Books by B. V. Larson

HAVEN SERIES

Amber Magic

Sky Magic

Shadow Magic

Dragon Magic

Blood Magic

Death Magic

HYBOREAN DRAGONS SERIES

To Dream with the Dragons

The Dragon-Child

Of Shadows and Dragons

The Swords of Corium

The Sorcerer’s Bane

The Dragon Wicked

OTHER BOOKS

Swarm

Extinction

Mech

Mech 2

Shifting

Velocity

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BLOOD MAGIC

(Haven Series #5, 2nd ed.)

by

B. V. Larson

Copyright © 2010 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.

Translated from the Teret, the compendium of Kindred wisdom:

This is my first entry into the sacred Teret. Herein, I will attempt to inscribe what wisdom has come to me during my centuries.

As both clanmaster of the Talespinners, and Queen of the Kindred, I’m a unique case in our histories. No Talespinner has ever been selected as monarch. This puts me in the delicate position of both creating history and recording it at the same time.

Let me first speak concerning my rise to the monarchy—it came too late. The Kindred must be ever watchful, ever suspicious of frivolous deviations from tradition. That is our nature and our way. However, as I reflect now, I believe we waited too long to select a new monarch. As is always the case when a new monarch is chosen, I am taking the reins of power in a fitful era. Since the Pact between the River Folk and the Shining Folk was broken, we have entered a time full of strife and change. In the future, I implore my distant descendants to watch more closely for rising new dangers. We must select a monarch and awaken from our natural slumbering state when the world sees fit, not when we do.

Secondly, I will detail the plans for my reign: I hope to be a Queen apart from those who lived before me. I do not hope to be a builder, but rather a great builder. One who is remembered for having grown our cities deepward beneath the Earth’s crust. One who leaves behind marvels of sculpted rock that will cause gasps of admiration for generations to come. I do not make idle boasts here! With the aid of Pyros, the Jewel of Flame, I shall do as I have described. Already, I have achieved a great deal of mastery over the Orange Jewel, at the cost of being left with only scraps of hair and unburnt skin. But my personal sacrifices are well worth it. I shall uplift our folk, and those folk who we count as allies, into a Golden Era.

Lastly, my mind turns to thoughts of war. Our enemies are legion. They must not be allowed to stand. I am no warrior, but no one will say upon my passing that I was afraid to lift an axe.

And so I say to my subjects: If you are of the Mechnicians, ask not what to build. Simply build that which ticks inside your mind.

If you are of the Talespinners, ask not what song to sing. Voice the tune that burns in your stout heart.

And if you are of the Warriors, ask not which enemy to slay. Take up your axe, my Kindred, and slay them all!

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

Chapter One

A Single Candle

Piskin stood on the dresser, watching the other two occupants of the room as they slept. His arms were crossed. One wrist ended in a stump, the other ended with fingers that tapped at his elbow.

He was in a foul mood. He had wasted a great many days with these two, and he was determined to change his fate this very morn.

Dawn broke outside the room’s sole window. A fresh breeze ruffled the curtains and allowed the first beams of pink light to stream inside. It was a cool day of early spring and birdsong could be heard.

The maid Mari slept fitfully upon the white-sheeted bed, a picture of loveliness. Under different circumstances, Piskin would have been as anxious as a new father. In times past, he would have been urging the birthing process to hurry so he might take the infant’s place at her breast all the quicker. But alas, with a hand missing and with promises made to the likes of Oberon himself, such an easy way through life was closed to him.

Complicating matters was the room’s last occupant, the troll. Piskin’s eyes slitted like those of an angry cat when he gazed upon the black furry mass that lay curled upon the floor around a bedpost, snoring ever so softly. One would have thought the little monster was the maid’s loving hound.

Piskin had serious obstacles that stood between him and gathering the Red Jewel. Two of them, to be exact. To achieve his goals, he needed the blood of a half-fae. Oberon had told him that only such blood would cause the hound to come to him. To coax the bloodhound, he needed to fill a bowl with the blood of Mari’s half-fae child. Said child was yet unborn, but this was easily solved with a bit of knife-work.

The first obstacle held back his hand: The ash leaf ward. She wore it as if it were a string of fine pearls. She even slept with it on, more was the frustration.

There are ways around a ward, naturally. He could cause her death without directly touching her. A stout walking-stick, well-placed as she descended a tall flight of stairs, might do the trick. Pregnant women were off-balance naturally and a goodly fall could expedite the birth if not outright kill her. If the brat were stillborn, so much the better. He needed its blood, not its bawling. Such a fall might damage the ward as well, which was withered and dry.

But he was unable to even attempt such maneuvers due to the second obstacle: The troll. The vile thing wouldn’t take the clear hint that it was an unwanted third wheel in this relationship. Try as he might, Piskin had yet to dislodge it from the maid’s presence. The troll slept nightly at the foot of the bed, body curled around the bedpost, claws twitching if Piskin so much as took a step toward the maid. As good as his stealth was, the troll’s senses were better. One would think that having spent a decade in a stovepipe would have dulled its senses and mind. One would think, in fact, that madness would have taken any normal creature so tormented for so long.

Piskin imagined that with the troll’s nerves burnt away, its long flirtation with death had left it in a sleeping state, like a hibernating beast surviving a very long winter. It had spent years somewhere between life and death. Most trolls, Piskin knew, would have perished permanently after an hour’s contact with flames, but not this one. As if another demonstration of the world’s unfairness toward him were necessary, Piskin found himself haunted by the most fire-resistant troll in the land. This troll was a special breed, and perhaps only a vat of acid would do the trick.

This last thought made Piskin tap a finger upon his tapered chin speculatively. If he could get this beast down to the tanner’s, and somehow tip it into the vats, just possibly his troubles would be done. Often, a creature which was unusually resistant to one form of death was highly susceptible to another. Unfortunately, such creatures were also often aware of the weakness, instinctively. If he took the troll anywhere near the acrid stench of the Fob vats he’d probably balk.

The troll shifted in its sleep. The long white claws clicked.

A new thought spawned in Piskin’s slippery mind. Perhaps, right there within the very thing that haunted him, lay the answer to his troubles. The exit to this foul maze. Perhaps, he could use the troll to his advantage.

The troll protected the maid, whilst the maid was further protected by her ward. There was something, once properly employed, which would destroy one and drive the other.

It was a risk, but Piskin was impatient like all his folk. He was a creature of action, not patience. He plucked up the candle on the dresser beside him and cupped the tiny tongue of flame. Sitting in a brass dish with a glass globe around it, the taper had burnt low during the night, its fuel almost spent. But it would be enough. Very little flame was needed for his plan.

Holding the candle close, he burnt his single good hand. He sucked his teeth, wincing at the stinging heat of the candle in his hand. He hopped to the windowsill and trotted along a ledge to the nearest drainpipe. From there, he negotiated the leap to the roof of the stables, which stood behind the Inn proper.

The hay inside the stables was long, yellow and quite dry. The stable boy lay sleeping in the loft. Piskin smiled to think what a rude surprise was about to unfold upon the oaf.

With stealth and a wide grin, he set about firing the stables. Soon, flickering tongues of yellow light danced over the haystacks. The horses, nickering and sidestepping at first, began to scream and kick.

The mysterious springtime fire of Riverton, which would be talked about for years to come, had begun.

* * *

Oberon continued sulking for weeks after Piskin had made his dark deal and left him. He sat atop the tallest tree in the most tremendous forest in the known worlds: the Great Erm. In that fantastic forest beetles resembled legged boulders and vines grew thicker than tree trunks. The tree trunks themselves were monstrous.

Oberon had retreated from everyone and everything. He entertained no one and allowed none to attempt to entertain him.

Myrrdin, Oberon’s wayward son, had come to visit, but had not been received. He sat at the bottom of the mountainous tree waiting for his sire’s signal to ascend. This signal had not yet been given. Myrrdin continued to wait for a day, and on into the next.

Piskin had managed to climb the tree weeks earlier, but that had not been allowed by design. The very point of this locale was solitude. Myrrdin was too heavy to climb the spidery thread of silver that hung to the bottom of the tree, and Oberon was too stubborn to allow his son to come up. And so Myrrdin sat at the distant foot of the trunk, while his sire sat on the very top. For a full day and then a second, this impasse continued.

Oberon had expected his arrogant son to use Vaul’s powers to ascend. It would be a simple matter for the wielder of the Green Jewel to coerce one of the fantastic growths of the Great Erm to carry him upward. But Myrrdin did not. Nor did he leave in a huff, the second most likely option, after growing tired of being ignored. Myrrdin’s patience, more than anything, caused Oberon’s curiosity to grow. What might Myrrdin have to say that would make him wait so patiently, so politely, for his sire’s attention? What news might he bear? What thoughts had his twisty mind conceived?

At the finish of the second day, Oberon relented and allowed the silver rope to drop downward, until a thick enough portion lie in Myrrdin’s presence. Within a few minutes, the slightly-winded, half-fae wizard stood on the platform with his sire.

“Milord,” said Myrrdin, speaking first as Oberon said nothing. “I’ve come with news from abroad. Have you listened to the gossip of the wisps?”

“Nay,” said Oberon, “I’ve listened only to the sigh of the winds and the rains. No wisp has been allowed into my presence.” He left out all mention of Piskin on purpose, not being sure of Myrrdin’s loyalties. If Piskin were to be successful, which seemed highly unlikely, the Wee One needed at least the element of surprise.

“Milord,” said Myrrdin, looking troubled, “have you heard of the recovery of Pyros?”

Oberon’s head rose slowly. His silver eyes sought Myrrdin’s face. This was news indeed.

“Tell me of the Orange Jewel’s fate.”

Myrrdin fidgeted. Clearly, it was bad news, as he would not have been reluctant if the tidings were good. “Brand slew Fafnir in the Earthlight, Fafnir being the Dragon who had consumed Pyros centuries earlier. The Orange has now been recovered from his scaled belly. The Kindred have it.”

“Who bears the Jewel for the Kindred?”

“Gudrin of the Talespinners.”

Oberon made an irritated gesture. Generally, the Kindred had always been foolish when they laid their dirty hands upon an object of real power. They had always given the power to some brute amongst their kind, who soon lost it or went berserk and had to be put down. To hear they had given it to a scholar was bad news indeed.

“They gift Pyros to one of their wise?” Oberon asked. “Surely, such an oafish folk would prefer a warrior as their bearer.”

“Perhaps, but Modi and his sire Hallr both perished in dragonfire.”

Oberon nodded. This at least was good news. He had counted the Kindred as enemies ever since they had stood in battle with the humans at the Dead Kingdoms.

“There is something else, milord.”

Again, Myrrdin hesitated. And again this hesitation spoke for him. The news was bad. Oberon gestured impatiently.

“The Kindred,” began Myrrdin, “they have selected a new Queen. She is Gudrin, the same who wields the Orange Jewel.”

Oberon was horrified at this. The Kindred had lain dormant without a monarch for more than five centuries. He leapt to his feet and paced. “You saved the worst news of all for last,” he said. “The Kindred might do anything now. They have a Jewel and they have a Queen? They might march upon us, even to the Great Erm itself. They may go mad.”

Myrrdin nodded in grim agreement. When the Kindred did choose a monarch, they became a people apart from their normal selves. They built, they caroused and they warred freely.

“It’s time then that I stopped sulking atop this tree. In truth, I’ve grown tired of it. We must move before matters grow worse. What further tidings have you?”

“There is one other thing,” said Myrrdin thoughtfully.

Oberon thought he was perhaps reluctant to pass on this last tidbit. Again, he checked his son’s loyalty and found it wanting.

Myrrdin finally told him of Brand’s destruction of a tribe of young gnomes. And of Brand’s later encounter and duel with the Gnome King. From this information, Oberon surmised that the gnomes might be less than delighted with the River Folk and the Kindred who helped them.

Oberon stretched his lithe body fully and did a summersault in the air. He landed with perfect grace. It was time for him to pay visits. It was time for him to stop sulking.

He could not rely on Piskin to aid him. Perhaps the little traitor would succeed, but the odds were long. Oberon knew he had to muster his folk and do what he could without powerful magic. As the Wee Folk themselves had done, he would use trickery and subterfuge to gain advantage.

Oberon meant to get at least one Jewel back into his possession, which one mattered little. The elves could not thrive without magic. Perhaps he could do it with skullduggery, which is why he employed Piskin. But if not, then he would raise an army and take one of the Nine Eyes of the Sun Dragon—the hard way.

Chapter Two

The Great Fire

The fire grew so quickly that even Piskin was surprised. There had been no spring rains yet, and the roofs and thatch were very dry. He waited until the stable was well and truly ablaze before bounding back up to the room. The stable boy and the horses were making such a racket, he feared the Mari and the troll might awaken. He closed the window by hopping desperately up and down atop the sliding pane. Only good fortune saved him and it closed without a squeak or sticking. Even as he managed to close it, a large puff of smoke gushed up against the glass.

He hopped to the dresser and peered at the bed. The troll twitched and kicked in its sleep, but stayed insensate. He seemed not to notice Piskin’s movements, unless Piskin crept near the girl he guarded. The girl’s breast rose and fell with a soft rhythm. She had not yet been disturbed.

Piskin allowed himself to relax a fraction. He gazed outside, smiling at his handiwork. The stable was burning briskly now, and the stable boy, being a slow-witted lad, imagined he could stop it. He had managed to usher out the horses. But rather than running off to alert the townsfolk of the danger, he drew buckets from the well and tossed them upon the roof, which had just started to catch. Piskin thought he saw a sliver of guilt there in his actions, rather than sheer stupidity. The boy clearly believed he would be blamed. Perhaps he had fallen asleep with a pipe in his hand, or had used a badly placed lamp to read by.

It hardly mattered which. The boy thought he had caused the fire and thought he might avert complete disaster by putting it out quickly. This would never happen, of course. Piskin had set alight spots with oily rags and handy bundles of the driest feed. Any fool should be able to see the fire was too far gone for a single man to conquer, but still this particular fool tried to do just that. Piskin found his frantic efforts amusing. He had to clamp his hand over his mouth to contain his mirth. His belly shook with stifled laughter.

The stable roof was soon blazing, and that was enough to convince even the amazingly thick stable boy. He ran for help, awakening the innkeep and running off down the street to the Constabulary building, which in times of crisis doubled as the town’s fire-fighting force.

Long before any organized effort formed, the roof of the stables collapsed and a great gush of heat flared up. The flames licked at the Inn now, and people were shouting in the streets. Bits of flaming straw shot up and floated everywhere. Piskin thought the roof of the inn must be lit by now. At least, he hoped so.

“What’s going on?” said a voice beside him, making him startle. It was the accursed troll.

“Ah, good thing you are finally awake!” said Piskin sternly, “you, of all creatures should be familiar with flame. The building is afire! We’d best vault from the window.”

Real fear flared in the troll’s yellow eyes. This was what Piskin had hoped for. The troll might be a resistant creature, but he knew the sensation of being burnt alive all too well. With any luck, the troll would bolt immediately.

It almost worked. The troll levered up the window and put one furry leg out into the sunlight. A gush of heat and smoke swept in, but no open flame yet.

“What of the maid?” asked the troll. “She can’t jump in her state.”

Piskin shook his head with certainty. “Do not be concerned. Her kinsfolk will usher her out of the building. I’ll guide them to the door directly.”

