suggesting that the act of procreation had been performed recently?

“Ogre,” he said, trying to force his voice to sound normal. “What is your name?”

“I’m Ivor.”

“And what variety of creature is your mother?”

The ogre appeared startled. He looked around as if suspecting the heaps of broken mushroom huts themselves had spoken to him.

“You know of my mother?” he asked.

“No, you fool, I do not. That’s I’m asking you about her.”

“Where is my mother?” asked the ogre again, stepping toward the tree.

Ivor had determined that the oak was the source of the voice, and he did not seem surprised by the fact that a giant mobile oak tree had addressed him. Myrrdin could understand that. Any youngster who had been raised in the Great Erm must become accustomed to any number of strange occurrences.

“I’m not sure where she is,” Myrrdin said. “But if you describe her to me, I might be able to find her.”

“Mother is small,” he said.

Myrrdin rolled his one eye impatiently. “Yes, of course. But is she elf or is she human?”

“She’s elf.”

Myrrdin smiled. He knew then what had likely been the fate of this elf-witch who’d dared to gestate such a horror. She was probably under the fallen walls of another of these huts—Myrrdin himself had probably killed her with his vast, flopping roots. The thought brought him pleasure.

“An elf, you say?” Myrrdin said. “That’s very interesting. Do you recall her name?”

“Tegan.”

“Of course—one of Oberon’s youngest daughters. Do you know what you are, Ivor?”

The ogre hunched its shoulders and looked sullen. Doubtlessly, he’d been abused and teased all his short life about being an ogre. The more Myrrdin studied him, the more he thought the disgusting beast might be helpful.

“I’m an ogre,” Ivor said at last.

“Yes, but you’re more than that. You sir, are my nephew! My blood kin. Isn’t that surprising?”

Ivor indeed looked surprised. “Cousin? You’re a tree.”

“No, not cousin, you fool! I’m your uncle. And yes, I’m a tree. I don’t look like an elf, but then, neither do you. Oberon is my sire. I’m a half-elf, and Tegan was—um, is my half-sister. And that makes you my nephew. Do you understand? We’re family, you and I.”

“Okay…” said Ivor doubtfully. “So, where’s my mother?”

“I think she needs us,” Myrrdin said in a tone that denoted certainty. “We have to find her and help her. In fact, I think we can help each other. Will you help me, Ivor? Will you follow your uncle and do as he says? If you do, I’m sure we can find your mother for you.”

Ivor looked at him doubtfully. He kicked at the rubble of the hut he’d escaped. “Promise?” he asked.

“Yes, I promise.”

“Okay then, Uncle,” Ivor said at last. “I will follow you.”

Myrrdin’s lips thinned and the corners of his mouth upturned. The lips parted to reveal yellow teeth. He was grinning now. Grinning broadly.

* * *

In the Haven, time ran differently than it did in the Twilight Lands. In most cases, it ran faster in the lands of humanity than it did in lands of the Faerie. And so it was that even while Myrrdin spent a long while in his underground prison in the Great Erm, an even greater time had passed in the Haven. By the time he’d freed himself and destroyed an elf village, the short lives of humanity had trundled eleven years onward.

Trev was a half-elf with silver locks, quick feet, quick eyes and quick hands. He had grown up in the Haven and as was often the case with his folk, his body matured faster than did his mind. He now stood six inches taller than his mother and only six inches shorter than Brand himself. But people still considered him a foolish youth.

He had been a restless boy throughout his short life. By the time he was seventeen years old, he’d explored every inch of the Haven, from the Haven Wood to the Deepwood, from North End to the Border Downs. He knew the marshes, the shores of Glasswater Lake, and had even reached the foot of the Black Mountains to the west. But he’d never completely left the lands of his birth—not yet.

His mother, Mari, was still young and strong. But her face had become careworn with the passing of the years and she often traced each line on her fair skin while she scolded Trev.

“See this one?” she demanded with one finger on her brow. “That’s the one that came to me the night you went up to the cemetery alone to play with the Dead things.”

“I didn’t play with them, mother,” insisted Trev. “I would rather say that they tried to play with me.”

She waved away his words. “Don’t try to change the subject. I’ve got a new wrinkle just today. A fresh one under my chin. I hate these—see it as I look down? It’s deepened now into a permanent crease.”

Trev peered at her, but for his life he couldn’t see a difference. “You look the same to me as the hour before I left.”

She scowled at him. Somehow, this response hadn’t pleased her. Trev had been under the impression that telling women they looked young was a compliment, but he’d often been wrong in trying to predict their reactions.

“You’ve been gone a week without so much as sending word. Tell me now, and don’t lie, where have you been, Trev?”

“I never lie, mother.”

“Well, don’t twist the truth, then. Just tell me.”

Trev’s eyes traveled around the cottage. There was nothing much here to rescue him. There was a row of old leather hats over the door. The firewood pile stacked near the stove was small, but adequate for cooking in springtime. The creaking floorboards were uneven, but meticulously dusted.

His eyes fell at last upon the butter-churn near the cooking hearth. It stood forgotten where Mari had left it when Trev had come through the door, returning abruptly and unannounced.

Trev stepped to the churn. Cream had trickled down the sides of the hickory device and puddled on the floor. With a half-smile, he took hold of the broom handle-like stick that thrust up from the churn and began working it vigorously. It was a chore he’d hated all his life. He didn’t care much for butter even when it was finished. But now he went to work on the plunger, which made sloshing sounds as his efforts drove it up and down.

“What’s this then?” Mari asked. “No answer, just a few chores done? Do you know that’s what your father would do when he went away and wandered back a month later? He’d mend the roof, or carve a bowl for me.”

Trev kept churning. He turned a smile to his mother. “Do you miss him?”

“Of course I do! What kind of question is that? Are you trying to change the subject now as well?”

“No…” Trev said. “I just wondered about missing him. I mean, I wonder how it really works to feel pain at the absence of another. He’s still in my head and my heart, you know. Part of me still thinks father will return one day. That this disappearance of his is just another unusually long visit to his other life in the Twilight Lands.”

Trev’s eyes wandered back to Mari, and he stopped churning. She was crying.

“Stop that, mother. You know I hate it so. Do you still grieve?”

“I’ll grieve until the day I die, child. Then you can grieve us both, and you can keep your secrets forever after.”

Trev watched his mother cry in consternation.

“All right,” he said at last. “I’ll tell you where I’ve been. But you won’t like it. You’ll wish you’d never asked.”

Mari looked at him with fresh concern. Her eyes narrowed and she stopped crying. Her hands slipped down from her face, folded into fists, and came to rest on her hips.

“Just tell me.”

And so, reluctantly, Trev told his tale.

* * *

Several days earlier Trev had been wandering in the Haven Wood, as he often did in springtime. Caught up in the excitement of chasing a hare under the canopy of leaves until it finally escaped down a burrow, he looked up and saw something rare and astoundingly close: a rainbow.

Rainbows were a fearful sight for any thinking person from the Haven. Rainbows were lovely to behold, of course, but they were dangerous. The Blue Jewel Lavatis was capable of causing the rainbow to march against the winds and rains. Natural rainbows stayed still, but they were not safe anyway. They had two ends to them; at one end was always a great boon—but at the other was a hidden danger.

Everyone knew that, and everyone knew enough to hide from the glow of a rainbow in the sky.

But Trev was not like the Riverfolk he’d grown up with. Although Trev was only half elf, he took after his father’s side more than he did his mother’s. That was the nature of all half-elves: by definition, they took after their elven side more than they did their human side. Half-breeds that didn’t follow the pattern of elves became foul things almost without exception. They became trolls, ogres, beastmen—or worse.

So when he saw the rainbow, his heart did not pound with fear, but rather swelled with excitement. Here was something his kind understood better than anyone he’d grown up with.

Trev knew that in olden times, men had been braver in these lands. They’d traveled leagues as quickly as they could to find the foot of any rainbow they chanced to see. Often, the rainbow would vanish before the treasure seeker could reach the foot of it. Most accounted that a good thing. But sometimes, a man would manage to reach the spot, usually atop a mountain of bald stone or glimmering in the burnt bowels of a lightning-blasted tree. There were stories of pots of gold that were found on these rare occasions, or magical gifts, or smiling, accommodating maidens.

But there were other stories as well. Stories of strife and terror. The trouble was that there were two ends to every rainbow. One of them glimmered and shifted over a beautiful bounty—but the other invariably bathed a horror of some kind with its eldritch light.

When following a rainbow to its foot, there was no way to know in advance what you might find when you reached it: beauty or horror, pleasure or pain.

Trev stood staring up into the sky, transfixed. The sun was shining, but rainclouds rumbled to the North. He could tell the rainbow was quite close—perhaps within the reach of someone who was swift of foot.

Something took hold of his mind then. He hadn’t planned to make the attempt, but when he saw the curve of it and guessed the western end was closer than the eastern…he could not stop himself. He sprang into a loping run and vanished under the treetops.

Every hundred paces, he glanced up into the sky to see if it was still there. Sometimes, his view was blocked and he despaired, but after another hundred paces, he found it again, corrected his bounding course, and set off with renewed vigor.

As he ran, he accounted his chances as very good of reaching the foot of it. The apparition seemed fresh, and the light rain and sun continued unabated. Conditions were perfect, and among all the boys of the Haven, he was quite possibly the fleetest of foot.

And so he ran and ran carelessly, grinning and full of life. It was a challenge to him, that was all. An adventure. A story to be told later and a good time to be had now. He never concerned himself with what he would find; the fun was in the seeking. He’d never much wanted gold or to see something frightening. What he wanted was to do something today which no man of the River Haven had had the courage to do for long centuries.

He came to a stream and skipped over it, stone-by-stone, never letting his toes get wet. This stream was the border between the Haven Wood and the Deepwood. As such, it marked a passing point from an area of relative safety to a darker, denser forest that was known to harbor dangerous creatures.

After a few more minutes of running, he found himself in a thicket of fir trees. They scratched at him with claw-like branches.  Breaking free of the firs, he rounded a great pine trunk to find it had a fallen twin. He bounded over the log in a single tremendous leap. He was grinning broadly, but his expression faded when he next gazed up and saw the sky was darkening overhead, turning to an iron gray.

“No!” he shouted, knowing this could be the end of his adventure. Rainbows required light and rain together. If either the sunshine or the storm clouds won the contest completely, the rainbow would be snuffed out and vanish forever.

Trev had only one recourse: he ran faster. The wind roared in his ears and his silver locks flashed and bounced on his shoulders. He all but flew now, taking huge strides that would require any normal man three steps to make. He didn’t bother pausing periodically to look up for the rainbow.  It was either there, or it wasn’t. To shift his concentration away from his running while moving at top speed might mean disaster. He had to twist, turn and duck around each tree trunk like an eagle soaring between branches. He knew he had to be close to the foot of it, and figured that he’d soon know the truth of the matter.

His first inkling came when the land around him turned a deep lavender. A moment later it became blue, then a blinding green. He staggered and stopped, looking around. He’d found it. This was the terminus, the end of the rainbow. All around him, the earth and trees were painted with the deepest, purest colors he’d ever seen.

His sides heaved and he rested his palms upon his kneecaps. He was winded, he realized in surprise. But although his breath came in whistling gasps, he grinned broadly. He’d done something no man had managed in a century or more.

“Who are you?” asked a voice.

Trev straightened and spun around on his left heel, seeking the source of the voice. It sounded female, and came from close by.

There! He spotted her, a figure dressed in shimmering clothes. She stepped closer as he watched. Had she been hidden behind the trunk of that fallen pine? Possibly.

“I’m Trev, a boy of the Haven,” he said. “Don’t be afraid. I’m sorry if I startled you. Did you come here to seek the foot of the rainbow as well?”

She laughed softly and stepped closer. Trev frowned as she continued her approach. She did not seem afraid. Quite the opposite. If anything, she had the attitude of a stalking forest lion.

He saw now that she wore a robe of what must be white cloth. The robe seemed to scintillate in the light of the rainbow. A round oval stone that shone like fire clasped the robe to her neck. The stone was beautiful, but then he suspected that a bed sheet would be lovely to behold here in this enchanted place.

“I didn’t think anyone could run so fast,” she said. “Are all boys of the Haven like you?”

“No,” he said. “Not exactly. I’m faster than any of them.”

“I believe it. But even still, you almost didn’t make it, child.”

Trev looked around, losing interest in the woman. He wanted to see something unusual. After all, that’s why he’d come.

“I think the rainbow is about to die,” he said. “Is there anything else here?”

“Like gold or jewels?”

“I suppose. Anything unusual? I was hoping to see something new.”

“You don’t want to find a treasure and take it home with you?”

“No,” said Trev. “I would like to see it, though.”

The woman stood nearby now and she cocked her head as she gazed at him. She frowned.

“You aren’t what I expected to meet. There’s Fae blood in your veins.”

Trev didn’t answer her. He walked around her in widening circles, looking at the landscape. Already, he could see the red portion of the rainbow was coming apart, forming bright and dark spots like puddles of blood on the floor of the forest.

“Damn,” he said. “It’s ending, and there’s nothing here to see. I’m very disappointed. The legends must have been the ravings of drunks and braggarts.”

The woman snorted as if in disbelief. Trev turned his attention back to her.

“What am I, then?” she demanded. “A turnip in the road, crushed by a wagon wheel?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sure you’re a very interesting person.”

She came closer then, peering into his face. Then she took a step back.

“I see the blood of Oberon in you. I can’t fathom why you aren’t affected by my charms.”

“Were you trying to charm me? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.”

She shook her head bemusedly. “I think you’re the one who’s charming me. I find you as fascinating as you find me dull. What a strange turn of events. One would think you’d created this show of colored light to attract me rather than the other way around.”

Finally, the lady had Trev’s full attention. “You summoned the rainbow?” he said. “You? To lure me here?”

“Yes, Trev,” she said. “I did.”

“What’s your name?”

“I am Lady Morgana.”

“Tell me, fair Lady, how did you do it?”

She sat on a tree stump and smiled at him. It seemed to him that her confidence had returned somewhat.

“You don’t care who I am,” she said thoughtfully. “You don’t care that I lured you here—you don’t even want to know why. What you want to know is how I did it...”

“Exactly.”

“I think you have a weakness as great as your strength, boy. Do know what it is?”

“My mother says I can’t keep my nose out of things.”

“Exactly,” Morgana said. “You’re curious. You seek the dangerous and the unknown, which are one and the same.”

Trev shrugged. He’d been lectured by adults on precisely these points all his life. “Are you going to tell me how you did it or not?”

“I will, if you strike a bargain with me.”

Trev hesitated. He watched the woman as she sat and stared like a cat about to pounce. He did not fear her physically, as she appeared unarmed and relatively harmless. He gathered from her behavior that she thought he should have been overwhelmed by her charms, but he’d felt nothing special in the way of attraction toward her. He’d already kissed half the young maidens in the Haven, and this older woman seemed no more enticing than any of them had. If anything, he found her overbearing attitude off-putting.

“What sort of bargain?” he asked at last.

“First,” Morgana said, “you must lay with me. Right here, under the dying light of this rainbow on these sodden leaves.”

Trev considered. His mother had made him promise not to seduce young girls of the Haven. She’d insisted he was too young and they were the same. But this woman wasn’t from home. She didn’t fall under any such promises. He smiled with mild interest. He was a young half-elf, after all, and they weren’t known for their shyness.

“I agree. And what would the second thing be?”

She clasped his hands with her smaller fingers.

“Second, you will find something for me. You will seek it with all your heart and bring it back to me. And you must avoid telling people what it is you seek.”

Trev frowned. “Find what?”

“The Quicksilver Jewel. The stone that is the same color as your shining hair.”

Trev’s frown deepened. He snorted. “Is that all? I can’t promise to do that. I have no idea where it is. No one else does, either. You’re trying to give me a fool’s errand. I won’t spend the rest of my days in your service seeking a none-such.”

“You don’t have to seek forever. Just for a year and a day. That’s all, and if you tried your best and failed, you will be released from your bargain.”

Trev considered. He had never bedded a woman before and was as curious about the process as any young man his age might be. He’d always thought he would end up going to the Twilight lands to find a nice elf girl, or falling in love with a Haven girl the way his father Puck had done. Marriage had been drummed into him as a clear first step. But this way—this way seemed quicker and infinitely simpler. Better still, if he gave into this woman’s advances, he would not be breaking any vow to his mother.

On the second point, he was less interested. To him, a year was still a long time. His lifespan would measure many centuries, possibly even millennia. But he didn’t want to waste an entire year on a fool’s errand.

“A year is too long,” he said. “I’ll seek the Jewel until Midsummer’s Eve—no longer.”

Morgana’s mood shifted with startling rapidity. She made a hissing sound, ripped her hands from his and slapped him with the same fingers that had been caressing his a moment before.

“Such impudence!” she said.

Trev touched his cheek, finding three bleeding lines there. Her nails were amazingly sharp. “I take it you reject my offer? A pity. I was looking forward to the first part.”

She looked him up and down hotly. Finally, she sighed and nodded her head. “You intrigue me more than I do you. I find the situation disturbing. Knowing you are at least part Faerie, I hope you take your vows seriously.”

“I do.”

“Very well, let us consummate this deal now. The blood-color is already gone. The purple has faded to umber as well. Let’s make love in the heart of the green, where the light still shines the brightest.”

And so Trev took her into the green light. He laid with her there upon the moldering leaves with the brilliance of the rainbow shining down on his bare back. Morgana left many bleeding lines on his skin, but he didn’t feel the razor-like cuts until later when he put his tunic back on and they chafed and burned at the touch of cloth.

Trev found the entire experience exhilarating, and no longer regretted that he had chased down the rainbow to its termination.

“Now,” he said as they lay entwined. “Tell me how you summoned the rainbow. Do you possess Lavatis?”

“No,” she said. “That Jewel calls upon an elemental form of the rainbow—a mindless living creature. My power over it is not so great. I can only call the light and place it where I will.”

“But how?”

“With this,” she said, tapping the Jewel on her breast.

Trev looked at it, and nodded. “Is it a Jewel of Power then? If so, which one?”

She laughed and pushed him away from her. “That was not part of our bargain. Now, you must go and seek for me, until Midsummer’s Eve.”

He pressed himself close to her and kissed her again. She resisted at first, but then allowed the contact.

When he had parted company with Morgana, he was stricken by a single thought: Had he found the good face of the rainbow—or the evil hind end of it?

He could not be certain if the witch he’d met qualified as a blessing, or a curse.

* * *

Mari, hearing his tale, was quite certain that her innocent son had found a terror rather than a treasure. She was horrified that he’d lost his virginity to some unknown beastly woman of power. She raged in turns at the temptress Morgana and then at silly Trev. She lectured him on a dozen points at great length, until Trev found his attention wandering again.

“How could you get yourself into something like this, Trev?” she demanded.

“Pardon me, Mother,” Trev said, leaning his cheek upon his fist. “But didn’t you fall for Dad in a similar fashion?”

Mari’s eyes narrowed. Trev knew this sort of talk was certain to annoy her, but he’d become annoyed himself.

“When I fell prey to your father, the Faerie were new to the Haven. At that point, never in my entire life did I really expect to meet them. They seemed exciting and different. But the situation was entirely different in your case. You’ve met the Faerie many times—you’ve lived with them. You knew what you were getting into. You knew the dangers of chasing a rainbow, but you did it anyway.”

Trev heaved a sigh. “I suppose. But we both know why I did it. You have to understand the urge I feel to play with them, to seek them out. You did the same with Father, even after the first time you met a strange elf in wood. You went back for him. You did your best to find him again.”

Mari’s face became purple. Trev thought it was interesting when she did that. In this case, he marked it up to a volatile mixture of rage and embarrassment.

She cuffed him then, and he didn’t bother to duck. She’d only rarely struck him, but fortunately, it no longer hurt when she did it. He was too big now to care much.

“Do you feel better now?” he asked her gently.

Her sides heaved and tears ran down her face.

“No,” she said. “I feel terrible. I feel like I’m not getting through to you. I don’t want you to go off adventuring in the woods like your father did. He’s dead because of it.”

“Nonsense,” Trev replied. “He rambled for centuries without being killed. He died defending the Haven and all of us, not doing something foolhardy. He fought the Dead, and lost his battle. Could have happened to anyone.”

Mari calmed down. She nodded. “You’re right about that. I’m sorry to imply otherwise. But I just don’t want to lose you. You understand that, don’t you?”

“To a point. You see, this world we live in is much bigger than the Haven. When the Dead came, I learned that staying quiet as mice in Riverton doesn’t guarantee anything. It’s strength that wins the day when events take a bad turn.”

Mari gave him an entirely different appraising look. “What are you on about?”

“Just as I said: I seek strength.”

“By bounding around in the woods like a Wee One? By fornicating with random women met in strange places?”

Trev smiled slightly. “By having experiences. By interacting with beings of power and besting them.”

“To defeat the powerful when they become aggressive, you must have power of your own. Quick feet and quick wits won’t save you then.”

“Exactly. That’s where we agree.”

Mari’s eyes narrowed. “So you seek power of your own?”

“Like Brand’s, yes.”

“There’s only one Axe.”

“But there are nine Jewels. I mean to have one. Preferably one that doesn’t have a defending owner at the moment.”

“You can’t mean—oh, Trev—you can’t intend to take the Black!”

Trev’s eyes widened in surprise. He shook his head seriously. “No mother. I’m not mad! I touched the Black once, and that was enough for a lifetime. I don’t want a Jewel of such evil power.”

“They’re all evil,” Mari said. “I touched the Red, and I recall it well. I know what I’m talking about. Trev, tell me you’ll drop this folly. I know you promised that witch, but you don’t have to do it. Seek and fail. Search for months in all the wrong places, that’s all you have to do. Then you will be released from your bargain.”

He shook his head. “No, that isn’t my plan. I’m leaving tonight, in fact. I’ll reach the Deepwood by nightfall and I’ll leave the Haven behind.”

“Trev,” said Mari, sounding a trifle desperate, “I know I can’t talk you out of this. I know you too well—you’re just like your father. But I want you to speak to someone before you leave.”

“Who?”

“Brand. He’s the only man I know who has mastered his Jewel and not the other way around. Talk to him before you go. And listen to what he says. Will you do that for me?”

Trev thought about it.

“Yes,” he said at last. “And now I must leave to seek my fortune, dear mother.”

They embraced, and Trev left soon after. Mari gazed after him, and he could feel her eyes on his back and he knew that hot tears ran down her face.

Before he’d gone a hundred steps, he felt like going back to her. He felt homesick already. This was different from wandering alone in the woods and on the mounds at twilight. This was so much more serious.

But he kept his resolve firm. He waved once over his shoulder as he reached a copse of rowan trees before vanishing beneath them. Then his childhood home was lost to view, and he began to run lightly down the trail toward the Berrywine River.

Feeling happy, he whistled a lively tune. Birds squawked down at him, voicing their irritation.

Chapter Two

Old Hob’s Warning

Brand came down the steps of his castle, his slippers slapping on each flat plane of stone. The place was newly built but seemed a thousand years old already. The Kindred builders had used the old scattered stones from centuries past, but it wasn’t just that. He guessed that one could not erase ages of history, all those ghostly memories, with a decade of rebuilding.

Rabing Castle had finally become what he’d dreamed it could be all along. Since he’d first laid eyes on the ruins in the swampy lands North of North End, he’d wanted to restore the glory of the castle. Now that he’d managed it, on most days he felt content.

He’d drained the swamp by diverting the river to a new course around his lands. It ran clear and clean, and no longer flooded the flatlands in spring. Thousands of acres of fertile fields had been left behind. Irrigation was a simple matter, and ditches ran in networks everywhere.

Soon, the very necessary next element to his plan had gathered almost by magic: the people. Seeing that he offered protection and land to any capable farmer, taking only a lord’s payment each season and a vow to man the walls when trouble came, the people migrated to his banner steadily.

They’d come in a trickle at first. Men up from Riverton seeking work; women seeking husbands and a fresh start. Most of them were Haven people—good workers, clear-eyed and honest.

But soon others had gathered around his settlement, and he hadn’t the heart to turn them away. These were wilder folk, people of the woods and even some who’d wandered in the eastern plains living a nomadic life in wagons. These nomads had suffered much in recent years as the powerful battled around them, and they had spent their lives fleeing one safe spot for another. They’d come to Brand’s castle with hope in their dark, gaunt eyes.

He gave them that hope freely, offering them land and help in trade for fealty and hard work. Sometimes, they’d bitten the hand that fed them. Not all could be broken so easily of their old ways. After all, many were nothing more than wandering bandits. But with a stern and fair constabulary and an iron jail, he’d soon taught the worst of them the error of their ways. After serving out their punishment, he tried to offer them jobs as hunters, miners or quarrymen. The few that could not be tamed he sent back to the wilds with the sure knowledge that returning would mean death to them.

Fortunately, these irredeemable bandits were few in number. The majority became passable citizens in time.

Brand left his keep and walked the walls, welcoming the dawn. He wore a robe of fine-woven red cloth and slippers of silk on his feet. Both these had been fashioned by the tiny hands of Wee Folk, and the weave was so tight and the cloth so smooth no human hand could duplicate it. When he wasn’t doing anything official, he liked to wander his echoing castle in these soft clothes. He felt he deserved the break.

When the sun rose higher over the battlements outside, he watched it with squinting eyes and a faint smile. The swamp was gone from the region, and the land smelled fresh and rich.

There were lingering reminders of the past, however. There was almost always a morning mist hanging around the place, and today was no exception. Seen through the haze, the sun was a gray white disk and provided only wan light until later in the day, when it burned through the clouds and made everything warm again.

It was there, standing alone on his walls, that Brand saw a strange ripple in the air. He frowned up at it in instant concern. The Axe on his back knew the truth as well—it shivered in his pack, wanting to be freed. It had sensed something unnatural, and was instantly suspicious.

Brand peered at the sky. What had it been? It was as if a shadow had crossed the face of the sun—which was only a white disk now, seen hanging in the mist. Something was moving up there, he supposed. Possibly, an unusually large, low-flying bird had passed between him and the sun. It must have been inside the fog that shrouded the land. He decided the effect was odd, but nothing to sound the alarm about.

He turned his attention back to the growing town within his castle walls. The area enclosed was so great that he was sure he could house everyone in Riverton should they ever come here seeking safety. That had always been part of his secret plan: to build a fortress to protect his people in time of need. He did not want to impose his rule upon them, but if they needed him, the only lord of the River Folk, he’d be here, waiting.

What was that? The Axe was quivering again, and he knew it was in a high state of agitation. The handle had broken free of his pack and the blades were rasping on the leather walls of its prison. Soon, it might even have the ill-mannered impudence to thump him on the back of the head.

And for once, he could not blame the Axe, because he’d also sensed something very strange.

The clouds out to the east where the river ran by had finally broken. A shadow had flown there—right through the yawning hole in the fog. He’d seen it, but the figure was a colorless blur. It looked as might a bucket of thrown water, or a sheet of flying glass. The thing, whatever it was, had been transparent, he was sure of that. And it had come through that growing hole in the cloud cover.

It had flown from above to below, from outside, to inside. He could still see the edges of the hole in the cloud vapor moving, as if disturbed by something that had passed near.

But what was it? And what was it doing out there over his fresh-hewn stone walls?

Brand took a deep breath and came to a harsh decision. This might all be harmless—one of the Fae having a bit of fun. Or it might be something deadly, like the tail of an invisible dragon, caught sneaking into his castle unseen.

Whatever it was, he was not content to allow it to make itself at home here unannounced. He grabbed the haft of Ambros the Golden and lifted the weapon high. A moment later he caused the Eye of the Amber Dragon to wink.

All over the courtyard and the town beyond, people winced and ducked. To them, it appeared as if the sun had burned through the morning mists all at once and shone down upon their faces with blinding intensity. Everyone was provided with an instant headache and blinking, squinching eyes. They shielded themselves with upraised arms and cried aloud in surprise and fright.

There stood a figure upon the battlements of the castle, looking down upon them all and every one of those who saw him knew who this man must be, and what he must be holding aloft in his hands.

The Axe had been drawn, and at such moments, bloodshed was very likely to soon follow. The streets emptied as people first gawked, then ran for cover. Women shrieked for their children and men shouted for their sons to bring them arms.

Brand was aware of all this, but only barely. He was a new man. He had not drawn the Axe in anger for more than two long years. For this very reason, it was more powerful than usual, more like a tiger unchained at long last. Brand himself was comparatively weak against its will. The longer he went without drawing it, the greater its urgency became and the less disciplined he was when the time came to control it.

As always, drawing the Axe initiated a struggle within Brand’s mind. Today it was an uneven contest. He’d had no time to practice with the Jewel and steel himself. He had pulled the Axe from its worn pack and lifted it high, and now that it was free, it was the will of Ambros that drove his actions.

When Brand tried, and failed, to control the Axe, it blazed again with a second tremendous flash of light. One of the powers of the Amber Jewel was to fire rays so bright they could burn the eyes from a man’s blackened sockets at close range. It could also be used to produce less focused light which illuminated the region around it. When used this way, the light was brighter than the sun, but not so bright as to burn whatever it touched.

Today, the Axe released a flash like lightning that illuminated the castle all the way to the surrounding walls. Brand ignored the cries of fear from below him. His people were scuttling insects, beneath concern. His eyes stared toward the limits of his territory.

There! A shadow hovered over the northeast tower. Something hung there—something that flew and wished to remain unseen.

“Foul phantom!” roared Brand, his lips writhing of their own accord. They soon spread away from his teeth in a grimace of sudden intensity. His mind was not his own, and neither were his words. “I will see what dares to slink so close to me this morn!”

So saying, he fired an intense, focused beam toward the shadow over the north tower. Screams erupted from the network of roadways below the keep, those who had not yet found shelter were burned by the heat of the ray. It was not so powerful as to injure them seriously, but it stung, and filled them with terror. Horses reared and galloped, carrying away riders and carts. People were bowled over and rammed face down upon the cobbles. Doors and shutters slammed in every crooked street. Mothers grabbed up their babes and stumbled for their huts, arms thrown over their faces. Soon, the streets emptied and were lined with silent houses and shops.

Brand gave all this no heed. His staring eyes were locked upon the region of space directly above the tower. He knew it had to be there, the intruder he’d detected. He knew something was there—and he wanted nothing less than to burn it from the skies and slash it to pieces when he found its smoldering, flopping corpse.

The very idea of this caused a most hideous grin to stretch his lips wide.

Seeing nothing fall after his ray scorched the sky, he caused the Axe to fire more rays. Beam after beam lanced toward the tower. The watchmen inside and atop the tower fumbled with their bows, then seeing the attack was coming from the direction of the keep itself and that it must be their lord launching it, they huddled inside their loopholes and shivered, praying for salvation.

While he cast burning rays toward the sky, Brand simultaneously began running along the walls. A bridge of sorts connected the inner keep to the outer walls with a gatehouse placed upon the top to prevent attackers from easily gaining entrance to the center of the fortress. The bridge itself had a series of arches underneath through which traffic could pass from one section of the surrounding town to the other. It was over this bridge that he did charge.

When the gatekeepers fumbled with the chains of the portcullis, Brand decided their response to his roared commands to open it were taking entirely too long. He lifted the Axe and slashed with it repeatedly. The iron slats of the portcullis were cloven like so many sticks. He quickly destroyed the iron grate, heedless of the fact he’d personally had it installed only two months earlier. The twisted wreckage fell in a ruin and he charged through, passing his own startled, wide-eyed guardsmen.

His fine slippers slapped rhythmically on the flagstones as he ran at full tilt to the outer wall and then along the crenulated battlements toward the northeastern tower. There, he felt certain, he would find the intruder at last.

When he reached the tower his pikemen and archers fled in alarm. The word was out: Lord Rabing had finally gone mad and was killing anyone who got in his way with spittle flying and robes flapping. And so they ran from the charging madman, even as he raged at them and shot beams of brilliant heat into the sky beyond the castle’s northeast corner.

It wasn’t until he smelled a foul, burnt smell that he turned to look behind him.

He lifted the Axe and aimed it.

“Hold, Axeman!” came a shout from the thin air over the ramparts. “Control yourself, Lord Rabing! I’ve come for a peaceful visit. I’ve come to warn you of dangers unknown and unknowable.”

Brand’s sides heaved with exertion. Sweat ran from his pores, and had turned his fine red robes sodden and lank. The stink of something burnt increased, and he realized with pleasure that whoever it was that addressed him must have been touched with the flashing beams of his Axe.

His eyes did not blink as they intensely searched the air before him for the source of the voice. He still held Ambros in his hand, and he wanted to urge the Axe to burn that foul-smelling, speaking patch of air before him. The thought gripped his mind and tore at him.

Burn it! Kill the voice! Kill the invader that flies!

At last, after a long moment, he finally blinked. Some part of his rationality returned. He was surprised by the voice in his head. The Axe rarely spoke to his mind directly. It was a bad sign, he knew, for he had experienced episodes of madness when it did so.

He tried to think. He opened his mouth and a croaking sound issued.

Something laughed. This made Brand burn with a fresh rage. But he willed himself to calm down. He had to think.

What was it that flew in the air before him? Who might it be? Someone who liked to talk and flit about unseen? Who did he know who would dare to tease the Axeman, imperiling his own life by doing so?

“Hob,” Brand choked out at last. He lowered the Axe slowly, but did not let it drop completely to the flagstones at his feet.

“Old Hob…why have you come?”

A slow, rhythmic thumping began. A figure formed out of nothingness right in front of Brand. It started as an umber shadow, then grew into a stain upon the bright stones of the ramparts. A second later, the stain transformed into a cowled figure, and a few moments after that the full body of Old Hob stood before him, leering with yellow teeth and even yellower eyes.

The rhythmic thumping sound, Brand saw now, was coming from Old Hob. His big, misshapen hands were slapping into one another, making a popping series of reports that instantly grated upon Brand’s irritable mind. He was clapping, slowly and mockingly.

“Very good, Axeman,” Old Hob said. “You spotted me quickly. I’m not accustomed to being seen at all.”

Old Hob possessed the Lavender Jewel, which chose as its form a hunting horn. It provided the bearer with power over flight, sight and sound. It could make one as invisible and silent as a wisp of drifting smoke. Brand could see the horn now, where Hob wore it slung around his neck.

“Do not mock me here upon my own walls, goblin,” Brand said dangerously. “I’ve split creatures in twain for less.”

Hob stopped clapping. He straightened and made a gargling sound, clearing his raspy throat.

“I meant no offense. You should better contain yourself. You’re barely in control of that Axe. Make sure you’re the rider, boy, not the horse. Put it away, and show me who is in charge!”

Brand did not put the Axe away. Instead, he lifted it and aimed it at Old Hob, who shifted uncomfortably.

“Again you insult me. I’m the Axe’s master, but it knows an enemy when it sees one. I dare you to insult me again, here in Castle Rabing. Come, try it! I wish to see your rags alight.”

“No need, no need,” said Hob, lifting his hands in a supplicating gesture. “We are two creatures of power, two lords among our countless, helpless servants. There is no call for threats or insults between us. I’ve come with a gift, in any case.”

“What kind of gift?” Brand asked suspiciously.

He let the Axe drop to his side again, but still did not put it away. It squirmed in his hand, and provided images to his mind. He saw himself slashing away Old Hob’s outstretched olive-green arms and splitting open his deformed skull. Droplets of foul blood and even fouler glistening teeth would splatter the stones here, and he doubted the stain would ever wash away.

“I bear the gift of knowledge—of forewarning!” Hob said grandly. He seemed to be unaware of Brand’s mood, but he was watching closely.

“Speak to me, and know that at this distance you could never escape me. You are being judged today, king of the swamps. You must not be found guilty of deception, or your life will be forfeit, for I am the lord of this castle and these lands, and I will not tolerate deceit.”

Hob shrugged and dared to roll his eyes. “Really, Brand, it would be better if you put that thing away. It makes you—” Hob paused, seeing Brand’s face darken. “Never mind,” he said quickly. “I’ve come to warn you about a being known to you, a trusted comrade from the past. When he arrives, you will greet him with happiness, but he will bring you only sorrow. He knows not what he seeks, nor how to find it, nor what it will do when he does find it. But rest assured, neither of you will be happy when that day comes.”

Brand stared and frowned. Old Hob, like so many of his kind, never liked to state his meaning clearly. The Fae preferred to talk in riddles and half-truths. Brand, with the Axe gripping his mind, found this infuriating. He lifted Ambros with sudden purpose. He poised the twin blades under Old Hob’s Adam’s apple, which was huge and wattled.

“Speak plainly,” Brand said quietly. “For the words may be your last.”

Old Hob froze. He didn’t dare step away. His eyes bulged and his throat rose and fell as he swallowed. The baggy skin of his neck touched the twin shining blades of the Axe and a few drops of blood ran down the curved edges.

“Trev will come to you,” he said. “Do not help him! He is a stripling that plays with fire. He will burn down his house and yours as well. Let what sleeps slumber on. I beseech thee for both our sakes.”

Brand withdrew the Axe from Hob’s neck and frowned. He could think more clearly now. The Axe had tasted blood, and even though it was only a trickle, Ambros’ fever was less urgent in his mind. He had no doubt the Axe was savoring the flavor of Hob’s flesh and would want more. Soon, it would demand that he lop off Hob’s disgusting head from his neck so it could drink deeply.

Deciding this was a lucid moment in what had already been a trying morning, he gently pushed the blades into his pack and released the handle.

The rush of fatigue, aches and pains that wracked his body a moment later almost caused him to stumble. He wasn’t a young man any longer. He’d passed his fortieth birthday and his children had grown too big to hold in his arms. All this running about, busting down doors and raging at Hob had wearied him more than he liked to admit.

Brand forced himself to stand firm and easy, however. The wave of fatigue quickly passed. He gave Old Hob no hint of his frailty without the Axe. He crossed his arms and looked up at the oldest Goblin, the self-styled King of the Goblins. He smirked then, noticing that Old Hob’s robes had been scorched black around the lower hem. That was what had given him away: a burnt, brimstone-like stink.

“I see I burned you right out of the air,” Brand said, almost laughing. “Sorry about that.”

Old Hob was visibly relieved now that the Axe wasn’t tickling his throat.

“I must say, you need to keep better control of yourself in these situations, Brand.”

“And I say that people who come flapping down from the sky unannounced and uninvited can take what they get. I owe no hospitality to skulking devils who seek to glide into my castle unseen.”

“Very well,” Old Hob sniffed, “I may have made a mistake in that regard.”

“You said something about Trev? That I’m not to listen to him or to help him? You must realize I trust him a thousand times more than I trust you.”

“Perhaps. But I know that you trust my nature. I would not come here to play an idle trick like Wee Folk souring milk. I came because you and I both have so much to lose.”

Brand scowled. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

“Very well, let me show you something.”

Old Hob turned, and with grunting steps, he bent down and entered the tower. Frowning, Brand followed him.

The other was already halfway up the stairs when Brand entered the cool gloom of the tower. How had Hob moved so quickly? Knowing it must be a trick of the Lavender Jewel, he rushed after the beastly creature to the roof.

Up atop the tower, the cool morning breezes could be felt coming up from the river. The clouds had pulled apart like torn cotton while they’d been speaking, and they could now see for miles to the distant horizon.

Old Hob extended an impossibly long arm. After a knobby series of joints and baggy, wrinkled green skin, a finger as tapered as a dinner candle pointed to the south.

“There. Look there.”

Brand peered in the indicated direction. A lone figure was on the road, coming toward them. He frowned and turned to Hob.

“Who’s that then? Are you saying it’s Trev, come already?”

But he was talking to no one. Hob had vanished and was presumably soaring away into the heavens.

Brand twisted this way and that, squinting into the sunshine and the blue sky, both patched by rising white clouds. But without mists to mark him, Hob was impossible to see. He thought about drawing the Axe again and burning holes in the air, but it seemed pointless and foolish.

He shrugged, and looked southward again. Could that really be Trev?

Yes…he thought he saw silver locks reflecting the sun like a soldier’s polished helm. And that stride—the boy had always been fast, but today he seemed to move over the land like one of the bounding Wee Folk.

Brand frowned, thinking about Old Hob’s words. He was going to have to talk to Trev to get to the bottom of all this. He would have to question him on every detail.

Perhaps that was precisely what Old Hob had wanted.

* * *

Trev, being half-elf, didn’t often feel a need for urgency or directness. When he reached the gates of Castle Rabing, a grumbling watchman let him pass. The gates always opened at dawn and closed again at dusk for all save people who were on the lord’s business.

Trev knew he could have scaled the walls during the night, but that would have been rude and possibly dangerous if a misunderstanding had ensued with the guards. So, he’d waited for the sun to come up before making his approach from the outer lands where he’d camped for the night.

Once inside the outer walls, he headed first toward the copse of woods that stood in the eastern corner of the interior lands. There, his aunt Tegan and Ivor lived. The region was known to be home to unusual folk—folk like his cousin Ivor, who was an ogre. The people who lived in the main village shunned the area, but they tolerated it. They knew that if a time came when the walls of Castle Rabing needed defenders, the strange creatures who dwelt there in that wooded corner would muster and could man their posts well. So the stranger folk were tolerated even if the townsfolk often whispered and cast dark looks in their direction.

Tegan had lived under a sugar pine tree near the south wall for years. Off and on, Mari and Trev had journeyed here during the summer months to visit them. That had not happened for nearly three years, but for a half-elf, three years are little more than the blink of an eye.

When he arrived at the base of the sugar pine, he frowned in concern. There he found Ivor’s stake and chain, worn nightly for show. It helped to keep the locals calm about sleeping with an ogre in their midst. Tegan had always slept in the tree’s branches in summer, as did Trev when he visited. But Ivor had slept on the gnarled roots of the trunk. These had never seemed to bother him in the slightest, which had fascinated Trev throughout his youth.

“Aunt Tegan?” called Trev squinting up into the sugar pine’s branches.

There was no answer from the tree. The wind stirred the needles and caused them to rustle. That was the only sound which came to his sharp ears.

He thought perhaps they’d gone to market, but upon investigating the place he found many signs indicating they’d been gone for a long time. The bucket they used for water was bone dry. The leather sacks of goods they hung from the branches were flaccid or missing entirely.

Trev looked around in concern. When he found no signs of any wrongdoing, he shrugged and headed for the central encampment of the Fae.

Here he found elves, half-elves, Wee Folk and even two young, immature ogres at play in the shade of the trees. Unlike humans, elf settlements were not places of drudgery and hard work. These people preferred to live upon the land with a minimum of comforts. It was not that they were unskilled, nor that they were particularly lazy, but they did place value upon the elements of life in a very different order than humans did. Building complex structures and luxuries were not their priorities. Rather, they did enough to survive and frittered away the rest of their time upon what others might consider idle pursuits. A Wee One might spend a decade perfecting a reed flute, for example, playing it nightly at sunset—all the while he lived in an unadorned burrow under a slab of rock.

At last, at midday, Trev met a familiar face. It was none other than Kaavi, sister to Tegan.

“Auntie Kaavi!” he shouted and embraced her immediately.

She returned the hug and they beamed at one another.

“My, how you’ve grown!” Kaavi said. “Has a century passed so quickly?”

“Of course not,” he laughed. “I’m not pure elf, you know.”

“But you have the spirit of an elf. I feel it in every movement of your person. I’m so glad you’ve come, Trev. Will you be staying long? It is still spring, and we can spend the entire summer together.”

Trev shook his head. “This isn’t a social call. Not exactly. I wanted to talk to Aunt Tegan and  Ivor, but I can’t find them.”

Kaavi’s face clouded. “They’ve gone. Oberon recalled them last year for the Winter’s Feast.”

“But that was months ago.”

Kaavi shrugged. “Yes, here it was. But it’s hard to say how much time has passed back in the Twilight lands. They may think they’ve only been there for a long weekend.”

“I see. I’m disappointed.”

“So, if not just for a visit, why have you come?”

Trev hesitated. “I need to know some things…about certain types of creatures.”

Kaavi cocked her head to the side and studied him. “What kind of creatures might you be talking about?”

“Creatures which might be found haunting the foot of a rainbow.”

Kaavi’s eyes widened in surprise and alarm. “Since you’re seeking Tegan and not me, can I assume you think she would know more about this subject than I do?”

“Yes, that was my assumption.”

Kaavi rose and rummaged about in her hut for a kettle. She hung it on a tripod of sticks and lit a tiny fire underneath as she talked to him.

“Let me see if I can figure this out,” she said. “Tegan spent years in the marshes, and she’s raised Ivor. She often met strange things out there, I know. You must have heard the stories, yes?”

“Some of them might have reached my ears during summer visits.”

“You little snoop,” Kaavi laughed. She filled the kettle with spring water and let it simmer. When steam rose up, she crumbled bits of leaves and sticks into the bubbling liquid. A minty smell arose from the tea that Trev thought was quite pleasant.

“Well, I’ve heard those stories as well. Short of asking every outlander in this wooded corner, or traveling to Oberon’s court, you might as well ask me—since you’re here.”

Trev looked down in some embarrassment. He’d not planned to tell his tale to Kaavi. She was younger and somewhat more innocent than Tegan—for an elf. She had yet to take a husband. Since the story involved seduction and bargains with unknown creatures, he felt he could better confide in Tegan, who, after all, had given birth to a hulking ogre.

Kaavi watched him closely, and seemed to make a startling series of conclusions.

“I don’t believe it!” Kaavi exclaimed. “You’re only half-elf. No true elf would feel shame and try to hide activities.”

Trev looked at her sharply. “Hide what activities?”

“It’s as plain as day to me. You’ve been out whoring with nymphs and dryads—or worse. It’s all right, Trev. Pursuing females in forests is in your blood. You shouldn’t be ashamed of it, even if your mother doesn’t approve.”

Trev tried to keep smiling, but he was horrified. She’d guessed so much already. He’d admitted the matter to his mother, but somehow Kaavi was different. He wanted to please her and he knew she’d been thinking of him as a child until this very day.

“It’s not that simple,” he said, and then he finally began his tale. He told her of his pursuit of the rainbow, and what he’d found at its vibrant foot.

While he spoke, she poured the tea into two cups made of walnut shells. The cups were absurdly small, but he took one and sipped. He was surprised by the full flavor and the filling nature of the drink. It was as if he’d had a mug of hot brandy. It had a nutty odor, and he wondered if that was due to the walnut husks.

He told her the rest, glossing over the fact that he’d bedded the strange woman he’d met out in the forest. He simply said she’d upheld her part of the bargain—but that he had not yet completed his.

“An excellent drink, Auntie,” he said as he finished his tale and his tiny cup of tea.

“I’m glad you like it, Trev,” she said, patting his arm absently. Her eyes did not meet his. They were distant and unfocussed.

“What did you think of my story?”

“I’m unsure what to make of it.”

“Do you think less of me?”

She turned to him at last and eyed him. “Why would I? Oh, you mean for having fallen for her seduction? No, of course not. Even a pure elf might have taken the bargain, especially one so young. No, I’m thinking about who this stranger might be, and what she might want.”

Trev bit his lip as he upended his tiny cup and shook the last drop out onto his tongue. It burned there, slightly.

“May I have more?”

“No!” she laughed. “You’ll be in a drunken stupor.”

Disappointed, Trev stayed quiet and let her think. His own mind seemed fuzzy. He thought he must be tired after his long run from the Haven.

“I don’t know,” she said at last. “As you said, I’m not the wisest about such things. She could be Fae, or one of the Dead. But it doesn’t sound like it. She doesn’t sound playful like the Fae, or twisted and grim like the Dead. But she was definitely some kind of Sorceress if her claims are to be believed.”

“What claims?”

“Didn’t she say she guided the rainbow to lure you there? Or someone like you? Not everyone can plant a rainbow like a beanstalk in their garden!”

“I suppose not. I hadn’t thought about that part.”

Just then, the two of them heard a heavy tramping sound. No elf or Wee Folk could make such a heavy tread, except possibly as a mockery. There were definitely several feet involved, which ruled out the possibility of the local ogres being involved. That left only one clear answer.

“Men from the castle?” Trev asked.

“Yes,” Kaavi said, frowning at him. “Have you told me everything, Trev? Is there more? Should you be fleeing now?”

“I don’t think so. Are you sure they’re coming for me?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “I’m quite sure of that.”

On instinct, Trev bounded up from his seat on a flat round stone and vanished into the thicket behind Kaavi’s hut. He lingered there, not wanting to flee further without need. He wasn’t entirely convinced that he should be running away. Wasn’t Castle Rabing a sanctuary for his kind?

Still, caution made him retreat and stay hidden.

* * *

Brand had waited patiently until midday, whereupon he’d begun to fume with unease. He’d paced the echoing stone floors of his keep, refusing everyone’s questions about what was bothering him—even those questions voiced by his own captains. He’d kept his mind occupied during the morning by changing into a more suitable set of clothing, but even that was considered odd. Some of his retainers looked at him in askance, and muttered about his unusual choice in attire.

Brand no longer wore a red robe and red slippers. Instead, he’d dressed himself properly for a day of riding, hunting—or possibly for going to war. He clad himself in a shirt of finely-woven chain, with gauntlets to match. The shirt had been a gift from the Kindred, and the craft that went into the light armor was obvious to any observer.  Over the tinkling chain shirt he wore a fresh cloak in the livery blue of Riverton. The cloak hung down to his boots and fluttered upon his back while he paced. Finishing the outfit, a pair of studded leather trousers and two knee-high boots covered his legs and feet, both made of well-oiled Merling skin.

Some might have thought this could be thought of as an insult to Merlings, but it was customary among them to wear the skin of their enemies—either human or that of a rival Merling tribe. Among their kind such gear commanded respect, and as light armor it wore better than any other, come rain or shine.

He mounted his horse and set off. His steed was a fine roan, a beast he’d grown fond of over recent years at Castle Rabing.

His boots were black and had been polished till they shone. His head bristled with dark hair, dark eyes and a thick beard. Around his neck was one last item that was impossible to ignore. It had been made for him by Tomkin of the Wee Folk. A silver cage rested upon his chest, hung from a thick silver chain. He wore the cage like a large locket upon his breast. The cage attracted the eye, but there was nothing inside. Nothing but an empty, ovoid slot where a Jewel might rest.

Clearly, the cage was meant to transport a Jewel of Power, should he encounter one. Brand wore this in case he might need to carry a second Jewel, but it was also there as a reminder to all who met him that he alone among all living folk of Cymru had managed to wield two Jewels at once for a short time. And although the experience had all but killed him, it had also gained him fame as no other feat had. It had cemented his place as a powerful member of the elite who could master and wield magic in his world. Just seeing the small silver cage dangling there often caused visitors to raise their eyebrows in surprise and alarm. Despite their obvious interest, few had dared to question him directly concerning its purpose.

By the time the sun began to fall behind the Black Mountains to the west, Brand lost his patience. He’d been fretting about Old Hob’s warning concerning Trev all day long. He’d expected Trev would come to talk to him, and he had chosen to wait like a calm powerful lord in his keep.

But Trev had not come.

Brand was beside himself by midafternoon. He was determined to act—but what should his course be? The argument in his head was a two-sided affair, involving a battle between the calmer part of his mind and the rest, which seethed. On one hand, he wanted to know what this was all about. He wanted to find Trev and wring every detail from him. But on the other, he felt manipulated by Old Hob. How much of his current mood had been planted by that wily devil? Was he committing a grand error by confronting Trev, by doing what Old Hob had urged him to do? Had Hob made the visit and created a distracting performance, pretending to warn him, when his true goal was to stir up trouble and intrigue?

He just didn’t know, and it was driving him mad. To make matters worse, the Axe ripped at his mind demanding action and seeing every event as a dire portent. That hadn’t helped him to think clearly. Ambros clouded his thoughts less when it wasn’t in contact with his flesh, but even while it safely rode his back, it was always prodding at his mind, lurking under the surface of every idea and random reflection. Every time he had a dark thought, he had to question the source of it.

As the sun began to sink, Brand knew the world was only a few hours from darkness. He sent out guardsmen to inquire concerning Trev’s whereabouts. For a short half-hour, he was calm. He expected the boy to make a beeline to his court when he heard the lord of the castle was looking for him. Time passed however, and the guards returned empty-handed.

What was that boy doing in the Fae sanctuary? On the surface of it, the motive was understandable enough. The boy had relatives there, by all accounts.

But the situation ate at Brand. Time was wasting, and he had no idea how precious each minute might be. Hob had suggested the boy would ask him for something and it would be dangerous for Brand to help him. The way the Axe caused him to look at the situation, the goblin lord had been the first stranger found behaving oddly inside Castle Rabing today, and now Trev was the second.

When his messengers told him Trev was in the sanctuary but that was all they’d learned, Brand couldn’t stand it any longer. He summoned a squadron of the mounted guardsmen and they went cantering for the wooded corner together with flapping blue cloaks. They dismounted at the edge of the trees and marched into the cool gloom beneath. There was no point in riding in like invaders. Being on foot, Brand hoped, would put outlanders at ease.

But he could see as he penetrated into the grove his plans weren’t working out as intended. Strangely-shaped and bizarrely-colored eyes observed them from behind seemingly every tree trunk. As they walked deeper into the quiet wood it seemed to him that the growths were more dense. The wooded corner was almost as dank and still as the Deepwood. It had grown thick over the years and now sprawled over a fifth of the land within his walls. No wonder the peasants grumbled so loudly about it.

He pressed forward, pushing aside branches that clawed and resisted his steps. No one came to greet him and his men. The guardsmen were no more at ease than the hiding locals. They kept silent, but their eyes were wide and they winced whenever a branch snapped or a bird twittered.

Brand thought about the Axe on his back. He tried not to, but it was impossible to keep it from his mind. Would he draw it today again at some point, over some unexpected provocation? He didn’t know, but he could not stop thinking about it. He knew on one level that these thoughts were leaking to him from the Axe itself.

After tasting such a thin gruel of blood at Old Hob’s throat, it now wanted a flood to glaze its fine blades. Like a drunkard, a taste of red wine only whetted a greater burning thirst for Ambros. Quenching that thirst would take a river of blood, if it could be done at all.

His party finally met up with two Wee Folk guardians at the entrance to the village proper. The village was really only a circle of trees and huts, but the Fae took it seriously, so Brand tried to do the same.

“What an honor,” said the first Wee One. She was a tiny female, but there was a needle-like sword on her belt.

“Indeed, sister,” said the second, a wild-looking fellow wearing a hat of gray fur and rat-tails.

Both of them bowed. Speaking in unison, they identified themselves as Ida and Aden.

“I’m Lord Rabing,” Brand responded formally.

The female known as Ida twittered. “We know who you are, Axeman! But we are wondering: what is it you seek here?”

Brand’s lips twitched in irritation. Were these not his own lands? Was he not within his own walls? Perhaps letting these folk squat here for so long unmolested had been a mistake. It seemed they now believed he was intruding on their territory, rather than the other way around. They’d changed from polite guests to surly squatters.

The Axe shifted on his back, and Brand rolled his shoulders uncomfortably to calm it. The Wee Folk watched him attentively, noticing the interplay. But they didn’t say anything further. They waited for him to speak.

“I’m seeking one known as Trev,” Brand said. “Is he among you today?”

“Trev?” said Aden, “The half-breed? Indeed, he is.”

“May I ask you to lead me to him?”

The two exchanged glances. “We had a bargain, Axeman,” said Ida.

“What?” snapped Brand. “I’ve made a civil request, and I expect it to be honored. These are my lands, and you live here at my invitation.”

“What you say is mostly true,” said Aden. “But we made a bargain, let me remind you. We are to live free and unmolested on this tiny sliver of land.”

“Yes,” Brand said with difficulty. “That is the essence of our bargain. Now, I wish you to lead me to Trev. Immediately.”

The two Wee Folk looked nervous, but determined. Behind him, Brand knew his men were watching the exchange with growing tension. There could never be perfect trust between the Fae and humanity. Both sides had suffered too much at the hands of the other over the centuries and they were too different in outlook to completely understand one another, even now.

“If you would, kind sir,” began Ida, stepping forward, “swear not to arrest Trev, and we will do as you ask.”

Brand’s brow furrowed into a storm. “Why must I so swear? What has he done to wrong me?”

The two looked surprised. “Nothing, by our account. But humans are so picky. Perhaps, in your eyes, he has performed a crime. We are not sure.”

Brand sighed loudly.

“All right,” he said, waving his hands in defeat. “I do so swear, for this one day, I will not arrest Trev unless both your people and mine agree I should.”

“Excellent!” said Aden, turning around and bounding away. “Then follow us!”

They traveled through the village to the far side, where they came to a hut. There before it sat Kaavi. She was alone.

“Kaavi?”

“Brand!” she cried, springing up and running to him.

Brand could not believe it. She had not aged a day. She was still as young and nubile as ever. Had she truly squatted here for years, doing nothing of note, while he sought to build a kingdom around her? He wasn’t sure how long she’d been here, but he was glad to see her.

Telyn had made him swear not to seek her out, as there had been certain moments of unexpected contact between the two of them in the past. Brand had followed his wife’s wishes for years—but he still dreamt of Kaavi from time to time.

“Have you come to visit me?” Kaavi asked. “It’s been so long. Is Telyn…still around?”

Brand opened his mouth then closed it again. “She’s abroad right now, visiting Riverton I should think.”

“Oh. Would it be…an extended visit?”

Brand didn’t know quite what to say. Kaavi was wasting no time in embarrassing him. Already, his guardsmen out in the lane were whispering among themselves. If this conversation should get back to Telyn, even a hint of such talk…

“Kaavi, I’m looking for Trev.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Not for me?”

“I’m always happy to see you, but—”

“But you haven’t found time to come down here for years and do just that. How long is a girl supposed to wait?”

There was a guffaw out upon the roadway behind him. Brand reddened.

“Is Trev here or not, good lady?”

Kaavi made a show of looking around her tiny camp. “I don’t see him.”

Brand sighed. Kaavi stirred her tea and poured two tiny cups.

“Here, sip with me for a moment. Perhaps we can help one another.”

“All right,” he said.

Brand turned and ordered his guardsmen back to their barracks. Darkness was falling at last, and since he’d agreed not to arrest Trev, he thought it would be easier to get to the bottom of things if he sent his troops away. They left with a mixture of relief and disappointment. Then he sat with Kaavi and sipped her tea.

“Why are you hiding Trev from me?” he asked her.

“Why did you bring soldiers with you from your castle?”

They looked at one another, and finally Brand nodded. “You’re protecting him. In my experience, a man who needs protection is not an innocent man.”

“That depends on who is pursuing him, and why.”

Brand rolled his eyes. “I’ve sworn not to arrest him today unless both you and I think it should be done. Is that not guarantee enough? Bring him forward so I may speak with him.

Kaavi furrowed her pretty eyebrows together, and Brand thought she was going to continue evading him. But at that moment, Trev produced himself and joined the other two at the fire.

“May I have another cup of your tea, Auntie? I like it very much.”

“Only half,” she said, pouring it out and handing it to him.

Brand looked at Trev in surprise. He’d grown so much. He’d been a child the last time he’d seen him, and now he was taller than Puck had been.

“You look like your father and mother both,” Brand said.

“That’s not uncommon in such situations,” Trev said seriously.

Brand laughed. This broke some of the tension between the three, and the two Fae joined him, laughing with him.

Brand paused to look at the cup in his hand. The walnut husk was empty. What had that tiny draught been? Could it have cooled his mind? He wanted another drink and almost asked for it. Kaavi was stirring her kettle slowly and glancing at him, smiling.

Brand opened his mouth, but then closed it again. She’d only given her own kinsman half a cup in his presence. He figured one cup was enough for now. His mood was elevated, but he wanted to be able to think, should the need arise. He set the walnut husk down on a rock, and Kaavi glanced at it in disappointment.

“Let’s talk seriously, Trev. Why have you come to Castle Rabing today?”

“I’m on a quest, and I came to ask for help.”

These words concerned Brand. Could it be that Old Hob had spoken the truth? His first inclination was to offer the boy any aid he could provide—but Hob had warned him, and he was wary.

“Tell me about your quest,” Brand said.

“I can’t do that.”

Brand’s face fell. “And why not?”

“Because you might try to stop me.”

“How can I help you if you won’t tell me what you want?”

“I can ask you questions, and you can answer them.”

Brand nodded. “All right. Ask. But I must warn you that I may not answer you, and if I do, you might not like what I say.”

“That’s part of the danger with questions, isn’t it?”

“Just so!” said Kaavi suddenly.

Brand looked at her. She was sipping a third cup of her tea, and it seemed to be affecting her now. Her eyes were slightly glassy and unfocussed, but she seemed fully aware of her surroundings. Brand surmised she’d grown accustomed to her own brew.

Brand looked back at Trev. “Ask.”

“Where would you seek a Jewel of Power?”

Brand narrowed his eyes. “Seek to possess it, you mean? They all have masters, do they not? Oberon wields the Red since Piskin died. I wield the Amber, and Tomkin still masters Lavatis. Then there is Pyros, which Gudrin never parts with, and that leaves only the Green which presumably is owned by Myrrdin, wherever he’s gotten himself off to. But those aren’t the Jewels you’re interested in, are they?”

“No,” Trev said. “Those you’ve listed have owners.” Trev looked at Brand expectantly.

“Well, there is of course the Lavender. Old Hob still has that—does he not?”

“I would think you could answer that better than I. The word is he visited here today and you two spoke in private.”

“Only after you frightened your own guardsmen half to death!” Kaavi exclaimed unexpectedly. She gave a whoop of laughter.

Brand smiled at her. She was becoming drunk, he thought. She returned his gaze frankly, and it took an effort of will for him to rip his eyes from her fine face and turn them back to Trev again.

“Are you inquiring about Osang?” Brand asked Trev. “Old Hob’s one true love?”

“No,” Trev shook his head again. “What of the others?”

Brand thought for a moment. “That leaves only the Dark Jewels. The White, the Quicksilver—and the Black.” Brand stood up in sudden alarm. He almost reached for his Axe, but managed to control his fingers when they were two inches from the handle.

“The Black!” he shouted. “You know where it lies still, in the Riverton crypt. You were there when we laid it to rest with all those it had killed. Unless you are trying to tell me it has moved, or you seek it!”

Brand had been hoping to catch him, perhaps making him look sheepish, but he could tell that wasn’t going to happen. There was too much shameless elf-blood in the boy’s veins. Trev just smiled as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

“Calm down, Brand,” Trev said. “I didn’t name the Black as my goal.”

“You also said you were sworn not to reveal your quest. So it might be that you seek Necron. Let me warn you, boy: I will not allow you to wield it. Not for a day, an hour, or even a second.”

Brand felt a flood of suspicion. The emotion was almost overwhelming. Everything was instantly clear to him. Trev had been there when they’d buried the Black and entombed it. He had wielded it briefly and almost died because of its cold touch.

“Listen to me,” Brand said, still standing. “You must not dream of the Black. I know you touched it when you were young. Maybe it calls out to you. Maybe it comes to you in your dreams, begging to be let out. Don’t let it grip your mind, Trev. It’s an evil thing.”

Trev frowned back at Brand. “I do dream of it, from time to time. How could I not? But I don’t think I’m in its grasp. I don’t feel a power from it, an urge to love it as you love that Axe which twitches and twists on your back.”

Brand noticed then that the boy spoke the truth. His Axe was squirming on his back, trying to push up the haft and get it into his hand. Slowly, Brand lowered his hand away from the handle, and it eased back down disappointedly.

“All right then. If not the Black, then that leaves only the White and the Quicksilver. Both are lost and haven’t been seen for an age.”

“What can you tell me of them?”

Brand shrugged. “I don’t know much. Only what Myrrdin and Gudrin have told me. Both of them know more than I. The White is a chip of the original Sunstone. It is sometimes referred to as the Sunstone, and is supposedly pure. Some say it can warp minds like no other Jewel can. The Quicksilver is immune to the power of the others. I don’t know if it does anything else. But in any case, I can’t tell you where either might be, or where they were last seen. That’s all I know of them.”

“I thank you in any case,” Trev said seriously.

Brand smiled faintly. He felt that he’d dodged a dangerous dilemma. Old Hob had warned him not to tell the boy anything—and he hadn’t. Not because he refused, but because he honestly didn’t know the answers. He felt relieved. He hadn’t wanted to turn the boy away, but he hadn’t wanted to take the chance Old Hob’s warning had been given in earnest, either. This way he hadn’t helped him or misguided him, and his worries died away.

Kaavi was looking at him again, smiling.

Such a lovely face, he thought. It seemed to him she had a greater pull upon his heart than even the last time they’d been sitting around a fire together. He’d aged, and she hadn’t. But he knew she didn’t look at it that way. She didn’t think of herself as too young for him.

He gave his head a shake, and then found her hands cupping his. He looked down, and saw his walnut husk was in his palm. The brew shone slightly in the dark forest, glimmering like liquid gold.

“Now that your worries have passed, will you take a half-cup more?” she asked.

Brand grinned and nodded. He threw down the drink, and it tasted delicious. He soon forgot about Trev and all the rest of his problems.

He talked and laughed with Kaavi until it grew late and the fire dimmed.

Chapter Three

Trev’s Bargain

In the morning, Brand awoke groaning. It wasn’t dawn, his customary time of awakening, but at least an hour past. He forced himself into a sitting position.

It took a moment for him to realize that he was not at home in his keep. He was not in a sumptuous bed with eiderdown cushions and dyed furs for blankets. He was in a gloomy forest, with birds singing.

Blinking his bleary eyes, he saw a thatch of twigs over his head. They were woven together in an intricate pattern, with each leaf tucked precisely so as to shed rain but not block light.

Realizing where he was, he scrambled up, and almost knocked down the hut. He came out of it, looking back. He saw a bed of furs cast on the dry floor. There was an impression there that matched his form, and next to it was evidence that a much smaller body had slept beside him.

He looked around and at first saw nothing. No Kaavi, no Trev. He tried to recall how the night had gone…my how that elf-brew could hit a man! He’d been wary of it until Trev’s questions had fizzled out, and then he’d given in. He remembered accepting another half-cup—but had there been more? He could not recall.

He rubbed his face, eyes wide in alarm. He looked into the hut again. Had he bedded Kaavi? Finally, after all these long years, had he done what he’d wanted to do all along? He couldn’t remember.

In his dreams for a decade or more he’d lain with Kaavi numerous times. Now, those dream-like whispering memories were entwined together with last night, the memory of which felt like a hazy dream to him now.

“There you are, sleepy-head!” Kaavi cried, making him whirl around toward the trees.

She carried an armful of sticks she’d gathered to the firepit and cast them onto the smoldering ashes. The embers beneath were still hot, and it looked like they’d been carefully banked and covered to keep them alive. She prodded the pit carefully, and soon a tongue of orange flame danced up and licked at the fresh fuel.

“I know how hungry a man like you can be in the morning,” Kaavi said. “It’s been so long since I’ve had visitors I’ve almost forgotten how to cook.”

Brand put out his hand and took her arm, pulling her around to face him.

“Kaavi,” he said, breathlessly, “did we…? I mean, did I…?”

“What?” she asked looking up at him wide-eyed. She was so small, she looked to be half his size or less.

“I don’t remember what I did last night. What was that tea you gave me?”

“A potent brew,” she said. “That’s why I give it out in such tiny cups. I didn’t think a man your size would be taken away, but…”

“Come on, Kaavi,” he said. “Just tell me what happened.”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

Brand sighed and sat down hard on a rock. He winced, and watched as she began to cook. He felt despondent. If he had bedded Kaavi…well, he didn’t want to think about it. Telyn would be furious if she ever found out. He was a married man—a happily married man. He grew frustrated the more he thought about it.

“You tricked me,” he said. “You got me to drink, and you got what you wanted afterward, is that it? All this business and mystery about Trev meant nothing.”

Kaavi laughed. “My, how much you must think of yourself! Am I such a poor unsightly creature that I must pine away for years, dreaming nightly of the great Brand? Then, I hatch a fine scheme that only took me a decade to come up with: to get Old Hob to visit you, giving you dire warnings. In a complex plot, I weave a spell and have my way with the innocent, middle-aged River Boy at last.”

“Humph,” he said. “It wasn’t like that. You saw an opportunity and took it. No scheming required beyond whatever you did last night.”

Kaavi shrugged and began cooking bacon on a skillet. The smell was wonderful, and Brand’s mouth was soon watering.

“Telyn doesn’t like me to eat bacon,” he said.

“Oh really?”

Brand watched her. Was this another ploy, or was he becoming hopelessly paranoid?

“All right,” he said. “I give up. I won’t be angry. I won’t shout. Just tell me what happened. I want to know, and I think you owe me that much, if you would call me friend.”

Kaavi fed him strips of bacon, which he devoured hungrily. She was right, he was ravenous. Did that mean…? He couldn’t be sure.

“I can’t tell you Brand.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because I promised not to.”

Brand stared at her. “Who did you promise? Can you at least tell me that?”

She laughed again. “Such suspicion! I promised you silly. You made me swear that I would never tell a soul.”

Brand almost choked. “But that doesn’t mean me! Surely, you can tell the man who made you promise!”

She shook her head sadly. “I can’t. You would not have me break my word for such a trivial thing, would you?”

“I hereby release you from your promise,” he said.

Kaavi shook her head again. “You know it doesn’t work that way. I’m bound.”

Brand huffed and chewed, thinking hard. Had he bedded this elf girl at last? It was perfectly possible. It seemed unfair that he couldn’t even remember the act, if he had indeed performed it. He knew such details wouldn’t matter to Telyn if she found out. Kaavi’s life wouldn’t be worth a sack of beans—nor would his, for that matter.

Looking around the camp, he was struck with a new thought.

“Where’s Trev?” he asked.

“He’s gone.”

“Where? When?”

“Last night. He said he knew what to do now, and he told me to give you his thanks. Then he left before midnight.”

Brand’s mouth sagged open. “Left? To where?”

Kaavi shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Brand stood up, his heart was pounding. “He had what he wanted? You say he thanked me for helping him? What does that mean?”

Kaavi shrugged and seemed disinterested. “Would you like more bacon? I have a few strips left.”

Brand made a long sigh of exasperation. “Any human woman would at least be curious where their nephew was off to at midnight!”

“Well, I’m not a human woman. Trev is full grown now, his business is his own.”

Brand walked away toward the road. He felt an urgent need to find the boy—or at least to learn where he was going. Had he made a grievous error? Had he somehow told the boy what he wanted to hear, and done what Old Hob had warned him not to? As was so often the case when dealing closely with the Faerie, he felt lost and uneasy.

“You’re just going to march off, then?” Kaavi asked behind him.

He turned. “I’m sorry. I’m distracted. Do I owe you a farewell embrace?”

She shook her head. “You don’t owe me anything, Brand. Not unless you want to give it.”

He walked back to her and gave her an awkward hug. After he released her, she coughed.

“Sorry,” he said. “I can’t even do that right.”

“I’m fine.”

He looked her up and down. “Are you a virgin?” he asked suddenly.

For once—perhaps the first time in her entire life—Kaavi looked embarrassed. “That’s a rather surprising question, Brand.”

“You can answer it, can’t you?”

Kaavi thought about it. “I suppose I can… No, I’m not.”

“Then was last night…?”

She smiled and shook her head at him, touching his nose with her outstretched finger. “You made me promise not to tell!”

He sighed, kissed the top of her head, and walked out of the forest. It wasn’t until he reached the lane outside that he was struck by a sudden thought: If she had been a virgin until last night, and he had lain with her—she must be with child already. Under these circumstances, there was always a child, and it might come out like Trev, or it might not.

Brand walked back to his keep, lost in thought. He did not reach his study until midday. Over and over again, he replayed the events of the night in his head. He did seem to recall touching and caressing Kaavi, but that could have been a fantasy or a dream as easily as a memory.

But he did know one thing, if he had impregnated her, she would have a half-breed. That could be good, or it could be awful. He thought about ogres like Ivor and worse things.

It was early afternoon by the time he thought to inquire about Trev’s whereabouts. That boy had come and gone so quickly, so quietly. All he could find out was that his guardsmen had let him out through the western gates late at night, after being talked into it by the friendly youth.

Brand stood on the battlements, gazing west. What was out that way? Swamp, and then the Black Mountains. Little else.

Snowdon arose in the west, the mountain’s top gleaming white with snow as the sun touched it and the mists cleared completely.

He stared, and he had a sudden, disturbing thought. He knew with sudden certainty where Trev had gone. The boy planned to see Gudrin.

He could not recall much of their talk, but he did remember Trev’s question about the Dark Jewels. Brand had told him he didn’t know much, and had thus been relieved.

But he’d also told Trev who knew more: Gudrin and Myrrdin.

The boy was heading to the Earthlight, Brand felt sure of it. He had aided Trev on his quest accidentally. It was the only answer he could think of. Why else had he departed hastily to the west and left Kaavi with his thanks?

Brand rushed down the stone steps of his keep, taking them two at a time. He donned his cloak in such a hurry that it hung askew and when he stepped into the courtyard he roared for his horse. By the time night fell over the land, he was galloping along the lonely marsh roads toward Snowdon.

Trev had a day’s head start, and he was fast on his feet, but Brand was determined to get to Gudrin before he did.

* * *

After crushing the elf village and leaving it behind, Myrrdin began to worry. His wits were returning slowly, and he began to realize he was far from invincible in his living tree. A good fire or a steady chopping of axemen—there were many ways to bring down a tree whether it walked or not.

He knew he didn’t have much time. The elves weren’t going to allow him to rampage throughout the Great Erm as long as he wished, after destroying one of their settlements. They would gather their warriors and huntsmen and track him down. As a single tree, even a tremendous one, they would eventually take him down. Perhaps Oberon himself would do it, wielding the Red Jewel and creating blood abominations from his fallen.

And then they would cut out the Jewel Vaul from the depths of the tree he rode within. He could feel Vaul now, beating like a huge green heart at the center of the mass of wood-flesh that surrounded them both. He knew that if the light of it could be seen a witness would observe it flashing brilliantly with each step the ponderous oak took.

When they finally brought him down, the elves would scramble over him like ants and tear holes in his black bark, revealing the splintering white flesh beneath. Wet with fresh sap, they’d steep themselves in it until they had dug the Jewel out and taken it from him.

That was the single thought he could not bear to contemplate. Even though he was half-mad and filled with anger, he could not conceive of losing Vaul again after having so recently regained it. The mere concept was painful to him. He could risk his life, but could not bear the loss of his beloved green stone.

And so he retreated after his initial onslaught into the trackless depths of the forest. In any normal overgrown region this would not have saved him. His body was so huge now, so impossibly bulky, it tore a hole through the brush, leaving a path a child could identify and follow to its end.

But the Great Erm was no normal forest. It was full of life, almost as if Vaul drove the place wild all the time. Not only did everything grow to tremendous size here, but it grew quickly as well. So quickly that a trail blazed through it would vanish behind them within a dozen hours.

He rode his oak the way a lord rides his horse after he’s had too much to drink and wields his whip with abandon. If the tree could breathe, it would have frothed and foam would have blown through it nostrils. It would have been huffing and puffing, crying out as things clawed and chipped sticky holes in its bark—but it could do none of those things. For it was a living, moving plant. A huge, dumb thing. Silent, ignorant and almost unstoppable. Its mindlessness made it lower than the most stupid beast in the Erm.

Ivor strode in Myrrdin’s wake, often glancing from side to side in concern, wondering where they were going and alert for danger. Myrrdin ignored his nephew because the creature seemed content to follow the great tree into the depths of the green-black hell they marched through.

Ivor carried a shield, helm and a heavy maul, all sized and fitted to his body. Myrrdin had been vaguely surprised to see this, and even more surprised that the ogre seemed trained at arms. But he did not discuss it with the beast-like child. His mind was too full of schemes of his own. He hadn’t learned that Brand himself had provided the creature with these tools of war, and he didn’t much care in any regard. The ogre wasn’t key to his plans—not yet anyway.

The forest was startling in its immensity. The trees here were often a thousand feet high, and the insects could be the size of a full-grown man. Often, in the lore of the River Folk, it was said the Fae were tiny. And it was true that elves were the size of human teens and the Wee Folk were generally only two or three feet in height, sometimes weighing no more than a tomcat. But here, in the dark Erm, every living thing was huge making the elves seem tiny in comparison.

Myrrdin had often thought humanity’s legends had become confused and twisted over time in the retelling. After all, a human visitor might have been misunderstood by his fellow villagers upon returning home. Describing mushrooms used as homes and beetles the elves could ride upon may have confused the listener. They may have thought the elves were tiny—rather than everything else in the forest being gigantic.

At last, when Myrrdin felt he’d found the deepest, dankest region of the Great Erm, a spot so far from light and fresh wind that it might as well have been in the Everdark itself, he stopped.

“Where are we?” asked a voice.

Myrrdin ponderously turned his bulk, crashing down brush with his thick rooted feet. He saw Ivor there, and stared for a moment.

“Ah yes,” he said. “You’re still following me—I’d forgotten.”

“Was that not your wish, uncle? Because I’m sure I can’t go home again. I’m well and truly lost.”

Myrrdin gazed down at the dumb beast that was his half-breed nephew. The other gazed back with a comically long face. He was sad and lost out here in the dark pit of the Erm.

Myrrdin felt an urge to lift a root and stomp the beast down, smooshing him flat. But the moment passed. He’d almost forgotten about the idiot in his haste to get away, but he told himself the creature could still be useful.

“Yes,” Myrrdin said at last. “This is the spot I was hoping to find. You see here? That is a headwater.”

“A what? That’s a spring. The water will be sweet here.”

The ogre rushed to the spring and dipped his head into it to drink.

A feral rumble came from Myrrdin. He slashed out with an eight-fingered hand of wood. Like a claw, the oak branch struck Ivor and sent him tumbling.

“Don’t foul the water, you fool!” Myrrdin said. “The elves will be tracking us. They will catch that scent in an instant. Worse, you’ll make the water taste like a swamp for a dozen leagues downstream!”

Ivor rolled until he came up against a thick vine that encircled a boulder like a constricting snake. His head cracked into the rock—but he was not seriously injured. He climbed back to his feet and shook his head, tapping at it experimentally.

“You’re stronger than me, uncle.”

“Of course I am. My body isn’t made of flesh, bone and muscle. Wood is stronger than any of those! That’s why fools make clubs from oak, so they can better beat one another into paste.”

“Who?” Ivor asked in confusion. He had one hand at the back of his head, rubbing at a sore spot.

“Never mind! I’m going to attempt a ritual now, and I don’t want to be disturbed. But, if some kind of danger comes, you are to warn me. Do you understand?”

Ivor massaged the back of his lumpy head. “Uh…maybe.”

Myrrdin doubted the wisdom of bringing this beast with him.

“Let me explain,” he snapped. “I will be distracted as I work. You must serve as my watchdog. If something approaches that might harm either of us, interrupt me. Otherwise, leave me alone until I’m finished.”

“Okay. How long will that be? I’m hungry.”

Myrrdin raised a heavy claw-shaped branch, thinking to clout Ivor again. Ivor scuttled away.

“I’ll go find something to eat,” the ogre said. “If I see danger, I’ll return.”

Myrrdin grumbled, but let him go. He would probably be useless in any case. He’d probably been the fool thinking he could get useful service out of an ogre.

Now that his wits had returned to him, at least in part, Myrrdin realized that full vengeance upon his countless enemies could not be achieved in a single stroke. He’d realized after destroying the village that he could not handle this job alone. The ogre had provided him with an idea, the germ of a plan, if nothing else.

He’d already gathered an ogre to his banner. Ivor was a follower, and he liked that. Not only for the good it did his ego, which had been bruised badly by years spent alone in a dark pod beneath the earth, but also because it gave him hope for another possible stage, a step, on the path to vengeance. He wanted to avenge himself against everyone who had ever wronged him—at least within his own twisting mind. The list was long and impressive.

And so he’d come here, to the deepest part of the wildest forest in all the known worlds. This was not a sunlit place full of lovely glades and dancing dryads and babbling brooks. There were no clearings full of unicorns prancing about. No, this was a dark, dense, overgrown region full of tree trunks, vines and crawling things.

He paused to consider the spot where he’d halted. It was a headwater, of that much he was certain, and there was a cliff of sorts nearby. He marched to the cliff and felt along its ridged walls, for he stood at the bottom of the wall, not the top. He frowned as he touched and tested the cliff. The strange thing was—

“This isn’t a cliff! Not at all!” he cried.

“Huh?” Ivor called back to him.

“Never mind. Stay alert.”

Myrrdin edged along the wall, feeling it. He could barely see it so low was the light down here in the depths of trees. It was not a cliff—it was the base of a tree trunk. One so great in size he could scarcely credit his senses!

He made his way, clambering over roots and probing for clues. What kind of tree could be so huge? How was it that he’d never heard of this place, or never seen it when winging above the Erm?

The base of the trunk did curve, as it must, and he eventually found himself having made his way completely around its circumference. It had to be a quarter mile around.

“Unbelievable…” he muttered. Entombed within the body of a tree, he felt huge. But in comparison to this monstrosity, he was like a sapling beside a redwood.

He took another turn around the trunk, probing high and low this time. He felt at the base of the roots and as high up as his finger-branches would reach. There at last he found a shock—a sharp, flat surface above.

He was aghast and even horrified. The tree wasn’t a tree at all. It was a stump. A massive, ancient stump.

The tree that had once stood here must have been the greatest living thing in all the worlds. So huge, so tremendous, that the tallest pine in the Erm today was like a candle compared to the sun, like a breath of air to a howling wind. Like an ant at the foot of an ox.

Myrrdin stared at the ancient, thick bark, caressing it and thinking. It crumbled in his wooden hands and flaked to dust.

His mind twisted as the dust trickled away from his fingers, and he began to get…ideas.

* * *

Trev had left Brand and Kaavi behind the night before. He was already far from Castle Rabing. The marsh road was muddy and ill-kept, but not even the patches of oozing bog that would have sucked the shoes from a galloping horse troubled him. He ran lightly over the muck and bounded over the worst of the thickets. Only rarely did a thorn catch his sleeve and tear it as he passed swiftly by.

He thought about Brand and Kaavi. He would miss them as they were both part of his childhood. But he had sensed they didn’t want him around last night—and that he didn’t want to be there to witness what may transpire.

That wasn’t the only reason he’d slipped away rudely without saying goodbye. He’d left because he’d gotten what he’d wanted from Brand: information. Brand had known nothing of importance about the missing Jewels, but he’d told him where to go next. Trev’s mind was gripped with the quest. He would go to talk to Gudrin, as she was the easier of the two wise beings to locate. Then he would find Myrrdin if he had to, even if the other had vanished from the Haven a decade ago.

He was curious about Myrrdin and how he was getting on in the world in any case. As far as Trev knew, the old wizard was one of the few living members of the rare breed to which Trev himself belonged—half-elves. The old buzzard was, in fact, Trev’s uncle.

There were others he could speak with such as Oberon and the White Lady—or maybe even the dragons that slumbered in the Everdark. But these individuals were all unfriendly and probably dangerous. He decided to concentrate on the two wise folk Brand had suggested first.

He ran all night and all the next day without stopping until sundown the day after he’d left Castle Rabing. He was still in the swamps, but the Black Mountains loomed near to the south. He would reach them the following morning if he kept up this pace. After climbing to the foothills into the lands of the Kindred, he’d find Snowdon there, the greatest mountain in the range. Buried beneath Snowdon was the famed home of the Kindred known as the Earthlight. His eyes gleamed with anticipation at the idea of seeing it for the first time.

When darkness fell deep and somber, he finally stopped to rest. He wasn’t exactly tired, but he was winded. Even Trev had his limits—he couldn’t run forever. Only a pure elf could do that, but Puck had told him they never did it because they always become distracted at some point and want to do something else.

In a relatively dry spot, at the edge of the marshes and with the Black Mountains blotting out the sunset, Trev made camp. He built a tiny fire of twigs and grass. He fed the fire chunks of peat moss when it became big enough. The flames were reddish and smelled slightly, but they provided him warmth and comfort. He dug out the rations his Aunt Kaavi had given him and chewed.

His mind whirled with thoughts. He realized now why he’d agreed to follow the Sorceress’ whims and seek these Jewels. It was because he was bored. He was bored with the Haven, with its safety and dull, happy inhabitants. He’d always been full of wanderlust, but traveling about pointlessly was no longer enough for him. Taking short trips to see sights only motivated a person who was easily amused. He longed for a real adventure of the sort he’d heard about all his life. Puck his father and Oberon his grandfather had both enjoyed countless adventures in the wilds. Although he was young, Trev figured it was about time for him to gain a few tales to tell of his own.

He was busy romanticizing his upcoming visit to Gudrin—she would be shocked to see he’d already grown into a man—when he thought he heard an odd sound.

His eyes flicked this way and that, but his head stayed still. Often, when one is being stalked, it was best to pretend not to be aware of the threat. Predators often charged when they knew they’d been detected. If he was going to have to run like a rabbit, he at least wanted to know which way to flee.

So his eyes traveled the scene while his body tensed, but did not otherwise move. It might be nothing. There were countless creatures that might be moving near his camp tonight, most of them harmless. But being wary tended to extend an adventurer’s lifespan, so he was very alert.

“You don’t see me, do you?” asked a voice.

Trev stopped breathing. His head came up a fraction and his legs tensed.

“Oh now, please don’t run off. I do so hate a long chase. I think you might be able to give me trouble before I caught you, and neither one of us wants any unpleasantness.”

Trev put his hand on his dagger hilt. It was his father’s weapon, and it wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. The fine steel blade had a triangular shape that came to a perfect point. He drew it and put it in his lap while he gazed across his smoky fire to the spot where the voice seemed to be coming from.

“I see you now,” Trev lied. In truth, there did seem to be a waver in the smoke that obscured the spot on the opposite side of his fire. But he could not see a figure of any kind. “Stay where you are, and identify yourself.”

There was a sudden, booming laugh that ended with a slobbering sound.

“So brave! So commanding! I must change my pants for I’ve soiled myself. Ha!”

“What do you want, phantom?”

“Just to talk to you, son of Puck. Oh yes, I know who you are. What’s more I know of your quest. I just want to talk, that’s all.”

Trev’s hand stayed on the hilt of his dagger, but he didn’t lift it. The short length of steel reflected the firelight, casting orange gleams and flashes.

“All right, talk,” Trev said. “Start with telling me who you are. It’s only polite since you seem to know who I am.”

“I’m disappointed. Apparently, the apple has fallen far from the tree in your case. You are no son of Puck if you can’t figure out who you’re talking to. How can you expect to find Jewels if you don’t even realize you’re facing one?”

This statement alarmed Trev, but it also enlightened him.

“Ah,” he said after a moment. “You’re Old Hob. Brand said something about you coming to see him yesterday. What do you want?”

“I wish to help, that’s all. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

It was Trev’s turn to laugh. “What a great skulking liar you are! You want to help, all right. To help yourself.”

“I can see that your mind’s been poisoned by the ill words of your relations. I would urge you to judge a newly-met person upon their deeds, not past associations and mean-spirited rumors.”

This sounded fair enough to Trev, as he was quite young.

“All right,” he said. “Do something to help me, then. Tell me about the Jewels and where I might find them.”

Old Hob snorted. “You’re staring at one of the powers you seek even now.”

“I know that. And I faced the Amber just the day before. But what do you know of the Dark Jewels? Those that are lost?”

“Hmm,” said Hob. Suddenly, nonchalantly, he revealed himself. An icicle-nose of green protruded grotesquely from beneath his cowl. He lifted a bony, misshapen limb that seemed impossibly long and reached halfway across the fire with it. The limb terminated in a finger that was the length of a man’s foot. “I’ll tell you the truth, boy. I don’t know where the lost Jewels lie. But wherever they are, I want them to stay exactly there. Hidden and out of the equation.”

“The equation?”

“We’ve had peace for years now—have you not noticed? What happened the last few times a Jewel appeared or went missing? Do you know?”

Trev frowned, thinking about his knowledge of historical events, which was sketchy. He’d had trouble focusing on such things in school, and he’d given up on attending over a year ago. But in this case, he had been very directly and personally involved in the events Hob spoke of, making it easier for him to answer intelligently.

“I suppose the Black was the last to appear,” he said. “It caused a Storm of the Dead to rise. Is that what you’re talking about?”

“Precisely. And before that, the Red was found by that vicious little monster Piskin. He caused a war even greater than the Dead did when they walked. And do you know about the time before that? The story of Pyros the Orange? A dragon was awakened, and slew the Kindred by the hundreds. Am I making myself clear?”

“Not really.”

Hob made a sound of exasperation. It was a snort, and a wet one at that. The tiny red fire sputtered as discharge dribbled into it. Trev winced in disgust.

“Unbelievable!” Hob complained. “You are an elf, boy—or at least half of one. You should be able to deduce the meanings of others in such matters. You’ve not been properly raised, it’s just as Oberon said.”

“You’ve talked to my grandfather?”

“Of course. Many times. He has troubles of his own these days in his lands, but he’s still keeping an eye on you and all your ilk. All the half-breeds he laid down like jars of fruit in a Haven mum’s cellar.”

This last statement seemed to greatly amuse Hob, who rumbled with laughter until he had a coughing fit.

Trev frowned at the goblin, only half understanding what he was hinting at and not at all liking the hints he was getting.

Old Hob went on as if oblivious. “So now we come to the crux of it. I want you to give up your folly. Swear off the words of the witch in the wood and forget her charms. She twisted your mind, she did. And I’ve no doubt you’re under a geas to find what she wants and to bring the items back to her—or to die trying.

“No, that’s not it at all,” Trev said. “I’m not enchanted. She did try that, mind you, but she failed. I think that truly surprised her.”

One huge yellow eye regarded Trev seriously from under his cowl. “And would you care to swear to that?”

“Certainly—but I will require a boon to do so, for it gains me nothing to ease your mind on the point.”

Hob grumbled. “What would be the nature of this boon? And let me warn you not to get too greedy, half-breed!”

“I won’t,” Trev said. “All I wish is something you can easily provide me.”

“Speak!”

“A flight to anywhere that takes my imagination,” Trev said. “Up into the air for an hour’s time, a safe, fanciful journey in the night sky like a bird on the wing. I’ve never flown higher than I can jump, and I want to feel the cold wind as a falcon does.”

Hob laughed until he coughed and choked again. “Ah, it is this swamp. I miss it, but it always made me hack and spit. I believe it no longer agrees with me at all.”

“What is your answer?” Trev asked.

Hob stared at him for a time. “All right,” he said at last. “Swear to me that you will no longer pursue the lost Jewels and I’ll give you your little taste of the sky.”

Trev shook his head. “An amateurish attempt. I said no such thing. I will swear that I’m under no geas, no compulsion at all other than my own desire to find these things. That is the bargain.”

“Hmm,” said Hob thoughtfully. “I think I will agree. Why, you might well ask? Why would I give you even a small jaunt into the stars for nothing more than a reassurance? Because you will fail if your words are true. If the witch isn’t behind you, you’re on a fool’s errand, boy. It doesn’t matter if you refuse to give it up—you’re doomed to failure in any case.”

“Why is that?”

Hob’s yellow teeth reflected wetly as he smiled. “Are you asking me a question now? Something you wish to know? Something that will comfort and aid you in the future? If so, let’s discuss the nature of the boon you will provide me for my troubles in answering.”

“Not necessary,” Trev said quickly. “Forget I asked.”

“Done and done. Now, swear to me so I can give you your circle in the air and be done with these boring lands. My wives await me back in Eire, and I can still make it home by sun up if I get started soon.”

“So fast as that?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

And so Trev did swear. He gave his word as the son of Puck, the grandson of Oberon, that he was telling the truth. The witch he’d met and lain with in the woods had no magical hold over him.

When he was finished, Hob snorted and stood up. “Well done, then. I’ll be on my way, and I thank you for your cooperation.”

“Just a moment. There is the small matter of my payment.”

“What? You can’t be serious, boy! I have better things to do than to give lost young pups joyrides at midnight. You’d best forget about it. People often get sick on their first flight anyway.”

“You promised.”

“I’ll tell you what. Let’s call it a favor. A small thing, to be sure, but something that can be pulled back in later when you need it.”

“No,” Trev said. “I want my ride, and I want it now, as agreed.”

Old Hob looked startled. He had good reason to be. An offer from an individual of power to a young person was rare, and a favor could be very valuable indeed.

“You refuse my favor? I’m shocked at your lack of wisdom.”

“Nevertheless, I demand my payment. Either that, or it will be said that you did break your word this eve.”

Old Hob’s eye was baleful. “You discomfit me, but it will be as we agreed. Here, climb onto my hump and ride. Hold tight, for I wouldn’t want you to drop off into the muck when we are a thousand feet up.”

“Try to recall the wording at the start of this conversation, Hob. I said a ‘safe’ journey.”

Grumbling, Hob bent on one knee and Trev climbed from a rock onto the goblin’s ridged back. It seemed then to him as if Old Hob stood up—but the standing up took far longer than it should have.

Looking down, Trev saw that his campfire was already a tiny red gleam of light in the blackness below. He whooped with pleasure and hung onto the rags that covered Hob’s uneven spine.

“Shall we fly up to visit the moon?” asked Hob in irritation.

“Can we?”

“No, it is far too high to visit in a single eve, much less an hour.”

“Very well, just glide westward, if you would.”

Old Hob turned and soared out toward the distant sea. Clouds that felt like stinging mists rolled over them and Trev reveled in the darkness, overjoyed. This, finally, was a real adventure!

“Time’s up,” Hob said a few minutes later.

As he spoke, a sickening lurch touched Trev’s belly. They were coming down again with amazing speed.

“That wasn’t anywhere near long enough,” Trev said. “A full hour was stipulated.”

“I could drop you. You know that don’t you boy? No smashed wad of broken bones and pulped flesh has ever told a tale of interest to anyone.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” Trev said, hanging on. “But I’m sure I still have my blade and I’m sitting upon your warted back.”

The feeling of rapid descent ceased. Now, they soared over a copse of trees. They were pines and they gave off a fresh scent. Trev realized they’d left the swamp behind in a few minutes. He was impressed. He’d thought of himself as fast, but in comparison, Hob was like a stroke of lightning.

He decided he should cut the journey short. The truth was that he found Old Hob painful to his hands and his nose this close-up.

“Okay,” Trev said into the goblin’s bat-like ear. “We’re close to my destination. Just fly north a few miles and you can set me down there, and our deal will be done.”

Hob’s head rotated in the direction indicated. “There’s a cliff to the north of us.”

“So fly over it.”

Grumbling, Hob did as he was bid. Trev laughed aloud and felt like the king of both the heavens and the earth below him.

When they reached the edge of the cliff, Old Hob wasted no time in setting down on solid land. He looked around and then turned to glare at Trev, who had jumped down and now stood on his own two feet.

“This is Snowdon!” Hob said. “Why did you have me fly you here, boy?”

Trev smiled. “Are we bargaining again?”

“Most definitely not.”

The goblin launched into the sky and vanished. He didn’t even say “farewell”. Trev wasted no time himself. He ran lightly into the trees. He should be able to reach the Earthlight hours before the gates opened to admit visitors.

He was proud of himself, as he felt he’d gotten the better of Old Hob. Far from distracting him from his quest, Hob had actually sped him on his way—and even better, there was no chance of any other pursuers catching up with him now.

Chapter Four

The Words of the Wise

Brand rode hard through the night. He rode toward Snowdon with a grimly determined expression on his face.

He’d chosen Snowdon as it was the obvious Trev was going to talk to Gudrin first. She knew the boy, and the Kindred would doubtlessly have sympathy for him. The Storm of the Dead had tragically taken Trev’s father along with a thousand other undeserving souls years ago. The Kindred had retreated during that struggle into their mountain fortress, and Brand believed they still felt a twinge of remorse about not helping their allies.

Gudrin would greet Trev and tell him whatever he wished, Brand was certain of this. The idea made his teeth grind. Not so much because he thought Gudrin should know better, nor because the boy had slipped away while he was distracted—but because Brand himself had suggested this wise course of action. For that reason alone he wanted to see Trev’s adventure come to an abrupt end. He hated playing the fool who witlessly helped others…

Surprised at his mood, which had become full of growling and muttered curses, Brand took a deep breath of fetid, cold air. The swamps weren’t getting any fresher, despite the fact he had to be two-thirds of the way across by now.

Brand gave his head a shake. Where had this anger come from? He wasn’t even certain the boy was up to any real mischief. Perhaps Trev’s actions would come to a beneficial end, or at least would somehow discomfit Hob, explaining why the old devil had worked so hard to poison Brand’s mind.

But no, it wasn’t Hob’s words that bothered him now—it had to be the Axe. Ambros, combined with worry over his own indiscretions the night before, had put him in the worst of moods.

He’d never lain with another woman since he’d taken Telyn for a wife. He took his vows very seriously. Certainly, his eyes had wandered from time to time, as all men might confess. But he’d never acted upon the urge. This time, he feared, things had gone differently.

Who was to blame? Was it the Axe, or Kaavi, or Trev? Or just Brand himself? He wasn’t entirely sure. He suspected it was a mix of all these things spiced up by Kaavi’s intoxicating brew and unwavering youthfulness.

And worse than any infidelity on his part—a thousand times worse—was the possibility that there would be issue from last night’s chance meeting. That he feared more than anything else about the situation. It was one thing to have a dark secret, it was quite another to have a monster in your closet. An offspring so terrible it could not be witnessed by any normal man without causing him a chill of fear.

Brand snapped out of his reverie when he saw something in the darkness ahead. There—what was that? A reddish, glimmering glow through the twisted, bone-like branches of the swamp trees. He halted his horse, shushed it gently and tied the reins to a twisted tree. He crept up to the fire, approaching with what stealth he could muster.

There it was, a single guttering tongue of flame. Someone was burning peat moss by the smell of it. He stood up and strode into the circle of wan light. He looked around sternly.

“Trev? Are you here, boy? Answer me, I’ve been riding hard to speak with you.”

There was nothing but crickets and the guttural belching of frogs to greet his ears. At length, feeling the fool for calling out in an empty camp in an empty swamp, he growled in frustration and went over the scene carefully.

The fire had not been tended for a least an hour and had nearly run out of fuel. There was no evidence that indicated a fight—but there was something odd about the muck in the area…

After a few minutes spent searching with a hunter’s eye, Brand found a footprint that was unmistakable. It was heavy and inhumanly large.

“Hob,” he said to himself quietly.

He turned then, lifting his eyes for the first time into the night sky. Dawn was less than an hour off. He was tired, but now his face was creased with worry as well as fatigue.

What if he’d read this situation wrongly from the start? What if Trev was fleeing Hob, and Brand had been the dupe all along not to see it? What lie would Old Hob not employ to slow down a man he wanted to bring down like fleeing prey?

Brand threw himself back up into the saddle and set off at a gallop. Black clumps of wet earth shot up from behind churning hooves.

* * *

Trev was farther from the campfire than Brand could have conceived. He had nearly reached his goal: the gates of Snowdon.

He was in the region known as the Starbreak Fells. It was a rocky place built like a giant stairway of cliffs. At the base of each cliff was a broken jamble of sharp stone. The Fells were treacherous by day and deadly by night.

Trev was no stranger to poor footing. He hopped from boulder to ridge as deftly as might a Wee One. He was pleased with his rate of progress and the nearness of dawn in the sky.

Still, he had a feeling of foreboding. Often, when he paused to survey his position and judge what course to take over a particularly bad pile of loose, splintered rock, he thought he might not be alone out here.

There were owls, of course, along other night predators and scurrying prey. He knew their undulating cries and wild scents well—but there was something else. Something that glimmered when his eye was not focused upon it. Something that trailed him steadily.

After topping a rise that would have left a lesser man spent and breathless, he stood with his hands on his hips and gazed downward. A smirk played over his thin lips.

His toe nudged a rock no bigger than a hen’s egg. He dislodged it with a kick and sent it spinning down into the dark. Rattling and cracking as it fell, the sound soon died away to nothing.

There was no reaction. No glimmer. No muttered curses.

Shrugging, Trev turned back to his path and began trotting lightly upslope. In time he came to a wooded area. The trees lined the cliffs here. They clutched to a thin scrim of soil as if aware of the nearness of a deadly slide into certain doom.

There it was again! A glow behind him—it could not be denied. The moon was three-quarters full and half-risen above the land, making him think it perhaps was reflecting from a mountain pool below—but he had not seen any such pools along the way.

An immediate thought came to him: it had to be one of the Fae. Only they glimmered like that, reflecting moonlight. He thought of his own hair, which was still safely tucked away under his hat. He hated his hair, as it had always marked him as different among the river boys of the Haven. But he knew that tonight, if he were to reveal it under the moonlight, it would give off a very faint, wan glow. He was just like all the Fae in that such moments betrayed his true nature.

Trev knew how to handle a stealthy pursuer. He stepped behind a tree trunk and paused there, gathering his breath. Then he took a great bounding leap forward. A dozen sprinting steps later and he was almost through a copse of trees and into the open again.

But he did not go out into the open. There, he’d be more vulnerable to an arrow from behind. Instead, he crouched at the base of a low stone wall and waited.

His breath burned in his lungs, but he tried to make no sound whatsoever. His pursuer came along shortly, rushing after him. His sudden flight had surprised it.

Trev could hear padding steps. He smiled, for he was sure his ruse had worked. Having lost sight of Trev, his shadow had panicked and run after him. Now, from the other’s point of view, Trev had vanished.

He waited until the soft footsteps came racing up to the wall. He could almost feel the other’s presence, and he could hear it’s ragged breathing. A foul smell came to his nose as well, making it twitch. It reminded him of soured milk and last week’s catch in the Berrywine River, gone bad days ago.

Drawing his dagger, Trev stood suddenly, facing back the way he’d come. There, he felt sure, he’d see his pursuer and meet him nose-to-nose.

But there was no one there.

It was Trev’s turn to frown and gape, looking from side to side. He was sure—no, he was certain there’d be a bad-smelling manling of some kind standing on the far side of that wall.

He hopped onto the wall itself and leaned forward over it, checking to see if his shadow had dropped down to hide there.

“Come out and play, why don’t you?” he said.

But again, he saw nothing. He straightened and lowered his weapon, putting his hands on his hips. Pursing his lips, he scanned the dark line of trees, the low wall of fitted stone and the empty night skies.

Then an arm snaked its way around his neck by surprise. Trev cried out, and sprang away like a rabbit. So quick was his reaction, he escaped the attempt to grapple him by inches. He felt a long scraping cut appear along his side as he dove away, however. He had not gotten away unscathed.

Spinning around like a startled cat, he landed on his feet and lifted his dagger again. He honestly expected to see nothing and no one. This phantom seemed to only provide glimmers in the dark at a distance—but there was most definitely someone there.

He had assumed up until now it would be a goblin, but this creature was unlike anything Trev had seen before. It was tall, thin and gangly, and almost as big as a man. In fact, Trev noticed it was precisely the same height as he was. Most goblins were no more than three feet tall and as skinny as plucked cats. This creature was no goblin, he decided. Whatever it was, it had ropy muscles along its arms and wore clothing over much of its glimmering skin. A cloak of midnight black fluttered from its back and a cowl enshrouded its face. It held a dagger with a rippled blade in an outstretched hand.

“What are you?” Trev demanded.

The thing made no immediate attempt to answer. Instead it hissed and lunged, slashing with its exotic-looking weapon. Trev danced backward, in alarm. He’d had some training with arms, but he’d never been in a fight with a determined foe before. His heart pounded so that it rattled against his ribs and thudded in his temples.

“You can’t catch me,” Trev said. “We might as well talk.”

The creature chased him over a few rocks, but to no avail. Trev led it in a wide circle until they came back to the low stone wall again. Finally, winded, the thing paused and stared at him with baleful eyes.

“How is it thy eyes can see mine?” it asked Trev in a rasping voice.

“I asked my question first. Who are you?”

“I will answer first, as custom dictates. I’m a simulacrum. Shadgol is my name, and Trev is my match.”

“Your match?” laughed Trev. But his laughter sounded hollow even to his own ears. He felt uneasy talking to this odd creature.

“My kind is bred to kill a single being—and you are my match.”

Trev frowned, his humor vanishing. He caught the implication, and he didn’t like it. This was some kind of assassin created specifically to slay him.

“Answer my query,” demanded Shadgol. “Why can you see me now, when you could not before?”

“I don’t know,” said Trev honestly.

“That is no answer!”

“But it is the truth.”

Shadgol made a frustrated hissing sound.

“Old Hob sent you, didn’t he?” Trev demanded. “You’re one of his creatures, a beast of the night. Tell me, why would he go to all the trouble of breeding a being such as yourself for the singular purpose of slaying me?”

“My master does not require reasons. Whatever is his will must be. You’re my match, and I will hunt you until the sun goes out.”

Trev grew curious. “And what if you succeed? Will you be rewarded in some way?”

For the first time, the creature’s dark face showed an emotion other than pure hate. This new look was one of lust, or unsated hunger. “Indeed I will be given a great boon. Your blood is the finest wine I could ask for. I will bathe in it and will die while gulping your peeled flesh and shattered bones until my stomach bursts.”

Trev’s face twisted. “Disgusting. Now, tell me why I couldn’t see you before. Why you were only a faint glimmer on my trail?”

“No,” said Shadgol. “I will tell you nothing unless you allow me my blissful ending.”

Trev laughed, shaking his head. This elicited another hopping attack from Shadgol, but now that Trev could see the assassin it was a simple matter to keep beyond the creature’s reach.

“Let’s strike a bargain,” Trev suggested. “What would you like in turn for answering my questions? Something less than a pound of my flesh.”

A cunning look came over the assassin, who Trev thought had been looking a trifle frustrated.

“Come closer to me,” Shadgol said.

Trev took a definite pace forward. The two had stood no more than seven paces apart—now it was only six.

“I do not know why you saw me,” Shadgol said. “The enchantment was broken somehow.”

Trev nodded thoughtfully. “You claim then that Old Hob used Osang to enchant your person, to make you invisible to me?”

“Another step for another answer.”

Trev licked his lips, and stepped closer.

“Yes. My master did precisely that.”

Shadgol was looking eager again—almost greedy. His breath came in shallow gasps and his excitement grew ever stronger as Trev came near.

“One more thing,” said Trev softly.

“Ask, and step.”

“Where is your master now?”

“He watches from above.”

“Flying like an owl in the night sky? Why not come down to witness the glory of the kill?”

Shadgol gestured impatiently. His hook-like fingers scratched at the air. “You owe me twice over. Step and step again, and I will answer.”

Trev did so, taking two swift steps, and they now stood only three short paces apart. At this range, the creature’s foulness filled the air and was unavoidable.

“My master rarely endangers his own person.”

Trev laughed. He had to admit, he could have guessed the answer to that one. He’d been told throughout his youth of the great wars of the recent past, where many folk had cast armies at one another near right here, on the shoulders of Snowdon. Old Hob had never been one to take chances with his own life—not even remote chances. When violence needed to be done, he preferred to observe from a safe distance while sending minions to die for him.

“Ask another question,” said Shadgol, his voice growing gutteral with dark anticipation.

“Why didn’t your master send an army of goblins after me? Why has he gone to such efforts to breed an assassin such as yourself?”

“I know not.”

“That’s no answer.”

“And yet it is the truth. Step forward, or be known forever as a cheat without honor.”

All beings of Fae blood, from the simple wisps to the dancing elves themselves understood the meaning of dishonor. They would rather wager their own heads and lose them than to live and be known as an honorless cur.

Trev lifted his foot. The simulacrum coiled itself. There was no doubt as to its intentions. Once within two paces, Trev would be in range for a lethal thrust. Not even he could reverse himself and bound away in time to escape the other’s motion. Both beings knew it, and Shadgol drooled with anticipation.

But before he took the last fateful step, Trev hurled his dagger at the other. The blade flipped once, and caught the assassin by surprise. It sunk fully into an eye socket, stabbing into the brain beyond.

Trev stepped closer then, as he had promised. He looked down at the scrabbling monster, feeling slightly bad for it. That was his human side, he knew. A true elf would have felt nothing resembling mercy or kinship for such a foul beast.

But Trev had never before killed a creature that could speak. He’d hunted rabbits and deer for his mother’s table, but that was a far cry from this experience. Equally disturbing was his impression that the beastly thing was still alive, and attempting to speak.

“Foul play,” it said from the ground at his feet.

“Never! I played you fair. I said I would step forward, and here I stand. Your safety was never guaranteed in the bargain, and neither was mine.”

A charcoal-colored hooked finger beckoned him closer, and odd gurgles emanated from the monster’s throat.

Trev was curious, having never heard the dying words of a thinking being before. He inched closer.

Claw-like, the midnight-black hand shot out and gripped his ankle. Trev instantly attempted to bound away. He leapt into the air like a rabbit with its foot caught in a snare, but the simulacrum held fast with its dying strength, and Trev was brought down to earth again.

The assassin had lost his blade when he fell and was not in any condition to seek it, so Shadgol did the only thing he could—he pulled Trev’s dagger from his own eye socket and stabbed at the scrambling half-elf.

Trev had never been so close to death as he was now, with the exception of the moments he’d faced King Arawn of the Dead. He knew this, and he knew he’d played the fool in this exchange from the beginning. He could have simply run away, but he had not done so. Like all his kind, his weakness was his curiosity. It hadn’t been good enough to escape death—he’d given in to the urge to toy with his attacker.

Telling himself to forget about such recriminations until later—if there was a later—Trev did what was necessary. He knelt and gripped the hand that held his dagger, pinning it to the dirt and stones. It was like grappling with a snake. When at last he had his dagger free from the charcoal fingers, he reversed it and plunged the point into the body of his foe again and again.

Gore as black as oil showered him, but still the thing kept fighting with a horrible vigor. When as last Shadgoal relaxed in death, Trev had no idea how many times he’d driven the knife deep, feeling it scrape on bone as often as not.

Sides heaving, he stood at last and escaped a grasping web of fingers which had grown rubbery in death. He staggered away, sickened and unable to think of anything other than flight.

He ran then, into the pink light of dawn. He ran all the way to the great stone gates of Snowdon.

There, he waited on the doorstep of the Kindred. When the sun finally rose into the sky, the stone gates opened and he was admitted into the Earthlight.

Chapter Five

The Troll

After the disaster years back when Morcant Drake had herded the Dead of Riverton down from Cemetery Hill, there had been a lull in burials up there. Burning the dead rather than burying them was even considered by the town council seriously. But old traditions die hard, and it was always difficult to deny a grieving family their solace when they were in an emotional state. They did not want to speak of burning their loved ones, it was not their way.

Some clans, such as the Rabing Clan itself, often buried people by dumping them into the Berrywine River. Most clans preferred internment. After a year or so of haggling about the subject, the burials continued. In time, they came to use the cemetery again, believing it safe to do so.

Since the original grave tenders had been among the first victims of the Storm of the Dead, respectable people applicants for the newly reopened job were few and hard to come by. When the subject of graveyard digging arose, even the bravest men looked at their feet. Thus it was months before a new grave digger was hired, during which the Riverton Constabulary filled the role as part of an emergency effort.

The new man was far from the best of his kind. Rather than a gentle soul who cared for and respected his tenants, Slet of the Silure clan was a man who couldn’t get a job doing anything else. He was not a drunkard, but little else could be said for him in a positive vein.

Before the Storm of the Dead, he’d been a mean, petty little man who’d helped his grandfather old Tad Silure by gathering and creating fake wards from the shores of the Berrywine. They’d made a modest income preying upon the fears of local folk who were trying to protect their families from the depredations of the Fae—but who lacked the money to do it rightly.

That lucrative little racket had soon run dry when people had determined the wards were worthless. Bitter, Slet had taken his share of the loot and turned to whoring down around the docks, working odd jobs for whoever could stand him—souls who were few and far between.

When Brand had come to the townsfolk with an offer of an elven bride for any unattached man of Riverton, Slet had felt revitalized. He’d been certain that a new beautiful woman could uncover his inner, true self and reveal it to everyone else who sneered at him in the streets.

He’d gone with Brand on one fateful morn to the land of the Fae. Like his cousin Bret Silure, he’d wanted to find a wife. Unlike his cousin, he’d come back alive and with the woman of his dreams. In the Twilight Lands, he’d met his lovely bride and bedded her that very night. Never had any experience of his brutal life prepared him for the bliss he felt when he was with her.

Slet had returned from the land of elves a changed man. He brought his new bride with him and showed her to all his relatives. They were stunned, envious and even spiteful—but a few were happy for him. They encouraged him to clean up his life and rejoin the clan as a functioning member.

Soon after, he landed a job as a dockhand with steady pay. He broke his pipe and discarded it. He ignored the lowlifes he’d spent time with in the past, swearing to his new wife Annelida that he’d never take up with them again—a pledge he’d never broken, from that day to this.

Sadly, things did not go perfectly for Slet. His wife turned up pregnant and quickened with unnatural speed. Alarmed, he did his best to make her comfortable and to provide for her.

But at last, when the night of the birth came, a gale blew hard outside and dark clouds threatened with rumbling thunder. Slet had worked late, and when he returned his family stared at him with sad, tear-filled eyes. They had to tell him his fair wife had died in childbirth, having not been able to get the child free of her womb. He asked to see the child, but the midwives had told him firmly it was best he didn’t. He finally agreed and left.

Grief-stricken, he’d wandered the streets in a daze. It wasn’t until weeks later when the Storm of the Dead lashed the Riverton streets that he’d been able to do anything useful.

When the Dead came, he changed. In those grim hours of desperation, he took up a sword and chopped the bodies of every mad-thing that assailed the houses of the River Folk. He did this with a blood-lusting fury and snarling teeth. Those who saw him attested to his courage, but they also quietly suggested Slet was a man unfit for permanent duty alongside the blue cloaks of the Constabulary. It was felt he was a madman in battle and might cut down his comrades with the same zeal he turned toward his foes.

And so, when the militia forces disbanded, it was only natural for someone who’d served as a soldier at the cemetery change his sword for a shovel and sword. Slet was given the post, and he had accepted it, not knowing what else to do with his broken life.

Each night that passed he remembered his beloved Annelida. He wondered what his child had looked like, and he contemplated suicide with regularity. Years rolled by, and old wounds slowly healed. Still, he never drank, took a new wife, nor smiled when called to. Having turned sour in middle age, he had grown into the role of a reclusive hermit. School children frightened one another by invoking his name, and when they came up to Cemetery Hill on a dare, he obliged them by chasing them out with curses and vile threats.

One night while he secured his shop and headed for bed, he thought to see a figure walking among the gravestones. It was long after dark, and visitors here were far and few between even on sunny days. Growing instantly annoyed by the intrusion, Slet furrowed his brow and stormed out to meet the stranger.

He’d intended to order whoever it was back down the hill to their home—but halted, entranced.

The figure he met among the dark, carven headstones was not a drunken fool, a giggling teen, nor even a sadden mourner. It was a woman, clad all in white.

She was not lovely to look upon, nor was she homely. She was plain of face, but had a regal quality to the way she carried herself. Slet shook his head like a hound and started forward again, lifting a hooded lantern and directing its beam toward the woman. Like a watchdog that has taken stock of a seemingly harmless intruder, he’d decided that barking was the best policy, if only to maintain an old habit.

“See here, madam, the cemetery is closed. You’ll have to…” he began, but trailed off.

“Yes?” she asked, coming closer.

As she walked toward him, he vaguely noticed there was no sound to her footsteps. He glanced down to see her feet were bare. Then he noticed the jewel clasping her white gown. It reflected the light of his lantern with unusual vigor. A thousand scintillating beams shot back in his direction as if he gazed into a stream reflecting sunlight.

“Who are you, anyway?” he demanded.

“I’m someone who’s come for help,” she said. “I’m looking for something, and I need your aid to acquire it.”

Slet halted and raised the lantern a little higher. He didn’t want to get any closer to this strange woman.

“I’m not paid to help people in the middle of the night.”

“I can see you’re a difficult man to reach,” she said. “You have a heart like a lump of coal. But I can pay in ways others cannot.”

Slet laughed in an unseemly fashion. “Be that as it may, I must ask you to leave.”

She didn’t leave. Instead, she walked among the graves, running her fingers over the cool granite face of each. She read the names aloud as she walked. Slet tracked her progress with his lantern, growing more concerned as she took each step.

“Betty Fob, Granther James, Gram Rabing…” she said.

“See here, miss—”

The woman suddenly halted over an open patch of land. There was nothing there but green grass and dandelions.

“This is the spot,” she said. “There’s something missing here. A grave gone unmarked.”

Slet shifted uneasily. It was indeed possible she was correct. During the Storm of the Dead, the corpses had fled from here in droves. Most of the graves were empty now. The corpses—hacked, hewn and burned to stop them from moving—had been reburied in a gated area for safety. Over the years, the people had gone back to their old habits, however, and now put their dead to rest on this hill again.

“Most of them are missing,” he said. “Don’t you know about the Storm of the Dead?”

“Oh yes,” said the woman, “but I’m talking about two creatures that were not part of that storm. They were unsuitable for Arawn’s army.”

Slet licked his lips. He didn’t like the nature of this conversation at all. He turned his head this way and that, staring into the darkness. Was there a pack of ruffians moving in? He didn’t have much, but possibly rumors had grown about his hermitage. He might be wrongly called a rich hermit who robbed the dead. Perfect for bandits to prey upon.

It was the strange woman’s turn to laugh. “Your mind reels with absurd fantasies. I’m not here to rob you, bitter grave-tender.”

“Then what, pray tell, brings you to haunt me tonight?”

“You have an inkling of what you face. Still brave, even in the face of real power. I’m impressed.”

“I’ve got nothing to lose and, therefore, nothing to be frightened of.”

“Wrong, and wrong again. But let us turn back to the lack I mentioned before. Aren’t you curious as to who lies below this spot? What corpses might here be buried without marker?”

“No, not really,” Slet lied. “But I suppose you’ll tell me anyway.”

“They are none other than your wife Annelida and your unnamed son.”

Slet stared at her in shock. After the initial stunned moment passed, however, he was goaded into action. He stepped up to her, snarling.

“I’ll not be mocked! No matter who you are!”

He shook a fist at her, but she seemed unafraid—almost amused. She lifted up a single outstretched finger and touched his knuckles with it.

Slet felt strange at her touch. He felt…weakened. As if his mind had been numbed. He hadn’t had a drink in over ten long years, but now it was as if he was comfortably drunk again, all at once. He staggered away from the woman, dazed.

“Dig,” she said to him. “Right here. There’s something I want to show you.”

“Dig?” he asked in a foggy voice. “Why would I dig?”

“Because you must,” she said gently.

“Yes. That’s right, I must.”

He turned around and went to his shack. He returned with a long-handled spade. It was specially built to reach down, down into the dark earth. Graves were dug deeply in the Haven, as people liked to hope the Dead would rest peacefully if they were farther down.

And so he dug. It took an hour, perhaps more. Slet never spoke further, nor did he stop digging until the casket was revealed.

At the bottom he found a cracked-open lid. He frowned, shining his lantern down into it. Something trailed out from the cracked lid. A wisp of gold. What was it?

Slet realized it was hair. The dead hair of the person in the casket. That color…he knew it well. It shone like spun gold. It was his dead wife’s hair.

Slet roared in a sudden fury. He stood woodenly and lifted his shovel. He turned to snarl at the woman in white.

She was there, but she did not flee from him. Instead, she caressed his cheek. It was such a sudden, purposeful motion. She’d clearly been ready to perform it.

Slet stood transfixed. He could not move. He could barely breathe.

“You will listen, and you will speak only when I tell you to,” the woman said very softly.

“Who are you, witch?” he whispered back.

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “A strong mind you have. But not strong enough. Still, I will answer your question since it was so bravely posed. I am Morgana, your mistress. And now I will ask you something. Do you know who lies in this grave?”

“My wife, Annelida.”

“Just so. And can you guess who lies in the unmarked spot beside her?”

Slet’s eyes shifted to the spot indicated. His heart pounded in his chest and he yearned to be free, but she held him. Only his lips and eyes could move.

“Please, mistress,” he said. “Don’t make me dig up my child.”

“But don’t you want to know the truth of the matter?”

“I don’t want to know anything you have to show me.”

Morgana nodded, as if in sudden understanding. “That is the problem. I have it now, thank you.”

“Please, don’t make me…”

“Put your mind at rest. I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. The trick is, of course, that you do want to dig up your child and see it with your own eyes. You want to see how it died, and why.”

Morgana touched him again, very lightly, but her touch burned him. After her fingers left his cheek, the spot was on fire. Strangely, he found he now did want to see what was down there in that casket. He wanted to know what it was he’d sired so long ago. They’d told him it was a tragedy, and they’d looked remorseful and wept with him all night long, the midwives and his aunts…

But what else had he seen in their eyes that night? Guilt? Possibly even a glimmer of fear? What had they hidden from him? He had to find out.

Slet turned and began to dig. The woman in white stood behind him, all but forgotten. He dug until his calloused hands bled, and he kept digging.

When at last he found the bottom of the second cold grave, a soft rain had begun. The water fell over his back and soaked his unkempt hair. With bleeding, grimy fingers, he pried away the tiny door of the tiny casket and saw what laid there inside.

They’d killed it.

A troll lay in the tiny box. It could not be anything else. A furry monster with mad, staring eyes and a mouthful of sharp teeth. The strangling cord was still wrapped around its neck, as tightly wound today as it had been the day his child had met death.

“And now you know,” said a soft voice behind him.

Slet wept openly. His tears mixed with rain and dirt and formed a slurry of mud all around him. He’d not wept since Annelida died. From that day to this, he’d been stern and snarling—but this was too much.

“Who did this to my son?” Slet wailed.

“Your Aunt Mattie, that’s who. Look into your heart. You know I speak the plain truth.”

He shook his head. Matilda had always been kind to him. Perhaps, he thought, she’d done this horrid deed to save him from the pain he felt right now. He hadn’t thought he could grieve any more for his lost family—but he’d been wrong. The pain was fresh again.

“Witch,” he said. “You’ve done your worst. You’ve had your fun. Now, leave me in peace to bury my family again.”

“Not quite yet,” she said. “I have another task for you.”

He turned to look back at her. The Jewel at her neck shone like the sun, despite the black rain around them.

“What else would you have of me?”

Morgana pointed down into the dark grave.

He followed her gesture, and his jaw sagged, and he slowly shook his head.

“No,” he whispered.

Suddenly, she stood close to him, but he could not turn to look at her. He could not do anything but stare at his son lying in his grave.

“The cord,” she said, her hot breath puffing into his ear, “you must remove it.”

Slet felt her hands on his arms, fingers curling around his biceps. Her nails sank into his flesh, but he didn’t feel the pain. He didn’t feel much of anything. He stared at the strangling cord. It was leather, and thick. Three thongs braided together formed the cord, which had been twisted tight with a stick. The stick had wound up close to the troll’s small head, making the neck loll to one side as if broken.

“No,” Slet whispered again.

“Do you believe your Aunt did the right thing? Do you approve of this murder? Would you have done the same?”

“Not that,” he admitted with a whisper. “I could not have done it.”

“Good…now, remove this desecration from your child. Unwind the cord.”

Face trembling with horror and sorrow, rain and tears dribbling from his nose together, he climbed down into the grave. When he crouched upon the crumbling casket, he reached down into the grave and lifted his dead infant from its resting place.

* * *

Trolls are creatures apart from all the rest. They have habits and natures both strange and foul. The being that Slet took into his arms was furred and stiff. It did not feel alive or as if it had ever been alive. It felt like a stone wrapped in a thick wooly coat of black hair.

As he unwound the cord from its neck, he stopped weeping. He felt numb. It was as if he had no direct contact with the world around him—as if he moved in a nightmare from which there was no awakening.

The cord was stiff with age. The braided leather thongs had changed after being in the cold ground for years, becoming brittle and flaking as he forced them to move. Strangely, the creature the cord had strangled so long ago had not likewise rotted. Slet’s fascination with what he was doing was so great that he didn’t ponder the implications of this.

“That’s good,” said the witch, crouching near him. “Now, lay the child down on the earth—gently! Let those raindrops fall upon its brow. They will do it no harm, and may do it some good.”

At this, Slet managed to look at her with a frown. How could rain do his child any good? The tiny creature was as dead as a cat in a drowning bag.

He almost managed to open his mouth and speak these words when he heard something, and his eyes were dragged back to his son’s bestial face.

What he saw then shocked him as greatly as the moment he first had laid eyes upon the wave of dead-things shambling toward him up the High Street a decade earlier.

The eyes were open. They were yellow, and each had a large black vertical slit for a pupil—like a cat’s eyes. There was no life in these eyes, no breath in the lungs—but they were open, and they looked glassy, as if life had only just left the body of this tiny, pitiful thing.

“My son is a dead-thing?” he asked in horror.

“No, fool,” Morgana said. “You didn’t get far in school, did you boy? The child is a troll. Trolls can’t be killed forever by cords. It takes fire or acid to destroy their bodies permanently.”

Slet stared at her, then turned back to the body lying in the mud before him. “He’s alive?”

“Not yet, but soon.”

“Has he been in pain all this time?”

She laughed. It was an unpleasant sound, almost a cackle. “How should I know? Ask it if you dare when it draws breath again.”

Slet stared at the witch. “Why are you doing this?”

“All will be clear soon. Here now, we haven’t much time. I’ve got the cage ready. Put it inside now.”

“A cage?”

“Do you want a feral troll, fresh-murdered, in your arms as it awakens? He won’t understand you are his papa. He’ll tear your throat out.”

Reluctantly, Slet did as she bade. He put his small furry child into a cage of hardwood with silver bars and she shut the door, yanking her fingers back.

It was just in time. The creature inside, who’d been motionless a moment before, launched itself after her hands. Morgana pulled them away, but not quickly enough. A curving, hook-like claw caught the back of her hand and laid it open. She hissed with displeasure.

The troll was up on its haunches, glaring at them through the bright metal bars of its tiny prison.

“Damnable thing!” she cried. “I’d burn you right now if I didn’t need you so!”

Somehow, these words goaded Slet to action as nothing else had. He stood suddenly and grabbed the woman by the wrists. She stared at him in surprise and rage.

“Let go of me!” she hissed.

Slet almost did as she ordered. He wanted to—he had to. But managed to hold onto his own mind for a few seconds longer before he released her.

“If you harm my son, I’ll kill you,” he said matter-of-factly.

He found he wanted to slay this woman more than he’d ever wanted to kill anyone in his life. Although he wanted to clutch her throat and strangle her, to make her suffer every moment of pain his child had once endured, he could not do it.

Instead, he released her. Both of them stepped apart, breathing hard and glaring. The Jewel at Morgana’s neck glimmered, and Slet staggered back another step, almost stumbling. There was a contest of wills, but it was uneven. Slet’s eyes dropped to the ground and became as glassy as the tiny puddles of rain that had formed everywhere on the ground.

Quietly watching this scene was the troll at their feet. He did not speak, but he watched them both carefully. His curved claws gripped the bars that caged him, and he strained at them. The bars held despite his efforts.

“One more task, and you will be freed, wretched man of the Haven,” Morgana said.

“What would you have me do?”

She lifted her arm and pointed upslope. His eyes followed her gesture. There, at the top of the hill, was the old Drake Crypt. It had been sealed years back, after the Storm of the Dead. Inside, horrors were said to abound.

Slet’s face fell and his expression changed from murderous to fearful. “I can’t go in there. No one can. Lord Rabing—”

“Is absent and a fool to boot,” finished the witch. “You’ll go into that crypt and find what sleeps there. You’ll bring it back to me. At that point, you’ll be free of me, and I of you.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll force you slay your own son again. A true death, this time.”

Slet shook his head. “You could never force me to do that. I have no hopes, no dreams, no fears. I can’t be enticed like a maiden to dance until my heart bursts.”

Morgana sneered at him and lifted his lantern. She poured out the oil upon the cage. The liquid ran down over the top of it, slicking the troll’s fur and sliding down the bars.

“If one flame touches this—” she began.

Slet made his move. He lunged at her, arms extended to their fullest. If he could knock her flat—

But she touched her Jewel and a flash of light struck his eyes. The troll and he both hissed and reeled, blinded.

“Back, fool!” she cried. “If you try that again, I’ll smash the lantern on this cage and burn the little monster inside to ash!”

Slet staggered away. His eyes were squinched shut, and they could not see in any case.

“All right,” he said. “Mercy witch, I’ll do as you say. But you must promise not to—”

“NO!” she screeched at him. “No more words from you! Silence, I command it!”

Slet opened his mouth, but only tiny croaking sounds issued. He could not speak.

“Now, go to the tomb and bring back the Black Jewel. I will give you ten minutes. If you don’t return, I’ll burn this little devil alive.”

Slet fell to his knees, dizzy. A moment later, he could see fuzzy outlines of his surroundings again. His vision was returning. He struggled to his feet again, but slipped in the mud and almost slid into his child’s grave. Gathering himself, he rose and headed for the crypt. He did not know what he would find inside.

He’d sworn to Lord Rabing and the Constabulary never to open the tomb, which was heavily locked and warded—but that promise was to be broken this eve.

He fumbled with the jangling keys and tried them in each of the heavy locks. These were not simple, Haven-built locks, the sort of thing that kept a fisherman’s sons from pilfering a jug of corn whiskey. They were forged by Kindred Mechnicians. They could not be picked, nor opened at all by people unskilled. Slet had been trained to use them when he’d taken the job, but that was long ago.

“What’s the matter?” screeched the witch.

Slet was startled to realize she was near. He had not heard her approach. He glanced over his shoulder.

He found his numb lips worked again, and he could speak. The spell had passed.

“The locks are complex. One must hold down triggers and catches while twisting the correct key.”

“Damn Rabing. Damn his eyes! What was he thinking?”

“Perhaps of you, trying to make off with the Black Jewel.”

She twisted her lips at him, and left him to his work. After several minutes, he managed to get the last lock free of its creaking hasp. He swung open the grate, and the rusted hinges squealed and groaned in protest.

He turned back at this moment. “I know something of the Jewels,” he said to her. “They are jealous servants, and two will not have the same master.”

“You let me worry about that. Go get it. I’m growing impatient.”

Slet took a last look around at the dark hillside where he’d spent many unhappy years. They now seemed like a halcyon time of plenty compared to this sorry moment. Then he turned his back upon the surface world of life, sun and wind. He entered the black tomb.

The first thing he noticed as he crunched down the carven steps was the stillness of the crypt. Sounds from the outside world above were swallowed up and deadened immediately upon entering here. He could barely make out the steady drumbeat of the rain outside, and the wind lashing the trees was only a whisper.

In this new world, there was little for the senses to grasp. His ears rang with the stillness. The earth and stones were cold and the only odor was that of ancient dust.

There was also an uneasy stillness to the crypt which he felt rather than heard. It was as if the walls were waiting to take a breath, but did not yet dare to do so.

He dug into the pockets of his leather pants and brought out a candle stub along with some matches. As a grave digger who lived alone on Cemetery Hill, he never went anywhere without both of these essentials.

After rasping a few match heads over the walls, he managed to strike one alight. He touched it to the tiny blackened wick and a dim yellowy light soon flickered over the walls.

He looked around him, aghast. The place was a mess. He’d never known how they’d left it—and he was appalled to face the truth. The low ceiling dripped with distant rains, and there were tumbled caskets all around.

Sprawling on the floor at his feet were a dozen of the Dead. They lay in varying positions and states of decay. Some were no more than skeletons wearing rotted robes. Even the most recently dead had bones showing through in spots.

None of them looked as if they were resting easily. Their lipless mouths were open as if their existences had ended as they shrieked in agony. He supposed they probably had done just that.

“Gods,” he whispered to himself. “They just left them. They sealed the place, and left the Dead to slumber where they fell.”

Slet, a man who’d personally cared for the Dead for a decade, found the scene disturbing and unprofessional. He supposed he couldn’t really blame Brand and the rest. He’d been there and seen the Storm firsthand. They’d probably feared to spend any time down here and could not find a volunteer brave enough to come down and make things right. He could understand that. Even now, a decade later, the place was a horror.

Stepping over outstretched bony fingers and skulls wrapped in skin like parchment and dusty locks of dead hair, he made his way to the second stair. He had not seen anything vaguely like a Jewel thus far—and that could only mean the Black was farther down.

It was as he reached the second floor and found it much like the first that he began to wonder what might happen to him when he took up the Black. He’d heard stories, and he’d seen Brand in his rages. He did not know if his own mind would hold up, but he was willing to try. His son might not be much more appealing than the Dead at his feet, but he’d not see the child killed again so soon.

Gathering his courage, he stepped over a big Dead-thing on the way down to the lowest level. With a shudder, he realized who the body belonged to: Morcant Drake, the prior caretaker of this place. He pressed onward, wanting to get the whole affair over with.

It was as he passed Morcant by that he had a grim thought. These corpses ought not to have flesh clinging to them still. Not after all these years. They were exposed, not even in caskets. Could it be that the power of the Black Jewel, just by lying nearby, had preserved the Dead in their slumber. The thought was enough to give him a chill.

There! A silvery gleam shone from the floor at the base of the last stairway. That had to be it!

He shuffled forward, opening his hand and stooping—but he halted. The object that had caught his eyes wasn’t a Jewel or a Scepter, as he’d heard the Black presented itself. It was a sword. A rapier of excellent quality.

A thin-boned hand gripped the hilt. Curious, Slet picked up the blade and the dead fingers released it with reluctance.

He lifted it and swished it in the air experimentally. Perfect balance, if a bit on the light side for a grown man. He gazed at the corpse that held it, but no recognition came to him. Shrugging, he went down into the depths to the final floor of the crypt. There, he turned this way and that searching for the Jewel.

He froze then, for the first time realizing that he was not alone. There was a glimmering shadow in the darkest corner.

“I’ve waited here a long time for a visitor,” said a soft voice.

Slet’s eyes were wide with fright. He almost bolted rather than face whatever it was that addressed him. But he gripped the sword in his right hand and the flickering candle in his left, lifting the light slowly and peering into the corner.

He could not come out of this crypt empty-handed. His son would surely perish before his eyes if he did, he had no doubt of that. And no child of his deserved to die in fear and pain more than once.

So he bravely faced whatever had spoken to him. He expected to see a ghost, and he was right in that supposition. But he had not chanced to guess her identity.

It was the Shining Lady. She was the loveliest female imaginable. Her face was chiseled like a marble sculpture, her body curved to perfection. She was clad only in swirls of spun gauze. Her skin shone silver-white, reflecting the light of unseen stars. Her feet were like the talons of an eagle, but those abominations were hidden beneath her flowing white clothing, which was thickest around her legs.

Her effect upon Slet was immediate. His heart pounded in his chest, and he burned for her. He could barely think, and he could not speak at all. He parted his lips, and she did the same, smiling at him sadly. A single croaking grunt escaped from Slet, but that was all.

“You are to be my champion?” she asked in disappointment. “So long I’ve waited, and I’m thusly rewarded for my patience? I’d expected Brand, tired of dull mortal women clad in stinking flesh, to come to me at last. How are you called, lowly creature?”

Given leave to speak, Slet managed to stammer out his name.

“A Silure? Does my memory fail me, or isn’t that one of the lower clans of the Haven?”

“The lowest, my lady,” he said with typical Silure pride.

She tilted her head, and he followed her with his eyes as she came gliding closer.

“A rogue then,” she said. “Not a warrior, or a prideful mage. A thief in the night. A grave-robber. Tell me, rogue, did you come to find the Black?”

“I did, Lady.”

“Hubris. Madness. You cannot wield such power.”

“I do not want to wield it.”

The Shining Lady, who’d been approaching him with gentle movements, stopped gliding across the chamber littered with ancient Dead and toppled coffins.

“You don’t? Why then, pray tell, would you risk your only soul to come here and seek it?”

“To save my son.”

She looked at him curiously.

Slet, for his part, thought of nothing other than having her. To pull her ghostly lips close to his, to embrace her—such were the thoughts of ecstasy that raced through his mind. But something else, something irritating, tried to break through the spell she’d woven over him. He’d forgotten about the urgency of his quest. He’d forgotten about the world of wind and rain far above the ground. He’d even forgotten about Morgana and his staring bestial son in his silver cage.

“Let me see if I understand the situation,” said the Shining Lady. “You’re the creature of another? An agent? A minion without a will of its own?”

Slet frowned. Did this mean she would not embrace him? He wanted her, more than he’d ever wanted his lovely elven wife. It seemed grossly unfair that this woman might spurn him. He had to make amends. His mind raced and he tried to think of something that might please her.

“I have a will! I do as I must, however. I came to save…someone.”

“Your son, you said.”

“Yes,” said Slet, frowning with the difficulty of thought.

“Tell me then: whom do you serve, puppet?”

He fell to one knee. “I serve thee, lady.”

“No,” she said sadly.

Slet felt tears of regret roll down his muddied cheek. How could he cause her anguish? He was nothing, a flea to be crush betwixt fingernails. It was wrong of him to cause her the slightest pain.

“You serve another. Name the person who sent you into this crypt.”

Slet licked his dusty lips and beetled his brows. He could not recall the name for a moment…then he had it at last: “Morgana.”

The Shining Lady gave him a quizzical look. “Morgana? Who is this person? What does she have that might cause a simple River Boy to seek his doom in this place?”

“She has my son in a cage, and I believe she wields a Jewel of Power.”

“Absurd. I know every Jewel and everyone who has one. What Jewel do you claim to have seen? What does it look like?”

“Like the sun and the stars together as one.”

“What is its color?”

“White, I would say.”

The Shining Lady retreated from him. Slet felt pain at her withdrawal. She’d been getting closer and closer, and although he’d learnt since childhood that her embrace meant certain doom, he’d been more than ready to clutch her. Now that she pulled back he felt lost and dejected again, but he also felt some of his wits returning.

“You’ve released me from your spell,” he said. “Why? Will you not take me?”

“You claim to have seen the White? The Sunstone? It cannot be. That Jewel was lost before I was made. Do you understand that?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I only know what I have seen.”

“What is this nonsense about a child?”

“My son—he is a troll, and she has him in a silver cage. She threatened him with fire if I did not come down here and bring her the Black.”

“Insane,” the Shining Lady said. “A stranger comes and seeks to wield both the White and the Black. Madness! Not even Brand is so foolish as to attempt such a feat. She can’t have the power to carry both. No one ever has.”

“Lady,” Slet pleaded. “Is the Black even here? I must take it back up the steps. I must save my son. Have mercy, dear Lady.”

She looked at him with a sudden guile. He did not know her mind, but the ghostly figure did not look like someone who often showed mercy.

“I’m not unkind,” she said. “I hear your plea, and I answer. Take the Black, but…”

“Where is it?”

“It is hidden from view—and time is short, is it not?”

After having explained his quest to the ghost, he recalled it with clarity. How long had he lingered here? He must find the Black, and he must find it quickly.

Slet pushed at coffins and dry bones, seeking the Black. He found a crown fallen from an ancient skeleton, but gave it no heed. What was a fortune to a man that let his only child die and die again?

“Where is it?” he asked her desperately. He turned around and lifted his sword.

“You raise a blade to me?”

Slet looked down in surprise. The silver rapier was indeed in his hand. But he did not lower it.

“If I must, and even if you have no flesh to cut.”

She nodded as if fascinated. “Very well, swear to do as I say and I’ll tell you where it is hidden.”

Breathing hard, he nodded.

“Here,” she said, stepping to one side.

Slet stumbled forward. At first, he did not see, but then he spotted a glimmer. The Scepter was there, behind a headstone of carved granite. The stone had a simple inscription: Morcant Drake.

“Before you take it, let me tell you what you must do, because your mind may be lost when you grasp the Scepter.”

Slet heard her speaking behind him, but his eyes remained upon the Black Jewel. Necron was the very absence of light, and its dark power filled his mind and chilled his soul.

“What must I do?” he asked.

“This crypt is full of Dead,” she said softly. “They sleep now, but they can be awakened. Touch the Jewel to the forehead of each, and you will have an army. You must march at the head of your army up out of this crypt—and there you will find Morgana and you will destroy her.”

Slet’s lips worked. Finally, he managed to speak. “If I wield the Jewel the first time I pick it up, I will surely go mad.”

“That is my price, and you promised to pay it. Now, swear to me again.”

“I swear I will raise the Dead, and I will kill Morgana.”

“Good. Now lift your Scepter, my beggar, my King!”

Slet reached a clutching hand into the empty tomb and gripped the scepter. An explosion of non-light burst in his mind.

He straightened slowly. He was now a thing apart from what he’d once been. He turned toward the Shining Lady, and her powers did not sway him now. He saw her beauty but did not feel driven by it. Before he’d been under her command, ridden as a man might drive a horse down a lane. He was her creature no longer.

She backed away wordlessly.

Slet turned and dropped his candle. It was no longer necessary. He could see everything despite the perfect darkness—even the tiny creatures that swam through the earth nearby were plain to his cold, inner sight.

He strode first to the body from which he’d taken the sword. He touched the Jewel in the Scepter to the skull of the fallen elf who’d once brought a silver rapier down into this crypt. There was a blinding flash of darkness—of non-light. It was as if a void filled the crypt with nothingness then gently receded.

Puck’s eyes did not open, because he no longer had eyes. The holes in his skull came up to regard Slet, as if he were curious about the man who had awakened him. Then, like a puppet being yanked erect by a harsh master, the fresh Dead-thing struggled to rise with jerking motions.

For Slet, this experience of awakening the Dead was the worst of his life. Not because he’d witnessed the Dead rising, but rather because he’d felt what it was to make such an unnatural event occur. A tiny bit of his own soul was lost forever in the process. It was like having a fingertip snipped off.

As the initial pain faded, a deadening numbness replaced the agony. The new sensation was no less frightening.

He walked to the stairway and headed up the stone steps. He touched the next body he came upon. Morcant, who had fallen here with his shovel in his huge hands, was awakened.

Slet howled as he did this. Raising Morcant was as painful as awakening Puck. The effort cost him more of his mind and body and further emptied his soul. He felt this time as if he’d not snipped away his fingertips cleanly, but rather had burned one off with searing, white-hot flame.

Staggered and sweating, he turned. The Shining Lady was at the base of the stairs, gazing up at him.

“You’re doing well,” she said encouragingly. “Continue, my rogue. Awaken them all.”

“I cannot,” he said. “I will be lost.”

“That is of no consequence. You swore to me.”

“I swore to raise the Dead and to slay Morgana. I have raised the Dead, and I fully intend to slay Morgana.”

“You can’t overcome a witch wielding the White with two fresh Dead-things and a sword!”

“Nevertheless, I must do what I can.”’

“You must raise them all! Otherwise you are an oath-breaker!”

Slet shrugged. “You said yourself I was a rogue. As I see it, our deal is done.”

The ghost howled in fury behind him. She cursed him then, in a language unknown to him. But he knew it was a curse, for the tones and the reverberations that struck his heart and mind were unmistakable.

He paused for a moment, confused. His Dead-things stood motionless and ready at his side. Finally, Slet summoned the will to stir again. He looked around, but did not see the Shining Lady. He had no idea where she’d gone, but he was happy to know she’d left.

He forced himself to climb the last stairway. He staggered up the steps. As he approached the entrance, it seemed to him that the sky outside was overly bright.

Confused, he rushed forward stumbling up the last few stairs. Behind him Morcant and Puck shambled, both awkward and off-balance like men who’d slept for days and had only just awakened.

When Slet reached the surface, he knew the truth. He’d known it since he’d seen the bright light but hadn’t been willing to accept it.

The sun shined brightly over the cemetery outside. It was midmorning, he reckoned. The rainstorm of the night before had left the grass wet. A thousand droplets glittered like gemstones on the tip of every green blade. How many hours must it have been since he’d entered the Drake crypt? Ten, at least.

There on the hillside, about a dozen paces from the crypt’s mouth, was a blackened region where the grass had been curled and burnt. Smoke rose from the spot in wisps and curls. The cage was still closed and locked tight. Tiny black claws gripped the soot-stained bars, but the little troll’s hair was all burned away.

Slet understood the Shining Lady’s curse then. The time he’d spent inside the crypt had been warped and twisted, as often happened when visiting with the Faerie.

He fell to his knees and raved. His son had been burned to death. For a second time in its very short life, the troll infant had been murdered. Morgana was nowhere in sight, probably having given up in disgust and left long ago.

In his intense grief, Slet dropped the Scepter. He slumped down upon the grasses and sprawled out. The shock of wielding a Jewel without attunement, followed by the shock of sudden removal, had stunned his mind. Consciousness left him.

* * *

When he awakened again, Slet groaned aloud. At first, he believed he’d fallen drunk and lived a nightmare of lost time and bad dreams. But then, he opened squinting eyes and looked around the hillside.

The two Dead-things were still there. The larger one, Morcant, stood where he’d been left at Slet’s side. He’d not moved a foot since his master had fallen. Without orders, he’d done nothing. The other, smaller dead-thing was much farther away.

Slet noticed the silver cage then. It was open and empty. He struggled to his feet. He did not know what to make of it. He saw the Scepter on the grasses before him, but he shied from touching it.

He crouched and gazed into the cage that had once held his son. He could not see anything there—no slag of ashes and burnt flesh. Where was his son? At least, his child’s body should not be desecrated. This thought moved him to speak. He addressed the Dead-thing that had in life been known as Puck, an elven prince.

“Creature!” he called. “Did you do something with the troll in the cage?”

Puck turned his head to look at him. The sockets were empty, but they still seemed to gaze at him. Seeing this caused a thrill of dread to run through Slet. He wanted to run, but he dared to step forward.

“I made you, you will therefore obey me,” Slet said.

The dead elf lifted a single finger bone to his throat. The flesh crawled there, and the mouth opened, but no sound issued.

“You can’t speak? There is no flesh in your throat to allow it?”

Puck nodded.

“And yet you hear me. You have senses, but no speech. How can you answer my question?”

Puck extended a finger slowly toward the Scepter, which lay in the grass.

Slet looked at it. The grasses all around the spot where it had fallen were curled now, as if blackened with blight. In a similar fashion, Slet’s lips curled from his teeth in disgust.

“I don’t want to touch that rod. It is an evil thing.”

Puck pointed wordlessly to his throat, then to the Scepter again.

Slet took in a deep breath through his teeth. Again, he was bargaining for everything with his soul and everyone he met seemed to want to harm his son.

“Very well, Dead-thing,” he said at last. “I’ll wield the Black again. But after I have your story from you, I’m going to use it to unmake you. I can only hope it pains you the way it has me.”

Slet bent and picked up the Black.

A shock went through him. It was a deathly chill, followed by a wave of numbness. He didn’t feel right when he held this thing. It was as if he was only partly Slet of the Silure clan. The rest of him was a wicked thing that stalked the land and consumed life to feed death wherever he stepped, like a winter’s storm or a fire in a dry forest.

Slet lifted the Scepter to the elf’s throat and touched it there. A shock went through his body, but it was less than what he’d felt when raising the Dead. It was not pleasant, but neither was it agony.

The change in Puck was more shocking to him than the pains he’d suffered to apply magic to the dead elf. Where flesh had withered away almost to dust on Puck’s body it came back to some degree. It grew and covered the neck and face as Slet watched. Puck reached up with his white fingers and dared to encircle the Jewel at the tip of the Scepter with his web-work of bones. There too, flesh grew.

This new flesh wasn’t hale, pink and wholesome, however. It was gray, bloodless and dead. Still, it was flesh, and it did give him a much more natural appearance.

“Ssssss,” said Puck, wordlessly.

The Dead-thing staggered closer to the Scepter, like a frozen man warming himself over an open flame.

“That’s enough!” said Slet, withdrawing the Black.

Puck stumbled, then righted himself.

“Can you speak now?” Slet asked, disgusted.

“Yessss.”

“Then tell me where my son is. Where is the troll that was in that tiny cage?”

“I released it and put it in the grave—there.”

Slet whirled, following the newly-fleshed finger. He saw the small black wound in the earth which he himself had so recently dug. It was his son’s original grave.

At first, he was horrified. But then, he thought that perhaps this was for the best. What else could he have done for the boy? He’d needed to be buried again, and where was a better spot? Here the clan had once grieved for the lost, twisted infant.

But Slet was filled with sorrow nonetheless. Although he told himself not to do it, he walked to the grave and stared down into the dark hole.

With the sun up and bright at his back, he couldn’t see anything in the hole which was as dark as night. He knelt and peered inside, squinting.

He didn’t see a tiny corpse. He didn’t see anything at all other than mud and a puddle of rainwater at the bottom of the hole.

He turned to accuse Puck of playing him falsely, and was startled to see the other now stood at his side.

“Where is he?” Slet demanded. “I don’t see him. He should be in a proper casket.”

“Trolls can be tricksy when they don’t want to be seen,” Puck said. He pointed off to one side of the grave. Slet stared, and then he sucked in his breath.

There were eyes staring back at him. They were as yellow and wicked as a hunting tomcat’s orbs, and as he watched the pupils narrowed into vertical lines of darkness. A low warning growl emanated from the hole, and Slet shrank back in horror. He’d seen white teeth—thin wicked fangs.

“How is this possible?” he asked Puck.

“Burning is not enough for a strong troll. You should be proud, as your son is a resilient one.”

Slet gazed down again in fascination. “He’s alive then? Why did you put him down there?”

“He was not regenerating in sunlight. So I put him down there, where he has moisture and darkness. Now his flesh has returned like the leaves on a spring forest, but he’s wary.”

“Naturally so,” said Slet, his mind easing. His son was alive! He could not believe it. His eyes glistened with tears.

He turned to Puck then, and nodded to him. “Thank you,” he said.

“No thanks are needed, Master,” whispered the dead elf.

Chapter Six

The Warrior

That very day, while Slet eyed his son hiding in his grave, Trev made his way down into the depths of the Earthlight. The guards at the entrance barely gave him a grunt and a thumbed directive to pass. They were on the lookout for more dangerous things than half-elves. With their red cloaks flapping in the constant flow of air through the gates, they squinted out at the mountainside, watchful for trouble.

The interior of Snowdon was an unusual place. It was unlike anything Trev had seen before. Although he’d heard and read about it, nothing prepared him for the magnificence that was the Earthlight. Much of the interior of the mountain was hollowed out, but although the mountain served as a rocky shell, the shell was by no means a thin one. The solid stone walls were at least two hundred paces thick at the thinnest spots. The entire cavern, if such a large enclosed space could even be called a cavern, was lit by a deep orange-red glow. This was the source of heat that came up into their faces and blew back their hair as they entered the gates.

The structures here were carved from living stone and they dwarfed anything Trev had encountered in the Haven. The buildings of men were inconsequential and insubstantial in comparison.

From the Great Gates a winding path led downward, interrupted along the way by several strongholds. These were castles or towers, carved from the rock of the mountain itself. The Kindred rarely built structures. They preferred to sculpt them with their picks out of the living stone of the mountain. These towers and castles, all seven of them, were placed mostly along the path down to the floor of the great cavern.