The troll looked back at the maid, who had gotten out of bed by now, propelled fearfully by the flames. In a panic, she threw her belongings into her bag and made ready to flee.

“Hurry,” said Piskin, “Don’t let the humans see you hanging about the window like that! They are sure to think you fired the place yourself.”

The troll’s eyes slid to Piskin and then back to the maid. They narrowed suspiciously. “I’ll not leave her to the very fate from which she saved me. I’ll not leave her to feel the caress of flame.”

“A fine sentiment,” said Piskin between clenched teeth. He headed for the door then, and was followed by the maid out into the hall. He only hoped some guardsman would spot the black-furred bastard and skewer him with an appropriate length of steel. As one of the Wee Folk, he had free passage among the townspeople. They did not trust him completely, but allowed him as an allied folk to move amongst them. The troll, on the other hand, would be slain on sight.

The hallway was full of smoke and coughing humans. Seeing Piskin and the troll, some screeched while others cared little, being more interested in escaping the fire.

The trio was given a wide berth by everyone. Piskin managed to direct them through the kitchens to a side exit. The cook, who worked the ovens to make fresh bread for the Inn’s guests, shouted at them. Her shouts were followed by a thrown pot, which the troll dodged easily.

Mari worked her slippered feet as fast as she was able. They made their way out of the building and into the alleyway.

Piskin noted with some surprise and no small delight that a large number of buildings blazed merrily now. A goodly breeze had gusted up. The winds had carried burning bits of straw from the stables into the air and landed these flying motes of flame upon every roof in the region. The roof of the inn itself was engulfed. Clearly the structure would be lost within the hour.

“This way!” said Piskin, leading them into the heart of the burning neighborhood. “There is a safe place here, I know it well.”

The other two followed, neither knowing what else to do. Piskin had to control his huge smile as they approached the tanners.

“Inside here. It’s full of water tanks. We’ll never burn in here.”

The troll hesitated at the entrance. “What’s that smell?” he said, sniffing at the acrid scent of the vats.

Some warning sense had penetrated his thick skull, lamented Piskin. “I’ve got no time to waste on your fantasies,” he told the troll. “I must save the maid. Her blood is no good to me boiled away to dust. Do as you will.”

The troll looked after him, distrustfully. After another moment’s hesitation, he followed Piskin into the tanners.

“Right here, up on the walkways between the vats, my dear,” urged Piskin.

Mari followed him, eyes wide. The troll did as well, sniffing and eyeing everything suspiciously.

The place was deserted. The Fob workers had left to gather buckets and water. They were wetting down every roof in town to save what they could from the hungry flames.

“What is this place?” the troll asked finally, looking at the stinking vats in growing alarm.

“It’s the tanners,” Mari told him.

A look of horror sprouted upon the troll’s face. He looked around for Piskin, but that one was nowhere to be seen.

A set of tackle on ropes, normally used to lift curing leather into and out of the vats, swung out of a dark corner. The metal pulleys and hooks struck the troll squarely in the back. He pin-wheeled his furry arms, but it was too late. He pitched forward into the acid baths.

“Watch your step!” shouted Piskin from behind him. He put his hands on his knees and watched as the troll struggled, dissolving rapidly in the bubbling solutions.

“Oh, how horrible!” cried Mari. “We must save him, Piskin!”

“Quite right,” said Piskin, gathering up the tackle in his arms. It was such a heavy load he staggered to carry it to the edge of the vat. The troll himself was beyond speech, the agony of dissolution being too great to allow it. Reaching the edge, Piskin dropped his load into the troll’s face, who had just managed to get his white claws sunk into the wooden sides of the vat. He sank back down.

“You dropped it right on him!” shouted Mari in horror.

“What a tragedy! I could not see what I was doing! Don’t look, my dear,” Piskin said, waving her back from the edge. “It is too horrible of a sight.”

Mari turned away from the edge, her eyes wet with tears.

“Come, we must leave this accursed place,” said Piskin.

“But I thought you said we would be safe here.”

“I did not realize these vats were so dangerous. They’ve already taken one of us. The fire is still coming as well. We must escape it.”

“I don’t want to leave the troll. He was so faithful, to leave him in pain—”

“You are a sentimental one! Don’t worry, these creatures don’t feel pain as a human might. Remember, it spent years in a stovepipe and seemed none the worse for it.”

“He might survive then—”

“Pish-posh, girl! Trust your guide. Don’t you wish to save your child? Don’t you wish to see Puck again? Come with me!”

And so Piskin managed to talk her out of the tanners and back out into the streets. He led her to the docks, where they found an untended boat. Piskin explained to her that he knew the owner well and after all, this was an emergency. She climbed in and allowed him to cast off and set sail.

Piskin worked hard to guide the boat onto a southerly course. The girl helped, but she didn’t have the proper sense of urgency. He cast many frequent glances over his shoulder and fought with the luffing sails. He worried that the true owner might catch them if the man were a strong enough rower.

Fortunately, all the townsfolk were preoccupied with the quenching the raging fire that still ravaged Riverton. The boat’s true owner never put in an appearance.

* * *

Many hours later, Telyn finally made it to the Fob tannery. She had been planning a visit to surprise her clan, but had been caught up in the events of the day. Everyone in town had fought the flames, forming bucket-brigades to every well and all the way down to the Berrywine itself. She had joined in, throwing water with the rest, but it had seemed hopeless.

In the end, Tomkin had saved the town from further devastation. He had wielded the Blue Jewel Lavatis, not going so far as to call the marching Rainbow, but instead squeezing fat drops of rain from the clouds.

Brand was still back at Rabing Isle, and knew nothing of the fire. In the morning, Telyn knew she must go there and tell him the news. Before she left, however, she had decided to visit her father’s tannery to check the damage done. There were scorched walls, but for the most part the structure had escaped serious damage.

It was as she wandered the place, reliving memories of her childhood both pleasant and foul, that she found the thing in the vats. Her relatives had been debating about what to do about it. A lump of half-melted flesh clung to the side of the vat. Its curved white claws had dug into the wooden walls, keeping the limp form from splashing back into the brine.

Telyn, having always been a person of action, knelt and pulled out her dagger. It was the very blade the redcap of Rabing Castle had oiled and cared for throughout centuries past. She meant to thrust in the blade to make sure it was dead, but hesitated. Could this be the thing that had lit the fire? Was this perhaps a new enemy, a new threat to the Haven? Brand would be interested in such answers, as would the Riverton Council.

The head shifted slightly and one yellow eye regarded her. The troll fought to form gargling words.

Telyn almost drew back, such was her disgust to see it yet lived. Its legs were gone. It had only half its body intact.

“Why do you hesitate to strike?” the thing managed to ask her.

“I would know if you lit the fire. If your folk are our new enemy.”

The troll slowly managed to bare its teeth in a death’s-head mask. She recoiled from it, but only slightly, not wanting her on-looking relations to say she had quailed in the face of a helpless creature.

“Your enemy has escaped. He goes to find the bloodhound. He has the blood of the maid’s fae-child.”

“What maid? What enemy?”

“Mari of the Bowen clan. He has her.”

“Who does?”

“Piskin,” said the troll, and his head drifted down again.

Telyn sucked in her breath to hear that name. The very Wee One who had tried to wrest the Blue Jewel from Tomkin’s breast where he lie dying. The very one who had lost his hand to Tomkin’s sharp teeth. What new treachery could he be up to?

“Can we help you?”

The troll lifted its head again, with great effort. It made that terrible grin again.

“Catch him, and save the maid.”

Telyn was baffled that a troll, of all creatures, would care with his dying breath more for the life of a human maid than his own. She was also greatly intrigued. Already, she knew this story would have to be taken to Brand immediately.

“What of yourself? Can anything be done?”

“I can’t grow myself anew after the touch of acid. Strike, and let the vats finish their work. It will be a mercy.”

Telyn was moved. She, unlike most of her folk, had learned to appreciate creatures of different natures when they displayed noble traits.

“We will find the maid,” she told the troll, “and we will find Piskin.”

Seeing that he understood, she struck quickly and mercifully with her knife. Then she slashed away the white claws that still clung to the wooden sides of the great vat. The troll’s body slid away and bubbled, dissolving. Soon, he was no more.

None of her Fob relatives who had witnessed the exchange questioned her as she raced from the tannery to find Tomkin and Brand. Their eyes were wide and their mouths sagged open. After she had gone, they whispered among themselves that Telyn had always been a different sort as a young girl. Several claimed they had always seen her as one apart from the rest of the clan. Still, as Fobs, they had to admit she made them proud of their name.

Chapter Three

The Gnome King

Oberon journeyed to call upon Groth, King of the Gnomes. Traveling down through the Everdark to the gnome city undetected, however, was not easy. Not even for a wily old elf. But he knew some tricks, forgotten paths from long ago.

The gnomes, he knew, carefully guarded their territories in the Everdark. Their gates were not guarded by physical guardians, but rather warded to snare incorporeal intruders, and similarly trapped with deadly constructions built to slay the living. Oberon was a being that qualified as both types of intruder. His best course lay in penetration from an unexpected angle, and so it was he had chosen an entry point that was located within the boundaries of the gnome lands.

There existed entry points from the Twilight Lands into the Everdark, forgotten burial spots located deep below the crust of the world. These mounds were far, far below the surface. So deep, so ancient, so forgotten were these places that most of the Fae knew nothing of them. Even the elder things that dwelt beneath the great shifting plates of stone upon which the surface peoples lived, even they barely remembered these places. They were the burial grounds of kings and peoples so far gone in the past as to have been lost to the living memory of almost all beings.

But Oberon was among the oldest, the most ancient of living things that did not grow from the earth or squat motionless in a dark hole. He had lived when the Great Erm itself had been planted in the Twilight Lands, and he had witnessed the rising of Snowdon and the Black Mountains from the land. They had been merely sharp, black spires, like serrated stone dragon’s teeth poking up from the gums of the Earth, when he was young.

Thus he knew of secret ways into the Everdark, secret spots of infamous death. All faerie mounds were exactly that, of course. The mounds were invariably ancient mass graves of powerful peoples. These locations had suffered greatly; they were scraps of land that had borne silent witness to the rending of forgotten spirits as they moved from the state known as life into that known as death. The energies released as these great spirits made their final journeys had torn gaps between two worlds.

Such spots didn’t always exist upon the open surfaces of the world, the forests, plains and rocky mountaintops. At times, they existed at the bottom of dark oceans or even in a dank cavern, sealed beneath the earth in a sunless vault. Such timeless places were few, but they did exist. Some of the most powerful of all beings had passed on in these dismal spots, having been bound by chains far below the world of sun and light for thousands of lost centuries.

It was at one of these lost locations, in a dank, dripping vault of stone, that Oberon stepped into existence. The vault was a cavern that existed beneath the seafloor an underground sea of inky-black brine. Filled with crystalline formations and puddles of water, the pocket-like cavern had never filled with seawater. The Everdark clung oppressively all around, and although his vision, like that of the Dead themselves, did not require light to see, he noticed shadows residing here that even his eyes could not penetrate. He felt a chill, as spirits so old they had forgotten their own names and purposes regarded him in dull surprise. Before they could gather their lost wits enough to take action, he trotted swiftly out of the vault, using the only exit available, and slid down a chute into a pool of liquid as still as glass.

Blind things with transparent membranes for skin took notice of him, and rotated sensory stalks in his direction. Disgusting and alien though they might be, Oberon felt relief at their scrutiny. As bizarre and otherworldly as these creatures were, they were at least alive and sensate. And so he trotted quickly, but without fear, amongst them. A few slashes from his impossibly sharp blade removed their reaching claws and snapping mandibles. They croaked in pain and disappointment and he left them behind in the dark.

Exiting into a passage of circular formation that wound upward, he knew now he traveled an ancient path burned by a finger of magma. Ash crunched beneath his rapid step, and dust puffed up to irritate his fine-featured, boyish face.

Through a labyrinth of such passages and vaults he traveled until reaching the home of the gnomes, an area of cold hard stone. The gnomes, he knew, preferred to dwell in areas of stable stone. They avoided lava areas, which like a home built upon any shoreline, must eventually be consumed by the natural forces that existed in close proximity to it. Their underground villages and shrines were always found among the most ancient and stable of geological structures. Their lives were long and slow and consisted often of centuries of immobile pondering. They had no patience with interruptions such as serious earthquakes, lava floods or inquisitive folk from other places.

He passed by many gnomes, frozen giants of black stone with obsidian eyes that were an even darker, purer black. Most of them were lost in thought, pondering something unknowable for races of flesh and bone. They seemed to take no note of his passage, but Oberon knew this was an illusion. All of them saw him, and all of them would eventually take action to pursue the intruder. How long it might take them to move was impossible to judge. It might be a minute, an hour or a decade. But they would all awaken, each and every one, and they would seek to slay him in their multitudes.

He made haste once he was within their sleeping city. He needed to travel to the king, to Groth’s chambers. He must awaken the gnome leader and parlay with him before he was overrun by angry gnomes.

Groth was different, Oberon knew. Being a King among the gnomes, he was not allowed to fall into thought and freeze, as so many of his people preferred to do. He was charged with the duty of maintaining vigilance throughout the ages of his reign. Like a man never allowed to sleep, however, it made him cranky and difficult to deal with—difficult, even for a gnome.

In the great spherical chamber of perfectly carven stone that served the gnomes as a royal suite, he found Groth. The other paced, as he had no doubt done for centuries, back and forth across the bottom of the sphere. The stone here was very ancient and very hard granite, but still a path had been worn, cut nearly a foot deep into the floor.

Oberon stood at the entrance, a circle of space opening into the sphere. He stood there, silently, until he was noticed. He had breached every imaginable protocol in coming here this way, so it could do no harm to become respectful at the very last.

After perhaps a minute more of pacing, Groth stopped. He did not turn his head. He did not utter a syllable. Oberon stood as stock-still and silent as the king. He knew he had been noticed, and that Oberon was deciding how to deal with him. It was best not to add further rudeness or insult at this critical moment.

“Lord Oberon,” said Groth at last. He sounded like a being roused from sleep.

Perhaps, thought Oberon, that was exactly what he was.

“King Groth.”

“You surprise me. You insult me.”

“I meant no insult.”

“You embarrass me, then.”

Oberon said nothing to that.

“How came you here to my inner court? You must have come through my guards and my wards and my deadliest traps as though they meant nothing to you. Why do you slip here, to my royal chambers like an assassin? If you are here to slay me, know that you have also ended your own very-long life.”

“I have not come here to slay you. I am here to parlay.”

“We have established protocols for such things. An emissary should have come to my gates. He should have waited there, upon bent knee and with bent neck, until such a moment as my guardsmen awoke to his presence. Then matters would proceed with proper decorum.”

“You are right, great king,” said Oberon, performing a flawless sweeping bow. Behind him, he was aware the first of the gnomes had appeared. Anger showed in the manner they ground together their huge stone fingers. They had been most rudely awakened from their thoughts, like ruminating old men dashed with cold water. They raged at his scoffing of their rules and customs. They wished nothing more than to grab him and tear his flesh apart into wet strips. They held back, waiting only out of politeness to their king, who was conversing with this tricksy intruder.

“You are right, and I apologize profusely for my rudeness,” continued Oberon. “I performed this unpardonable act in the interest of expediting our conversation. To follow proper procedure might have delayed our discussion by a year, perhaps longer.”