There, at the distant bottom, Trev could see a far larger structure had been carved from the very heart of the mountain. It was the eighth and final defensive structure, and he knew it must be the Citadel of the Earthlight. The sculpted citadel served the Kindred as their capital.

The Kindred gave him a passing glance as he marched ever deeper. They weren’t a terribly curious folk under the best of circumstances, and in these years under the rule of Queen Gudrin, they were accustomed to strange folk on their stone streets in any case.

Trev passed unchallenged to the lowest floor. There, on the distant western side of the Great Cavern was the namesake of the underworld: the Earthlight itself. He could see the Great Vents, all three of which stood wide. From these, all the light and heat of the place came, as they opened upon the furnace that existed many thousands of feet below. Magma chambers belched fire, but for the most part the light and heat was even and steady. Trev was awed by the sight.

He reached the Citadel in the center of the cavern after walking for an hour or so. There, he made himself known to a guardsman, who looked him up and down sourly. Finally, the Warrior disappeared into the Citadel to see if anyone might possibly care about the young, rather roguish-looking Trev.

Trev waited easily, leaning against the black basalt wall. It did indeed seem to him that the Citadel had been carved from a single block of softer stone. Just leaning against it left a fine powder of dust on his clothing. He was busy brushing it away when the guard hurried back.

“Trev of the Haven?”

“That’s right,” Trev said mildly.

“This way. You’re wanted immediately.”

Trev followed the huffing Warrior into the dim interior. After winding along low-ceilinged passages, he at last was led to a central chamber.

It was quiet here and the only light came from a window in the west. The light emitted was reddish-orange, the color of coals in a dying fire.

“Trev?” asked a querulous female voice.

Trev turned in surprise. There, in the darkest corner of the room sat a wizened figure. He cocked his head and smiled.

“Queen Gudrin? Please excuse my poor grace.”

He promptly fell to one knee and lowered his head.

“Bah!” said Gudrin, stirring and walking toward him. She lightly batted him on the shoulder. “None of that, then. Stand up, boy. Did your mother teach you to behave that way when around people with titles?”

“No madam,” he said. “It was my father.”

She nodded her old head. Trev could not help but notice she was nearly bald and covered with red and white scarring. He’d heard it was the work of the Orange. The Jewel Pyros loved heat more than those who wielded it. Attunement with that Jewel was reputed to be among the most difficult.

Pyros. It sat there on her chest, glimmering. He could feel the heat of it—emanating seemingly from Gudrin herself. It wasn’t a sweaty, dank thing. Rather, the heat was dry—like that coming from a stone that has been left overnight in a fire pit.

“Trev,” she said, gazing at him. “It’s good to see you again. The last time we met it was a sad day. Tell me this one will be different.”

Trev frowned, gazing into her piercing eyes. They were sharp enough despite her odd, melancholy mood. He knew she was talking about the mass funerals, when they’d laid his very own father to rest in the Haven among many other victims of the Storm of the Dead.

“I don’t know if it is,” he said. He told her then of his interest in the Dark Jewels, and of his visits by Brand, Old Hob and the simulacrum assassin. He left out any mention of the sorceress who’d set him on this quest, as she seemed to be upsetting everyone he met.

Gudrin eyed him critically before speaking. Trev could not help but squirm under her gaze. It reminded him of his mother when she was at her most suspicious and when he had been small. He hoped she wouldn’t ask him how he’d come to be on such a strange mission—and she didn’t.

“All right,” she said. “You want to know of the Dark Jewels. I can see why Brand suggested you come to me. But the truth is I don’t know much about where they lie today. I do believe they exist still, as it is an accepted fact that the Jewels can’t be destroyed in their errant states.”

“Their errant state? What does that mean?”

“That is what we call it when they are apart, boy. Remember, they were once part of a whole. At that point, they were shattered into the Nine. Logically, if that shattering was possible, the Jewels can be altered in form, for at that moment it was managed, was it not?”

“I suppose. But I thought they were the eyes of nine dragons.”

Gudrin shrugged and left him. She walked slowly to the single window and gazed out at the Earthlight.

“I don’t know about that. Sometimes, people who pass down a tale make things into animals when they aren’t really alive. Or into people. That way, the concept is more understandable to later, simpler folk.”

Trev frowned and followed her to the window. “So, you mean there weren’t really any dragons?”

“Ha!” she boomed. “Far from it! I’ve seen dragons more than once with these old eyes. The last time was barely a decade ago, right here in this cavern. You know about that, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“My point is not that there are no dragons, but that I don’t think the Jewels were ever shaped to look like dragons, or took on dragon form, or whatever.”

Trev nodded, wondering how to steer the conversation back to the location of the Dark Jewels.

“Anyway,” Gudrin said, seeming to sense his mood, “all that matters little now. I just wanted to point out why I think the Jewels are still around—somewhere. And one of the Dark Jewels is in a definite location, am I correct?”

“The Black, yes. It still sits in the Drake Crypt.”

“Damn fool place for it,” complained Gudrin. “But when Brand asked me where it would be better stationed, I have to admit, I was at a loss. He asked me to take it back via caravan to the Earthlight you know. He thought that perhaps I could toss it into the magma and be done with it for a thousand years.”

“What did you say?”

“I politely refused. I have enough on my mind with the weight of the Orange around my neck. This living chunk of flame is heavier than a cart full of gold, did you know that? The last thing I need is to worry about guarding the Black.”

Trev nodded, but he didn’t speak. He recalled hearing Brand was upset about that decision. Many in the Haven wished the cursed object had been taken away. But Trev could see the point of view of others. No one wanted it near. It might cause a fresh Storm of the Dead wherever it was placed. Eventually, he supposed, it would.

Gudrin spoke then, and it was as if she’d heard Trev’s own thoughts. “Like dead volcanoes or calm seas,” she said, “eventually all the Jewels awaken strange passions in the hearts of creatures both weak and strong and cause them to do great harm. No, best that the Black stay where it fell for as long as we can keep it there.”

“There are only two Jewels then left to seek,” Trev said in hopes of getting something useful from Gudrin. “Two that are not accounted for. What can you tell me of the Quicksilver and the White?”

Gudrin gave him a strange gaze, then looked out the window again. “First, tell me who sent you, boy. Who really sent you?”

Trev opened his mouth and closed it again in surprise. “I—I’m on a quest for knowledge.”

“That much you’ve said.”

“Well, there was this woman I met in the forest—”

“Ha!” barked Gudrin. “Now we get to it. Have you reached such an age already, child? I still think of you as a small boy trotting about your parent’s cottage. So quickly they grow up these days.”

“Yes, well…”

“So it is for the heart of a woman you seek this knowledge?”

“It was her idea, yes.”

“Some kind of quest for her hand? I’ve heard of such nonsense from the humans. I bet it was a human girl, wasn’t it?”

Trev nodded vaguely. He thought the witch in the wood had appeared to be human. To him, a vague acknowledgement wasn’t the same as a lie. He never lied…but it could be said that he misled people from time to time.

“Should have known. All right, I’ll tell you what I do know. The Quicksilver has the power to negate the magic of all the others. It does more than that, however. It can redirect it as well.”

Trev nodded encouragingly. Inside, he was hoping she didn’t ask him any more direct questions about Morgana. No one seemed to appreciate that he knew what he was doing in regards to that strange woman.

“By redirect, I mean that if I were to burn you down, and you possessed the Quicksilver, you could send the fire back at me, or out this window.”

“Ah, I see. What does it look like?”

She shook her head. “That varies, from tale to tale. But what is consistent is that it is a Living Jewel. Like the Red.”

He stared at her. “You mean it appears as a dog or something?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“And what of the White?”

“That is the strangest of them all. It has many powers attributed to it, but that might be because it is confused in the literature with the original whole Sunstone. It is supposed to be a small chip that is pure in nature and contains some of all the others. But mostly, it affects the mind of any who encounter it.”

“Don’t many of the Jewels do that?”

“Yes. The Amber, for example, can cause an army to march with leering zeal. The White is similar, but more versatile. It can bewitch people to do almost anything.”

“I see,” he said. And he did see. He now suspected that the witch he’d met in the wood had carried the White. Could it be true? Had he faced a bearer of a Jewel thought lost to Cymru? The idea was somewhat chilling. Perhaps his mother had been right, perhaps he’d been in more danger than he’d believed.

Then he had another, more worrying thought: was he bewitched by Morgana? Was that why he was so far from home, daring the road untraveled, being hunted by Old Hob and assassins and Brand Rabing himself? It was a shocking realization that it could be true. He’d never even considered the possibility.

He had been thinking of the witch in the wood frequently since their encounter, of course. What young man didn’t think often and fondly of his first carnal meeting with a woman? The boys of the Haven who claimed they’d lain with a girl talked of little else, whether it was true or not. So, he’d believed his thoughts of Morgana were just that: memories of a pleasant experience.

Now, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe his daydreams were lingering desires she wanted him to feel. Confused, he tried again to listen to what Gudrin was saying. Fortunately, she was waxing eloquent in her lecture concerning the Jewels and didn’t seem to have noticed his distraction.

“…and that is why we call them to this day the Eyes of the Dragons. You see, it was the lens of each that formed the original Jewels. Moreover—”

“But I thought you said that you don’t believe they really were dragons,” Trev interjected.

Gudrin deflated somewhat and looked at him in annoyance. “Quite so. But I’m telling you the common belief structure. Sometimes truth can be buried in the fiction, you know.”

“I need to know your best guess as to the location of these last two.”

She made a face. “Impatient like all your kind!”

“All my kind?”

“I mean youth. All youthful beings just want to get on with it. I don’t understand any of you. Possibly, this is because my own youth is four centuries gone.”

Privately, Trev thought this was very likely the case, but thought it might be construed as rude to say so. He made an encouraging gesture instead.

“I’m sorry, that’s about all I have that’s germane to the subject. I know quite a bit about how these things operate but precious little about where the last two lie. That is part and parcel with them being labeled as lost.”

Trev sighed. “I expected as much. My next question is my last one. Who might know more?”

“Hmm. Oberon, Myrrdin…”

“I’ve had others suggest them. But Myrrdin is mad and Oberon is dangerous.”

Gudrin laughed. “Or is it the other way around?” she asked. “To the mind of the Kindred, they are both mad and dangerous. But I’d thought that perhaps for you things would go differently if you went to seek their council. After all, you are their kin.”

“That’s no guarantee of safety or even consideration.”

“Wisely said. Well, you could seek out one of the Wurms of the Deep. They tend to know where all treasure lies, even if they can’t or won’t seek it.”

“Really? But aren’t they even more dangerous than the elves?”

“Therein lies the problem.”

Trev took his leave soon after that. He promised to visit again and to keep Gudrin apprised of his progress, if any. Then he walked out into the Great Cavern and wandered the dusty streets of Darrowton, a Kindred village nearby.

He found the Earthlight fascinating. This, of all the places he’d ever been and ever seen in his short life, was truly different. As a half-elf raised in the River Haven, he’d rarely been indoors in a large building, much less buried beneath a mile of stone in a massive cave complex. The underworld was so utterly alien to him; he wanted to examine everything and everyone.

The Kindred he met in the streets were bemused by Trev as well. They didn’t see too many outsiders, and those they did encounter were generally jaded peddlers with carts of goods and crooked backs. Trev was an oddity, but a welcome one.

He met members of most of the clans. The society of the Kindred was broken down into clans—which were really castes related to skills and ranks rather than strictly hereditary. In most cases, the son of a Farmer or a Mechnician would grow up to be a member of the same clan his parents were part of, but this wasn’t always the case. Occasionally, an individual Kindred might have a natural talent for something else, so a Talespinner might join the Warriors, or a Miner might become a Builder. These changes didn’t happen often, and the requirements for entry into a clan one hadn’t been born into were greater, but there was some flexibility in the system.

Trev found the architecture of Darrowton especially strange. There were three primary types of structures: carven, cast or assembled. The carven types were the most rare and the oldest, such as the Citadel itself. Carven buildings were cut from a single massive rock, usually one of the softer, volcanic types. These had been here since the last time the Earthlight boiled over and flooded the floor of the cavern with fresh magma. Most of these carven structures were some kind of shrine or other important place and staffed by the Talespinners.

The cast buildings were metal structures. He’d never seen the like of them. They were riveted together, and generally made of dark iron sheets, each as big as tabletops in a tavern. These tended to house factories and mills, and their walls reverberated with hammers and clicking gears.

The most common sort of structure was assembled of heavy, foot-thick stone slabs. Placed carefully and held together with metal anchors, these buildings were by no means flimsy. The common Kindred farmhouse was built this way, as were shops and most other dwellings.

At the very center of Darrowton, Trev found the type of building he’d been seeking all along: a tavern. He pressed his way thru a heavy metal flap that served the establishment as a doorway and moved into the dim interior.

All conversation didn’t halt when he appeared in the doorway—but it did falter. The buzz of talk and occasional guffaws of drunken laughter paused, then went on after a moment’s respite. The revelers were eying him coldly, but not with hostility.

Trev took a spot on a bench and signaled the barmaid. She approached with pursed lips and her fists on her wide hips.

“What are you up to, then?” she asked.

“I’d like a drink, maid.”

“Really? We don’t serve milk here, boy.”

Trev tried not to frown, but it was difficult. He tried to think of how his father would handle such a situation. His demeanor changed suddenly, and he leaned over the table toward the barmaid with a half-smile and a wink.

“Never heard of the Fae before?” he asked. “We look younger than our true years, Miss.”

This statement troubled the barmaid. She cocked her head at him and frowned—but then relented. She slammed down a stone mug of ale onto the table, striking the two blocks together so hard Trev feared they might crack one another—but Kindred stoneware was harder than that.

Trev lifted the mug to his lips with one hand, although his arm trembled with exertion. A few others watched and nudged one another. Trev took a great drink and placed the mug back on the table without dropping it.

The ale was strong and he wanted to cough, but he managed to hold back the urge. After two more drinks, he felt quite at home in this dingy place.

That was when a red-cloaked Kindred with a massive beard of orange came to sit across from him. He gave Trev a nod and waved for the barmaid to bring them two more stone mugs.

Trev was alarmed but didn’t refuse the hospitality. He’d planned to have a single mug and leave, but now he doubted he’d get away so easily. The red-cloak was of the Warrior clan and getting attention from one of them was probably harder than from anyone else in the Earthlight. He didn’t want his new friend to think he was some kind of weakling.

“Hail visitor,” said the Warrior. “I’m Harrdin, of the Warriors.”

“Trev of the Riverton,” Trev replied. “Glad and well met.”

They exchanged pleasantries for a moment before Harrdin got down to business. He leaned forward and spoke to Trev with a smile that didn’t show in his eyes.

“I’ve been following you since you entered the Earthlight. Did you even notice, boy?”

Trev looked at him, startled. Frowning, he thought about it. Yes…could it be? Wasn’t this the warrior that had looked him over at the Gate?

“Your duties at the Gates are done so soon?”

Harrdin nodded, leaning back in satisfaction. “Good, at least you recognize me. Now, go slow with the drinking. We have a busy day ahead of us.”

Trev shook his head. “Doing what?”

Harrdin leaned closer and said, “doing Morgana’s work for her, that’s what. Why do you think we’re both here?”

Trev’s face froze. He knew then why the Warrior had followed him and approached him here after he’d talked to Gudrin. He was another of the Sorceress’ agents.

Again, he wondered as to his own state of mind. He felt normal enough. Was he under her spell? Did his every thought and deed revolve around doing her will? The idea was chilling and intriguing at the same time. He’d never had a real adventure, at least not since the Storm of the Dead was broken. He felt that this was his time now, his chance to walk in the footsteps of his father and grandfather.

Trev took a big swig of ale, lifting the mug with both hands and smacking it down again. Ale ran down his chin, neck and into the neck of his tunic. His eyes glowed with excitement.

“Shall we drink to our fair Lady of the forest, then?” he asked.

It was Harrdin’s chance to be surprised. He huffed, then drank with Trev in Morgana’s name.

How could he not?

* * *

Slet knew what had to come. He’d been entrusted with the keeping of the Drake Crypt, and he’d broken his vows to leave the place undisturbed. A thousand times worse, he’d gone down into that hole, taken the Black for his own and wielded it to raise minions of the walking Dead. He could scarcely imagine a series of crimes against his own people that might be considered worse.

When the patrol of three mounted guardsmen came galloping up the hill at midmorning, he saw their blue livery among the trees first, then the flash of the swords on their belts. Somehow, he’d been sighted. Possibly, an early mourner had spied the trio at the gravesite or seen him exiting the Drake Crypt. It really didn’t matter how or why the Constabulary had been alerted, the fact was they had been, and Slet was in serious trouble.

He didn’t want to harm them. That was the last thing he wanted to do. But he couldn’t see any other way out of his predicament. He had performed crimes greater than they could know. The fact he’d saved his infant son after ten years in a grave wouldn’t impress them. They would probably think a troll left dead in a hole was a good thing. He could not plead for sympathy.

As they made their way off the tree-lined roadway and onto the broad sloping sward of grass, walking their horses now, he made what hasty preparations he could.

He sent Morcant down into the ground, to hide crouching in the open grave. His son, who’d he’d yet to even name, had accepted his offered hand. The tiny, furry thing had climbed onto his father’s body and hugged him tightly.

This last had melted Slet’s heart. Perhaps if the infant had hissed and snapped, he could have been persuaded to give up the Black and beg for mercy and understanding from the Riverton courts. But not now. He’d taken too many chances with his son’s life, and he’d fought valiantly to save him. The child—troll or not—seemed to understand this and had accepted Slet as his protector.

Atop of his protective instincts for his son, he’d begun to have similar feelings for the Black Jewel as well. Like all the Jewels of Power, Necron made its every owner love it. Slet could not bear the thought of surrendering and being stripped of this new Power. Why, the child might well be slain, and the Jewel pried from Slet’s dirty fingers.

Neither of these things could be allowed.

And so he made his preparations. Morcant hunkered down into the grave while Puck stood at Slet’s side, his head down and his face hooded. Slet kept his own cloak closed, with the infant troll and the Scepter hidden beneath it.

He straightened as the guardsmen approached. They were tall and imposing on horseback. They were also wary. The man who led them was a big fellow, and after a moment Slet recognized him: it was none other than Corbin Rabing, the Captain of the Constabulary.

“Morning Slet,” Corbin said, eyes sliding over the scene. Those eyes traveled from the burnt cage, to the open graves, to Slet and the still figure at his side. Then they moved uphill to the Drake Crypt, which stood open.

Slet followed the other’s gaze and inwardly cursed. He hadn’t had the time or the presence of mind to shut the gates and click the hasps on the heavy locks.

Corbin looked back down at Slet with fresh concern. “Have things gone badly here, Slet?”

Slet opened his mouth, then closed it again. Finally, he managed to speak. “Corbin,” he said at last. “You are a good man. You and your brother both. I beg you to turn round and ride back to town. There is nothing you can do here.”

Corbin heaved a sigh and nodded. “I was worried about this job from the beginning, you know,” he said in a sad voice. “I feared for you, Slet. No man should have been put up here alone to watch what sleeps in this place. It was too much to ask of anyone. But that was why the task fell to you, in the end. No one else wanted it.”

“I wish I’d never taken the job. Believe me I do.”

Corbin walked his horse two paces closer. Slet stood firm, not retreating, but he stiffened, watching the other’s sword hand, which now rested on the hilt of his blade.

“Give it up now,” Corbin said urgently, leaning forward in his saddle. “We fought the Storm of the Dead together, and we beat it before. Let us be on the same side again this day.”

Slet swallowed. “That’s a fair offer. I’m saddened I can’t accept.”

“But why, man?”

Slet thought of confessing everything. He thought about giving up the Black. The concept was painful to him, even at this early stage, but he believed he might manage it. But he could not reveal his son, the tiny thing that clung to his side even now with claws that dug deep, leaving bloody punctures in twin arcs across his ribs.

“Alas,” Slet said, “I’m lost and trapped. I can’t take your offer. But let me give you one of my own. Go back to town and summon a host. The three of you—it will not be enough.”

Corbin’s face hardened. He cast worried glances under beetling brows in every direction, scanning the surroundings. He eyed the graves again and the open crypt. He nodded as if he understood.

His men at arms, however, were not so easily dissuaded from their tasks. They did not draw their blades but instead pulled iron-headed truncheons from their saddles.

“The council has sent us, milord,” one reminded Corbin. “We are to arrest them now.”

Corbin nodded. “Time is of the essence in these matters. If there is a fresh cancer, it must be cut out this very day, this very hour. Slet, if you value your life and your skull, fall to your knees now and let us bind you. And you sir, please do the same.”

Slet nodded and did as he was ordered. Puck however, still standing at his side, did nothing.

The three men dismounted and walked forward cautiously. As the officer, Corbin hung back and read aloud a writ he had ready for such circumstances. He explained matters to what he believed were two men about to be placed under arrest.

The man who approached Slet did so circuitously, with clinking chains in his hands. The other man had his truncheon out and walked toward Puck with his hands upraised.

“Kneel now!” he shouted, then rushed in, truncheon raised.

The small metal ball at the end of the truncheon glinted in the sun as it rose and fell—but it never struck its target.

Puck had stepped to one side and produced his blade, which he’d had ready under his cloak. He flicked it upward and the meaty guardsman made a choking sound.

It was the guardsman that fell to his knees then. The blade protruded from his back, staining the blue cloak dark with fresh blood. Puck withdrew it and stepped around the fallen man.

But there was some fight in him yet. Making ghastly sounds as he knelt in the grass, the man smashed the truncheon into Puck’s side. A rib or two crackled dryly.

All this time, Slet had not moved from his spot on the grass where he knelt. The man who was supposed to arrest him thus forgot about him. The guardsman struggled with his blade, calling out hoarsely. When he had it out, he charged at Puck.

A huge arm shot up from the open grave as he passed it. His ankle caught was in an iron grip and he went sprawling. Then Morcant’s other hand came up from the hole and grabbed him, hauling him down. He screamed and howled in the earth.

Puck then slashed the first man’s head from his shoulders. He fell dead on the grass. Puck then moved wordlessly forward to block Corbin from his master.

Corbin stood for a shocked moment. He’d dropped the scroll he’d been reading and now had his sword out. His sides heaved and eyes were wide. Slet stood up, seeing that matters had gone his way.

“I’m sorry, Corbin,” he said. “I bear you no ill will. Take your horse and report back to Brand if you want to stay alive to see another day. I will go on my way, and I won’t bother the Haven again.”

Horrible noises were now rising from the open grave. Unseen, a grisly death was obviously taking place. There were sounds of breaking bones, desperate grunts and then a high-pitched keening that cut short after several seconds.

Corbin swallowed. He gestured at the figure who stood between Slet and he.

“Who are you, man?” he demanded.

The figured spoke, surprising everyone. “Do you not recognize my blade, River Boy?” asked Puck.

Corbin looked at the sword, and his eyes froze there. “Puck? By the River, man…you now serve the Black?” he asked.

“I must.”

Nodding and backing away toward the horses, Corbin left Slet surrounded by the Dead.

“Please man,” he called to Slet as he mounted. “For the sake of your clan and all your folk, leave the Haven forever!”

“I will, if I am able!”

* * *

While Slet dealt with the Dead in his own way, Oberon was faced with his own freshly killed villagers.

He, Lord of the Elves, was not happy this day. He’d been away when his half-breed son Myrrdin had broken free of his prison and ravaged the village where he’d been imprisoned. Three score souls had been lost, and others were scattered in the forest, still hiding in fear.

What astounded Oberon most was the idea that his fool son had managed to get free, take control of a tree and become one with it after being planted in the ground for a decade. It didn’t seem like the same do-gooder he’d dealt with for centuries.

The guardians he’d set near the place had, for the most part, been killed. But the sole survivor told him there had been a woman, a stranger he assumed was some type of Faerie. She’d spoken to them, brought them gifts, and expressed curiosity about the tree growing over Myrrdin’s prison. She was nowhere to be found now, but Oberon was anxious to talk to this mysterious woman of the woods.

Viewing the destruction and carnage, he reflected upon the oddities of his own family relationships. Often, it seemed that when family bonds spanned extreme lengths of time, they became twisted in nature. At first, a parent was always inordinately fond of any offspring he sired. This was as true for an elf sire as it was for a doting human father.

But as the long years rolled on, that initial glow inevitably faded for an elf. Such was the way it had been with Myrrdin. He’d slowly become Oberon’s enemy, and such a devoted one that they’d been on the opposite sides of several armed conflicts. It still confounded Oberon that the fruits of his own seed could be so rebellious, even long after Myrrdin’s human mother had died and moldered away. Myrrdin wasn’t a true immortal, of course. But his life span was measured in centuries, rather than decades. He was old now, but apparently he still had life left in him.

Oberon walked among the crushed mushroom hamlets and broken bodies of elves. He’d grieved briefly upon seeing the scene—something he rarely did. But at the same time he felt this sorrow, he felt exultation. If Myrrdin had truly done this all by himself, perhaps he had changed. Only a callous, angry being could perform deeds like these. Perhaps Myrrdin was now worthy of the mantle of being an elf lord’s eldest living son. One could only hope.

While poking around in the wreckage, Oberon was surprised to meet a woman dressed in white. He eyed her with suspicion, while in turn she gave him a pleasant smile.

“Who are you and what have you to do with this?” he demanded of her.

“I’m Morgana,” she said, “and although I like to think I’m a strong woman, I certainly can’t steer a living tree through a village.”

He turned to look at the destruction, and she came to stand quietly beside him.

“My son did this,” he said with a sweep of his arm.

“You must be angry.”

“Yes.”

“And yet proud.”

He turned to look at her. “How well you understand me. Are you one of my kind?”

Morgana smiled oddly. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

He was not sure what she meant by that, so he did not ask. Lords rarely liked to confess their ignorance, especially to relative strangers.

“What will you do?” she asked him.

“I will gather my hosts, and I will hunt him down, of course.”

“Of course,” she murmured.

He looked at her in sudden consternation. “You approve, don’t you? You want to see me do this thing?”

She spread her fine white hands wide. “It is not for me to say. I only see the logic in your decision. There really is no other option—but for one.”

“What are you saying, witch of the forests?”

“Perhaps you could—ah, redirect his energies.”

Oberon smiled crookedly. He launched himself into the air, landed on a ruptured mushroom and squatted there, staring down at her. He produced a set of small pipes, and he did play while she watched from below, smiling up at him.

“You’re a strange one,” she said after he’d finished his lively tune. “Are you honestly trying to seduce me with your piping? Now, in the midst of carnage?”

Oberon lowered his pipes in disappointment, for that was exactly what he’d been trying to do. But after a moment, he cocked his head and smiled anew.

“Would you rather a funeral dirge?” he asked, waving with his hand at the destruction that surrounded them and the dead elves that lay here and there amongst the ruins. “It is not our way to moan and wail in the face of loss. It has never been our way to grieve for more than a few hours at the most.”

He pointed to a fine white limb streaked with dried blood streaks running the length of it. The arm lay at Morgana’s feet.

“Lift the leaf that has covered her face.”

Morgana did as he bid. She uncovered the face of an elf-child, a small girl with azure hair and staring, empty eyes. There were many such tragic poses amongst the crushed homes. Fortunately, when elves passed on in the Great Erm, they did not rot and stink as they might in another place. For there was no rot here that could chisel the flesh of an immortal. The perfect corpses simply waited until a predator came to scavenge upon their flesh.

Morgana replaced the leaf gently, covering the girl’s face.

“She was a lovely child,” she said. “I grieve for her, and for you, at her passing.”

Oberon shifted on his perch. “That is exactly my point. You look, you grieve, you move on. None but the mad can grieve forever. We elves simply get over it faster.”

“I see,” said Morgana, “but what is the purpose of attempting seduction now?”

“Why, isn’t it obvious? What’s the point of prolonged grief? It does nothing to solve the problem. We’ve lost souls. We must be renewed. Mating, birth—these are the only things that makes sense at such a moment.”

Morgana nodded thoughtfully, turning her head this way and that.

“Very well,” she said.

Oberon, who had been just about to lift his pipes to his lips again, paused. “What’s that? You’re interested in my entreaty?”

“Yes. But I warn you, my womb will not bear your young.”

Oberon smiled. It was a slightly predatory thing, a smile born of ages full of both joy and malice in equal measures.

“Be not so sure, milady,” he said, waving a thin finger at her. “For none have ravaged you like the eldest of all elves can, of that I’m certain.”

She laughed then, and he joined in her laughter. He soon came down from his perch and began piping again, this time creating a sprightly dancing tune. She stood stalk-still for a time before finally allowing herself to be moved. Oberon was amazed at her self-control. He’d courted thousands of females, and never had one been so aloof in the face of his charms.

But when she finally did let herself move, swaying her hips, kicking high and stepping around him even as he did her, he found she was quite graceful for a woman of her grandeur. He’d worried that she would perhaps be a stiff, boring companion—but he could see now his fears were unfounded.

He did wonder, as he danced with her, how she had been able to shrug off his earlier advances so easily. It intrigued him. She was a mystery, and had been so since the moment he’d met her wandering his forest. Even at this moment, which he believed to be of his own making, he had to wonder who had seduced whom in the end?

Together, they drank nectar and laughed with muted voices. After an hour of gentle touches, they did embrace and dance closely for a time before making love. When at last they did the deed, lying atop the broken crown of a mushroom hamlet, there were no living witnesses to the act.

The only beings surrounding them were cold, dead elves.

Chapter Seven

The Dead in the Water

While watching Corbin gallop away back to Riverton, Slet had no doubt he would return with reinforcements. He’d sound the alarm, telling everyone a second Storm of the Dead had quite possibly begun. At that point, things would move beyond the control of two men and their honor. The council and the populace in general would insist that Slet be driven away and preferably slain.

He could not blame them for this. Too many families had lost loved ones the last time necromancy had been practiced on this very hilltop. They could not bear to see it begin again and would react with swift, terrible attacks.

Uncertain as to what to do—other than to flee—Slet paused to look at the two open graves. One had once held his troll-child, the other still held the lifeless body of his wife.

As if driven there, he woodenly walked to the rim of the second grave. He could still see her flaxen hair, as bright a yellow as it had been in life. It seemed that the old tales were true: dirt would not cling to the hair of a true elf. Even in death, her locks were like spun gold.

Slet stared down into that grave as if fascinated.

“We must go, Master,” Puck said at his side.

Slet could not tear his eyes from the wisps of his wife’s hair. Just seeing them brought back a thousand joyous memories. His every day and night with her had been a pleasure.

“Puck,” he said thickly, “you wield a blade today as well as you did in life. Do you also have the same wisdom you possessed when you still drew breath?”

“I doubt it, lord. I’m but a shadow of my former life. A wavering reflection seen in a muddy pond.”

“Well, I will ask your advice anyway, as I know not who else to turn to. Should I raise my lady-love? Shall I make my elf-wife walk again? I think you should have a say, as she is also your sister.”

Puck turned his hollow eyes toward him, and Slet glanced at the Dead-thing. Those eyes…they were not normal. They seemed not to focus on Slet directly but rather upon something within Slet. It was a disconcerting thing to see, as if this dead version of Puck could gaze right through his flesh and into the bones inside.

“That depends upon what you seek, Master.”

“I—I yearn for her companionship,” Slet said. “The touch of her hand in mine. The sweet sound of her voice and her laugh.”

“Her mind would not be as strong as mine, for she was much, much younger than I when she died. You could clothe her fully in flesh again—but it would be the cold flesh of the Dead.”

“Could she speak at all?”

“Perhaps. But her mind would be that of an animal at best.”

Slet thought about that, and his shoulders sagged in disappointment. She would not be his wife returned to him. She would be a ghoul, a thing of nightmares: a cold-skinned creature he could not bear to touch.

“We must go, milord,” said Puck, gazing fixedly downslope. “The townspeople gather. When next they come, we cannot hope to defeat them all.”

“I don’t want to defeat them. I want to escape them—to be left alone. Let’s flee and hope for the best.”

A pale, cold hand touched his elbow. Puck gestured for him to wait.

“We’d best create a distraction, and do it quickly,” the dead elf said.

Slet frowned in incomprehension. “A distraction? How?”

Puck nodded to the yawning iron gates that led down into the Drake Crypt.

Suddenly, Slet understood what the other was suggesting. He recoiled in horror and curled his upper lip.

“You want me to create an army of the Dead? I told Corbin I would do no such thing. Besides, it will pain me greatly.”

Puck extended a long finger in the direction of the troll infant, which still clung to Slet’s side beneath his cloak.

“Would it not pain you more, Master, to see him die again?”

Slet set his lips in a firm line and nodded. Without another word, he turned and reentered Drake Crypt. His cries of agony and anguish escaped his clamped shut mouth from time to time as he caused the Dead to rise one by one. He ordered them all to protect the Crypt from intruders, and then hurried off into the trees with Puck at his side. He left Morcant in charge of one last platoon of Dead things. He hoped the giant of a man still had some fight left in him.

* * *

When Brand at last reached the shoulders of Snowdon, he was worn and tired. He’d slept in the saddle and ridden hard for three long days. His horse was spent, and he was down to walking now. He could not understand how the boy Trev had outrun him so far for so long. Half-elf or not, he should not have been able to keep up such a killing pace.

Brand didn’t give up despite the grueling slog into the mountains. When he reached the walls, he’d left his roan behind. The horse was an excellent animal, but it had lost a shoe a dozen leagues back, and the unevenness of its footing had made it lame long before Brand reached the great stone gates. When he stood on the doorstop of Snowdon and entered the red furnace known as the Earthlight, Brand was almost limping himself.

The Kindred at the entrance gathered around to hail him and clap him on the back. They promised to follow the road back and find his horse for him and they clucked over his description of its sad state, then cast worried glances at Brand himself.

“Milord,” asked the Captain of the Guard, “your arrival is no indication of impending doom, is it? I mean—were you chased here by something—unpleasant?”

Brand shook his head wearily. “No, Captain. It is I who am doing the chasing this time. And I’m in an unpleasant mood to be sure.”

The Kindred gave him quiet looks of concern and muttered among themselves, but asked no more questions. Brand insisted on seeing Gudrin straight-away, so they provided him with a goat cart and a driver for the long, winding path down to the floor of the cavern.

It was dark by the time he reached the dry, rocky plain that surrounded the Citadel. In the West, the three louvers of the Great Vent stood nearly shut. They still allowed in three red gleaming lines of light between them—the equivalent to starlight here beneath the surface.

Brand marched onward resolutely. He found the Citadel and talked his way past the guards posted there. This was easily done, as they’d been forewarned of his after-hours visit and were prepared for his arrival.

He was ushered to the same chamber in which Gudrin had talked with Trev the day before. Brand frowned upon seeing the elderly Queen. It seemed to him that she was even more ancient than usual today. Perhaps, after half a millennium, her time was drawing near at long last.

“Gudrin? Do I find you in good health?”

“As good as can be expected, Lord Rabing. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

“I follow another. A youngster from the River Haven.”

“Trev?”

“He’s been here then?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause in the conversation as Brand was shown a stone chair to sit in and given a granite mug of piping hot tea. He sipped the brew carefully, winced in pain, then forced a smile.

“Excellent, just as I remember it.”

Gudrin chuckled. “For an Axeman, you’re a polite fellow. Brand, before I tell you about Trev, I must ask: why are you so interested in the lad?”

Brand frowned. “I’m not entirely sure. But I know that Old Hob is doing everything he can to stop him in his quest. That alone was enough to make me want to get involved. Now that I am involved, I mean to figure out what’s going on.”

“Fair enough. Trev told me about Old Hob’s attempts to stop him. Were you aware Trev was attacked by an assassin?”

“What?”

At length, Gudrin related Trev’s tale of a simulacrum stalking him on the Starbreak Fells. Brand was discomfited by this. Old Hob was up to his worst tricks in this game, it seemed.

“But I find this puzzling,” Brand said. “Why would Hob banter with the boy, fly him almost up to Snowdon itself, and then put an assassin on his tail a few hours later?”

Gudrin gulped her tea loudly. The steam rising up from her face made Brand wince. He reminded himself the woman could not be burned—it was a side effect of bearing Pyros.

She raised a stubby finger and waggled it in the air.

“That’s precisely what I’ve been pondering. I think the answer is clear enough: events didn’t go as Hob had planned. He first went to you, hoping you would waylay the boy and convince him to change his course. When that failed, he talked to Trev directly. When the boy wagered with him and won, Hob was forced to transport him closer to his goal rather than farther from it. After that, I imagine Hob lost patience and put an assassin on his trail.”

“Hmm,” said Brand, nodding. “A logical series of steps when viewed that way. He clearly wanted to deflect Trev from his course at all costs, but tried to do it as subtly as possible at first. When that failed, he’s moved on to more and more direct methods.”

“Exactly. The follow-up question, however, is the one I’m puzzling over now.”

“What’s that?”

“Why does he care so much in the first place? To build a simulacrum of another being is no small task, Brand. It takes a long period of preparation and effort. Hob is very determined, of that we can be certain.”

“It falls to us then to decide if we’re on the side of Trev and his witch, or Hob. An unpleasant choice. I’ve come out here to get to the bottom of the whole thing.”

“Fair enough, and well-timed. You’ll be glad to hear I’ve summoned another to aid you on this quest.”

Brand looked around at her in surprise. “Another? Who?”

A high-pitched voice sounded from the single window. Through that aperture bounded a familiar manling. It was Tomkin, and he stood on the table between the two larger folk a moment later, after taking two more bounds.

“Tomkin!” Brand cried in a moment of joy. “It’s been too long, friend.”

“Agreed,” Tomkin said, eyes twinkling in the gleaming red light like two chips of black glass. “I’m happy to see you’ve joined the party, river-boy. Gudrin assured me that you would.”

Brand looked from one of them to the other. “The party? Where are we going and what is our quest?”

“Why, that should be obvious, even to a lumbering lout from Rabing Isle! Firstly, we must find Trev and learn what this is about. Along the way, we may be required to stop Hob from killing the boy. Lastly, we must find this witch of the woods and learn what she is up to.”

Brand nodded. He felt better now that he was amongst powerful friends. Between the three of them, there were few things they could not accomplish. Tomkin was the leader of the Wee Folk, a silly but numerous people. Brand possessed a small army and a castle. Gudrin was a Queen in her own right, and ruled all the Earthlight.

More important than any of these accolades, however, was the simple fact that they all possessed one of the Jewels of Power. Few beings in the history of Cymru could withstand the combined onslaught of the Blue, the Orange and the Amber.

Brand smiled. “Let’s do it. Now tell me, what has become of Trev? How stands his mysterious quest?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Gudrin said.

Brand’s smile faded and he blinked in surprise. “I’m in your realm, am I not?”

“You are. But Trev is no longer here. It was partly my fault, I think. I didn’t take the matter seriously enough. I told the watch to follow him and keep records of his activities. There was barely time to write a few lines in that log before he was taken into the confidence of a Kindred Warrior who left his post at the Gates to travel to Darrowton. After meeting up with Trev, the two vanished the yesterday morning.”

“Vanished?” Tomkin asked. “Did they pass out through the Gates again?”

“No.”

“Well, that can only mean one thing…”

“Yes, naturally. They have gone not up to the surface, but down into the caverns beneath this one. I’m afraid, Brand, there can be no other answer. Trev has been guided down into the Everdark itself.”

“But…whatever for?”

Gudrin squirmed a bit on her stone chair. “I might have had something to do with that. I suggested certain individuals that might have the knowledge Trev seeks with such zeal.”

“Creatures? In the Everdark?” Brand thought hard and fast. He did not like where his thoughts led him. “There are only three types of beings I can think of who might know much of anything about the Jewels and who dwell down there. The kobolds, the gnomes and the dragons.”

“Agreed,” interjected Tomkin, “and I think we can safely cross off the kobolds. The gnomes don’t get out much. They don’t possess ancient wisdom concerning anything other than their own odd city.”

Brand’s frown deepened. “Did you suggest the boy should find and speak with a dragon, Gudrin?” he demanded.

“A Wurm, Brand,” the Queen corrected him. “The elder Kindred such as myself call them Wurms.”

Brand grunted unhappily. He exchanged glances with Tomkin, who did not look happy either. The last time they’d met up with a dragon in the Everdark—things had gone rather badly.

* * *

Trev couldn’t have been happier. Now this was an adventure to brag about! It had been one thing to meet up with a strange woman in a forest at the foot of a rainbow, but it couldn’t compare with marching into the Everdark behind a Kindred warrior in his red cloak of glory.

Even more impressive was Harrdin’s capacity for grueling marches. The warrior was an outstanding example of his clan. He was not particularly swift, but he was incredibly sure-footed. He led Trev over narrow ledges, down plunging chimneys and across stepping stones surrounded by bubbling magma without hesitation. Trev marveled at his tenacity and single-mindedness.

The two barely spoke after their first ten hours in the Everdark. Trev had done most of the talking up until that point anyway—in fact, as he considered it, he realized he’d done practically all the talking. Harrdin had occasionally grunted, guffawed or spat in reaction to Trev’s prattling speeches, depending on his opinion of it. But he’d rarely added anything material to the conversation. Questions had been routinely ignored, until Trev had given up asking them and simply begun talking about his own life and times in the Haven.

If Harrdin found the half-elf tiresome, he didn’t indicate it. His only concern seemed to be progressing deeper into the narrow tunnels of the Everdark as quickly as possible.

The twentieth hour passed, and after that Trev stopped talking altogether. He needed to save his breath for marching. It became something of a contest between them—at least in Trev’s mind it was—as to who was going to suggest taking a break first.

And so the march continued. Harrdin ate hardtack and swallowed swigs of wine from a flagon along the way, his short legs never ceasing to take him downward. Trev did the same, not wanting to ask for a respite and shame himself in the eyes of this stalwart warrior. They even relieved themselves as they walked, barely pausing to wet down a region of ash with their waters.

When the thirtieth hour arrived, Trev felt as if he dreamed. He was getting tired, he realized. That wasn’t a sensation he was accustomed to. Examining Harrdin, he thought the other was flagging as well. The warrior’s gait had become uneven—not quite a stagger, but neither was it the swift, sure stride of a man fresh into the caverns.

Still unwilling to request a break, Trev decided to bring the matter up in an oblique way.

“Isn’t this area known as the Magnesium Bowels?” he asked.

Harrdin rewarded him with a rare glance and a raised eyebrow. “Surprised one of your blood would know it from a coal mine.”

“It’s very distinctive. These gray powders, the wide open cavern floors. There are things down here if I recall the tales correctly—unpleasant things.”

“Right you are about that, boy,” Harrdin muttered.

“Spine-terrors? Kobolds? Which would be the more common at this depth?”

Another glance from Harrdin. This time, it was accompanied with a frown.

“Kobolds,” he said. “Definitely kobolds.”

“Ah…famous trappers, aren’t they?”

“What do you know of such things?”

“I’ve never been down here, of course. But I know about kobolds. They love to lay a trap in space like this one—see that formation of rock buried in deep gray powder? Looks like an ocean beach coated in dust. That might be an excellent spot for a kobold to lay a trap for the unwary.”

Harrdin slowed his pace when he came to the rim of the region Trev had pointed out, and then he stopped. He put his hands on his hips and dug his thumbs under his belt. His dark eyes glared at the dust, sweeping his vision back and forth.

“Must be foot a deep here,” he mumbled.

“At least. Well, I suppose there is nothing for it—we must press on.”

Harrdin looked at Trev, then back at the bowl of dust. He didn’t appear eager to march into it.

“Are you trying to get us to divert our path?” Harrdin demanded suddenly. “There are other tunnels, but they wind and could hide their own demons, you know.”

“Change paths? I’ve suggested nothing of the sort!” Trev exclaimed. “I’m eager to press on. But you are the guide, as you know this place better than any of my kind. What do you suggest?”

Harrdin rubbed his hoary face uncertainly.

“Let’s camp a bit. I want to think on it. A full stomach and a clear mind are required when planning any route through the Everdark.”

“As you say,” Trev said, sinking onto his rump immediately. Never had a rock felt so good. As far as he was concerned, the flat stone he’d found was as good as a padded throne.

Harrdin built a tiny fire of chemical heat and little flame. It was a trick that the Miners of his folk were familiar with. There was little wood to burn down here, so they used sludgy oils and fine powders. The tongues of the fire were white, and they wavered slowly rather than danced. There was little wind down here to cause any kind of flame to flicker.

Trev chewed some rations, sipped from his water supply and stretched out full length on a flat area of limestone. He was asleep almost the moment his cheek touched the gritty floor.

After what seemed like a few moments rest, he was awakened by a hard shake. He startled and reached for his dagger, but found Harrdin’s bristling face glaring down at him.

The white fire had died down to a yellowy glow, but it was still enough to see by. Trev sat up.

“What is it, comrade?”

“It’s your turn at watch, that’s what it is. I gave you four hours, and I’m wanting the same. That’s all I need.”

Trev nodded and straightened up. Without asking, Harrdin took over Trev’s spot on the flat rock and made good use of it, laying on his back and using his pack as a pillow. He was snoring softly less than a minute later.

Left to his own devices, Trev soon became bored. He’d recovered a great deal during the brief nap, even though he knew he could have used another half-dozen hours of rest. With a shrug, he hopped to his feet and searched the area they were in for anything of interest.

He was not long in finding it. A set of tracks led across the powdery dust not a hundred feet from where Harrdin lay snoring. Trev knelt there and examined the shape of the tracks.

They were triangular and variable in size. Some looked as if they’d been made by a creature the size of a child, while others appeared to be flapping great monsters—feet that could support a tree.

“Kobolds,” Trev whispered to himself.

It was almost certainly kobolds who’d made these strange tracks. Their kind never stopped growing for the duration of their lives. The smallest were numerous and stupid. They usually died young. If they did keep living and growing for long years, they eventually became chieftains.

The question in Trev’s mind as he eyed the prints in the dust at his feet was obvious: how long had these tracks been here?

Deep underground, there was little to erase a footprint once it was made. There was usually little or no wind. No rains fell, and few natural animals wandered here to erase tracks with ones of their own. That meant that the tracks could be a few minutes old or a few decades old, and there was no easy way to tell the difference.

Frowning, Trev widened his search of the area. He hoped to find a clue that would indicate more about the situation.

It wasn’t long before he found what he wanted. There was an opening in the cave floor, surrounded by loose dust. The tracks led here, but didn’t lead away from the spot.

None of these details captured his interest as much as next detail he noticed did: All around the hole was an area of pushed-back dust. To make it stay, the dust had been wetted down, causing it to harden like a pile of dry sand that’s been struck by a passing wave. The dust was darker, and still wet.

Trev straightened, and gazed down into the dark hole. It must have been made within the hour! Otherwise, the dust mounded up around the hole would have dried and become loose again.

Gazing down into the hole he saw something bright, as if a coin were down there reflecting back the light of his lantern. Then he realized there were two coins—and they were blinking at him.

* * *

Trev barely had his dagger tugged loose when the kobold attacked. Fortunately, it was a small one of its kind—unfortunately, the creature was not alone.

Kobolds were strange, bestial beings. About as bright as Rhinogs, but much less organized, most lived their lives without ever seeing the sun. They had pale skins that were primarily stone-gray, but with taints of pink, blue or green depending on their breeding. Their eyes reflected light when they encountered it, like a cat’s eyes caught by a lantern at night.

Starting off as skinny, hairless whelps, they eventually grew to great stature. Like trees, they kept growing and growing, becoming more wise and feral with the passing of every year. Fortunately for more civilized folk, they usually died young in their nasty tunnels. But chieftains sometimes lasted a century or more, their backs scarred white by the claws of dying rivals and the serrated roof of their caverns.

What Trev had encountered today was a small hunting pack of yearlings. During their initial, harshest years, kobold young were cast out the moment they were weaned. They had to forage for food, fighting amongst one another and every other beast in the Everdark for scraps.

The first kobold that came at him didn’t even have a weapon. It came out of the hole snarling, with glistening fangs exposed. Skinny arms extended and clawed fingers reached for his throat.

Trev had no choice and little time to react. He drew his steel and planted it in the throat of the on-rusher.

Dead on its feet and gargling in surprise, the kobold came on and slammed into him, bowling Trev backward. It slumped on the ground, twitching. Trev gathered his feet and bounced up again—but two more were already on him.

As he stood they rained blows upon him with their fists. Trev managed to hold onto his dagger. He slashed upward, and a tiny hand came free, spraying him with dark blood. Bruised, Trev gathered his feet while the kobolds howled and snarled, backing away from him.

Then the fourth showed up. Trev knew in an instant this one was the pack leader. Unlike the others, he came up out of the hole standing on his hind feet. In his hands was a club of hard stone. He stood a foot taller than the rest, and Trev guessed he was significantly older.

The leader cuffed away the howling pair Trev had bested and strode forward with purpose. He eyed the half-elf’s dagger respectfully and circled looking for an opening. Trev was forced to turn his body, to face this new foe. But as he did so, the other two came closer warily, making snatching motions at his legs. They were surrounding him, and he could not watch them all at once. He was in a bad spot, and he knew it.

It was then that Harrdin made his appearance. He stood up behind the pack leader and worked a hand-catapult. Launching a dart with a snapping sound, he transfixed the biggest of the three kobolds.

Shocked, the kobold leader looked down at the bolt that had sprouted from his breastbone. He touched it, and as if that act was a trigger, gore flowed down over his bulging gut. Then the stone club slipped away from rubbery fingers, and he slumped down dead.

The rest of the pack melted away, whimpering and growling. Trev took a deep breath, cleaned his blade and turned to Harrdin.

“Thanks, friend,” he said.

“I’m no friend to a fool,” the Warrior said gruffly. “Don’t walk off into the Everdark again. You’re no good to me dead.”

Grumbling, Harrdin returned to their camp. Trev followed him, chastened. He cast frequent glances over his shoulder, wondering if a hundred more kobolds were out there, just out of sight.

As they were breaking camp, Trev attempted to talk to Harrdin. He’d gotten a different feeling from the Warrior since they’d entered the Everdark. Back in the Earthlight, at the tavern, they’d had a rousing good time drinking and plotting. But since he’d come down here, the Warrior had turned distinctly unfriendly.

At first, Trev had put this down to the naturally gruff attitude of most Kindred, especially those of the Warrior clan. But now, he wasn’t so sure.

When he caught up with Harrdin, he intended to question him about his mood. But the other surprised him before he could speak.

“Trev! Over here, boy. You can quit playing with kobolds. I’ve found the tunnel we want. But I’ll need your help to remove the debris.”

Curious, Trev walked after the other and came to a mound of strange wreckage. He almost opened his mouth to ask what it was—when he had it.

“Is this a Kindred war machine?” he asked in awe.

“Yep. There can be little doubt of that. It’s one of the crawlers with a dead or escaped belly-burner. ”

Trev knew, from what schooling he’d received from the people of Riverton, that the Kindred had the most amazing war machines. These were made of metal and rare minerals. Crawlers were like spiders with weaponry attached. They had drivers, and steam was used to power the machines. Each crawler had a small elemental in its belly—a fire elemental. When water was dripped down onto the imprisoned beast, it would turn the liquid to hot, expanding steam. This steam in turn drove the machine itself to walk, dig or move its murderous mechanical limbs.

“Amazing!” Trev said, hopping on top of the crawler and poking around.

“Get down off that, are you daft?”

“You said it was dead or disabled.”

“I said its belly-burner had left, but that doesn’t mean it’s harmless.”

Trev left the machine’s ribbed iron back reluctantly.

“Here, push on this then,” Harrdin directed him. Together, they began forcing the crawler’s legs to move one at a time.

The machine appeared to have broken down during the last conflict between the Gnomes, Kobolds and the Kindred. They’d come up this way from the deepest reaches of the Everdark to invade the Earthlight, which was close under the surface of the mountains. This machine had been abandoned and left sitting down here since then.

“Having a bit of trouble with this one,” Harrdin said, grunting and straining at the last leg in the line. “Squeeze in past those rocks, will you? We need to get this thing moving. Feels like it’s rusted a joint.”

Trev did as he was told, squeezing into the tunnel past the final leg of the dead crawler. The machinery ticked and squeaked as he climbed over it. Harrdin was too thick around to get through—but Trev managed it.

Standing behind the crawler, inside the dark tunnel, he was immediately overwhelmed with a sense of adventure. Here was the path many champions and even a dragon had taken to escape the deeps! He found it exciting to be here.

He turned and began to explore more deeply into the tunnel.

“Hey!” shouted Harrdin behind him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Trev glanced back. “I just thought I’d take a look around. No one’s been down here for a decade or more. At least, no one who’s civilized.”

“I see,” said Harrdin. His single baleful eye, which had been watching Trev from the entrance, disappeared.

Trev shrugged after a moment and took two steps farther into the tunnel. He paused to dig out a sun-stick, another invention of the ingenious Kindred.

He thought he heard a strange sound behind him. Frowning, he glanced back again, holding the sun-stick high.

The tail section of the crawler seemed to be moving slightly. One of the hind limbs elevated itself. Then a rattling sound echoed through the tunnel. Clearly, Harrdin was fooling with the crawler.

Trev shrugged and turned back to the mysterious tunnel. It went on and on ahead of him until he could see no farther into the gloom. He decided he might as well explore a bit deeper if Harrdin was going to start toying with the derelict crawler. The old Warrior was grumpy today anyway.

He’d not taken two steps before a snap and a loud jangling sound erupted all around him. On instinct, he leapt into the air. This turned out to be a bad move. His head smashed into the roof of the tunnel and he saw bright lights that existed only within his own skull.

When he came down, the trap was unavoidable. A steel net had been laid out behind the crawler, and it now closed around him. He knew in the next few seconds that the crawler had captured him with a mechanism he’d never learned about in the Haven.

He also knew, due to the low chuckling from the crawler’s driver seat, that Harrdin had sprung this trap upon him purposefully.

“I should have done this days ago,” Harrdin said. He approached with heavy steps.

Inside the net of woven steel, Trev squirmed around, but accomplished little other than to entangle himself further. The net had cinched up like a bag, ensnaring him like an idiot rabbit in a farmer’s garden.

* * *

Brand didn’t relish his return to the Everdark. The last time he’d gone so deep underground Modi had been burned away by a dragon, and Telyn had nearly suffered the same fate.

Tomkin had come along for the trip, but Gudrin had left it to younger people just as she had the last time. She’d made the same excuses over a decade ago, claiming she was too old to be much more than a nuisance. Brand didn’t buy that—not entirely. Gudrin had later led a punitive expedition down here during the Siege of Snowdon against the kobolds. Perhaps that was it, he thought. Perhaps she would only go into the Everdark at the head of a powerful army. A wise policy, he had to admit.

Keeping up with Tomkin was taxing. Brand fairly jogged after the little bounder, but he couldn’t maintain the pace. Every hundred steps he caught up with Tomkin again, who would be standing with his back leaned up against a wall, tapping his foot impatiently. This process of almost losing the little monster then catching up with him again went on for long hours before Brand called a halt.

“Where are you leading me?” he demanded between puffs of breath. He choked on some dust, had a coughing fit, then eyed Tomkin expectantly.

“Does it matter?” asked the manling. “At this rate you’ll be slumped over a dripstone in a sheen of sweat long before we get there.”

“That’s because you’re going too fast,” Brand growled. “Now tell me where we’re headed. I know these under-lands as well as you do.”

Tomkin sniffed. “I doubt that. But we’re headed for the Magnesium Bowels.”

“So deep? Why that stretch of desolation? I found the place unpleasant in the extreme.”

“You’ve been there?”

“I said as much.”

Tomkin narrowed his eyes at Brand. “Then you must know the dragons lie below that level. Each of the long tunnels that feed the Bowels leads to a magma chamber. It is along those twisting tubes that the dragon likes to nest.”

Brand nodded slowly. He hadn’t known this, but he did know they’d found their last dragon in one of those side tunnels.

“So, you think that’s where Trev is headed?”

“Where else?” Tomkin asked. “Unless he’s daft enough to enter the Gnome City and pester their king for information, the dragons are the only other source down here.”

“There is another possibility,” Brand said.

“What?”

“He could be seeking a mound down here.”

Tomkin was interested now. He hopped up on top of a dripstone and perched there like a robin on a branch. “Now why, pray tell, would he do that?”

“It’s just a theory,” Brand said with a shrug. “His grandfather comes and goes that way down here. Look, if he’s trying to find someone with information, the elves are a logical next choice. The fastest way to reach the Twilight Lands from here would be to walk one of the mounds in the Everdark.”

Tomkin nodded slowly. “You have a point there. It could be his goal. But if it is, we’re probably already too late to catch him. Therefore, I think we should stick to the plan.”

“Which is, specifically?”

“We race to find an open dragon-plug and to catch Trev there. Or we may locate his scorched skeleton.”

Brand nodded. It made sense. He wasn’t sure what Trev hoped to get out of a dragon, even if he found one willing to talk. Most likely, the monster would just eat him.

Then he turned to Tomkin suddenly and snapped his fingers.

“The boy isn’t alone, is he?” Brand asked.

“Not according to Gudrin. That’s a mystery to me as well. I can understand him needing a guide, but not why one would consent to make the trip.”

“I think I know why there are two of them,” Brand said, heaving himself onto his feet again and beginning to march. He reached into his pack and took hold of the haft of his Axe. “We need to hurry!”

Tomkin bounded after him. Even though Brand was now marching with gleaming eyes and indomitable purpose, the manling could easily match his pace.

“Can you speak?” Tomkin asked.

“If I must, manling,” Brand grunted with effort. He puffed and strained like a plowhorse going uphill.

“Why? You must tell me. You say you know the answer and then march off in a frenzy without imparting it.”

Brand grinned and glanced down at Tomkin. For just a moment, he imagined how fun it would be to cleave the little bugger in twain. Diagonally, and by surprise. One half, the upper part with the brain and the candlestick nose would slide away with a look of permanent shock written in the eyes. The other half with the legs might well take a final bound before coming down and wetting the dust at their feet, twitching feebly.

Brand’s grin became feral, and Tomkin wisely increased the distance between them. A moment later, Brand’s eyes turned back to the seemingly endless path ahead.

“Why did he take the Warrior?” Tomkin whispered.

“Because he needs something to bargain with. Something the other might want to trade for.”

“Ah!” shouted Tomkin, leaping ahead and bounding around Brand in two complete circles. This elaborate movement took less than ten seconds.

Brand was sorely tempted again to take a swing at the little blighter—but he held back.

“I see your thinking Axeman! Can Trev be as clever as that?”

Brand shrugged. “He’s half Fae. You tell me.”

“It is possible,” Tomkin admitted. “Not what I would expect from Trev, but definitely on the list of maybes if he was a full elf. Maybe his father’s side is stronger in him than his mother’s.”

“As to that, I can’t say.”

They held their tongues after this exchange, saving their breath for the interminable march ahead. If Trev was plotting to hand a dragon a nice dinner, that was all the more reason to get there before he managed it. A freshly-awoken dragon might well appreciate such a gesture long enough to answer a few questions. Whether the questioner would escape after that was doubtful.

Brand wasn’t sure he could catch up in time. He was trying, but he knew his best hope was that the plug would hold firm, or that when Trev opened it up, exposing the centuries-old chamber beyond, he found the lair empty.

Despite his fixed state of mind, he wondered what a dragon might say upon being awakened not by treasure-seekers, but by persons wanting knowledge.

Chapter Eight

The Dragon-Child

Slet was winded and frightened by the time he reached the northern end of Stone Island. He had been fleeing for long hours.

At the final bluff over the flood of the Berrywine the river was split in two, each half threading its way past the granite cliffs at the point of the island and spreading around it, isolating it from the mainland to the east and west.

“Why did you lead me here, Puck?” Slet demanded. “There is no escape. They’re sure to bring hounds that could hardly miss the scent of a troll, a man and a Dead-thing.”

“You’re words are true, Master,” said Puck. “But the waters on the left bank aren’t terribly deep and swift. I can cross because I don’t need to draw breath. When I’ve reached the far side, I’ll take that boat you can see among the trees on the eastern bank and row it back here.”

Slet squinted in the fading light. He couldn’t see the boat that Puck had mentioned, but he had no reason to doubt the creature.

“That’s the plan then? I wait here and hope you return with the boat before the militia catches up to us?”

“Unless you have a better one, Master?”

Slet thought hard for several seconds. As he did so, a horn pealed in the distance. It was a hunting horn, and it sent a chill down his back. The time for planning had passed. They found a trail and climbed down it to the thin shoreline along the river.

“Go, and be quick about it. I doubt my troll-child can swim.”

Puck left him there at the point and walked directly into the flood. He sheathed his blade, staggering somewhat against the current. He kept walking until his head was under water. No bubbles came up to mark his passage.

Slet watched this with a new shiver. He’d come to think of Puck as a living thing, and every time he saw irrefutable evidence to the contrary it gave him a chill.

He waited there for several precious minutes. Each second that passed his eyes swept the water looking for any sign of Puck. There was none. The water was not placid, but it wasn’t loud and white either. It ran deep and pure here. He felt he should be able to see something.

Occasionally, he glanced back the way he had come. The horsemen were out there, he knew. They’d have a hard time of it on horseback, he was glad of that. The northern end of the island was heavily wooded and sparsely populated. Horses weren’t easy to ride over the rocky ground full of thickets and low-hanging branches.

But the horn pealed again, and it was much closer now. They were increasing their speed. He could imagine their efforts. They would have spread out in a line, each man within the sight of the next, and worked their way up the island so that no one could slip by. With hounds assuring them the quarry was still ahead, they would speed up at the end. They’d probably dismount and—

Fear struck him. What was that rustle? A rush of feet? Had they loosed their dogs on him? What of Corbin’s promise to let him flee? Obviously, that had been an accursed lie.

A dog rushed up out of the dark. There were more behind the first pack. These were not the same baying hounds people often used when hunting game in the forests. They were quiet, dark-eyed and certain of their quarry. They were used for hunting the Fae who plagued the Haven from time to time. There was no point in sending barking dogs after the Fae. To bring one down required stealth and surprise. These wolfish brutes were bred for the purpose, and they hunted silently.

Slet knew the scent they must be tracking: his child’s.

“I hope you can swim, child of mine!” Slet said, rushing downslope to the water’s edge.

He plunged in without waiting for Puck or even an answer from the troll. He figured that if worst came to worst, he would revive the child by pushing water from its lungs on the far side.

The troll didn’t appreciate the cold water when it felt it. Slet sucked in his breath, gasping as claws dug into his sides. They grated on his ribs and he would have cried out if he hadn’t been so intent on keeping away from the hounds. The troll’s claws were only an inkling of what the dog’s teeth would feel like, worrying at him with a snapping dozen bites.

“Master!” cried Puck.

Slet saw him then, he was standing in the boat, but it was wallowing and sinking. Slet knew in an instant Puck had made a grievous error. He’d cast off and paddled the stolen boat from shore—but hadn’t checked the plugs in the bottom of it.

As wise as the elf was, he hadn’t known something every river-boy in the Haven had hammered into him since birth: the proper handling of a boat on water.

Slet cried aloud at Puck: “You’ve killed us both, fool!”

“Walk ahead,” shouted Puck, climbing over the side of the sinking boat. “I’ll meet you in the middle of the flood.”

“I have to breathe, man!”

“No, you don’t. Take hold of the Black. Wield it, and walk.”

So saying, the Dead elf vanished into the inky waters of the river. Slet looked down into his tunic. There were the eyes of his child looking up at him. He reached in, pulled the infant out and showed it the shoreline.

Dogs had gathered. There were six—no, a seventh had just arrived. They whimpered and milled at the edge of the flood, reluctant to go into the deep water.

“Child of mine,” Slet said, “you have to trust me. I’m going to walk into this river, or we’ll be torn apart by those hounds and the men who are certainly coming after the pack. If you die, I’ll revive you on the far side. It’s the only way for us to survive.”

The troll stared at the hounds for a moment, then squirmed like a feral cat. Slet shoved it back into his tunic, where it hugged him again.

Then he drew the Black. The moment he touched the Scepter he felt both stronger and sicker at the same time.

The images coming to his eyes shifted, as if a colored glass had been laid over them. He saw reddish outlines of the dogs, and much fainter blue outlines of the fish that swam nearby. He turned toward the far bank and waded deeper into the Berrywine.

The troll clinging to his side writhed in panic, but did not leave him. Slet cried aloud at the pain of its scrabbling, curved claws. Blood ran freely from his sides and tears came down from his eyes to merge with the river.

He cried not only because of the pain, but because he knew his child was dying again at his side. Would this never end? Must he torment his own offspring to keep others from doing worse? He felt sick, but determined.

At last, his head went under the rippling surface of the river and he was gone from sight. Down deep, Puck was the only thing he could not easily see. Being Dead, he did not shine with the light of the living. When a bony hand took his, Slet winced at Puck’s chill touch, but he allowed himself to be guided into the cold, dark water.

* * *

Trev spent hours in a sour mood. He was sore in body and spirit, as Harrdin dragged him down the dusty tunnel floor for some inexplicable purpose. His pride had been wounded worst of all. He’d been caught with casual ease. What would his father or—worse yet—his grandfather have had to say about this sad state of affairs?

All his attempts to engage Harrdin in conversation had been fruitless. He’d begged, raged and hurled insults. The most he’d gotten from the other was a few snorts and an occasional hard kick in the ribs.

Still, Trev persisted. He thought he had little to lose. Trapped in a mesh of woven steel cables, he knew he was helpless. He might well be dropped down a shaft into a bed of magma, or left trussed up on the floor of the tunnel for the next scavenging kobold to dine upon.

Desperation set in when he noticed the air in the tunnel had become hotter and oppressive. He decided to force the other to act.

“Honorless cur!” he shouted. “I demand you remove that red cloak from your unworthy back!”

This made the Kindred straighten from his bent-back toil. He stopped dragging Trev steadily downhill into the Everdark. He turned slowly.

“Keep a civil tongue, half-breed snot,” Harrdin said. “I’ll not suffer you much longer—one way or another.”

Trev didn’t like the sound of that, but he had finally gotten his captor to stop dragging him, so he pressed his luck.

“I made a deal with you. We were partners until we found an answer from the wise creatures that dwell down here.”

“You mean the dragons?” Harrdin asked, grinning with gleaming teeth. “I already did that, fool. Why do you think I brought you?”

“What are you saying, cur?”

A boot drew back and then flashed forward. Trev formed a ball with his body, but the blow still made him taste bile and cough.

“I’m saying,” Harrdin answered in a conversational voice, “that I already made a deal with that which lives down here.”

“Why then am I in a net? Why am I down here at all if you already have the information you seek?”

“The dragon wanted it that way. We’ll learn about the Jewels together—but only one of us will be in a position to gain from it. When you looked like you might run off and get yourself killed, I figured this would be for the best. You can’t trust a fool to keep himself alive…but you can trust a fool in a net.”

Harrdin went off into a gale of laughter after that. He also turned and began to drag Trev again by a bundle of cables over his shoulder.

“I see how you got into the Warriors then,” Trev said. “It takes this kind of double-dealing to get into a clan you’re not worthy of. You must be a natural at it. Again, I demand you remove that cloak. You stain it with your dishonor. You—”

Harrdin stopped dragging, ran back to Trev with an oath, and began to beat the boy. This wasn’t exactly Trev’s plan, but he took the opportunity he was afforded. He jabbed the Warrior in the thigh with his dagger. The point dug deep and Harrdin slapped his hand away, howling and pressing at the wound. Then he backed away, eyes hooded and breath drawn through clamped teeth.

The two regarded one another. Both were bleeding and in pain. Trev was desperate. He held his dagger in both hands, determined not to lose his grip on it.

Finally, Harrdin took a great breath and let it out. Then he laughed aloud. The sound rang from the walls of the tunnel and Trev thought that there was a twinge of madness in that laughter.

“You know what they use these nets for, boy?” Harrdin asked him.

Trev shook his head. He was glad the Kindred Warrior was talking to him. Anything that made time pass might give the madman a chance to see reason.

“To catch elementals. Small ones, that is. Too big, and they wreck the net and won’t fit into the boiler, anyway. Too small, and they would slip out of the holes. This net was woven just tightly enough to hold a middling salamander, but not with a mesh so fine it catches the squirming younglings.”

Trev stared. His breathing slowed, but he kept his weapon at the ready.

“That’s what makes it a perfect fit for you, don’t you see that?” Harrdin asked. “You’re just the right size. You would fit into a crawler’s belly and I dare say there’s enough piss and vinegar in your blood to power it for a mile or more.”

Another gust of half-mad laughter rang from the tunnel walls. Harrdin turned then and took up the cables. He leaned into them and kept dragging Trev.

The boy’s mind was working again, and he began to understand.

“You’re doing this for the witch in the woods,” he said. “How did you meet her?”

“In the forests, same as you did.”

“I can understand why you want to please her. But why do you hate me so?”

“Is it not obvious? Because you’re a rival for her affections, child. Did you not lay with her in the leaves? I have yet to be given such a gift. I intended to change that. The next time I meet my Lady Fair, she will give me what I really want. With you out of the way, that outcome will be all the more likely.”

Trev noticed the Warrior was limping slightly, but the wound didn’t seem to discomfit him much. Kindred Warriors were a tough breed, and cuts did little to slow them.

“If she likes me so much, don’t you think she’ll be displeased to learn you mistreated me?”

The Kindred shrugged, but then nodded.

“Possibly,” he admitted, “but then she’s unlikely to learn of this little adventure from me.”

Trev thought he might cackle again, but the conversation broke off as they reached a place in the tunnel Harridan seemed to recognize.

“Ah,” said the warrior, dropping the cables. “We’ve come to the spot at last.”

Trev strained but had difficulty seeing what the other was talking about. He was harshly grabbed and dragged forward to where he could see over the lip of a hole in the tunnel floor.

“You see this then?” Harrdin asked, pointing to the scorched floor of the tunnel. The region they were standing upon was as dark as aged iron and scored by curved gouging marks.

Trev eyed the marks with alarm. Only the largest of beasts could make such deep rips in a substance harder than stone.

“The dragon—did another escape this plug?”

“No, fool,” Harrdin said. “It was not escaping. It was clawing its way back into the cavern below us. Not out of it.”

“I thought the seals could not be broken by a dragon. Isn’t that why you people place them over entrances like this?”

“Not exactly,” said Harrdin, seemingly in good mood for once. As he spoke further, he dug in his pack for something. “You see, the plugs can’t keep a determined dragon at bay. They can keep other things from slipping in and out, however, like kobolds, dragon young and the like. But they let the dragons know where the boundary lies, where Kindred territory begins. They usually respect that boundary.”

As Trev watched, Harrdin found some pitons and a hammer. He went to the wall of the tunnel on either side and drove a spike into the rock. Then he looped a rope over each spike and threw the cables of Trev’s net over the rope.

“You intend to lower me into that hole?” Trev asked with eyes wide and a voice that broke high.

Harrdin chuckled. “I suppose I could just kick you in, if you’d rather.”

Trev gazed at the hole with grim fascination. Wisps of smoke and an unpleasant smell that reminded him of burnt matchsticks rose up from it. The hole in the plug was as dark as midnight at the bottom of a well.

Before he could speak further, he was hoisted up and lowered unceremoniously into the hole. He squirmed and slashed at the rope at the last moment, desperate to do anything to take charge of his fate, but the effort failed.

When the cables were at full length, the grunting Warrior above him moved about, causing shifting shadows and light. Trev felt helpless. He had no idea how deep the hole was. When at last Harrdin dropped him, would he fall a foot or a mile? It was so dark down here, hung and suspended over nothing, he could not tell what the truth might be.

Determined not to beg or cry out, he only sucked in his breath in a hissing gust when the cables ran out and Harrdin got tired of lowering him gently. Trev felt himself falling. He crashed down on the rough stone a good ten feet farther below.

With the wind knocked out of him, he struggled to get to his knees. Frantically, he worked at the steel net, but it was beyond his strength and skill in the blackness to open the tightly cinched bag-like entrance.

Above him, Harrdin had hooked another cable and was lowering himself by rasping inches. When at last he stood near Trev, the half-elf lunged, thrusting his dagger for the legs again. But the Warrior was wary this time and avoided the attack.

“Huh, you’ve still got some fight in you, I’ll give you that much,” Harrdin said. He then proceeded to kick and cuff Trev until he lay panting on the floor in his net.

The cables were drawn taut again, and the dragging went on. Now, however, Trev was beginning to feel real fear.

There was a sense of unnatural doom about this forbidding place. He’d never been in the lair of a great beast before, and so he had nothing to compare it to. But he did think to himself this must be how a cow felt when it entered the butcher’s abattoir.

The floor of the tunnel was slick, rather than dusty. It felt like smooth, melted glass. Fused into the glass were strange artifacts which he bumped against as they passed by. Boots, melted right into the stone. Bone shards sticking up at odd angles. Everything was burned and smelled of melted fat, brimstone and sulfur.

Ahead, a light source grew as they passed a kink in the tunnel. This light source was a lurid red in color, and the sensation of fantastic heat just around the corner grew and grew until they rounded it—and he felt the full, searing effect as if a blast-furnace door had been opened and his face was shoved close to the breach.

There, that had to be it! A huge shape that glimmered like a giant dying coal the size of a cottage. Was it made of stone, metal, or flesh? How could the dragon stand its own heat?

“Hail, dragon!” Harrdin shouted, his voice echoing and loud in the still chamber, “I’ve brought you the half-breed, as I promised.”

“I smell it,” said a deep voice.

At first, when the dragon spoke, Trev could not understand the words. They were too bass, too resonant. Each word sounded as if fingers had been drawn across a bowstring. But after the words were uttered and his mind was given a moment to digest the sounds, he found he could separate the tones into words.

“Bring it to me. Fulfill our bargain.”

“Hold Lady,” said Harrdin. “Tell me what I must know.”

Lady? thought Trev. It was only at that moment he realized the dragon was female.

There was a stirring in the chamber. A plume of hot ash rose up, and Trev felt it touch his skin and burn there. The dragon had shifted and turned.

There! Eyes like green jets of flame, scales shining blue.

She regarded them both. The intellect in that alien face was terrifying. In that single instant, Trev was sorry he’d ever left his mother’s house. He was too young, too inexperienced. It was just as the adults had warned him. He was ashamed, and angry.

“I will tell you of the Jewels,” said the dragon. “One by one. But you must come closer, and bring my prize.”

“Humph,” grumbled Harrdin. “I see no point to these shenanigans. Tell me something first.”

“As a sign of good will, I’ll begin,” she replied. “The first Jewel to appear in recent times was that of Vaul, the Green. A good soul—some say the best of us.”

Trev frowned at this. The best of us? Did the dragon think she was somehow related to the Jewels? He’d been given to understand this was a twisted myth from the past.

Grumbling, Harrdin hauled Trev closer with ill-grace. “On with it.”

The dragon mentioned each of the Jewels in turn. Lavatis the Blue, which powered the skies and the rains, and which manifested itself as a rainbow from time to time. That was in the hands of Tomkin now, but the Blue had languished in Trev’s grandfather’s possession for much longer in the past.