Groth was pacing again. He strode more quickly than before, and a tiny cloud of dust followed his heavy, crunching tread. Oberon sensed more angry gnomes gathering behind him. The corridors and hallways were filling with them. But still they made no move upon him, and he made no motion indicating he recognized their presence.

“I will allow you your life in this instance,” said Groth, speaking with slow reluctance. “But you must exit my city and kneel at the entrance properly until I have finished my long-thought and come to you.”

“Great king, why might I have come here like this today?”

“You question me? You seek to pose Fae riddles in my royal chamber? You refuse to obey my commands in the very seat of gnome power? Have you so little regard for us?” The huge gnome, as he spoke his list of angry questions, stepped for the first time out of his worn rut in the granite floor. He took several heavy steps toward Oberon as he spoke. Each step accentuated one of his questions with the resounding clunk of stone striking stone.

“I meant no insult.”

“We have taken insult, regardless. The Shining Folk are no longer a great people. You are the same as the rest of the lesser races. You have no Jewel. You have no magic. You should not take liberties with us.”

“Exactly. That is why I’m here. Both a great danger, a threat to the existence of your people and mine, has arisen. Simultaneously, an opportunity has arisen with this threat.”

“Speak plainly, elf!”

“Do you know that Pyros, the Orange Jewel of Flame, has been gained by the Kindred who reside only a league or two above you?”

Groth froze. Oberon knew he was thinking, and waited politely.

“We know of the Amber Jewel in the insane hands of the River Folk, strange though it might be that such a people could wield one of the Nine. We know of a slain dragon, but did not realize...”

“The dragon had a mate. That mate was the green wurm known as Fafnir. Brand of the River Folk slew the beast in the Earthlight, and the Kindred did regain the Orange Jewel from its belly.”

“Fell news indeed. I understand your words of a great danger, and can understand a wish to warn us. But what of this opportunity?”

Oberon shook his head. “I have not yet finished with the bad news. The truly grim news, the fact that I came to relay your people upon peril of my life is this: The Kindred have chosen a queen. That queen is none other than Gudrin of the Talespinners, the same person who has taken up Pyros and even now attunes herself to its power.”

Groth halted again. This time, the moment stretched longer than before. “They will march. They have met us in battle before, and neither has bested the other. But now they wield a Jewel and are led by a monarch. The Kindred will go mad.”

“Perhaps they will boil upon the surface,” said Oberon, “as might ants when a spade is thrust into their nest and that nest is overturned.”

Groth shook his head slowly. “No. They will turn their greedy hearts and picks deepward. This is their chance to annex the Everdark, to drive all contenders out of the region. The Orange Jewel... Flame magic. It is perfectly suited for warfare beneath the surface. They will melt my people to slag and drive us from our city. Their memories are nearly as long as ours. They have not forgotten who their true enemies are.”

“Just so,” said Oberon. His eyes were alight with cunning. He had placed the gnome king, as he had planned, at the point of shock and despair. “But I believe I believe I can aid you in your plight, and help my own people in the bargain.”

And so he spoke of length of the rediscovery of the Red Jewel. The Red like the Green Jewel Vaul, was a living object. The others had all become inanimate things, such as the Axe and the Horn. The Green Jewel, embedded within a staff, grew forever a living covering of wood around it. The Red Jewel was similar, but its camouflage was a small bloodhound. The eye of the bloodhound was the Red Jewel. In a manner similar to the Green, the flesh that surrounded the Red always grew back. If you whittled the Green down to a toothpick, it would eventually grow back. The bloodhound had similarly been slain many times, but always the Red grew its mobile covering again and became the hound.

What Oberon did not discuss was how weak his hold was over the Red. He did not explain that his plans were balanced upon the miniscule skull of one Piskin of the Wee Folk. In his tale, the Red was well in hand and nearly attuned. Victory could be achieved, he told Groth, if only the proper allies could be mustered and called upon in need.

“The River Folk and the Wee Folk who follow Tomkin will march with the Kindred,” said Groth.

“And we must stand together against them,” came Oberon’s smooth response.

For several long seconds, Groth’s obsidian eyes stared unblinking, expressionless. “The gnomes will muster. A thousand stone fists will rise as one. We will march when you demonstrate you have power over the Red.”

“The Fae will muster,” responded Oberon with equal gravity. “A thousand bows will bend, each enchanted arrow tipped with squirming death. We will not wait for the Kindred to strike us. We will prepare now. What’s more, I offer to come to your aid, through our secret ways into your domain, should such a thing be needed.”

Groth nodded. “We will do the same, coming to your aid in the Twilight Lands, should you but open the way for us.”

Groth lifted his huge black fist. Around the wrist was a grayish line. Brand had severed that fist from his arm and Groth had reforged it in magma, but the king would carry the mark of Brand’s axe until the day he was ground down to bubbling dust.

Oberon’s tiny fist lifted to meet Groth’s. The two touched.

And so an alliance was formed in the dark, nameless city of the gnomes. An alliance of living stone and shining flesh. It would be the first such alliance among many.

Chapter Four

Myrrdin Returns

Telyn arrived at Rabing Isle around noon. Jak invited her in for lunch, but she didn’t make it to the table before Brand swept her up in his arms. They kissed long and fully, while Jak smirked over his lunch. Melon wine, rabbit stew and river greens were piled upon the table. It was a plain lunch; filling, but not extravagant. Brand was rich now, after having brought home a fortune from his journey into the Everdark, but he held back on fine living. He had bigger plans for his fortune.

Brand tried to turn his face away from her, the burned, scarred side, but she would have none of that. She pulled his chin back to her and kissed him fully. She had never shown any disgust with his scarred cheek and brow, not after the initial shock of seeing it after the dragon’s breath had done its work. If she did hate it as much as he did, she hid it well, and loved him enough to overlook it.

Brand let Telyn down easily, and they smiled at each other, foreheads touching. His beaming smile faded slowly. He sniffed. She smelled of wood smoke.

“A fire?” he asked.

Telyn’s face fell. She blinked back tears as she told him of Riverton’s disaster.

“That’s why Tomkin didn’t come with me,” she said. “He remains on station, in case more fires break out.”

Brand nodded. “Good thinking on his part.”

“Why would there be more fires?” asked Telyn. “Surely, there can’t be another fool in Riverton like that stable boy.”

“Perhaps not,” said Brand, looking serious. His good mood had all but vanished. He lamented that being a powerful person turned a person into a worrier. A person who was capable of making a difference in grand events had to think about them more deeply. “But then again, we can’t be sure it wasn’t arson.”

Telyn told him of the troll then, and of his last words.

“You did well to slay it,” said Jak. “Trolls! Disgusting things.”

“This one had someone he cared about more than his own life,” said Telyn. “He was dedicated to a girl. A farmgirl, of the Bowen clan. She’s been missing for weeks. Her mother had left her with a—a potion-vendor in the Haven Wood.”

Jak snorted. “A witch, you mean.”

“Possibly so,” said Telyn huffily. “Anyway, the woman was murdered and the suspicion was that something like a troll did it.”

“Where did you get this information?”

“From Corbin.”

Brand nodded, having a friend inside the constabulary had worked out nicely for him. Corbin had worked his way quickly up the ranks, his connection with Brand helping him as well.

“So, what do we have then?” asked Brand, rubbing his chin. He needed a shave. “A mystery? A troll that uses his dying breath to request salvation, not for himself, but for a River Girl. Could she be a witch herself? Could the troll be her creature, and so could it have been under her orders that he slew the old woman in the forest?”

Telyn told him then the last detail. She told him the troll had named his enemy, and the name he’d given was Piskin.

“Ah!” shouted Brand, reaching for his axe reflexively. He had to lower his arm by force of will. That name, the name of the treacherous Wee One, brought unbidden images of murder into his mind.

“That devil!” shouted Jak, standing suddenly. He jostled the table and a jug of Broadleaf melon wine spilled. Telyn snatched it up before it could splash more green wine over the table while the men gestured excitedly.

Both of the brothers knew the name of Piskin well. Tomkin had told them about the changeling, the very one who had taken the place of Lanet’s son and foully used her confidence. Brand had wished many times he had moved more quickly that day, when he and Old Man Thilfox had chased the changeling from Lanet’s apartments. One flick of his axe on that occasion would have saved them all a lot of trouble.

Jak put his hand on Telyn’s elbow. His brow knit into a stern frown. “Tell me that little monster isn’t in Riverton now, stalking my Lanet and her babe yet again.”

Telyn shook her head and put a hand on his chest to calm him. “I don’t think so. This morning, when I left, I heard that a boat was missing, and that a Wee One was seen leading a pregnant girl to the docks. I think he stole the boat and took the girl Mari with him.”

“Did no one think to stop them?”

“There was a fire raging at the time,” said Telyn, “and Wee Folk are supposed to be our allies now, they’ve been granted free passage in our streets.”

The two brothers nodded, scowling.

“Could that little monster have set the fire just to cover his escape?” asked Jak thoughtfully. “I wonder what he wants with the maid?”

Brand took a deep breath. “The troll asked us to go after Piskin? To save the maid?”

“He did,” said Telyn.

“Then regardless of his reasons, I think we should honor his final wish. Trolls are foul things, but they are clean and honorable compared to the likes of that changeling, Piskin.”

“Tomkin said much the same thing,” said Telyn. “But remember he has a special hate for Piskin.”

“His hate is as nothing next to mine,” said Jak, all but growling. “Perhaps this trip, I should go with you, Brand. My leg is healed, and I would enjoy a chance at vengeance.”

Brand nodded. “Unfortunately, we don’t even know which way Piskin went.”

“He sailed south, we know that from witnesses,” Telyn told them.

“South? Right past Rabing Isle?” shouted Jak, scandalized. “Too bad I didn’t see him. I would have put a bolt into his conniving head.”

“He can’t be traveling too quickly,” said Brand. “He’s only got one hand and Mari can’t very well pole along if she’s heavy with child. He’ll be using his sails only.”

“He’s only got a day’s sailing on us. Let’s go tonight,” said Jak.

“Jak... What of Lanet?” asked Brand.

“She’s in a Riverton. She’ll be safe enough there until we’ve dealt with this bounder.”

Telyn cleared her throat. She looked at them both and winced. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you.”

“What?” asked Jak, growing concerned.

“Nothing bad. At least, I hope you won’t take it that way. Lanet’s on her way here. She’ll be here in the morning, with her family members.”

“Old Man Thilfox?” asked Jak, growing pale.

“The fire and the sighting of Piskin set her onto her own quest. She’s coming here to marry you, Jak Rabing. In the morning. It was supposed to be a surprise, but I can’t see how that was going to work out.”

Jak looked appropriately stunned. “We were going to wait for the first day of summer,” he said weakly.

“That’s before a quarter of Riverton burned down. She wants to be here, Jak, on Rabing Isle with you and Brand. I think she will feel protected here. And her father wouldn’t let her move here without being properly wed.”

“Of course not,” said Jak, blinking.

“And they know you can’t very well hang around Riverton all year, you have a crop to plant. Anyway, she was very insistent that the wedding be immediate.”

“Well,” said Jak, at a loss. “I won’t say no to that!”

“You had best not!” said Telyn, smiling again. Brand could tell she had been worried about Jak’s reaction. He was taking it well, and everyone felt relieved.

Brand privately wondered if Lanet might have realized Jak was likely to go after Piskin, and quite possibly get himself into one of Brand’s dangerous adventures. This was her way, perhaps, of intervening before he escaped and went off chasing Piskin.

Jak’s mood, after the initial shock, turned to one of elation mixed with panic. He nearly forgot about Piskin in his desperate need to clean the place and make ready for his in-laws-to-be. Brand and Telyn pitched in and helped, putting fresh sheets on every bed and beating the winter mud out of every filthy rug. Everyone knew that the Thilfox clan was the wealthiest in the Haven and they expected things to be just so. None of them wanted to be found out as the country rubes they felt they were.

And so they decided to let Piskin float away up the river for another day. By all reports the maid Mari Bowen had gone with him willingly, and he had not yet harmed her. Brand suspected his plans consisted of replacing her child with himself when it was born. Disgusting, but it was unlikely to happen in a single day. Certainly, he had to be stopped, but he wouldn’t miss his brother’s wedding over it.

Later, he would come to regret his decision.

* * *

On the following morn, a thumping began at the front door. It was quite early, just after dawn. Brand climbed out of a dream and awakened. He found himself in one of the big chairs in front of the dead fire. He reached down and grabbed up his pack, which carried the axe. But he did not draw it forth. It twitched in his hands like an anxious dog as he carried it to the door and shook the sleep from his head.

“One moment,” he cried.

No answer came. The knocking ceased, but no one spoke.

Brand paused, instantly alert. His first thought had been of the wedding party. They could not possibly have come so soon, however, not unless they had sailed through the middle of the night. No one did that, not unless it was an emergency. The Berrywine was a friendly river, but was not so forgiving as that.

He paused with his hand on the heavy bars that they kept down over the thick door.  Who would come to Rabing Isle at dawn and thump upon their door? It could not be good news. He mentally insisted that he put in a spyhole of some kind for just such occasions as these. As the Champion of the River Haven, he’d found many an occasion of late where he could have used one.

He threw the door wide, and his axe squirmed in its pack.

There stood, of all people, Myrrdin. He scowled at the wizard, and the wizard glared back at him. Neither spoke or gestured for several long seconds.

Finally, hearing Telyn coming downstairs behind him, Brand nodded and roughly waved the visitor inside. As a host, it was his duty.

Myrrdin passed him and sat on one of the easy chairs.

“Will you take tea, Myrrdin?” asked Telyn.

Myrrdin nodded, but still said not a word.

Brand followed Telyn into the kitchen. A whispered conversation ensued.

“Did you invite him to the wedding?” he hissed at her.

“No,” she said shaking her head empathically. “I doubt he even knows about it.”

“Who will be doing the ceremony, then?”

“The Village Friar, from Hamlet. The one from Riverton was busy repairing damage from the fire.”

“Where’s Jak?”

“He was up before dawn, fixing up the property. I think he’s nervous, Brand.”

“Well... Go join him, please.”

She gave him a dark look, but nodded her head. “Just promise me that you won’t try to take Myrrdin’s head off this time.”

“Fine, fine,” Brand muttered. He took the mugs of tea from her and carried them back to Myrrdin. The last time the two of them had met, matters had come to blows. They had removed the roof of the place they’d been staying in. He sincerely hoped that no such fate was in store for his home. He told himself that no matter how provocative the wizard was, Ambros would be left in his pack.

He handed the tea to the wizard and tried not to be irked by the look on the man’s face. He had the look of a man who smelled something very unpleasant.

“Welcome to Rabing Isle,” Brand said, trying to sound friendly.

“Glad to be here,” said Myrrdin, but it was plain to Brand he was speaking a polite lie.

“I’ve got good news,” said Brand, deciding not to wait around until the wizard got to whatever point he had in coming here. “My brother is to be wed this day, right here. We will be performing the ceremony at noon, if you care to stay.”

Myrrdin seemed surprised at the invitation. His mood rose somewhat. “That’s very kind of you Brand. I doubt I will be able to stay, but I dearly wish that I could.”

Brand sipped his tea and waited.

“Brand, I’m here for a very special reason. I certainly don’t want to interrupt your happiness on this important day. In fact, now that you tell me of your celebration, I would normally leave, or hold my talk for a better time.”

“I take it, then, that you don’t bring happy tidings?”

Myrrdin shook his head. He sipped his tea a final time, then leaned forward, his eyes becoming intense. His gaze locked with Brand’s. “No. No, I do not. I fear things are going badly. I don’t understand all of it, but I’ve heard things, Brand.”

“What things?”

“Muttering. Whispered conversations in dark places. The drums of war are beating Brand, in a dozen places.”

“Why? Why now?”

“The Kindred, Brand. That, and other hurt feelings that have finally boiled to the surface. You see, powers have shifted. When that happens, there are inevitably winners and losers from the new arrangement.”

Brand nodded, undisturbed.

“Yes,” Myrrdin continued. “I know, you account the River Folk as among the winners. But that isn’t how everyone sees it. They see you as an upstart, a trouble-maker. To give evidence to their claims, you have helped shift the delicate balance of power between the races further on several occasions.”

“Such as giving the Blue Jewel to Tomkin.”

“Yes, and slaying Fafnir.”

“How can anyone argue that dragon deserved to keep the Orange?” demanded Brand.

“They don’t, but they would rather not see it being wielded by the Kindred. The Kindred, Brand, are at the core of the entire problem. They are only dangerous when they have a monarch. You have helped give them that monarch, and a Jewel at the same time. Never has the world seen such a combination.”

“So? What terrible thing might they do with it?”

“They have enemies, enemies that sleep, enemies so ancient the Kindred themselves have forgotten them all. And these enemies are fearful of the Kindred, especially when they have gained a great power and are filled with purpose.”

Brand threw up his arms. “I can’t see how I am involved in this. I can’t understand how the Kindred scaring others is a bad thing for the Haven. They are, after all, our allies.”

“Exactly,” said Myrrdin. His face became thoughtful, almost calculating. “You see, the state of the Kindred is being used to create fear among others. They are a threat, and others are preparing to meet that threat. Your alliance with them doubles that threat. As does the third member of the alliance.”

“You mean Tomkin.”

“Yes,” said Myrrdin, as if even the thought of Tomkin annoyed him.

“So, what are you asking? Speak plainly, man.”

Myrrdin leaned forward and spoke quietly and intently. “Leave the alliance. Declare neutrality. It isn’t even necessary that the entire River Haven do this, just you, Brand. The rest of the world doesn’t care much about the Riverton Constabulary and their blue fluttering cloaks. It is you and your axe they fear. You don’t need the protection of the Kindred, and they don’t need yours. In fact, you may well keep the peace if you denounce them.”

“Let’s entertain for a second that I would do such a thing,” said Brand, fighting to keep his voice even. His axe was thumping into his knees and he had to admit it had a point on this occasion. The wizard was clearly not on his side. “What possible good could it do? If our enemies fear to strike due to our strength, then appearing weaker will only embolden them.”

Myrrdin shook his head determinedly. “No. No, there you are wrong. It is their fear that is driving them. They fear you, and the Kindred, and even Tomkin. They fear you as an unknown, as an upstart. A group of upstarts, if you will, who have banded together and have managed through an alliance to shift the ownership of Jewels willy-nilly.”

Brand’s fist came down on the armrest of his chair. “Well, I won’t do it. I will not say I am neutral, because I’m not neutral. If any enemy were to strike at Snowdon, I would march to intervene. I believe knowing that helps keep the peace, more than it foments war. Let them worry about what we might do. We are tired of fearing them, of putting our children to bed with terrible stories of stealing hands and of lilting voices that might lure them into the forests.”

“Brand, you must try to see the wider view—”

“No! Again, I tell you Myrrdin, no. It is they who must adjust. It is they, the elder races who are set in their ways, who must alter their behavior to accommodate the younger ones.”

Myrrdin stared at him angrily for several seconds before replying.

“You think you have won. You think this is all over, because you have outfought them and cheated them a few times. Brand, you don’t understand what you are dealing with. These beings may just wait out your short, flaring lifetime and then swoop down upon your descendants, when they are weak and Ambros is ready for the plucking.”

“Then I will work hard to make sure our children are well-versed in the ways of our enemies. You should be helping us, Myrrdin. Don’t half your loyalties belong with us?

Myrrdin looked pained. “I’m not choosing sides. I’m trying to prevent another war from erupting. I’m trying to keep a lid on a pot that is boiling over.”

Brand nodded. “I believe you, old friend. I believe you think, in your heart, that you are working to save lives and save the peace. But I will not bend my knee. Nor will any of my people. The River Folk stand with our allies. We are at peace. We do not want war. But any that march against us must know they will face our combined strength.”

“Will you then, at least, condemn any aggressive wars upon which the Kindred may soon embark?”

Brand gave him a troubled look. “I don’t know of any—”

“Will you?” interrupted Myrrdin.

“I don’t know. If I hear of such a war, I will decide then. I’ll not condemn an ally before they have made their case to me.”

Myrrdin stood then, his lips compressed into a tight line. Brand stood with him. The meeting was at an end.

“We have found no common ground this day,” said Myrrdin, sounding formal. “The fact makes me sorrowful for the future.”

Brand let him out, and followed him. He stood in his doorway, his brow knitted in a harsh frown. He felt that he must have resembled his own father then, a stern man long dead.

“Tell them, Myrrdin, not to seek out trouble. For if they do, I shall seek them out.”

Myrrdin gave no hint he had heard the words. He left, carried away swiftly by his long angry strides.

Brand was left to wonder about the way the world had changed around him. He made a mental note to report this conversation to Gudrin. She had to be warned that others were plotting against Snowdon.

Chapter Five

The Kindred Stir

Piskin fretted terribly. As they sailed past Rabing Isle and onward upstream, he was sure at any moment a River Folk war-party would come whooping after him. His eyes never ceased combing the banks and he stared piercingly at every passing sail. If he had had a second hand, he would have tried to wield one of the ridiculously huge poles these stomping big idiots used to work their way upriver at speed. Like all Wee Folk, he was very strong for his size, but not that strong.

He eyed the maid, thinking of urging her to pole for them. But he couldn’t think of a good excuse for haste. He’d told her they were on their way to meet Puck, and that lie was the only thing that kept her with him.

He was certain she had become suspicious of him. She prattled on about stopping to meet an aunt who lived along the river, a woman who had been kind to her in her youth.

“Tut, tut, girl,” Piskin told her, shaking his head with sad, exaggerated slowness. “How little you know of the world. It’s a shame, it is, to be the one to tell you.”

“To tell me what?”

“No one is going to help you. You see, a maiden is the desire of every heart, the joy dancing in every eye. But you are the very opposite of a chaste, girlish maiden. Now, you are heavy—gross in fact—with child. Under different circumstances, had you a waiting husband, your condition might be seen as a blessing. But alas, that is not the case. You are an outcast, girl. A disgusting sight. A waddling sow, demonstrating your evil past with every thudding step you take. All your kind shun you. You know this to be true. All have forsaken you save for Piskin, and hopefully, Puck.”

Mari frowned at him distrustfully. She had been doing quite a lot of that lately. It made him want to throttle her all the sooner. But he had changed his mind about killing her now. He had reasoned that he needed her child’s blood fresh. A bowl of week-old, dead red soup, sticky and fetid, surely would not coax the hound. He didn’t want to have gone to all his trouble and then fail at the last instant due to such an oversight. He needed the child alive and wriggling, so he could bleed it freshly into a cup for the hound’s pleasure. And by far the easiest way to transport the unborn brat was while it stayed within its mother’s womb.

“Not everyone shuns me,” argued Mari. “The porter at the Inn quite liked the look of me, I’d say. With child or not.”

“Ah, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to sting your pride, milady, for truthfully, you are a beauty. But even the most beautiful of milk cows does have a definite purpose, does it not? Perhaps the porter looked on with pity, not allure, in his eye.”

“Nonsense,” she said, crossing her arms over her swollen midsection.

“And what of your mother? Did she not reject you soundly?”

Mari pouted. She had no retort for that assault, he knew.

“A milk cow indeed,” she muttered.

As he watched her sulk in annoyance and self-pity, Piskin fought the urge to smile. There would be no more talk of visiting aunts now.

* * *

Few could recall a time of greater activity beneath Snowdon. Every forge churned, every back was bent. Thousands of the Kindred toiled upon the single task of repairing the broken vent over Earthlight. Mechnicians, metal smiths and miners swarmed the structure, each of them moving with a fanatical energy and unity of purpose.

Gudrin herself stood among them, fists planted upon her hips. Her sky-blue eyes were alight, as fiery as the blasting red heat of the Earthlight. Upon her brow no hint of hair remained, all of it having been burnt away during her early experimentation with Pyros. Now that she had attuned herself to the Orange Jewel however, the one thing she was immune to, in any form, was heat. She knew she could walk into the magma of the Earthlight itself unaided, and swim in it like a warm lake without harm. She had not yet dared such a thing, but knew that it was possible for the master of Pyros to perform the feat.

She watched with swelling pride as the groaning cranes and roaring Kindred hoisted rattling cables and pulleys into place. The vent itself had been reforged where it lay after Fafnir had dislodged it. Proudly, Gudrin herself had provided the fantastic heat it took to melt an alloy so hard, so ancient, that it had withstood the breath of magma for a thousand years. Only Pyros could produce such a dexterous tongue of flame as was required. She did not know how her ancestors had managed the job without the Orange Jewel.

Like an artist with a stylus of fine brilliant flame, she drove a white beam of fire from her extended fingers at will. She had first carved a new hinge for the vent, a hinge so great and massive that the pin alone was thicker than the trunk of any tree that grew upon the world. Ancient metal melted like wax before her stylus of flame, and when she looked upon the finished hinge, she felt as might a sculptor gazing upon her masterwork.

Now that the vent had been reforged, and the hinge had been welded back together with the fantastic heat of Pyros, they were ready to lift the structure into place.

All eyes fell upon Gudrin. She raised her fist slowly upward above her scarred, bald head. She extended her fingers then, flinging them wide with a sudden thrust. A gush of fire shot up, red-orange, from her open hand. The ballooning puff of flame rolled a hundred feet up toward the cavern ceiling, resembling the triumphant exhalation of a great dragon.

A tremendous cheer went up from the Kindred, all of whom wore heavy leathers to protect themselves from the heat, save for Gudrin. Obeying her signal, a thousand pairs of arms convulsed, a thousand backs hunched. But the real power came from the ticking machinery they had so carefully deployed.

The mechnicians opened great valves atop the fat-bellied boilers. The boilers had been rebuilt of fresh shining brass, and they had been stoked to bursting with superheated steam. The steam, coursing through huge pipes, pumped against pistons and forced them to move. With a screeching of new metals, massive cogs were forced to rotate. Cunningly laid axels spun huge gears. Each gear pressed against another, increasing the slow, but inexorable, power of the lifting mechanisms. The slack cables drew taut. The straining Kindred could not possibly lift the massive weight, being as it was a mile-long length of dense metal. Only machines, properly engineered, were up to the task. The clockwork engines applied impossible torque, straining to lift the fallen blade of the Great Vent.

It took hours, during which none of the Kindred faltered. They sweated, they grimaced, and they gasped in worry when something swung loose or snapped taut, but they did not fail in their duties. Not a single one of Gudrin’s people succumbed to the deadly heat, or the grinding strain of their efforts. Sweat poured from brows and into their beards, but long before a rivulet of salty perspiration could reach the tip of any beard, it was blasted away to vapor by the fantastic heat.

Finally, after what seemed a hazy, dream-like time of collective effort, the topmost blade of the Great Vent reached the hinge. With a final heaving, clanking effort, the massive structure was locked into place. During the zeal of the lifting, few had spared a word except to shout a harsh warning or command, but now a ragged cheer went up. The noise rose to a frantic pitch. It was a wild, exhausted sound. The sound of prideful, unbridled joy. It was the first such sound to be heard since the effort had begun.

Dozens of Kindred collapsed then, cheering even as they sagged down onto the burning ash heaps. Some of those that fell died, their stout hearts giving out in their moment of jubilant triumph. But Gudrin knew that they had died proudly, for every one of their leathery faces was later found locked in a grinning rictus, their exposed teeth full of hot grit.

“My Queen,” said a voice beside her.

Gudrin didn’t acknowledge the courier at first. She had noted her approach during the final stages of the lifting. The courier had come from the broken citadel, which still served her people as a seat of government until such time as she rebuilt it. A message from that direction could not be good. Little good news came to any monarch in haste, and so far, Gudrin had never experienced a messenger with gleeful tidings.

And so, to savor her triumph, possibly one for which she would be remembered long after her passing, she ignored the messenger and stood gazing proudly at the Great Vent. Tonight, there would be nightfall, and every fresh babe in the Earthlight could sleep soundly, knowing that their Queen had made it possible to sleep in a cool dark place once again. No longer would the red heat of the Earthlight plague them without respite.

A dozen clanmasters, every one of them in fact, came and gave her a hearty clap upon the back. Unlike other monarchs, such familiarity was not only acceptable to Gudrin, it was relished. The Kindred could be stuffy about some things, but a fine day’s work was to be hailed loudly and long, and hopefully with a great mug of ale in a stone tankard to wash it all down.

Finally, as the messenger shuffled from foot to foot, Gudrin heaved a sigh. She turned and faced the youth. The messenger was young and female. She had worry in her eyes, which told Gudrin what she already knew. The message carried grim tidings.

Gudrin snatched it from the messenger, growling her thanks. The girl bowed swiftly and trotted away, her cloak rippling behind her, and mounted her waiting mountain ram. She clattered away on her steed, no doubt glad to get away from the searing heat of this place.

Gudrin hesitated further before tearing open the seal on the scroll. She waved to a passing cartsman and took a cool jug of ale. She downed a great deal of it, gulping. She might be immune to the heat of this place now, but she had still eaten a great deal of ash and grit, a sensation made no more pleasant by the Orange Jewel that hung around her neck.

Thirst quenched, she tore open the scroll and rolled it out flat. She squinted at it, turning her back to the Great Vents so their lurid red light could illuminate the text.

She blinked, realizing the scroll was from the River Folk. It was from Brand himself, not from their foppish council. That part was both good and bad. It was good that Brand took the time to communicate with her directly, but bad that he felt the urgency to do so. Also, possibly, it meant he didn’t trust his own people with the information he passed on.

She read quickly. The scroll told of Myrrdin’s warnings. It gave no specifics, but said that the enemies of the Kindred, fearful of what they might do once their city was repaired, were gathering armies. Brand also mentioned his fear that Oberon was involved, and that those who had grown accustomed to having great power were jealous of those who now newly wielded it.

Gudrin rolled the scroll back up tightly. A few prying eyes were denied their chance to investigate. She nodded and pursed her lips. Brand grew wiser with every passing year. He had maintained his alliance with the Kindred, and did so most tightly. Brand did so knowing, she felt sure, that her people’s response would be in like kind.

And Brand was correct. The Kindred valued no trait greater than that of unfailing loyalty! Had not her own brethren proudly dropped dead not an hour earlier striving to repair the Great Vents? They had sacrificed themselves gladly, out of dedication to their people and to their queen. She did not take their deaths lightly. They would be feted with many silver hammers in the morning, and sent on their final journey into the cone of fire. Their dedication, their loyalty to their queen and comrades, these things defined the very essence of what it was to be one of the Kindred.