The dragon continued her list, speaking of each Jewel at length. There was Ambros the Golden, which powered Brand’s Axe and filled its wielder’s eyes with the madness of battle. Osang the Lavender, which Old Hob used to sail silently through the night. The Red Jewel, which always appeared as a tiny bloodhound and thirsted for the blood of all living things. That monstrous Jewel sought to re-form life into abominations of a twisted nature. Pyros the Orange could burn stone. Necron the Black ruled over the Dead—

The dragon stopped speaking, and Harrdin stopped approaching the blazing green eyes. Trev had been listening to its words with fascination. Along the way, he’d learned the name and power of each Jewel, and who carried them now. He was fascinated despite himself. There were details to the lore he’d never heard from any other being. He learned, for example, that the Black Jewel was now in the possession of a young necromancer named Slet. He’d always been told the Black was entombed in the Drake Crypt. How had it gotten out and when, he could only wonder.

“Don’t stop now,” Trev said suddenly. “There are only two left. Tell us of them.”

Both Harrdin and the dragon regarded him in surprise.

“I’d thought the creature had been knocked senseless,” the dragon said. “But it squeaks with vigor. You’ve done better than I’d hoped you would, Kindred traitor.”

“Traitor?” barked Harrdin suddenly.

“What else would you call one that waylays a friend and drags him to his death?”

“This half-breed bounder was never a friend of mine!”

“A dupe then, a kidnapped babe?”

Trev wondered at the dragon’s reluctance in discussing the last two Jewels. He almost opened his mouth to ask again, but kept quiet for once. His two enemies seemed to be antagonized with one another and even he could see it was time to leave them undistracted.

“He was never a friend of mine!” insisted Harrdin.

“Ah, does a lack of friendship make it acceptable to break a bargain? To go back on a deal arranged and agreed to?”

“What are you getting at, dragon? Fulfill your sworn words! Tell me of the last two Jewels! Where are they, and who possesses them?”

“First, I would understand Kindred honor,” the dragon said. “Just consider it a courtesy on your part to explain it to me. I’m giving so much—surely you would do this one thing for me in return?”

Harrdin stood tall and straightened his cloak. At his belt hung the traditional battle axe of his folk. Trev eyed him and sensed he was still prideful, despite his trespasses against his own code of honor.

“I told the manling I would bring it to a dragon who would tell us of the Jewels. That is happening even now. I’ve broken no deals with it, as I did not guarantee its safety, nor pledge to protect it.”

“Manling…It…” echoed the dragon. “Very curious wording.”

“Why?”

“Because twisted words such as these are the marks of the eighth stone, which I will now tell you of: The White. It is a shard of the original whole Sunstone, you see. Among all the Jewels, it is the most pure. Unlike the rest, it is a blend of all. It shines with all colors, and none at all. The White has the unique power to bend the mind of any living creature. Clearly it has bent yours, Harrdin of the Warriors.”

“I deny your accusation. But tell me where the White is now.”

“In the Deepwood. Standing upon a mound, hanging from the neck of its mistress. For it disguises itself as a clasp on a shimmering robe.”

Harrdin frowned. “Why does she stand upon a mound?”

The dragon laughed. The sound was like that of a boulder rolling down a mountainside. “Now you ask too much, for I know not. Maybe she awaits Twilight, so she may walk around the mound and travel someplace, or somewhen, else.”

Harrdin seemed upset by this answer. “She was to meet me in the Deepwood. She wasn’t to go anywhere.”

“Perhaps she’s meeting another star-struck mooncalf like yourself. She has many suitors, you know.”

Harrdin lifted his battle axe and shook it. “You’d best keep a civil tongue!”

The dragon laughed again. “She shows vanity there! Let me guess: No one can offer her insult? You’ve been commanded to defend her honor as well as do her bidding? She takes things too far. Arrogance and pride proceed every fall. It’s a trait we dragon’s know all too well.”

Harrdin sputtered. Trev had listened at the feet of the other two for as long as he could stand it. Now, he spoke up at long last.

“Please great Lady, could you tell me of the last Jewel. What of the Quicksilver? Where does it lie, and who is its master?”

“Hmm,” said the dragon, turning its head to look at Trev again. “A delicate question. But I’ve made no bargain with you, elf. I will not answer at your whim.”

Trev opened his mouth to ask another question, but an explosion of light bloomed in his head. Harrdin had brought the haft of his battle axe down upon this crown.

Trev slumped and felt blood trickle into his mouth. He retained consciousness, but only barely.

“Talk to me then, as we agreed,” Harrdin demanded of the dragon.

“Very well, puppet,” the dragon said. “But first, I’m afraid I must cut your strings.”

Without further warning, the dragon’s huge claw plunged down and stepped on Harrdin. Raging and gasping, he was driven onto his back. The dragon leaned forward, dipping its great head. It stared into the Kindred’s face, and Trev thought to himself that the heat of that face and the weight of that foot must be unbearable.

Harrdin’s axe flashed upward toward the long, sinuous neck. The blow was a mighty one, but it sparked against the blue scales and bounced off. Numb fingers lost their grip upon the weapon. It fell with a clatter into the bed of ash and stones that littered the lair.

“You seek to slay me?” asked the dragon in mock surprise. “Don’t you wish to know where the last Jewel lies?”

“Speak then, honorless Beast!”

“Honorless? Where does this insult come from? We agreed you would bring me the half-breed, and that I would tell you of the Jewels in turn. No one said anything about leaving.”

“You clearly plan to devour me,” said Harrdin, breaking off into a coughing fit, “the moment you tell me your last secret.”

“That’s true,” admitted the dragon. “But I was under the impression that would fit with your code of honor rather nicely.”

“You twist my words and will be known to all as an oath-breaker!”

“I’m no Fae,” said the dragon. “Being shunned among social circles is not unusual for my kind. Now, would you hear of the last Jewel or not? I’m sure your mistress would be more pleased if you succeeded in completing her quest.”

“Yes,” whispered Harrdin. “Tell me.”

The dragon held him pinned down and put her great head near the Warrior’s ear. She whispered words there, bass sounds that Trev could not make out with clarity.

What Trev did see was amazement growing in the Kindred’s eyes.

“It’s not possible!” he said.

“Not only is it possible—but it is,” purred the dragon.

“Trev!” Harrdin roared, turning his head toward him—but then the dragon spread its flame-dripping jaws and snapped down. The Kindred’s cries were muffled for a moment, then they were cut off forever. Chewing methodically before swallowing, Trev saw with alarm the dragon had bitten off Harrdin’s head and devoured it. The chamber filled with the smell of singed meat.

Trev, for his part, did not tremble in terror. He had been working at the metal net so that he might flee. He’d found the opening, which was cinched tight, and managed to drive a pointed stone into the center of it. Still, it would not open.

The dragon finished her meal, and the smell of roasted meat and burnt hair tickled Trev’s nostrils. Then the rasping sound of the beast’s scales, dragged over the hot stones, reached his ears.

“I’ve heard of delicacies like this. Meat wrapped in wire. Freshly cooked, you’ll melt in my mouth, child.”

“Dragon? What is your name?”

The other chuckled. It was a bizarre sound, something that caused the walls of the cavern to rumble in sympathy with it.

“Why would I tell you that, dinner?”

“So that we may bargain.”

“You wish to bargain? What does a creature like you have to bargain with? You’re a pathetic morsel, and my mouth grows wet in anticipation of a new flavor. The sweetmeats from above are so different, you see, not like the dusty fare I get down here. Kobolds have blood like oil and the Kindred taste dried-out. I’ve only had a few beings such as yourself, fatted on forests and sunshine.”

“Is that why you asked Harrdin to bring you an elf? So you could taste a new flavor?”

“Exactly. And not only an elf, mind you, but a half-elf. That way, I could compare the flavors of Kindred, elf and human all at once. The mere thought is making my guts tremble with anticipation. I’ve got half a mind to journey to the surface someday to feast upon the likes of you more often.”

“Why don’t you do it, then? Are you frightened of the sky? Of the world above?”

For the first time, the other hesitated. “Frightened? Nonsense. What does a dragon have to fear from tiny beings such as yourself?”

“We slayed your parents. Your mother died right here in this very den. Your father—”

Trev broke off with a squawking sound. The dragon had reached out a heavy claw and placed it upon his chest, pushing downward with a tiny fraction of its fantastic weight.

“You’ll be still, now,” the dragon said.

“Too afraid,” Trev gasped, barely able to get out the words, “too afraid even to hear the words of a helpless elf in a wire sack!”

After a moment, the claw retreated. Trev breathed more easily. He fought the urge to cough, or to taunt the monster further. Now was the time to let pride do its vile work on the other’s mind.

“I have to admit,” said the dragon at last, “you’re a brave one. Never have I heard anything from my food other than cries for mercy or curses. What makes you different?”

“Have you ever eaten an elf?”

“I can’t say that I have—but I’m becoming ravenous with anticipation. If your meat is as spiced as your tongue, I’m in for a treat.”

“What if I showed you a way to the surface, dragon?” Trev asked. “What if I showed you a safe path—one which you could use to exit and return to your lair whenever you wished?”

The dragon cocked its head and regarded him.

“Witchcraft? Are you an elf, or a wizard? Do not seek to play me for a fool, or I will devour you from the feet upward. Your screaming head will go last.”

“I’m telling you the truth. There are pathways from the Everdark to the surface—direct routes you might not be aware of.”

The dragon narrowed its eyes suspiciously. “I suppose I will have to release you and take your word for it? Maybe you’ll lead me to a narrow choked tunnel where I’m too big to follow and then trot off, laughing to yourself? That isn’t how this tale will finish, youngling.”

Trev shook his head. “Of course not. I’m not so clever as to think I can fool a drake. I’m speaking the truth. Leave me in the net, if you like. Let’s go together. I’ll show you the path out of the Everdark.”

The dragon gazed at him seriously, but then ruffled her scales. “So much work, so much toil. Just for a maybe. You seek to distract, to prolong. I’d rather eat the meal in my claws.”

“I understand,” said Trev. “Fear is a terrible thing. Even the mighty suffer from the affliction.”

The drake slithered close and loomed over him. Her eyes smoldered with anger. “You dare too much. The feet first, that’s how it will go with you.”

“Still afraid? Still worried about what happened to your parents? Traumatized since birth—a pity. What would your father have said? Would he have been frightened by the words of an elf in a net? Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? One might even say, in a case like yours, that it borders upon embarrassment.”

“You dare insult my family in my own den?”

“Truth is no insult. Look at me. I’m not pissing my pants and shivering in terror. Between the two of us, of which might a parent be more proud? Take my challenge dragon, and prove me wrong.”

The drake fumed and coiled herself, then uncoiled again. She was young and arrogant, fortunately for Trev. At last, she snarled and came near again.

“I’ll let this farce go on for a few hours more. But then I’ll kill you by inches, cooking each slice of your meat and eating every bite while your eyes dim. See if I don’t, manling.”

Trev sniffed, knowing that the key to his ruse was to seem unafraid. It was his very lack of fear thus far that had galled the monster so much she was willing to take a chance.

And so the drake picked him up with her dripping teeth and hung Trev aloft in the metal net. The burning droplets of saliva smoked in his hair and on his tunic, but Trev didn’t allow himself to cry out in pain. To do so might well mean his death now.

Trev led the dragon through a dozen miles of twisting passages. He cudgeled his mind as he went, trying to recall every detail of his father’s tales. His grandfather and father had both traveled these labyrinths and found what they were looking for. Ancient places, mounds where the Fae no longer dared to dance. Even his own kind shunned these spots, but they were still here, and they would still allow egress from the Everdark in a pinch.

Trev thought to himself that if he were not in a pinch now, no other of his kind ever had been. It occurred to him, as the dragon’s scales scraped stone and her hot spittle sizzled on the stones as they passed by, that this was a tale he could tell for the rest of his days. Provided, of course, that he lived long enough to pass it on.

Chapter Nine

Trev and the Dragon

Brand and Tomkin found the open plug in the floor of the tunnel. Brand frowned down into it, and he squatted at the edge of the blackened opening.

“It’s still hot,” Brand said, “and recently disturbed.”

Tomkin was standing well back. He was nowhere near the edge and studiously avoided the hot chunks of blackened plug that lay here and there about the tunnel.

“That’s not natural,” Tomkin said. “That plug should have held against an eruption. Flowing magma, quakes, a hundred Kindred with picks—none of those occurrences should have been able to break the seal. At least, not quickly.”

Brand nodded. He thought about it, scratching his beard, which was as thick as a Kindred miner’s after spending days in the tunnels of the Everdark. “I think it’s been opened by a dragon,” he said at last. “I think the plug is weaker from the top than it is from the bottom. These gouges—I believe it was torn open the way a bear might rip open a tree trunk.”

Tomkin’s eyes were comically wide at this suggestion. He managed to scoot farther away along the tunnel wall and gazed at the evidence from a distance as Brand continued to point out details.

“See here? Those aren’t the marks of picks—I say it was the beast’s claws. Picks aren’t curved like that, and they take much smaller chunks when they strike. This is scored with wide gouges. Still, the dragon can’t be a large one; otherwise it wouldn’t have fit in this tunnel. But it is large enough to rip up this plug. About the size of a fishing boat, I’d say—or a small house.”

Tomkin licked his thin lips. His black eyes followed Brand intently. “Is it down there now? The beast might be listening, Brand. Come away from the hole.”

Brand looked into the pit, considering the idea.

“Possibly,” he said. “There’s only one way to find out.”

Brand indicated the hole with an inviting sweep of his hand.

“Are you mad?”

“Shall we have a wager?” asked Brand, turning crafty. “A gold piece to the first one who sights the dragon.”

Tomkin smiled with half his face and hopped forward—but not all the way to the edge.

Brand smiled too, knowing that Wee Folk had a hard time passing up a wager.

“You first,” Tomkin said.

“How can you win the bet that way?” Brand asked.

“Dead men rarely collect debts.”

Brand snorted. “Caution in one of the Wee Folk? You should hang your head in shame.”

“At least I’ll have one left to hang after I tell the sad, sad tale of Lord Rabing’s roasting.”

Grumbling that Wee Folk were natural scouts and were perfect to apply in this type of situation, Brand lowered a rope and climbed down into the pitch-black hole. He didn’t believe the dragon was still here, of course. If he had, he wouldn’t have gone inside. But he did think it was worth investigating. If Trev had met his end down in this stinking den, it would be sad, but predictable. The boy had always been too inquisitive for his own good.

The stench of brimstone was stronger inside the hole than out. Immediately upon entering the cavern, Brand was awash in unpleasant memories. It was here that Modi had died, along with a half-dozen of his stout Kindred comrades. Telyn herself had nearly joined them and been incinerated by the she-dragon that had nested at the back of the cavern.

With great care, he drew Ambros and caused it to light his way. Brighter than any torch, it made the walls glitter. They were encrusted with crystals and sands melted to glass.

After a turn in the tunnel he came to a long straight-away. At the termination of this gently sloping run, he arrived at the main chamber. Using Ambros like a torch, he beamed its light in a slow circle, examining the interior. He wished he’d thought to bring a shield.

Behind him, from just around the corner, a piping voice called out: “Well? Are you dead yet?”

“No, but that’s no reason to shout,” Brand called back.

He was fairly certain already the dragon wasn’t home. The heat of the place—or rather the lack of it—had convinced him. A fire-dragon, resting in its den, was like a smithy’s forge at this distance. The odor and wafting heat would have been intense by now. Even more convincing evidence was the lack of a dragon to be discovered by Ambros’ probing beam.

“It’s all clear,” Brand said, and strode to the sandy bottom of the chamber.

Stealthy footsteps followed him, but he didn’t see Tomkin, not yet. The other was skulking in the shadows between fallen boulders.

Brand found the corpse of a Kindred atop a mound of debris. He knelt to examine it.

A fast-moving form bounded up and stood nearby. Brand startled, then turned back to the body after realizing it was only Tomkin. Apparently, he’d finally been convinced the place was empty.

“This must be Trev’s guide,” Brand said.

“Where’s the boy? I don’t see him.”

“No. No sign of him.”

“Well, off we are then. We have sad, but undeniably final, news to report.”

Brand looked at the Wee manling and frowned. “What news?”

“Dead Warrior, devoured half-breed…end of story.”

“Devoured? Whole? Do you really think that’s what happened?”

Tomkin snorted as if Brand was a simpleton. Brand’s brow knitted into a frown, but he managed to keep a flash of anger in check. The Axe was still in his hand, and he knew Tomkin could be irritating at the best of times. He had to maintain his self-control.

“Please tell me what you’re thinking, Tomkin.”

“If I must,” Tomkin said, striding over the body of the dead Kindred as if it was a fallen log. “Here, we have a dead Warrior. Notice his head—or lack thereof. Let us all call this Point One.”

Over the years, Tomkin had changed a great deal. He was no longer a feral, hermit-like Wee One. As the somewhat reluctant Lord of his people, he’d become educated by them. Brand thought this change in his personality and demeanor was both a good and a bad thing. He’d become much more clear in his language and his manners were better—but he was now somewhat prissy.

“Point Two is the lack of a dragon itself. Since the Kindred died, and the dragon didn’t, I would be willing to bet the dragon won the conflict.”

“Fine, but how does that prove what happened to Trev?”

Tomkin bounded twice, and stood upon a glittering mass on the floor of the cavern. Brand followed him irritably.

“What’s that?”

“A net. A steel woven mesh.”

Brand examined it. “The mesh has been torn apart.”

“Exactly. Let us call this Point Three—”

“Must we?”

“Yes. The dragon killed the Warrior, then tore apart a steel mesh to dig out something approximately your size. At this point, there is no sign of the dragon or Trev. I’m thinking the boy was in that net, and he was devoured promptly.”

Brand glared at these details in sequence. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said.

Tomkin made a tiny, annoyed grunt. “How so?”

“If it took the Kindred’s head, why eat Trev in his entirety?”

“Perhaps elves taste better.”

Brand nodded, he had to concede the point that they probably did. But he wasn’t convinced Tomkin had figured it all out.

“Okay, what if the Kindred was in the net, and he was pulled out, dragged to the nest and decapitated?”

“And the dragon left after that?”

“Yes. Perhaps the taste was foul and it made him sick.”

Tomkin chuckled. “Could be. But where is Trev in your hopeful scenario?”

“Maybe he’s run off, lost in the tunnels looking for a way out.”

“I think it more likely he’s lost in the entrails of a dragon, and there is only one way out of that sorry circumstance for him.”

Brand turned and headed for the exit. Tomkin hopped along after him.

“Are we going back up to the Earthlight?” he asked hopefully.

“Not yet. Even if your theory about them both being dead is right, I want to know more. I want to know why the Warrior put Trev in a net.”

“Treachery? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

“Yes.”

“Exciting. Perhaps you’re right. That is worth investigating. Still, if Harrdin was a traitor, he’s paid the price. Must we face incineration to further pay for his crimes?”

“I want to find out what happened. I can’t go back to Trev’s mother and tell her we found evidence of foul play and then turned around and went home.”

“Why not?”

“She won’t accept that answer.”

“Let her be the one—”

Brand finally lost his temper. He turned on the little man and Ambros brightened in his hand like a torch fanned by a gust of wind. “Look, I’m going on. I’m going to find the dragon and get the truth. Are you coming with me or not?”

Tomkin appeared to consider his options carefully. At last he twisted his lips and frowned in disgust.

“I will,” he said, “but only because you’ve cruelly piqued my curiosity. An unfair move on your part.”

Brand took hold of the dangling rope and hauled himself up, shaking his head. He grunted and strained. He’d put on a few pounds over the years, and this hole seemed deeper than it had the last time he’d escaped it.

* * *

Trev directed the dragon to travel down the tunnel toward its termination. At one end it merged with the Magnesium Bowels, but at the other—he didn’t know quite what was there. He recalled the stories he’d been told as a child, and thought there might be a magma chamber in that direction. But really, he had no idea where he was going.

After a short while, the dragon realized this and stopped moving. Talons as thick as a bull’s horns set themselves on Trev’s leash, which the dragon had fashioned from one of the steel mesh cables of the net. Trev was brought up short, making a choking sound. He reached to his neck and attempted to loosen the cable that wound around it.

The dragon leaned its head downward, putting its burning face close to Trev.

“You…you dared to deceive me? All the pain and suffering you’re about to experience—it boggles the mind. What a grim price to pay for a few more short hours of life.”

Trev pried at the cable around his throat, his eyes bulging and his face turning purple. But the dragon did not ease the pressure. He did not give Trev a chance to speak.

“I had not thought it possible for an elf to be so foolish. Perhaps it is your half-breed blood. That’s what fooled me, and has now engaged my rage and my wonder both. You think like a goblin. IS this what all half-elves are like?”

Trev pointed to his throat and his mouth worked like a fish gaping in a net. But still, the dragon did not release him. Trev dropped to his knees. He could not feel the impact as his legs collapsed under him.

“What’s this?” exclaimed the dragon. “You seek to die so easily now? No, no, you’ll not be allowed such a blissful path!”

The pressure eased and Trev’s throat opened. His starved lungs worked in retching gasps. He still could not speak, but he could breathe again. The world came back into focus and the tunnel brightened as his eyes blinked and rolled.

“The question now, is what element of your person I’ll remove first. I’m thinking a toe. Roasted with the foot, but not so much that it turns to ash and flakes away when I take a nibble. No, it must be done rightly.”

Trev struggled to speak as the dragon exhibited an interest in his right foot.

“I did not deceive you great one!” he choked out. “The way out is ahead! We have only to go near the Gnome City, and then—”

The massive head whipped around to eye him again. “The Gnome City? You’re not just a deceiver, you’re mad. I’d never—”

“You need not fear their stone hands, lord,” Trev said. “They’ll be sleeping, and we will not enter their city proper. There is another way.”

The dragon stared at him quietly for a moment. “I’ll not play the fool any longer. Now, remove that boot or I’ll burn the flesh and leather together. Let’s get on with this, I wish to experience your flavor right this instant.”

Trails of glowing saliva dribbled from the beastly jaws.

“Master,” said Trev, “think for a moment. You know these caverns well, don’t you? You’ve been down every tunnel and hunted in every large cavern…is that not so?”

“Of course.”

“Well then, if I planned to show you something you’ve never seen, it must by rights be in a region you’ve never visited. The Gnome City is just such a place. The Gnomes are not to be feared when they are dormant—”

“Feared? You dare suggest—?”

“I dare not! I was speaking of my own experiences, not yours. But in any case, the Gnomes will not awaken if you don’t go past their guards. How far have you ventured into their territory?”

The dragon grunted and shifted. “Not far. There is no meat there to taste. They are hardened packs of dust-like, dried mud. I’ve never seen the need to explore their lands.”

“Naturally not. The spot I’m taking you to, fortunately, is just outside their borders. It is in a region with nothing edible; that’s probably why you’ve never seen it.”

“It’s remotely possible,” the dragon conceded, “but I’m tired of this farce. I’m going to eat you now and be done with it.”

“Very well, I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything else.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know…the impatience of youth. I mean, for one of your kind you aren’t even an adult yet, are you? One can’t expect an immature creature to show thought and reason. What would any youngling do when faced with a bowl of seeds? Why, they’d eat them instantly. They would never think to plant the seeds, to nurture them, to grow a crop that could feed a village. It is much the same with all folk.”

“Very insulting references. Especially the part about eating and planting seeds. A disgusting thought. Does your kind really do such things?”

“Upon occasion…”

“All right then, we’ll press on. But you have hours left, half-breed. Not days, nor weeks. Hours.”

“That will be plenty of time. Now, if you would be so good as to show me the tunnel exiting this magma chamber which leads most directly to the Gnome City—”

“WHAT?” roared the dragon. “You don’t even know where you are?”

“I didn’t say that,” Trev said breezily. “The Everdark is a big place, and I’m not a native. It just so happens I’ve never come this way before.”

“Humph,” grumbled the dragon, but at last, he directed Trev toward a narrow passage of slick obsidian.

Trev entered this tunnel, which headed downward steeply. Behind him, the dragon had to shimmy and fold its wings tight against its body to follow.

Trev massaged his abraded throat as he walked, finding the metal cable had left bloody scabs there. He wondered where and how this whole ordeal was going to end.

* * *

Brand and Tomkin made excellent time in pursuit of Trev and the dragon. They did not have to fold wings, nor was one the captive of the other. But what made them move more quickly than that was the Axe in Brand’s hand and the quick feet that carried Tomkin. Less than an hour after Trev and the dragon had passed by, they found the magma chamber and the obsidian tunnel that led downward from it.

“This must be it,” Tomkin said. “You can see the drag-marks. The dragon’s belly leaves no scales as it passes by, indicating it is indeed a youngster.”

“I could have told you that,” Brand said. “An adult dragon wouldn’t even attempt that slick tunnel downward. It would be too tight for them. I bet it’s no more than nine feet in any dimension, and closer to six at the narrow parts.”

“Well then, we’d best press ahead.”

“Right you are.”

Despite their decision, neither Brand nor Tomkin set foot in the narrow, pitch-black tunnel. It looked like the yawning mouth of a black beast for one thing. It was anything but confidence-inspiring. Something about the obsidian stone teeth of the entrance gave them further pause. They looked like fangs of black glossy stone. It looked as if one was marching into the mouth of a dragon, rather than following a natural tunnel.

“Scout ahead,” Brand said at last, thrusting his Axe into the maw.

“What?” squawked Tomkin. “I’m no runabout to be ordered ahead of your horse, man. I’m an ally of stature. A lord among my own countless people. A bearer of a Jewel, the same as you are!”

“Fine. We’ll go in together.”

So saying, Brand took the first steps. He lost his footing and went sliding down into the mouth of the entrance. Tomkin stood at the opening above him, peering with one hand on his hat.

“Looks steep. Are you still on your feet?”

“Get down here you scoundrel,” Brand growled.

Tsking, Tomkin finally followed. Soon, the two were making fast time as they marched deeper into the passages. Oddly enough, once they were inside the tunnel, they found the same disturbing characteristics that had made them reluctant to enter now made them move as quickly as possible. They both just wanted to reach the end.

Brand finally tripped over something on the slick floor. He went down with a whoop. Looking back up behind him, he saw Tomkin bounding away, back up the way they’d come. He made a wry face.

“I’m not dead yet,” he called after Tomkin.

The other slowed then paused, gazing curiously into the blackness. “What has befallen?”

“I tripped, that’s all. Come and look at what I’ve found.”

Tomkin bounded up to him a moment later. Together, they examined the object Brand had tripped over.

It was a length of steel cable. Very well-made, strong and flexible, the cable was clearly forged by the Kindred. No one else had the craft for such work—with the possible exception of the elves themselves.

“Looks like part of the net,” Tomkin said.

“It is. As to why Trev and the dragon brought it down here with them, I haven’t a clue…but they clearly did.”

“I have a theory,” Tomkin said importantly.

“Let’s hear it.”

“First, the dragon caught Trev in a net. Then after devouring him, he still had a few of the cables left in his belly. After he’d traveled for miles underground, he was forced to sick-up the last remnants of the net. Do you see any fresh bones lying about?”

Brand snorted and dropped the cable, which snaked to the ground with a slapping sound. “Of course not. Trev is a smart boy. He’ll stay alive, dodging and squirming out of anything as mundane as a net. Let us continue.”

Tomkin didn’t budge. “If the boy has indeed been consumed, there is really no need for us to continue.”

“We don’t know what’s happened to him. That’s why we’re down here retracing his steps.”

“But don’t you see?” Tomkin asked in exasperation. “Adding ourselves to the dragon’s diet isn’t going to help Trev now. He’s probably been thoroughly digested by this time. There’s no point in—”

“Are you coming or not? Must I see this through by myself, or can I count on the lord of the Wee Folk?”

Still, Tomkin hesitated. “No, I’m done with this fool’s errand.”

Brand took a new grip on his Axe and turned away with a disgusted snort. He drew upon the strength of mind and solidarity of purpose the Axe always provided to its master. He marched deeper into the glimmering black tunnel without a glance back.

Tomkin watched him go with misgivings. Soon, even Ambros was nothing but a yellowy reflection upon the glossy tunnel walls.

Finally, with a cat’s growl of frustration, he followed the river boy.

* * *

The Dead that lived near the mound were not typical of their kind. They were spiritual, rather than mindless collections of dry bones and tattered flesh. When Trev and the dragon entered their territory, following a winding cavern to its cul-de-sac ending, the Dead sensed the approach of the Living, and they stirred.

“I don’t like this place,” said the dragon, sniffing the foul air and shifting its long, sinuous neck from side to side. The two jets of flame that served the beast as eyes examined the cavern, which was filled with noisome pools full of ink-black water.

Trev liked the place even less than did the dragon, but he knew he couldn’t allow his fear to show. It was his very bravery that had stung the dragon’s pride and gotten it to follow him thus far. Accordingly, he walked without pause or concern. He did his best to appear nonchalant and confident.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” he said in a breezy tone. “Just a few dusty old corpses and their lingering ghosts. I would expect no more than a dozen or so of them to be capable of rising to greet us.”

“Ghosts?” asked the dragon. There was a definite tone of concern in his voice. This made Trev smile slightly.

“Yes, yes, ghosts, spirits, ghasts—a variety of shades haunt this spot. Be quick of feet and quicker of mind as we circle the mound the first few times, lest they give you a chill.”

“A MOUND?” roared the dragon.

For a moment, as the great beast stopped in its tracks and blew an intensely hot gust over his back, Trev thought his life was forfeit. He hadn’t explained the nature of the exit from this world to the next—although, in retrospect, the answer should have been obvious. What other easy way was there to escape the Everdark quickly and easily?

Trev turned to face the dragon, who was now lifting her head and puffing twin flares of flame.

“What did you expect?” Trev asked.

“You said nothing of haunted mounds,” roared the dragon. “A trickster, you are, just like all your folk. Do a dozen of your kin lie here in wait? I’m wanting to know the details of this plot, elf! Tell me now before I strike you as dead as the spirits that linger here.”

Trev put his hands on his hips and twisted his lips in disgust. “I had no idea the concept of a mound and a few stale Dead-things would put you into such a state.”

The head lowered and came near. “What is this state which you speak of?” the monster asked dangerously.

“A state of terror, apparently. I’ve got no other explanation for your reaction. Do you?”

A jet of flame singed Trev, and he was forced to give up on his brave front. He beat at his smoking tunic.

“Terror? I’ll show you terror. I’m not afraid of tiny collections of bones. I just don’t like to be—”

“Show me then!” Trev said quickly. “Show me your bravery. Walk the mound with me. Exit the Everdark as I said. There are none of my kin lying in wait. I’m no king nor lord. I’m a half-breed—you said it yourself. None gush with love for me, nor do any follow my lead. I wander the world, above or below ground as I will. But my freedom comes at a price. I’ve got nothing but my wits, my blade and my balls to see me through life.”

“Your blade? I did not see that you were armed. Show me your weapon, half-breed.”

Trev confidently produced his dagger. The point glinted green, reflecting the burning eyes of the dragon.

A great choking cloud came out of the monster’s maw, after she studied it for a second. “That is a blade?” she demanded. “I must say, you have amused me greatly. I haven’t gotten out enough, I suppose. In order to become wise and tricksy like my ancestors, I think you’re right. I must take chances now and then. Lead on through your Dead, and know that you can’t escape. I’ll slay you before you can take three steps.”

“Of course,” said Trev and he set off.

The pools cast up palls of hissing steam as they splashed through them. The dragon muttered irritably as she dragged her belly through each. Trev got the feeling that they discomfited her, but she didn’t complain openly, not wanting to incur any more hooting from Trev.

As Trev led the way to the mound, he began to think of the dragon as a bully of the type he’d dealt with so often back in school in the River Haven. The dragon was huge, deadly and frightening, but underneath she was really very young. She was foolish, after a fashion, and had allowed herself to be talked into doing things that were better off left to daydreams. He even began to dare to think he could trick her further and escape—but then he met up with the Dead he’d dared to disturb.

They were not, as he’d misled the dragon to believe, just fluttering spirits. Instead of resembling the contents of a peasant’s wash-basket, they resembled bony versions of knights and devils. Their eyes glowed as if they burned, but the light was cold, rather than hot.

A half dozen rose up at once to confront them, forming a circle all around. As one they drew steel. Human lords they’d once been—or Kindred. It was hard to tell when their flesh had been shed. Only scraps of armor still clad their wicked forms and they moved with an unnatural gait.

The dragon stopped and reared her head, turning her eyes from side to side. She did not cry out in fear, but she did retreat a half-step.

“We must win through!” Trev shouted, bounding forward and drawing his dagger.

The dragon thundered after him. The Dead closed in all around without a battle cry of any kind.

Trev’s plan was a simple one, and it worked well: he sprinted toward the closing line and chose a spot that showed the largest gap between two of them. The nightmare to the left was slow, he could see, having no leg below the shin on its right side. Hampered in its movements, it could only laboriously hobble along. Toward this one Trev bounded, and he gave a desperate cry as he leapt over it.

The Dead thing wasn’t so easily evaded, however. It raised a ball on a shaft of steel—a mace with rusty spikes. The spikes caught Trev as he sailed overhead, drawing a gouge down his calf. It hurt, but Trev managed not to collapse upon landing on the far side of the line of Dead. He stumbled, gathered himself, and ran on into the pitch-black cavern.

The ring of Dead closed upon the dragon. The blue-scaled creature was too big to leap over the line and too slow to dart between them. Instead, she barreled forward and reared up. Her talons struck at the approaching skeletons, knocking them down and cracking their dry bones. But the enemy got back up, undeterred and relentless.

Trev stopped running and turned. He wasn’t sure what to do. Should he flee, or should he help the living dragon, no matter how wicked it was, against the Dead?

The hesitation was only a momentary thing, but it was real. After that single moment passed, his senses returned to him. He must fly! He had no choice, as this was the one opportunity that he would ever get.

Then the dragon breathed fire. Trev had never seen a dragon gush flame like that. He’d read of the event, and heard tales, but talk was one thing and witnessing the reality was quite another.

The line of Dead, swinging their weapons like thoughtless, clumsy machines, beat on the dragon and stabbed at it. But the flames consumed them quickly. So hot were the fires they melted mace, sword, chainmail and axe as if they were all so much candlewax. The red-orange tongues swept them away to ash, burning their bones and causing them to become unmade.

Whatever sorcery held the Dead things together was undone by that sweep of impossibly bright, hot flame. They were destroyed in a stroke, and a moment later, the dragon slid toward Trev, who now nursed his scratched calf.

He straightened as the dragon approached. The great head regarded him quietly for a moment before speaking.

“You bleed,” said the dragon. “I can smell your blood.”

“It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

The head dipped, nodding. “I’ve suffered the same. Only scratches. Nothing that could stop one of my kind.”

“Shall we proceed?” asked Trev.

“Lead on.”

The two walked to the mound. They paused at the foot of it.

“Is it time?” asked the dragon. “Can we walk the mound?”

“In the Everdark, it’s always the right time. A mound can be traversed as desired. There is no need to wait for twilight or dawn, as those moments will never come to this place.”

“I see,” said the dragon, and it regarded Trev curiously for a moment. “Before we pass from this world to the next, I’d like to ask you a question.”

“I’d like to do the same.”

The dragon chuckled. “Granted.”

“Ask then.”

“Why did you not flee? That was your chance, you know.”

Trev thought about his answer for a moment before replying. “I could have run—but I didn’t want to see the living fall to the Dead. Not here, not anywhere. The Dead killed my father as I watched.”

“Ah,” said the dragon. “You hate them. That I understand. For I hate the Kindred as you hate the Dead. I hate them so much that I worry someday my emotions will rob me of my reason. That was how my father fell, you know.”

“Yes,” Trev said. “That is how I understand it.”

They began walking then, widdershins around the mound. As they left the Everdark behind, rustlings sounded. The Dead were stirring anew. Trev wanted to rush, but he knew not to. He took measured steps along the path, making sure not to stray from it.

“You are not like either of the peoples who made you,” the dragon told Trev. “Any true elf would have fled from me and laughed, enjoying the joke as the Dead hacked at me. Likewise, no human could ever have stood and met my gaze without shivering and making water down his leg.”

Trev thought of Brand, and believed in his heart there was at least one man who could have stood his ground. But he didn’t think it would be a good idea to bring up the Axeman, so he kept quiet.

“You have the bravery of an elf and the honor of a human,” the Dragon continued. “An odd mix. I’m not sure if the two traits will improve your life or bring your doom.”

“Do you want to know what I think of you?” Trev asked.

The other hesitated. They’d made it twice around the mound by this time, and the world was growing dim around them. The Dead that shuffled here and there no long seemed to see them clearly. Trev knew that to them, they had become like ghosts, incorporeal and distant.

“Yes,” said the dragon at last. “I do want to know. Have no fear, I won’t slay you for an insult on this occasion, even if my talons itch to do so.”

“Very considerate, I’m sure. Well...I think you’re lonely. I think that’s why you paused to speak to Harrdin and I. A normal dragon would have consumed us without a self-indulgent conversation first. You’re bored as well. That’s why you’ve consented to follow me into the unknown, risking your person.”

“There it is again!” exclaimed the dragon, snorting a dart of fire. “The cheek of it! Right here, inches from my scales, you dare to make light of me?”

Trev was startled, having taken the dragon’s word about not minding an insult seriously. He told himself to remember in the future just how touchy these creatures were.

“I only speak the truth,” Trev said carefully, “at least, the truth as I see it.”

“Do you believe that admission somehow makes your words sting less?”

“No, I suppose not. But you did give me leave to speak freely. I assumed you were a creature of honor, as you’ve been one thus far.”

“You can’t trust my kind as you might one of the Fae. We aren’t as bound to our words as your kind is. We’re more like humans, in that respect, as much as I’m loath to admit it.”

Trev nodded, knowing instantly what the dragon meant. “So not all dragons are honorable or dishonorable? It varies from one beast to the next?”

“Yes, but at the same time I’d point out that we’re less likely to bend our words and enjoy the confusion of our victims. Perhaps the truth is we see honor differently than do the Fae.”

Trev could understand what the dragon was saying. He’d found his father’s folk to be truthful, but only in the strictest sense. He was like that himself upon occasion. But he also felt a pang when he misled others. He knew that the elves rarely felt regret when they led an innocent to doom. In fact, the experience usually delighted them.

It was on the fourth circuit around that Trev thought he saw something in the cavern—something new. He did not pause, however. He didn’t dare to stop advancing on the path.

“What’s that then?” demanded the dragon, halting. She swiveled her head and peered around the cavern.

The aspect of their surroundings had shifted now, as they were half-way between one world and the next. It was an odd effect—disturbing. It was as if they looked through mist or wavering water.

“A bright light,” Trev said. “A flash. I don’t know—let’s keep going.”

“Why do you hurry?”

“Have you walked around a mound before?”

The dragon hesitated. “No,” she admitted at last.

“Well, my folk do so quite often. We have to keep moving. We can’t stop here—and there is no way to go back.”

“What if we step from the path?”

“You mustn’t. You won’t be able to return—at least most people can’t. You will be lost between worlds.”

“What’s there?”

“A gray, formless nothing. It’s cold but not entirely empty. There are monsters there, terrible things that can’t be seen or fought.”

“There it is again,” said the dragon a moment later. “Did you see that flash of light? A golden flash—like a sunbeam. How could there be such a light in the cavern?”

“There can’t be,” said Trev slowly. He was beginning to suspect the truth. He tried again to urge the dragon forward. “We must make haste.”

The dragon regarded him with suspicion. She did not budge. “What are you thinking, tiny, brave being? You know what it is we see out there, don’t you? What is it? Is it something in my world, or something in the next one?”

Trev chewed on his lower lip for a second. He gazed into the dark cave, but the lights had stopped flashing.

“You owe me an answer first,” Trev said. “As we agreed earlier.”

“Then what is your question? Out with it, and quickly.”

“What is your true name, dragon?”

The monster hesitated. She glared at him. “I will answer because I keep my word when it is spoken. But do not tell another. And do not dream that you will somehow become my master with this knowledge, half-breed.”

“I won’t.”

“My name is Fafna, daughter of Fafnir.”

“A fine name,” Trev said quickly, and he began to walk along the path again.

“Where are you going? What of the lights?”

“They’ve stopped flashing.”

“But you know what they are, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, and I will swear never to devour you, Trev.”

Trev looked back and cocked his head. Such an offer was not to be discarded lightly. In fact, he’d never heard of another dragon who’d offered such a promise to a mortal.

“Very well. That is Brand, I believe.”

“The Axeman? That light—it’s the light of Ambros the Golden?”

If he hadn’t known better, Trev may have thought there was a hint of fear in the dragon’s voice. But he knew it could not be so.

“I thought I felt him,” Fafna said. “It is a dragon’s power to know where the Jewels are, and who wields them. I’d felt Ambros was somewhere near. This place has confused me, however. Where is he exactly? Where does that glow come from? Is he ahead of us, or behind us?”

“There is no way to be certain,” Trev admitted. “Because we are halfway between the worlds, it could be either. However, logic can help us in this instance.”

“How so? Speak!”

“Firstly, there are numerous Dead things in the cavern we just left. I don’t think they exist on the other side. Therefore, if Brand appeared to be doing battle as it seems that he was—”

“Then he is behind us. Very good. But as you say, it is not a certainty.”

“Well, there is one other detail I should report.”

“What?”

“Brand has been pursuing me for days. He’s been rather relentless about it.”

“Whatever for?”

“I have not stopped running long enough to find out. He seemed at times to be angry.”

The dragon was finally moving again. Making haste, her body humped slightly as it came up after Trev.

“Careful!” cried the half-elf. “Don’t stray from the path! To do so is certain death.”

“I thank you for the warning, exaggerated or not.”

“Believe me, I’ve caught glimpses of the phantoms that haunt the paths between the world. They are worse than Brand, even when he’s in a state of deepest madness.”

“You’ve seen that as well?”

“Indeed, I have,” said Trev. He thought of Brand, plowing through the Storm of the Dead in Riverton. Although Trev had only been a child then, the memory was still very vivid. “Lord Rabing can wade through flesh,” he told the dragon, “cutting swathes through an army as a lesser man might reap a field of wheat.”

Despite Trev’s earlier warnings, Fafna hurried forward. Trev had to trot lightly to keep up with her.

Chapter Ten

The Servant of the Lost

Brand was in a foul mood. He’d been chasing after Trev for days, and now the boy was in sight—although as a wavering figure on an unreachable path.

The trouble started when they entered the cavern full of slumbering Dead. The Dead that should have been moribund were anything but. They’d obviously been stirred up by the passage of Trev and his pet dragon—Brand no longer believed the boy was a captive in need of rescue. Anyone who could walk with a dragon for so long in the Everdark without losing his life wasn’t a child in need of protection.

In fact, as he reaved through the Dead that dared approach him and his flashing Axe, he had the strength of mind to wonder just what Trev was up to. Whose side was the half-breed was on? Could the boy have turned against the people that raised him? Could he now be an enemy of the Haven?

The thought flared up in his mind and would not die. It turned hotter and more certain by the second as he shattered ancient bones and burned fleshless skulls to ash with beams brighter than the sun.

A deathly grin did grow upon his face as he marched through the hapless Dead. They kept coming at him, heedless of their losses, and he welcomed their sacrifice. His mind, he felt, was growing more clear with every glittering arc of the Axe. Ambros flashed, burned, and bit—and his mind felt relief.

It had been too long. Far too long since he’d swung his doubled-bladed friend in a furious battle. This was not a battle, really, it was an orgy of destruction. But there was nothing quite like fighting waves of mindless Dead. They were the perfect foil for Brand, like a light wine consumed with gusto before supper.

But what was to be the main course? What could fall next to his Axe when the Dead were gone and the mound was reached?

He looked around, seeing nothing but a Blue glimmer a dozen paces away. He almost took a step in that direction, but halted. It was only Tomkin, that Wee hopping weasel. The manling would bound off the second he charged, oh yes, his brain still worked well enough to know that!

No, the manling would not do. Ambros hungered for gouts of blood, for real carnage, for flesh and bone aplenty to hack apart with wild, powerful blows…

Brand set a foot upon the path that led around the mound. This had to be the way. There was nothing else down here. He could possibly go to the Gnome City, but that was no more than a mile distant. The thought of rudely awakening the gnomes from their slow years-long dreaming with a sparking bite of the Axe did make him smile. Ha!

But no. the walk was long, and the fever in his mind would have dimmed by then. Worse still, he knew the Axe could not be sated with the lives of dusty elementals. No, it had to be the nearest source of evil—of flesh-clad bones. Enemies with beating hearts and living blood: the boy and his pet dragon.

And so he marched along the spiraling path. Each step was powerful, forceful. It was as if he heard a pounding drum no other could. He did not stray from the path for a second, nor did his feet miss a beat. He circled the mound steadily, once, twice, thrice…

Behind him, distantly, walked Tomkin. He was dimly aware of the tiny jackal. The manling stayed far back and spoke little. That was good, for Brand had no interest in any words that sought to soften his resolve.

As they rounded the fourth circuit the manling became braver. He approached to a dozen paces and dared to speak to Brand. As was always the case in this strange place, his voice had a somewhat ghostly ring to it.

“Brand? Have you come to your senses yet, you great oaf?”

Brand’s blood-lusting grin faltered. His eyes, which barely blinked now in his wild state of mind, squinched almost shut with rage. But he did not shout back insults. He did not scream threats. He knew that if he did so, he might lose his grip on the anger that burned in his chest. He did not want to be cheated.

Just ahead, some part of him said—he thought perhaps it might have been Ambros itself, even though he hadn’t heard it speak to him in years, it seemed. Just ahead is what we seek. Evil shall be stricken from the page! Blood will fly!

“…from the page,” Brand mumbled, his speech slurred.

“What? Damn you, River-boy. Get a grip on yourself. Put away that shiny weapon and talk to me. We can’t just march into the open flames of a dragon’s yawn.”

Brand tried to speak then. He tried to shout at Tomkin to SHUT UP! But the words came out as an inarticulate howl instead.

“What’s that? You sound like a beast in a trap. One more time around, and I’m going to start bouncing pebbles off your head until you can think again. Bloody Axe, ‘tis the worst of them.”

Somehow, this triggered Brand as nothing else had. The entire trip had been taxing, frustrating and long. He’d been duped and manipulated by elf women, half-elf boys and now a young dragon with unknown but undoubtedly evil intentions.

Tomkin’s bitter complaints didn’t fall on deaf ears. Instead, they awoke a hot flame that was just beginning to cool. They fanned that flame and nursed it until it loomed up, blazing bright all over again.

With an inarticulate howl that was only part human, Brand did what no one ever should: he turned on the path around the mound and charged at his tiny tormentor. He held the Axe blazing and lifted high overhead.

“Brand! No!” shouted Tomkin, but it was too late.

Each step Brand took did not move him toward Tomkin, but rather away from the path. Such pathways around mounds were nothing like normal land, which a man could turn upon and cross with long strides whichever way he willed. The paths were spiraling routes between two points, one point in one world, and the second point in another.

In between, there was nothing good. A chaos of formless matter like a sea of mist bubbled there. A split of space, time and motion. To take a step from the path might remove the man a year from the rest who still followed it—or a mile. And so when Brand reached the point where Tomkins stood, the two were not in the same place—not exactly. They were as ghosts to one another. In different moments, but appearing to be located in the same spot.

Some said that true ghosts were not of the Dead at all, but echoes of the Lost. Souls that had wandered from just such a path at some point and had become trapped, visible to mortals briefly, but never able to return home.

Brand stood over Tomkin, who did dodge, dance and cower—but he did not run from the path or attempt to reverse his course upon it.

To Brand, it seemed as if he was battling a mad spirit of glimmering white. He slashed and hacked, spittle flying. He shouted in rage and glee, as both emotions were entwined with his twisting mind. But he hit nothing, because nothing was there.

After a half-dozen futile blows, he saw the glimmering ghost run past him, forward around the mound. Brand turned, confused, with the Axe upraised. He took several steps after the manling—but faltered.

The path, once as clear as a stream reflecting silvery moonlight, was now dim and wavering. It was almost gone—almost erased.

He frowned, because he was not sure where to march, where to find the little devil in his top hat and coattails. He stumbled forward a half-dozen steps, but his vision only blurred further. The tiny figure now teased him in the distance, standing still and shimmering.

To Brand, it appeared that he walked in a fog. He lowered his Axe and tried to think. It was difficult, painful. But the berserkergang that had once gripped him was fading. Perhaps the Axe itself sensed the danger and no longer goaded him like a frothing mount.

His sides heaved and he lowered the Axe to drag upon the ground. There—he could see more clearly. The tiny figure that had teased him stood still now, and it seemed to be beckoning him onward. He took a lost, drunken step, then another.

That was when a black shape slipped out of the fog that surrounded him and snaked itself around his ankles.

Brand almost fell, but planted his feet and stood fast. He looked down in concern.

He’d never seen a tentacle before, but he’d seen drawings of sea beasts that supposedly had such limbs.

There were suckers on his boots. Pink and gray and mottled brown. They worked at the air and foul liquids oozed from each as if it was a tiny, hungry mouth.

The tentacle pulled. The strength was fantastic! There was nothing he could do to fight that unimaginable power. It was as if a tree trunk had grabbed him around the ankle and sought to pull him—to pull him from the faintly glimmering pathway.

Brand’s reaction was simple and automatic. He slashed down with the Axe, hacking at the tentacle. It was cloven three-quarters of the way through in a single blow.

The strange thing made no sound, but it shivered in agony. Still, it did not let go. Even with only a quarter of its flesh intact, the limb pulled at him. Brand could feel his boot come away from his foot, and the skin beneath being ripped away with it.

He hacked again, and again. The tentacle, now severed and spurting black gore, retreated into the fog. But still, the part that hugged his foot remained. Brand limped forward, feeling the pain dully in his foot, but wanting to get away.

Part of him wanted to charge into the fog after the thing. He knew he could kill it. He knew that the beast, whatever it was, would fall to enough hacking blows of his Axe. There was nothing living that could withstand it. The only hope of any monster was to kill the Axeman, for nothing alive could survive the Axe itself.

But he controlled his urge to rush away from the path and become forever lost. Instead, he plodded forward, placing one foot before the last until Tomkin’s vague shape became more distinct.

The creatures that resided in the shadows between one world and the next were not done with him yet, however. How long had it been since they’d lost a struggle with prey who strayed into their realm? Brand didn’t know. Perhaps they’d never been rebuffed before, and they didn’t appreciate the experience.

Two came this time. They scrambled up from behind him to pull him down. He turned, but could not see them clearly. Both were not even vaguely humanoid, but they weren’t like the first beast, either.

Rather than tentacles of wet flesh, they were clad in smooth carapaces, like shellfish or gigantic insects. Their shells reflected back the light of Ambros as he lifted the Axe on high, and it seemed to him they were greenish in color with an iridescent sheen to their bodies.

The one on the left reared up, extending claws that were cruelly serrated and lined with spines that were as sharp as a hair of steel at the tips. The second scuttled in low, going for his legs. Its curved mandibles, each as long as a dagger, dripped with venom or spit—Brand knew not which it was.

Nor did he care, because the light of battle overtook his mind. He let Ambros make free with him, and it was a good sensation. It had been too long since an enemy had openly stood before the twin blades of his Axe and done battle with him. For years, he’d seen nothing but cowards who dodged, tried to talk sense into him, or who had fled in terror.

Not these two abominations. No, they either had no concept of what they faced, or they did not care. The thought that they might know exactly who he was and what he could do and still felt confident of victory never entered Brand’s mind. For now he was the Axeman, and he was supremely assured of his power.

He broke out into song as they closed with him, singing words he’d never heard before in a tongue long dead. He could not recall these ancient words later, but it didn’t matter. The words brought pride, fury and righteous certainty to his mind. He knew exactly what to do—it was as natural to him now as floating upon the river on a summer’s eve.

First, he swept away the claws that came for his legs. He could not afford to be dragged down. The lower beast was clipped and a fount of gore erupted from its outstretched stumps. Still carried forward by momentum, the monster bore in, crashing into Brand’s shins. The mouthparts worked at his legs, which were fortunately covered in mail and padded underneath. He felt the crushing pressure of its bite, but the mail held. The armor had been forged for him by Kindred smiths, and there wasn’t a single link among the thousands that was not tight with all its brothers.

After swinging low, the Axe arced back up to take the second—but it was too late. The two had come together, and now the second one was atop the first, scrambling over it in its feral haste to get at the prey it could see with black, jewel-like eyes.

Unable to get a stroke in, Brand let himself fall backward. He pulled the Axe in close to his chest, and put it between himself and the monster.

Eagerly, the creature climbed over him, pressing him down with its weight. Brand could feel and smell it now—but still he didn’t fear. The stink of it was overwhelming, like the stink of a slaughtered animal when it is opened and bloody on the butcher’s block.

He sang on, even when the monster loomed over him and sought to sink its fangs into his face and closed its claws around his shoulders with a lover’s embrace—but then, at the last, the beast shivered.

Gore spilled over Brand’s gauntlets in a foul gush. He’d experienced such things before, and always the contents of other beings had been warm. Not this time. The creature was not like anything from Earth or Twilight. Its innards were as cold as a clear-running stream in early winter. Numbingly cold, almost freezing, the ichor ran over Brand’s chest and sopped into the padding beneath his mail.

The feeling was distinctly unpleasant, but Brand did not care, because he knew that his enemy had died.

He stopped singing and instead laughed like a mad-thing. He knew great joy. The monster had run itself over the blade of his Axe, which he’d held above his body. As he’d been unable to swing freely, it had been the only way to kill it.

Now that one was dead, Brand struggled to push its weight away and get to the second, the one with stumps for foreclaws. But he found the weight of the first and its crushing grip was still upon him, dead or not. He could feel the one that worried at his shins was getting through the links, chewing. Soon, it would take his leg or inject him with venom.

Brand roared, and summoned strength from Ambros. Sated with a fresh kill, the Axe gave power willingly. Brand was able to work his right arm free and tilt the head of it in the direction of the thing that chewed upon his leg. He urged it to flash in a narrow, directed beam.

A ray brighter than any the Sun has yet to cast down to Earth shot from the Eye of Ambros and burned away the jewel-like orbs of the monster. It screeched and reared.

Having had enough, it rushed away blindly into the mists. Brand looked after it and chuckled. At the last, as it was about to vanish from sight, he saw something snake out and lift the monster into the air.

Brand nodded, appreciating the joke. His tormentor had been caught and even now was being devoured by the tentacled monster, which had apparently lain in wait nearby.

It all seemed to be a grand jest to Brand. But now, the joke had worn thin. He heaved the dead-thing from his chest, sliding it to one side and slipping out from underneath its weight.

He stood stiffly and looked around for the path—but he did not see it. Not even a glimmer.

For the first time since he’d stepped into the cavern full of mindless Dead he felt a pang of concern. Despite the pleasure of the sated Axe and his own exultation at his victories at arms, he knew disquiet. If there was no path to follow, how was he to find his way home?

Slowly, he turned around, completing a circle. He’d never been off the path for so long in the past. He knew the stories of those lost and doomed to wander for ages upon trackless unknown ground. Was this then to be his fate?

“No!” he boomed. He stayed where he was, and he gazed every which-way for a clue.

It seemed to him that he should walk the way he’d been going before the attack. If he simply used the dead-thing as a guide, he could follow the angle of its body. Since it had fallen upon him from behind and forced him to turn to face it, the direction it had been going should be the direction required to locate the path again.

But he stood still, uncertain. Something slithered and rattled out of sight nearby. He looked that way—then he heard the crunching sounds that were unmistakable. It must have been the huge tentacled beast, devouring the thing he’d blinded. It was still there, waiting. He knew that if it got the chance, if he weakened, it would crunch on his bones next.

Still, he was not certain of his path. He did not wish to walk into the unknown. This world was not like his, nor was it like that of the Fae. It was in-between and alien to both. The rules here ran by their own unknown rhythms. Perhaps distance, direction and time were not linear. Perhaps they twisted and curved. It was possible that what was logical back home would not apply to navigation here.

At last, he’d had enough. The Axe was through with his foolish dithering. He felt it urge him to take a step, then another. Any direction was better than standing here like a befuddled oldster in the village square!

Brand turned and began to take a step along his best guess of direction, but then he got an idea. It was the sort of idea the Axe liked to give him at such moments: an idea that led into harm’s way.

What if he headed in the one direction he could be certain of? Why not walk over to the tentacled beast, the thing that had dared to escape its just ending and now lurked, devouring Brand’s table scraps? It was not fit to live, and it was a danger to all who passed here. It needed to die! It would only be proper and fitting that he remove every one of its foul, writhing limbs and then chop its grotesque central bulb into quivering pulp!

The idea gripped Brand, and it was not without appeal. He turned in the direction of the slapping sounds. He heard an occasional crunch as it finished with the blind thing Brand had crippled for it.

Brand took a fateful step toward the monster, and wrapped the fingers of both hands around the Axe, which he held upraised like a torch.

* * *

When Trev and the dragon reached the Twilight lands, they hastened away from the mound. Circling it in every direction were massive trees.

“A forest?” asked the dragon.

“Not just any forest, if I judge rightly,” Trev said. “This is the greatest forest in the known worlds. It is the Great Erm. You’re sure to find something here you can hunt. Everything here grows to tremendous size.”

The dragon looked from side to side in surprise, then she turned her flaming eyes back to Trev.

“I had not thought this possible,” she said. “All along, I suspected a ruse, a trap, a pathetic attempt on your part to delay the inevitable.”

Trev indicated the forest with a grand sweep of his hand. “As you can see, I’ve delivered on my part of the bargain. Now, let us be off before Brand catches us here.”

At the mention of the Axeman, the dragon turned and gazed back the way they’d come. “He’s taking a long time. Do you think he’s turned back?”

“As far as I know, that’s not possible once a foot has been placed upon the path around a mound. But if he’s been delayed, I’m sure he’ll come out in a worse mood than ever.”

The dragon nodded thoughtfully. “I think I will go off and hunt now,” she said. “What do you plan to do?”

Trev was surprised the dragon cared at all. From his knowledge of such beasts, he’d expected her to try to go back on her word, or to engage him in some other form of dangerous trickery.

“I’m going to run into those trees and find my way to the elves,” he said. “There are two more wise people I would like to speak to about the Dark Jewels, and I believe they’re both here.”

“The elves—you mean Oberon?”

“Yes, and one other, the wizard known as Myrrdin.”

“I’ve heard of him, but I had no idea he was out here in this place.”

Trev eyed the mound behind them worriedly. He squinted at it, trying to get a good view. Was that the shimmer of a man-shape humping around the bend? Maybe.

“I think it’s time to be going.”

The dragon cleared her throat. A puff of smoke escaped her mouth as she did so. “Say,” she said, “I’ve been thinking. Would you like to make better speed?”

“What do you mean?”

“I can fly, and the trip would be much faster for you.”

Trev looked up in shock. “A ride? On your back?”

“I would permit it.”

“What boon must I give?” Trev asked suspiciously.

“Just that of companionship. I have to admit, I’ve spoken to very few creatures of intellect in my lifetime. Almost everything in the Everdark is brutish and ignorant. It’s been stimulating to engage the mind of a thinking being.”

Trev nodded thoughtfully. He hadn’t considered that motivation on the part of the dragon. He could well imagine that slithering about in the Everdark, slumbering away the years and hunting from time to time could get boring. Perhaps this dragon was different since she had been separated from her kind at such an early age. Like a bird that learns to eat from a man’s hand—she was not like the rest of her kind.

Trev smiled. “That would be very kind of you.”

“There’s no need for insults.”

“Oh—sorry. I mean that it would be a reasonable exchange.”

“Just so. Climb upon my back, for I think I see something on the path behind us now.”

Trev turned to look, and was startled to see the dragon was right. There were ghostly shapes circling the mound. Without further hesitation, he clambered up onto the heaving, spiny back. He was forced to cast his pack over the beast and to sit upon it, otherwise the heat and spines would be too uncomfortable. Really, the dragon needed a saddle, but he wasn’t silly enough to suggest such a thing.

“Fafna? Could I trouble you on one more point before we take off?”

“What is it?”

“Can I wrap a rope around your chest? I need something to hold onto.”

“What’s this? I should eat you now for the insult! I’m no riding horse. There will never be a bit in my mouth to champ upon, nor a bridle around my snout!”

“Of course not,” Trev said hurriedly. “I’m not suggesting anything so offensive. Rather, I’m asking you to tie me to your back the way a man might tie on a package or a rucksack.”

The dragon finally assented with ill-grace. As quickly as he could, Trev threw a rope around the sinuous body and tied his pack to it. The spines held it in place nicely, and he nodded to himself as he perched upon it. Really, it would serve well enough as a saddle, no matter what he’d told Fafna.

At last, the dragon was ready. She surged into the air and Trev was nearly tossed off into space.

It took all his strength and balance to stay on when the flight began. He heard a shrieking in his ears and realized it was his own voice that screeched. But then, after a dozen more powerful pumps of the dragon’s wings, his cries turned to laughter.

Trev, for the first time in his life, and for one of the first times in known history, was riding a dragon into the purple skies of the Twilight lands.

* * *

Brand stalked the thing in the fog which had so recently stalked him. But before he’d taken more than a few steps, something unexpected happened. The shape that loomed tall in the mist spoke.

The words were hard to make out, as they were not true words, but rather like the burblings of gas being released from swampy ground—but he could make them out, nonetheless.

“Why, Axeman?” asked the monster.

Brand halted. His jaw sagged open. He’d assumed these strange apparitions were mindless beings. Monsters of cold blood and vicious nature. But he could not discount the words, whether they were heard in his mind or through his ears.

“You speak to me? Who dares challenge the Axeman?”

“We do not challenge—we embrace. We offer only solace to the lost.”

“Solace?” Brand roared in return, producing a gust of laughter. The Axe still inhabited his mind and made him inviolate to natural responses such as fear and disgust. “What kind of solace? The peace of the violently slain? The repose of beings lying in your digestive sacs?”

“Yes,” the thing responded, looming slightly nearer. “Just such relief shall be yours to claim. For without us, there would be nothing here and no one to relieve your suffering. This is eternity, and it is a lonely place.”

Brand nodded, gazing from side to side suspiciously. He wondered if this were some kind of ruse, some kind of effort to distract the victim and approach it from either side. But he saw nothing new sidling nearer his flanks. Only mist, shadows, and curls of twisting vapor met his gaze.

“I’m not lost,” Brand told the being. “I’m seeking my way out, and I’m very close to the path. I can feel it.”

“That which is unattainable ever seems near to the lost, Axeman. Home will forever remain a pace too far.”

“How do you know my title? How do you, a thing of shadow, know who I am?”

“We know you, just as you know us. We are your nightmares, and you are our creator.”

Brand blinked, then frowned. He did not like the implications. His Axe lowered somewhat, but then he regripped the haft and raised it higher again.

“You’re phantoms, then? Things of the mind? Unreal apparitions?”

“We have form and substance in this place. We are your worst thoughts made whole.”

Brand nodded. It did seem to be true. He could recall having seen such monsters in his sleep as a child, long ago. Nights that had been spent awakening with cries of fear and grief. Could it be that these monstrosities were plucked from his own mind? It would seem so.

“What is your purpose then, phantom? Who do you serve?”

“We serve you. Our purpose is to guide you to your destiny—the only one that is possible now. We shall ease your suffering by ending your wanderings. None here can escape, Axeman. None can die naturally—so we do what must be done.”

Brand snorted. “A charming service you provide, I’m sure. But let me assure you of something else: I’m not a child shivering under bed sheets. I’m the slayer of all things that can be slain. I will take you, when you come, and I will guide you to your final resting place. Consider this service one I will grant thee free of charge!”

“You fill me with sadness, Master. For I am only your servant, and I grief for your continued suffering. When you are ready, I will come, and I will make your ending as swift as possible.”

“Servant, eh? Extend a limb then. I wish to have some fun with it!”

The beast writhed, but no limb came snaking forward out of the mists. “I cannot. Now is not the time. Your thoughts are not your own.”

“Ha!” shouted Brand. “It is as I suspected. You speak with guile, and probably your nonsense works on lesser beings. But it will not affect me, creature. Have a care and seek easier game elsewhere.”

The beast in the mist fell quiet then, and Brand returned to scanning his environment carefully for a route to home and hearth. He saw nothing of use. This, over time, made him angry. Where another might quake in fear and despair, the Axeman was driven to a single reaction: rage.

It almost overtook him. The beast lingered nearby, waiting. Perhaps it wanted him to make a false move.

As his mind worried at the problem Brand became increasingly convinced that the beast itself was hiding the path. What if it had squatted upon the route home, using its own vast, dark bulk to hide from him the only way to leave this hellish world? As he considered the idea, it made more and more sense to him, and then the Axe urged him, as always, to take swift and violent action.

He raised the twin blades and caused a ray of bright light to sear into the mist, lancing toward the beast’s shadow. But the mist was not like normal vapor, arisen from clean water. It was thick, and unnatural. It caught his beam, diffused it, and refused to part before its power and allow him to burn his target.

He raged, he howled, he burned holes into the mist until sweat ran from his brow, stinging his eyes—but he could not pierce it.

At last, he lowered the Axe, but he was not calm. If anything, he was filled with a trembling anger. He lifted it again, and he made as if to charge.

He now knew with certainty what he must do. He would meet the beast in battle and chop away its countless slithering limbs until it was naught but a lump of shaven flesh. Then he would burn and slash further until even that mound of meat could not function. He took a step in that direction, then another.

In response, he could sense the beast’s excitement. Did it thrill to meet him in battle? Good! For it would get its fondest wish, and it would rue the day it had met the Axeman…

Something flickered to his left.

Brand did not want to look. He did not want to be distracted, but his focused mind was not so lost to battle as not to warn him. What if this was some new threat? What if he was being lured into a charge, and had been encircled by more monsters?

He turned to look at the flickering light to his left. A bluish, flashing radiance… What was that? It was odd to see such a thing here, a pure color that was not gray, white or black. Something that did not slither and stink like the mud of a bog.

Captivated, Brand turned toward it and began to walk. The beast became agitated, and sent out tendrils of flesh in pursuit. Perhaps it sensed its prey was escaping.

Off-handedly, Brand slashed away the snake-like limbs until they retreated rapidly away from him. After a dozen more steps, they no longer troubled him.

But the beast spoke to him one time more: “Master, do not leave us! It will be so long before we meet again. It will be unbearable here alone without you!”

Strangely, despite the Axe and the pleading of his enemy, which should have brought glee to his heart, Brand felt a chill. He shivered once, pausing in his steps. Could it be true? Would this beast await him here, slipping around in nothingness until he joined it at the end of his days?

He drove such thoughts from his mind with an effort. He did not know if the beast spoke truthfully, or with false guile, but he told himself sternly that it didn’t matter which it was. For the beast had confirmed to him with its plea that he was on the right path.

Brand took six steps more before he could see the path again, and he could now see Tomkin too, becoming more clear with every step. There was the little blighter, and the Wee One was clearly pleased with himself.

In Tomkin’s two tiny hands he held aloft the Blue Jewel, Lavatis. Its sapphire light had been great enough to provide a beacon for Brand, and to guide him out of the ether between worlds.

“You live, Axeman!” Tomkin cried. “All hail Lord Rabing, the one being in known history who managed to leave the path fully and yet return from the void. Not even Oberon of the Elves could boast of such a feat!”

Brand smiled with half his face. He heaved a great breath and then, almost absently, he put the Axe back into the pack upon his back. The moment its Eye dimmed and his hand left the grip he felt a great weight of weariness sweep over him.

He staggered a step, then caught himself. He put a hand to his face, but pulled it away in disgust. It was covered with a sticky black liquid which reminded him of cooling tar.

“I’m tired,” he said.

“None of that, now,” Tomkin said gently. “We can’t stop here. We must keep walking the path. Stopping is not so dangerous as walking off into the mists, but nor is it by any means safe. Come now, put one foot before the other. I’m too small to hold up an oaf such as yourself.”

Brand nodded, took another deep breath and followed Tomkin. The manling hopped backward along the path, guiding and calling to him, directing him around the mound.

Soon, the world brightened again into a soft, purple twilight. Brand knew he’d made it into the world of the Fae, a place that was never brightly lit or completely dark. A place where it was never cold, nor hot, but always as cool as a spring morning.

When at last he stood on solid ground, he looked around for the dragon and the boy Trev, who he’d followed for a week now. Neither was in sight. What he did see was incredibly tall trees. The trees were without number, and they blotted out the horizon in every direction.

Trev had escaped him again. Brand was too tired to care. Grateful for a respite, he walked to the crown of the hillock and lay down upon it. He did not care if the Fae came to dance around him like a thousand eldritch lights.

He had to sleep.

Chapter Eleven

Void Magic

Slet made his way across the river and into the Deepwood with the aid of his Dead companion Puck. It was strange, feeling the cold bony fingers of an elf wrapped around one’s wrist, while being dragged relentlessly across the turbulent bottom of the Berrywine.

That, however, was not the truly strange experience. What happened next occurred without his conceiving of it. As he was dragged to the bottom of the river, he simply stopped breathing. The sensation was not as unpleasant as one might imagine. He did not feel panic, there was no burning in his chest, and he didn’t even feel the urge to draw breath.

In his hand he held the Scepter, and at its tip the Black Eye of Necron flared—but not with brightness. Instead, it absorbed light. It did not glow, but somehow emanated a deeper darkness.

Slet tried to draw upon the Black for strength as he’d seen Brand do, but he found none there. Necron was not like the Amber Jewel. It swallowed life and strength rather than providing it. The Black was a master of coldness, shunning warmth. There was no comfort there.

Void magic, he thought to himself. He’d learned of the concept as a child in school. He did not need to breathe because he held the Black in his hand. While doing so, he took on certain aspects of the Dead.

But his unnatural calmness toward the prospect of drowning in rushing water didn’t last long. The tiny troll child that clung to his side began to panic. Unlike him, it required breath.

He knew instant heartache. He was not a great swimmer, and what’s more Puck was relentlessly dragging him along the bottom. He didn’t think he could save the child by lifting it up to get a breath—the surface must be ten feet or more overhead.

Getting an idea as the tiny curved talons sunk painfully into his flesh, he reached into his tunic and touched the Scepter to his child. Perhaps Necron could still both their lungs.

And it was done in an instant. The troll relaxed, as did he. The pain had stopped for them both. But although the troll’s claws had stopped their digging and clawing, Slet felt uncertain. He felt both relief and a fresh agony. Had the infant faded away again? Or had its urge to breathe been relieved? He could not know the truth in the cold darkness of the river bottom.

When at long last he staggered out of the water on the far side, still being dragged by the dripping form of Puck, his first thought was of the child in his shirt. He dug the furry infant out and shook it until water dribbled from its mouth. Puck stood by, his glimmering blade in his hand, watching for pursuit.

After a minute or so of pressing on the troll’s sides, the child coughed at last. Slet laughed and hugged it. The little thing squirmed and cut at him with its talons, but he barely cared. He took a deep breath and sat back, letting the troll sit by itself for a moment on the shore.

For a few seconds, the fur-ball looked as if it might bolt. Slet watched tensely, not sure what he should do. Did his child no longer trust him? It would be a sad thing to lose him in the Deepwood now, after having brought him so far.

“I’m sorry, little one,” Slet said. “I did what I had to. See there, on the far bank behind us? See the men with horses and torches? They would have slain us all if we’d lingered. Now, we’re alive and out of their reach.”

The troll seemed to comprehend some of what was being said. It gazed in the direction Slet indicated. After several long moments, it came to him again and hugged his knee.

“Can you walk?” Slet asked gently. “Or do you want to ride?”

To Slet’s surprise, the troll didn’t walk, nor did it come to him for a ride. Instead, it clambered up onto Puck’s back and rode with its claws around the Dead elf’s neck.

“Humph,” Slet said. “Is that the thanks I get? Not trusting your old Dad any longer, is that it?”

Chuckling, Slet walked wearily into the Deepwood. Puck, bearing the troll, followed him without a word.

* * *

Myrrdin had labored hard for days—perhaps weeks. Time in Twilight was difficult to measure and in the Great Erm it was even more nebulous. What did an hour mean in a place with no sunrise nor dusk? Like all creatures in this world, he slept when he was tired and worked when he felt good again.

A dozen such cycles had passed since he’d found the great stump in the center of the Erm. His plans had not progressed as quickly as he’d hoped they would, but they were beginning to bear fruit at last—literally.

The great stump had green sprigs all around its crown now, up where the broken bark shot up jagged spikes of deadwood. These leafy spots were green and vibrant. In the last few days they had begun to bear vermillion fruits that tasted of sap and sweetness. Already, Myrrdin had changed his diet from crawling insects and edible leaves to these large, soft fruits. They were tangy in flavor, reminding him of a peach crossed with a lemon.

His ogre companion, however, was not pleased with the fare. His gut required meat to operate properly. He churned and groaned when he ate the fruits and begged to be allowed to hunt for real food. At last, Myrrdin gave him his leave to do so.

“Go out into the forest proper and slay something that eats my beloved leaves and bark. Perhaps you’ll be of use at last.”

Ivor rushed to do his bidding with Myrrdin looking after him in disgust. He’d begun to regret his decision to bring the ogre along. When he’d done so initially, he’d envisioned an army of similar simple beings: idiots with armor and sword beguiled into doing his bidding. But now he envisioned an army of a much different nature: an army of one.

It was less than a day later when Ivor brought home to their camp what he’d been seeking. Dragging a massive mammal by the hind leg, the ogre presented the beast to his master as if he were a cat that had finally caught a sparrow.

“Uncle!” he cried excitedly. “Looky what I have.”

“What is it?” asked Myrrdin turning his tree body slowly and peering at the ghastly thing. “It smells.”

Ivor sniffed the fur of the dead beast until it fanned with his snuffling.

“Yes,” said the ogre, strings of saliva running from the corners of his overly-wide jaws. “It will be delicious. I’m starting a fire. You may have as much as you like, of course.”

Myrrdin made a choking sound. “A fire? Use nothing but the deadest wood, and keep the breeze at your back. I don’t want a single tendril of smoke around me or my work.”

Ivor looked around doubtfully. “But…uncle, I can’t control the breezes. Can you?”

“No,” said Myrrdin disgustedly. “Not until I relieve a certain member of the Wee Folk of his Jewel.”

He made shooing motions with his branches, and Ivor shuffled away, dragging his prize. That was when Myrrdin realized what the huge beast was. It had a long, hairless pinkish-gray tail. It had to be a rat—no, maybe only a mouse. He shuddered slightly at the thought of eating rodent meat. It was impure to his mind now. He lived on a diet of vegetation, and he avoided food that might kill the plant that bore it. Fruit, plucked leaves, even twigs that were fresh and crisp would serve. Sometimes he used his claw-like branches to dig tubers from the ground, but he didn’t like to do that, because it was often fatal to the plant involved. When he needed more solid fare, he caught and crushed insects which feasted on the helpless plants in the region.

But never a mammal. Never a true abomination, a blight upon the world. He wished they’d never been spawned. One mammal could eat a thousand plants and in turn be eaten by higher mammals. It was such a horrific waste.

Once Ivor had reached a distance of several hundred yards, Myrrdin saw him light a fire and begin to roast his meat. Just as he suspected, the stink went everywhere. He cursed the day his sister had whelped this idiotic monster.

Turning his back on the gleaming fire which was visible from afar in the endless forest and endless twilight, he went back to servicing his massive tree.

On the farthest side he found a new growth, one that encouraged him greatly. It wasn’t just a green shoot, and it was better than a branch full of fruit.

He’d found a tuberous root growing from the gnarled deadwood. A single root that sprouted from the great stump and had burrowed its way into the soil.

“Ah!” he said, crouching carefully near it, “that’s it! This is what I’ve been looking for. Fresh life that seeks nourishment on its own. Drink, my lovely. Drink deep!”

He spent the rest of his hours wetting the ground carefully where the root had taken hold, and in due course, he found three more similar roots. To each one he applied the power of Vaul, causing them to thicken, to swell with sap and growing life.

In his excitement, he forgot about Ivor, his stinking rat carcass and the twinkling fire in the forest.

* * *

“There!” shouted Trev against the cold winds. “There, down below, do you see it?”

“Of course. Calm yourself.”

The dragon banked and came around slowly. They both examined the light flickering below the trees. They’d seen nothing that looked so inviting for many leagues.

Still, Fafna did not charge down out of the skies to greet whatever creature squatted there on the forest floor, warming itself around its tiny fire. Instead she circled warily, once, twice, thrice.

“Let’s land,” Trev said impatiently.

“Do you know who sits at that fire?”

“No,” Trev said. “But it’s the first sign of civilization we’ve seen.”

The dragon snorted. “You hold a low bar for civilization. What I see is a hunter’s camp, nothing more.”

“I’m not looking for a city,” Trev argued. “And you shouldn’t be either. I doubt there is a single true city on this world! Take me down to talk to them.”

Grumbling, the dragon banked hard on its next circling pass. Suddenly, she dropped out of the sky like a stone, folding her wings close to her body. Trev yelped in surprise and panic, but after a moment managed to regain his composure.

The wind whistled by with the force of a winter gale. It was all Trev could do to hang on, tucking his boots under the pack he’d strapped onto the dragon’s back and winding his hands with the rope. The makeshift saddle was taut upon the ridged spines and scaly flanks.

They plunged downward and exploded through a canopy of leaves each of which was as big as a rowboat. Trev rode the dragon to the ground, where it landed with a thunderous crash. A shower of broken twigs the size of a man’s arm fluttered down around them like banners dropped by knights.

Trev could see the campfire when he lifted his head from the dragon’s back. He saw instantly it was not a campfire but rather a cooking fire. The smell of burnt hair and greasy meat tickled his nostrils. There was no sign of the chef, but there was a monstrous animal on a spit to tease the eye.

“What’s that thing on the spit?” Trev demanded. “Is it…? Oh my, that is disgusting.”

“Meat is meat,” said the dragon, stalking forward.

The long, sinuous neck dipped forward and a haunch of the animal was ripped from the hindquarters by powerful jaws. As burnt as the rat was, it sizzled even more hotly in the dragon’s mouth.

“That’s why you wanted to come down here, isn’t it?” Trev demanded. “You smelled the cooking meat.”

The dragon made no response because her mouth was too full. The head darted forward again, and juices splattered. A section of the ribcage was swiftly chewed away.

At last, the rightful owner of the feast could stand no more. From behind a treetrunk as thick as a house, an ogre charged them. It held a hammer and a shield, and the light in its eyes was fuelled by yellow murder.

Before Trev could say anything, the dragon backed up and reared. It was all the young half-elf could do to hang on as the great neck bucked beneath him. He considered vaulting off the dragon’s back and running off into the trees, but hung on instead. He didn’t know where he was, and the dragon could travel a day’s walk in three minutes. He didn’t want to be stranded here.

Roaring, the ogre was cunning for one of its kind. He saw the danger immediately. The dragon had only to strike with her head as might a serpent, or to breathe flame into his face. Either approach was likely to be fatal, and an upraised wooden shield would do little to deter it.

Instead of closing and striking with his hammer or hiding behind his shield, the ogre dropped both and charged in closer. He lunged at the last second, jumping from the ground onto the dragon’s back where Trev rode.

This alarmed Trev more than any other possible development might have—until he recognized the ogre.

“Ivor?” he asked.

Ivor blinked in surprise. “Cousin?”

At that moment, the dragon had managed to twist her neck around to direct her head down toward her back, where Trev and Ivor faced one another.

“A family reunion, is that it? A charming moment, I’m sure. But I’m going to have to burn you both off my back if you don’t get down now.”

“You friends with a dragon?” Ivor asked in astonishment.

“I’m equally amazed that you’re related to an ogre,” the dragon said peevishly.

She gave her back and wings a shake, causing Trev and Ivor to tumble off onto the ground. The dragon loomed close, eyeing them both malevolently.

“I didn’t know this was your pet, Trev,” said Ivor. “Sorry.”

“Not a problem, cousin.”

“And not a pet, either,” said the dragon. “We’re temporary accomplices.”

The ogre blinked at the big words in confusion.

“Sorry,” he said at last, bewildered. He walked over to his shield and maul, picking them up and stowing them. “Mama always says to never leave these lying about.”

“Right, good thinking,” said Trev. “What are you doing out here, Ivor? I thought you lived in an elf village.”

“I’m eating this rat, see? Plenty for you. I’ll cut some more.”

“Thanks—but what about the elves?”

Ivor gestured vaguely into the trees. “They back there somewhere. The village fell down. We had to go.”

“We? Who’s with you?”

“My uncle.”

“Which Uncle?” asked Trev, thinking of his own elfish uncles. He shared the set with Ivor, as strange as that was to contemplate. None of them were overly pleasant to be around. They were stern and odd. They might play pipes or dance with you—but you’d best keep your wits and your purse strings tight.

“New Uncle,” said Ivor speaking around a mouthful of hot rat-meat. “He’s a tree.”

At that the dragon gave a sigh of disgust. She blew a jet of flame as she did so, nearly searing Ivor in the process.

“Watch that, dragon-friend!” complained the ogre.

“Where is this, ah, tree-uncle?” Trev asked, examining the forest around them. If one of these were able to walk, they could all be in danger. He knew from long association that the Fae were capable of almost anything.

“Not so big as these,” Ivor said, honking with laughter. He chomped on a rat haunch the size of an ox leg and offered another to Trev.

Trev politely refused, saying he wasn’t hungry. The dragon wasn’t so delicate about it and took the offered meat. She chewed it and burned it until it was charcoal-black in her mouth.

“Interesting flavor,” she said. “Gamey, but at the same time smooth upon the palate. Far better than Kindred meat or kobold.”

“Kindred meat?” asked Ivor in alarm.

“Ivor, just where did your uncle go?” Trev asked.

“He over there. At the big dead tree. He’s always at the big dead tree. He’s trying to make it grow again.”

Trev’s mouth opened slowly and hung there. Who was trying to make a big dead tree grow again? An uncle who was a tree? He could only think of one individual who might fit that bizarre description.

“Myrrdin,” he said aloud.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s it. That’s what they call him. He’s kind of mean, but he’s family. We have to get along—that’s what mama always says.”

“Right,” Trev said.

The dragon was looking at them. “Do you really think he’s talking about Myrrdin? An elf with a Jewel of Power nearby? What are the odds?”

“Quite good, if it’s true.”

“Myrrdin, yeah,” muttered Ivor to himself. “That’s right name.”

The ogre began working on a slab of ribs. The growing smell of the burning rat made Trev wrinkle his nose.

“Should we talk to this uncle of yours?” Fafna asked him.

Trev considered. He’d come to the Great Erm to talk to Myrrdin and Oberon. Of the two, he was more frightened of Oberon. It was true that no one had heard from Myrrdin in a decade, but before that he’d had a good reputation.

He nodded his head at last. “Yes. Let’s go talk to him.”

* * *

Myrrdin was not pleased to see the ogre returning through the forests. He smelled of burnt things—of seared flesh, woodsmoke and…and…

Myrrdin spun around as fast as his massive body of living wood would allow. The others approaching him stepped back hurriedly as he spun to face them.

Peering out of holes in the trunk left there for this very purpose, the fleshy being within the great tree that was still Myrrdin gazed at the approaching trio in surprise. A young elf—or was it a man? And a dragon? It could be nothing else! This then was what had alerted him, the unmistakable odor of brimstone and ash in a forest full of living green things.

Last trailed Ivor, that idiot of a nephew. He looked like a beaten cur. Perhaps he knew, or at least suspected, that his uncle would not be pleased to meet these strangers here.

Myrrdin’s first instinct was to stride forward and slay them all. A blow from a foot as heavy as a falling log would crush down the elf-thing. The dragon might take flight, and he might attempt to burn the tree, but with a flurry of swatting branches Myrrdin felt sure he could bat him down as a man might a fowl that seeks to take flight to evade a farmer’s boots. Once stricken and dashed to the ground, the first necessity would be the plucking of the leathery wings. Fortunately, the dragon was quite young. The battle would be one-sided.

But even as these thoughts came to him, others did as well and they warred together in his heart. Had he been discovered? Were these only the advanced scouts of an elven army, coming here even now to bring him down? He had to know the truth, and so it was best to entreat with these tiny beings before he let his true intentions be known.

Counter to this thought was the first impulse, which urged him to strike now with urgency. If the dragon or the elf somehow escaped his wrath, they would surely report his position and all would be lost.

He simply wasn’t ready to do battle with all of Oberon’s elves. He would be ready soon—but not yet. His newfound treasure had yet to be exploited. The great tree wasn’t even fully alive again yet, despite the face he’d made terrific progress toward awakening it.

And so at last, within several tense seconds, Myrrdin relented. He realized they were talking to him. These puny beings of mere flesh dared to make their piping noises at his feet. Really, it was disgusting.

“Hmm? What, what?” he said at last. “Please excuse me, I wasn’t expecting visitors. Could you repeat that please? I was listening to thoughts of my own, within my own head.”

“I see,” said the dragon coldly. “I was saying we were pleased to meet you, Myrrdin of the Green.”

Myrrdin paused, his eyes rolling wildly from one of them to the next. He was filled with angst and rage. Already, he’d been identified and singled out. How had a dragon known about his retrieval of the Green Jewel, Vaul? If his solitary kind knew of his status and of his return to the world of powerful people, everyone must know.

“Ah,” the wizard managed, making the single utterance sound strangled. “Uh, to whom am I speaking?”

The dragon heaved an irritated sigh. The other two, seemingly with the wisdom of experience, ducked away as he did so. A shot of red flame escaped his mouth.

“I’m Fafna,” she said as one might repeat oneself to a slow child. “This is Trev, and Ivor. Both profess to being your nephews—although how the three of you oddlings are related I’m sure I don’t fathom.”

Myrrdin paused again, but it was a short pause this time. Then he released a nearly hysterical bray of laughter.

“Trev!” he shouted at last. “Of course, how did I not recognize you?”

“Because it’s been a dozen years and I’ve grown a lot, Uncle.”

“Exactly so. Still, one should recognize one’s own kin, should one not? I’m pleased to see you and embarrassed I failed to know you as my own.”

“Not a problem, sir,” Trev said. “But could you explain to us—how you came to be in your present state?”

“Eh? Oh—oh, of course. Naturally. You must be full of curiosity. Full of questions.” Myrrdin tried not say these last words with intensity of feeling, but he failed. These people might be kin, but they could very well be spies all the same. And once they reported back to Oberon what he was doing here, all might be lost. The great tree was still a stump, after all. It would not be ready to do battle for long months.

The others were looking at him expectantly, and after a few seconds, he came to realize why.

“Oh yes, about my appearance…”

He plucked at himself as if embarrassed. Bark curled under his scratching branches and his leaves rustled.

“It’s an accident, you see. I have a Jewel—Vaul, have you heard of it?”

“Why yes, naturally,” Trev answered. “And everyone in the Haven knows you’re its master.”

“Really? Well, that’s very gratifying. For you see, I lost it for a time. And when I retrieved it, I was taken by surprise to feel its power again. It consumed me, to some extent.”

“Ah,” said Trev, “I’ve heard about that effect of the Green . Isn’t that what happened to the giant in the forest? The one you found with Brand? It was consumed, becoming a tree with Vaul at its heart.”

“Just so. But in my case, I’ve managed to control the situation and turn it into a benefit. I’ve got a new body that serves my purposes very well.”

Trev nodded. Myrrdin thought it was clear the boy doubted him. That was just fine, as long as the little tramp kept his opinions to himself.

“Back to the topic of the Dark Jewels, Uncle,” Trev said. “Can you possibly help me there? I’ve come to you for advice on how to find the last two.”

Myrrdin’s bark folded into a frown over his eyeholes. “The last two? Are you saying you’ve located one of the three?”

“Have you not heard? More than a decade ago, a Storm of the Dead arose. King Arawn led the storm personally, and he held the Black while he did so.”

“A decade ago,” Myrrdin echoed thoughtfully. He’d known it had been a long while since he’d been aware of current events in the Haven, but this news brought it home. “How did this calamity end?”

“Brand bested the Arawn with my father’s help. Unfortunately, Puck did not survive the conflict.”

“I see…sad events, to be sure,” Myrrdin said without a hint of grief in his voice. He’d never loved Puck—he’d respected his half-brother, but not so much that he would miss him. “What of the Black now? What was its fate?”

“Necron lies in the Drake crypt in Riverton. At least, that’s where it was the last time I saw it. The Jewel has been sealed inside the crypt and none are allowed to enter.”

Myrrdin’s trunk creaked as he tilted his leafy crown to one side. “Interesting. A daring thing, leaving such a powerful artifact unowned. Anyone could break in…but I digress from answering your questions. So far, you’ve imparted more worthwhile information to me than I have to you on this topic! Hmm, the Dark Jewels, what can I tell you of them?”

Myrrdin paced then, causing the ground to darken as he smashed it with his heavy, treading roots.

“Firstly,” he said, “I would talk of the White Jewel. None have seen it for a very long time. It only appears once every cycle, or so goes the legend.”

“What cycle?”

“Have you not heard? No? Then we must discuss the basics first. The Jewels are at least partly sentient, you know that, right?”

“Yes, of course. Brand says Ambros talks to him with words in his mind at times.”

“Humph…and the call me mad,” Myrrdin muttered. “But it’s quite possible. They do communicate and interact with their masters in a variety of ways. They also behave differently during certain times—times understood only by the Jewels themselves.”

Trev frowned. “You mean they have seasons?”

“Yes! That’s a good way to think of it. But these seasons aren’t like winter, or summer. They’re more like a rutting time, a time of madness, jealousy and rivalry. They seek one another during these moments, becoming more active and energetic.”

“Like the battles we’ve been having lately—by lately I mean over the last twenty years or so.”

“Exactly, this is clearly a time of increased activity for the Jewels. In any case, it’s only at a peak of such a season when the White Jewel will reveal itself to someone. Then that being will play a fateful part in the next conflict.”

“That doesn’t sound positive.”

“It rarely is with the Jewels. Such gifts they are, but like any sword, they can cut with either side of the blade.”

“So, if I can’t find the White by searching, I have to wait for it to appear?”

“Yes, but fortunately, you don’t have to worry about that one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Isn’t it obvious? This witch you met, Morgana. She wields the White. I would bet my last acorn upon it.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She fits the profile closely. Mysterious, unknown, with power over the minds of others. The White gives one the power of the sorcerer. What I don’t understand is why she’s seeking the location of all the other Jewels. That sort of thing is dangerous.”

“How so?”

“No one knows exactly what happens if all the Nine meet, but the legends hint at an unimaginable cataclysm.”

“Oh. Well, could you tell me of the Quicksilver then?”

Myrrdin stopped pacing and stood, looming over Trev. “The Quicksilver is unlike all the rest. It avoids them. It repels them. It is immune to the others. Its power is to restrict the power of its brothers.”

“Ah, and what does it look like?”

“That’s not clear. I do believe it is similar in nature to the Bloodhound, however.”

“How do you mean?”

“It can take the shape of a living being.”

Trev’s mouth opened, then shut again. He lifted a finger high, as if getting a sudden idea.

“Could it be that—that Morgana is the Quicksilver?” he asked.

“Hmm,” said Myrrdin. “I suppose, but if she was, why would she be seeking all the rest? And besides, I’ve always been of the opinion that the Quicksilver is somewhat more like the hound. It should be small and easily carried.”

Trev nodded. “You’ve been most helpful, Uncle.”

Trev walked past Myrrdin a dozen paces. Myrrdin’s gaze followed him closely. The boy put his hands on his hips, examining the huge stump which was now covered in leafy growths.

“Just what is this thing you’re so focused on? Some kind of cliff of dirt or…I believe this is wood, isn’t it?”

“That’s an experiment of mine, Trev,” Myrrdin said. “Don’t touch it—those shoots are poisonous.”

Trev backed away obediently, but Myrrdin wasn’t satisfied. Out of the sight of the others, within the bowels of his tree-body, the ancient wizard’s staring eyes narrowed. He didn’t like the dangers these three seeming fools represented. Certainly, the dragon wasn’t a mooncalf. The creature sat quietly, listening to all that transpired. She probably knew more than she was admitting to. Likewise, Myrrdin doubted Trev was as foolhardy as he seemed, either. The boy had to have some of Puck’s wily blood in his veins.

Myrrdin lifted a wooden finger to his trunk and tapped it there. The sound was like that of a woodpecker hammering for its dinner. The others looked at him warily.

“What are you thinking about, Wizard?” asked Fafna.

“Ah—just how to care for my guests. I’m not accustomed to visitors, you see. And now you’ve provided me with a particular problem, dragon.”

“How so?”

“You’re a carnivore in search of special fare. Like Ivor, who seeks meat like a carrion bird. You two aren’t easy for me to provide for. All that I have grows from the ground, you see.”

“Oh, is that all? Have no fear on such an account. You don’t need to feed us. Already, I’ve enjoyed some of Ivor’s rodent.”

“Are you sated then?”

“Well…no,” admitted the young dragon.

The leaves of Myrrdin’s crown rustled and he nodded his head as if in confirmation of his suspicions. In truth, he could not care less if the dragon starved at his feet. His worries had to do with what these three had witnessed—and to whom they might tell their tale if they were allowed to leave.

Nonchalantly, Myrrdin turned and strode to the nearest living tree and touched its bark. It was a fine pine, a monster of its kind, soaring nearly a thousand feet tall. He touched it, and felt it shiver in response. Then he went to another tree, an oak this time, and rubbed its rough skin as if soothing a pet.

“What are you doing, Uncle?” asked Ivor.

Myrrdin turned back to the trio and tried to fashion a smile on the bark that encrusted his eye holes. He wasn’t entirely successful, and the hideous grin of rippled wooden skin caused the others to blanch noticeably.

“I’m seeking fresh game for you!” Myrrdin lied smoothly. “I’m asking the trees what they have seen nearby—or what they may have hiding high in their branches. This one, the oak, tells me a family of squirrels that gnaws at his young on a daily basis, and would rather have them removed from his person.”

The others blinked at him.

“The tree’s young?” asked Trev, baffled.

“Yes, acorns, we call them.”

“Oh, of course.”

There was an awkward pause.

Finally, Ivor spoke to Trev: “Uncle is being nice. I’m glad you’re here now. He must like you more than he does me.”

Trev chuckled with embarrassment. “That’s a very kind offer, Uncle,” he said. “Are you interested in going on a squirrel hunt, Fafna?”

“That depends. What’s a squirrel, anyway?”

Trev described a rodent like the rat they’d roasted, a cleaner beast of similar size.

“Clean meat?” asked the dragon curiously. “What do you mean by ‘clean’?”

“Well, squirrels raised on nuts from the tree must have a much better flavor than a rat, which subsists on muck found at ground level.”

The dragon began to understand the possibilities. Her mouth slavered with glowing red embers.

“Have a care, this is a forest, you know.”

“I’ll do it,” said the dragon. “Let’s go hunt this pack of tree-rats.”

“Can I come?” asked Ivor.

“No, you’ll weigh down my wings like a stone.”

Ivor looked crestfallen.

Myrrdin, who’d been watching the exchange carefully, now raised a wooden finger the size of a walking stick. “Could I trouble you to stay here a moment, Trev?” he asked. “I have family matters to discuss.”

“Certainly, Uncle,” Trev said, but it was clear he’d rather ride the dragon into the trees to seek squirrels.

Without further discussion, the dragon launched herself into the air and flapped hard. Going straight up was difficult for her kind, so she spiraled around the tree as she rose. Once, twice, thrice around she went.

Then Myrrdin reached out his wooden hands and applied them to the trunk of the tree the dragon circled. He loosed a cackle of delight as the tree shook and rustled in response to his touch.

Green light shown where his body made contact with the great tree.

“Uncle…? What are you…?” began Trev.

But Myrrdin ignored the boy. His staring eyes were upon the scene above. The dragon had managed to reach the level of the main branches, and they quickly wove themselves into a fine network of leaves and twigs. The latter were as thick as saplings and made of living hardwood. They caught the little firefly just as Myrrdin had urged them to do.

To Myrrdin’s surprise, Trev no longer was content to stand at his root, shouting admonishments up at his uncle. Instead, the cheeky youth had climbed the trunk with startling rapidity. He now stood on Myrrdin’s shoulder and was attempting to peer inside.

Myrrdin knew in an instant what the boy was up to. The half-elf devil knew there was a gaunt sliver of flesh inside the bowels of the living tree. If Trev could manage to climb inside the bole, perhaps he could stop his uncle with the blade he now held gleaming in his hand.

“Stop, child,” Myrrdin said. “Look, I’ve got your scaly friend. He’s not harmed, but he’s in my power. Don’t make me rip his wings off and discard them.”

Trev, panting, rested on a thick, jutting branch. “Why are you doing this, Uncle? It’s very poor manners.”

The two were able to see one another now—at least their real eyes of flesh could meet. Myrrdin stared with shining eyes out of the bole of the tree and Trev met his gaze with an angry look of his own.

“Poor manners—yes, admittedly,” Myrrdin said, “but my victim is a dragon, not one of our kind. She’s not worthy of your respect and friendship. In fact, she’s dangerous. There’s never been a dragon that I’ve known in my long life that was worth calling a friend to anyone—not even to another dragon.”

“You might be right about that. But I brought her here under my protection. She’s my guest, and you’ve violated that trust. You’ve shamed me, and you are my own family.”

Myrrdin might well be mad, but he still felt a pang to hear his nephew’s words. Even the maddest of men sometimes had shreds of pride left in them. The habits of hospitality, honor and respect for social rules ran deep among his kind.

“I’m sorry for that,” Myrrdin said truthfully. “But I can’t have a dragon flying about, telling all and sundry what I’m doing out here. I don’t even want them to know where I am. How you found me at all is a mystery.”

Trev quickly told his uncle about the mound and the connection to the Everdark it represented. The tale was soon interrupted, however, as showers of sparks were falling from above them.

“Tell your idiot dragon to stop trying to burn away the cage I’ve built for her, or I’ll crush her like a buzzing wasp!”

“She doesn’t respond well to threats.”

“Humph, I suppose not,” Myrrdin said, craning back his trunk to stare above. The leaves in the trap were all cinders now, and the sticks were no longer green shoots. They’d been transformed into a spray of woven bars as black as cooked iron.

“Say there!” he called. “I’m going to bring you down. Let us talk for a moment. Perhaps we can come to an understanding.”

Myrrdin had the tree lower the struggling dragon toward them. The branch was licked by flame and scorched in a dozen places before the cage was placed upon the ground. Once there, Myrrdin strode over to it.

He’d never been so reminded of a feral housecat in his life! The dragon raged in the enclosure, scrabbling with claws, firing jets of red at the bars. She seemed beyond speech or reason. Myrrdin had no doubt that she’d free herself given another few minutes time.

“She’s a mad-thing,” Myrrdin said, stepping up to the cage and lifting a massive foot over it. He prepared himself to stomp it flat.

“No!” Trev shouted, climbing as fast as a spider.

Myrrdin pulled his foot back onto the ground in surprise. How had the boy…? He was very close, too close.

Myrrdin reached up with a branch, but the youth was quick. He felt a sting as the point of that tiny dagger bit into the flesh of his real shoulder.

Myrrdin howled and clawed with wooden fingers, seeking to pluck the boy away. Finally, he managed to get him into the air.

At the foot of the whipping tree, Ivor sadly walked around in circles, uncertain about what should be done. Anyone seeing him would know he was torn by his loyalties. He kept saying things like: “Don’t hurt ‘em! Stop it, you two, or there will be no supper!”

No one paid him any heed. Instead, they struggled until at last Myrrdin won out. He had Trev hanging by his tunic thirty feet in the air, suspended in the pinching grip of clacking wooden fingers.

Myrrdin raised his gnarled roots over the dragon’s blackened cage, ready to crush it down. Earth dribbled from his twisted, ugly feet, showering the dragon, who still raged at the bars that enclosed her.

“Shall I?” the wizard asked Trev.

“No, it would be bad form.”

“Is that all you care about? You risked your life and that of your own flesh and blood to save a dragon. What kind of sense—or lack of it—have those Haven people taught you?”

“I don’t know you,” Trev said. “I don’t trust you. But I know that dragon. She and I have fought together and won through more than once. Friendship and trust must be earned, not given.”

“Wise words,” Myrrdin murmured. “I’ll tell you what, I’ve got an idea.”

And he truthfully had gotten an idea. If this boy wanted the dragon spared so badly—why not use that misguided loyalty?

“I’ll tell you what, nephew, I will spare the dragon.”

Myrrdin lowered his foot, and the blue-scaled creature in the cage snarled up at them again, shaking falling clods of earth from her back.

“You propose a wager?” Trev asked.

“No, not a wager—a bargain. She will stay here until you return.”

“And what shall I do in the meantime?”

“You’ll go to Oberon, and ask your questions. It was what you were wanting to do anyway, wasn’t it?”

“Yes…”

“Very well then. The perfect cover. You’ll march right into your grandfather’s camp with purpose. You will make no mention of me, Ivor or the dragon. Instead, you will press for answers about the Dark Jewels. As an aside, let me assure you, if he doesn’t know where they all are, then no one does.”

“Very well. But why do you want me to do this thing?”

“Because you will be serving two purposes with your visit. First, you will satisfy your curiosity, and that of the witch in the wood who seems to have some kind of hold over you. At the same time, you’ll play the spy. You’ll learn of Oberon’s plans. Does he intend to seek me? Does he know where I am, and what I’m doing out here in the Great Erm? I want you to ask your questions and return with the answers to me. Then I’ll release your pet and all will be well between us.”

Trev rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He looked down at the dragon then back up at his uncle.

“I’ll do it,” he said at last.

Myrrdin chuckled, and his branches shook with his mirth. He set Trev down on the forest floor, where the half-elf straightened his clothes and rubbed at a dozen scratches and bruises.

“Be off with you then. Head east until you find a great river, then follow it south. There on the banks you’ll find an elven village populated by their Dead. Hopefully, Oberon is there.”

“You don’t even know? How am I to complete this quest?”

“That’s your problem. You have a week to return. After that, I’ll grow sick of this dragon and crush her for spite. Already, I’m offended by the smell of woodsmoke.”

Trev nodded, and turned away. At a surprisingly fast pace, he sprinted off into the trees.

Myrrdin looked after him curiously. He wondered if the boy would actually succeed. At least he was fleet of foot. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought he was a true elf, not a half-breed mutt.

Chapter Twelve

Trev’s True Nature

Slet wandered through the Deepwood and into the Haven Wood. He felt as if he walked in a dream. All night he marched, and although he was not so tireless as Puck the Dead-thing, the power of the Black kept him moving.

He knew he should not wield it so cavalierly. Bad things had come to Brand when he’d wielded Ambros with abandon. Brand had almost lost his mind and his soul to the Axe. Necron was different. He didn’t feel that it would take over his mind—not exactly. Nor did it exhort him to battle or bravery.

Instead, he felt that it was leeching away his life. Already, the world looked less colorful. More of it was the gray of a night sky, the umber of deep shadows and the inky black of water seen at night.

This must be how the worlds look to the Dead, he thought. Colorless, quiet, and cold.

He shook himself and put the Black away, tucking it into his belt. Immediately, he felt fatigue. He called out to Puck to get the other to halt.

“Puck, I’m exhausted. Dawn must be near, and I no longer hear any signs of pursuit. Where are we?”

“It is only a few paces farther, Master,” Puck said.

“Farther? To where? Where are you leading us?”

Puck stood stock-still for a moment. When at last he spoke, he sounded vague and slightly confused.

“I’m leading us? I am not the leader here.”

“Fine, just tell me where we are.”

“Near Hamlet, I believe.”

“That far?” asked Slet in concern. “No wonder I’m so tired. We’ve marched for leagues! Hamlet you say…wait, isn’t that where your home used to lie?”

Puck said nothing. Slet noticed the Dead elf was gazing ahead, toward distant lights beyond the trees.

“That’s a cottage over there,” Slet said, standing with Puck and following his gaze. “That’s where you’re taking us, isn’t it? Is that your old home, Puck?”

“I…I’m sorry, Master. I did not mean to lead anywhere. You are the only leader here.”

“Apparently, that is not so. It’s not your fault, and I’m not displeased. I suppose it’s only natural for a man to walk toward home after a long time in the dark.”

Puck made no answer, and Slet frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t think I should leave the cover of the trees, Puck. I don’t think I should go out there. And I’m certain no one who lives in that cottage would want to see the troll riding on your shoulders!”

“You’re right, of course.”

“But you do want to go there, don’t you?”

Puck turned his dead eyes toward his master.

“I don’t want anything, other than to obey you.”

Slet smiled and shook his head. “I don’t believe that. You have too much of your old mind left. And that’s not a bad thing. I need a companion who can think, who can reason and help intelligently. I’m not admonishing you. In fact, if it weren’t for you, I would be dead right now and my child would have suffered yet more violence.”

Puck turned back and stood gazing at the cottage in the woods again. Slet could see the windows were reflecting the first red rays of dawn.

“Go to them, Puck, if you would. I’ll wait here. Perhaps you can say goodbye. It is the only way I can think of to reward you.”

“I will do as you have commanded, Master,” said Puck. He began walking toward the cottage at the edge of the woods.

Slet looked after Puck, wondering if he’d done a good thing or performed an act of evil. After all, he’d been reunited with his troll child, but it still breathed. Perhaps those living in that cottage would rather Puck stay in a quiet grave.

He sighed and sat down with his back against a thick rowan tree trunk to wait. In his arms, the troll curled up and slept. Soon, Slet nodded off and joined the troll in exhausted slumber.

* * *

Mari hadn’t set the beacon alight for a thousand long nights. She did it just before dawn today, not to guide home her husband, but to guide home her errant son.

The act of lighting the beacon brought back a flood of memories. She could not help but be reminded of her lost husband and to think of Puck as he once was. She felt sorrowful, and she mourned the losses of her life.

She often reflected upon the oddities of fate. When she’d first taken Puck as a husband, she’d been frightened of growing too old to interest him. She’d believed as she aged, and he did not, his wanderings would grow longer and longer until he never came back to her at all. In the end, the tragic way their relationship ended wasn’t so simple. Instead of leaving her in her dotage, he’d gone and gotten himself killed.

Now here she was, worrying about her own son exactly as she had her husband before him. Such was the fate of a woman who took a mate among the Fae, she thought. She had no one to blame but herself. She’d loved and lived and now she was stuck with the aftermath. Her only hope was that Trev would find his way home to her one more time, as he and his father had done a hundred times before.

Waiting for Trev was even worse than waiting for Puck had been, because she now knew that terrible things could happen during his travels. Before she’d lost Puck, she’d felt certain in her heart he would always return. Now, she knew differently. She knew Trev could die as well.

The long night had passed, and no one had come. In the early light of a fresh new dawn, she rose from bed and put a pot on the stove to boil. The day looked like any other to her, if a trifle cooler than usual.

Her first hint that something was amiss came when the singing birds outside grew still. They stopped singing all at once, as if something had shushed them all.

She frowned and looked toward the window. Had a cat wandered into the yard and frightened them all? She didn’t think it was likely. She didn’t own a cat herself, and the nearest neighbor was a good half-mile’s walk up the lane. What’s more, in her experience, birds tended to scold predators when they appeared suddenly, chirping and squawking from the safety of the treetops.

She stood up from the chair near the stove and set aside the tea she’d been sipping. It was too early for a proper breakfast, so she’d been letting herself awaken slowly before another long day of springtime chores began.

The birds remained silent. She realized how odd that was as she stood there gazing out the window—in the spring mornings they usually made a great deal of noise with their calls.

She could only hear the winds as she listened. They sighed in the treetops and tousled the unmown grass outside. For some reason, the air had grown colder. There was a distinct chill to it, and she wondered if a storm might be brewing in the north. She pulled a shawl from the back of her rocker and wrapped it around herself.

Mari thought she heard a sound. It wasn’t a loud sound—but it wasn’t one of the natural noises she heard every day about her place. She decided to investigate.

As she walked to the door, she found she was moving very slowly. There’s someone out in the yard, she thought. She knew it then, as certainly as anyone could know such a thing without seeing it. She knew her yard so well after living here most of her life that she didn’t have to see a man to know he was there.

“Who is it?” she asked aloud. In her own ears, her voice was tremulous. She cleared her throat and asked again with more force this time. She wasn’t an old spinster yet, she thought, straightening her spine and facing the door.

No one answered.

Mari frowned, gazing at the door and feeling a tickle of dread. Could it be Trev had returned? Or worse—infinitely worse—could it be someone from the militia come to tell her they’d found his corpse?

That idea gripped her. She could well envision the scenario. A representative would be sent to inform her, it had happened to enough of her friends for her to know the procedure. A constable would come, perhaps even an officer like Corbin himself. He would compose himself and knock on the door to deliver the news.

Could it be that this poor man, given the task at hand, had lost his voice? That he was standing out there on the porch, building up the courage to deliver the bad news?

Then she had another thought, almost as horrible. What if it was Trev? What if he had come home wounded and collapsed in the yard? What if he had not answered her because he had spent himself coming home and was now beyond speech?

That thought seemed all too believable to her, and the grim idea of her standing here, doing nothing, while her son bled out in the vegetable garden caused her to move with speed.

She took two quick steps to the door and flung it open. The door flew wide—but there was no one standing on the porch.

Mari walked out quickly, crying Trev’s name. The wind outside had an edge to it, and she pulled the shawl tight around her shoulders. She looked wildly about the garden, toward the shed, and then farther out to the edge of the Haven Wood.

But there was nothing, and no one. She heaved a sigh at last and headed back to her cottage.

I’m turning into a fool, she thought. She had never wanted to be an aging woman who imagined things. She was only glad no one had been nearby to witness her foolishness.

She stepped into the house, pushed the door shut, and turned around.

There, in her rocking chair, sat her long-dead husband.

Puck had laid his bare sword across his knees, but she did not take this as a threatening gesture. He’d done that a thousand times in life. His legs flexed rhythmically, causing the rocking chair to rock. Her first thought was that he’d always loved that chair, and now he was back, as if returning from one of his long stays abroad.

“Puck?” she whispered, as if in a dream.

“Yes, love.”

“You’ve come back to me.”

“No, love.”

Mari paused, mouth open. Now, as she looked at him more fully, the truth struck home. His flesh hung from his face like gray putty. His eyes stared with burning intensity, and they did not blink. There was dust and debris in his unkempt hair, and his clothing was encrusted in grime.

Neither spoke as she took in these facts. Her mind was slow to come to the truth, but at last it could not be denied.

“You are still Dead, love?” she asked.

He nodded slowly. Still, he rocked. His head turned and he gazed out into the garden. It was such a natural gesture for him. She felt tears spring to her eyes.

“Why have you come back to haunt me, my husband?” she asked.

“I…I did not wish to disturb you. But I was near, and I felt…a longing.”

Mari was in shock, but the initial cold calm was leaving her now. She still felt as if she dreamed, but she was beginning to adapt to the situation, to wrap her thoughts around it and to force herself to think.

When one lives in Cymru, one must come to accept that nightmares can and do come to life with regularity. This was another one of the many unfortunate moments in her life. Mari had had more than her share of them. Besides meeting and falling in love with this elf when he was still alive, she’d dealt with the most foul wielders of the Jewels of Power, such as Piskin and his evil blood-magic. She’d met the King of the Dead, traveled to the Twilight Lands and even fought with a troll and a witch personally.

Her past had left her stronger than most. She was no screaming weakling. Her mother had been tough, and Mari knew that she was tougher still.

Moving as naturally as possible, she walked to the stove, where she had hung her ward. It was a stone ward with a hole worn through naturally by the restless waters of the Berrywine. Such wards were helpful against the Fae, and she hoped they might work to stop a Dead one. She took the ward down and put the thong over her head. Then she took a deep breath, and spoke to the thing on the rocking chair.

“Tell me what you’ve come to say,” she said. “I would hear it. Is our son dead, Puck? Has he joined you in the earth’s embrace?”

Puck, who’d been gazing out the window with vacant eyes, turned slowly to face her. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Why then? Why would you rise and walk again? What could have…” she stopped, taking in a sharp breath. “It was me, wasn’t it? I tormented you with my beacons at night, calling for you. I’m so sorry, Puck. I didn’t mean to disturb your rest. I didn’t think the magic was so powerful as that.”

Puck stared at her thoughtfully. At last, he shook his head. He went back to gazing out at the garden.

“You may have influenced me to come here, with my master’s leave. But you did not cause me to rise. And you did not disturb my rest. That was done by another.”

“Another? Your Master? Tell me you aren’t speaking of the lich king!”

“No, another has taken hold of the Black. He caused me to walk again.”

Mari nodded in understanding. It had happened before. The Jewels didn’t like to be left lying about for long. After a decade or a century, they came back into play again. Throughout history, they had plagued the world with death and strife. To Mari’s mind, they were all foul things that ought to be destroyed.

She sat down, relaxing. Their child was not in immediate danger. Puck was not here to slay her. A new master of the Black was about, but she felt that perhaps she could dare to steal a quiet moment with her husband alone.

She gazed out the window with him into the garden. The first bees were buzzing from flower to flower, pollinating determinedly.

“Puck, what is death like for you?”

“It is like sleeping without a sheet under an open window. Like a long, cold night without end. Uncomfortable, but not agony. For me, there is no dreaming, nor awakening. There is only something in-between. I can’t quite tell if what is happening around me is real or just phantoms playing in my sleepy mind.”

Mari thought about that, and she shivered. An existence without end that was never whole. It sounded awful.

“How can I help you, husband?” she asked. As she said these words, she was terribly concerned and her voice broke, almost shifting into a sob. She hoped and prayed he would not ask her to release him from his hellish existence.

He might ask her to take up the sword on his knees and remove his head. That would not be easy for her. She didn’t know if she could do it. But she knew too, that if he did ask for such relief, she would attempt it for the love of him. She could not leave him to the cold hands of the grave robber, to servitude of a necromancer.

“You can tell me of our son,” Puck said.

Mari heaved a sigh of relief. “Yes, I can do that.”

And so she did tell Puck of Trev, of his adventurous spirit, his quick feet, his silver locks that could not be contained. She told him the boy loved nothing more than to wander off and had done so recently, going to Castle Rabing and from there she knew not where else. She worried about him nightly, as any mother was sworn to do, but she had faith in him, believing he would always return to her.

She did not add that she’d had that same faith in Puck, and he’d gone and gotten himself killed anyway. Worse, he’d finally returned this very day as a Dead-thing to haunt her. Such additions seemed rude at the moment.

Suddenly, Puck stood up. The movement seemed unnatural to Mari. He did not lean and heave as would a normal man. His knees simply flexed and he stood stiffly. His blade was now in his withered right hand again, and his head turned to face her.

“I must go.”

Mari stood too, and took a step toward him. She wanted to embrace him, but she did not quite dare. He did not stink as one might expect the Dead to do, but he did not smell like a living man, either. He smelled of earth, rather than sweat.

“Puck, find Trev and help him if you can. Please?”

“If my master wills it,” Puck said.

“You have some shred of your own will left. You would not have come here if you didn’t. It might be thin, like a thread of flame fed by a single dry stalk of grass, but it is there. I know it. Do this thing for me, my love. It is all that I ask.”

Puck had been gazing out the window again, as if he heard pipes playing in the distance—a tune she could not hear. He turned his head to look down at her, and he slowly nodded.

“I will do what I can, love,” he said.

Then he left, and Mari collapsed onto the floor. Her legs would not hold her aloft any longer.

Finally, the tears came, and they would not stop until midday. She grieved all over again, feeling her loss freshly as she had not felt it for many long years. It was a terrible thing, and she would not wish it upon another.

“Why can the Dead not stay in their graves?”

She asked this of no one, and no one answered her.

When at last she regained her wits, she left the cottage. She went to the barn and strapped a saddle and bridle onto her carthorse. The old horse rolled its eyes in surprise. He was rarely ridden these days since Trev had taken to other pursuits, and he’d never been much of a mount in his prime.

“Sorry, Pinter,” Mari whispered to him. “I’ll make it up to you if we live a month further, but today, you must suffer.”

She could not afford to have the animal slowly drag her in a cart. And in any case, she was headed up to Rabing Island, where there were few serviceable roads. Going on horseback—even on Pinter’s back—would be much faster.

With a grunt of soreness, she heaved herself into the saddle. It wasn’t comfortable, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t as young as she once was, but she was more determined than ever.

The horse whickered in shock when she applied the lash to his rump, but he knew what was expected. He broke into a trot before they left the sagging barn, and by the time they reached the lane, he managed an uneven canter.

Mari hoped Pinter wouldn’t lose a shoe. She’d been telling Trev to care for the animal all year, but as far as she knew he’d done little more than give him feed and brush him, ignoring the next dozen chores involved in maintaining a horse.

Rabing Island was miles north of Hamlet and sat in the middle of the flood of the Berrywine. Mari took the main road as far as she could, then left it behind to take a winding track that neared the river bluffs. There at last, as evening fell, she found a small boat.

There was no one there to help her, but she was more determined than ever. She left Pinter on the banks with his bridle off so he could forage. He lapped up the river water greedily as she heaved on the oars to cross the river.

Fortunately, the boat was serviceable and had been cared for. Probably, it belonged to the young Rabing boys of the island. She paddled slowly across, fighting the current.

It was a close thing in the end. She was nearly dragged downstream by the current past the southern end of the island. If that had happened, she knew she wasn’t strong enough to row back to it.

Mari tied the boat at dusk and hurried up the banks. The island was fairly large, several acres of prime land. Here they grew broadleaf melons and fruit trees. Everything that grew here was nourished by the river and was lush and sweet.

She came into sight of the house as darkness fell. Lamps burned in the windows, and Mari heaved a sigh of relief. She would not be coming to an empty house, at least.

She’d come to warn Brand. Others must know that the Black was in the hands of a necromancer, and that Puck served him. She also hoped that someone might know what had happened to her son.

Her knuckles rapped on the big, barred door. She thought to herself it looked sturdier than it had in the past. There were iron rivets shot through the hardwood, and straps of metal that looked freshly-oiled.

When the door did open, it was Jak who stood there with a frown and a crossbow in his hand. Mari noted the crossbow was cocked and loaded. She raised an eyebrow at it.

“Mari?” he asked, surprised. “I didn’t expect you. But come in! Get under roof, out of the night. It’s no time to be out after dark.”

Mari stepped inside and found the main hall to be populated with the Rabing family. Lanet was there, along with Jak’s children of which there were no less than five now. They spanned in ages from teenagers down to a quiet-eyed seven year old girl.

“And who is this one?” Mari asked, talking to the smallest. She had never met her.

“That’s Molly, our baby,” Lanet said.

“I’m no baby,” Molly said. “Are you a lady Dead-thing?”

The adults chuckled nervously, both amused and horrified by the rude comment. Lanet ushered away the children, while Jak led Mari to the sitting room. There they found comfortable chairs, and Jak adjusted a hot kettle of tea he had hanging over the fire.

Telyn came downstairs next. She poured tea for Jak and Mari before taking a seat herself.

Mari could not help but notice Telyn was armed. It seemed unusual for a mother, even a mother on a lonely island, to be sporting a pair of foot-long daggers at her sides—but she was.

Mari nodded to herself as her eyes lingered on the blades. She sipped her tea politely, then put it aside.

“Now, to business, if you won’t find it rude.”

“Not at all,” Jak said.

“The Dead,” she said, “they’re walking again. I’ve seen it with my own eyes, and I know you two are aware of it by your attitudes. Can you tell me what’s being done?”

Jak and Telyn exchanged glances. Technically, it was Jak’s house, as he was the elder Rabing heir. But Telyn was the wife of Brand, who owned a castle and a famous magical Axe. There was some question, therefore, as to who was in charge.

Jak made a gesture to Telyn, suggesting she do the talking. Mari turned to Telyn with serious eyes.

“We’re aware the Dead have begun to walk again,” Telyn began. Then she related the tale Corbin had told them of the events at Drake Crypt.

Mari, in turn, told them of Puck’s visit. No sooner had she finished than Jak stood up and went to check the door to make certain it was barred.

They listened for a time to the wind outside. It sighed and whispered, but they were all soon satisfied it was the wind and nothing else.

“If they come,” Jak said, “they’ll walk across the bottom of the Berrywine.”

“Jak, don’t even talk about it,” Telyn said. “Nothing will come here.”

“They came to Mari’s cottage. They’re moving, and we have no idea where they are. I’m going upstairs to check on all the windows and the children. I think you should fashion a beacon and call Brand back home.”

Telyn pursed her lips, considering. She turned to Mari.

“Do you think he meant you harm?”

“No, but he was a Dead-thing, and he said he had a master.”

“His master is Slet, we believe.”

“Slet Silure? How can that be?”

“He’s been the caretaker up at the cemetery for years now.”

“Oh. I didn’t know. I can see how that would change a man. Not that Slet was ever a good man—but he wasn’t a devil. He never showed any interest in magic.”

Jak left them and they listened to him stomping around upstairs, going into every child’s room and rattling the locks on the shutters. The voices of sleepy children drifted down, and they could hear Lanet asking him quiet questions.

“The Black may have taken an interest in him, rather than the other way around. You know all too well how the power of such objects calls to the souls of people nearby. Recall Piskin? He was twisted by the Red, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’m sure he was,” Mari said, suppressing a shudder, “but I think he was twisted even before he located the hound and took it for his own.”

Mari was filled with grim memories of her past. Piskin, one of the most vile of Wee Folk, had been a changeling who’d drained her blood to feed the bloodhound. The Red Jewel hid itself in the guise of a small disgusting dog that thirsted for blood.

In her mind she could still hear Piskin’s voice: “The hound thirsts, girl. The hound thirsts...”

Mari shuddered.

“My Puck killed that little monster,” she said, staring into the fire. “It isn’t right that another upstart wielder of Jewels should force my man to walk. It isn’t right.”

Telyn nodded in agreement. She looked troubled.

“Mari, I think I am going to call Brand. We have a system—much as you and Puck did. Oh yes, I knew about that. I was making beacons to summon the odd folk of the night long before you knew such things were possible. I’m lucky I didn’t catch my death with that net as a foolish young girl.”

Mari looked at her, wondering about her. People often said Telyn had more than a drop of elf blood in her veins. Not so much as Trev, who was a half-breed, but more than a drop. It was showing now, as she aged. The woman looked almost as young and fit as she had when Mari had first met her.

“Light your beacon then, Lady,” Mari urged. “Do it tonight. Wait no longer. For things are going bad in the Haven. I’m not sure what’s happening exactly—but I’m certain of that.”

Giving her hand a squeeze, Telyn left her and went upstairs. Mari knew that she would begin her sorcerous work in private. Wax must be melted, mixed with blood and milk, and then the finished candle would be carved as the mixture hardened. When lit, the final taper would be visible to whoever it was fashioned to call upon for many, many leagues.

She hoped it would call Brand home again, and he would make things right in the Haven upon his return.

* * *

Trev experienced a hard, lonely journey through the wilds of the Great Erm to find Oberon and his elves. The trail itself had grown cold, and although there were still broken branches to mark the passage of Myrrdin through the forest, the trees were quickly recovering. The branches were green again, as it had been weeks since they’d been snapped by the rampaging monster Myrrdin had become.

As he followed the leagues-long trail, Trev had to wonder at a few things that seemed glaringly obvious to him: first off, why had the elves not followed this exact trail to find Myrrdin? Secondly, why had Myrrdin himself not covered his tracks, nor even thought to do so?

He was not sure, but he thought he knew the answer to the second mystery: Myrrdin was mad. Not just filled with a bit of idle eccentricity, which was to be expected of any wizard, but stark raving mad.

Trev suspected that Myrrdin’s stay beneath the earth had so unbalanced the wizard’s mind he’d become something other than himself in both form and spirit. Be that as it may, the first mystery still puzzled him. Elves were mercurial creatures, and thus they might well take their time in exacting revenge. But they would eventually come hunting for a being who’d slain them in number. Of this, Trev was certain. And yet, for some reason, they had never bothered to do so.

A single possible answer to this confounding fact came to him as he climbed over fallen logs, broken trunks and thickets of wild thorns and vines. Could it be that Myrrdin had slain more elves than he’d realized? Had he gone mad for weeks, marching from one village to the next, killing all of them in the region? This seemed unlikely but chilling if true. In his heart, Trev hoped this was not the case. He didn’t want to find countless bodies strewn here and there throughout the forest as he sought Oberon. It would be a terrible thing to discover the people who represented half his heritage were all dead.

And so it was with trepidation that he approached the elf village when he found it at last.

The signs were all there, and they were not good. There was a woven wall of wood, but it was knocked down in one section—the section directly in the path of Myrrdin’s rampage. No one had bothered to repair it.

He crept to the gap in the wall and stared inside. Just as Myrrdin had told him, it was a scene of vast devastation. Dozens of huts were flattened. Only a few stood tall and proud, as if fresh-grown from the loam of the forest floor.

Trev used great stealth as he passed the walls and entered the village. The mushroom huts here were different. They were lighter in color and shorter than the others…

He smiled to himself. The elves were rebuilding. This place was not all dead. His people lived yet.

“Quite a rude way to introduce yourself,” said a melodious voice behind him.

Trev jumped and whirled around with a start. There, standing alarmingly close, was an elf. He had his arms crossed and his foot was tapping. A smile played over his lips, and his face seemed to Trev to be both youthful and infinitely old at the same time.

“I’m sorry,” Trev said. “I’m Trev, and I’ve come to seek the elves. When I saw the damaged wall and the crushed homes inside, I feared the worst and proceeded with caution.”

The elf nodded slowly and stared at him for a time when he’d stopped speaking. Then he lifted his finger, pointed it at Trev and said: “Ah-ha! I see it now! You are Puck’s child!”

“Uh, yes sir.”

The elf walked around him in a slow circle, examining every inch of him.

“Well grown. No deformities. Strong arms…young, but full-grown. A wise investment.”

“Excuse me, sir? Can I ask your name?”

“Rudely spoken. You know who I am in any case.”

Trev felt embarrassed. He didn’t want to guess and be wrong—but he decided to go with his gut on this one. “You’re Oberon. My father’s father.”

“Just so. Welcome to my damaged village, grandson. Will you have something to eat?”

“Uh, sure.”

The old elf bounded away then, and Trev was startled that someone as old as the biggest tree in the Erm could be so spry. He followed at a trot, and soon found himself led to the new region of mushroom growth. A few dozen others were there as well, and they looked at him coldly.

“This is Puck’s child,” Oberon said. “Trev, meet your uncles and aunties. We are not so numerous as we were last year, but we will recover in time.”

“Are there—other villages?” Trev asked hopefully.

Oberon laughed at him. “Of course. There always seems to be another, if you look long and hard enough. I doubt that even I have found them all.”

Trev nodded, relieved. No one in the Haven had any real idea how many elves there were, or if there were other elf lords as powerful as Oberon. The prevailing opinion was that there were, but that Oberon was odd among the patriarchs of his people in that he had frequent interaction with humans. No one knew exactly why he did so, but it was undeniable. The records and stories of his visits, tricks and battles were centuries old.

After a few hours, Trev felt more at ease in the village. He ate their food and sipped their drinks—which were, if anything, more powerful than his Aunt Kaavi’s had been.

When he felt comfortable enough to ask questions, he brought up the topic of Myrrdin. Oberon did not seem surprised.

“I wondered when you would get to that,” he said.

Trev blinked. “What do you mean, grandsire?”

“I mean, when a man is sent to do a task, he’d best get about it when he is in my employ. You seem lackadaisical. I wouldn’t be surprised if Myrrdin docks your pay when you return to him with your tales.”

Trev glanced around at the others. They were supping together on seeds the size of stones and drinking mugs of nectar in carven pea pods. The meal was oddly flavored, but delicious and strangely filling. When he met the eyes of the others around him, they looked away and quieted.

“Grandfather,” Trev said, “I don’t understand your meaning.”

A new person stepped to the edge of the circle then, and stared at him sternly. It was none other than Morgana herself.

When Trev saw her, he had to admit to himself he felt a pang. Gone from her eyes was any warmth or feeling for him. He could tell in an instant that he was just one of many, and that their brief time together had meant no more to her than a single pleasant luncheon might have meant to Trev.

“Hello Morgana,” he said, greeting her brightly. He wanted to hide his inner emotions. The elves would not understand any such sentimentality, and from the look on her face he doubted that she would, either.

Morgana put her hands upon her hips. She still wore her white gown and her face and form were still pleasing to the eye—but not so much so that he was dazzled by her beauty. Perhaps it was the comparative presence of so many elves nearby. They were much more perfect and refined in appearance and manners. It was difficult for a human woman to compete.

She looked at Oberon and made a harsh gesture toward Trev. “This is taking too long. We have a schedule, and I’m not impressed by the rigor with which any of you follow it.”

“Rigorous schedules?” laughed Oberon. “Such things are not in our nature. Sit and eat, woman.”

Instead, she glared at him and touched the Jewel at her throat. Trev could not miss the interplay. The moment she did so, Oberon was pulled to his feet as if someone had circled his waist with a rope and yanked it taut.

He turned to Trev, and his face darkened. “Grandson,” he said, “I have something to show you.”

“As you will, my host.”

Trev stood and followed Oberon, who led him to an area at the very edge of the village. Here, a huge tree had been ripped from the ground. The hole was deep and dark, and seemed to exude unpleasant odors.

“What’s this?” Trev asked.

“You’re new home, I’m afraid.”

Trev looked at him in shock. He opened his mouth, but he did not know what to say. He looked around himself, and saw that the other elves had followed them quietly. They stood in a circle and as Oberon spoke, they slowly came closer. Morgana was among them, and for the first time, she was smiling.

Trev began to suspect she was behind all of this, so he turned to her now.

“Why this?” he asked aloud. “Why now, after seducing me in the wood? Did I not please your sensibilities? Should I have brought flowers the next day?”

The elves twittered at this, but as Morgana’s smile faded to anger, they quieted.

“Impudent,” she said. “From the first to the last.” She turned to Oberon and with a gesture indicated Trev, as if he were some kind of odd exhibit. “Did I not tell you?” she said. “I gave him a mission, and he did as he pleased. For a time I was fooled, but no longer.”

Oberon nodded slowly.

“I have done so much on your behalf,” Trev said, becoming angry in turn. “Did you know that Old Hob tried to waylay me and outright kill me on multiple occasions? And did you know that a Kindred Warrior—an individual named Harrdin who claimed to be working on your behalf, did his damnedest to sell me to a dragon? And that was just the beginning.”

She shook her head. “Listen to that tone, that angry stance. It can’t be denied. You are a mad-thing, Trev. You must be contained and controlled.”

“It is my fault,” Oberon said.

“How so?” asked Morgana.

“I made him what he is.”

“You mean with your seed?” she asked. “I’ve found no other full-blooded elf or human so recalcitrant.”

“No, not exactly,” Oberon said. “I mean that he is immune to your charms, and there can only be one answer as to why.”

Morgana furrowed her brow and stared from face to face. “His mind is clear and not broken, so I should be able to bend it.”

“Just so. But there is one thing that can stop you.”

“Are you saying he possesses the Quicksilver? Nothing else could withstand my power…” Here, Morgana broke off and angrily walked to Trev. She put out her hand and extended it toward Trev.

“I understand now,” she said, raging. “You have it, don’t you? You found it along the way, and you have it hidden upon your person. That is how you resist me now, and did so earlier.”

“I have nothing—certainly nothing like a Jewel of Power. I’m seeking it, among others, on your behalf. I admit, I was more taken with you the first time we met, but perhaps that was because you were in a more pleasant mood.”

Morgana made a growling sound of frustration.

Oberon approached them both, lifting his hands and chuckling. “Such foolishness!” he said. “Morgana, he doesn’t possess the Quicksilver, he is the Quicksilver.”

Her mouth opened then closed again. Trev’s shock was even greater.

“Grandfather, what are you saying?” he asked, but even as he did so, he thought of a dozen things that made perfect sense when viewed in this new light. As a child, he’d been able to escape King Arawn of the Dead, one of the most powerful creatures to ever wield a Jewel. And his hair—

“My silver locks,” he said aloud. “They cannot be cut—at least, if they are cut, they grow back the next day as full as before.”

He reached up then and removed his cap. His hair fell loosely to his shoulders, as silvery and perfect as ever.

“Yes,” Oberon said, “your hair. But it is only an external detail. You are the Quicksilver Jewel. You, in your entirety. As the bloodhound is the Red.”

Trev shook his head, and took a step backward. “But I can’t be a Jewel! I’m a person. I’ve got a life, parents and memories.”

“The Quicksilver is like that,” Oberon said. “It’s odd—even for a Jewel.”

“You knew this all along and you withheld it?” demanded Morgana with sudden fury.

“Nonsense, woman,” Oberon laughed. “You asked me to find the Quicksilver, and here he is standing before you. I daren’t ask what else might please you.”

Morgana fumed, but she turned to Trev and stared at him as if he were some kind of curious insect.

“How does he work? How can we utilize him?”

“We can’t. He is an independent entity. He can’t be attuned or held in one’s hand. He can only be befriended. And from my experience in these matters, I’d say you’re doing a rather poor job of that.”

Trev had to agree with his grandsire on that point.

“Grandfather,” he said. “I don’t know why you listen to this unpleasant woman. I did at first, but it is easily overcome. I would suggest we turn her out of the village now that she’s insulted us both so thoroughly.”

Another growl of rage came from Morgana. Trev gathered that she was highly unaccustomed to being mistreated in any way.

Oberon shook his head sadly. “This will not end that way, I’m afraid.” He gestured toward the yawning hole at his feet again. “Now, step inside boy. I will grow a great tree here to mark the spot. It will cost me the blood of my fallen elves to do it, so you should be prideful of their sacrifice.”

“I’m not stepping into any stinking hole!”

“Oh, but you are. One way or another.”

“What’s this about a hole?” demanded Morgana.

Oberon turned to her. “It is the best way. He may yet prove useful to us, if we can convince him to work for us. If we let him go, he’d be a menace.”

“Grandfather, I beseech thee,” Trev said formally, going down to one knee. “I came to thee seeking knowledge, and you have imparted it. Morgana sought this knowledge, and now she has it as well. I would suggest that doing anything other than letting me go free would be a breach of etiquette. A dishonor upon your house.”

“Nonsense!” Morgana began, but Oberon silenced her with a raised hand.

His stance and demeanor changed as he addressed Trev with sudden formality. This is what Trev had hoped for. Elves took their honor very seriously indeed.

“Let me explain, child: you are a spy for an enemy. Coming here as a spy is not honorable. We are well within our rights to imprison you.”

“A spy? I came seeking the knowledge which this woman demanded!”

“That is true, but tell me the rest. Did Myrrdin not charge you with returning to him with a report?”

Trev looked down. This he could not deny.

“Exactly,” continued Oberon. “You see, child, the unknowing spy is the best of spies. Who would suspect a creature that does not have the wit to know it is a tool? Now comes the detail of what is to be done with you. Can I release a spy? No. It weighs upon my heart, but I can’t allow you to leave here. You’re unknown and thus dangerous to my plans.”

“Your plans?” scoffed Trev, choosing a new tact. He pointed to Morgana, who watched the conversation with quiet interest. “That is the spider who wove your plans for you, grandfather. Can you not see this?”

“Absurd,” Oberon said. “You think a human woman with a few tricks of the craft can manipulate the oldest elf in the known worlds? It could not happen. We work together because I wish it.”

“But you laid with her as I did!” shouted Trev, putting his hand on the hilt of his dagger. “You’re not immune as I am, therefore you are in her power. You took her as an ally, did you not? Why? Did you do that of your own free will? Why not capture her? Why not put her to the sword or put her in a hole?”

Oberon laughed, but there was an edge to the sound. “Why not, child? Because I’m your elder, and my will must be obeyed.”

Trev frowned. “That’s no answer. You are in her power. It is clear to me now. Try to see it, grandfather. You have been bested, but you can make this right. Take my hand, and I will shield you. Free yourself.”

“Foolishness. I will hear no more. Now, hop down into your new home. Let’s not have any unpleasantness.”

It was Trev’s turn to laugh.

“I’m of your own blood. Do you know a reflection of yourself so little as that? You’ll have to take me, and with no magic to aid you, oldster. I’m immune to your tricks as well as hers.”

Oberon’s eyes darkened until they stormed. “As you wish,” he said.

He drew his sword, and tossed it aside.

“What are you doing?” questioned the Witch of the Wood. These were the first words she’d spoken since the conflict had grown heated.

“There is honor involved, which must be served,” Oberon explained. “The child has a short blade, and he is alone. He is of my blood, and therefore he shall be met with matching circumstances.”

“That is not honor, that is madness,” complained the Witch.

“That’s it!” Trev shouted suddenly. Everyone looked at him in surprise.

“Madness,” he explained. “Morgana, you visited Myrrdin, didn’t you? And you failed to control his twisting mind. You can’t control those that are irrational. Brand will be hard to face when he wields the Axe. Perhaps that’s why you saved him for last.”

Morgana made no move to answer.

“An interesting theory, grandson,” Oberon said. “But one that is critically flawed, as I am not in her power. Nor am I mad.”

Hearing the elf’s words, Morgana gave Trev a slight, smug smile.

“But you have honor,” Trev said to Oberon, ignoring the gloating witch, “which as the hag said, makes you behave in a manner not entirely to your benefit upon occasion. It is that mad steel within you that she cannot bend.”

Oberon drew his own dagger then. It was a rare thing of beauty, an object wrought of silver which shone as if it was forged of captured moonlight. Even Trev, seeing it, was entranced by its craftsmanship. He had to admit that dying to such a weapon would not be an entirely wasted life.

“And now,” Oberon said, “it is time to put some of my steel, which you so eloquently described, into you, Trev.”

Trev felt a bolt of fear as his elder approach him. As smooth as Trev’s movements were, Oberon’s were noticeably smoother. At that moment he hated his human half, which seemed weak in comparison. Not only was it clumsy and slow, but it felt fear for its miserable life as well.

He assumed a fighting stance, doing his best. He told himself he had to focus on his strengths and bury his weaknesses. He was half-man, which made him taller and thicker of limb than his grandsire. He was also very fast, he knew, possibly as fast as any elf.

But the wicked immortal that paced him now didn’t know that. He’d never seen Trev in action. Trev therefore moved slowly, but smoothly. He didn’t leap and flourish—not yet. He wanted to deceive his opponent in any way possible. Brand, Corbin, Puck—all those who’d taught him what they knew of fighting had made a point of telling him this.

As the two circled one another, Trev knew he was being studied. His stance was being evaluated by a master, and he was helpless to evade that keen eye which judged things he could barely fathom.

Instead of competing on such a level, he desperately sought any other advantage he could come up with. His eyes searched the environment for a moment, seeing the tall trees, the circle of smiling elves.

At last his gaze came to rest upon Morgana herself. She appeared to be aloof and above the fray. If anything, he got the impression the combat annoyed her, because it was not her desire that the duel should be so evenly fought. This gave Trev an idea.

Before he could act upon his idea, however, Oberon moved. He had taken this last lingering split-second, where Trev had dared let his eye drift from his opponent, to step close and attack.

Oberon ceased circling and sprang forward. Trev reflexively lifted his own blade, parrying and twisting his body to one side to avoid the thrust. But Oberon was not finished. He followed through, reversed himself and came in again, slashing with his fantastic weapon. The knife blade cut a glittering high arc in the air that seemed to blur with speed.

Trev was off-balance and unable to parry again. The move had been so sudden, and had placed Oberon in the perfect pose for a second strike, while Trev’s own posture was hopelessly poor.

Rather than attempting another parry, Trev bounded straight up into the air. He revealed all his strength and speed at that moment, hoping to take the other by surprise.

His gambit worked. Oberon was left staring up at him as he flew away to land atop the smooth surface of a mushroom hut.

“The stars be praised!” Oberon said, laughing. “I’ve grandsired a bounding hare!”

“Finish this nonsense!” shouted Morgana.

Oberon, shaking his head, leapt upward to join Trev atop the hut—but Trev leapt down the other side. He sprinted then, as fast as his legs would carry him. He did not run from the fight. He did not seek escape.

Instead, he ran toward Morgana. He held his blade before him, and he charged with a roar that no pure elven throat could ever produce. It was the human part of him, coming out to the fore. It was a battle cry of rage, fury and desperation.

Reaching the witch in three tremendous leaps, he thrust the dagger into her. She only managed to throw up her arms to cover her throat at the last moment before the point bit into her body. Trev felt the blade pierce her ribs and sink into the vitals behind them.

“You shall plague my family no more, witch!” he said.

The next moment, however, Trev found himself taken from behind. Oberon and a dozen other elves laid hands upon him. His dagger fell away, and they shook him roughly. Oberon himself laid his blade upon Trev’s throat and a red line of blood appeared there.

“Slay that mad dog,” choked Morgana. “Then have the hound lap up his blood and use it to heal me.”

Oberon’s eyes slid to her, then back to Trev. He cocked his head curiously as he looked down upon this helpless grandson.

“A bold move,” he said in a conversational tone. “But dishonorable. There can be no prison for you. It saddens me, as I took such great pains to create the circumstances of your birth. You have wasted your life, and thusly decades of my time.”

“No dishonor,” Trev gasped, struggling against the dozen hands that held him in order to speak. They held him so tightly, he could hardly draw breath.

“Kill him now!” hissed the witch. “Tend me!”

Oberon again slid his eyes to her, then back to Trev. He made a tiny motion, and the others loosened their grip so that Trev could speak.

“Do you know so little of our ways?” Oberon asked. “Is that your excuse, ignorance of the simple codes of honor? It will not save you, true or not.”

“No,” said Trev. “I know what I’m saying. She rules you. Your actions were not your own. This duel, therefore, was between me and her, not you and I, grandsire.”

“Ah!” said Oberon, removing his blade from Trev’s neck and tapping its red tip upon his tongue. “I see your point. You believe—incorrectly of course—that you’re fighting Morgana, not me. Absurd—but seemingly a real belief on your part. And the way you moved! I would have to say you have more elf in you than human, despite that crude barking noise you made at the end. Therefore, honor could be in your make up. And, even more surprisingly, your actions could be construed as honorable, given your delusions. Hmm.”

Morgana coughed, and redness spilled down over her white gown. She was beyond demanding aid now. Gasping, she collapsed to the forest floor and struggled to breathe. Trev dared to hope she would expire before he did. It was his fondest wish at the moment.

Oberon signaled his elves, and they grabbed Trev again, holding him fast.

Methodically, the elf lord grabbed one of Trev’s extended legs. He set something upon the ground then, something at Trev’s feet.

Try as he might, Trev could not turn his eyes downward far enough so that he could see the thing, but he suspected it was a small, evil-eyed hound.

Something fantastically sharp bit into his thigh. Warmth ran down his leg, and there was a tickling sensation at the ankle. Trev struggled, but he was held fast.

“Hold the wound open,” Oberon told his guardsmen. “I daresay I’ll need half his blood before I’m through here.”

For a time, Trev bled while the hound lapped. Oberon performed his foul magicks with the blood released and consumed. Morgana’s breathing became less ragged even as Trev saw his vision dimming. He despaired, as his final wish was not to be fulfilled.

When he lost his way in this world and stepped into the oblivion of unconsciousness, he thought he heard his grandfather humming a lively tune as he worked.

* * *

When Brand awakened on the hillock, he found Tomkin standing on his chest with his tiny hands resting on his hips.

“Tell me your dreams,” said the manling.

“Dreams?” asked Brand groggily. “I dreamt of things in the fog. Dark things, with arms like snakes and wet, hard shells over their bodies.”

“Tell me more. Did these creatures grip you?”

Brand came more awake, and frowned.

“Get off!” he huffed at the creature that stood upon him. He struggled to sit up, and found himself stiff and sore.

Tomkin bounded away from the hand that came up to swat him.

“How long was I sleeping?” Brand mumbled. His eyes were so bleary he could hardly see. The purple landscape of the Twilight Lands didn’t make it any easier to make out his surroundings.

Tomkin shrugged. “A day—or maybe three of them, I would say. We don’t really have ‘days’ here, you know.”

Brand stopped rubbing his eyes and looked at the little manling in surprise. “Three days?”

Tomkin sniffed. “What did you expect? You battled beasts few have ever seen, then thought to rest upon a mound with buried dead under your head for a pillow. It was all I could do to keep the sprites and wisps from tickling your nose.”

“I wish you hadn’t chased them off. They might have awakened me sooner,” Brand complained while rubbing his neck and trying to rise. He found to his surprise that around his waist, his chainmail was shot through with blades of twisted grass. With a growl, he ripped himself loose.

At that moment, looking at the grass that had grown through the Kindred-forged links, he believed Tomkin. He must have been lying there for days. He had to wonder then: what if Tomkin hadn’t been here? What if he’d been left to sleep forever in Twilight? Would he have died in his sleep? Would he have awakened as an ancient and decrepit man? He shuddered at the possibilities.

“All right,” he said at last as he pulled the final strands of grass from his armor. “I think I might have lain here for longer than three days, but as you say, it’s difficult to tell in this place. Have you figured out where the Trev and the dragon went?”

“Oh yes, this way.”

Brand marched off after his small friend and wondered why he wasn’t ravenously hungry. He suspected it was another trick of this strange land.

When at last they reached the center of the Great Erm, they found a mountain there, in the middle of it. Brand frowned up at the towering structure.

“Odd,” he said. “I’ve read of the Erm and seen primitive maps of the region. There aren’t any mountains like this noted. Look at those cliffs. There are strange growths everywhere.”

Tomkin didn’t answer. Instead, he hopped to one side, then back the other way, gazing and muttering to himself.

“What is it?”

At last, Tomkin turned back to him. “That’s isn’t a cliff, or a mountain. It’s a tree!”

Brand gaped at him, then turned back to the thing that loomed overhead. He laughed, then stopped and stared.

“I think you’re right. How can that be? There’s never been something so big. Not in all the legends I’ve ever heard.”

“No,” said Tomkin. “You’re right. It can’t be—but it is.”

“Dare we approach it?”

“This is the direction that Trev went. Do you want to give up the chase?”

Brand grimaced and rubbed his bearded chin. “No. Let’s see what’s what.”

They marched on, and before they reached the foot of the fantastic growth, which towered up halfway to the clouds themselves, they were stopped by an unexpected guardian. It was another large, and this one could walk. It was big, but not nearly so large as the monstrous growth it tended.

“What do you want here, Axeman?” asked a voice from within the tree.

Brand peered in surprise. He knew the voice, but the attitude was new and hostile.

“Myrrdin?” he asked.

“I once went by that name. Now, answer my question.”

“Myrrdin, we came to seek your counsel. I see that you’re alive—and I hope you’re well.”

“I am as you find me. And my health is excellent, thank you. Now, state your purpose and be on your way.”

“Have you seen a boy of the Haven named Trev? He might have been traveling with a dragon.”

Myrrdin rattled his twigs and thumped closer on his roots.

“Perhaps. Why should I give you any information? What is in this exchange for me?”

“Peace, life, and liberty.”

The tree creature nodded thoughtfully. “Spoken like a true bully. You are a true lord now, Brand. At least you’re acting like one.”

“We two possess the Blue and the Amber,” Brand said. “You can’t stand against us with only the Green. Not even if you make this monstrosity you’re growing here walk of its own accord.”

“You don’t know what you’re speaking of.”

“Yes, I think we all do. Let’s have no conflict. We aren’t asking you to cease your questionable activities. This is Oberon’s land, and it is up to him to police those who live in it. We have no problem with you and your trees, Myrrdin. Just tell me about the boy.”

Myrrdin made a strange, rasping sound. After a moment, Brand figured out that he was laughing.

“You were thusly described just two dozen years past, Brand. Do you realize that? To me, you are still a boy.”

“I do realize I’m younger, but I’m no fool. You were sane back then as well. Let’s think of those better times. Tell me what I wish to know, and I’ll not bother you further.”

“Oh but you will, now that you know where I am and what I’m doing. You walked in near the end of the great project. See here, the fruits of my labor? I’ve revived the greatest living thing in all history on any of the known worlds.”

“That’s admirable,” Brand said, “but irrelevant. Will you tell me what I want to know?”

“So hasty. So quick to throw away a golden opportunity.”

“What do you mean?”

“That we have similar goals—similar problems.”

Brand looked around the forest carefully. He wondered to himself if Myrrdin was talking in riddles to delay him. Distraction was often followed by a stealthy attack. Seeing no new threats, he turned back to Myrrdin.

“Explain yourself, man.”

Myrrdin began to pace then, back and forth. A path as wide and deep as a cart’s wheel ruts was quickly cut into the forest loam by the writhing roots. Brand thought it was a very odd thing, watching what amounted to a very large walking tree brood as it spoke.

“We have much in common now. You have the Haven, which you must nurture and protect. I have this tree in an enemy forest. Both of us are under threat, and I think we should help one another and share what we know.”

“Fine. You speak first.”

More raspy laughter. “Such distrust and cynicism! Unsavory in one so young.”

“I’m a child no longer, Myrrdin. Tell me what Trev is doing and then we’ll talk about alliances.”

“Very well. The young half-elf reminds me of myself, but he’s not a mage. He’s a fighter, and I would daresay he takes after his father more than his mother.”

Brand smiled. “You have a point there, but then you may not have met his mother. She’s as tough as nails in her own way.”

“I’m not surprised. In any case, Trev came through here a few days back and I directed him to Oberon’s camp.”

“Did you deceive him concerning the nature of his visit?”

“No. He was to be my spy.”

“Why would he agree to such a thing?”

Myrrdin pointed upward toward a distant glow. Brand and Tomkin craned their necks back and looked up the trunk of the tremendous tree. There, high above, was a reddish flickering.

“What’s that?”

“The dragon, in its cage. Trev seems inexplicably fond of the creature. I used that weakness to my advantage.”

“What a cruel thing you’ve become, Myrrdin,” Tomkin said, entering the conversation.

“On the contrary. I could have killed him, but instead gave him his life and a worthy task. Can you seriously be feeling pity for a dragon?”

Brand lifted his hands to stop the bickering. “All right,” he said. “Fine, you sent Trev to Oberon as a spy. What has he reported?”

“Sadly, nothing. He has been gone for too long—I’m beginning to feel concerned.”

Brand stared at him, then chuckled and shook his head. “Don’t tell me you’re now going to try to send me after the boy? Where one dupe fails, perhaps the second will succeed? I’m the Axeman now, wizard. You’d do well to remember that.”

“I would have difficulty forgetting. But in any case, I’m not forcing you to go. I will say this, though: I think it would be in your best interest to figure out what is happening in our two worlds and to learn the truth with haste.”

“What do you mean?”

“What kind of dreams have you been having, Brand?”

Brand hesitated. He thought of the monsters in-between worlds. They’d claimed to be a part of him. Were they real? Or just phantoms from his tortured mind that were conjured up by that tortured place?

“I’ve seen strange things in my mind. I’ve fought between the worlds and won my way back to this one. I’ve struggled with beings who claimed to be from my dreams, and—I do vaguely recall having seen them there.”

“Ah-ha!” Myrrdin said, lifting one long finger like a walking stick. “I know what has plagued you, and me. It is Dream Magic, the power of the last Jewel.”