She tried to dampen down her pride, to think more clearly. Pyros, like all the Jewels, tended to get one worked up, especially when it was recently wielded. To help settle her thoughts, she drew a second mug of ale and drank it much more slowly while she marched back toward the broken citadel.

Behind her, a number of courtiers followed at a discreet distance, knowing that she was deep in thought. They desperately wanted to avoid interrupting her thoughts. The results of such interruptions, when the queen was thinking hard, were often painful.

She soon left behind the bustling masses of workers who still worked hard, testing and lubricating the Great Vent with black, dribbling buckets of graphite. Her work was finished at the vents, so she left the clean up to the Mechnicians. She had matters of state to consider now.

Enemies, Myrrdin had told Brand. Old ones.

Enemies they had all but forgotten. Myrrdin meant creatures from the Everdark, she knew. Wurms, kobolds, elemental armies. They had never really declared peace with them, nor even a truce. They just existed and stayed down deep, far below the Kindred frontiers. Likewise, the Kindred had stayed near the surface and out of the depths, mining only in the highest galleries of thin ore and relative safety. Except for occasional raids by one side or the other, relative peace had reigned for centuries.

Perhaps, she thought, Modi had not been all wrong. Perhaps it was time the Kindred once again turned their eyes deepward. If the things that dwelt below their ancient plugs were no longer content to stay alive... Well, perhaps it was high time they were slain.

At the very least, if the enemy mobilized, the Kindred would have to match the effort. They would, in fact, have to grossly exceed it.

She sighed, looking ahead at her citadel of crumpled black stone. Fafnir had done great damage. She had planned to rebuild first, and then extend their construction further. Possibly, she would have ordered a new colony built, a new mountain hollowed out.

But now, their efforts would have to turn to the machines of war. With the aid of Pyros, she knew she could build things the world had not seen for millennia. Clicking clockwork crawlers would walk again. Golems would be animated and armed. Steam-driven ballistic weaponry, long foresworn by her people, would be rebuilt and perfected. Armor of hardened steel would cover every warrior, and axe-blades would be forged that could cut through anything.

She finished off her second ale, smashed down the mug and clapped together her gloved hands. She called for the Clanmaster of the Mechnicians. There would be no resting, no lying about with feet lifted from the floor, not even after such an effort as the reforging of the Great Vent.

There was much more work to be done.

Chapter Six

Jak’s Wedding

By noon, the wedding party had assembled. Brand’s impatience grew with every minute that stretched into an hour. His plans of leaving by early afternoon were torturously shredded by effusive relatives and endless proceedings.

Holding a surprise wedding on an island in the Haven prevented precise timing. They simply had to wait until all the principles were there, and then once they had finally arrived the ladies began an exorbitant period of primping.

Brand, being a farmboy, had never envisioned these delays. He had been to a wedding or two, but never on the hosting end of things. As well, now that he had the vaunted title of Lord Rabing, people seemed to expect much more pomp and circumstance from him.

He had to admit, the families had done an amazing job in such a short time. They had brought every festive item they had on their boats, festooning the trees with paper lanterns and rippling gossamer. At night, he knew, the tiny candles in the lanterns would be set alight and the entire garden area would resemble a faerie mound encircled by wisps. That very thought was worrisome in itself, as he now realized this party would indeed stretch on into the night. He was itching to be off and away.

The loveliness of the garden, however, arrested those thoughts in his mind. Jak had done an amazing job. He had been working on the garden since the snows melted away, a few weeks back. Fresh, tiny shoots of grass grew everywhere, thrusting up from the black earth, eager for the sunshine of spring after a hard winter. The trees themselves still had no leaves, but bore thousands of light green buds which would soon explode into full life.

The family had brought the chairs and the wicker archway. He thought perhaps that had come from Gram Rabing’s barn. After all the cobwebs had been whisked away and the whole thing was braided with vines, it looked quite entrancing. Under that arch, Jak and Lanet were married. The ceremony was performed by none other than Old Man Thilfox himself, both giving away his daughter and taking her vows at the same time.

Another surprising thing was the new people. New faces among the crowd, those who looked a bit wide-eyed, wild-haired and generally unkempt. Thilfox had made an effort to bring them, these outsiders who had recently migrated to Riverton. He had invited the head of every family he could find to his daughter’s wedding. He felt that they must be brought into the fold, invited to weddings and such. They must be made to feel at home. There were many of them this spring, many more than there had ever been. Brand eyed them, and occasionally their gazes strayed to meet his, but then quickly flashed away.

Brand himself, and his axe, was the reason many of them had come. They had trekked in from wild settlements in areas beyond the borders of the Haven. Things had grown worse for them since the breaking of the Pact. The faerie were on the prowl, and since they dared not enter the Haven under threat of Brand’s axe, they had sought out humans beyond the borders he maintained.

These people, simple and uneducated, weren’t barbarians, but rather lost peasants from tiny villages in the wild areas. He felt for them, and hoped they could be made to feel comfortable. He knew that Thilfox and the others regarded their migration as critical, and welcomed everyone, even the haunted women, the ones that had been used to sire rhinogs or worse things. He welcomed them, and found them lodging, and considered even adding new clans from this clanless group to the council. He felt that since they may be soon drafted into the militia to guard the borders, they should have some form of family representation in decisions. That option had not yet made it past the council, however, as none of them relished a watering down of their voting power.

Brand turned his attention back to the wedding itself. He smiled as he watched the proceedings, his brother Jak was so happy. He was sure that over the months to come he would grow even more joyous, as he had never shared his life with woman. Brand smiled, but he did not weep. He wondered, looking around the garden, if he had the only dry eye in the vicinity, save for the clanless ones. Then he spotted Tomkin, swinging his legs as he watched from an almond tree that had just blossomed. That one, he was certain, had dry eyes like black stones. He doubted the Wee Folk were capable of tears—except possibly when lamenting their own losses.

Brand watched Tomkin, and the manling’s eyes slid to return the gaze. Tomkin tipped his hat, showing he was naturally aware of the scrutiny. Brand nodded to his strange little friend, thinking that the manling had the instincts of feral cat in a field.

And that’s where Brand wanted to be. Off, in a field somewhere, marching and adventuring. He sighed and shifted his weight from one foot to another. His axe, heavy on his back, shifted its weight in an echo of his movement. Taking a seat with the others was unthinkable. He had a hard enough time bearing the long ceremony, even though he knew the River Folk were enjoying it thoroughly.

He bore it all with good grace, of course. He hid his agitation as best he could. He truly was happy for his brother Jak, and he already loved Lanet, her boy and the Thilfox family. He could not help but think, however, that with each passing moment Piskin was escaping his grasp. Escaping justice, the justice his axe desired so strongly to mete out.

His state of mind had largely to do with the axe, he knew. Ambros was bored, which it almost always was when it wasn’t cutting flashing arcs through the air and preferably removing heads with every stroke. It urged him to speed, at this very delicate time, when things could least be politely hurried.

Gifts and flowers and windblown dresses. Lanet was enchantingly beautiful, her hair floating around her like a gauzy cloud. She beamed at Jak, and just seeing this helped soften Brand’s heart. He could not bear to interrupt this procession, this outpouring of hope for the future.

He and his axe represented the grim side of their world, the part that was full of death, fright and violence. Could he not give the other side its due? He chided himself. The wedding was a celebration of life and happiness. A commitment to new families and smiling children. He would do well to study and enjoy the proceedings, to use them to draw upon for strength and resolve in his next dark hour, which would surely come soon.

And so he did his best to relax, to enjoy the festivities which most there seemed to delight in. He rolled his shoulders when the axe poked up its haft and tremored upon his back, as one might do when trying to avoid a buzzing insect.

The fact that he bore the weapon, even during a wedding, had uplifted many eyebrows. But he never considered leaving it in the house or some other safe spot. He knew that he would never stop thinking about it if he did, and would thus even more thoroughly ruin his experience on this fine day.

Besides... One never knew when its services might be needed. When better for an enemy to strike than in the midst of a celebration?

The vows were sweet, but long. The humming, rising up into full song, that followed from the congregation was the best part for Brand. He joined them all, singing loud and long. A few eyes widened and gave him frequent glances, but he barely noticed. The axe, he knew, was very fond of song. It knew it uplifted men’s hearts to acts of courage and renown. This was no battle song of old, of course, only a greeting for spring, but he sang hard and loud nonetheless, enjoying every pulsing second of the experience.

Gram Rabing came up to him after the ceremony and the final song had been sung. She eyed him curiously. Her corncob pipe poked out of her mouth at an odd angle.

He waited for her to speak, not knowing what was on her mind.

She pulled her pipe out of her mouth and pointed at his burnt side with the stem of it.

“That’s quite a shiner you got there. A dragon did that, they say. A real dragon?”

Brand nodded, unsurprised at her directness. She had always been one to speak her mind—even to the point of rudeness. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “A real dragon.”

Gram Rabing took a half-step closer. She peered over his shoulder next, eyeing the axe handle that protruded into the air. The axe twitched under her gaze. He resisted the urge to slap at it.

“That thing drives you dammed near crazy, doesn’t it, boy?”

He snorted lightly. “I suppose, Gram. Sometimes it does.”

“Lord Rabing. That’s what they call you now? Huh.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, feeling slightly hot now, despite the fresh springtime breezes in off the river. He decided to attempt to steer the conversation to lighter topics. “Lovely wedding, wasn’t it?”

“You ever kill anyone with that thing, and regret it later?” she asked suddenly.

He stared at the old woman. He’d known her as a tot, of course. She had changed his pants and spanked him plenty of times. Somehow, he found her direct approach disarming, not angering. In another person, he might have taken insult. But from Old Gram Rabing, he felt it was her due. She had somehow earned the right to be rude.

“Yes, Gram,” he said quietly, seriously. “I have done so.”

Unbidden, the lovely image of Oberon’s daughter came into his mind. Her silver lock of hair he no longer carried with him. He suspected it had somehow been burned away, perhaps in his battles with the dragons beneath Snowdon.

She nodded, as if he were only confirming her suspicions. She leaned closer still to him. “Well, you sure do sing better than you used to as a kid. That’s part of it, isn’t it? Drives you to sing like a drunken docksman. That’s at least a bonus, isn’t it?”

He laughed then, the tension sliding away from him. He looked around the crowd, as if seeing them all for the first time. They all eyed him from time to time, apprehensively. He must have seemed like a brooding lout, standing off from the ceremony. He wondered if he had been scowling. He couldn’t recall.

He should have been enjoying this day more deeply. He hoped that when his own wedding came he would be able to do so.

Gram Rabing put her pipe back into her mouth and nodded to herself, as if confirming her own thoughts or listening to a conversation only she could hear. “You’re doing a good job, boy. Best any of us could do. Just try to keep your wits about you.”

“Thanks, Gram.”

“You’ve got somewhere you need to be, don’t you?” she asked him then. Again, the question was sudden, direct and piercing.

He blinked, and then nodded.

“You’d best be about it then, boy. Don’t let us stop you. Politeness and all be dammed. Go tell your brother goodbye and be gone. He’ll be glad to hear you won’t be hanging around the house tonight, mark me.”

She said this last with a twinkle in her eyes that Brand found slightly disturbing. His old Gram, making jokes about wedding nights! Somehow, it was disconcerting. But with Gram Rabing, nothing was sacred.

He laughed and nodded. He hugged her and she patted his back sharply in return.

And then she left him.

He only paused for a few minutes before heading for the docks, following her advice. On the way, Jak caught up with him, demanding to know his plans.

“I thought I would slip away, now that the ceremony is done,” confessed Brand.

Jak stared at him for a moment, but then nodded, understanding. He said his good-byes and lamented he could not go with him. He had a family to tend to now. Brand urged him to go do so, and then he began the arduous process of loading his roan stallion onto his boat. Just getting the horse across the river to the far banks was a tricky affair every time he did it. He thought that in time he would build a bridge or at least set up a ferry to do the job more easily. He was wealthy now, and needed to think of bigger things to do with his money.

It was Telyn who caught him last. She had Corbin in tow. They both looked at him seriously.

“Who’s going to bring that boat back, once you’ve taken your horse to the shoreline?” Corbin wanted to know.

“That’s not what you are really asking,” said Brand. “And in answer to your real question, I thought I would chase Piskin down alone. I know you two think I need a second to visit the outhouse, but this is only a one-handed Wee One. I’ve bested him before, and I’ll do it again.”

“Not without me, you won’t,” said a voice from inside the boat. A loose sail in the bottom of the boat shifted, and Tomkin poked his nose out.

Brand sighed. “Do you really want to come along, Tomkin? You already took Piskin’s hand, you know. I would have thought your scales were balanced by now.”

Tomkin shook his head. “Piskin is a traitor to my people. He hasn’t given up yet. He still plans to own this Jewel of mine. I’ll have his other hand first.”

Tomkin waggled the amulet with Lavatis in it, and it sparkled, sending blue gleaming shafts of light into the afternoon sky.

“What about you, Telyn? Don’t you have our own wedding to plan? How about I leave you a dozen gold marks to work with?”

She shook her head. “I’d rather keep my future husband in sight.”

“All right,” said Brand. He heaved a breath. “Everyone into the boat. Mind you don’t step on Tomkin.”

He unloaded his roan, not having room for it and everyone else aboard. With a large group and only one horse among them, the boat would carry them faster in any case. He slapped the roan’s rump when he had it back ashore, knowing the stallion would happily trot home for a mouthful of fresh oats in the stable.

* * *

Floating on the Berrywine River, the banks of which had always served as her home, Mari wondered how her life had taken such strange turns. They were heading upriver to Frogmorton, according to Piskin. She had never been there, but heard they were a friendly sort down on the southern border of the Haven. Beyond Frogmorton was nothing but wilderness: Dark brooding mountains, silent forests and still lakes full of merlings.

If Puck were truly down past the southern edge of her known world, what could he be doing? Why hadn’t he come to visit, if he wanted her still? Was he afraid of the Haven now?

Piskin hinted that he was. He suggested that Puck was afraid of “that madman with the axe”, the man she knew to be Brand, the Champion of the River Haven. She had only seen Brand once in Riverton. He indeed did look to be a knight out of legend. He wore a breastplate, the first man she’d ever seen to do so. He looked dashing and serious. And he was armed, too, just as they said he always was. The handle of his frightening axe, a white haft like an animal’s femur bone, stuck up out of the pack. She shuddered to think the axe was alive and could move somewhat on its own. Just looking at it gave her a chill.

But she had found Brand himself entrancing. She, and no doubt every young girl in the Haven, wondered why he had not chosen her as his consort.

She pursed her lips in self-recrimination. Piskin had to be given some credit, he was right about her grossly pregnant state. No man would want her now. Possibly, not even Puck, the sire of her unborn child.

She felt very alone. But she did not give in to tears. She urged herself to tough-mindedness. She had not fallen unaware into her condition. She had made mistakes, and now it was time to pay for them. She did not, however, want her babe to have to pay.

She thought of the crone in the forest. She’d left her with no more than a cooling stove, but word had it that the troll had slain her. The troll had been so sweet, her initial reaction to reject the creature had faded. She had grown fond of the troll, over the last few weeks. He was loyal, and protective, unlike Piskin who seemed to grow more shrill and sarcastic with every passing day. But now, the horrible crone and the troll were both dead. There was only Piskin, and this small boat, and her babe in her belly.

Piskin, she thought to herself. He was the real danger. Perhaps, somehow, he had arranged the troll’s death. It seemed to her now, reviewing the events in the tannery, that he had done so.

Mari knew something was very, very wrong. She didn’t let her concerns show to Piskin, however. She didn’t trust him anymore. It was the fate of the troll that had convinced her he wasn’t her true friend. That had been entirely unfair, and even if it was an accident (and she thought that it must have been, as it was hard for her to believe someone would do something so awful on purpose) he hardly seemed to care. The troll had suffered so long in the crone’s stovepipe, and had died suffering even more. It was so wrong, and Piskin had shrugged off the entire affair.

If he was such a heartless person, what else might he be capable of? She knew the Fae creatures were often tricksy. Up until now, she had been willing to overlook his behavior in hopes he would help her see Puck again. She so wished to reunite with her love, and not just because she carried his child.

But she had lost all confidence in Piskin. She had even come to doubt he would take her to Puck at all. She had no idea, really, what he was planning. Why did he have such an interest in her? For some sinister purpose, she now suspected.

If he had arranged one death, might he not have arranged others? The crone, for example. Maybe his single, fine-boned hand and slick, ever-speaking tongue had had a role in that death as well. She liked that idea, because it exonerated her and the troll. But it was a frightening thought too, as it meant he had some special reason for taking her out of Riverton. She knew, in her heart, that this reason couldn’t be one of charity. Piskin was a self-serving creature. Whatever purpose he had for bringing her to Puck, if that was even the goal of this quest, the purpose was a dark, secret one. Something that would benefit him alone.

“Piskin,” she said, keeping her voice neutral, “Speak with me.”

The other’s shoulders hunched in annoyance, but he managed to force his doll’s face into the semblance of a smile. “What is it, my dear?”

“Tell me of Puck. Tell me how he looks these days. I have not seen him for so many weeks. I want you to refresh my memory and pass the time on this dull voyage.”

Piskin’s face contorted. She could tell he wanted to scream at her, but managed with difficulty to quell his rage. He had grown increasingly nervous and irritable with each passing hour as they approached their goal. She wondered what annoyed him so. Was he fearful of Brand and his axe? Did he know they were being stalked in some manner? She hoped it was so.

Piskin relaxed, and his black stone eyes shone brightly again. He began describing Puck, his smooth limbs and gentle face. He went on in detail concerning his lithe body and how he could dance, sing and play the pipes with precise zeal.

At first, Mari was lulled. She envisioned Puck and matched him to Piskin’s soft words. It was enchanting, almost like a spoken spell.

But slowly, certain inaccuracies struck through and ruined the enchantment. She came to understand through his description that some details were simply not right. For example, the true color of Puck’s hair was that of quicksilver, not spun gold as Piskin described it. There were other things, details that rang falsely.

“Are you sure about that?” she asked him, as he described a green pouch Puck supposedly carried on his hip. She had never seen such a thing. “Are you describing some other elf?”

Piskin halted, frowning fiercely. “I’m describing the Puck I know, girl. The Shining Folk often comport themselves differently when in their own Twilight Lands.”

She nodded, but the spell was broken. She had come to realize with cold finality that Piskin lied. Most likely, everything he had ever told her was a lie. It was a frightening thought. Here she was, weak and heavy with child. She was at her most vulnerable, and he was taking her to only the River-knew-where for a possibly dark purpose.

Her breath came now in short, fearful puffs. She dared not meet his doll’s eyes, lest he read the alarm in her face. She had to get away from Piskin, but how?

By the time dusk began to drop over the world, she had devised a plan. She had witnessed her own mother when she was close to birthing her brothers several times. She began to exhibit the symptoms.

First, she sucked in her breath suddenly, and leaned forward from her reclined position in the stern of the boat, gasping. After a few moments, she sagged back.

Piskin eyed her in silent displeasure. She repeated the performance some minutes later.

“What is it now?” he snapped at her.

“I don’t know. I feel—odd,” she said, pretending to be baffled. “Perhaps I’m ill. Maybe we should stop for the night and set up camp.”

Piskin hopped from foot-to-foot in sudden vexation. “We have a schedule to keep. Vomit over the side if you must.”

“A schedule? I’m sick, I think. I’m having a most sudden, terrible pain.”

“A pain?”

“Yes, in my belly. But I think it can’t be anything serious. It comes and it goes.”

Piskin stopped hopping about. In fact, he froze in the prow. He took two bounds, coming close. His one good hand snaked out and touched her swollen belly.

She allowed the touch without remarking upon it. She felt it was critical that he believe her trust in him was complete.

His eyes were wide and his lips curled back from his teeth. When the child kicked, bouncing his fine-fingered hand, he snatched it away as if stung.

“Are you an idiot, girl?” he demanded.

“What is it?” she asked.

“The child comes. Right here on the boat,” he said. He gave a long hiss of vexation. “Too soon. Too damned soon.”

Too soon for what? Mari thought, but kept the thought inside her head. She now dreaded whatever scheme was in Piskin’s mind.

He bounded up again, as if captivated by a sudden, inexorable decision. He cut the ropes that held fast the sails with slashing motions of his tiny, glittering dagger. Like her father’s razor, the dagger flashed and made silver arcs in the air as he wielded it. Mari cowered down in the stern of the boat, fearing the blade immediately.

The sails sagged down and luffed. Their progress upriver stopped. Forcing the rudder to one side, Piskin guided the craft westward, to the brooding shore of the Deepwood. He tied up the boat and motioned for her to follow him.

All throughout this display of panicked activity, Piskin had ignored her questions. But as he reached for her hand, urging her to exit the craft, she pulled back from him. She wrapped her arms around her belly protectively.

“Where are we going? Why have we stopped here?”

Piskin took several breaths, calming himself. He smiled at her, but it was all teeth, there was no kindness in the expression. “We are going to a place I know nearby. A spot in the woods where you’ll be safe. I’m no midwife, but I know where to find someone who can help us.”

“I don’t want to go into the Deepwood. You can’t make me.” Mari reached up to her ash leaf ward. She found it there, still around her neck. She’d not thought of it until now, not since the fire. She had depended on it for a long time to keep back any unwanted advances by Piskin and his kind.

Piskin laughed at her. She frowned back at him. He hopped closer, then closer still. She reached up and fingered the ash leaf around her neck, trusting to its power. None of the creatures from the Twilight Lands could harm you, as long as you kept a ward handy. She had lived by that rule in their presence for months now.

Piskin leered, then reached up and snatched the ward from her chest, tearing the dry, crumbled leaf to shreds in the process. He cackled, holding up a corner of it.

“Tsk,” said Piskin. “Such a shame! It’s burnt. See this blackened, curled point? You must have all five points of the leaf, you know.”

Mari was horrified. Her best defense was useless. Now she realized that he had just touched her belly. He should not have been able to touch her at all, if the ward had been working.

Piskin held out his tiny, long-fingered hand, again urging her out of the boat. Mari looked at his hand, which waggled at her with impatience. Should she refuse? Should she demand he leave her here in the boat until another came by, perhaps some kindly shepherd taking his flock up to Riverton?

She craned her neck, but saw no one else on the river. She hadn’t seen another boat in the last hour. They were far south now, down in the frontier section of the Haven. Few farms were to be found down in this region, it was mostly wilderness.

She looked back at Piskin. He still had his hand extended toward her. In his black stone eyes there was no pity. He said nothing, letting her decide how things would be.

She thought of the razor-sharp knife on his belt. If she broke the fiction between them now, if she screeched and fought and didn’t get out of the boat, what might he do? Had he not murdered once, and possibly twice, during their short acquaintance?

She climbed out of the boat at last, giving up. She wanted to escape him, not fight with him. She had no choice but to continue their private charade.

As she touched his thin-fingered, leathery hand, she wondered how things might end between the two of them. She thought of terrible things, such as snatching up his dagger and chopping his second hand from him. That would make it hard for him to harm her.

She gave a tiny shudder of revulsion, but covered by grabbing at her belly.

“Here, here, don’t trip, girl,” said Piskin. His small hand had surprising strength in it, she found. It was as if his pencil-thin fingers were made of iron.

The two of them stepped into the gloom of the Deepwood then, and soon were lost from sight.

Chapter Seven

Treating with Old Hob

Oberon had never really liked Old Hob. He had tolerated the overgrown, cowardly creature’s company for years untold, but he’d never enjoyed—not for a second—the experience.

Old Hob had retreated after the first disastrous clash with Brand and the humans in the Dead Kingdoms. He had taken his ill-gotten gain, the Lavender Jewel Osang, and scuttled off with it to his stronghold upon the island of Eire. Cowardly, treacherous, disgusting. In Oberon’s mind, all these words described—nay they defined Old Hob.

But Oberon had need of allies. As was so often the case in the past, he was forced to call upon the lowest of folk that were considered Fae—distant relatives though the Goblin Folk might be.

Compared to even the Wee Folk, the goblins were a people apart from the Shining Folk. Where one did step with grace and speak with soft beauty, the other did thump upon the ground and snarl with yellow teeth revealed. Oberon could barely credit the concept that his people were related to such oafish buffoons, but there it was, in the history of ancients wiser even than he. The goblins had come from the Twilight Lands originally, as did the elves and the Wee Folk. They possessed the power to travel from world-to-world. And in the moonlight, even Oberon had to admit, their noisome skins did glisten slightly.

So, it had all come down to this. Oberon had fallen in grace and power. Without any Jewel of his own, he had wisdom, he had followers, but others no longer felt terror when they spoke his name. Over the same period, Old Hob had risen in stature. Gaining Osang, the Jewel which hung ever around his neck, embedded in Herla’s ancient hunting horn, had lifted him to stardom.

The worst part of it was Old Hob’s quick mastery of the Osang. Oberon had dared hope it would slay him, or that mastering it would prove too much for the ancient conniving knave, but there hadn’t been such a lucky stroke. Instead, Old Hob now took great pains to demonstrate his mastery.

Old Hob finally came to their appointed meeting spot atop a burial chamber of the long-dead Queen of the Lakes. He arrived disrespectfully late. He arrived with fanfare as well, showing off his powers by flying to the spot invisibly and silently.

Only the slightest hint of a foul breeze alerted Oberon, who sat atop the mound in the half-dark that forever bathed his world. The elf lord sat cross-legged with eyes closed. But he listened, and he heard. Silver grasses waved as Hob circled, but that could have been a breeze. It was his horrible stench that gave him away. This weakness caused Oberon to smirk at the other’s prideful, stealthy approach, even as his nose twitched in horror. Old Hob clearly thought himself undetectable and—as was ever the case with those who bore a tremendous stench—he was unaware of just how badly his mantle of odor offended.

“Are you going to flitter around, or land and talk to me?” asked Oberon, without even bothering to open his eyes.

The breezes that moved the silver grass around his legs halted. A heavy thump sounded, and Old Hob cleared his throat.

Oberon opened his eyes with a languorous lack of concern. Old Hob stood before him, keeping his back as straight as his twisted spine would allow. His long, icicle-nose protruded from beneath his heavy cowl and was held very high indeed.

“I have arrived,” said Old Hob. “Please, state your business, and be quick about it.”

Oberon eyed him and found his stuffy attitude amusing. He produced his pipes and began to play a merry tune. He launched up, causing Old Hob to take an involuntary, distrustful, half-step backward.

Oberon didn’t attack him, however. He had briefly considered it, of course. But he had weighed the usefulness of gaining Osang versus the power of Hob as an ally. He had to weigh too, the possibility of Hob escaping him, and turning into a permanent enemy instead of a possible ally.

In the end, what had decided Oberon was the possible amusement to be gained by mocking Hob. So, instead of trying to wrest the horn from where it hung around the great lumpy neck, he pranced around Hob with blinding speed. He blew upon his pipes a tune of wild levity, and danced with impossible kicks that took him into the air nearly as high as Hob’s upraised nostrils.

Oberon laughed, and the sound was like the final tinkle of broken glass as it hits cobbles.

“Humph,” said Old Hob. “I didn’t come here to be scorned. State your business, prancing fool.”

Oberon’s dance halted. He stood behind the massive figure. “Have a care, goblin.”

Hob turned slowly. He raised his lantern. Inside it, new captives obediently caused it to flare into life. Instead of wisps, he now had a flock of three tiny, sad dragonettes. Each of them puffed flame of a different color, one red, one silver and the third a deep umber.

Hob’s grin flared with their light, and showed his enjoyment of Oberon’s surprised appraisal of the lantern and its contents.

“Oh yes,” said Hob, his teeth gleaming yellow in the lantern light. “I have many new friends, new tricks and new thoughts.”

Oberon considered his words. It was possible that Hob wasn’t just bluffing. He had some power now, and had risen fast. Others would naturally begin to treat with him. They would ply him with gifts, even as they had once paid tribute and lavished thoughtful favors upon the elves. Now that he had power, Old Hob, once the object of universal scorn amongst the lords of the various folk, had come into good fortune. Oberon was forced to recalculate the other’s status, and he did not enjoy the sensation.

Hob watched Oberon’s face closely in the light of his newly relit lantern and his grin did not diminish. In fact, an observant witness might say that he leered.

Oberon sniffed. “You have gained some facility with the horn. I’m glad to see it.”

“Indeed,” said Hob, voice dripping sarcasm. “I’m sure that you are.”

“I have need of an ally of capacity.”

“Don’t we all?”

Oberon eyed him. He did not like this new Hob, this creature of confidence and condescension. As irritating as the groveling, wheedling Old Hob had been, he thought now that he had preferred that old cur to this new, confident one.

“I’ve dwelt these past months upon the lost battle in the Dead Kingdoms. Your forces retreated in the face of the enemy,” said Oberon, his mocking, cheerful attitude having shifted. It was unlike him to be petulant, but these were trying times.

“Your forces never bothered to engage them at all,” pointed out Old Hob.

Oberon shrugged. “Goblins whip rhinogs to fight for them. Few of your real folk died.”

Old Hob raised a hand that was all long bone and hairy knobs of knuckle. “Let us leave that day, the day of battle, in the past. What would you have of me now?”

“The Kindred gather. They have selected a Queen. Worse yet, they have Pyros. They may march upon any and all of us.”

Old Hob nodded, clucking his tongue. “Sad tidings. I have heard such tidbits of information. Be of good cheer, however! Rest assured that my goblins are safe. We will stay in our strongholds in Eire and watch with great interest—and sadness—should anything happen to our friends on this side of the sea.”

Oberon flashed him a look of irritation. “I’ve asked you here to rejoin me. I see an opportunity to reforge our old alliance. I see a future, where our two peoples are again united and strong.”

Hob nodded sympathetically. “Oh yes, I feel your loss. I recall those days with fondness. Unfortunately, circumstances have changed. Rather drastically, I’m afraid.”

Oberon’s expression darkened further. “Hob, I ask you: what would it take to have the goblins march with the elves again?”

A very long finger tapped thoughtfully at a lumpy chin. “A boon, perhaps?”

“What boon?”

“A great boon,” said Hob, and here, finally, his eyes alit with greed.

The expression almost brought a shudder to Oberon, one who never felt an emotion such as disgust. He had seen too much in his impossibly long lifespan. But, imagining what Hob may have in mind brought him disgust, and the sensation did lay there, unbidden and raw upon his mind.

“I say again, what boon?”

Hob’s voice lowered to a whisper. “I don’t know yet,” he said, sounding almost dreamy. “But I will think of something. Let me assure you.”