“Which one is that?”

“The White, of course. The Sunstone.”

Tomkin interjected a high-pitched snort of derision. “A myth! A legend!”

“Perhaps it once was a myth,” said Myrrdin. “The White has been called many such things and worse. But it is real enough today, nonetheless.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Myrrdin related to them Trev’s tale, and the tales of other he’d heard concerning the sorceress.

“She twists minds as easily as her own hair,” Myrrdin said. “I sent Trev to learn more of her as well as of Oberon’s doings. I feared the sorceress and my sire were in league somehow. But Trev has not returned, and I now must assume he has failed in his mission.”

“And now I suppose you want me to march to your father’s village and thrash the truth out of him.”

“No, not today. I have my tree, to which I must tend. It is young yet and vulnerable. And you, sir, have been gone too long from your home. The people you care about are calling for you, and it can’t be to tell you good news.”

Brand frowned. “How do you know this? I’ve heard nothing.”

“I’m called a wizard, remember? That’s not because I rule more Power with the Jewels than any other does. But I have some power outside the reach of the Nine Eyes. You know this.”

“Yes, it is why they call you or anyone else a magician.”

“Humph. Magicians are charlatans. But in any case, I can see the efforts your people have been using to call you. Here, let me help.”

Myrrdin walked two dozen paces toward the great forest. Brand and Tomkin followed him warily. His strides were so long it took them a hundred steps to catch up.

At last, Myrrdin reached up and spread two branches apart, asking them to gaze through the middle. They did, and they were surprised at what they saw.

A tiny candle burned in space. It hung there, impossibly far from any source of fuel or support. Like a tiny white light suspended in open air.

“A beacon,” Brand said. “It must be Telyn. Why does she burn a beacon?”

“To call you home. You must go and protect your brood, as I fear I might need them, and you might need me.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“That we agree to support one another—should things go badly, and we both need it.”

“I have a castle, a people, and an army. What do you have to offer?”

Myrrdin let the branches weave together again, and indicated the great tree with a wave of his highest branches.

“I have…my new body.”

Brand looked from him, to the massive tree, and back again. He nodded. “I understand. An army of one.”

“Exactly.”

“But what about Trev, and the Witch of the Wood?” demanded Tomkin.

Myrrdin turned his great body to face Tomkin, who looked at them both in sudden alarm.

“Whoa!” he said. “I’m not anyone’s dupe.”

“No,” Myrrdin said. “You are a member of this alliance. But your people are scattered and wily. They can’t be taken out in with a single stroke. Brand and I have things to protect. You are freer of action. I would ask that you join us, and for your part, you go to learn the truth of the matter. What has happened at Oberon’s village? Is the sorceress in league with him?”

Tomkin huffed and fumed, but in time he was convinced. With many complaints, he darted off into the trees in the direction of the elf stronghold.

Brand looked after him in concern. “I count him a friend. Will he be alright?”

“I’m a wizard, not a seer.”

“Very well. I must be off. Which way will take me most quickly to the Haven?”

Myrrdin marched alongside him through the trees where a small, forgotten mound encircled with black mushrooms sat. Brand didn’t like the place, but supposed it would do. He began to walk the circle, when Myrrdin put up a cautionary branch of warning.

“Have a care. Watch the mushrooms. They will poison your breath if you brush them with your foot. They grow over the corpses of past careless travelers.”

Heeding the advice, Brand walked among the mushrooms very carefully indeed.

Chapter Thirteen

Tomkin’s Surprise

Tomkin, like all Wee Folk, prided himself on his swift feet and his tricksy mind. As he followed the trail through the Great Erm he soon realized where the course was going and veered from the path. He didn’t want to approach the elf village head on. That was not the Wee Folk way.

There was never night nor day in this place, so there was no reason to wait. He traveled around the village when he came to the region and circled it twice before daring to get closer.

He saw the elves were up to something as he approached the great walls. He wrinkled his thin, candle-stick nose at the flavors of smoke in the air—what was that? Burning meat, but he could not assess the source. Elves didn’t often eat meat, and when they did they preferred light fare, birds, shellfish and the like. This didn’t smell like that. It smelled like a heavy, fat-filled meat. And there was the acrid taint of burning hair in the midst of that smoke as well, he would swear by it.

At last, his curiosity forced him to creep closer. Wee Folk are even more alert and stealthy than forest elves, but they have their limits. Tomkin was nervous and wide-eyed as he reached the outskirts of the village proper.

His mouth opened in surprise, forming a perfect O. What was this? Did they playact?

No. They were dead. Scores of them. Their fine white hands curled as they reached from under crushed mushrooms. They lay in the final repose of all living things. So many! Even though these elves were enemies of his, he could not help but be shocked by the loss.

He crept from body to body, crushed hut to crushed hut, ever coming closer to the source of the cloying, thick smoke.

Suddenly, before he could bound away, a figure appeared atop a mushroom fresh-grown.

Tomkin froze. He knew the figure, and by the nature of the mushroom cap he stood upon he knew that the elves had regrown their village at least in part.

The elf that stood on a high perch was Oberon, and he was gazing down into the fiery mess that was the producing the thick smoke.

Tomkin glanced around himself, understanding now that the elves who lay dead in profusion were not killed today. They’d been left to lie there for weeks—maybe even months. This was not the way of any civilized people much less elves. He was at a loss to explain why they would simply rebuild next to their own dead, leaving the bodies of loved one stacked like cordwood. Had they all gone mad at once?

“Today, we shall feast,” Oberon was saying, addressing people Tomkin could not see for the smoke. “We shall take thick boar meat into our bodies and toughen ourselves. We are few, but we must each gather an army to our banner. We shall march at the head of a horde before we’re done!”

Tomkin cocked his head, no less surprised to hear Oberon’s words than he had been at finding their discarded dead. Whatever was going on, the elves seemed to have lost some of their sanity. It was a chilling thought, as they were a powerful people. Normally, their actions were predictable as long as one understood their ways.

“The Great Tree slew many of us, but not all. Each day, more elves arrive from distant clans to join us seeking revenge. Our loved ones will not be forgotten. When we have a thousand bows in our collective hands, we will hunt down the Tree and kill the rotten spider that sits in its heart.”

Tomkin wanted to laugh at this. Myrrdin was an old, rotten spider if ever there was one. But he was given pause again, because he realized now that Myrrdin must have caused all this damage to the village. He’d killed his own kin here. It was a shocking thing, something that Myrrdin had left out of his tale.

“And now,” Oberon said, “douse the flames and make ready for the feast. I would call upon our guest of honor to join us in the festivities!”

A cheer went up from the white throats of a hundred elves. The smoke had begun to clear, and Tomkin could see them now. They were dressed as elves often did when seeking war: each wore a tunic of finely sewn leather, studded with bits of metal and stone. Bows were slung over their backs and short, curving blades rode at their hips.

Tomkin rose up from his hiding place, standing on his tiptoes to see who the guest of honor was.

The elves rushed forward then, casting pails of water on the great fire. After a gout of choking steam dissipated, he could see what the elves had been roasting. It was a gigantic boar the size of a tavern. It was huge! The hair had burnt away and the meat had been seared, but was obviously raw in places.

The elves did not seem to care. They drew their curved blades and hacked at the monster, removing glistening hunks of hot meat. They filled their hands and plates then returned to their seats and began to loudly consume the boar meat.

Tomkin wasn’t disgusted as he’d eaten worse in his life—far worse. But he was baffled by this newfound behavior in the elves. They were more like barbaric humans than highborn creatures of the trees.

He dared to creep farther forward until he stood behind a shield carved in the shape of a leaf. He suspected that the honored guest Oberon had spoken of would be the sorceress. He wanted to see this witch and take her measure for himself. But she was not in view.

Oberon lowered his arms to his hips and gazed around the crowd expectantly.

“Not eating with us, my guest? How rude!”

Then, with fantastic speed, he leapt down and rushed to the leaf-shaped shield Tomkin sheltered behind and snatched it away.

“Here he is!” he roared.

An answering chorus of laughter rose from the rest.

“Tomkin, my honored guest, where are you going?”

Tomkin was three hops toward the village walls by the time he heard those words. He dared to halt. Slowly, he turned around. He drew himself up to his full height and cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry, I thought perhaps you were speaking to another. You do have another guest here, don’t you, Lord Oberon?”

“I have many honored guests. But tonight, none so fine as you! None who can cause the rainbow to march at their whim as once did I! Will you not stay for a time?”

Tomkin licked his thin lips and his eyes darted around the scene. He knew Oberon may still be angry about Lavatis, the Blue Jewel. Long years ago, Oberon had wielded the Blue Jewel and considered it his possession. But, as is ever the case with Wee Folk and possessions, one of Tomkin’s kind relieved the elf lord of the burden. Now Tomkin wielded the Blue while Oberon wielded the Red. That seemed to Tomkin to be a fair exchange, but some folk might still harbor sore feelings concerning the matter.

Tomkin eyed the fire and the foul animal they roasted over it. The elves were feasting on the meat they’d taken. They were barely looking at him. Instead, they chewed and ripped at their chunks of pig meat like hungry dogs attacking a fallen calf.

“I thank you, Lord Oberon,” Tomkin said formally, “but I just came by to—”

“Nonsense!” said Oberon, cutting him off. “I’ll not hear of it. Don’t be rude…join us!”

At the mention of the word rude, Tomkin froze. It was a dangerous word when spoke by the Faerie. They might use rudeness as an excuse for any kind of horrible act, maintaining afterward their cruelty was necessary to right a perceived wrong.

On the other hand, accepting the hospitality of an elf, while not a guarantee there would be no mischief, went a long way toward establishing rules of honor during the meeting. There were things they would not do—lest they be perceived as rude themselves.

“Of course I accept your offer,” Tomkin said quickly.

Deciding to get it over with and not knowing exactly what Oberon’s game was, he said formally: “I will share your hearth and fire. I will sup with you, in peace, as is our shared tradition.”

The group fell silent at this announcement All eyes traveled to Oberon, who stood stalk-still for a moment. Tomkin had raised the stakes by suggesting the offer of shared food at this fire established a relationship of host and guest between them. This mattered greatly, as to harm one’s guest created a great loss of honor for the host.

Oberon inclined his head forward after pausing, giving the tiniest of nods. Instantly, Tomkin scuttled forward and hacked free a choice bit of meat, a triangular section of the beast’s massive, flapping ear. He opened his alarmingly large mouth and bit off a big chunk, chewing contentedly.

“We should do this sort of thing more often!” he said after his first half-dozen bites.

“Undoubtedly.”

Oberon watched Tomkin closely as the other ate, but Tomkin calculated he was safe from unpleasantness for now. He stood upon a fallen log lined with elves in battle armor who chewed as if they were wild Wee Folk themselves—or many even rhinogs.

“Why are you geared for war, Oberon?” Tomkin asked, “if I may be so bold as to ask, that is.”

“Because war has been brought to us!” Oberon shouted back. His company of elves cheered his words, pumping their fists high. Tomkin frowned at the uncharacteristic display of bravado.

“And who do you war upon?”

Oberon swaggered close. He had a rib the size of a sword in his hand, and he waved it at Tomkin after sucking meat from it.

“We war upon the Great Tree.”

“You mean Myrrdin?”

The elves fell quiet. Oberon looked at him.

“What do you know of the wizard?”

“I know he’s your son, and you kept him locked in an underground prison until he went mad.”

The elves stared. Their eyes slid as one from Tomkin to Oberon, who in turn stood gazing down at Tomkin.

“What would you know of that matter?” Oberon asked. “Are you in league with the Great Tree?”

Tomkin shrugged. “You should know better than that. He has certain interesting ideas, but he’s clearly a mad-thing.”

The tension seemed to drain from the elves. Then, as Tomkin looked over his shoulder at the fallen elves nearby, he thought he understood now.

“Myrrdin rampaged and killed your people, didn’t he, Oberon? That’s why there is a mass of unburied, fallen elves in your village.”

“Yes,” the old elf said softly. “And we plan to hunt the Great Tree down for its sins. The foulness in the heart of that tree is like sap gone bad. We will burn out the trunk until nothing but a cinder of the old goat remains.”

“Sound policy, that,” Tomkin said conversationally around a second helping. The mass of pig’s ear was chewy and he worked his jaws methodically. “But I’m not sure how you will go about bringing down the tree... I mean, all you have are knives and bows. He’s not going to be knocked flat with such tiny weapons. And as to burning—where is your source of flame?”

“We have flame aplenty,” said a new voice. This voice was querulous and ancient, but feminine all the same.

Tomkin stood, letting his pig’s ear drop into the dirt and lie there to fester. He could not believe his eyes.

A figure had walked onto the scene. She was not the sorceress that Tomkin had been expecting. Instead of white satin, she wore a rough tunic of thick leather, shot through with rivets. Instead of a comely face, she had the leering look of a wizened crone.

What was even more surprising was her point of entry onto the scene. She did not come from a fungi hut, nor from the edge of the village. Instead, she walked out of the massive fire over which the great pig was roasted.

“Gudrin? Queen of the Kindred?” Tomkin asked aloud, scarcely able to believe his eyes.

“The same,” Gudrin said. “Who else did you expect? I’m here to burn out the Great Tree. As Oberon has explained, it is the only way.

Tomkin was stunned. The Queen of the Kindred should be in her halls beneath Snowdon, not feasting with elves in the Twilight Lands.

“Where is your retinue, Lady?” he asked. “It is not seemly for a Queen to walk the wilds alone.”

“Where is your retinue, impertinent manling?” she retorted. “You’re the leader of your people, the same as I am of mine. I walk where I will and do as I please—when something needs doing.”

Oberon clapped slowly, making each popping sound of his hands ring loud in the forest.

“Well said, milady!” he shouted. “And as you say, we have great need of your flame.”

Tomkin looked from one of them to the other, and a chill ran through him. They were not acting like themselves. Each had a feral light burning in their eyes—a look of secret pleasure.

Tomkin was not a creature of slow wit and thoughtfulness. His kind had not survived the ages as the smallest of intelligent folk without having developed instincts that would make any housecat proud.

“I have the perfect thing to aid this mission!” he cried, and he drew Lavatis from his tunic.

The rest of those present were startled by this development. None of the others who possessed Jewels of their own had yet to reveal theirs. To do so was bad form—rather like drawing a sword at a dinner table and driving the point through the host’s plate.

As he spoke rapidly, Tomkin did what he could with the time his surprise had provided him. He called upon the Rainbow with as much urgency as he’d ever done in his life.

“You can burn the tree, but I can put out the flame so the forest itself shall not be set alight! What will be your role, Oberon? Will you track down the monster, should it decide to run?”

Oberon frowned at Tomkin and kept glancing at Lavatis. Was there a certain twinge of greed there in his eyes? Once a mind has been touched by one of the Jewels, it was never again fully free of the longing for it. Like a lover past who ever returned in heated dreams, the Jewel forever stole part of every heart it touched.

“Put away your stone, manling,” Gudrin scolded him. “Don’t you know you’re torturing this poor old elf?”

“Nonsense,” said Oberon, putting on a brave front. “At least we know he’s not bluffing, and that he can play his part when the time comes.”

Then there was a rumble of thunder in the distance. The elves looked around them in surprise. Storms were rare here in the Great Erm. A stroke of lighting flickered overhead a moment later and a branch was struck from a massive pine. The branch fell in the forest nearby with a deafening crash. A peal of thunder rang over the village. It was so loud it seemed that perhaps giants beat upon stone drums in fury.

All eyes were aloft at the heavens save for two sets: those belonging to Gudrin and Oberon. They were looking for Tomkin, rather than gaping at the brewing storm.

“He’s gone!” roared Gudrin. Her finger was out, and flame rippled up and down her arm, coming to a blue tongue as hot as dragon’s breath at the tip. Her eyes blazed with fury that matched the fire that welled up to envelop her body.

“He’s called the Rainbow,” Oberon said, and he turned to rouse his confused company. “To arms!” he cried. “Take not sword or bow—grab up nets. We must take him alive!”

Tomkin, who heard these words not far behind him, put on an extra burst of speed. All the while he’d been chatting and supping with these folk, he’d been calculating his exit route, should he get the chance. Now he ran as only his kind could.

No hare, nor fox, nor soaring bird could match a Wee One in full flight. He scrambled over the spongy roofs of huts and bounced from the curtain of woven logs that served the village as a wall. He saw the exit was guarded already, with alert sentries lifting nets to capture him.

How could they have nets at hand so soon? He could only think they’d been prepared for his arrival—well prepared.

“There he is! At the gates!”

“He’s gone now, have a care!”

Skittering away from the easy exit and following the walls, he now knew what he must do. He must not panic, and he must find another way out. Either that—or he could wait until the Rainbow came to distract them. But it seemed there was nowhere to hide, nowhere he could hunker down safely for a minute or two.

“He’s among the Dead!” roared another elf, making a cast for him.

Tomkin’s foot was caught by a whirling net. It was weighted with hooks and sharp stones. He struggled free, squeaking like a rabbit in a snare, then bounded away before the elf could land upon him.

The chase went on. Tomkin’s heart beat impossibly fast in his chest. His leaps, which had before been small and precise to keep him low to the ground and thus hidden from view by the huts, now became desperate high-jumps. Each stride took him so high into the air he cleared piles of rubble before his feet struck down again in a new place, whereupon he launched himself up again.

Each time he came down, an elf or two made desperate attempts to capture him. They threw nets and dashed themselves to the ground, fingers outstretched. When they leapt to their feet again, their faces and hands bled, but they paid no heed. Each and every one of them had a strange, yellow glint in their eyes. Tomkin was certain that their minds were not entirely their own.

Finally, at long last, the Rainbow arrived on the scene. A giant it was, shimmering and translucent. Like a massive pile of jelly that was more air than liquid, the creature’s great foot slammed into the two elves that had stopped Tomkin from leaving the village gates. They were bowled over, one of them struck dead.

The second foot came down on the fire in the middle of the village, smashing aside the beast they roasted there on a spit and sinking into the bonfire below.

A mass of hissing fumes rose up, taking on a half-dozen shades. What had been smoke of the traditional gray-white now turned to a bubbling froth of magenta, bright green, azure and blood red. The flesh of the Rainbow was like the meat of a cloud.

The pain of the fire caused the Rainbow to cry out for the first time. It howled, a sound at once both terrifying and beautiful in its alien tone.

Tomkin smiled as he made good his escape. The elves were now well and truly distracted. He ran and ran until he heard no more sounds of pursuit. Behind him, the Rainbow flailed at the elves, who were now unwisely attacking it with bow and blade. Arrows shot into its body so hard they burst from the far side, and blades cut colored wads of gauzy flesh from its stomping feet and ankles.

Tomkin suspected it would go mad soon, and destroy the village before it was done.

“Serves them right,” he said, watching from the lowest branch of the smallest tree he had found. It provided him the perfect vantage point.

“Does it now?” asked a soft voice.

Tomkin whirled, but he was too late.

A net did not descend. A blade did not thrust. Instead, the fine-boned white hand of a fair lady reached out and caressed his cheek lightly. The touch was odd, and he slapped his hand to the spot. It tingled still, and it seemed to him that his hand was now tingling as well.

He looked down at his hand, but saw nothing amiss. His yearn to flee, however, had left him.

“Let’s talk for a while,” said the woman.

“You’re the Witch of the Wood.”

“Yes, I am. And do you know what else I am?”

“No, lovely Lady.”

“I’m now your mistress, you troublesome little monster.”

Tomkin chuckled at that. He willed himself to bound away, but found his feet were stuck fast to the spot on the branch he’d perched upon.

“What deviltry is this?”

Morgana showed him the White that gleamed upon her breast. He knew the truth then, and his will to flee ebbed away.

“How did you catch me? How did you come to be here?”

She shook her head and laughed. “Before I answer that you must send away the Rainbow. It’s making a mess of my elf village. Fools they may be, but I have need of them.”

Tomkin turned back that way and felt as if he were in a dream. He saw the Rainbow was down now. They had shorn away one of its legs. But instead of dying, it had only grown more furious and enraged. It struck down huts, punching huge holes in the walls.

Gudrin’s fire leapt up as he watched, gushing flame over the body of the thrashing Rainbow. It howled again in agony, pumping limbs with abandon.

“Poor thing,” Tomkin said. “I’ll wish it away.”

And he did so. This did not happen in an instant, but the Rainbow did begin to melt, like a block of ice left to sit upon an iron stove. It fell apart in the end, running with colors like a dozen shades of blood or spilled wet paint. Rivulets of orange, mauve and indigo flooded the village and stained the shoe of every panting elf.

“Now,” Tomkin said, turning with a smile back to Morgana. “Tell me how…?”

“How I caught you?” she said, smiling. “Firstly, I knew your mind via the minds of other Wee Ones I’ve caught. I knew you would stop to watch this mischief you’d left behind. Your kind can’t resist the urge.”

He nodded. There was no denying such self-evident facts.

“And so, I knew if you won free you would have done so by creating a massive turmoil in the village, and you’d want to see what a mess you’d made. All I had to do is give you a good vantage point and wait there. Notice no tree in the Great Erm has a low-lying branch of the type your kind prefers? I had one brought and planted right here for this purpose. Then all I had to do was wait nearby. If the elves caught you, all was fine and good. If they failed, I was positioned to finish the task.”

As she spoke, she gently stroked Tomkin nearly bald pate. Normally, this would have filled him with the desire to snap off her fingers with his surprisingly large, sharp teeth. But he didn’t feel that urge, and was puzzled as to why he would accept such familiarity from a human stranger.

“Impressive!” he said to her, watching her fingers massage his scalp. “Such clever planning. Even your touch seems to numb my nerves…are you part spider, milady?”

She laughed. “An impertinent question! As I’m under no obligation to answer, I’ll not do so, Tomkin my pet.”

* * *

Brand found the way home was much easier than his path to the Great Erm had been. Instead of traveling the hostile Everdark, fighting through dream-monsters and Dead-things, he was able to walk the forgotten circle ringed with black mushrooms and transport himself directly to the Haven Wood.

Once there he looked around, finding it to be a remote place, but soon got his bearings. There were few places in the Haven he wasn’t familiar with after a lifetime of patrolling its borders.

As he was closer to Rabing Isle than he was to his castle or Riverton, he walked that way. Soon, he could pick out the tiny white light of Telyn’s beacon. He frowned in concern and increased his pace.

In the night, only a single creature came to accost him. It was none other than Old Hob himself.

At first, there was nothing to indicate the devil’s presence other than a whisper of wind and a rustle in the high leaves of the trees. That could have been the evening breezes—but the night was utterly still.

Brand was instantly on alert. He’d had enough of being stalked by phantoms. He was tired, but wary. He reached up and reached for the haft of his Axe.

“Hold, Axeman!” came a voice from above. “I beseech thee, do not draw Ambros!”

Brand halted and looked this way and that in the gloom. “Hob? That’s you, isn’t it? Show yourself, or I’ll burn and hack away the very tree you perch upon.”

Old Hob did appear. In the dark of night he was nothing but a hulking shadow, and he was perched upon the branch of an ancient almond tree. The thick black bark blended seamlessly with his robes.

Brand chuckled and lowered his hand. He didn’t feel the need for Ambros when facing Old Hob. He wasn’t entirely harmless, but of all the creatures who ruled over a Jewel, he was easily the weakest.

“I’m annoyed,” said Hob. “You didn’t even wonder if I were a spirit of the Dead. You went right to the point and called me by name. Have you some kind of new power of divination, Brand?”

“Not at all. You do have a distinctive odor, which the Jewel seems to be incapable of masking.”’

“Odor? Lilac, I hope?”

Brand chuckled. In truth, there had been no odor. Old Hob didn’t smell good up close, but he’d been far too distant to be detected that way. Brand decided not to tell the other he’d suspected the presence of the eldest of the goblin race when he realized he was being stalked. It had been a simple matter of betting on the odds.

“What do you want?” Brand demanded.

“Rude and to the point, as usual. I’m here on a mission of mercy.”

Brand laughed again and waited for Hob to get on with it.

“Truly, I am!” Old Hob said. “Allow me to explain. I’ve been busy of late, trying to stop a calamity from befalling us all.”

“By ‘all’ you mean yourself, correct?”

“I’m included on the roster, certainly. I’m talking about all of us who wield power in Cymru. All of those who bear Jewels. There is a new enemy afoot and her power can’t be overstated.”

Brand frowned and crossed his arms. “I’ve heard of a Witch in the Wood. Is that the person you’re speaking of? I’ve not met her, but I hardly think—”

“Then think again, Axeman. Already, she’s gathered several of us under her banner. She plans to master us all—or destroy us.”

“What is her name and what is her power?” he asked, deciding not to reveal what he knew from Myrrdin.

“She is Morgana, and she wields the White Jewel, the last complete sliver of the Sunstone. It has power over the minds of others. When you dream, Morgana walks with you. If she caresses you, you are lost forever.”

“Hmm,” Brand said thoughtfully. “Is this why you tried to kill Trev?”

Old Hob shifted uncomfortably on his perch. “That’s a strong description of the event. I wouldn’t put it quite that way.”

“Let’s put it another way then. Did you make a simulacrum of Trev and send it to kill him?”

“The correct term is ‘discipline,” Hob said. “‘Kill’ is an unnecessarily provocative and judgmental term.

“It is also accurate, especially from the point of view of the victim.”

Old Hob began to protest further, but Brand waved away his words. “Never mind that now. So, you’ve come to me and revealed your quest: to stop Morgana. Why did you attempt to ‘discipline’ Trev?”

“Because I believed he was in her power. I was wrong about that.”

“Why did you think she was commanding him?”

“By his own admission he did lie with her. He also admitted to being on a quest to find all the Jewels. That’s exactly what she would want a servant to do. He was the perfect spy, young and well-liked. He could move among us, spreading her poison without alarming us.”

Brand nodded thoughtfully. “All right. Let’s say that, for an instant, I believe you. Let’s go further and say that the rest of your tale about Morgana is true. What do you propose?”

“Why, isn’t it obvious? We must unite and fight her. We must guard one another so that none fall under her spell. We must, in short, hunt her down and destroy her.”

“What do you have to bring to the table? I assume you’ve tried to kill her. You have assassins, if nothing else. How have they fared?”

“Poorly, I’m afraid. My assassins have not been able to get near enough to kill her without losing their minds. Long before they could land a blow, they were under her spell. My magic has shielded them from her eyes, but not from her powers.”

“You’ve stopped trying?”

“Yes. She now is sending my creatures after me. The cheek of it! Imagine the humiliation of having to fly away from your own creations in fear! I hate the woman. She’s horrid.”

Brand thought to ask why Hob hadn’t attempted to do the job himself, but discarded the thought. The answer was obvious. Hob was a coward, and perhaps in this case, that trait had worked in his favor. He’d steered well clear of her and thus had not yet fallen into her hands.

“Who is under her spell?” Brand asked next.

“Ah, finally you’ve come up with a question worth asking! Before I tell you, Axeman, I want your word we’ll work together to solve this mutual problem of ours.”

“I’m not so sure it is my problem,” Brand said. “She knows and hates you. But she’s never tried to work her magic upon me.”

“I don’t think she could control you,” Hob admitted. “Perhaps while you slept, or ate dinner, yes. But when you drew the Axe into your hand, you would become a thing apart from yourself. You can barely control yourself then. Her power over you would be broken. That’s probably why she hasn’t bothered.”

“What’s her plan then, in regards to myself and the Haven?”

“If you resist? Why, utter destruction, of course. Her plan is simple: ensnare all she can until she is strong enough to crush the rest that will not serve her. She’ll kill you and place your head on a pike. Humans will be enslaved like the rest when you fall.”

Brand was disquieted. Everything he’d been witnessing recently supported Hob’s grim scenario. The witch existed and it seemed clear she wielded the White. It also seemed her power was growing. Finally, he nodded.

“All right. I agree. We will fight together until this crisis has passed. But have a care, ally. Do not attempt to take liberties with my people or my lands. No perfidy will be tolerated.”

“Naturally,” purred Hob. Then he told Brand who was arrayed against him.

Brand was alarmed by the list.

“Tomkin? Gudrin? I can scarcely believe it!”

“We must work together as I said, or we will all be lost.”

When Hob was finished explaining what the enemy was about, the two parted after agreeing to meet in less than a week’s time on the walls of Castle Rabing. Their scheme was to draw the witch there. With luck, they could defeat her.

* * *

Brand did not stop marching until dawn. When the pink light of morning warmed the skies, he found himself on the shores of the Berrywine. No one answered his calls for a ferry, and the boats that were usually tied at the docks were gone. He made his way across the river’s flood with difficulty, and came to knock at his family’s door an hour later. No one came to the door.

His clothes and mail ran with water. His hair was a mass of wild black curls which had matted against his skin and his eyes were narrowed in worry.

He didn’t like this. Why would Telyn light a beacon and then be gone when he came home to her? Why was there no one about?

Brand reached back over his shoulder to grab the haft of the Axe.

“Don’t do it, Axeman,” said a quiet voice.

Brand froze and looked around himself. He did not see the source of the voice—but he did think it was familiar to him.

“Why not, phantom?” he demanded, his fingers an inch from the handle.

“You may not be able to reason if you do. You might lose your mind, and thus come to great sorrow.”

Brand’s eyes darted here and there. He stepped back two paces from the door and looked up.

There was a face there, in the window. His jaw sagged in surprise. He knew that face—or he had known it once. But now it was sunken, yellowed and grayed.

“Puck?” he asked, his lips curling in disgust. “How can it be?”

“You should have given me a proper burial if you never wanted to meet me again.”

Brand shook his head as if to clear it.

He understood now. The Black Jewel was here. He could feel it. There was a quiet over the house he’d never heard before. A pall of darkness that was subtle, but undeniable. The birds did not sing. The insects were still.

“If your master has harmed my family, his existence and yours is forfeit.”

“We know that. We’ve done nothing—other than frighten them. We wish to talk, Axeman. Are you willing? Or shall this go badly?”

Brand knew all too well what the Black was capable of doing. It could suck the life from a man and set him back on his feet as a Dead slave a moment later. He was horrified at the idea of having to face his brother Jak, or Jak’s wife Lanet as Dead things. Would he be forced to cut them down?

Then he had a worse thought.

“What of my children?” he demanded loudly. “What have you done to Taffy and Dee—?”

“Nothing,” Puck said smoothly. “Come parlay with my master and we will avoid all unpleasantness this day.”

“Send them out. Send out my family members, or I will chop this door asunder and your worthless bones a minute later.”

Puck shook his head. “They’re safe. Use your reason—don’t reach for Ambros! You know what will happen then. You will not be able to control yourself. Those you love may be slain if we do battle now. Try to understand that my master feels just as you do. He is trying to protect his family just as you are trying to protect yours.”

“What? What family? Send your master out. I’m done talking to a mockery of an old friend.”

“All right,” said Puck. “But you should know, old friend, that I am Puck. I walk as if dreaming, but I have within me the same mind and spirit. My heart no longer beats, but I know thee, and I urge you to have patience for the sake of all.”

Brand was anything but patient. Ambros was in a like mood. The axe handle was moving around like a bad pet, nudging its master and demanding to be freed. Could Brand not see the need? It was plain to anyone with eyes these monsters needed slaying! Immediate action was required, and the Axe could barely contain itself.

Brand rolled his shoulders, trying to quiet the thing stirring in his pack. He wondered at its nature and method of thought. Was it like the Dead Puck? A ghost of a creature long dead, but which thought of itself as still living? He tried to push such thinking away. It would do him no good now.

The door finally opened. Brand watched tensely as a face appeared.

The new necromancer was not what he’d been expecting. After facing King Arawn, a powerful lich with a body of bone and a regal attitude, this man seemed positively furtive and out of his depth. He did, however, have the Black Jewel in the tip of his Scepter, which was firmly gripped in his hand.

“Brand?” asked the man.

The voice was another which he thought he recognized from his past. But who was this? Brand squinted at the man who hung back in the shadow of the doorway. Then, after a moment, he had it.

“Slet Silure?” Brand demanded.

If the situation hadn’t have been so fraught with real danger, he would have given a shout of laughter. Slet had plagued Brand when they were both young, being a local character with a bad reputation. But over time, the roles had very much reversed. Brand had not so much as thought of the man for many years.

“Yes Brand, it’s me. And I’m sorry for this. I just couldn’t think of any other way of forcing you to talk to me civilly.”

Brand nodded as if he cared what the other was saying. In truth, he was greatly relieved. He’d expected a much worse foe. This man was a fool, a neophyte who could not hope to face him. He’d never touched a Jewel before and was untrained. Brand was coldly certain he could best him. His confidence was like that of a veteran of the sword when faced by a wide-eyed plowboy wielding a pitchfork.

“You were placed in charge of the cemetery years back,” Brand said. “It all makes sense. I spoke up for you back then, you know. The others said you would do a poor job.”

“I thank you for your faith.”

“Well, don’t. It was badly placed. You’ve broken into the crypt and stolen that which must not be touched. You’re one of my greatest mistakes.”

Slet hung his head for a moment, then his face grew hard. “It wasn’t like that. I’m no tomb robber. A witch came to me and she threatened my child. I was forced to take the Black.”

Brand gazed at him, seeking any hint of a lie in his face or tone. He could not see anything there but indignation. But alas, there was nothing for it, even if the man’s story was true.

“I’m sorry then,” Brand said. “Perhaps some of the fault lies with us. Perhaps my brother should have mounted a guard at the crypt. Perhaps we should have transported the Black elsewhere. We’d hoped it would lie quietly there in the cool ground where it belongs.”

“It is an evil thing. But I never wanted to take it. I never went into that crypt—not a single step—until I was forced to do so.”

“Tell me, why did you not give the Jewel to the witch if she had your child?”

“It’s a painful tale,” Slet said. “I went into the crypt to retrieve it, but I was waylaid by the Shining Lady. She delayed me, seeking to make me wield the Jewel myself and thus become her champion.”

Brand nodded slowly. The ghost had done the same to him in the past. “A difficult position.”

Brand took out long black riding gloves and put them on, pulling them tight and flexing his fingers.

Slet continued his tale. “When I did manage to reach the surface again, I found my child burned.”

“Burned?”

“Yes. The Shining Lady had altered the flow of time. I was gone for long hours rather than a few minutes.”

“A shame. An unforgivable crime. After this unfortunate business is concluded, I promise you Slet, I will find a way to end this witch and the Shining Lady—if the latter deed can be done. When I slay them, I’ll tell them it is for the pain they caused you and yours. If they can still hear me with their heads cut off, they will learn the truth as life ebbs from them.”

“What unfortunate business do you speak of, Axeman?” asked Puck. He stepped into view in the doorway. His blade was in his hand.

“You and your master must be destroyed,” Brand said. “There’s nothing for it, I’m afraid. I’ll not have Dead things wandering my lands unchecked. Your kind must be sentenced to return to the grave forever.”

As he spoke, Brand’s black-gloved hand reached back for the Axe, but before his stretched fingers touched the trembling haft, he froze.

Puck had pulled into view a young girl with hair of flaxen gold. It was Dee, one of Brand’s twin daughters. Her mouth was gagged and her eyes were wide in terror.

“I think not, Axeman,” Puck said.

Brand lowered his hand slowly. “If you are Puck, you will not do this thing. You know what is right and wrong. Let me break the spell which makes a mockery of your bones and dead flesh.”

Puck shook his head slowly. “I can’t do that. I am Puck, but I’m not the same as I once was. I’m gripped by the Black more firmly than the Axe has ever held your mind.”

“I see. Let us parlay further, then.”

Slet’s eyes followed Brand’s hands closely. He relaxed when they retreated from the Axe.

“Well done Puck,” Slet said. “I was afraid threats might be needed to make you listen to me, Brand. I didn’t want this. I was faced with wandering the wilderness with Dead companions—that, or trying to convince you I could become an ally. Maybe I went about this the wrong way.”

Brand nodded slowly. “You could say that. Since I laid eyes upon you, here invading my home, I’ve thought of little else other than hacking you down.”

“I understand. But try to understand me. I’m protecting my family, just as you are now. I’m trying to keep my child alive. I have him right here, and I’m willing to do just about anything to keep him alive.”

Brand frowned. “What? I thought you said the child was burned?”

“Yes, but fortunately, he is of a resistant breed. When he reawakened, he was fine.”

“Show me this child or stop your lies.”

Slet opened his tunic and revealed the furry bundle inside. At first, Brand thought he was seeing a fluffy housecat, clinging to Slet’s belly. But then it turned its head to regard him with intelligent eyes. The claws flexed, digging into Slet’s sides. The man grimaced, but tried to keep a smile on his face.

“You see? He is my son—born of my dead wife Annelida. He’s all I have left, Brand. I’d do anything to protect him. Can you understand that? I feel about him just the same way you feel about Dee, here. In fact, let me release her now to help aid your decision.”

He nodded to Puck, who propelled the girl gently toward her father. Brand accepted her with a hand on her shoulder.

“Were you harmed, girl?” he asked.

“No father, but I doubt I’ll ever sleep again for the nightmares. How can you stand to deal with such terrible magicks?

“It’s a trick of the mind,” he explained. “I guess I’ve gotten used to it.”

He turned back to Slet and Puck sternly. “It’s good for you that she’s unharmed. I warn you, whatever deals we make, they will be erased instantly if you’ve injured or dishonored any of my kin.”

“Of course,” Slet said. “I would expect that. They may have a few rope burns and Jak has a sore head, but they listened to reason once I showed them the Black. I’m not good at wielding it yet, but they knew that no family of normal folk could stand up to one of the Jewels.”

“Bring out my wife then, I would have words with her.”

Slet hesitated, then nodded. Puck disappeared, then returned with Telyn. She looked angry and her hands were tied.

She walked out to join Dee and Brand, and her husband cut away her bonds.

“What should I do with them, Telyn?” he asked her. “I leave it up to you. You suffered their intrusion, not I.”

Telyn looked at him in surprise. She’d been glaring at Puck and his master.

“You want me to decide? Why?”

“Because it is their only chance. I can’t see reason right now. It’s all I can do to keep from going mad with the Axe right now. I know, however, that we may lose a member of our family if I do that. And I’m uncertain if my rage is just. As I said, I leave it up to you, who knows more of the situation than I do.”

“We could use another Jewel in the hands of the Haven folk. But I wish it weren’t the Black.”

“So do I.”

“They did not harm us. They did use base trickery, coming to the door and claiming that they were cold and carrying a young infant. I reached out to touch Puck’s arm—not recognizing him due to his drawn hood. He was as cold as ice. When we let them in, they showed us the Black and we dared not fight because the house was full of children. I’m glad you came, my husband.”

“It sounds as if you want to deal with them.”

“I have mixed feelings. But there is someone else to talk to here. Mari is inside as well.”

Mari walked out next, and she told Brand of Puck’s visit to her home. She pleaded with him for leniency.

“You can’t hope, dear woman, to take your husband back in this state?”

“No,” she said. “But I have another hope. He will be reburied properly when this is over. Slet has promised me that. Also, Brand, what of Trev? Have you seen my boy?”

Brand heaved a sigh. “This is becoming complex. I say we all go inside under a word of truce. All will be freed of their bonds. All will be poured hot tea—or whatever they want,” he said, with a glance at Puck. “No one will slay anyone for now. Let’s have peace in my family’s house today.”

They all agreed, and the group went into the sitting area. It was finally decided, however, to place Puck outside on guard duty. His Dead form was offensive to most, especially the children.

Brand found that Slet was a likable enough fellow for a necromancer. With a hot brew in his hands, he found he could deal with the man. He could understand fighting for the life of a child. He could understand the real crime had been performed by the Shining Lady and the Witch of the Wood.

Part of his mind felt a shred of guilt as well. He’d buried the Black with improper guardians. He’d hoped it would stay buried—all the while knowing it would not stay quiet forever—for the Jewels never did.

He’d also left Puck, Morcant and other victims of the Storm of the Dead in the Drake Crypt. He’d known they would rot where they fell, but had deemed it too dangerous to retrieve their bodies. To ease the minds of their relatives, they’d buried empty coffins miles away in an elaborate ceremony. Taken all together, these mistakes had helped lead to the tragic death of Corbin’s constables and the grim state of Puck’s corpse.

Slet was not the only person to blame, but Brand still harbored doubts about accepting Slet as an ally. The Black was an evil Jewel, not to be trusted. It warped the wielder more than most, and the results of its use were horrible in the extreme.

If he’d had the option, he’d have destroyed it forever. Unfortunately, he had no idea how to unmake any of the artifacts that plagued his people, filling their lives with war and strife.

Chapter Fourteen

The Hunt

Myrrdin was warned of the coming danger not by Tomkin, nor by Brand. It was the animals and the plants of the Erm that told him.

At first, there was a tremor in the air. He ignored it studiously. His work had absorbed all his energies for many long days. His new body was growing nicely, and it was now taller than the greatest pine in the wood. Even more impressive was the profusion of green growths that wrapped around it. Vines grew like ivy over the trunk and fed the Great Tree with water brought from miles distant. A thousand leafy branches, fresh and brittle, hardened and darkened with each passing day.

Much of Myrrdin’s work had involved irrigation. The rivers in the Erm were fat, slow things full of oily water. They could be diverted by a determined soul. Wielding huge roots and branches, Myrrdin had managed to dig ditches and guide the water ever so gently downslope to ring his tree. He’d driven tunnels here and there under the old, dead roots and filled them with water. Leeching upon this bounty, the vines had carried the water up the tremendous trunk, the equivalent of drawing the liquid up a straw from the foot of a mountain to the snowy crown.

So engaged was he in his work that at first he ignored the signs indicating something was amiss. The woodland creatures had always trotted by him now and again—but today was different. Dozens animals had passed by with regularity all morning.

Elk the size of the tallest buildings in Riverton. Insects like hopping dogs. They were all passing by, and in the same direction.

He paid no heed to the passage of the beasts. There wasn’t enough water flowing up the northern face of the Great Tree, and he was busy digging a fresh trench to feed the dry spot. Already, the vines up high that fed the tree were wilting.

“This won’t do, it won’t do at all!” he muttered to himself. “Here, Ogre, attend me!”

Ivor hurried to his uncle. He had a sack in his hands and a hungry look in his eye.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to catch some dinner.”

“Is that all you think about? Your stomach?”

Ivor looked sheepish, but eyed a passing mole. They were usually hard to catch because they spent so much of their time deep underground, and Ivor was a little too big for their tunnels. He liked mole-meat. It had a particularly spicy flavor.

“You’re drooling,” Myrrdin said with a sigh. “Drop that sack and help me dig.”

Ivor pointed toward the mole in the brush. “Can’t I go catch him first? He’s easy above ground. They’re quite slow in the leaves.”

Frowning fiercely, Myrrdin eyed the mole and sputtered. “What’s that thing doing above ground? Is it addled?”

“Maybe,” said Ivor doubtfully, “the critters keep coming like that. I’ve been trying to catch one, but they aren’t stopping. Not even to drink.”

Myrrdin, for the first time, turned his full attention to Ivor. The idiot might be onto something.

“All day, you say?” he asked. “Which direction do they travel?”

“From the south, going north. All day.”

Myrrdin shook his leaves and thumped as he walked after the mole. The beast was about the size of a hog back in the Haven. He had to trot to catch up to it. At last, he had it in his claws. He lifted it into the air and watched it squirm and make barking noises.

“Odd,” Myrrdin said. “I don’t see any diseases or parasites.”

He held the mole up to the bole of the tree where his burning eyes stared outward. He examined the animal at length before dropping it. The thing squeaked and landed with a thud.

Ivor rushed forward, strings of saliva running from the corners of his mouth. He caught hold of the mole and worked to get it into his sack.

“Forget about that,” Myrrdin said.

“Why Master? I’m hungry.”

“Do as I say. There’s no time for eating now.”

With a sigh of defeat, Ivor let the squirming animal go. It hissed at him and humped away as fast as its feet would carry it.

“Why we not gonna eat?”

“Because,” Myrrdin said thoughtfully, “I think the elves are finally coming to kill us. They’re on a hunt and riding this way quickly, I should say.”

Ivor stared up, face slack. “To kill us?”

“Yes, my dull-witted relation. They’ll come here and burn us out—both of us.”

Myrrdin could feel the alarm of the Erm now. It wasn’t just the animals. It was the plants as well. They were tremoring ever so slightly. Each leaf shook like an individual pebble on a road with a thousand hooves pounding it into dust.

“The plants know,” Myrrdin said.

“They do?” asked Ivor, looking around in alarm as if the shadows beneath every tree might give birth to an elven warrior at any second. “What we gonna do?”

Myrrdin whirled, his branches clacking. He looked down at his hands, seeing they were masses of broken sticks. The bark had all been rubbed off and the wood beneath was bone-white. Branches were not well suited to digging.

“This body is worn and past its usefulness anyway,” he said. “I’d planned to wait until the new vessel was full-grown—but I’m afraid it won’t be possible now.”

Then Myrrdin began a painful process. He hadn’t been looking forward to this—he knew it would be a terrible experience.

First, he reached up with his clawed hands and took hold of the open bole through which his fleshy eyes had peered all this time. He heaved and his body shook. Wood splintered and cracked. He cried out in pain when a shard lanced his body or fused parts of him were separated.

“What’s happenin’?” Ivor asked in concern, circling around his roots like an excited dog.

“Shut up, fool,” Myrrdin hissed.

“You rippin’ your own face off?”

Myrrdin was beyond responding to Ivor’s inanities. He growled and struggled, tearing at himself. His left arm broke halfway through, and he almost sagged down, spent.

“Ivor,” he said, panting. “Climb up my good arm. Stand on my shoulder now—yes, that branch. Brace your feet, and spread open this gap in the wood.”

“Why you doing this to yerself?”

“Because I must. I shall be reborn. Life isn’t easy, nephew. Those that would outlive the rest must do things that they’d rather not.”

“Like me lettin’ that mole go?”

“Yes, if you like. Now, pull!”

Together, Myrrdin heaved at the right side of his face, while Ivor wrenched away chunks of wood from the left. At last, like an exposed, rotted tooth, Myrrdin’s upper body was revealed.

“What’s that thing?” Ivor asked, poking at the white, grub-like flesh of the being inside the broken tree.

“That’s me,” said Myrrdin crossly. “The heart of me—the flesh and mind. I’m not all tree, you know.”

“I didn’t.”

Myrrdin rolled his eyes before making a final heave and ripping himself loose of the tree’s heart. Tubers came out of him in a dozen places, leaving bloody holes behind in his skin. He howled and raved, but at last he was free.

When he stood shaking and sick on the forest floor, Ivor came to have a look at him. He sniffed at him curiously.

“You’re as skinny as a woodworm,” he said.

“Your comments are unhelpful. Quick now, take me to the vines. They will know what to do.”

With a shrug of his bulky shoulders, Ivor did as he was told. He carried Myrrdin’s weak body to the tree and set him upon a fat leaf at the base of a very thick vine.

Shivering at their master’s touch, the vine coiled around him. Myrrdin instantly felt better. He was so used to the caress of plants that he could scarcely tolerate the rough stinking paws of a creature like Ivor.

Myrrdin closed his eyes and sought the vine that cradled him upon its thickest leaf. He urged it to move, to grow itself into a new shape. The new shape was thicker at the base—and most importantly, the new leaf he laid upon was higher up.

When he dared to open his eyes and look down, he regretted it. Ivor stood with his mouth gaping up at him.

“You’re thirty feet up!”

“Fifty, I’d say,” Myrrdin said with smug weariness. “I may have need of you. Climb onto a leaf and ride up with me.”

With obvious trepidation, Ivor climbed onto a leaf and weighed it down with his bulk. Myrrdin thought the leaf might collapse and spill the ogre out, but it didn’t. A minute later found them both scooting up the tree as if being hauled by ropes.

The wind whistled with increasing force as they went higher and higher. Ivor howled in alarm. He clung to his leaf, having little choice in the matter. Myrrdin didn’t speak to calm him. He saved his energy for commanding the Green Jewel in his hand. Vaul was ruling this vine, causing it to grow a thousand days growth in a minute. It required all the wizard’s concentration to keep the process going.

He could smell smoke now. The elves were near. Were they going to try to burn him out? He smiled at the idea. They were in for a shock if they tried.

* * *

Oberon was in the vanguard when his knights broke through onto the field of battle. But when he caught sight of his foe, he was shocked.

Myrrdin’s tree body lay in shambles. It was shorn apart, as if the trunk had been struck by lightning or a powerful blow of a giant’s axe.

So grim was the state of the oak that Oberon was alarmed. He glanced this way and that and guided his elves on their coursers to circle around at a distance. They all gazed at the fallen tree and wondered what could have happened.

“That’s him,” Tomkin said, bounding near. As was the way of his kind, he’d chosen to run rather than to ride into battle.

“It would seem so.”

“But the fleshy part is missing,” Tomkin said, bounding up onto the shattered trunk of the tree, closer than any of the elves had dared to go.

He stood upon the shoulder of the tree, its highest remaining branch, and stared into the open bole.

“Looks like a wound—but he’s not here. Just a desperate stink and a dark stain.”

“Could he have been burned out?”

“I don’t think so.”

A third member joined them. It was Gudrin, and she was panting from her ride. Her face was flushed, making the scars on her bald scalp stand out like furious red stripes.

“I’ll make sure,” she said, and she began to scale the tree.

Shamed by the woman’s comparative bravery, Oberon launched himself from the saddle. He helped the Queen mount the arm of the dead monster, and soon they stood together looking into the depths of the tree.

Both wrinkled their noses in disgust.

Oberon opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say a word a gush of flame erupted from Gudrin’s outstretched hand. The flame flared bright and cleansed the foulness from the heart of the dead oak.

“You might warn a fellow,” complained Tomkin as he hopped quickly away.

Gudrin said nothing. Her face was grim, but also lit with dark pleasure as she shot flame into the hole which had been Myrrdin’s home for months.

When they returned to the ground, the fourth and most important member of their company arrived. They lowered their eyes in respect.

“I smell burnt wood and filth,” Morgana said, eying them each in turn. She turned her eyes up to the tree last. “Did you have to kill him?”

“He was not there, milady,” Tomkin said.

The other two exchanged worried glances.

Tomkin, who was new to Morgana’s army, did not know what to expect. Oberon winced as a hard blow fell. Tomkin squeaked as a line of blood appeared on his cheek.

Morgana withdrew her quirt. Her eyes were furious, and she circled her steed, ranting at them as if they were errant children.

“What curse has fallen upon my brow? I’ve been saddled with three who can wield a Jewel but can’t face a single madman? Did he frighten you? Did you let him go so you could scratch one another’s arses?”

“No milady,” mumbled Oberon.

“Then, pray tell, what excuse do you offer?”

Before any of them could answer her, the ground under their feet moved. It was an unsettling feeling, as if they stood upon a carpet and a giant had just laid hands upon the nap of it and jerked it from under them.

Gudrin fell flat upon her face. Morgana’s horse staggered and went down on one knee, dumping her onto the forest floor. Oberon and Tomkin, being well-balanced sorts, bent their legs and swayed with their arms outstretched.

Around them the forest fell quiet for a moment, then a litany of complaints arose from every elf rider in the area.

Oberon offered a hand to Morgana, who took it and stood up. He expected a fresh rage—a rant with a humiliating beating at the end of it for each of them—but it did not come.

Her eyes were instead wide with alarm. She looked around her, and as if for the first time. At last her eyes found the Great Tree and she stared at the seeming wall of wood that rose up nearby.

“What’s this then?” she asked in a hushed voice. “What is that which towers over me? It has vines…as thick as trees themselves.”

Gudrin grunted to her feet and advanced to the strange wooden wall. “It’s bark,” she said. “So old and dark, it seems impossibly thick. Thicker than the wall of stone that encloses the Earthlight. Thicker than the stone hide of Snowdon herself.”

Both women were no longer approaching the wood wall and the vines. Instead, they were backing away, and looking upward.

Tomkin and Oberon soon joined them, and all four craned their necks back to an impossible angle as they traced the Great Tree upward to observe the distant, nearly invisible crown. The highest leaves and branches seemed to touch the sky itself.

* * *

Myrrdin was having difficulty implanting himself in the tree. It was all so fresh, sappy and unorganized. The tree was a chaotic mess.  Half its mass seemed to be vines while the rest made up of immature shoots that would one day grow into thick, bark-covered limbs.  Now they were a shiny dark green speckled with brown.

On the long way up to the crown, he’d seen many problems. There was already a colony of giant ants, each as big as a sheepdog, living in the hollow guts of the tree. There were splits and holes everywhere in the bark and the wood. The structure wasn’t thick enough yet to move, but he’d forced it to do so. When he’d caused tremors of motion to run down the trunk and rip up the fresh roots that surrounded the ancient stump, he’d caused a great deal of damage to the fledgling tree.

He wept for the Great Tree. To him, it was a natural beauty unlike any other in the history of the world. But he’d had no choice. He’d been forced to make his love move now, before she was ready. If the tree could withstand movement without collapsing of its own colossal weight, he’d rejoice. He urged it to walk and wondered what it would look like from the ground, tottering over the forest floor. Truly, it would resemble a living god.

Carefully, tentatively, he ripped loose one massive root after another. The worst part would be the dismount. The fresh-grown tree had intertwined itself with the stump of its sire, and disconnecting the two would have been a tricky business even if the tree had been mature, which it was not.

“There’s something wrong,” he told Ivor, who had crept into the cool green gloom of the tree’s interior with him. “Go find out what’s stinging my bark and tender branches.”

Ivor looked out of the cracks in the trunk with wide eyes. “Out there? Where do I look? What me looking for?”

“For something hot, you idiot!” shouted Myrrdin. He rued the day he’d ever met up with this dolt. The ogre was useless.

“We talking about the elves? Are the elves burning you?”

“No, I don’t think so. Go out there and climb on the exterior bark. Look upward, I sense a stinging sensation of heat at the crown.”

Licking his thick lips, the ogre did as his uncle had instructed. He crawled on all fours to the nearest opening and peered outward.

“Don’t see nothing.”

“Get out there and circle the trunk! Check in every direction—it’s getting worse!”

Myrrdin was only just beginning to drive his nerves through the Great Tree, interconnecting its flesh with his. Even as he did this, the tree in turn drove sensory probes of wood into his body. The pain was excruciating.

“Uncle?”

Myrrdin forced his eyelids to flutter open. Sweat ran down into his eyes, stinging them.

“Why are you here?” Myrrdin croaked. “Why aren’t you finding the problem? I’ve had enough, I will pluck you free of my body as an ape would a tick. You will be pulped by my branches, and good riddance!”

“Uncle? I think I know what’s hurtin’.”

“Then speak!”

“That dragon-guy. The one in the cage. He’s spitting fire out again into your branches. He seems angry.”

Myrrdin sighed and closed his eyes again. The dragon, of course. He’d been worried it was Gudrin casting bolts of fire with her Jewel. But he hadn’t thought she could reach so high, and he’d been right. It was the dragon, forgotten in its cage, causing mischief.

At last, he nodded and gasped for air. “Very well, I will bargain with him. I can’t afford any more distractions. I need him to stop, and I don’t care to keep him any longer.”

“Can I open the cage then?”

“Yes, but first tell him he must carry a message. He must swear upon his father Fafnir’s bones to fly to Riverton and tell Brand that several of those wielding Jewels have united forces. I don’t think I can do battle with them yet. My new body is too fragile, and I’m too weak. I must flee. But whether I escape or not, the alliance will turn on him next. They will destroy those they can’t conquer.”

Ivor nodded his head, bobbing it up and down rapidly. “Dragon free, go to Brand, destroy everything. Yeah, got it.”

Myrrdin shook his head, glancing at the idiot. He doubted he could manage the task. But no matter what happened, he would be free of the dragon’s hissing breath and this odorous ogre.

“Come back to tell me if the dragon agrees to the deal.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

He was gone. Myrrdin continued to rip loose one root at a time, freeing each of the seventeen deep taproots that surrounded the ancient stump and buried themselves in the soft deep loam of the Erm. Each root he tore loose caused him great discomfort. It was like giving birth to dozens of young at once. The pain was terrible.

A few minutes later, the searing jolts of pain in his upper body subsided. A minute after that, a crashing sound filled the bole of the tree. Myrrdin looked around himself in alarm.

“What’s this?” he demanded.

Ivor was astride the Black dragon’s back. It made for an unlikely scene: a slack-jawed ogre riding a young, angry dragon.

Myrrdin had grown his tree with cunning and foresight. He had shaped the central region with a system of cracks and slits all around the trunk through which he could see, although it was far from perfect. Like loopholes in a stone tower, he was able to crawl about in his central stronghold and gaze out at the world. There were even cracks big enough to allow entry by creatures he wanted to hold counsel with, and it was through one of these gaps that the dragon and Ivor crept now.

“I see you,” said the dragon, taking in the internal bole of the tree at a glance. “You are weak, wizard. It will be a joy to burn you away, like cooking a grub inside a hollow log.”

“Hold on,” complained Ivor. “You said you would fly for us if I let you out!”

“Indeed I did,” said the dragon thoughtfully. “What a conundrum! If I kill you both right now, I will have dishonored myself—but it would be so pleasurable. Is the joy of a single moment, an orgy of hot destruction, worth the stain of being labeled vile and vicious for a thousand generations?”

“There is more at stake than your honor,” Myrrdin said.

“There certainly is. There is my pleasure to think about as well.”

“Short-sighted, hot-blooded fool,” Myrrdin sputtered.

“Have a care, oldster.”

“I’m talking about the growth of a power that even the Wurms of the earth can’t ignore. You must understand that one of our number has the Sunstone. In its way, it is the most powerful of the Jewels. It, like no other, can command minds. Even if the owners of those minds possess great power in their own right.”

“Yes, I can see the problem. But I’m not sure how it will impinge upon my life. I’ll fly away and hunt for fresh game in a different corner of the world until this new cancer burns itself out.”

“It may not do so. It may gather in power until all the Jewels—or at least the majority of them—are under the control of a single witch. If she manages this, you’ll be hunted down, just as I’m being persecuted now. No powerful being will escape. You might be able to fight with the Axeman when you are full grown, but no one and nothing can defeat all the Jewels together!”

Fafna looked thoughtful. “You pose an interesting point. You’re saying this witch is a threat even to me. That if her lust for total power continues, she’ll have to come after my kind eventually.”

“Exactly.”

“But what if you win, old woodworm? Who will take up the White Jewel in her stead?”

“Hopefully no one. But does it matter? It is in your best interest to help the wielders of the Jewels to destroy one another. If nothing else, it should warm your ashen heart.”

The dragon was not yet unconvinced. “What is your interest in alerting the Haven? The humans are no more your kin than are the elves. Why take sides?”

“You’re correct, I do not love either side. But I hate my father Oberon far more than I hate Brand. He put me under the earth for long years. I would not see him on the winning side in a grand conflict. In fact, if the rest gather together to oppose Morgana and her lackeys, we might yet bring them down. Perhaps my roots will crush him into the mud during his final moments.”

The dragon nodded. “Hatred,” he said, “A pure and reasonable emotion. Very well, I’ll do it. Climb down, stinking ogre. I have a lot of flying to do.”

Myrrdin raised one thin, pale finger. “Take the ogre with you. Brand knows him, and he knows the Haven.”

The dragon swiveled its head on its serpentine neck to observe the ogre for a moment, who waggled his fingers in greeting. Fafna wrinkled her nostrils, but she finally agreed. With a thunderous clapping of leathery wings, she flew out of the hollow in the tree and flapped away into the sky.

At that point, Myrrdin was feeling a new discomfort. Someone or something was singeing his distant feet now. The sensation grew and grew until he found himself howling in searing pain.

He gathered his strength and began the final movement. It was time to dismount from the ancient stump. The Great Tree about to be reborn.

* * *

Oberon, Tomkin and Gudrin stood in confusion at the foot of the tree. They saw the roots writhe and wondered how such a monstrosity could be defeated.

“It is too late,” said Tomkin. “We should flee now and look for a weakness from a distance.”

“Ever it is with Wee Folk,” Oberon said. “Their first thought is of running to save their tiny hides.”

“What would you suggest then?”

“An orderly withdrawal. My elves will pull back and fire arrows at those gaps high above. Perhaps Myrrdin is inside one of them. We can end this now with a lucky shot.”

Tomkin made a rude noise. “That sounds like running off to me. I’ll bet—”

“What utter nonsense,” said Gudrin, interrupting the others. She stared at them with baleful eyes. “I’ll show you what needs doing. There’s never been a tree that I couldn’t scorch.”

So saying, she extended her finger and fired a lance of rippling heat. The roots trembled, then began to squirm.

“Everyone back!” she cried. “Out of the way!”

The flames that had begun as a bright shimmer along her sleeve turned into a gush which covered her entire body. The finger-like lance of fire that was tickling the roots of the Great Tree transformed into a flood of brilliant heat. Like a gout of dragonfire, the lance had thickened into a conical plume and splashed over the roots.

The vines engulfing the tree swiftly turned into hissing clumps of crisped black matter and fell away. The roots themselves, exposed to the intense heat, cracked and split, making a singing noise as they released smoke and blackened.

Again, the ground shook under all of them. But this time, the earthquake was a dozen times as powerful as before.

The Great Tree tottered, as if it were about to fall. Everyone scrambled back, screeching in fear. Even Gudrin withdrew her fiery hand and scuttled away, her body still covered in chasing flames.

The tree righted itself with a groaning sound. A tremendous series of pops went off like explosions. The mass that had grown upon its ancestor now shifted on its own, breaking connections with the old wood. No longer was the Great Tree fused to its parent stump. It was able to move on its own churning roots.

The elven coursers had fled to a safe distance of several hundred yards or more. They fired arrows at the tree, watching them thud into the thick bark with no noticeable effect.

“Fall back!” shouted Oberon, waving his arms wildly. “Do not engage the monster yet!”

“What about us?” demanded Tomkin, clearly wishing to fall back farther.

“Here,” said Oberon, handing him a long rope.

“What’s this? It looks heavy. You don’t expect me to hold onto that, do you?”

“Just carry it. Wrap it around the base of the tree. With enough men, we can pull it off balance and capture it.”

Tomkin looked at the rope incredulously. “You’re mad!” he said. “I’m not going to circle that monster with a rope—you do it!”

Oberon turned to the manling with a scowl. He made ready to shout at him, but a soft voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Oberon?” said Morgana gently. “Tomkin’s right. I want you to carry the rope around the tree. He will run upon the safer path.”

“But…milady…”

“Get going!”

Oberon sprang forward and threw one end of the rope to Tomkin, who caught it with a sneer. The old elf began to run carrying the coil of rope. He didn’t bother with taking a mount. They were all nearly panicked anyway by the tree. A horse would have slowed him down, requiring more time to make the circuit.

As he ran, paying out the fine elf-rope behind him, he had a chance to wonder what it was that had truly caused him to find himself in this situation. He could not remember why he was taking orders from the witch—he just was. This bothered him as he leapt over one heaving root after another, dodging tubers and rattling leaves.

Why was he doing this? It seemed insane. Any credible elf would have laughed off Morgana’s wishes and vanished into the forest long ago. Morgana…her kind was good only for a quick bedding, then it was out the window and through the wood. Why did he continue to pine away for her, to dote on her every desire, to…

He rounded the tree again, dodging a particularly violent nest of thrashing roots. He was almost all the way around and back to the others. As he came near them, his head began to clear. Thoughts of abandoning his promises to the witch died in his mind. They seemed silly, in fact.

Deny Morgana her due? Take a blade to her throat? Such ideas! Where had they come from? Was it this accursed tree? If so, Myrrdin was more powerful than he thought and he must be cut out from this horror of wood and burned in the fire like a lump of pulsating cancer.

“You’ve circled it?” asked Tomkin with obvious incredulity.

“I have.”

“Well, tie it off, man! Nothing can break elf-rope!”

And so Oberon made it fast. He tied it to the largest thing he could find, a log a hundred yards long. He managed to crawl beneath the tree and encircle it near the base where the roots widened it. There could be no escape for Myrrdin now. They’d given him a ball and chain.

It was not a moment too soon. The Great Tree was in full motion now. It had broken free of its roots, tubers, smoking vines and wooden fusions. Now, tottering on the forest floor, it gouged the earth with black stripes where the dozens of its root-feet churned and heaved.

The rope paid out and out—then snapped taut. The tree lurched and the log on the ground moved—then stopped.

The elves, Tomkin and even Gudrin cheered. Morgana stepped out from safety and smiled at them appreciatively. It did Oberon’s heart good to see that his mistress was pleased! There was no finer reward than that.

But then the rope slackened, coiling on the ground. An elf warrior raced forward, seeing that it might fall from its anchor.

“Hold, Viran!” Oberon said, but the other had already laid hands upon the thin gray rope, which was slick to the touch but stronger than a spider’s silk.

Suddenly, the Great Tree heaved with renewed vigor. It was as if the malevolent creature that drove the tree had waited for this precise instant—perhaps, thought Oberon, he had.

The rope snapped taut again, and sliced both the elf Viran and his mount in twain. The two bodies flapped before falling still on the forest floor. Growls of rage came up from the elves and from Oberon’s throat as well. They drew blades and advanced toward the tree, which seemed weaker now it was tethered.

“Hold!” shouted Morgana.

As one, the elves wheeled their mounts to her call.

“It could be another trick. He’s up there, and he wants us to come near.”

The Great Tree stood motionless. If Oberon had not witnessed it walking, he would not have believed it possible. He would have declared anyone claiming to have seen the tree walking to be raving mad.

They watched and milled about uncomfortably. Finally, the tree lost patience. It returned with ponderous steps, and they retreated before it.

An amazing thing happened then. The tree bent forward, and limbs that had previously been hidden by the leafy growths that covered the monster reached down. They felt for the rope and the tree it was tied to.

“Let us hack away its limbs!” shouted Oberon.

“I shall burn the right flank,” said Gudrin, her hands running with flame again. “Oberon, keep your elves to the left.”

Oberon nodded to Gudrin, then looked toward Morgana for approval. She gave him a short nod and the group charged, howling.

Tomkin, for his part, stood upon the fallen log that was the tree’s anchor and began to pump his tiny fists in the air. A peal of thunder rang out, and everyone in the forest knew the Rainbow was marching here swiftly from whatever dark corner of the universe it was summoned.

As they closed with it and began hacking and burning, the tree reacted like a blind giant. It thrashed at them with wild strokes of its lower branches. Often, these hammer blows fell on nothing but air, or occasionally scooped up earth and threw it in a dark mass. Once in a while an elf and his horse were caught and either crushed down, or swept up by a branch and thrown in a screaming, flying spin high into the air. When at last they crashed down, none of them moved again.

The battle was strange and incoherent, but it did rage for a full minute before the Rainbow arrived. When at last the shimmering giant came close to the tree it had been called to war upon, the two regarded each other with surprise.

As tall and imposing as the Rainbow was, it was like a child facing a towering man. For some reason, the tree seemed to be able to see the Rainbow, while the other smaller folk around it were invisible.

The tree reached out with a dozen limbs and gripped the Rainbow’s glimmering flesh. The struggle was brief and horrible. The tree tore the Rainbow asunder, tossing gibbets of multi-hued gels and bubbling flesh this way and that. Limbs were torn loose and heaved in spinning, dripping masses.

The Rainbow only had time to give one awful howl of death, before it was overcome and destroyed. Still, even in its short period of existence, it had scarred the tree. There were black spots where the lightning-filled hands had gripped it, and two branches had been plucked free and thrown to the ground. Each of these was as big around as a full-sized tree in the Haven.

“NO MORE!” roared a voice.

Every elf cringed and clutched their ears when they heard it. The sound was as deafening and full of malice as an avalanche coming down the side of Snowdon itself. None there had any doubt they’d heard Myrrdin’s voice, somehow amplified to a level suitable for his new body.

The tree bent then and ripped at the log that held it. If the elf-rope was unbreakable, the fallen log was not. Huge chunks of white tree-flesh flew in every direction. Myrrdin beat his fists blindly on the log until it shattered and was utterly destroyed.

Then he turned and ran. The coursers picked themselves up and stared for a shocked moment before giving chase.

Hunting horns were lifted to white lips and given wind. The wailed and warbled, calling back those who had fled earlier. Soon, the entire party was in full gallop, following the rampaging monster.

Oberon went with the rest, grinning ear-to-ear. He had no idea how they were going to bring down this titan, but he was game and willing to try.

Chapter Fifteen

The Walking Tower

Myrrdin soon found his stride and outdistanced his pursuers. He was only moving at a fast walk—but when one’s numerous legs are fifty-feet or more long, the pace is surprising. Like a strange, tall centipede the Great Tree scuttled over the forest floor. The only thing that slowed him down were other trees. At first, these were a problem. The largest trees in the Great Erm were as big as Myrrdin’s new body. But soon he left the biggest behind and was able to wade through the smaller growths like a man in a pond.

His eyes were not at the crown, as a man’s should be. His human form, ensconced like a worm in a rotted hole, was in the mid-section of the trunk. When he finally broke free of the tallest growths, his vision was infinitely enhanced. Instead of seeing nothing but branches and leaves, he could see over the tops of the dark green canopy and his navigation became easier.

Following the path he’d taken when he’d first taken flight from the elf village wasn’t difficult. The Erm was fast-growing, but the trail of damage was still there to be seen. The sea of green had been disturbed in a noticeable pattern—a nearly straight path leading south.

He followed the path and marched as swiftly as he was able. At first, the stinging sensations of his pursuers plagued him. A dozen tiny cuts, burns and stabbing needles goaded his flailing roots. He longed to turn at bay and sweep them away with great scoops of his branches—but he didn’t dare try it yet.

His control of the tree was far from perfect. It was like riding a young horse that had yet to be broken to the saddle. It bucked and twitched, making random movements that shook the branches and rattled the leaves. Worse, the structure of the tree itself was not sound. It was too young for this and the bark had already fractured in a dozen places. Like a sapling cut and used as hardwood, the wood was green and liable to snap if he pushed it too far. Just running from his pursuers put undue stress on the monster he’d so lovingly grown. Thinking about that caused a tear to roll down his dirty face, as he loved this tree as he did nothing else in the universe—save for Vaul itself.

At last, however, after an hour had passed, he no longer felt the sting of the lash from behind. His hunters had been left in the distance. He was certain they were still pursuing him, of course. They could hardly lose their way, as he was cutting a swathe as wide as a river through the forest.

But Myrrdin had a burning hope. His hope was a dark thing, a fantasy that should not be harbored in the mind of any sane man: He hoped the elves had left their children behind. He hoped the weakest, the sick, the injured and the helpless were still in the village. Upon them he would exact revenge. At least they could not flee, nor could they drive him off. He would do what he could to exterminate a generation of Oberon’s folk.

When he reached the village at last, he did not bother to attempt stealth—it would have been impossible in any case. His body was so large, so thunderously loud, only a stone would not know of its coming.

Since subtlety was impossible, he did the next best thing: he charged. His roots churned at an increased pace. He could feel the worn bark peeling away, revealing the white wood beneath, but he did not care. He lusted for a trickle of elfblood on his outstretched branches.

He slammed into the outer wall of the village, smelling the stink of burning flesh as he did so. This last surprised him. Was that pork and burnt fur? Disgusting. How the elves had changed. They’d become degenerates. Well, he’d soon fix the matter.

The wall went down like a fence of dry, woven sticks. It snapped and was ground down into the mud as the fantastic weight of the tree passed over it.

With maniacal glee, Myrrdin trod upon the fresh-grown mushroom huts. He stomped each, popping it like a balloon. There was nothing left standing within a minute of his arrival.

With the easy work finished, he paused and tried to listen. He knew there must be survivors—there must be! There were always a few that crawled from the wreckage and sought to save their miserable skins. The key to this phase of his rampage was to listen for them—to hear their cries and tiny, pleading voices. This would bring joy to him and swift destruction to those that begged for mercy.

The tree didn’t have ears of carved wood, of course. And his own ears were too far from the ground to hear a squeaking voice at his feet. But when growing the Great Tree, he’d taken these things into account. It wouldn’t do to be deaf as well as blind to smaller beings. He’d laid hollow tubers from the bottom of the trunk up to the center, up to his chamber from which he drove it. The ends of these tubers flared and worked as speaking tubes. By scuttling around inside the trunk and listening closely to each of the tubers in turn, he was able to hear quite clearly what was going on at his feet.

He did this now, crawling from tube to tube. There were eleven in all, and this took some time. But after two circuits, listening for half a minute at each, he lost patience. There were no cries. No screams, no desperate pleas for mercy and deliverance.

Myrrdin grew sour. What was the meaning of this? Had he been cheated of his due? Were there truly no elf dead at his feet?

He caused the tree to bend and reach low with its lowest limbs. The branches scratched up a dozen crushed mushrooms and other debris. Warily, he lifted these up to his loopholes and examined the wreckage carefully.

Vast disappointment soon filled him. He’d destroyed an empty village. Not a soul remained. Could Oberon have been so insightful as to foresee this possibility? Although he was loath to admit it, the facts were plain. The enemy had escaped him.

He loosed a howl of rage. He caused the tree to rotate slowly around, looking for something—anything he could do to discomfit Oberon.

He crept to the very edge of his gloomy domain and peered down at the village from every possible angle. There was nothing worthy of note. Destroyed mushrooms—so what? They could grow new ones in a fortnight. The elves cared little for possessions in any regard. They were nomadic, and would simply build a new home in some other quiet vale Myrrdin would never find.

It was enough to drive him mad. He’d almost given up and wandered off, knowing the hunting party might not be far behind, when he saw something notable and paused.

Was that a small, young tree? Just there, to the west of the village proper. It was unlike anything else in view, as it wasn’t oversized. Saplings did grow in the Erm, of course. But they were unusual and generally cropped up in groves. This was a lone, young tree. A poplar tree, by the look of it.

Myrrdin strode toward the growth and took hold of it by the crown. He grinned as he did so. Here, at least, was something the elves had planted and hopefully held dear.

He pulled then, and the tree came up like a carrot ripped from the earth. It popped as it came up—he heard the sound clearly in his listening-tubes.

Myrrdin frowned. A tree should not pop when one pulled it loose. It might crack, or rattle—but not pop.

He thoughtfully lifted the tree, handing it from one branch to another all the way up his trunk. Dirt dribbled from the roots and showered his body with sand and twigs, but he ignored this.

When at last he had the tree up to his eye level, he crept forth to his slits to examine it.

The top of the tree was nothing unusual. It was like a thousand others along the bank of the Berrywine. But the roots…

There was something there, at the base of the trunk, something that dangled like a bladder. In fact, it was dribbling liquid as he watched.

He lifted the tree higher and examined its snaggled nest of roots. There, in the middle of the mass, was a pod of sorts.

For a long moment, Myrrdin frowned at the pod. Then, suddenly, he knew. This was a prison like the one he’d been kept in for so, so long. At specially-grown bladder of some sort.

It was translucent, and he thought he could see something squirming inside. Curious and filled with an unusual daring, Myrrdin used his own body to creep closer still. He extended a hand with a blade gripped in his bony fingers. With eyes gleaming, he cut open the bladder that hung from the uprooted poplar.

A shower of dark burgundy liquid gushed out. A putrid odor met his nose, causing him to retreat.

“What sorcery is this?” he muttered.

Inside the bladder, as the liquid drained away and fell to shower the dead village at the base of the Great Tree, a figure squirmed.

Myrrdin almost caused the branches to drop the tree. It would have been an easy thing to do. The entire affair was disgusting, and possibly dangerous. It was even conceivable that his sire had left this thing here to intrigue him and spring some kind of trap upon him—but that did seem unlikely.