Oberon blinked. He almost drew his dagger and slashed Hob’s leering face. Better to chance it all and live or die now, than to suffer some future ignominy at the hands of this monster. An unstated boon. A future debt of uncertain magnitude. Almost nothing could be requested that was greater in measure for one of the Fae.

He thought of attacking Hob, of trying his luck right now. With Osang, he could march without Hob’s legions at his back. But he held himself in check. He might fail, and he wanted an army more than he wanted a Jewel of the second rank. Besides, he had other enemies he hated far more than Hob, his fair-weather friend.

“Be forewarned,” said Old Hob, “gone are the days when my folk will gleefully die as fodder on the front lines while your people nibble delicacies and watch from a safe hill at twilight. Your troops must be at the front line. We will strike only when the enemy is engaged.”

Oberon hesitated. Indecision was unfamiliar to him, a being who had lived all his life on instinct and impulse. He hated his uncertainty. “But, you will strike? When the time is clear? When the moment is ripe?”

“Yes, indeed. It is the goblin way.”

Oberon nodded. He made his decision. The agreement was made and sworn to. The old alliance between goblin and elf was reforged, under far more onerous conditions for the elves.

As they were about to part, Oberon passed on a final warning to his renewed ally.

“Hob, be assured. If your armies do not materialize, if they fail to fight with us, know this: the memories of elves are very long indeed. You will never know the moment, but your end will come. And it will not be pleasant. If I do not regain Lavatis, and the failure is attributable to you, I will have Osang as consolation.”

Hob nodded indulgently, as if a naughty child had threatened his matronly grandmother. “And be forewarned as well, Lord Oberon,” he said. “This threat of yours will be remembered when I have completed my task, and have come to collect my well-earned boon.”

As Hob floated silently away from him, Oberon was left alone upon the hill of a dead Queen. He shuddered once, then breathed deeply and struck out on a new path.

There were others yet to be gathered.

* * *

Darkness neared by the time Piskin finished dragging Mari to a lonesome spot in the Deepwood. She was puffing for real by then, and feeling truly ill. She thought that if his plan was simply to slay her and leave her body where none would discover the crime, this was an excellent spot for it. She wondered as well if the baby would really come if they kept walking at such a pace.

“There’s no one here to take care of me or otherwise,” said Mari. “I’d expected an Inn or a woodsman’s outpost at least.”

Piskin flashed her a smile. “No one here? Don’t be so sure!”

He pushed through another hanging thicket of brush and a clearing opened ahead of them. There was a structure of sorts, but it was dark and in ruins. In the half-light of the dying day as seen from the floor of the Deepwood, she squinted and realized it was a ruin of toppled stones. Fallen blocks of bluish stone circled the spot, and it was raised somewhat upon the earth. Grass had grown up over much of it, but the forest itself seemed to be in retreat. The trees leaned in overhead hungrily, but did not approach the stones with their trunks.

“What is this place? I don’t see any lights.”

Piskin chuckled. “You will see them, rest assured. As the sun sinks, they will pop out here and float about.”

“Wisps?” asked Mari in alarm. “You’ve brought me to a haunt of the Fae, then?”

“Indeed I have. Out in the wilds of the Deepwood, it is only they who might help such an unlikely pair as us.”

Mari balked. Piskin tugged with more strength than she would have given him credit for having in his tiny body, but she, being more than twice his height, held firm. She stared, wide-eyed. In her own beloved Haven woods, of course, she had entreated with Puck. But she had never been to a true fairy mound. Certainly, there was the one out on the common in Riverton, but that was different. She’d seen it, but never dared walk near.

This spot of power, this connection between her world and the world of Twilight was different. It was unknown, wild. All the terrible legends she’d heard all her life, they struck through to her now and froze her mind. Banshees, ghosts, floating things on gossamer wings both beautiful and terrible to behold. Her breath came in shallow gasps, and her eyes were white circles.

“Girl, don’t freeze on me now!” said Piskin. “Where did you think you might meet Puck or his kind? At a smithy, perhaps? In one of your apple orchards, or strolling down a lane in Frogmorton?”

She looked at him, but barely heard his words. For behind him, in the half-lit scene of huge tumbled blue stones, the first wisp had popped out. It was a pink-white one, a glimmering, floating fireball. It was so strange, so lovely, Mari forgot to breathe at all for several seconds.

“They come!” said Piskin, tugging at her hand. He grunted with the effort, like a man trying to force his mule to market. “We must circle around them, and entreat with them as they appear.”

Finally, Mari took her first, stumbling half-step forward. Two more wisps had appeared. Somehow, although they were silent, the beauty of them, the intense alien vision they formed, weakened her resolve. She stepped forward as if in a dream.

Slowly, with Piskin squeezing her hand painfully, she walked around the circle of fallen stones. She knew not what it was that she circled. It could have been an ancient tomb, or a shrine upon which a thousand maidens had been sacrificed. She did know that it was a terrible place and a place full of wonder, all at the same time. A magical spot, where her world connected with another.

They kept walking, and more wisps kept appearing. They approached the unlikely pair now. Three green sisters linked hands and danced in the air around her head, giggling. The sounds of their voices were too tiny to separate into words, but she could hear their mirth.

Tears streamed down her face, tears of joy and rapture. She smiled hugely through it all. She was overwhelmed. Puck had been one thing, but he had been only a single member of the Fae, a single piping elf. Now, without any kind of ward, she was cast into the middle of the Shining Folk, and they floated around her, caressing her hair and touching her stomach curiously. Their every touch left behind a hot, pink spot upon her skin. Their every caress made it harder to think.

And so they walked around the stones, widdershins. The moon appeared in the sky as they finished the first circuit, where none had been before.

Three times more around, then five.

The grass beneath her feet turned silver. The moon had swollen and now shone with an unnatural brightness. Soon, seven circuits had been made.

Some small part of her knew that she was lost. She had stepped too far down their shining path. She could not step away, even if her mind had allowed it. To do so was to be lost between worlds, to be left wandering a void forever. She was in the power of the wisps, and she could only hope and pray for luck and mercy.

Chapter Eight

The Search

On the morning of the second day, they found the abandoned boat along the western shore of the river.

“Heave west!” shouted Brand. Corbin, who manned the tiller, guided them to the shore. Soon they investigated the stolen boat.

“It doesn’t look good,” said Corbin, looking at the slashed lines. “Someone has cut down the sails.”

Brand walked around the craft, eyeing the muddy shore with a frown. “I see evidence of merlings here. Quite a number of them.”

The others looked on in silent concern. If merlings had found a solitary pregnant girl and a half-crippled Wee One out here, they might have been easily overwhelmed.

“I’m not sure it was merlings, Brand,” said Telyn. She knelt at the edge of the craft. “The tracks are beneath the boat as well as around it. Perhaps they just come here to fish.”

Brand’s axe twitched with impatience. He echoed its mood, shaking his head. He stood with his hands on his hips, but already he felt the itch to reach up and draw Ambros. Merlings were foul things—things that needed slaying.

“Let’s not make excuses for them,” he told the others. “Someone cut those sails down and dragged them from the boat. Perhaps here, or out in the water. We can’t know which, without finding bodies.”

“Do you think then..?” Telyn asked, her voice trailing off. She looked at him in sad concern.

“Probably yes, the girl is slain. But I’ll not leave the matter to chance. Frogmorton is only another dozen miles upstream. If there are merlings about, and we all know this wild section of the Berrywine crawls with them, I’ll wager they’ve got a village nearby.”

Corbin nodded thoughtfully. “They would be in the marshlands on this side, the wilder of the two shores.”

The others reluctantly agreed with Brand’s logic and they continued on, following the western shore and probing for any sign of bodies, merlings or other evidence.

By midday they had found the telltale signs: a rivulet, a channel cunningly hidden but noticeable to the trained eye. It was an artificial channel that connected to the river, and took water away into the Deepwood. Covered over with brambles and fallen logs, it did not appear to be anything unnatural, but Brand knew it for what it was. The channel fed a merling village somewhere amongst the brooding trees.

He reached up and took out his axe. Slowly, a grim smile spread over his face. He thought that some of his companions were speaking, possibly even to him, but he did not heed them. They could follow or not, as they liked. He cared little. In truth, it felt good to have the axe in his hand again. It had been so long. Too long.

He followed the hidden channel to where it opened and broadened in the forest, scooped out no doubt by a hundred flippered hands. He marched, chuckling to himself. These foolish creatures attempted to hide from him, from the sharp eye of justice, but it wasn’t to be their day. Today, the clear light of justice would triumph!

A thousand steps farther into the thickening woods led him to the merling village. He thought to hear behind him others of his party, struggling with thickets of thorns that had left a dozen bleeding scratches on his exposed skin. He paid the scratches no heed. The tiny wounds did not hold him back for a second. The hooked, finger-like growths could not make him pause in his quest. The whipping thorns barely made him blink to protect his wide, staring eyes.

The merlings were thus taken by surprise. Their lookout, a slovenly fellow who napped along the banks of the hidden channel he was charged with maintaining, gave a single croak of dismay when Brand’s boots appeared in front of his bulbous eyes.

Brand only gave him time enough to glance upward. The bulging eyes popped and took in the axe, the wild stare, the floating nimbus of hair, the bleeding red lines that traced the madman’s face like smears of paint. Then Brand swept the lookout’s head from his lumpy shoulders and that was the end of it.

The village, in the manner of all merling villages, was half-submerged in a shallow artificial pond of still water. A few fat merlings, lazy with the easy start of a spring day, swam amongst their raised hummock-like lodges of mud and sticks.

Brand punted the lookout’s head into the midst of the pond, where it splashed down with a tinkling explosion of water. Two dozen pairs of bulbous eyes surfaced and stared at the sinking head, and at the madman who stood at the far edge of their pond.

From there, things went from bad to worse for the merlings. The warriors, a party of perhaps ten, formed into a bunch and approached, hurling bolas and flinging stones. Brand deflected these off-handedly, waiting for them to get close. When they did, he commanded Ambros to flash and it did so, eagerly.

The merling warparty, ragged to begin with, fell back in shock, eyes blinded, wet skins burnt. Brand struck among them and they fell. The survivors splashed, croaking, into their pond and huddled inside their lodges.

Brand gave chase. He strode to the nearest of the lodges and lifted the axe, ready to slash it open.

A hand grasped his wrist from behind.

It was a close thing. His cousin had dared too much. Brand whirled, and for a moment he didn’t see Corbin. Instead, he saw the biggest, squattest merling of all time. A champion of their foul race, a bullfrog amongst peepers.

Brand’s hand, still held by the wrist, dropped the axe and his other hand snatched it from the air before it could splash down into the pond. The massive merling that had dared grab his wrist was croaking something at him, he didn’t know what, but had no doubt the words were foul curses.

He drew back Ambros with his off hand, and was gratified to see the shock and fear grow on the huge merling’s face. He would behead this monster too, and make an ugly trophy of it.

It was Telyn’s voice that broke through his fever. The axe, uplifted, never came down. He froze there, blinking, and came to his senses.

He saw them all now, standing there staring at him with wide eyes.

Corbin looked very pale, as if he were indeed a giant merling about to be gigged. Telyn was there as well, her pretty mouth circled in a desperate ‘O’. Whatever she had shouted, he didn’t recall the words. Tomkin had his Blue Jewel was out. He stood unhelpfully atop the slumped body of a merling warrior. His stance indicated he had at least considered calling the Rainbow.

Would he have really marched the Rainbow against me? Brand asked himself.

“I... I’m sorry,” said Brand, lowering the axe. He put it away, feeling stunned. The instant it had returned in his pack, his face and hands were on fire from a dozen stinging scratches. His legs ached from their swift march through the trees, and his face burned with embarrassment. “I’ve not let myself go like that for a long time,” he said.

“Was it fun?” asked Tomkin, putting away the Blue Jewel. He eyed Brand with a mix of mocking leer and curiosity.

Brand ignored him.

“That was a bad one, Brand,” said Telyn, coming to him and dabbing at his cuts.

“Are the merlings... Are they guilty? Did anyone see the girl’s body?” asked Brand. He had a sudden, haunted feeling. Had he slain more innocents? If anyone could call a merling innocent... But they were, he told himself firmly, unless proven otherwise.

Corbin looked around thoughtfully at the corpses. “I don’t know, Brand. I hope we aren’t just a pack of vicious marauders. I—I killed one as well. I thought they must have done something. You seemed so sure.”

Brand looked at his cousin, and felt further shame. Corbin’s sword was out, it was steeped in brackish blood. His fine blue cloak, the sign of his office in the Riverton Constabulary and of which Brand knew he was quite proud, was now stained and tattered. Brand splashed around in widening circles. The girl’s body had to be here somewhere.

A few bulbous eyes gazed at him fearfully from the far side of the pond. Others crept inside their lodges and amongst the trees. Was the slaughter over? He could see the question in their alien eyes.

“Nothing?” demanded Brand. “No one sees anything? These creatures were just minding their own business when I charged into their homes and chopped them to bits?”

Tomkin hooted then, and they sloshed over to him. He pointed down at one of the bodies. A cord wrapped around its midsection. It was from a River Folk boat. As people who spent much of their lives on the waters, they knew the look, feel and thickness of it.

“This is Haven rope. It’s from the abandoned boat, most likely,” said Corbin, examining Tomkin’s find.

“Proof?” asked Brand.

“It’s not proof,” said Corbin, still examining the rope. “But merlings are all guilty of something, Brand. Don’t feel too bad about giving them a beating. Perhaps you’ve saved the life of other locals who they will now fear to attack.”

“We can’t be sure they did anything, Brand,” said Telyn hurriedly.

He felt a pang of guilt, hearing the worry in her voice. Did she honestly think he might go berserk again and finish off the rest of the village? “Don’t worry, I’m not about to draw the axe again on such thin evidence. Most likely, it is from the boat. But that doesn’t mean they drowned the girl. Tomkin, can you talk to these folk?”

Tomkin shrugged. “After a fashion.”

“I say the rest of us withdraw. We’ll wait for Tomkin to treat with them. He didn’t slay any them, and he’s not human. Maybe they can tell us where the girl went.”

“Or mayhaps they can form a quick lie, hoping to save themselves,” chuckled Tomkin. He put up a thin-boned hand patting at the air to stop their complaints. “Worry not, I’ll do it. I just don’t think much of our chances. These frogs will say anything after a good trouncing. Anything that will send us far from their village.”

They did as Brand suggested, and after a half-hour of nursing their hurts in the woods and brooding, Tomkin returned to them.

“They are unhappy, and claim innocence.”

“Big surprise,” said Corbin, huffing. “I could have given you that answer on the instant.” Like Jak, Corbin never believed merlings were innocent in any sense, Brand knew. They had killed too many of the River Folk over the years to be forgiven by most humans.

Brand’s own parents had died that way, with the skulking, cold, wet hands of merlings at their throats. He wondered if, deep down, that hate for them had boiled up and helped the axe get full control of his actions. He didn’t like to think he was capable of a bloodlusting fury without good cause, but the evidence was clear.

“There’s more,” said Tomkin, bounding up onto the lowest-hanging branch of a huge beech tree. Brand eyed him, wondering what knavery he was about to attempt. The Wee Folk often made themselves difficult to reach right before they said something particularly annoying.

“Let’s have it,” snapped Brand.

“They said it’s a good thing you brought that breastplate, elsewise they would have had you!” hooted Tomkin.