At last, he reached out and gripped a hand he saw hanging from the empty bladder. He tugged, and it slid free.

To his surprise, Trev lay at his feet. He had to drag the boy farther into the bole lest he fall to his death.

Myrrdin stood over the youth with his hands on his hips. His lips worked and squirmed with indecision. Trev appeared to be unconscious. It would have been an easy thing to kick him out of the tree; to let him fall to a quiet death with his kin. That might have been a final message to Oberon.

But he paused. It was not pity, exactly, that stayed his hand. True, the boy had suffered the same fate as Myrrdin himself had. He’d doubtlessly been tricked and abused by Oberon. Myrrdin urged himself to be hard of heart. Nephew or not, he wasn’t a comrade, merely a tool to be used.

After standing over Trev for a full minute, he grunted in annoyance and pulled him deeper into the gloom of the central chamber.

Perhaps the boy knew something. He’d sent him to Oberon with orders to return with a report, and he would hear that report, by damn! Even if he had to revive the youth and nurse him back to health, he wanted to know what his spy had learned.

* * *

Several days later Ivor rode a dragon in the skies, soaring over Castle Rabing.

An alarm sounded and every guard was called to man the walls. A dragon had not been sighted in the skies over the Haven in a century or more, and nothing struck fear into the hearts of brave men like a puff of flame dribbled from the jaws of such a predator.

When the beast came lower and thus closer to the eye, the impressions were mixed. The beast was not large, but it did have an ogre riding on its back. An ogre! What a shock that was!

Brand called out his guardsmen and had them wind back the javelins in their ballista. Nothing else could reach so high and bring such monsters down.

The garrison had been on high alert in any case, frightened by whispers on the marches that armies were brewing in the Deepwood and beyond. No one knew how Morgana would attack, but this visitation from above looked like it could be nothing else.

“Take careful aim!” roared Brand to his gunners. “When it dives, you’ll only get off a shot or two before it burns us. If you miss when it makes its run, hide below. The dragon looks young and probably doesn’t have enough flame in its belly to fill the entire tower.”

The men looked terrified, but determined. Among them all, only Brand had ever seen a dragon, much less faced one in battle. He wasn’t running, so they would not shame themselves before him.

In the end, it was one of the Wee Folk who saved the day, preventing a dreadful misunderstanding. When the dragon dropped lower over the castle, approaching cautiously from above, Brand was about to order the ballistae to fire, but a messenger bounded up the ramparts to the walls, screeching his name.

“Lord Rabing! Brand! Wait!”

In annoyance, Brand turned to see who called to him. It was not Tomkin, but another of his kind who he barely recognized. After a moment he knew who it was: Sophie, one of the Wee Folk who’d long ago been the midwife to his twin girls. He hadn’t realized she was in living in the wooded corner of his castle lands.

On his back, the Axe stirred restlessly. It smelled battle and wanted to be part of it. He knew that if he took the weapon into his hands, he’d surely order the dragon to be shot down—and he might even split this Wee One in twain as well, just for spite.

“Hold your fire,” he called out to the crew, “the dragon is coming down slowly enough. What are you saying, Sophie? Speak quickly, or hold your peace.”

“A fine greeting for an old friend,” she complained.

“I know you, and Telyn and I still love you, but this is battle. Tell me why I should allow this threat to come closer.”

“Glad to see you recognize me at least. You must not shoot the dragon, Brand. Ivor rides the thing’s back. Kaavi sent me to beg you to hold your fire.”

“Ivor?” Brand said, squinting up into the sky. “My eyes are keen enough, and I can see a shape rides the monster’s back. But how can you be so sure that’s Ivor himself? Doesn’t one ogre look like another?”

“Not to its auntie, milord,” Sophie said, laughing. “And I might remind you that many among the Shining Folk have better eyesight than any human yet born.”

“Hmmm,” Brand muttered. “Tell me what you see then. Is that Ivor up there?”

Sophie squinted up into the blue sky. “I could not swear to it, but I would believe Kaavi.”

Brand heaved a sigh and ordered his men to stand down. They grumbled and cranked their weapons to half-draw. With stern eyes and unsmiling faces, they watched as the ogre landed his dragon at the border of the wooded corner and dismounted. He gave the folk who surrounded him in a wide circle a cheery wave.

“That does look like Ivor,” Brand muttered.

He called for a horse and cantered swiftly toward the spot. Sophie bounded along beside him, keeping up easily enough.

“I’m going to give that ogre a thrashing,” Brand complained. “He’s a fool, and a public menace. It was only by the grace of a Wee One’s swift feet he didn’t die today.”

“Don’t go hard on the lad, Lord Rabing,” Sophie said. “His heart is in the right place, even if his brain is like a stone in a leather sack.”

Brand chuckled at that, and soon they were close to the two monsters. The dragon turned him a malevolent eye. Brand was stricken immediately by the intellect he saw there. Dragons always disquieted men. They were entirely unlike our own race, but had excellent minds. The combination was very disturbing to meet in person.

“Name yourself, dragon!” Brand cried.

“I am Fafna, daughter of Fafnir,” said the dragon. Many of the men present gasped to hear the monster speak and as well to hear its lineage.

Brand’s mouth opened, then closed again. He himself had struck off the head of this creature’s mother. How could he expect anything but hostility from it now?

“Well met,” Brand said loudly. “I’m surprised by your visit, but I hope you’ve come to lend aid.”

“Aid?” the dragon said. It seemed puzzled by the concept of lending another a hand, as if it had never considered the possibility. “I’m here to defeat what is coming. I’m here because I fear not to be.”

Brand nodded, understanding the statement. The dragon was not an ally—not exactly. But when a great enough threat was revealed, comrades were made out of those who would otherwise be mortal enemies.

“Good enough,” he said. “Mind not to burn anything down except invaders, and we shall all get along.”

“BRAND!” roared Ivor, spotting him at last. He’d been hugging his tiny aunt up until this point. He set Kaavi down and Brand watched her stagger and gasp. Then the ogre charged him, coming so close, so fast, that Brand’s horse shied and whinnied in fear.

Brand dismounted and clapped the ogre. The stink of the creature overwhelmed him. He felt as if he’d walked into the barracks after a summer’s day of maneuvers on the fields around the castle.

Coughing and withdrawing to a safe distance, Brand managed a smile. Ivor’s enthusiasm in all things was legendary. He was as friendly as a big dog with those he knew and loved, but in battle—there he was a thing apart. He went as mad when faced with enemies as Brand himself did in the grip of the Axe.

“It’s good to have you back home, Ivor,” he said. “Where’ve you been these last years?”

“In the elf village.”

“In the Great Erm?”

“Yeah. With the really big trees. Boring there. Lately, I’ve been living with my Uncle. He’s a big tree. Kinda funny.”

“Your Uncle?” Brand said, staring at him with narrowed eyes. “What’s his name then?”

“Myrr…um, Miry…”

“Do you mean Myrrdin?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

Brand nodded, thinking about it. Of course… Myrrdin was Oberon’s son, and Ivor was the child of Tegan, Myrrdin’s sister, which would make Ivor Myrrdin’s nephew. If ever he met the wizard again, he thought he’d bring it up. Having an ogre for a nephew must annoy the old buzzard.

* * *

The Castle and all its inhabitants worked hard and prepared for the worst. Nearly a week had passed since Ivor’s homecoming, and no one had seen any sign of Myrrdin or Morgana and her elves. Were they out there, gathering minds to their banner somewhere in Cymru? Or was the march already underway?

Brand had little doubt they would come here to confront him. The only other realistic option was to attack Riverton, and he didn’t think they’d try it. Stone Island wasn’t going to be an easy target for a large force. Corbin was commanding the militia there, and they had the only mound carefully watched.

The problem for the enemy would be their moment of arrival at the mound itself. If they did dare to begin marching out of the Twilight Lands onto the Riverton Commons, they’d have to come in a long line. They’d be vulnerable as they appeared, presenting only a few soldiers at a time who could be cut down with ease. It would be as if they walked through a narrow mountain pass into an ambush.

No, they needed time to pass from their world into the Haven, then assemble their army in secret before striking out across land to their target. Again under that circumstance, Stone Island would be hard to take. Most of the shoreline was rocky cliffs. The Berrywine ran swiftly on both sides as well.

He was almost certain they’d come to Castle Rabing instead. Here, there was plenty of open land in the region to get organized. More importantly, all the wielders of the Jewels were here. It was clear Morgana wanted to capture their minds above all else.

It was a strange army he’d gathered to meet this new threat. His usual allies were absent, and were in fact on the opposite side. Gudrin and Tomkin, his most loyal friends, were both under the witch’s spell. He hoped he would not be forced to slay either of them before this war was done.

Instead of the Kindred, his walls were lined with men in flapping blue cloaks, intermixed with a wide variety of the Fae. Brand had bolstered his thin castle garrison with a motley collection of the Faerie from his wooded corner. There were scattered Wee Folk, elves and ogres. Most startling was the dragon itself, who circled overhead casting a fleeting shadow upon anyone it passed over. Men ducked when the shadow flickered over them, as if expecting a great stone to fall down on their heads.

Old Hob, for his part, had vanished. Although they’d supposedly had an alliance, he had not reappeared thus far with troops of his own. Brand figured he’d probably been abandoned by the ancient goblin, but it was hard to tell. He hoped that the Lavender Jewel hadn’t somehow fallen into the hands of his enemy.

Likewise, Trev was missing and presumed dead. Myrrdin was nowhere to be seen, either. He’d sent Ivor and the dragon to warn him, but hadn’t appeared himself. Brand didn’t know what it meant, but it could not be good.

The skies darkened on the eighth day after the dragon had brought Ivor home. Brand watched the clouds as he watched everything else. He was relieved when they began to rain. Usually, when the Rainbow was summoned, the storm that came with it was windy, but dry.

What did come under those clouds was a shock. At first, it seemed that one of the mountains from around Snowdon was moving closer. But the shape of it was wrong. It was much too tall, too steep.

“It’s not a mountain,” Slet said at his side on the walls. “It’s a tower!”

Brand looked at the necromancer, then back at the distant shambling shape. He peered at it, putting his hand up to shield his eyes.

All around the castle the alarm had gone up. Men beat on bells and drums. Pounding feet and jingling mail could be heard everywhere. At least his garrison was alert.

Brand turned back to the approaching monster. He thought he knew what it was then.

“It’s Myrrdin,” he said, “see the leafy crown at the top? Up at the base of that low cloud?”

“A tree?” asked Slet in disbelief. “A single, gigantic tree? And it walks? I thought I was a devil.”

“Don’t count yourself out on that score.”

Puck, who stood near a table covered in maps, grinned at Brand’s comment. The grin was a ghastly parody of life, and the fact that he’d managed to amuse one of the Dead did nothing for the Axeman’s mood.

“Do you think he’s really on our side, Brand?” Slet asked. “If he isn’t, I don’t think there’s much we can do to stop him. He’ll knock down these walls like a man kicking aside mounds of sand.”

“I guess you’re right. We’ll have to prepare for the worst.”

Brand marched out and called the captain of his guard. He gave orders to fill the catapults with burning shot and to prepare the ballistae to shoot fire as well.

“What if it’s not enough?” Slet asked. He’d followed Brand and continued to do so, despite Brand’s pointed lack of interest.

Brand finally turned to the man and frowned at him. “Then I’ll have to cut it down myself. I do wield an Axe, after all.”

The guardsmen who were in range of hearing laughed roughly and beat their fists on their shields in appreciation of Brand’s bravado. They, too, had been nervous about what might befall them over the next hour.

While his garrison readied for battle, Brand went to Fafna, who crouched on the roof of the keep, and talked to her.

“Would you be so kind as to fly me out to that tree?”

“Whatever for?”

“I wish to entreat with its master—the wizard in its guts.”

Fafna looked miserable in the rain. Steam rose off her furled wings, and each raindrop that landed upon her scales hissed and turned immediately into gray vapor.

“You do realize that wizard kept me captive for weeks? I’d love to burn him—I’d love it almost more than life itself.”

“I feel similarly. But I need to know if he is hostile or friendly. How can I parlay with him otherwise?”

With a grunt of displeasure, the dragon allowed him to mount and then she launched into the air.

It was a shocking experience. Except for certain long, dangerous falls, Brand had never flown in the air before. He was alarmed and his guts thrilled within him. He wanted to shriek with terror, whoop with joy, and vomit, all at the same time.

The ground moved away sickeningly below him, and he soon learned not to look down at the world which spread out below. It was better to stare ahead at the tottering tree. He had to reach it before it made it to his new stone walls. He was under the impression it would smash into the bricks and possibly through them without a care.

The dragon seemed to know where she was going. Brand had never ridden a mount with a mind of its own before. He had no reins, no stirrups no riding whip. There was no way to control the beast, and even if he shouted at the top of his lungs she might not hear him. The wind was harsh and cold so high up and whistled like a gale into his face.

The worst moment came when the dragon puffed with exertion. Twin plumes of flame swept back from her mouth and nearly seared Brand in his saddle. He was forced to duck and throw his arm up over his face.

“Have a care, Fafna, your breath will singe me!” Brand cried aloud.

Apparently, the dragon could hear him because she turned back and bared her teeth in a lipless grin. “Your meat would no doubt taste fine when seared to ash and falling from the bone!”

Brand grimaced, uncertain if the beast were joking with him or not. The Axe on his back writhed, begging to be drawn out. He had to consider it. At least he could sweep the monster’s head from its long neck if he wished and both could fall in death together. As a final act, it might possibly go down in his personal tale as one of his best moves.

He shook his head to clear it of such thoughts. He had more than his own personal glory to consider. There were thousands of lives at stake in Castle Rabing and many more in the Haven in general. Now was not the time to seek a glorious ending, no matter how sweet.

With alarming speed, the Great Tree swelled to fill their vision. Brand threw up his arms and shouted aloud. He could not help it. They were clearly going to crash right into the vast trunk.

But instead of slamming into a moving tower of leafy wood, they burst through the vines and branches that covered the thing and settled alight inside a heartwood cavern of some kind. Brand corrected this first impression as he looked around. He was not in a cavern, but rather a knothole which served as an entrance to the tree’s hollow interior.

Fafna crawled forward, and Brand leapt from her back as soon as he was able. The ceiling was low and there was no room for him to ride in any case.

“Myrrdin? Are you in here, man? I’ve come to parlay with you.”

There was no answer but for the whistle of powerful winds outside. In addition to this, the tree groaned as it lurched from side to side. Brand had been on many boats, but this was worse. He was thrown one way, then the other and the Great Tree lifted its roots and set each of them down again with a fresh, shuddering thud.

“Brand? Is that you?”

Brand peered into the green gloomy interior. “Trev?”

“Yes, it’s Trev. Come help me.”

Brand and the dragon moved forward cautiously. Brand’s fingers ached to draw the Axe, for he did not know what was amiss. He did not know if he should be ready to fight or flee.

“What’s happening, boy?” he hissed out. “Where’s Myrrdin?”

“He’s here. But he’s not right—he’s sleeping or unconscious. I’m not sure which.”

Brand found them at last. In a central bole of sappy wood, they could be seen in the gloom when his eyes adjusted. Myrrdin was half-buried in the wood of the tree, and Trev knelt beside him.

“What’s wrong?” Brand asked.

“He’s out. He healed me—brought me back with Vine Magic. But after I broke away all the sticks and leaves that had sprouted from my body, he began to mumble and passed out.”

“Sticks and leaves?”

“Yes. They itched abominably. The nodules where the twigs came out of me are still brown and sore.”

Brand crept closer and examined Myrrdin.

“I’m no doctor,” he said, “but he seems to have a fever. Maybe he’s been driving the tree for too long. Like a horse running itself until its heart explodes.”

“Yes, maybe that’s it,” said Trev. “We had to run from the elves. A large hunting party of them chased us out of the Great Erm. Circling the mound was almost impossible. The tree is so big, you see.”

“Of course,” Brand said, pulling a flagon of wine from around his back. He upended it and squirted it into the old wizard’s face.

“That’s rude,” Trev complained.

The dragon laughed.

“I’ve got no choice. The tree will slam into my walls soon if we can’t get him to stop.”

“What if we can’t wake him?”

“Then we’ll have to figure out some other way to stop his mind from driving this monstrous tree.”

The dragon laughed again. Trev frowned at her.

Brand fired a fresh squirt into Myrrdin’s face. The purple liquid made his lips and eyelids flutter.

“That won’t be necessary,” he wheezed. Then he awakened, coughing and sputtering.

“Myrrdin,” Brand said urgently. “Stop marching.”

“I must reach Castle Rabing.”

Brand reached down and grabbed his arms, but the flesh felt so odd—so lumpy and cool to the touch, that he released him after only the briefest of shakings. He wiped his hands on his coat afterward, feeling his lip curl up to expose his teeth in disgust. The man was foul.

At last, Myrrdin’s eyes fluttered open.

“Are we in the Haven?”

“Yes! Stop the tree!”

The dragon had crawled away to the entrance again and gazed outside. “We’ve less than mile to go. I wonder if the tree will smash through, or simply topple over. Either way, the event will be spectacular.”

“You seem cold-blooded about your own demise, Fafna!” Brand shouted angrily. “Why don’t you help remedy the situation?”

“Good idea, Axeman.”

With that, the dragon crawled out of the tree’s interior and launched into flight, flapping away.

Brand turned back to Myrrdin and shook him again, despite the man’s loathsome texture.

Finally, Myrrdin’s eyes fluttered open again. “The wine stings my eyes.”

“I’ll take your head from your shoulders if you don’t stop this shambling tree!”

Myrrdin stared at him in confusion. Brand wondered how he could get through to him. Then he had it.

“No, not your head. I’ll take your Jewel. Myrrdin, I’m going to take Vaul away from you if you don’t stop this infernal tree!”

That did it. Myrrdin’s brow grew stormy. He drew on whatever internal strength his body had left and struggled to straighten his spine.

“Get off me!”

“Stop the tree!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Stop walking, Uncle,” Trev said urgently. “We’re there. You must stop moving your many, many legs.”

Myrrdin looked at his nephew and recognition flickered in his eyes. “Yes. I must rest now. I’m tired.”

At last, the tree stopped lurching from side to side. There was a sinking feeling, and they felt themselves shift as the roots far below were lowered down to lie flat upon the ground.

Myrrdin slumped back as the tree stopped and fell back into a deep, exhausted sleep.

* * *

Brand went in search of Slet when he managed to get the dragon to fly him back to his castle, leaving the Great Tree standing like a lonely tower near the walls.

Of all his allies, Brand’s troops were least pleased with the necromancer. They liked the Dead even less than they liked ogres and dragons. The men grumbled and muttered they’d rather slay the wielder of the Black than march with his abominations.

“Slet,” he said, finding the other where he knew he would: in a quiet, forgotten courtyard. It was the same place where Brand had once begun an ill-fated expedition into the underworld.

“Lord Rabing,” Slet answered with a nod.

Brand noticed that Puck moved forward a step, automatically placing himself between Brand and the necromancer. Even in death, the elf was canny.

“I’ve come to show you this very place, but I’m not surprised to find you’re already here.”

Slet looked around.

The courtyard was a dim-lit sunken area of worn stone, twisting vines and dead leaves. It had the look of late autumn, despite the fact it was summer everywhere else in the Haven.

“What is this place?” Slet asked. “I feel at peace here.”

“And well you should. This is the entrance to the catacombs.”

“Where you keep your Dead?”

“No, not exactly. It is the place where the previous occupants kept their Dead. Over nine centuries ago.”

“Odd,” Slet said, walking slowly around the place. He reached a set of iron gates and touched the bars. Behind them was a dark, sloping stairway that went down into a black pit.

Brand noted that the necromancer had the Scepter in his hand. Just seeing it held so casually gave him a chill. The Black seemed to change Slet’s behavior slightly when he grasped it. He did not become feral, but rather more philosophical and contemplative.

“I feel something here,” Slet said, gazing down into the impenetrable gloom. “There’s a faint breeze coming up from the depths. It probably looks uninviting to you, but to me it’s like a warm cabin with a cheery fire dancing on the hearth.”

Again, Brand suppressed a shudder. He wondered why he’d ever agreed to take up arms with Slet. Fear of Morgana had caused his judgment to lapse.

He cleared his throat. “I can open those gates. There are things down there that could use your attention.”

Slet turned and looked at him. Brand was startled to see that the necromancer’s eyes had changed. They now had no white, no colored iris and no pupil. Instead they were a uniform black. Wet-looking and shiny, they were like twin pearls of jet.

After a moment’s pause, Brand began speaking again: “Beneath this castle is a labyrinth of twisting passages which hold gallery after gallery of ancient Dead. If you were to go down there, you might be able to master them.”

Slet reached out and ran his fingers over the bars again. “This iron is fresh. You built this gate.”

“The old one had rusted away.”

Slet nodded, and kept fingering the bars. “You want an army, don’t you? An army of the Dead?”

“I would rather my walls be manned by the Living, but I fear that Morgana will be too strong.”

“Open the gates then,” said Slet.

Brand noticed that the other’s voice had changed. It had become somewhat lower, and preoccupied. He almost shuddered as he produced the keys, shoved them into the thick Kindred-built locks, and allowed Slet and his cold companion to disappear down the echoing steps.

He waited there at the entrance, lingering. When he could no longer hear the two moving about, he quietly closed the gates and locked them again.

Brand felt a pang as he did this. It was treachery of a sort—but he could not bear the thought of Slet emerging from this place with an army of ancient Dead-things at his back. They might man the walls thickly, but they would in turn dampen the courage of his own living garrison.

Walking away, he shoved the clanking keys into his pocket.

Chapter Sixteen

The Last Battle

Four days later Brand met with his living comrades, such as they were. Brand with his Axe, his wife Telyn, Myrrdin with Vaul cut into the shape of a greenwood staff, and Trev, who Brand had learned, was himself the Quicksilver met in council.

Slet was missing, of course, still being locked in the catacombs. Brand told the others Slet was busy with his preparations, and no one seemed upset about the Necromancer’s absence.

“We don’t have a lot of troops,” Brand said, “but we wield power.”

“The Great Tree is worth an army by itself,” said Myrrdin proudly. He coughed when he finished speaking and spat wetly.

Brand looked on in concern. Ever since the wizard had run for hundreds of leagues to escape the elves, he’d been in poor health. Reviving Trev and causing the tree to move prematurely had drained him terribly. He hoped they all would be given time to recover before the great battle began.

“We’re holding this council of war to decide how best to defend ourselves and Castle Rabing.”

“Hold on,” Trev said, raising a hand. “Are you sure that war can’t be avoided? I’m not aware of any attempts to parlay with them.”

“That’s because if we send anyone to talk to them, they’d be charmed and turned into a dupe.”

“Not so,” Trev said. “I’ve met with her, she tried to bend me to her will, and failed.”

Brand tried not to get angry. It had been a long time since anyone had sat at his oak table in his own castle and told him he was wrong. He managed to control himself and continued in an even tone of voice.

“Look, we can’t hold out any hope of peace. Morgana has dominated most of the others and her goals are clear. She wants nothing less than to own the minds of all the Jewel wielders—or to slay us outright.”

“I have to agree with the Axeman,” Myrrdin wheezed.

Trev lowered his eyes. He seemed troubled. Brand frowned as he thought about this. Trev had actually met the witch, perhaps he was still slightly under her spell. Not totally enslaved, but partly smitten with her. It was a worrisome thought.

“All right,” Brand said, “I see it this way: Myrrdin will mount his tree and patrol the walls. There isn’t a gate nearly large enough to allow it to enter the castle. I will stand with the castle garrison. They know me and they trust me.”

“And what of me?” Trev asked.

Brand smiled grimly. “You have the most important job of all. When she reveals herself, you must find her and execute her. Only that way will all the rest become free of mind again.”

Trev looked troubled, but didn’t object. He frowned at his dagger instead. It was pitted and worn with use by now. Brand thought to offer him a new one, but he knew that a man fought better with a weapon he knew well, rather than a new one with no spirit.

At last, Trev gave him a flickering smile and a nod. Brand felt badly for the youth. He’d had to do a lot of growing up in a very short time. People were telling him to slay the only woman he’d ever laid with. That was a task that would not come easily to any man.

“Think about your mother,” Telyn said, speaking up for the first time. “She’s back in the Haven, helpless. If we all fall to this witch, there will be no mercy for her or a thousand others like her.”

Trev nodded and his jaw tightened. “When the time comes, I won’t lose my nerve.”

Myrrdin stood first. This gave him a coughing fit. He swayed on his feet, but batted away the hands that came to support him. “I will see to the health of my steed. The Great Tree will be useless if I’m not there to direct her.”

“Her?” Telyn asked.

“Yes, her,” Myrrdin said. “Trees have genders, just as the rest of us do. My steed is no different.”

Telyn shrugged and they watched him leave. The moment he was out of earshot, she leaned over the table to Brand, whispering urgently.

“We must take the Jewel from him and give it to another!” she said.

“There’s no time, and I have no right to do that.”

“But he’s at the edge of keeling over!”

“That’s as may be, but even if we did manage to wrest it from the old buzzard, who could wield it in his stead? Who could quickly learn how to drive the tree and get it to follow their will?”

“Someone! Anyone. We must try.”

“Attuning oneself to a Jewel isn’t easy,” Brand said. “I once managed it in a burst of frenzied need, as did Slet. But I wouldn’t want to repeat the process. I can’t even contemplate what it would be like to have two of the Jewels warring over my single mind again.”

Telyn heaved a sigh, sat back in her chair, and shook her head in defeat. “I didn’t mean you, husband. I know I could do it myself if I had the time. But I suppose I don’t.”

Brand looked at his wife in surprise. He hadn’t considered the possibility of her taking up the Green. It gave him a shock of worry just to contemplate the idea. The Jewels were so dangerous, so malevolent in their own individual ways. He didn’t want to inflict such a fate upon his beloved.

At the same time, he knew that Telyn had always felt an urge toward magic. She’d dabbled with it long before he had in their youth.

He wondered at her motivations: was she truly worried about Myrrdin’s health, or did she harbor desires for the Green? He didn’t like the idea of his wife manipulating the situation for her personal gain.

But he also didn’t blame her—not directly. Just being around the Jewels for a long time made greed blossom in the hearts of normal folk. It would only be natural, after watching her husband wield the Axe for long years, that Telyn would want power of her own. The Jewels were like sirens, singing their songs in the minds of anyone who ventured close enough to hear them.

The meeting broke up and they separated to their quarters. Telyn followed Brand to their chambers. They discussed the plans further, and she seemed most concerned about Trev’s part.

“His mother would be horrified to know you’re seeking to use him this way.”

“He’s not a child any longer, Telyn.”

“I’d wager you won’t say the same when it’s time to send our own children into harm’s way. Mari has suffered so much. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to have her Dead husband return and sit on the rocker.”

Brand felt sympathy with everyone’s plight, but he could not afford to dwell on any personal problems. He had to operate as if each day was their last.

* * *

When morning came and Brand awakened, it seemed to be early. He looked out toward the east and there were only tinges of pink to be seen there.

He sat up suddenly as he realized what had awakened him. A horn was trumpeting distantly. Telyn was up a moment later.

“It’s just before daybreak,” she said, “the hour of the elves.”

Brand nodded dazedly. The Faerie were most alert and energetic at sunset and dawn. They were most torpid at midday, when they could rarely be found.

Together, they dressed and prepared for battle. Telyn threw the curtains wide and the gleaming line of light outside grew slowly into a rising sun.

Wearily, hearts and boots thumping in rhythm, the garrison awakened and manned the walls. Brand had already fielded a dozen reports. The enemy had been sighted to the east. They were coming from the swamps with the sun at their backs.

His men made ready and worked hard to prepare for the worst. None knew what kind of forces the enemy might have. They squinted into the bright red rays of sunshine as the mists burned off the waters and revealed the enemy on the march.

Brand was immediately disheartened. From the walls of his central keep, he could see the farthest. At his side was Telyn. She gasped when she recognized the forms that crawled toward them.

“Those are war machines!” she cried. “Gudrin truly is among them!”

Brand nodded glumly. The Kindred had come to their queen’s call. They were a loyal folk, and not ones to disregard an order even if it seemed mad. Fortunately, there did not seem to be too many war machines. A dozen crawlers, no more. They blatted smoke and steam and came forward with ticking, hissing bodies of metal. Behind each of them marched a full company of the Kindred. Already, with just these, there were more troops in the enemy army than he had manning his walls.

“Where’s Slet?” Telyn asked.

“He lingers at the entrance to the catacombs under the castle.”

“Still? Shouldn’t we call him to the walls?”

Brand chewed his bearded lower lip, thinking for a moment.

“Not yet,” he said at last. “He’ll be needed, I think, but I want my men to start this fight with nothing but righteous light in their eyes. Let them feel good when they die—and let’s hope few of them have to die twice today.”

At these grim words, Telyn looked at him in shock. But he did not meet her gaze. He kept watching the approaching army.

“There’s no sign of Hob and his goblins, is there?” Brand asked.

“None.”

“That big green bastard,” Brand muttered. “He’d sell his own mother for firewood on any night he felt an uncomfortable chill.”

Trev joined Telyn and Brand on the wall top a few minutes later. He stared out into the lands beyond the walls of the castle. He seemed saddened.

“She just won’t stop, will she?” he asked.

“You mean Morgana? No. Not until she’s one of Slet’s Dead things. Maybe not even then.”

“I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” the boy said.

Brand glanced at him. He saw in Trev a shadow of himself. He thumped the youth on the shoulder and smiled.

“Don’t worry, boy. We’ll win this fight. Just look behind us, to the west.”

They did as he suggested together, and they saw the Great Tree towering there. It was motionless now, but it dwarfed every other aspect of the landscape. It resembled a mountain spire or a massive tower of stone.

“Wait until the Kindred see that tree pick up and march itself toward them,” Brand said. “They’ll find fear in their hearts for the first time in a handful of centuries.”

Trev formed a line with his lips and nodded. He didn’t seem heartened by the thought. Brand turned away, scowling. He wondered if it was time yet to draw the Axe. The enemy was so near! He was slightly afraid, when he thought about it, that he would be too late somehow to join in the fun. What if the Great Tree smashed their ranks and drove them all squalling back into the swamp? That would be a fine waste.

It’d been so long since he’d been in a true, pitched battle. The screams of the dying, the smell of blood and smoke mixing in one’s nostrils. It was intoxicating.

“Brand?”

Brand frowned. He found he was marching down the steps of the keep. Someone or something was pestering him. He lashed out with a gauntlet, aiming to smash the underling down and away. People had to learn a proper respect for their rightful lord.

His target ducked deftly, switched to his opposite side and plucked at his sleeve.

“You’ve got the Axe out, Brand. You’re marching outside, aren’t you? Control yourself, my husband.”

Brand stopped and blinked at Telyn stupidly. He then slowly turned his head to see the Axe was in his hand. It had gotten there mysteriously. He had no memory of grabbing it from his pack and pulling it forth.

With a great effort of will, he lifted it up, and up, and placed it back in his pack. Even then he had to force his fingers to untwine themselves individually from the haft. When he was done, he loosed a great sigh and nodded to his wife.

“I didn’t hit you, did I?”

“No, missed by a mile.”

He nodded again. “You know, I don’t seem to be as good at controlling it as I used to be. I’m not sure if that’s due to being out of practice, or my age.”

“You’re young yet.”

“Old enough to be a grandfather.”

She smiled at him and patted his sleeve. He embraced her, and the Axe squirmed on his back in frustration.

* * *

The enemy army halted just out of range of the siege engines and stood their ground. They were quiet and resolute. Brand eyed them with concern. They were almost silent, unmoving. It was not natural.

His own men were shouting taunts and curses from the walls. They beat upon their shields and hurled insults and laughter. It was normal enough for men to behave that way when facing a foe on the battlefield. They sought to build their courage by belittling their opponents.

But there was no sign of such bravado on the opposing side. They just stood there, silent, staring… Brand knew it had to be an effect of the witch, Morgana. Could she truly be affecting the minds of so many? If so, it seemed to him that the White was the most powerful Jewel of all.

“Milord!” called a breathless courier who ran up the steps to greet him. “They call for a parlay! They bear the flag of truce and approach the walls.”

“Shoot them down,” said Fafna, stepping near.

Everyone around her looked shocked at the suggestion. They stepped away from her everywhere she went, as if they could smell burnt flesh. Perhaps, thought Brand, they could.

Brand shook his head, but he did not admonish the dragon for the suggestion. “That is not our way.”

“But it should be, if you want to keep your own sanity. The woman will talk, and she will twist any who go out there to meet with her. You can’t parlay with a witch!”

“I understand what you’re saying. But I’ll not fire upon a flag of truce. I’ll not dishonor these walls on the morning of their first battle.”

The dragon slithered away, grumbling.

“I’ll go talk to her,” Trev said. “She can’t affect me.”

Brand looked at the boy with upraised eyebrows. “Not a bad idea, I have to admit. But it won’t do. I’m the lord of this castle, and I will meet with the witch under the flag of truce. If she breaks the truce by attempting to subvert my thinking, we will have no further compunction. Any form of knavery will be allowed. In fact, if I do not return, I want you to order the Great Tree to attack immediately. With luck, it will catch them by surprise and do them great harm.”

The rest of them looked unhappy. Trev dared to touch his arm as he made his way to the stone steps that spiraled down to the courtyard.

“Brand, I beseech you. She is not what she seems. I have met her, you have not.”

Brand took the advice seriously. He reached back and took hold of Ambros and a strange grin spread over his face.

Trev immediately removed his hand from Brand’s mailed sleeve and took a step backward.

“Good move, child,” Brand said, in a voice that was not entirely his own. “I will not bow to this witch. She’ll not bend my mind now—for it is bent already!”

With a wild laugh, he charged down the steps, taking them two at a time. The rest watched him go in alarm. He vaulted onto his horse, which nickered and shied in dread.

“How can he parlay like that?” Fafna asked.

“Maybe he doesn’t mean to,” answered Telyn.

The ride on his charger was a blur to Brand. One moment, he was sprinting across a courtyard, and the next it seemed to him he was whipping his horse and roaring with impatience. The great gates swung open and he galloped out alone to meet the enemy.

The flag was held by none other than Gudrin herself. At her side was a woman who had to be Morgana. They rode under a flag of truce, but they did not seem pleased at Brand’s reckless approach.

On the walls behind him, Brand heard his men cheer. They saw him charge, the Axe raised high and shining with yellow light. They all felt its power come over them, and their spirits were raised. In its own way, the Axe was like the Sunstone, in that it had power over the minds of men. But it only served to goad them to combat, nothing more refined than that.

The two women held their ground as he charged closer, his horse throwing up black clods of earth behind it. He only slowed at the last moment, pulling on the reins.

“No!” shouted a voice in his mind that was not his own. “Don’t stop now, cut them down! You will have won in a stroke!”

Not following that advice took all the strength Brand had in his mind. He wanted to do it. Gudrin was a traitor, a turncoat, a worthless cur! The witch Morgana was pure evil, a vicious creature like a poisonous spider crawling from beneath an overturned stone. They both had it coming, and none would blame him for a deed well done!

No, he told himself, pulling harder on the reins. He could not. He would parlay, but he would do so from strength. While the Axe gripped his mind he could not fall to the witch’s charms.

When they stood close enough to converse, Gudrin spoke first: “You’ve had trouble with the Axe before, but never so soon in a battle. Put it away, lad, before you cut off your own steed’s head!”

Brand looked at Morgana with wide, staring eyes. “And you? Do you have advice for me as well, Witch of the Wood?”

Morgana shook her head. Brand turned to Gudrin and sneered. “Why would I listen to a dog like you? A creature that grovels at her mistress’s feet? A soulless, toothless has-been who embarrasses the Kindred throne with her wart-covered arse!”

Both women looked surprised. Neither seemed to have expected this approach to peace talks. But while Brand was able to restrain himself from attacking them on the spot, the Axe held sway over his tongue. He said what he felt and he didn’t give a damn about the consequences.

“Brand,” Gudrin said. “I’m shocked you would be so unable to understand the situation. Morgana seeks to bring us all peace. Have we not fought a dozen wars over these Jewels? What’s the point? What has been gained?”

Brand gnashed his teeth. He gestured with the Axe over his shoulder at the walls behind him.

“You see my castle? That’s what we’ve gained! If the River Folk had stayed quivering in their beds, waiting for the next wandering changeling to steal each of our infants, we’d be living like the merlings in mud huts. But now, we have strength and honor. We bought those goods with our blades and our raging hearts!”

Gudrin turned to Morgana. “It’s hopeless. He sees no reason. He’s in the grip of Ambros, and I can’t overcome that with logic.”

“Perhaps I can suggest a solution,” Morgana said, daring to step her horse a pace closer.

As she approached him, she locked her gaze with Brand and smiled sweetly. He had to admit, she was a comely lass. If she’d been a tavern wench and he’d been a dozen years younger…

But no. He had to hold onto his hate, his rage. These women had marched an army to his castle gates.

“Brand,” Morgana said, “may I mop the sweat from your brow? It’s early, but I can see you’re overheated already.”

She came slowly nearer, and her fine white hand lifted as if to touch him.

Brand shied away and snarled. “Have a care, witch. If you want to keep that hand attached to your wrist, you’ll keep your distance.”

Morgana retreated, rebuffed and angry. He could see in her expression a deep rage. She didn’t like being rejected any more than he liked being touched by a slattern witch.

He laughed at her then, enjoying her discomfort. “Did you think I was some fleet-footed youth trotting about in your forest? No woman alive could command me like the sycophantic flock on the ridge behind you.”

His words did nothing to please Morgana. She sat stiffly, but managed not to curse him openly.

“Very well,” she said, “this meeting is pointless, and thus it is at an end.”

“What? But you’ve made no proposals, woman! Speak a word or two at least! I didn’t ride all the way out here for my health or just to gaze into your snake-like eyes.”

Morgana, who’d turned her horse to leave, wheeled back. Her eyes burned now, and he could see smoldering hate in them. This both amused and enraged him at the same time. The effect of the Axe upon him was like that of strong drink upon an angry young man. He saw grim humor in everything, a humor which might turn to murderous rage at any moment.

“I have a proposal: Put away that Axe, let me caress you and clear your mind of erroneous thoughts. Then we will have peace today, and a thousand lives will continue, rather than being snuffed out pointlessly.”

“Listen to her, Brand, as I have. She speaks the truth. There is no point to war. There is no need.”

“May I remind you who marched from their hollow mountain to my lands under arms? Was that I, who rolled up to siege your home? Am I the one demanding all the Kindred throw down their arms and love me as their rightful ruler? No, ‘twas you, lackey!”

Gudrin shook her head sorrowfully. “You don’t understand as I do, Brand. I will find it in my heart somehow to forgive you, but I’m not sure the Dead will at the end of this day.”

“Go home, the both of you!” Brand shouted, turning his charger back to the gates. “Bake bread, sing songs, drink ale until you can’t see straight! That’s my advice to you both, and before the day is done you’ll wish you’d heeded it!”

* * *

“I’m going to kill that man,” Morgana said flatly.

“His mind is affected by the Axe, milady,” Gudrin said. “He’s not himself.”

Morgana and her followers watch as Brand went back to his castle gates laughing, and in high spirits. His garrison troops cheered to see him return unharmed. As best they could tell, the parlay had gone extremely well.

“I don’t care who he is. When this is over, he dies. There will be no weaseling by any of you on that point.”

She turned and glared at each of her top servants in turn. Oberon nodded and smiled, seemingly unperturbed by the edict. Gudrin and Tomkin seemed concerned, but nodded obediently.

Morgana whirled around to face the walls again, her eyes wild and blazing. “Forward! March the army! Bring down those gates! Gudrin, send your crawlers in first to open the path for the rest.”

Gudrin cleared her throat loudly and the rest looked at her. Morgana’s eyes flashed dangerously.

“Milady,” she said, “I like the simplicity of your new plan, but it does not follow our strategy. The goblins have yet to come. They were supposed to open the gates by taking the walls by surprise from the air.”

“I know what the plan was!” Morgana screeched at her. “Are you daft or incredibly stubborn? The goblins have not arrived. Either they’ve been waylaid or—well, they must have been distracted somehow. Perhaps Old Hob’s hold over his barbarous people is not as firm as he’d like us to think. In any case, we’ll have to do this without him. You’ll have to do this with the crawlers. Take down the gates. With your flame combined with that of the machines, the task should be a simple one.”

“But what about the tree, milady? The Kindred forces were to be used to counter it, as was my flame.”

Morgana frowned and walked close to Gudrin. She cocked her head to the left, and stared into her eyes. “You’re not fully my creature, are you Gudrin? You pretend, but I know the truth.”

“Ask me what you did upon our first meeting,” Gudrin said evenly. “My answer has not changed.”

“Very well. Do you want me to hold all Nine of the Jewels of Power? Do you want me to thus rise to the level of Queen over all nature, and god over all lowly mortals upon this world?”

“I do, milady. I do. I would see you gather all the ancient stones together. I would see you possess them all.”

Morgana stared at her closely and then, after a time, she nodded. “I can’t detect a lie in your speech. Perhaps it is simply the nature of the Kindred to be irritating and disobedient.”

“That is quite possibly so,” Gudrin admitted.

“Well, I don’t like it. There will be changes after this is over. Discipline will rule even your flagrantly obstinate folk. But I don’t have the time to alter your minds properly now. Enough talk. You all have your orders. Let the battle begin!”

No cheers went up from those present. They were all as silent as stones. Morgana turned away and mounted a fine dappled stallion. The others rushed to their troops, save for Tomkin who stayed on the ground near his mistress. He had no army to command, as the Wee Folk had stayed well clear of him once the witch had grasped his mind.

Gudrin marshaled her forces and ordered them to march to the walls. Each crawler creaked and hissed as it moved and was followed by a company of Kindred heavy infantry. This was the heart of Morgana’s army, and she watched keenly as they deploy.

As expected, the humans fired a volley of flaming pitch and man-long arrows from their siege engines the moment the Kindred were in range. Before they’d gone a hundred yards, one of the machines was skewered and burning. Two other infantry companies had taken hits and losses. But the Kindred were not weak folk. They pressed ahead valiantly.

“At least they know how to die for their love of me,” Morgana said to Tomkin. “I find it touching to watch.”

“Yes, milady.”

“When the Great Tree moves to intercept them, call the Rainbow.”

“But the Rainbow and the tree have done battle before—my servant can’t stop it.”

“I know that. Its job will be to press the attack against the humans. The walls aren’t tall enough to keep it from marching right overtop the battlements and into the enclosed lands. There you will knock the men from their posts on the walls until they are all dead or the Rainbow perishes.”

“It will go mad!”

“All the better,” Morgana said, smiling at him. “When madness takes the beast, make sure it is inside the walls surrounded by human troops. It wouldn’t do to have the monster damage our own armies.”

“Yes, milady,” said Tomkin. He bounded away to work his magic.

Already, the winds were picking up. Morgana relished the cool breeze. She smiled in anticipation of the carnage that was soon to come.

Oberon was the last one at her side. He smiled at her and seemed to enjoy her company.

“You know,” he said, “of all the humans I’ve spent time with over a thousand years, I understand you the best of all, Morgana.”

She laughed at that and wondered if his words were true.

* * *

To Brand it seemed like he’d barely reached the gates when the battle started. The enemy was on the move in the fields outside. The Kindred led the charge, marching resolutely behind their crawling, clanking machines. Each of the machines was powered by a small elemental, a salamander from the magma beneath Snowdon. Their heat, when applied to a boiler, provided steam which forced the metal limbs into motion.

Behind each machine was a cloud of smoke and steam. Inside this pall of vapor marched the Kindred infantry, each staring with glassy-eyes and odd smiles. It was as if they heard music no other could comprehend.

Brand wasn’t fearful of this army at his gates. Far from it. He relished the rush that was to come, the battle to the finish for thousands. He held aloft the Axe and brandished it in the sun, letting it flash and shine for all to see.

His men around him pelted the oncoming Kindred with a steady storm of arrows, stones and burning pitch. The Kindred marched on, heads down, shields raised. They did not scream in agony, not even when their beards were alight. They kept marching—even those who resembled pine cones, they had so many arrow shafts sticking out of them. Only the ones that were burned to the point where their bodies no longer functioned slumped down, still burning until they guttered out and turn to ash.

They reached the walls without being halted. There, however, the stones were strong and their axes were useless. The enemy seemed to not have a coherent plan. Where were their ladders? Where were their catapults to knock down the gates? They had neither.

Brand felt a hand on his shoulder and he whirled, lifting the Axe high. Here at last an enemy had reached him and dared to forfeit his life!

How disappointed he was to recognize the face that he saw. It was Trev.

For some reason, Brand saw Trev clearly, and he heard the boy’s speech as if he were not in a fog of battle.

“Brand, the Great Tree isn’t moving! The enemy is at the gate, but Myrrdin still stands at the far wall, motionless!”

Brand blinked, and after a time managed to comprehend the words. He turned, mouth gaping, to look at the Great Tree to the west. There it was, just as the boy said. The battle had begun, and Myrrdin was sitting on the sidelines.

He cursed with savage intensity, mostly naming Myrrdin and his ancestors as the worst stripe of coward and charlatan.

“Must I rouse him again?”

“Let me go,” Trev said, daring to touch Brand again, as if holding him back.

“It’s strange,” Brand said, eyeing the boy’s hand. “Most often, in the heat of battle, I would at least attempt to sweep that hand from your wrist. But I don’t feel that way with you, Trev.”

“I guess that’s an effect of my Jewel.”

Brand’s eyes lifted to Trev’s hair, which the boy now wore openly. He grunted. “Silver hair. Odd to think it has properties like no other thing in the world.”

“I’ll get Myrrdin to march,” Trev said. “You hold the walls, Lord Rabing.”

“You’re supposed to be flying on that dragon the other way!” Brand roared suddenly, pointing out to the distant fields where Morgana sat with Oberon and his elves. “You’re to get out there and slay that witch—no other can do it!”

“I will, milord,” Trev said confidently. “Just give me your leave to rouse Myrrdin. He must stop the Kindred from breaking the gates. Already, they’re laying fire upon it.”

Brand looked down and saw the boy was right. The Kindred army had reached the walls. They had no one to cut with their axes, but their machines were still operating. Only two had been stopped by direct hits from the castle’s siege engines. The rest were breathing gushes of flame onto the wooden gates. The gates were already alight and burning steadily. The Kindred cast oil upon it and the flames rose higher. The intense heat drove back defenders and attackers alike.

“Go then,” Brand shouted. “Go and fly fast. The Great Tree must move!”

Trev raced away, and Brand looked down into the maelstrom of battle. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he found himself marching along the outer battlements toward the struggling armies.

He’d told Trev that only he could slay the witch—but that wasn’t true, of course. Brand knew he could do it as well. It would not be easy. She would work to twist his mind. She would seem pathetic and lovely to his eye. He would be the worst of devils, cutting her down.

He forced himself to remember the Shining Lady. This woman reminded him of that ghost. She could twist the minds of men, and only the strongest could evade her wiles.

Brand considered himself among the strong. As far as he knew, he was the only mortal male who’d stood up to the wishes of the Shining Lady and even struck her down. It had only been in a dream, but he’d managed it.

He told himself with certitude that if he could master the Shining Lady, he could master this witch as well. He would not suffer her to continue breathing after what she’d done here today. She’d set the Kindred at the throats of the River Folk, and he could never forgive her for that. She’d given up her right to live.

Loosing a battle cry as he drew close to the struggling men, Brand flashed the Axe into the attacking army’s eyes. The Kindred shielded themselves and staggered back in their hundreds. Brand’s own men squinted and cursed, but then howled with glee as the Axe began to cheer them. Unlike the White, which worked to dominate the minds of people who talked to Morgana, the Axe lightened the hearts of men who were near it. The effects were much shorter, but no less dramatic. The garrison had been wavering, but now they burst into a throaty song of battle in a language none of them knew.

But even as Brand was about to vault the wall and fall into the midst of the Kindred, slaying them with his Axe, two things happened: first, the Rainbow appeared on the horizon. It was running toward the battle, and it let out a warbling, otherworldly cry as it came.

Second, Gudrin had reached the front lines of the Kindred forces. She stood with her machines and let fly a gush of flame from her fingertips.

Brand and a hundred men like him were forced back, shielding their faces from the looming wall of flame. She had directed her magic toward the gates, and they were rapidly burning away to nothing.

So hot was the flame now that the wood seemed to howl with released gasses. The rivets that held it together turned red, then white, then melted away in rivulets. Still, the blasting flame went on.

“It’s going down! Pull back, retreat!”

Brand cried out his frustration, but his garrison troops quailed all around him. The unleashed power of the Kindred Queen, focused upon his walls, was unstoppable. He was swept down stone steps with the rush of men.

But he did not flee like the rest. Instead, he moved to place himself in front of the tumbling gates. When the enemy did dare to enter his castle walls, they would meet him in person.

The gates were soon nothing but black charcoal. The Kindred axes flashed, rising and falling with heavy blows. They chopped their way through and rushed into the castle.

Rather than fear, joy split open Brand’s face and he laughed and shook Ambros at them when the Kindred outside could see him. A moment later, they rushed through the broken gates and came at him.

Brand met them alone. He did not hesitate. He asked no quarter and he gave none. He swung Ambros in great arcs, cutting away heads at his shoulder level. His reach was greater than that of any Kindred warrior. His blows were far more powerful. And his fanatical zeal for battle was greater than their deadened, fearless self-sacrifice.

In addition to the twin blades of his Axe was the Jewel itself which flashed with beams of blinding light every time it took a head. The Kindred were not only dazed by the light, their eyes burned and steamed within the sockets when they got close enough and the beams caught them directly.

Brand, for his part, sang as he worked. It was a song of valor and bravery from nine centuries past in a language no longer spoken by any living soul. He did not know the words, but found the song uplifting nonetheless.

Any other army might have broken, even a Kindred army, but these warriors did not possess minds that understood retreat. It wasn’t until a company of them lay dead that they were ordered back by their Queen.

Gudrin came forward, rippling with fire which burned everything but her. The Orange Jewel was plain upon her neck and flames ran over her body like water.

“Brand!” she cried. “You cannot stand. You must fall back, or I will be forced to slay you!”

“Ha!” Brand shouted in return. His body was bathed in sweat and Kindred blood. His eyes were alight with the twin heat of fire and battle. “I was wondering when the Queen spider would come to me! Come here, treacherous worm. I would do battle with my real enemy this day.”

“Fall back Brand, or better yet surrender. I can burn you if I come a few paces closer. My flame will reach further than your arm. Your Axe will never touch me.”

Brand, despite his heaving sides, his wild grin of bloodlust and his rage toward Gudrin for her treacheries, realized that she was right. If they did battle, he could not win if she burned him down before he could close with her.

The Kindred troops, sensing a battle they could not hope to compete with, had fallen to the sides and watched silently. It was strange, as Brand knew that any normal mass of the Kindred would have been catcalling and chanting for their Queen. These troops, however, were as quiet as the grave. They’d never shouted out, not even when mortally wounded—not even while burning alive.

“So, this is what you’re fighting for?” he asked, indicating the troops. “They are the living Dead. They have no souls in them. You’ve done your own people a wicked turn, O Queen.”

“You don’t understand what’s at stake. I’m trying to relieve the world of its burdens in a stroke. The process is painful, but the rewards will be great and long-lasting.”

“For who? For your beloved mistress? You disgust me!”

Gudrin took a step forward, then another. She was almost nonchalant about it, and spoke to Brand all the while.

“I repeat, you don’t understand. Trust me just this once, Brand. I won’t disappoint you. Things will be better soon, if you don’t fight it.”

Brand lifted his Axe, as if to charge. Gudrin raised her finger to shoot a jet of flame at him if he dared. He was still beyond the range of her fire.

“You make me sad, old friend,” Brand said. “But I do what I must.”

Gudrin took another step closer, and she opened her mouth to speak to him, to give him more platitudes—but he had heard enough. He was saddened, despite the grin on his face, as he caused the Axe to shoot a thin focused beam of intense light at Gudrin. The Axe was not so powerful as the Orange when it came to burning and heat, but it had greater range.

The beam, as bright as the summer sun overhead, struck Gudrin’s face. As she was immune to heat and flame, it did not burn her—but her eyes were not immune to the fantastic light that blazed into them. Blinded, the Queen howled and spun around.

From her outstretched fingers swords of fire shot, burning down Kindred where they stood and washing over the scorched walls.

She fell in a heap, mewling. Brand drew himself up and faced the Kindred warriors, who came forward and looked stunned. Gone were their expressions of dazed pleasure. Gone was their boundless confidence.

“I leave you to care for your Queen,” Brand said. “Tell the witch she is not welcome within these walls. Tell her I will slay all of you, or cripple them as I have your Queen, if I must!”

Brand turned away from them and followed his retreating army toward his central keep. There the battle would be finally decided, if the enemy did not lose heart first.

* * *

From a safe distance, hateful eyes watched these proceedings. Morgana cursed when she saw the Kindred milling about at the gate. Why couldn’t anyone follow a simple order?

“Perhaps we should send in the Rainbow, milady,” Tomkin suggested to her.

In answer, Morgana extended a single, finely-manicured finger toward the Great Tree which stood in the distance.

“If that thing comes to life again, it might yet push us back. I want your monster to stand here with me and my elves until the Kindred succeed or fail.”

Tomkin looked annoyed. Much like the Axe Ambros, Morgana knew that the Blue Jewel Lavatis liked to do battle. When the Rainbow was called, it almost never stood quiescent at its master’s side. It was a creature of violence and madness. The mind of the being that controlled it yearned to release the beast upon any target that was offered.

Morgana could see something happening at the fallen gates. It appeared that the humans had withdrawn, but her Kindred forces were still not advancing into the interior lands beyond the walls.

“What is taking that ancient crone so long?” she demanded.

Every minute or two her eyes flicked up to the Great Tree. That monstrosity had still not moved. It was if it had taken root and grown there. But she knew it would move eventually, if its master still drew breath. And when it did, she was uncertain how she should go about destroying it.

Finally, a knot of the Kindred left the rest and retreated toward her position. She stood with mouth agape, unable to imagine what they were up to.

As they drew closer, she marched out to meet them. Tomkin stood at her side and the Rainbow towered behind them both.

“Gudrin? What are you doing on a litter? You can’t tell me that you’ve been injured—”

Then Morgana saw the sightless, rolling eyes of the Kindred Queen and she knew the tale in a second.

“Fool!” she screeched. “You tried to do battle with him honorably, didn’t you? One Jewel versus its brother? You, of all people, should know the Orange cannot beat the Amber!”

“I’m sorry, milady.”

“That will not do,” Morgana said. “What kind of a puppet bites its master’s hand and simultaneously fails to perform the simplest tricks? You’re nothing more than a sightless crone who can’t wield her own Jewel properly. You had an army and a Jewel at dawn, and now you are broken.”

“You have only to send in the elves—and the goblins when they arrive.”

“The goblins? Old Hob has forsaken me. He is not in my power. He refused every entreaty to talk directly, and sent cretins in his employ to talk in his stead. If you’d done the same—well, maybe I was wrong about you and your army. You’re no better than the worthless, absent goblins. You seem helpless against Brand.”

When she stopped talking, no one else dared to speak. The only sound was the labored breathing of Gudrin, who seemed to be truly spent.

Morgana came to a fateful decision then. She turned to Tomkin.

“Take her Jewel. The Rainbow can do it.”

Tomkin looked startled, but he nodded. “I think it can.”

“No!” moaned Gudrin.

“Hold her!” Morgana shouted at the Kindred who bore the Queen’s litter.

She rapidly backed away, suspecting what was to come next. All who bore a Jewel, even the lowest of them, came to love the stone deeply and would fight to keep it as a bear would fight to protect her cubs.

As the Kindred guards reached in, grasping Gudrin’s limbs and restraining them, the Rainbow stepped forward, a shimmering cloud above that resembled a mass of soap bubbles. The elemental’s hand came down from so high it seemed to take a great while to reach the Queen.

Gudrin gave an inarticulate howl as it touched her. Spittle flew from her lips and her sightless eyes rolled as she raved. She writhed with unexpected strength, but the Kindred held her firmly.

Fire exploded in every direction a moment later. Burned, the Rainbow cried out, but still it groped with its hand in the flames, seeking what must be there.

The Kindred guard, resolute in their duty, held onto her limbs even as their hair burned away and their clothes caught fire. Soon, they were like ghostly lumps of burning flesh. Still they clung to Gudrin, who squirmed and fought them.

The Rainbow at last lifted its prize high into the air. Sizzling droplets of its molten flesh ran from it. Morgana stepped forward, eyes lighting up. Here, for the first time, she’d dared take a second Jewel for her own. It was a magical moment she’d dreamt of for years.

But her face fell as she realized that the Rainbow was not holding just the Orange Jewel Pyros in its pendant. Instead, it had lifted Gudrin herself into the air. It had plucked her free of the Kindred guardsmen, who were all dead by now and burning like lumps of wax.

“Just the Jewel, manling,” Morgana said to Tomkin. “You’re as incompetent as the rest.”

“The Rainbow’s fingers are burned away. I can’t pluck it from her.”

“Drop her then! We’ll pick it out from what remains.”

Tomkin frowned and seemed to struggle internally for a moment. His own hand, however, had no such misgivings. It simply lifted itself higher then turned over, palm down. The Rainbow mimicked the manling’s actions perfectly. Gudrin fell a good fifty feet, and when she landed with a thud, her flames finally went out. Morgana rushed in and used a stick to remove the amulet. Gudrin was no longer stirring.

Morgana paid no heed to the Rainbow, Tomkin, nor the dead and dying all around  her. Her eyes were fixed upon Pyros. She could stare at nothing else. She stepped over the fallen Queen and walked away to her tent, holding the Orange Jewel on a forked stick.

“My first trophy!” she shouted. “Too bad it had to come from one of my own.”

Looking around herself at last, she walked to where Oberon sat with his elf warriors on a hillock carpeted in greenery.

“Brand has done well for this land,” Oberon said. “For too long this place was a dismal swamp. I’m surprised he could make it bloom again.”

“I don’t give a damn if it all burns to ash or molders into slime,” Morgana told him. “Get to your feet and get onto your mounts. The moment has come to attack the inner keep. The Kindred will rest, while you carry the battle to the enemy this time. Follow the Rainbow at its heels, and kill every human within those scorched walls!”

“As you wish, milady,” said Oberon, his face shining with eagerness. Unlike Tomkin, he had no trouble following these orders.

* * *

Brand reached his central keep and mounted the stairs to the outer battlements. Every bell in the place was clanging, and it gave him a headache. To bolster himself and his men, he called upon Ambros to shine. He called upon the Axe to give him strength and his men courage.

On both accounts the Axe outdid itself. Moments later, he was springing up the stone stairs, taking them three a time. His face was split in a wide, feral grin and his garrison began singing rather than grumbling and staring.

Out on the open fields between the outer walls of the castle and the inner walls surrounding the keep, Brand saw the Kindred fall back while the elves created fresh formations and began their final march. Once the heavy oaken door to the keep went down, there would be nothing left but the steel of their weapons to stop the elves.

Far from being maudlin however, Brand was shouting and laughing on the gatehouse walls. From time to time he struck a square merlon with the Axe, chipping the stone apart as if it were cordwood.

Less than a mile distant, the Rainbow charged toward them. Behind it came a flood of mounted elves, bows and swords held high, throats calling for blood. They were as mad for it as he was, he realized. They wanted battle. They wanted to fill this castle with corpses, and he meant to oblige them.

He counted his numbers and the enemy strength arrayed against him. The enemy had twice his number—maybe more. Once the Rainbow took down the gates, things would go badly.

Stricken by a sudden thought, Brand twisted his neck to look upward at the Great Tree. He frowned, because it still had not moved a fraction.

“What is taking that fool Trev so long?” he demanded of everyone around him.

They quailed back and shook their heads in response. No one wanted to be the perceived cause of anything frustrating for the Axeman.

With a growl of irritation, he turned back to making his arrangements. Ivor he placed behind the oak gate, to give the elves a nasty surprise should they manage to take it down. His archers and weapon crews were already hurling darts and stones at the approaching army. For the most part, they seemed unable to hit the elves at this distance. The enemy was too fleet of foot and easily dodged the projectiles.

The Rainbow, however, was not so agile. It took great hits, which tore chunks from its running body. Shimmering masses of translucent flesh quivered on the ground behind it. These chunks of gauzy meat slowly dissolved into a dozen brilliant, oily colors.

Brand chuckled to see it. Soon, the beast would howl and low until it went mad. Then, with luck, it would stop hammering on their gates and turn to slay the elves at its back instead. Many were the battles in which the Rainbow had gone mad and damaged its comrades as much as its foemen. The witch was inexperienced. She should have sent the Rainbow alone, or not at all. To send it into harm’s way at the head of an army was the height of foolishness.

The next minute, however, shattered Brand’s confidence. Despite the intoxicating effects of the Axe in his hand, he could not believe his sudden misfortune. For at that moment, a new player decided to step onto the field: Old Hob had finally arrived.

Goblins appeared on the walls all around Brand’s men. They were not just stealthy this time—they were like ghosts. Brand could only surmise that Hob had become a better master of his Jewel, and that perhaps the Lavender was not so impotent as everyone said it was.

Stepping out from the dark pool that was each soldier’s shadow, hundreds of goblins appeared on the walls with jagged blades in their hands. These daggers were thrust deep into the soldier being stalked. Some veterans managed to wheel and grapple with the goblins before the daggers could bite them, but many fell in shock, hamstrung. These men had to turn painfully and do battle on their knees.

Cackling and shrieking manically, the goblins slaughtered the helpless and fled from those that they could not take down by surprise. Instead of fair fights, each sought another back to sink their steel into.

Brand himself felt the bite of steel at the back of his right knee. It was driven with great force, but such was the strength of the Kindred mail he wore that it could not punch through.

He turned and barely glanced at the surprised goblin that’d just been given birth by his shadow. He swept away its head, sending it spinning out over the battlements. The head fell with a thud to the distant ground.

“HOB!” Brand thundered. “I will slay thee for this!”

Hob himself did not answer, nor did he make a personal appearance. Brand knew the goblin’s cunning mind. He did not believe Hob had fallen under the influence of the witch. Hob was too deceitful—too wary. Instead, he’d been watching this struggle from a cloud or a puff of mist nearby. When the outer gates had fallen and the enemy was charging toward the inner keep of Castle Rabing, seemingly unchecked, he’d decided to do what wise goblins always did: join the winning side.

Brand had no time to further contemplate the depths of Hob’s treachery now, however. He ran along the battlements, striking down a goblin with every stroke of his Axe. This made the twin blades happy. They flashed with the light of the sun with each head they took, and soon Brand was lost to the slaughter. He sang, he laughed, and when there were no more goblins in sight to be slain, he had to control himself to keep from killing his own men. The Axe was like a fire: it wanted blood and licked everywhere for it with growing heat as it burned.

The goblins that survived fled by jumping off the walls or stepping into shadows that embraced them, vanishing as inexplicably as they’d appeared. But they’d done their work well. Half the garrison was dead or wounded to the point of incapacitation.

Then the charging Rainbow reached the gates at last.

Chapter Seventeen

Of Madness and Battle

Trev and Fafna had arrived at the Great Tree to find Myrrdin in a sorry state. The old wizard was disgusting to look upon. Madness and physical hardships had taken a terrible toll on his body.

Rather than squatting inside the inner sanctum of his tree, attached by a dozen green tubers and supping upon the saps of the plant, he was stretched full length on the wood floor, barely breathing.

Trev tried to rouse him, but the half-dead wizard didn’t respond.

“What are we going to do, Fafna?”

“I can awaken him,” said the dragon, sidling forward. Her jaws dripped flame and her eyes were alight with ill intent.

“No,” Trev said, holding up a hand. “Don’t burn him. I know you hate him for imprisoning you, but we must have his help in this battle.”

“Again I’m asked to sacrifice my wants for the benefit of others. I ask you why any thinking being would submit to such proposals time and again?”

Trev smiled. “I’m not sure, but you’ve been very cooperative for a dragon. Perhaps you like having friends and comrades. Most of your kind live out their existence in the lonely underworld with nothing more than an occasional shrieking kobold to talk to before you eat it.”

The dragon huffed, sending up a plume of smoke. “There’s no need to become insulting,” she said. “If you want to play with this dead wizard, go right ahead. I was only thinking of burning him to a perfect cooked texture so I could taste his flavorful meats before he died. I mean, there’s no point on fooling ourselves concerning that score.”

Trev turned back to Myrrdin, frowning. The dragon had a point: the man looked like he was done for. All that running away from the elves, from one world to the next, must have exhausted him. This tree he’d grown and driven so far, so fast, had taken all the energy he had to give. Now, he was spent.

“What’s that he’s lying upon?” asked the dragon.

Trev cocked his head and squatted beside the old man, examining the situation. It was gloomy inside the tree, but he could make out a shaft of wood. Ten gnarled fingers had woven themselves around it, and he was lying atop it as well.

“It must be Vaul, the Green Jewel.”

“Really?” said the dragon curiously. “Shall we take it?”

Trev looked up in surprise. “I can’t—at least I don’t think I can. I’m a Jewel myself. An anti-Jewel, sort of. I’m sure that I either can’t wield it, or it wouldn’t work right my hands. I once tried to use the Black, and that went badly.”

“How about me, then?” asked the dragon.

Trev laughed. “A dragon wielding the Green? How absurd.”

Fafna growled deep in her throat. She’d never liked being laughed at, and Trev cut off his rude chuckles.

“Sorry,” Trev said.

“I’m going to try,” said the dragon. “My father was said to have borne the Orange for a very long time. It made his flame all the hotter, you know. Really, the Kindred owe that Jewel to me. It is my inheritance.”

Trev was pretty sure the Kindred would argue the point, but he decided not to bring this up to the dragon. What would be the point of antagonizing her?

“Take it from him,” said the dragon, looming near.

Trev could feel the dragon’s hot breath. She was so close it was like being in front of an open furnace.

“Why me?”

“You said yourself you’re immune to the Jewel’s powers. You should be able to touch any of the Jewels without repercussions.”

“If you want to steal Vaul, you’ll have to do it yourself.”

The dragon snaked forward a black claw. With trepidation she touched the wizard’s shoulder carefully. Trev was amused to think the dragon was so cautious around Myrrdin, who seemed helpless.

With a sudden rolling motion, the dragon spun Myrrdin over onto his back.

Despite a bleeding hole where a claw had punctured his shoulder, the old Wizard did not awaken. Nor did he let go of his single possession of value. The Jewel was still in the grasping hands of the wheezing old man. His eyes didn’t open, but his bony wrists seemed to flex, tightening the grip he had upon Vaul.

Fafna reached out with a claw again and sought to pry the staff away from Myrrdin. Who made a mewling sound. His eyes fluttered, but did not open.

“You see that?” asked Trev. “You got a reaction.”

“And such a useful one, too. We’ll have this bag of bones up and running the length of the tree within the hour.”

“That will be too long.”

“Yes, and if you don’t help me take the Jewel, I’ll gut him with my claw by accident. I swear—it will be an accident.”

Trev twisted his lips in disgust. Sometimes, the dragon could be heartless. He knew he shouldn’t expect anything else, but somehow he did.

Reaching down and grabbing the staff, Trev tried to wrestle it from the old man’s fingers. He touched it delicately at first, but then after a minute or so, he grabbed it full on.

He’d expected a shock of connection, but there was only an odd tingle. He was certain then that the Jewel could not harm him, even if it wanted to. That was a nice detail: he could come in contact with the Jewels, maybe even carrying them all at once. But he could never wield them as others did.

Growing frustrated, Trev took out his knife and sawed away the shaft. The staff was now two separate things: a small head with Vaul mounted inside, and a long, skinny stick with no distinguishing features. He left the latter in Myrrdin’s white-knuckled hands while he lifted the former up with his hands upon it.

He showed it to the dragon, who seemed more fascinated than ever.

“It’s so lovely,” said the dragon. “I’ve never seen an object of such beauty before. This is my first.”

Trev watched him bemusedly. The Jewel was nothing special to Trev. He’d seen several others and even touched the Black briefly. That had been far more dangerous than this.

“Do you truly want it?” Trev asked the dragon.

“Yes.”

“How can we bring it into contact with your body? You can’t hold a staff, and the shaft has been cut away in any case.”

“It will grow back.”

“Not today, it won’t. We’ll have to do something else. Maybe we could hang it around your neck like an amulet.”

“That would do. Cut away one of those tubers attached to the wizard.”

“They feed him. I can’t do that.”

“Cut away a strip of his hide, then!” shouted Fafna. “I want no further delays. My scales ache to touch Vaul. It must happen.”

Trev looked at her warily. She was acting as if she were entranced by Vaul. Possibly, she was. But Trev hadn’t thought the minds of dragon kind could be manipulated so easily.

Trev opened his mouth to speak further, but a series of surprising occurrences made him forget whatever it was he’d been about to say.

First, the cave-like interior of the tree darkened, so much so that neither of them could see the exit that had been in plain sight a moment before. At the same time, Trev felt a tugging at his ankle.

He looked down in surprise to see Myrrdin’s hand clutching at his foot. The oldster’s lips were working too, mouthing words. No sound issued from the quivering tongue, however, nor the clacking teeth.

Then, Trev caught sight of his uncle’s staring eyes. They were filled with madness.

“Here Uncle,” he said. “I have what you long for. All you have to do is sit up and drive this tree one more time and then you can sleep for a dozen years if you want to.”

Myrrdin smiled up at him. But Trev thought to see something predatory in that smile. He looked behind him, but it was almost too late.

The clasping hand on his ankle tightened like a manacle. A branch had been summoned from outside the hollow area. Called to reach inside and pluck Trev from his feet. It almost managed to complete its quest.

“Here Uncle!” Trev shouted, tossing Vaul down at him. “Take it, and wield it! All humanity needs your help now. All of us will be forever in your debt.”

Myrrdin’s fingers snatched Vaul from the air as it dropped. He brought it to his lips and kissed it. Then he began to slowly, painfully, sit up.

“I told you we should have burned him,” complained the dragon.

Tubers began to move now, all around them. And the leafy vines from the outside crept closer every second.

“It’s time we leave now,” Trev whispered. To his Uncle, he shouted as if the man was deaf. “March the tree, Uncle! Destroy those who would kill your comrades. We need your aid. Honor your bargain, so no one can call you a cheat.”

Myrrdin seemed not to be listening. He was communing with Vaul, cradling the Jewel like an infant.

Inside the tree, things became stranger every moment. Branches were reaching inward, clawing and scraping over the floors, wood against wood. They reached inside so deeply that their countless finger-twigs snapped with each inch they traveled.

Trev vaulted up upon Fafna’s back, making the dragon grunt in irritation.

“Fly, my friend,” Trev said.

Needing no further encouragement, the dragon scuttled to the vanishing tunnels that led to the outside world and launched into the clean, fresh air outside.

Trev was more than glad to have escaped Myrrdin again. Either the old buzzard was going to march to battle, or he wasn’t. Either way, Trev felt he’d done his best to rouse him.

* * *

On the inner walls, the battle was not going well. The elves were outside still, but Rainbow was beating on the gates and they shuddered and groaned with each hammer-blow.

The problem was Brand was almost out of troops. His garrison had fought well, holding the outer wall until forced to retreat. He had no doubt that the last of them would stand with him when the gates fell, and that they would sell their lives well, singing to the end as Ambros inflamed their hearts with songs of war.

But it would not be enough to prevail. Already, the goblins had managed to take sections of the wall, and they held two of the towers without opposition. They were cowardly, but their strike had devastated Brand’s thin line of troops.

Outside, the elves had only to wait. They took potshots at his men when they could, but mostly they amused themselves with the villagers, burning huts and forcing maidens to dance with them even while their families died in the mud at their prancing feet.

Brand was sickened and enraged at the abuse, but he could do little about it. He had to hold the keep at all costs. If only the Rainbow could be destroyed…

“Brand,” Telyn said, appearing at his side.

He looked at her with unfocussed eyes. She’d been in their apartments all this time, guarding their children. He knew she would fight to the death for them in the end, if it came to that. He was surprised to see her here.

She wore a chain shirt and carried twin daggers. He knew her battledress well but had not seen her wear it for many long years.

“Have you come out to join me at the finish, my love?” he asked.

“Their finish, not ours,” she said. “You know what must be done now, don’t you? Look at our Dead. They outnumber us.”

Brand turned his gaze along the walls, and he counted the fallen men by tens. There were hundreds. Telyn was right, more lay on their faces than stood upright and fought.

“What can be done?” he asked.

“You must go into the catacombs and summon Slet. He must march in our streets.”

He looked at her, and gnashed his teeth at the thought. But at the same time he knew she was right. Without another word he raced for the grates over the crypt entrance. He’d had them chained when he’d sent Slet down here. It had been an exile as much as anything else. But now, he had need of the necromancer.

He lifted Ambros high and the Axe slashed down, severing the chains. With his free arm he wrenched the screeching metal doors open. An unwholesome smell rose up to greet him as he did this, and even in the grip of the Axe, his nose wrinkled in disgust.

Telyn followed him as he ran down the steps. She was good at this, playing his second. She was a quiet shadow, always there in case he needed to be guided slightly, but never intruding, never annoying the Axeman without good cause. Doing so had gotten many people killed in the past.

They ran from gallery to gallery, calling Slet’s name. At last, a shadow moved away from the rest, stepping out of an alcove behind them. Brand and Telyn turned and faced the necromancer.

“Slet, we have need of you!” Brand shouted. “Follow me, man, and bring as many of your bony puppets as you can command!”

Slet did not move. Instead, the room around him seemed to shift instead. Slowly, a thousand bones coalesced into a dozen skeletons. They stood at odd angles, and their fleshless bodies crackled when they moved.

“Oh, you need me now, do you?” Slet asked. “I’m always at the beck and call of Lord Rabing, I’m sure.”

“Slet, it’s not like that,” Telyn said, “the castle is about to fall.”

“Hmm,” Slet said, putting a thin finger to his chin. “You know, living down here for a while has taught me much. I understand now how it must have gone for every necromancer in the past. First, they’re shocked by their predicament. They wish to rectify it, to satisfy the living that they are not one of the Dead, not a monster—but in time, they give up. They’re burned, beaten, imprisoned. Possibly, my kind are as much victims as they are villains.”

Brand was sneering, barely containing himself. He stepped in front of Telyn and lifted the Axe higher. “If you wish to stay here and play with your bones in the dark, I have no need of you. Follow me, the lord of this castle, and you will be rewarded. Defy me, and you will die where you stand.”

Slet laughed. “You are in my domain now. I rule beneath the earth, in the ground with the Dead. Not you.”

“You can’t be serious?” Brand asked. “You must know you can’t defeat me. To even suggest the challenge is absurd. I’m the Axeman, and you are an untrained necromancer. You barely know which end of that Scepter is which.”

“You’re right, I probably can’t beat you. But I don’t need to. You’ve brought your weakness along with you. I’ll simply order all my minions to tear your wife apart. You’ll destroy many of us, perhaps all, but Telyn will not be in one piece at the end, I assure you.”

Brand almost attacked him then. In his mind, he could see himself lifting the Axe and commanding it to burn this monster. His eyes would boil from the sockets, and he’d be as much a skeleton as the rest when Ambros was finished.

Telyn laid a hand on his arm. The touch was so delicate, so slight, he almost didn’t notice it at first. But then he realized she was speaking to him—to both of them. With an effort of will, he forced himself to listen.

“You don’t have to do this,” Telyn told them. “The Jewels are close to one another, and driving you both mad. Let your anger fade. Of all the Jewel bearers, you’re the only two from the Haven. We can’t stand if brothers war upon each other. We’ll all die. We need you both, our champions.”

Slet and Brand regarded one another for a long moment. Brand spoke first.

“I apologize for our persecution of you from the start. You must understand—the Storm of the Dead did not leave the people of the Haven in a generous mood when it comes to necromancers, new or old.”

“Apology accepted,” Slet said seriously.

“I must now ask you for your aid,” Brand said, emphasizing the word ask where before he’d spoken only in the most commanding of tones. “It is as Telyn says. Our people will all die if we do not cooperate now. There are many Dead above us, I need you to make them rise and fight again.”

“I accept your invitation,” Slet said, “lead me to your Dead.”

Brand, Telyn and Slet raced up the steps. They left the catacombs and came out into the glaring daylight. Two dozen skeletons followed, each clad in scraps of armor and armed with discarded old weapons. Many of their swords were rusted or broken, but they held them as if they knew them well.

“Telyn, take him to the walls!” Brand shouted, pointing up the steps to the battlements. “I must meet the enemy at the gates. They’re almost through.”

While Slet hurried after Telyn, he bent as he reached each fallen man who’d tumbled back from the top of the wall to crash upon the cobbles. He touched their brows, and their eyes snapped open. Unblinking, these men heaved themselves up and staggered after him. They walked on broken limbs without feeling. Their staring eyes never blinked. Bones shot through their skin and crunched as they walked, but the Dead men never winced in pain.

Brand shuddered slightly, then turned away from the disgusting display. He had no time to mourn his men or what had been done to them.

It was as he reached the gates that a tremendous crashing sound rang out over the entire castle. Even those locked in mortal combat had to turn and crane their necks. They all cringed when they saw what they saw.

The Great Tree was moving. It had taken down the wall in front of it, walking right through as a man might press his way through a hedge. A great section of stone bricks had been kicked flat, making the tremendous sound they’d all heard.

Now, swaying slightly as it advanced, the monstrous tree shambled toward the keep where the battle raged.

* * *

Oberon was stunned. He’d seen victory within his grasp, but now, from several directions, his plans were under assault. The walls were slow to go down, both outer and inner, but they were finally being overcome. The human troops had been devastated by Old Hob’s timely attack, and as the Rainbow hammered blows upon the gates it appeared the end was near for the garrison inside.

But then a series of calamities had struck his side. First, the enemy had raised their Dead, manning their walls anew with men they’d already taken great pains to dispatch. Worse, these new troops felt no pain, no fear and could not be controlled by Morgana’s Sunstone.

Then the Great Tree had joined the battle. Had it all been a trick? A ruse to feign weakness, to force them to play every card they had, then reverse it all upon them? If so, the humans of the Haven had learned too well from the Faerie. In a way, even in his despair, Oberon felt impressed and amused by the antics of the enemy. It was a grand joke, even if the elves were to be the butt of it.

He had a card left yet to play. Although he was with his men and not standing at the side of his mistress, he knew what she would want: to win at all costs. He summoned his elves together and ordered them to drop their idle pursuits. The ravaging of maidens would have to wait for a better day.

Glassy-eyed and feral-minded, his troops were not their usual selves. They were all infected with bloodlust, something he owed to Morgana’s power. But they were obedient enough when their lord called, and they came to stand in clumps of five, nine, and thirteen.

The groups that stood in fives he approached first. He apologized in their tongue first, as was only polite, then he fused them.

The Red was in his arms, a bloodhound of fur and flesh—but nothing else about it was normal. It had evil eyes and never barked. Instead, it only lapped at spilled blood and stared at its victims without remorse or compunction.

The elves Oberon urged into tight huddles felt themselves thick about the middle at first. Stepping closer and closer to one another, they cried out in alarm, but could not stop the transformation once it had begun. They linked arms, and their distending bellies touched. Once their guts broke free of their tunics and pressed flesh to flesh, the fusing began in earnest and the process sped up.

Screaming, the elves wriggled and their tangled legs staggered in a dozen directions at once. But although they tottered, they could not escape, they could not be free of the others. For they were in the grips of Blood Magic at its most powerful and they could not resist it.

Soon, they formed abominations with numerous heads, limbs, weapons and a dozen or two legs each. Oberon walked from one group to the next, touching spots here and there that had not quite subsumed with the rest. Occasionally, he spied a gap in his monstrosities, so he grabbed up a human body, living or dead, and tossed it into the mix. Like throwing a new stick on a raging fire, the new fuel was soon consumed and became part of the swelling whole.

The smallest abominations he armed with fallen weapons. They were plentiful, having dropped from the men who’d been individuals moments earlier. He armed each grasping hand with a sword, each pair with a bow.

Then he turned to the larger groupings. The nine-elf monsters formed larger abominations. These stood with a second layer above the first. Like a snowman with two spheres of frozen matter, the bottom layer served only to support the upper. These took more work to perfect. Into the hands at the top, he fitted lances, as swords would not be long enough to reach the enemy. He also paired and fused together the dangling legs at the bottom, so they would not buckle under the terrific weight.

The greatest of his creations he approached last. These were barely functional masses of tangled flesh and limbs. Thirteen or more elves formed each, and he added more flesh liberally, even throwing in oxen for strength in the lower regions.

The fusion of limbs was required in this case. Every three normal legs or arms formed a single, massive, knobby limb. Even with only four arms at the top and ten or so feet churning below, the monster was impressive. Heads were plentiful, and squinting eyes looked everywhere at once.

Normal weapons could not be used to arm these goliaths. Instead, he had them rip trees from the ground, or beams from farmhouses to use as mauls. Swung with terrific force, these weapons could kill a man with a single stroke—or destroy a Dead thing.

The hound lapped furiously, and Oberon worked his magic until sweat ran from his body and formed a slick gel mixed with stray blood. He was soon coated in it, like a man lathered in soap.

When he was finished, he took his position at the head of his new army. His groaning, wheezing abominations shuffled and dragged their misshapen forms after him. Oberon turned them to face battle. He did not like what he saw ahead, but he was compelled to join in the melee.

The Great Tree had reached them at last.

* * *

Myrrdin loomed over the village outside the castle proper like a mad god. He shambled forward, making his final charge. Massive roots erased cottages as they went, crushing them down and obliterating all sign of human habitation. There was no heed taken of livestock, fences, fleeing citizens or enemies. In the tree’s wake, it left behind only scraped black earth, dust and rubble.

Myrrdin had a fever that consumed his mind and body alike. He was mad, but that was not all of it. He’d pushed himself too far. For years, he’d lain dormant beneath the earth, kept alive only by his plots for revenge. Now, at last, he was free to do his worst.

He cared not one wit for Brand, humanity, nor even the elves. He only wanted to hurt his sire anyway he could. As he could not see the scampering elf, nor make him out apart from the others, he was determined to stamp out every last one of the little blighters before he was done.

His fleshly body was hot in its encasement of tubers and greenwoods. He knew he had only a short while to live. If he’d decided to go off somewhere and hide—perhaps for a week or more, he might have recovered.  But he never even considered the idea. He was consumed with the need to lash out at his father, the elf that had made him, raised him, and then mocked him for a thousand years as an inferior creation. His mother had died so long ago he could no longer recall her sweet face. But his father remained exactly the same as the first day he’d laid eyes upon him as a child.

Myrrdin understood that Oberon had been old when Myrrdin was born, and he was much older now. An elf so weary of life could no more care for a half-human child than a snake could kiss its young goodnight. For a time, Myrrdin been able to accept this, but his sire’s base treachery of late had been too much. His mind had snapped and had only righted itself partially when he created the Great Tree.

There had been a project worthy for a man’s lifetime! He’d been happy for a brief spell, nurturing the tree, bringing it back to life again. But then Trev and Brand had seen fit to make him remember Oberon and he’d fallen back into his madness—and become again an elemental force bent upon destruction.

Now he drove the tree like a drunken rider that flails his horse until its heart fails and it falls into the cold mud. Part of him knew the tree wasn’t ready for battle, but that was a thought that required judgment and reason to act upon, and he was beyond that now.

He caught those he could and crushed them down. Seeing the elves and humans alike escaping his wrath, he turned toward the castle proper. There stood the Rainbow, beating on the gates.

A broad grin overcame him. He saw the Rainbow as a terror from his past. His father had commanded it for long centuries, and in Myrrdin’s mind he commanded it still.

He turned and extended a dozen claw-like branches, each as big as a tree in its own right. The Rainbow was a gigantic creature, but it looked like a child when confronting the Great Tree.

Myrrdin’s branches raked the Rainbow, and it reeled back and fell to the ground. Chunks of gauzy multi-hued material glistened from Myrrdin’s claws. The Rainbow flailed, stunned, then it loosed a strange, deafening howl.

The sound was of such volume and weirdness it rang in every mind that heard it and set every man’s teeth on edge. Kicking and churning its limbs, the Rainbow regained its feet and charged the tree.

Myrrdin laughed and spittle flew from his face in strings. Here was good sport! A pygmy dared to challenge the greatest of all living things!

But when the Rainbow slammed into him, Myrrdin was shocked to feel the tree shudder. Branches crackled and layers of bark were stripped from the lower sections, falling in sheets to the ground.

Even in his fevered mind, Myrrdin knew in an instant what was wrong. The tree was too immature. It was hollow inside for the most part. He was driving an empty shell. It still had fantastic weight and power, but nothing like what it should have had. With another year to sup upon the ground and rainwater—but no, there was nothing for it. He would have to take this attack seriously.

Using four of his lowest branches, he reached down and scooped up the Rainbow, lifting it off its feet and into the air. He lifted the struggling elemental up and up, passing it arm to arm as it went. At last, it passed by the opening to his enclave and for a brief moment, their eyes met. The creature’s gaze was equally as mad as his own. For a fleeting second they studied one another—and then Myrrdin threw the Rainbow down, casting it upon the ground.

The creature seemed to know his plan, for it reached a groping set of fingers into the opening, seeking his flesh. Like a child thrusting its hand into the mouth of an ogre, it was an act of desperation.

Myrrdin tried to will the tree to clamp down upon the wrist, but could not. It was not a creature of flesh, but rather a construct of living wood. It could not move all of its parts. Many were as stiff and immobile as any tree.

All he could do was try to shove the Rainbow away from him, to cast it away as roughly as he could with his branches.

Relief spread over him. He managed this trick and escaped the Rainbow’s grasp. The shimmering giant was cast down. Summoning what strength he had left, Myrrdin crawled to the edge of his sanctuary. Gasping and choking on his own phlegm, he grinned so widely his face seemed to be in danger of splitting apart.

There was the Rainbow far below, smashed upon the rubble of the castle gates. It was as dead as a cod on a dusty road! The creature’s fall had crushed the gatehouse and had been ripped apart like the magical mass of fluff that it was. The sight was glorious.

And it was one of the last things Myrrdin ever saw. For, in his excitement, he leaned out too far over the lip of the Great Tree’s mouth, such was his urgent need to see the Rainbow broken and defeated.

It was the stuff of the melting Rainbow itself that finished him. There was a residue of the material that made up the Rainbow left in the opening which led to Myrrdin’s sanctuary. It was slick, like a slurry of soapy water. He slipped on it and fired out into open air.

Twisting and howling as might a falling cat, he tried to grasp any branch, but failed. He willed the tree to save him—and for a moment, it did.

By accident, he fell with a woofing sound, wrapped around a branch fifty feet down from the yawning mouth. He was still far above the ground and he clung to the leafy weakly. But this respite was only temporary, because the tree now had no rider, no mind—no creature to guide its actions and cause it to balance. It could not think to lean back and right itself.

The Tree tipped farther and kept tipping, and Myrrdin lost his hold on the leaf. He fell. The wind whistled in his hair and made his beard whip around his head at the end. The tree was so large it cut out the sun above him before he struck the stone battlements and was shocked to realize he still lived.

Broken in mind and body, with every joint snapped and every organ ruptured, he laughed. He cackled with glee. Here, at last, was release. And no one would again forget about Myrrdin, leaving him in a hole to rot. They would speak of him and his tree a thousand years hence.

The falling tree smashed down upon him then, like a thousand-ton hammer landing upon a small nail of frail flesh.

* * *

Morgana was not happy. She stood with what remained of her Kindred army just outside the wreckage that had once been a village. Before her, instead of a line of obedient Jewel-wielders, was a scene of utter destruction.

She’d considered Castle Rabing to be one of the greatest prizes awaiting her. With luck, she’d hoped Brand would join her and serve her. When he stood resolutely opposed, she believed she could defeat him with superior strength of arms.

But what had transpired so far was not what she’d envisioned. The Jewel-wielders were destroying one another. They all seemed half-mad and difficult to control. The battle had been chaotic from the start, and now it seemed like it could only end with the death of everyone present.

She had half a mind to turn her remaining slaves around and retreat. After all, what good was a victory if they destroyed the entire place? Already, the gates were broken, the walls were breached, and when the Great Tree fell it managed to knock down two towers and carve a hole in the keep itself. Stone usually withstood the weight of falling wood, but not so much wood.

Raving in frustration and striking blows upon any underling that dared stand near, she marched around in a circle. She did not hear her own words and curses, and the zombie-like Kindred only smiled faintly at her, ignoring her blows other than to blink and bleed when she struck their leathery faces. She soon stopped, as her own knuckles were bleeding too, and all her nails were broken.

Breathing deeply to calm herself, she tried to understand what was happening on the battlefield. It was midday, it was hot, and there was so much smoke and dust she could barely see the struggle that continued in the rubble. With her luck, she suspected Brand and Oberon would meet and strangle one another to the death, turning themselves into corpses rather than useful subjects.

“I need to know what’s happening. I’ve lost control,” she growled at her smirking captains.

She did not know why the Kindred tended to smirk and grin when she controlled them, but she found it irritating. They looked witless and evil, as if they dreamed while standing upon their feet. The thought of retreating with these leering fools and remaking all her plans was painful to her.

Morgana shook herself and took a deep breath. “Attend me! All guardsmen, close ranks and follow. We’re going to finish this today—one way or the other. Look smart for your Queen!”

As she began her march, she passed by the spot where she’d had the Rainbow drop Gudrin to the ground. To her surprise, the ancient hag still squirmed weakly. She shook her head and considered pushing the point of her dagger into the witch’s eye socket—but then she thought the better of it.

“Bring Gudrin’s broken body along with us. Perhaps the old fool will be of use yet.”

Morgana marched toward the village then, and hundreds of troops in clinking mail followed her. None of them spoke a word nor voiced a query. Their wills were her will, as if they were marionettes on strings and she a puppeteer with a thousand fingers.

* * *

Oberon’s elves and abominations had escaped destruction when the Great Tree fell. For the most part, it had toppled forward, smashing down the gates, damaging the battlements and the keep itself.

Seeing his opportunity, he rallied his forces in the dust and rushed forward. They  crawled over the fallen corpse of the tree—which had shattered into a thousand chunks of splintered white wood when it struck the ground.

Ahead of them, they saw figures rising to oppose them. Oberon was surprised. Humans were often panicked and broken by less terrific events. But this group did not seem frightened—quite the opposite.

They stood in the dust, smoke and swirling debris with perfect aplomb. They had no qualm, and did not ready themselves in crouches or shout battle cries. They were silent, and resolute.

Sensing something he did not understand, Oberon hung back and sent forward his largest abominations, tottering on bleeding feet and crackling, fused leg bones. They could not last long, these monsters of misshapen flesh, but while they stayed whole they were powerful and no normal man could stand up to them.

But when the two lines met, amongst the tumbled stone blocks of the ruined gatehouse and walls, the men there did not shrink back nor cry in terror. They rushed forward instead, as if eager to meet their dooms.

And as they did so, dozens more sprang up behind them. It was then that Oberon knew the truth: he was facing the sorcery of the Black.

* * *

If it had not been for the powerful influence of Ambros, Brand felt sure he would have quailed from this fight. In front of him charged a thundering squadron of abominations. These creatures of unnaturally-shaped flesh and bone were terrifying to look upon. Each had a dozen eyes or more and as many limbs. They dripped blood like butchered animals, but seemed not to be troubled by it. Behind these horrors came another wave, a line of raving elves. They didn’t behave as elves usually did. They weren’t teasing and circumspect. Rather, they charged and howled like witless barbarians.

Worse still than the enemy were his own troops. He was surrounded by the Dead. They stood with ghastly wounds fresh upon their bodies. They held swords in numb fingers and stared with dry eyes that would never again need to blink.

When the two lines met, however, he lost himself to the battle. He hacked and burned and hewed. He sang songs of battle and laughed when an enemy was cut down.

Still, the sheer weight of the abominations drove his Dead farther back, into the ruins that had once been his lovely keep.

He suspected that, should he survive this day, he would weep for the stone keep he’d worked most of his lifetime to build—but not now. Today there was no room for grief, only for slaughter.

As the battle progressed, it seemed clear they could not win. His troops felt no pain, and never gave up—but they were smaller and each abomination they cut down cost them a dozen crushed corpses that could not function, even in death.

But when they were pressed back into the walls, into the dust, smoke and rubble—Brand saw the battle shift. When an elf was struck down, it soon after rose again and rejoined the battle—on the side of the Haven.

Even the abominations were not immune to this effect. Clever, clever Slet! He moved behind the lines, doing his best to not expose himself. His hand snaked forward to any spot where a fresh elf corpse flopped down and a shimmer of blackness followed. Then the corpse moved again.

Oberon could be seen behind his lines, doing the same. In his case, he used the wounded to feed the living. When an elf fell, or an abomination had its legs cut away to the bone, he had others fuse with it, forming a new monstrosity of living flesh. It was a strange fight, the most nightmarish Brand had ever seen.

A figured loomed at his side then, and Brand wheeled, expecting to meet an abomination that had somehow made it through his lines. But instead, he saw it was the ogre, Ivor, in full battle-dress.

“You’ve come to join the fight?” Brand asked him.

Ivor lifted a gory maul to show he’d been in the thick of it. Brand grinned and slapped him on his massive shoulder.

“I think we might win this struggle,” he told Ivor. “The power of the Red doesn’t work on things that had been revived by the Black. Look there! See Oberon? He’s trying to assemble the flesh of the Dead, but it won’t work. Try as he might, he can’t turn a Dead-thing into fuel for the hound. The math is simple: we must destroy his abominations faster than he crushes our Dead.”

Ivor nodded, and charged with a roar. He engaged an abomination, one of the middling-sized sort, and the two strove and traded blows. Brand took this moment of the monster’s distraction to slip close and cut its legs out from under it. After another dozen strokes by both Ivor and Brand, the bloody mass stopped thrashing.

Slet dared to come forward and try something new. He touched his Scepter to the fresh-killed abomination, and he managed to rouse it before Oberon could heal it by pumping fresh blood into its empty veins. The towering creature rose, an amalgamation of a dozen people, and now turned upon its maker. It was no longer alive, but now a creature of Dead, insensate flesh.

Thinking about it in a brief moment of clarity, Brand realized he should win this battle. It was, after all, two Jewels against the power of one.

But then the Kindred army arrived, marching in formation with the witch leading them, and Brand felt all hope was once again lost. As great as the Amber and the Black were working together, he knew the White was greater with hundreds of minds in its grasp.

* * *

Trev sat upon Fafna’s back. The dragon’s wings were flapping and they hung a thousand feet above the turmoil of battle below. Together they gazed down upon the awful battle.

Trev was uncertain what he should do. He’d gotten Myrrdin to charge in with the Great Tree—but that had caused as much destruction to the keep as anything else. He knew that his next mission was to assassinate Morgana—something he didn’t want to do, but which he could see the necessity for.

The trouble was that she was always with a large group of soldiers. He had spotted her from time to time, but if he plunged down on the back of his dragon, leapt from the saddle and thrust his blade into her back, he was certain he would be set upon by hundreds. He felt it unlikely he could even reach her before he was cut down.

His stomach was twisted into knots, and he felt unprepared for this moment. He supposed that all warriors felt that way their first time at war. But this was the wildest mess he’d ever heard of, even when compared to the fantastic battles on the shoulders of Snowdon in history lessons.

The battle was large and confusing, and he felt out of his depth. Should he attack, or wait? The tension and indecision was making him ill. He knew that the battle might hinge on the success of his action, and he knew he would only get one try.

“You intrigue me, boy,” said a voice near at hand.

Trev looked this way and that, eyes wide. There was nothing and no one in sight. He and the dragon were flying high in the air, out of the reach of any bowshot or spoken word from the ground.

After the initial surprise wore off, he knew who he must be dealing with. He drew his blade and held it over his head, lest an unexpected attack come from that direction.

“Hob,” said Fafna, “I’ll have you know I’m not as helpless as the youth on my back. If you strike at him, I’ll find you and burn you, invisible or not.”

Old Hob twittered. “Don’t be so dramatic, dragon,” he said. “If I’d meant either of you harm, I would have struck without warning.”

“Hmm,” said Trev. “No, I don’t think you would have. You never place yourself in that kind of danger. You never strike anyone, I’d wager, unless they are bound at your feet and so weak as to be helpless.”

“Insulting,” Hob sniffed. “But be that as it may, can I ask you a harmless question?”

“If it will cause you to leave or reveal yourself.”

Hob laughed. “Hardly. What I want to know is what you’re doing up here, staring down at the battle? I’ve been doing the same, but I doubt our intentions are identical…”

“If you’re asking whether I’m planning to join whichever side I think is winning at the last possible instant, then no, we’re not doing the same thing you are.”

“Your comment suggests a low opinion of my honor.”

“I have no opinion of your honor, because you have very close to none.”

Old Hob made a snorting sound. “All right, if your intentions are so pure, you’ll not mind telling me of them.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I might want to help.”

Trev thought about it, but shook his head. “You’ll only give warning and take credit for rendering aid.”

“Ah, warning is it? So you do intend to act? Hmm, let me think a moment. A boy who can’t be touched by the magic of the others. He has no weapon other than a dagger, and he seems to have thrown his lot in with Brand and his friends… I think I have it: you’re an assassin, aren’t you?”

Trev felt uncomfortable with the conversation and Hob’s deductions.

“Leave me,” he said, “or Fafna will breathe fire in every direction until she lights your britches. I bet we’ll be able to see you well enough then.”

There was a pause in the conversation after this remark. When Hob spoke next, it seemed that he was shouting from a greater distance away.

“I can only think that you are on a mission to kill Morgana,” Hob shouted. “If that is the case, then I wish to help you.”

Trev rolled his eyes.

The dragon twisted her neck and the great head came around to look at Trev. She spoke in an urgent, rough whisper.

“Let’s lure him into coming close. Then I’ll take a bite out of him. He smells, you see. The moment he’s upwind, I’ll know it.”

“That’s a worthy sacrifice on your part,” Trev said, disgusted with the thought of taking a bite out of Old Hob. “I appreciate the offer. But I want to find out what he’s offering.”

Trev raised his voice and shouted into the winds. “What do you suggest, Hob?”

Old Hob was much closer when he spoke again. Trev startled and looked from his left to his right, where the wily goblin’s voice now emanated.

“I can make you invisible,” Hob said. “You and the dragon both. It will not last long, but long enough to hurtle down out of the sky and plunge your blade into that witch’s heart.”

“Why would you do that?” Trev asked.

“Isn’t it obvious? Do you think I’d rather have a single Queen commanding all the Jewels, or eight fractured parties arrayed against me? If she is the clear winner, I’ll have no choice but to join her and beg to remain a helpful, neutral party. But if I have my wish, she’ll be as dead as those dry bones that necromancer of yours has been coaxing out of the ground.”

Trev thought about it, and he believed Hob. The last thing a weasely old codger like him wanted was to be dominated by an all-powerful witch. He would rather see her dead.

“How can you do it?”

“If you can control your mount for a mere second, allowing me to make contact with the tip of her tail…”

“Have a care, goblin!” Fafna growled, craning her neck around and looking behind her. Her tail began to lash like a slaver’s whip.

“Hold still please, Fafna,” Trev said. “Wouldn’t you like to be invisible when we attack? They can’t shoot at you if they can’t see you.”

The dragon grumbled, but at last held her tail out behind her as straight as an arrow.

A moment later, Trev heard Old Hob speak: “There, it is done.”

The dragon vanished, and Trev began to fall. His mind could not grasp what was happening for a moment, then he knew: What if Hob hadn’t made the dragon invisible, but instead had transported her to a distant locale? In that case, he’d fooled them both and Trev had killed himself by believing the oldest of goblins.

Old Hob was speaking again, but Trev was falling so rapidly, he could not make out the words. For a horrible few seconds, he shouted in alarm.

“Shut up and ready your blade!” shouted Fafna.

Trev swallowed and tightened his grip on his dagger. He realized he could still feel the saddle under him, more so now that Fafna was slowing her plunge.

“You dove without warning,” Trev complained.

“The old bastard said it would not last long,” Fafna explained. “What if it lasts just long enough for us to drop into the midst of the enemy and then appear like fools? I wanted to get there as quickly as possible.”

Trev saw the logic of this, and he tried to get his mind back to the task at hand. He realized with a shock that he could see his own hand and the dagger in it, but not the dragon.

“My silver hair,” he said, “the magic didn’t work on me. I’m not invisible, only you are!”

“Of course,” huffed the dragon. “What did you expect? Now, jump off when we land and kill that witch. I’m hungry and I’m tired of battles.”

Whether it was due to impatience or to the dragon’s belief in the need for urgency, Trev realized they’d reached the ground.

They landed directly in front of the Witch of the Wood. Trev took two steps forward and placed his blade against her fine, white throat.

The woman stiffened in shock. Her eyes shot at him with hate, but then quickly softened. She fabricated a smile that was as false as any Trev had yet to witness.

“Trev, my darling!” she said. “I’m startled to meet you, and I must ask that you let go of my hair. Otherwise, my troops will slay you. I won’t be able to stop them.”

Trev’s eyes slid past her, looking at the Kindred troops that had circled around. They were not snarling in rage, but rather grinning at him, as if they were all privy to some joke at his expense. Their expressions gave him a chill, despite the situation.

“Step back, or you mistress dies now!” Trev shouted at them.

They retreated a single step, but no farther. Trev looked at Morgana. She met his gaze.

“You’ve slain many of my people,” Trev said.

“Your people?” she asked. “And who might those be? The humans or the elves? It seems to me they are busy slaying one another and have been long before I got here.”

“Both,” he said. “I claim them both, and you are killing all my kin.”

She shook her head slightly, causing the point of his dagger to cut a tiny line in the throat.

“No Trev,” she said sadly. “You have no people. Both sides agree on one thing: they universally reject your kind. None of them love you.”

He opened his mouth to angrily shout that his mother certainly did love him—but then he calmed himself. She was delaying.

“Order your men three more steps back, or I’ll drive this dagger home this instant.”

She licked her lips, and her expression changed back to hate.

“You heard him,” she shouted, “step back, damn you all!”

They did so, shuffling silently. None had yet to shout a challenge or even make a rude gesture toward him. Trev found the situation surreal.

“Now what, my lovely boy?” she asked.

Trev knew this was the moment. He had to drive the dagger home now. Perhaps, the thrust would not be enough. Perhaps, the circling Kindred would have time before the spell was broken to tear him apart. But even if that was true, if he could kill this witch, he could yet save the Haven.

But it was harder to do than it sounded. He was a young boy, and in all his short life, he’d only lain with one woman—the one he was supposed to murder now.

He could smell her, despite the smoke and blood that hung in air. She had a soft, fragrant scent. No doubt, she’d doused herself in lilac water or crushed rose petals and rubbed them on herself when she bathed. Whichever was the case, it brought back memories of their single bout of passion, and it caused him to hold back. He knew what had to be done, but he could not bring himself to do it.

“I knew it, my love,” Morgana said. “I knew you could not slay me. I’m grateful, and after this business is over with, I’ll lie with you again tonight in my tent. You’d like that, wouldn’t you Trev?”

Trev was close to tears, but he nodded. He steeled himself. Perhaps he could do this evil deed, if he just closed his eyes and didn’t think about what he was really doing. Just a single, simple motion—

His arm jerked forward and the dagger thrust home. He stared in shock. Blood bubbled from Morgana’s pierced throat. It ran down the blade and over his fingers. Trev shook his head.

Around him, for the first time, the assembled Kindred Warriors made a sound. It was a single, howling roar. It was the cry of a wounded wolf who’s lost its mate, and it rang up from not one throat, but from a thousand throats around the battlefield.

Trev’s arm moved again, seemingly of its own volition, thrusting deeper still. The blade was in to the hilt, and the dagger was longer than most. It had to be all the way up into her head, scraping against the inside of her skull.

Trev dropped Morgana and the dagger with her in horror.

“I didn’t do it!” he shouted. “I didn’t do it, I swear!”

The Kindred around him fell to their knees as one, as if he’d stabbed them, not their mistress. They writhed and kicked. Some bit their own tongues and blood ran from the corners of their mouths and into their beards.

Trev felt and then saw a tall shadow looming behind him. He whirled, tearing his eyes from Morgana’s, which were already glazing over in death.

There stood Old Hob, visible at last. He smiled at Trev, and showed his yellowed, pointed teeth.

“Sorry,” he said. “I just thought you might be needing a little…help.”

Hob made a motion, indicating he’d pushed upon Trev’s elbow and driven the dagger home for him.

“You killed her,” Trev said, “with my hand. Such a wicked act.”

Old Hob frowned at him and put his bony green fists on his hips.

“Oh come now, I’ll not hear that kind of talk, boy!” he said angrily. He lifted one hand and waved it around the place, turning in a full circle as he did so. “Can you be such a love-struck mooncalf that you don’t see the devastation around you? This woman was a witch, the most vile of such beings, and she wielded a power so great it caused thousands of creatures to die. How can you mourn such an evil?”

Trev frowned at him. He was stunned by the situation. He still wanted to help Morgana, but he could see she was well and truly dead. Perhaps Oberon’s blood magic…

“Are you listening, boy?” Old Hob was saying. He’d never stopped speaking, but Trev had stopped listening.

“What is it?” Trev asked, still staring down at Morgana.

“I was saying I’ll make you a bargain. Right here and now, I’m taking the Sunstone. It’s for the best, for reasons I’ve just made abundantly clear.”

This last statement penetrated Trev’s shock. He wheeled and saw that Old Hob was stooping over the body.

“But I don’t dare carry it, you understand. Not directly. It can’t make contact with my skin. I’ll leave it around her neck and take the body with me. Then I—”

That was as far as Old Hob got. His next sound was a loud, squawking one, a noise that reminded Trev of a chicken’s cry of surprise. Trev had grabbed an axe from the hand of a stunned Kindred warrior and place it against the small of Old Hob’s back.

“Leave her body alone.”

Old Hob lurched away and straightened. His manner had changed, and he backed away quickly. Trev advanced, holding his weapon ready to strike.

“Now see here,” Hob said, “there’s no need for anger. What kind of gratitude is this? I saved you all. I made your dragon invisible, and gave you the boost of aid you needed at the critical—”

“Shut up, Hob,” Trev said. “Or I’ll take your head now. Leave us be. You’ve done your work. Be glad it was her blood spilled here and not yours.”

Muttering and scoffing, Old Hob walked away through the awakening Kindred. It seemed to Trev that he found steps where there were none, and climbed these invisible stairs into the air over all their heads. Then he slowly faded from view.

Long after he’d left, Trev stood guard over the fallen form of Morgana. Killing her was one thing, desecrating her body and stealing the White was quite another. He had no doubt in his mind that Hob would have been just as vile of an overlord as Morgana had been—if not infinitely more clever and wicked.

Trev himself eyed the White, which was slung around Morgana’s neck. He had to admit, he felt a tug toward it. Could he wield two? Brand had done it, however briefly…

No! He chided himself, such greedy thoughts were dishonorable. He’d already killed her, and he felt bad about that, even if his hand had been forced and she’d richly deserved it. Robbing the dead on top of that wasn’t a thought worth having.

Around him, the Kindred revived, groaning. As a group, they wondered where they were and what they were doing. They had only the faintest memories of the battle, thinking that perhaps they’d dreamed the entire affair. Upon learning the truth, of the terrible deeds they’d done in service to the wicked Witch of the Wood, their confusion changed to anger—and then, when they found their broken Queen Gudrin, to sadness.

* * *

The battle at the gates of the keep fell apart. When the witch’s mind was silenced, Oberon was stricken, as were all his elves. The abominations tottered and reeled drunkenly, suddenly without direction. Brand and his men set upon them and quickly cut them down, removing their legs first, then began the grim butchery of killing things that should not be capable of life in the first place.

When that was done, Brand and his remaining men turned dark eyes toward the elves, who lay here and there as if knocked senseless. They all—even Brand himself—thought of massacring their enemies while they were able. But there was no honor in the act, and they managed to stay their hands.

Instead of removing their heads, they removed their weapons instead. Slet took this time to marshal his Dead army into two companies of lurching, mindless corpses. They stood still when he commanded them to, and were utterly silent in their ranks.

Brand turned to him, and their eyes met. After a moment of tension, Brand lifted his empty hand and extended it. The two men shook, and Brand could see gratitude in the other’s eyes for the act. Few would willingly clasp hands with a necromancer, no matter what good deeds he’d performed.

“Well done, man,” Brand said. “I would call you comrade again. I would forgive your crimes this day, for you have helped save my castle.”

“Thank you, Lord Rabing,” Slet said. His smile widened.

“But,” Brand said, looking at the ranks of Dead. “Those who saved us today now pose a problem—I mean, they are the bodies of our fallen. What will we say to their widows—their mothers? What kind of proper burial can we provide a man who stands staring at nothing?”

Slet looked at his army, which he had worked so hard to create, and frowned. At last, he nodded. “I understand what you’re saying. You want me to destroy them.”

“No, not exactly. I think they deserve proper respect, as any fallen warrior should be accorded by our people. What would suggest, Slet? You once suffered the loss of your wife. What would you have us do with her body after we’d used it in this fashion? How would you make things right?”

When Brand mentioned his wife, Slet looked up sharply. He appeared troubled.

“I hadn’t thought of it that way…I hadn’t thought of them as having loved ones. But of course, they must. I recognize some of them myself. We went to school with them. It must be hard, Brand, to do what you do. To order your friends to march, knowing they may well die because of your words, your decisions.”

Brand nodded. “It is hard.”

“All right,” Slet said, “if this is over and we’ve won, I will march them down into the crypts. There, I will have each find a place to rest. There are many shelves and alcoves down there, more than enough for ten times this number. When they’re settled, I’ll touch each and release them from service. They will slumber in death as they should be doing now. And by the River, I hope we’ll never need them again.”

“An excellent solution. I too, hope we’ll never need them again.”

Brand noticed then that something under Slet’s robes was moving—something that was wrapped around his waist. Could that be the troll, latched onto him like a suckling beast? He tried not to think about it, and looked away quickly lest he be caught staring.

When the elves were disarmed and began to awaken, Brand had Slet stand guard over them with his army of Dead. He then moved down to where the Kindred had gathered.

It was an unexpected scene. He’d never seen a Kindred crowd of mourners. In their midst was Gudrin, borne on a litter. At the fringes of the group Brand saw Tomkin and Trev. They approached Brand when they saw him.

“Gudrin calls for you, Brand!” Trev said. “She wishes that you speak with her.”

“Can she be healed?”

Trev shook his head. “I doubt it. Maybe with the power of the Red, but Oberon has only just reawakened.”

Brand turned to Tomkin. “Have my men bring Oberon. He might be able to help.”

Tomkin bounded off, and Brand went to Gudrin’s litter. She looked terrible. Her body had endured great hardships. It was a mass of wounds and blackened areas from where she’d been dropped to the earth by the Rainbow. Brand wondered if the mindless giant had perhaps stepped upon her and crushed her bones with its fantastic weight.

The Kindred were not like humans. They were far less frail. Sometimes however, this fact didn’t work out to their advantage. Injuries that would cause a man to pass out from pain left the Kindred awake and raving. They struggled on even when their bodies were sliced apart, as the Dead often did.

But as tough as she was, Gudrin was very old, and it was immediately clear that her wounds were mortal. Brand touched her forehead, and felt a great heat there.

“Hold on, milady,” he said, “I’ve called for help.”

“No,” she said in a ragged breath, “not the Red. Do not bring him. He will ruin everything. Listen to me, Brand. This is the moment I’ve worked for since I learned the White had resurfaced.”

Brand frowned down at her. He did not understand her and suspected she was raving.

“Just lie still. We’ll do all we can.”

Her hand darted forth and gripped his wrist with surprising strength. One eye that still operated angled up to meet his. The other hung out of the socket and was lifeless.

“No! Listen, man!”

“All right. Tell me your tale. What do mean, this is what you worked for?”

She chuckled, coughed, and winced. “Did you think I was entirely in the power of the witch? No. I was influenced, but I had some of my wits with me the entire time.”

Brand nodded, not sure he believed her, and not sure that it mattered. He listened intently nonetheless.

“This is an opportunity. A rare one. It is the time, I’m sure of it.”

“Tell me what you mean.”

“I mean it is time for this cycle to end. For the Jewels to sleep again.”

Brand frowned in incomprehension. He looked around for Tomkin, but he had yet to return.

“Brand, fetch Pyros,” Gudrin said. “The witch had it on a stick.”

Surprised by this, but not by the fact Gudrin wanted her Jewel back, he sought the Orange and lifted it carefully. It dangled from a forked stick, as she had said. Brand did not dare to touch it. The Jewel was known to have a vile temper. He’d dared carry two of the Jewels at once long ago, and had vowed never to repeat the trick.

He brought the Jewel to Gudrin, still dangling from the forked stick. He lowered it to her, offering her beloved stone to her. He thought it might possibly give her some comfort in her final moments.

Gudrin shook her head. “No, I don’t want it. Take it to the White, which lays upon Morgana’s dead breast. Touch the two together.”

Brand stared at her. “Why?”

“Just do it. For me—as my dying wish.”

Brand shrugged, and carried the stick with Pyros hanging from it to where Morgana lay forgotten in the dust. She had been an attractive, but power-mad, woman. He could have mourned her passing if she’d not done so much harm to his world.

He dipped the Jewel on the stick down, lowering it closer to the other. When the two were very close, he thought to see a spark pass between them.

Immediately, the air around him seemed to stiffen, as if charged with lightning.

He glanced at Gudrin. “Are you sure about this?”

She nodded faintly. “It is the only way.”

Brand touched the two Jewels together, and the world around them shifted forever.

Chapter Eighteen

The Consumption

Up until the moment the two Jewels touched, Brand had believed the worst of the day was over. He’d seen the witch fall to Trev’s blade, and he’d seen her army crumple with her passing. But when contact was made between the White and Pyros—a reaction began.

It was not a natural event, nor was it a magical happening such as he’d become accustomed to. He’d seen the Jewels flash, almost as if the Eyes of two Dragons winked. He’d seen them glow in recognition of one another when they drew close. He’d always thought the Jewels were strange things; alive, dead, and neither. They were spirits of a sort, beings that had passed on but which could still affect the world around them.

When the two siblings touched, they transformed, taking the shape of a rising, swirling cloud. At first, the cloud was white, like fine mist. It loomed high within seconds, filling the sky overhead. But as it grew taller and broader it took the shape of a funnel and the cloud darkened.

All the while it did this, a terrible roaring sound grew. It was wind—the howl of a growing storm. Brand’s locks were flung about and struck his face.

Most alarming of all was the disappearance of the White and Pyros together. They’d both vanished before his eyes.

“What’s happening?” Brand demanded, having to shout over the growing storm.

He stared up in shock at the strange thing he’d accidentally created. He thought, in the very center of it, to see a circle of sky as blue and pure as any summer sky could be. But all around that, growing every second, was the storm.

He rushed to the fallen Queen, and despite her state, he grabbed her tunic and hauled her close to his ear.

“What have you made me do, Gudrin?”

She looked at the storm, then at him with her one good eye. At last, she smiled. Her lips worked, and he had to put his ear close to them to hear her.

“I did what had to be done. I tricked the witch even as she thought she tricked me. It is better this way, Brand. You may not understand today. You may come to curse my name before the hour is out. But I’ve ended this cycle—this round of the Teret. The Jewels will leave Cyrmu, hopefully for a hundred lifetimes.”

Brand stared at her in horror. In his hand, he still held the Axe. As he’d not been certain the trials of the day were over, he’d not dared to put it away. He knew that when he did, he would lose consciousness. So long, so hard had he fought this day, he’d drained his aging body of every ounce of strength it had, and more.

He lifted Ambros now, seeing the Golden Eye in the midst of the twin blades. Could it be true? Could he be witnessing the end of his beloved Jewel along with all its siblings?

The thought almost broke his mind. He wanted to rage, he wanted to weep. His hand tightened on Gudrin’s tunic, and he felt a blind urge to strike her head from her shoulders. Maybe, just maybe, if he struck this old witch down he could stop her spell.

Sensing his mood, Gudrin’s warriors closed around him. They laid hands upon him, showing great daring. Brand ignored them. He knew that if he should desire it, he could lay about him with the twin flashing blades and slay them all before they could stop him—including Gudrin.

For a long moment, the matter hung in the balance, but in the end he controlled himself. If the Axe had been hungry for blood, he probably wouldn’t have been able to—but it had drunk deeply this day. At least a hundred times it had slashed apart flesh and bone. It was sated and almost sleepy. It always became torpid after a battle.

Gudrin watched him with helpless, resigned eyes. He shook his head. How could she have performed such treachery?

“You started all this for me, Gudrin,” he told her. “You sought me, and when you found me, you gave me this Axe. Why would you want to take it away again?”

“I’m sorry, Brand,” she said. “It is time. The Jewels are all here now, all close by. They can’t escape the storm. They will fade together, forming a single mass. When they are one, they’ll fly apart to haunt some future place when they’re found again. Tell me, do you think our world is better with them, or without them?”

Brand tried to think, but it was difficult. “I don’t know,” he said, “but I know my people are stronger with them. We can compete with the other folk when we have Jewels to threaten them.”

Gudrin nodded, but before she could speak further, she had a coughing fit. Brand felt a pang of worry for her. She would not live to see the morning.

There was a flash then, behind him and over his shoulder. It was a green flash—a release of energy like green lightning.

Brand stared and he was stunned to see a figure running toward him. It was his own wife, Telyn.

In her hands she held the Green, Vaul. He saw the light in her eyes, and knew it to be madness. She’d grabbed it from where it had fallen, and taken it without training, much as Brand had taken Ambros years ago.

“Telyn!” he cried.

She ran to him, but veered away. He caught her arm and she snarled at him like a beast.

But, when their eyes met, she blinked and seemed to know him. Her eyes changed quickly from savage anger to wonderment.

“I did it, Brand,” she said. “I took it for my own.”

She fell then, at his feet. The Jewel in her hands throbbed, flashing rapidly and filling the region with green light. Brand knew the flashing was in perfect rhythm with his wife’s own heart.

“You see?” Gudrin croaked. “Evil, greed, lust and rage. They bring out the worst in us all.”

“What can I do to save her?”

“Step back, and let the storm do its work.”

“Will Telyn be harmed?”

“I don’t know.”

Brand didn’t leave his wife. Instead, he took up the forked stick that the Kindred had used to carry Pyros without touching it. He used the stick to pry away Vaul from her fingers. Even though she was senseless, she moaned and grasped at the Jewel.

He finally had it loose, and lifted it high, offering it to the cloud.

A silver spindle came down and touched the Green. A flash of blinding light was released, and Vaul vanished.

Tomkin arrived soon after and joined them. “What’s going on? Did you release some kind of Sunstone magic, Brand?”

“Yes,” he said, “I guess I did. That was Vaul, Myrrdin’s Jewel. The storm consumed it.”

“What?” shouted Tomkin, greatly alarmed.

His small hand leapt to his breast where he wore Lavatis on a chain. The Blue Jewel was pulsing, as if excited.

Brand told him some of what Gudrin had said. Tomkin did not take the news well. He leapt upon the old woman and stood upon her broken form, gripping her hair and her tunic at once. He shouted into her ears, raving.

Brand reached down and plucked him away as gently as he could.

“What did she say?” he asked Tomkin.

“She said what’s done is done, and that it would all be for the best in the end. I could kill her, Brand. I really could. Don’t you want to?”

“Part of me does. I love my Jewel as much as the next man. Why—?”

Brand was unable to finish his thought, however, because Oberon arrived at that moment. He stared at Brand, Tomkin and the fallen Queen. Then his eyes went up to the spinning cloud above them all.

“What have you done?” he cried. “You’ve touched them together, haven’t you? You let a Jewel of color touch the White? Have you no sense?”

“Gudrin told me to do it.”

“And if a fallen crone in the dust told you to eat a horseflop, would you get out a knife and fork? What a kind of a cretin obeys a half-dead hag like this?”

Brand tried not to lose his temper with the elf, but it was difficult. There had been too much blood spilled today already.

That said, he could not recall ever having seen Oberon so upset before. He was showing true emotion today—more than he had when his own children had died at his feet. Brand supposed that in the end, the old elf loved his Jewel more than he did his kin.

“Shut up, man,” Brand told the elf. “Try to think constructively. Can we stop it?”

“Stop it? Are you witless? How many idiots were whelped in the Haven before your mother had the misfortune to—”

Oberon broke off when Brand struck him. It was a measured blow of his fist, and it ended Oberon’s raving.

The elf did not strike back. He stared instead up at the storm, which was moving westward now. It seemed bigger than it had been before. Brand suspected that each Jewel increased its size and strength.

“How many has it consumed?” Oberon asked.

“Three. The Orange, the White itself and I fed it the Green just now.”

Oberon stared at nothing for a moment, as if thinking hard. “There is a chance. We could all run in various directions. It would not give up easily…I don’t think it’s ever been evaded successfully before—but we could try.”

Brand straightened and turned his head toward the others, who milled about in confusion. There was Slet, not far off. He signaled him to come closer.

“Brand?” he heard a weak voice ask. He turned and found Gudrin had lifted her hand and was making beckoning motions.

He knelt beside her again. “What is it?”

“Don’t try, Brand. Let it happen. Let the storm do its work. It will cleanse the world, and everything will look brighter in the morning. The Jewels have brought all of us nothing but grief and strife. Let them go.”

Brand wasn’t sure what he should do. But when he looked up, he saw Oberon had fled. He’d headed toward the river, sprinting fast. In his arms, held as mother might hold a wailing babe, was the bloodhound.

“We should all run,” Tomkin said. “I’ll head for Snowdon, you go to Riverton. It can’t get it us all—can it?”

“I don’t know.”

Slet, who’d come near and grasped the situation, now parted company with them. To Brand’s surprise, he did not run away, nor try to hide. Instead, he was walking to where the storm danced in the west.

“You don’t think…” Tomkin said.

Brand nodded. “Yes. He’s brave—and I think he loves his Jewel less than any of us. It is a vile thing. My guess is he never wants to cause the Dead to walk again.”

They watched as the Storm flashed again with lavender lightning. This time, it did so at a height. Brand frowned.

“What could—” then he broke off, laughing.

Tomkin who stood at his side, laughed uproariously.

“It’s found Old Hob!” he shrieked with amusement until tears ran from his eyes. “The old bastard has been hanging around in the skies, invisible. I hope he fell on a pitchfork.”

“I wondered what it was doing over there,” Brand said.

The storm shifted, swirling and darkening. It came closer and closer to Slet, who lifted the Black up to it like an offering. The Jewel was consumed like the rest, with a strange explosion of darkness. It did so with an absence of light and sound. A silent void bloomed and then was gone.

It was then that another arrived: Trev.

Brand turned to the lad and his jaw dropped.

Trev spoke to him, but Brand did not hear the words. For all the rest of his days, he could never recall what the boy had said to him. Because all he could do was stare at his long silver locks.

Trev was the Quicksilver. He was also a friend, and a hero, and a boy of the River Haven. He’d been at Brand’s side in times of need even as a child, helping to halt the Storm of the Dead. He’d even slain the witch who’d threatened to enslave them all…

And now he was about to be consumed. So young, so early in a life that could be a millennia or more in length. Brand felt his eyes stinging, and Tomkin at his side had stopped laughing.

“You talk to the boy,” Tomkin said. “I’ll distract the storm.”

Tomkin ran off, heading toward the swirling tornado that had now grown stronger than ever. He held aloft Lavatis and made the Blue flash in the face of the spinning cloud. After a moment, it took the bait and began to follow him. He led it toward the river, following the path Oberon had taken.

“What’s going on?” Trev demanded. “I beg you to explain, Axeman!”

The sounds of the storm died down somewhat, making conversation easier. But the words did not come to Brand.

He heard a rumbling sound behind him, and realized it was Gudrin. They both knelt to hear what wise thing she might say. Brand felt relief. He did not want to tell the boy that his ending was near.

“Trev,” Gudrin said, “do you know what you are?”

Trev looked confused for a moment, then his face cleared. “You mean, about being the Quicksilver? Like the hound? Yes.”

She shook her head a fraction. “You’re not like the hound, boy. You’re infinitely better than that. You see, it was your coming that heralded the end of everything—at least, the end of this Age.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It would of course be difficult to understand…you’re so young. Let me try this way: you have lived before, Trev. Many times. You’ve been born, lived life, and vanished when your time comes, as we all must do at least once.”

Trev looked at her doubtfully. As she spoke, the dragon came up behind him. Brand noted that the dragon now seemed to be content to accompany Trev wherever he went. He wondered if this was because Trev was a Jewel. Perhaps, in her own way, the dragon had been affected by Trev. Perhaps she even felt a love for him—despite the fact dragons had ashen hearts. Brand believed they could come to love something other than themselves. Fafna’s father had possessed the Orange for a long time and had no doubt come to love it.

Brand turned back to Trev and Gudrin. The two were still talking, Gudrin in a gentle voice, and Trev clearly not catching on. Brand couldn’t stand it any longer. He touched the boy’s shoulder.

“I think she’s addled,” Trev said quietly.

“Trev,” Brand said, pointing at the Storm. As they watched, it flashed Blue. “You see that thing? It has just consumed Lavatis. It has consumed each of the Jewels in turn. It will not stop scouring the Earth until it has them all. That’s what Gudrin is trying to tell you.”

“But how? Why?”

“It is time, child,” Gudrin said.

Brand shook his head. “It doesn’t matter how or why. You have to understand that you have very little time left.”

Trev stared at him, then suddenly, comprehension dawned.

“It’s going to consume me?” he shouted.

Brand nodded. “Tomkin ran off to lead it away—to give you more time.”

Trev’s expression changed. He had a wild, hunted look in his eye.

“It can’t be!” he said. “I touched Morgana, and she had the White on her breast at the time. How could it be that the storm didn’t start at that very moment?”

“You are for the most part immune to the magic of the Jewels,” Gudrin explained. “The storm could not start between the Quicksilver and the White. Besides, for it to start, they must all be in proximity, as they have not been for many centuries.”

“If I’m immune, then I can’t be consumed,” Trev said stubbornly.

It pained Brand to see Trev arguing against his fate, but he could hardly blame the boy.

“You’re immune to the Jewels—but not the storm.”

Brand turned a sour glance toward Gudrin. He could not believe she was still able to speak. Any human would have died long ago. The legendary toughness of the Kindred often left them like this, lingering.

“Come boy,” Fafna said suddenly, “I will bear you to safety!”

“There is none for him,” Gudrin said. “It’s best—”

“You’ve had your say,” Brand said gruffly, turning on her. “You’ve done your part in this tragedy. Let the man die as he will!”

Trev and Gudrin both looked at him. Brand realized he held Ambros over his head as if he were an executioner, ready to strike off someone’s head. Brand took a deep breath and lowered the Axe. He clasped hands with Trev.

“There is one who might speak with you,” Brand said. “He walks with Slet.”

Trev followed Brand’s arm and saw where he pointed. He took steps in that direction. Fafna followed, and Brand was sure in that moment there was a look of concern on the dragon’s strange face. He would not have believed it, if he hadn’t witnessed it for himself. The dragon had bonded with Trev—with the Quicksilver.

As he watched them go to where Slet and Puck stood, Brand saw the storm flash redly near the river. He smiled grimly. Tomkin had led the storm on a merry chase—running it right into Oberon. Now it had consumed both their Jewels.

He was certain that this final trick played upon Oberon would be Tomkin’s favorite, perhaps until the end of his days.

Chapter Nineteen

Farewells

Trev met with Slet and Puck. Although the Black was gone, the Dead elf still walked. All the rest of the Dead were lying in repose again. Trev knew that he was seeing his father—or at least a shadow of him. He did not know what strength Puck might have left in him, but he knew that it could not be long.

“Trev?” Puck asked upon seeing his son for the first time in more than a decade.

“Yes, father? Does your mind still inhabit your body? Why?”

“It won’t for long. I’m glad to see you though, one more time.”

They clasped hands. Trev could not bring himself to hug the Dead thing before him, despite the fact it wore his father’s face. Fortunately, Puck seemed to understand.

“What should I do, father? They tell me that a storm is coming to swallow me up.”

“Do what you will. You’ve lived a fine life, short though it might have been. Many have done far less with far more years.”

“Did you know?” Trev asked. “Did you know what I was, and what might happen to me?”

Puck nodded. “Yes. I meant to tell you in time, but you were so young when I left the family.”

“Why then did you make me?”

“I…your mother made me happy. I wanted to do the same for her.”

Trev shook his head. “I fear for mother’s sanity. She’s going to lose us both today.”

“She’s a strong woman. She’ll find her way. But I would not have her sit up every night for the rest of her days waiting for us, wondering if we might yet come back.”

Trev stared at his father. His eyes stung, but he fought back the tears. He was a man now, and he didn’t want people to remember him bawling like an infant in his final moments.

Puck looked at the dragon curiously. “You’ve made a friend, I see.”

“Hardly,” said the dragon, attempting to appear aloof.

Puck chuckled. It was a raspy sound. Slet looked at him in surprise.

“Puck, you can laugh? You have more freedom of mind than at any time since I raised you. Is this what you were like in life?”

“Yes, I guess so. The effects of the Black Scepter are fading now.”

Trev looked from one to the other, then back to the storm. He saw with alarm it was heading toward him. He backed away several steps.

“Should I flee, father?”

“You are full grown. Every man should die on his feet, not hiding in a well. But if there is something you want to do, you must do it fast.”

Trev nodded. He climbed upon the dragon’s back and whispered to it. They launched into the air.

After the boy had taken flight, Slet was not surprised to see Puck lay himself down and become still. The elf had returned to death at last.

* * *

Brand watched Trev take off into sky, and he waved to him, although he doubted the lad saw the gesture.

“I guess he decided to run for it, Gudrin,” he said aloud.

Gudrin did not answer him. He turned to her, and saw her eyes had glazed over. Kindred Warriors pressed close and fussed over the body of their Queen. Brand could not recall ever having seen a single Kindred cry before, not even while in the throes of a grim death. He had not thought them capable of weeping.

“Good-bye, Gudrin,” he said, feeling old and weary all of a sudden. He thought of Telyn, and wanted to feel the comfort of her arms again. He sat and cradled her, and she stirred as if resting peacefully.

He looked around him, seeing the devastation of his life’s work for the first time. There was a massive tree laying across what seemed to be half his land. The walls were broken, both the inner and the outer. There was so much work to be done. It would take years.

“Brand, look!” Tomkin said. “It’s coming for you next!”

Brand turned to face the storm. It was huge now, and loomed over him.

“Tomkin?” he asked, not turning away from the storm. “What’s it like when you lose your Jewel forever?”

“Not as bad as I thought it would be. I’m free now. The Jewels are like ghosts, Brand. They make you love them and dream of them—but really, all along, you’re being haunted by a spirit.”

Brand nodded. He could believe that. But still, he did not want to give up Ambros.

He lifted the Axe high and made it light up the world with golden light. He closed his eyes then, and cast sunlight into the face of the swirling storm.

Slowing wheeling and roaring, the storm made it difficult for any of them to be heard. The cloud came close and spun over his head. He could still see, to his surprise, blue sky through its heart. There, beyond the eye of the storm, there was a clear, sunny day.

He lifted his Axe high, gritting his teeth. The storm plucked Ambros from his fingers, and snatched it away.

Brand collapsed. He had fought so hard, for so long. He was no longer able to function.

He felt himself falling, but he never felt the ground as it came up to meet him. He fell so deeply asleep beside his bride that neither of them could be awakened until the next morning.

* * *

Trev rode the dragon into the gathering night. He glanced back frequently, and although the storm was far behind, he could always see it—he had not left it behind.

Fafna tried to convince him to leave Cymru entirely, to fly south with the high winds and find warmer lands to inhabit. There were places there, seas and beaches. She did her best to create in the boy’s mind a paradise of warmth and beauty.

But when they reached the Haven, Trev finally spoke: “Take me home, friend. I wish to meet my end there.”

Grumbling, the dragon did as he asked. At dusk, they landed in his mother’s garden.

At first, Trev thought perhaps his mother wasn’t home. An icy dagger stabbed at his heart. To have come all this way and then to be consumed alone—it didn’t seem fair.

But then the door slowly opened. A voice called out from within. A familiar voice.

“Trev? Is that you? Do you still draw breath?”

“It’s me, mother,” he said, dismounting and walking through the vegetable garden.

He turned to the dragon before he mounted the steps. “Thank you, Fafna,” he said. “Thanks for everything.”

“There’s no need for this,” Fafna said, “climb up on my back again and let us fly.”

“We can’t outrun it forever. I’m the last one. It will follow us to the ends of the Earth and back again.”

The dragon looked up at the sky, and cursed the storm. It was coming, a dark cloud on the horizon. Each minute it grew larger, and already the winds were beginning to pick up.

“Trev, could you leave your…friend and come inside?” his mother called from the safety of the porch. “It looks like a summer storm is blowing up.”

Trev smiled. His mother was like no other in the Haven, with the possible exception of Telyn. She’d seen so much that not even finding a dragon in the garden could send her screaming.

“Coming, mother,” he said.

He turned back to the dragon. “You might live a very, very long time,” he told her. “Maybe long enough to see me again, if what Gudrin said is true.”

The dragon nodded slowly. “Very well then, until we meet again.”

The dragon’s wings snapped and caught the air. With a terrific downstroke, she climbed into the sky and vanished, heading south.

Part of Trev’s heart wished he’d gone with her. But then he turned to his mother, who had rushed to grab him by the shoulders.

“Trev!” she scolded. “Imagine, bringing home a dragon! You’re worse than your father. I thought you might invite the thing in for tea.”

They embraced then, and Trev felt at home for the first time in many years. They walked inside, and they talked. He could barely hear what was said, such was his state of mind. He was full of sadness and joy at the same time.

At last, the hour came. The storm was outside, rolling around in a black gale that rattled the house and screamed around the eves.

Mari turned away from the windows, concerned.

“This is no natural storm, Trev,” she said. “What…is that a tear in your eye, boy?”

“Mum, I…I must go now.”

“Go? Go where?” she asked, clasping him.

“I don’t know. But I can’t come back.”

Her grip tightened.

“You have to let me go. The storm will take down the house. It may even consume us both.”

She was stunned. “I won’t let you go.”

“I talked to father. He’s at rest now. He said you made him happy.”

“Well, I’m not happy now!”

“Mum, I won’t die. Not really. I won’t come back for a thousand years, but if all the wisest are right, I will come back. I’ll live again. But you won’t be there to greet me.”

She clung to him and sobbed. The storm grew in strength, ripping shingles from the roof and breaking a window with one of them as it whipped it around the house. The walls shook and trembled.

“I’ve got to step outside before it destroys the cottage. Don’t make me watch you die. I must go.”

She looked at him and kissed him and caressed his cheek. Then she let him go.

“In a thousand years, son,” she said.

He nodded, then he opened the door and stepped outside.

The blackness was complete.

There were no stars. There was no ground. There was nothing but the storm.

Trev knew in his last moments where he was. He’d been here before. He was in the place that was nowhere, the place between the worlds, the empty void of chaos. He wondered briefly where he would come to life again, and who his parents might be the next time.

And then, he was gone.

End of Dream Magic

Appendix A: The Nine Jewels

Author’s Note:

The Jewels and their magical powers are entirely of my own invention. They overlay the world of the Haven and its surroundings, and generate most of the conflicts. The Jewels represent the colors generated by any prism, and appear in nature in the form of a rainbow. There is a history of superstition surrounding rainbows in Celtic lore. (You may recall the legendary leprechaun that sits upon his pile of gold at the foot of rainbow). These lovely weather anomalies were historically seen as magical apparitions and given many meanings. In the Haven series, they are frightening and tend to come to life—literally.

The Jewels vary in power, but in general the primary colors—red, blue and yellow—are more powerful than the blended secondary colors, green, purple and orange. The Dark Jewels, the Black, the White and the Quicksilver, are easily as powerful as the primary Jewels in their own way.

I’ll list each of the Nine here and detail some of their properties.

-BVL

The Core of Magic in Cymru:

The Original Sunstone (the core of the Sun Dragon) was split into the nine known colors, which represent all the forms of magic. All magic in the series is some mixture of the various varieties of magic of which the Jewels are capable. The Shards of the Sunstone are so powerful many duels, and even wars, are fought over the possession of each.

The Sunstone was the lost core from which all the other Jewels were born. It can only exist when all the others are brought together and reforged into a single entity. This is the closest thing the people of this world have to a Creator, a single living god. The Jewel has the power to recreate the universe itself.

The Primary Jewels:

The Amber, the Blue and the Red are often judged more powerful than the three Secondary Stones.

Amber Jewel:

Ambros the Golden, embedded in the axe, is a champion jewel, gives courage, strength, and berserker powers. Ambros is one of the most powerful of the Nine and is wielded by Brand throughout most of the books.

Blue Jewel:

Lavatis is usually in an amulet. It calls the Rainbow giant and causes storms, otherwise known as Sky magic.

Red Jewel:

Sange appears in the form of a small bloodhound. Blood magic is strange and vile. It can be used to heal or deform, and causes vampirism. The Red allows the wielder to merge flesh of others into monsters.

The Secondary Jewels:

While not as great in power as the rest, the Lavender, the Green, and the Orange are still potent nonetheless.

Lavender Jewel:

Osang wields Shadow magic. The owner is the master of sight and sound. Invisibility, flight, silence and stealth.

Green Jewel:

Vaul is the Jewel of growth and druidic magic. It causes things to sprout and flourish lushly. Sometimes the owner is consumed by it. If left alone too long, it grows a wooden staff over itself that must be trimmed or will become a tree—which can consume the owner if he isn’t careful.

Orange Jewel:

Pyros is an evil object, thought of as the most powerful of the secondary Jewels. In olden times Pyros the Orange was perhaps the most destructive and well known. The man Pyros, the Jewel’s namesake, was infamous for burning six villages of the lake peoples many generations ago. The sorcerer and tyrant fashioned the Jewel into the crest of his silver crown and enjoyed lancing anyone or thing who stood up to him with a fiery beam of pure heat. After a time this habit led to a bald, scarred head and a terrifying countenance and reputation, which seemed to suit the tyrant’s tastes. Eventually, he was brought down, but not soon enough to save the lake people, who afterward retreated into the cool gloom of the forests and rivers and never seemed to regain their former numbers nor their trust of Men (these are the Merlings of today).

The Dark Jewels:

The most mysterious of the Nine, and easily as powerful as the Primaries, are the Dark Jewels. They have no representative within the prism of colors; instead they represent light, the absence of light, and reflectivity. They are the White, the Black and the Quick-silver.

White Jewel:

Often called “the Shard” or the Sun Jewel. The White Shard is a piece of the creator, the basis for all the others that split apart, and at the beginning of the series it is gone from the Earth... It, unlike the other Jewels, is a chunk of the original Stone, and thus has properties of all the colors mixed together. Its greatest power is over the minds of others. The White Jewel appears as a clasp upon a shimmering white robe.

Black Jewel Necron:

The Onyx is the Black Jewel of death and decay. Darkness, vile evil and unspeakable spawnlings come from it. All true evil powers seek Necron, the Onyx Jewel. It appears as a king’s scepter with a black stone at the tip.

Quicksilver Jewel:

The Quicksilver was the molten reflective lump left behind by the White after all the color had been drain of it. It is the Jewel of null-magic. It removes color, life, and magic from the world, rather than adding to it. The Jewel reflects magic and can influence the magic of other Jewels that come near. In the last story of the series, its true nature is revealed.

Appendix B: Major Characters

Author’s Note:

Each of these players has significant time as the Point-of -View in the stories, often for several chapters or books.

-BVL

Brand:

The primary POV of the series, he starts off as a young, fairly innocent character and grows into a powerful hero. Nearly half the series is told from his point of view. He’s human and wields the Axe with Ambros the Golden embedded in it, a Jewel that gives magical combat powers. Brand must always struggle to maintain his humanity throughout the books, battling with the greed and bloodlust caused by the Jewels. He’s destined to save the world and become the king of humanity.

Corbin:

Brand’s cousin and companion. He serves to remind Brand of what he once was, a simple river-boy. He grows to become a leader of human troops.

Telyn:

Brand’s girlfriend and companion. She’s the major love-interest of the series. When adventuring, she’s a rogue with minor magical powers. She eventually becomes Brand’s wife and has children with him.

Gudrin:

The main character from the Kindred (Battle Axe Folk). She’s a skald (bard) and tells many of the stories that tie the present to the past and give backstory. Becomes the Queen of the Kindred and eventually wields Pyros the Orange Jewel.

Modi:

A tough, experienced warrior of the Kindred who teaches Brand how to fight and wants the Axe for himself. (Or any other power he can find). He has trouble controlling his baser urges. His greed drives him to strive with dragons in book 4.

Myrrdin:

He is the classic wizard based upon Merlin (who is a Welsh figure). He is a half-elf, bastard son of Oberon and a peace-maker between Elf and human in the first five books. He slowly turns from good to evil over the course of the series. He is screwed over by his father in book six, and becomes a villain in book seven. He wields Vaul, the Green Jewel of Life.

Oberon:

The King of the Elves. He’s extremely odd and tricky. Seems to be both ancient and young at the same time. He might kill for a laugh, or give a great gift he feels is justified. Sometimes wicked, sometimes good, always clever and strange. He possesses the Blue Jewel with power over storms at the start of the books, but loses it, which causes a war to break out.

Tomkin:

A wild Wee Folk character. These are leprechaun types, tiny scampering thieves. They behave somewhat like elves, but are less powerful or rational. Tomkin grows into a powerful ally for Brand by book six. He is one of the Wee Folk involved in stealing the Blue Jewel from Oberon.

Piskin:

A major villain. Piskin is pure evil from start to finish. A Wee Folk of the worst sort, a baby-stealing monster (a changeling) who becomes extremely powerful over the first five books. He gains control of the Red Jewel and wields Blood Magic in the fifth book. He is defeated in book five.

Puck:

An elf prince, son of Oberon. Falls in forbidden love with Mari. Dies fighting against the dead king in book six.

Mari:

A young female human caught up in horrific events. She becomes pregnant with Puck’s child and is sought by Piskin for her special half-breed child’s blood. Throughout the series, she plays a major role through no fault of her own. She does her best and grows up quickly.

Herla:

The big villain of the first three books. An Dead horseman who leads a company of followers. He owns the Lavender Jewel and the Bloodhound (the Red Jewel) at the start. Held in check by Oberon, he begins to hunt humans again when the elves lose their strength.

Old Hob:

A giant goblin lord. He’s a cowardly villain who can be bullied, but always tries to sneak and trick his way out of danger. He eventually gains control of the Lavender Jewel and uses it to sneak around and fly.

Twrog:

A half-wit giant who loves to eat pigs—especially smoked hams. He plays a small, but important, role in the early books. His story is tied to the history of the Green Jewel and is proof Myrrdin isn’t as pure as he pretends to be.

Voynod:

The Dark Bard. An undead crooner who serves Herla. He is a strong villain early on.

The White Lady:

An undead ghost with succubus-like powers. She has her own goals, but can be dealt with unlike most of the Dead.

King Arwan:

A thoroughly evil lich. King of the Dead. Plays a big part in book six, marshaling an army to march against the Haven. He wields the Death Jewel.

Trev:

Son of Puck and Mari, he’s a half-elf child with startling abilities and a fondness for adventure. He will gain the Quicksilver Jewel in book Eight, after participating in various adventures in books six and seven. By book nine, he’s a major companion of Brand’s.

Slet:

Slet starts off as an irritation, but by the end of the series becomes a force on his own. He does a lot of growing up and learns about the power and terror of the worst of the Jewels.

Morgana:

The arrival of the White Witch heralds the end of the series. She is manipulative and very powerful.

Appendix C: Mythological and Historical Characters

(Listed in the order of their appearance)

Author’s Note:

The world and peoples of the Haven Series were based upon the original fairy legends of the British Isles, plus some Norse material used as a basis for the Kindred and the Wurms. In most cases, I tried to make the characters and races in the books match up to the real beliefs of the average person in Northern Europe in the Dark Ages. Many of these tales were transcribed by Hans Christian Anderson, the Grimm brothers, but the core of my material comes from the original text of the Mabinogion. These stories are OLD, dating back at least to the Iron Age in Britain.

Similarities to other fantasy works are due to the fact that the other authors used the same source material. For example, Tolkien based his Black Riders on the Wild Hunt, which play a major part in the first three stories of the Haven books. Many authors have used an old wizard character, most of which are based upon Merlin (or Myrrdin in the Haven series, which is the welsh spelling of Merlin).

Many of the locations referenced, such as Mount Snowdon, can actually be found in northern Wales (“Cymru” in Welsh). I’ve visited most of them personally.

-BVL

Twrog:

Twrog was the name of a seventh century welsh saint, but in the oldest tales of folklore he was a giant who was said to have hurled a boulder down from a mountain into a village in anger. There is an actual stone in Wales known as Twrog’s stone, marking the spot where it landed.

Herla and the Wild Hunt:

The original Wild Hunt was an ancient mythological evil. Led by Herla in the English version, or Woden in the Germanic version, they were spectral and always terrifying. In various versions of the story they may be fairies or undead.

The bloodhound in the series is a direct translation of the myths surrounding Herla’s beginnings as a human king. Tricked by the king of the fairies, he was doomed to ride with his huntsmen and the blood-drinking hound for eternity.

Wee Folk:

The leprechauns of Ireland, the Pixies of Cornwall and the changelings were believed to be plaguing everyone in Britain until about a century ago when the old myths died out. In the Haven books, these characters are collected together into the race known as the Wee Folk. Changelings (such as Piskin in the books) were by far the most dastardly of the crew, as every parent who had a child that did not develop properly began to suspect it was a changeling in the old days. Exorcisms and worse things were often done to remedy the situation.

Brand:

Brand is based upon the Arthurian legends.  Early on, he draws the Axe Ambros from a tree, just as Arthur pulled Excalibur from the anvil. His association with Merlin, however, and later on Morgana, definitely went in different directions when compared to the original texts.

Oberon:

Oberon (also spelled Auberon) was the king of the fairies in medieval myths. He appears most famously in Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”. He was a major player in German, French and English myths for many centuries. Traditionally a trickster, a sorcerer and an elf, he was an enchanting villain and the root cause of many tragic tales. He generally appears as small, but very handsome, and sometimes is found riding a white goat.

Myrrdin:

Myrrdin is the welsh version of merlin. A commonly appearing character throughout European folklore is the mysterious wandering wizard. Gandalf the Grey, along with countless others, are shadows of this long tradition in literature. In the Haven series, Myrrdin is half-elf, and tortured by his divided heritage. He is good in some stories, evil in others, just as the sorcerers tended to be in legends.

Goblins:

Small, evil grotesques common throughout European folklore. Greedy, dangerous and possessing small magical abilities, Goblins have long played the part of the villains in countless old stories.

Shining Lady:

The Shining Lady is a succubus, and a ghost. She seduces men and leads them into folly with her supernatural charms. As in folklore, she invades the dreams of others as well as enchanting them while awake. In the books, Brand is continually plagued by the Shining Lady and her schemes.

Puck:

Puck is a mischievous character from common lore. An elf or hobgoblin, the name Puck is to be found in every northern European country’s folk stories. Barrie’s Peter Pan is an example of this type of character in literature. In almost every case, he appears as a prankster and a knave. Villagers were warned of his enticements and tricks via pamphlets in the 1600s.

In the Haven books, Puck starts off as an elf without a purpose other than indulging himself. But as the stories play out, he falls in love and becomes a responsible member of society.

The Wisps:

The ghostly lights known by a dozen names in a dozen lands, such as Will-o’-the-wisp, often mislead people into danger. In the Haven series, these are combined with stories of flying, colorful people who are tiny and friendly. Literary examples of this sort of thing would include Barrie’s Tinker Bell.

Old Hob:

A century or two ago, children were sternly warned concerning Old Hob. He bore a lantern and wandered marshlands. His lights would lead one astray from the safe path, often into a watery death in a swamp or pond.

Redcap:

Murderous, ghostly creatures, redcaps were said to haunt the ruins of castles destroyed in battle. They were vengeful spirits in the northern reaches of England, feared for their blood-stained caps which they had to dip into the living blood of victims in order to stay alive.

Gnomes:

The Gnomes in the Haven world are earth spirits. They are elementals unlike most of the races, which are more humanoid. In recent literature, they’ve become interchangeable with elves and dwarves, sort of a mixture of both. But in the Haven series they are much more alien and unnatural.

Snowdon:

Snowdon is a real mountain, the tallest mountain in the British Isles outside of Scotland. Snowdon is the mythological birthplace of the red dragon of Wales, which is on their flag to this day. The entire region of Snowdonia is probably one of the greatest centers of tales of monsters and legends that can be found anywhere in Europe. Many of the Haven stories center on the mountain, above and below ground, for just this reason.

Kobolds:

Kobolds were primarily a Germanic creature. They were generally small, and those that lived in mines were hunched and ugly. They were bestial at times, rather like goblins. The name for the element cobalt comes from kobold, as early miners blamed kobolds for creating the poisonous arsenical ores that cobalt is typically found in.

Fafnir:

Fafnir was a great dragon in Norse mythology, slain by the young hero Sigurd. The dragon guarded a horde of gold. In the myth, a fight broke out over who should have the gold after the dragon died, and some think this dragon’s story was retold in Tolkien’s Battle of the Five Armies after Smaug’s demise. In the Haven books, Fafnir possesses the Jewel Pyros, rather than gold.

King Arawn:

In Welsh mythology, Arawn ruled the otherworldly Kingdom of Annwn. He was king of the Dead, and often referred to as the death-lord.

Morgana, the White Witch:

A villain from Arthurian tales, Morgana (or Morgan le Fay) was a witch and an enchantress that used seduction and magic to achieve her ends. Like C. S. Lewis’ version of this character, mine isn’t a good-hearted soul.

End of Appendices

From Author: Thanks Reader! You have finished the Haven Series. If you enjoyed the books, please write a review or two to support the series and let new people know what’s in store for them.

-BVL

Be sure to read the rest of the Haven Series by B. V. Larson!

THE HAVEN SERIES

Volume I: Haven Magic

(First three books: Amber Magic, Sky Magic, Shadow Magic)

Volume II: Dark Magic

(Books 4 thru 6: Dragon Magic, Blood Magic, Death Magic)

Volume III: Dream Magic (Series finish)

UNSPEAKABLE THINGS SERIES

Technomancer

The Bone Triangle

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