As was often the case, Brand found the frivolity of the Fae to be particularly irritating when discussing death, treachery or disaster. Nothing seemed to amuse them more than a particularly painful tragedy. Brand scowled at the manling, who had his hands on his hips. He recalled Myrrdin had struck just such a pose when confronting him last year.

“Have you anything useful to report, Tomkin?”

“Report, is it? Am I a servant of the River Folk, then? Do I require your leave to speak freely, your lordship?”

Brand shook his head. Tomkin clearly had something else to tell them and was dragging it out for maximum irritation. Brand had often wondered if the entire race had a death wish.

“We’re friends now. Allies. Stop with the mockery. There will be no trading of boons for information, nor any of that nonsense.”

It was Tomkin’s turn to sulk. He leaned against the tree trunk and examined his dirty fingers introspectively. He huffed. “Very well, but your attitude is quite dampening, boy. The merlings grunted something about the ropes having been cut when they found the boat. And something about footprints in the mud, leading into the Deepwood. They remarked we must have been blind, drunk or both to not have seen them.”

Brand glared at him. “Did you see them, Tomkin?”

The manling gave a tiny shrug. He made a gesture that suggested flippancy. “Possibly.”

“And why didn’t you point out the trail?” demanded Corbin, interjecting. He was angry, and Brand didn’t blame him. But Corbin still didn’t understand the Wee Folk fully. Their minds simply didn’t operate in the same manner as human beings did. One thing Brand had learned for certain: to them, absolutely anything might be taken as a joke. Even a horrible death, or a terrible wrong. Such events were sweet comedy to them.

“Don’t you realize these creatures here died for nothing? Because of you?” Corbin continued, taking a step toward the beech. Immediately, Brand saw Tomkin’s wisdom in having retreated up there before making his report.

Tomkin put his hands on his knees. His grin split his face ever more widely as he gazed down into Corbin’s red face.

Brand heard a snapping sound behind him, then a twang as an arrow was released. He could not raise his hands fast enough to settle everyone down.

It was too late anyway, as Telyn had loosed her bow at Tomkin.

Tomkin was more than ready for the attempt, however, and did a quick bound into the air. After a full backward summersault, he landed again on the same spot. The arrow was a dull one, Telyn had snapped its hunting head off, which had been the sound Brand had heard. But it might have given him a nasty knock if it had caught him. Wobbling in flight, it shot off into the woods behind him.

Tomkin whooped. Lavatis flashed on his chest. The humans sighed and calmed down, all they had accomplished was to give the manling the thrill he had sought. Brand wondered if the Fae did things like this purely out of boredom. Having such long lifespans, perhaps things became dull. Performing idle tricks and delivering sharp mockery were the only tools they had to spark up their lives.

Brand raised his hands higher for peace. “No more arrows, Telyn. You’ve broken the head off of one of your best, that is enough. And Corbin, stop letting him bait you. I forgot that this is your first trip with Tomkin in close proximity. He can be irritating. One must let his smaller crimes go unremarked.”

“Getting us to kill half a village—even of merlings—is no small crime,” Corbin said.

“Nevertheless, fussing over this will only goad him to new heights.”

Corbin gave up and stomped away from the beech.

“To reforge the group, we must have an agreement, Tomkin,” said Brand. “You must swear to help, not hinder, in our quest.”

“What?” demanded Tomkin, scandalized. “You ask for a vow to be taken? What compensation do you offer me?”

“Nothing,” said Brand quickly and firmly. “Your reward will consist of being part of this journey. Otherwise, you will have to go home and annoy wood nymphs with your cold-handed gropings.”

Tomkin chuckled at that. “Unfair!”

“On the contrary, my offer is extremely fair. Now, if you don’t mind, lead us to these tracks and let us all follow them.”

Tomkin assumed the attitude of one being greatly burdened. He grumbled and complained about their lack of humor, but in the end did as they required. He made he vow with ill grace. The others accepted it, and together the group went back to the abandoned boat.

By nightfall, they had set off into the woods on a trail of muddy tracks that led into the Deepwood. Before they had gone far, they were forced to stop and camp.

Corbin in particular complained that Tomkin’s foolishness had endangered the girl needlessly. Each passing hour the likelihood of finding her alive diminished.

Tomkin countered that humans were less fun than a sack of dried fish, and suggested that Corbin smelled similar in nature.

* * *

As they camped, Telyn and Brand talked in hushed whispers. They huddled closely together, as the night was chill and they were in love. Brand felt remorse for the merlings, but steeled himself with memories of them killing his friends and clansmen at the battle of the Dead Kingdoms. In truth, the last time they had warred, these creatures had aligned themselves with the enemy.

Telyn made that point as well while they talked.

“But it’s not so much the fact that I killed a few merling warriors that bothers me,” said Brand. “I have responsibilities now. When I act, the story will be told far and wide. The merlings will use the story of an unprovoked attack to stoke up fires of hatred for the River Folk.”

“I know, but what’s done is done,” said Telyn. Her hand soothed his furrowed brow, but his frown stayed in place. “Perhaps their fear will be greater than their anger.”

Brand sighed. It was difficult, bearing such responsibility and being unable to control one’s own emotions at the same time. He looked at Telyn, and wondered what he might do if any real harm ever befell her. He had a feeling he would lose his mind, as he had never done before. Terrible things would happen on such a day.

“What are you brooding about now?” she asked, concerned.

“Nothing.”

“Let’s talk about something more pleasant, then. I want to plan our wedding.”

“Here? In the Deepwood?”

“Why not?”

He smirked at her, and played along. She talked about a wondrous affair, beneath the long evening shadows on the night of the summer solstice. They would have a huge gathering, and they would not rush it as Jak and Lanet had. They would gather everyone in the Haven to Riverton common and fete them all. They were rich enough, after all, from the dragon’s hoard.

They discussed the event at length, and soon their talk turned into kissing. Later, when Brand fell asleep beside the fire and beside his love, he reflected that she had performed her task well. His mood had indeed improved.

Chapter Nine

The Shining Lady

Mari slept amongst the silver grasses. All around her lounged a dozen elf maidens, wisps and nymphs. They murmured and giggled occasionally, but let her rest. None drew her to dance. None tormented her, or plied her with strong drink. They knew she carried Puck’s child, and as a son of Oberon, he might not be pleased if they hurt this maid who carried his unborn child.

When finally she awoke from her exhausted state, her hazy mind could hardly credit what she saw.

Piskin, his arms crossed, stood upon her swollen belly, gazing down at her with a stern expression. She pushed her heavy body up into a sitting position and swatted at him. He hopped away without concern and crouched next to her.

She looked around, but the silver-haired elf maidens and dancing wisps were gone. She felt a pang of sorrow to have missed them. It was strange to think they were related to the child in her belly. Cousins, she supposed they were.

“No birth?” Piskin asked.

“What?” she said sleepily.

“I did not bring you here to nap upon a hill in twilight, maid,” he snapped.

“Ah, the baby. No, it didn’t come yet. I suppose it was a false alarm.”

Piskin glared and bounded around her in a full circuit. “False indeed. That is the operative word, here. You played me. Why?”

Mari looked at him warily. There was no one else about. No one to report back to Puck any terrible crime that might stain the silvery grasses.

“You were the one that told me what my pain meant. I’ve never been in such a state before, I don’t know what to expect. If anyone was fooled, it was you who fooled yourself.”

Piskin halted, rubbing his chin with his single hand. He sniffed. “Very well. You may be right, or mayhaps you are a good liar. It matters little which. Since we are here, and the child is not, we have a quick march ahead of us. We will travel in this land, not the Deepwood. Perhaps the journey will go more quickly for the lack of beastly trees and thickets. Come now, up on your feet, lazy girl.”

Mari didn’t move.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To meet Puck, of course, my darling.”

She eyed him with obvious distrust. “This is Puck’s world. Simply bring him here. I’ll wait. He can’t fear to come to this spot.”

Piskin looked annoyed. “Now, now, what kind of attitude is that? Didn’t your family teach you it is impossible to understand the fickle motivations of the Shining Folk? He will receive you at his home, which isn’t too far off. Let’s be going.”

Mari crossed her arms. “This is nonsense, and I’m tired. I’m not going anywhere. You run off and fetch him.”

Piskin’s lipless mouth formed a thin, angry line. “I had wanted to spare you this,” he said with the air of one releasing a great burden. “But you have forced me to be brutally honest. It is high time you came to understand your place in the world. Do you think Puck is one to wait hand and foot upon the likes of you? Puck has sent for you, but you must not tax his patience. He is a lord among his folk, after all. To get into his good graces we must humbly do as he has bid. You must hope he will be merciful when we arrive at his home. Pray that you do not offend him, and cause him to turn you out into the cold with his family and servants looking on.”

Mari felt a pang of uncertainty. Could Piskin be describing the situation accurately? Could she be such a burden, so unwanted and embarrassing, that Puck, only out of pity, had summoned her? The thought was monstrous, and made her feel cold.

Piskin’s nose tilted toward the ever-starry sky. “Now come, girl. You have rested enough for a dozen maids. You have to get your gross body up and moving.”

She looked around her, far from trusting Piskin. But what else could she do? She was in his world now. If he abandoned her, she wasn’t sure she could even get back.

She was sure of one thing: Puck had made very little effort on her behalf. Perhaps, he had scorned her just as Piskin said.

Tears dribbled down her cheeks as she struggled to her feet and followed the strutting little man down the side of the mound into a strange, blue-lit world.

* * *

During the night, Brand and his friends were visited by a creature they’d not met for a long time.

The Shining Lady, floating in her clothes of spun silver moonlight, came from the nearby ruins in a rare departure from a familiar haunt. At first, Brand was the only one awakened by the ghost.

He had met her once, one lonely night on the Riverton Commons, the last night he could have accounted himself just a normal river-boy of the Haven, living life with few cares. That night, had it not been for Telyn’s ward, he might have been lost.

The fire had burnt low to embers. The red glow of it died further when the Shining Lady cast her shadow upon it, pooling darkness everywhere around her so that her own shining light was all the greater. Only Brand awoke. Corbin had been on watch, but now slumped down in death-like slumber.

Brand’s eyes opened. He’d been deep in a dream. He’d dreamt of the silver grasses of the Twilight Lands. There had been trees there, huge trees, living things that grew as tall as mountains.

He blinked. Something was here. Something was not right. He sat up, and for once didn’t reach for his axe. Every day, every night, his first waking thought had been only of the axe. He always reached for it first, before yawning, even before looking to Telyn’s softly sleeping face.

But not this dark night. Tonight, his eyes sought and found the Shining Lady who floated nearby at the edge of the wood. She was, just as the first time he’d seen her, the loveliest female imaginable. Her face was perfect, her body shapely. She was clad only in swirls of spun light. Her silver-white skin shone like the moon on a clear summer’s eve. Her only flaw was her feet, he knew, which were not feet at all but claws with talons like those of an eagle. Somehow, this single flaw wasn’t worthy of note.

He gazed at her, his will fading to oblivion. She did not, however, approach him. He stared at her, and he felt the longing all men felt when they gazed upon her, knowing in their hearts they gazed upon death itself, but not caring. His heart pounded, blood rushing in his temples. He rose to his feet. He would follow her.

He stood, but did not take his first step on that path. Something held him back. He did not look down; he could not bear to take his eyes from the Shining Lady. But he felt something, and realized distantly, vaguely, that his fist was wrapped up in a tangle of straps. He commanded his fingers to loosen, to drop this burden, but they disobeyed him.

And so, without ever looking down, he lifted the burden. He slung the pack with his axe in it over his shoulder without a glance or a care. Then he stepped after the Lady into the trees.

His loins burned for her, and his head filled with the finest scents of wild flowers and herbs. She backed away as he approached, never breaking contact with his eyes nor his mind. He followed her into the thick black shadows beneath the trees. The dying red embers of the fire and the soft, deeply sleeping breath of his companions were left behind.

When they were apart from the others, she halted. He took two steps closer, then halted as well. His mouth fell open, but for a long moment no words came forth. Then he managed to speak.

“Fair Lady, why do you torment me this night?” he managed.

She stared at him, with infinite sadness in her face. She was the cold love of death, and he, by merely managing to speak and think, had rejected her. His mind ached to see her sorrow. He had harmed her, he had offended her, he was not worthy of life. He wanted to forsake all he had ever known to be with her. Even thoughts of his true love, Telyn, were not able to penetrate. He had forgotten Telyn, she was a dream that could not quite be recalled on a sunny morning.

But even as he scorned himself for having spoken, for having ruined this beautiful moment, she responded to his question.

“I’ve come to speak with you, Axeman,” she said, and her voice was a sigh of wind passing over stones.

“To speak?” he croaked. His mind was befuddled. Could it be she wanted him to talk? She had looked so sad, so cold, so perfect. He almost stepped forward to embrace her, but something kept him standing fast.

“I must tell you of Oberon.”

Brand sucked air, worked his mouth, but could not for several seconds form an intelligible reply. Then, perhaps to help him, she broke her gaze that held him transfixed. She looked away, into the forest proper.

Suddenly, Brand could hear the forest again. He could hear the peeping frogs and the crickets as they rubbed their legs together in song, calling for a mate even as he had sought this shining apparition. He felt the cool night air on his face, and the driblets of fine rain that must have fallen through the thick canopy of trees to wet his hair.

He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and took a breath. He reached back for his axe, and felt it was there. He took the handle, for strength and guidance. She must not be allowed to possess his mind again.

The axe cleared his head, as he knew it would. But it was a sad thing. It was the cold splash of reality ripping up the finest fantasy. It was the realization that one’s lover cared nothing for thee.

“What—what do you wish to tell me of Oberon, fair Lady?” he asked in a voice that had gained both in strength and purpose.

“He seeks one who must not be sought. He entreats with my lord.”

“Your lord? Is Oberon not the lord of all the Shining Folk?”

Tinkling laughter came to his ears, the sound of light rain on a roof at midnight. “The elves do not rule the Dead. They may consort with us, but we are not their vassals.”

“Who then, is your lord?” asked Brand. He thought about all that he didn’t know of these strange, numberless people. For once, he missed the wisdom and guidance of Myrrdin. The River Folk had much to learn still, and the present was as good a time as any.

“Arawn, Lord of Anwyn, is King of the Dead. It is he to whom I owe my existence.”

Brand shook his head and took a deep breath, striving to think clearly. His eyes had strayed to her face, then her hips, and he had felt the entrancement sneaking over his mind again. Truly, there was something deeply alluring about her. What was it that fascinated men so about the Dead? Was death truly freedom, or was it slavery?

He closed his eyes again, and kept them closed while he spoke. “Why do you warn me of Oberon?”

“Because he does what should not be done. He seeks to reawaken the Kingdoms of the Dead.”

Brand nodded. “What would you have me do, Lady?”

“Seek him out, and defeat him, before he defeats you.”

“And why do you care which side wins?”

There was no answer.

Brand opened his eyes slowly, but even before he did, he knew the truth. The Lady had gone. In the manner of all such ghost and apparitions met in the dark of night, she had simply melted away.

Brand walked back to camp to rouse the others. He had much to ponder.

* * *

In the morning they found the ruins in the Deepwood. It was a fallen circle built of tall blue stones. A forgotten place, a shrine or burial site at best, an altar for the release of foul curses and the summoning of abominations at worst. Most of the stones had long since tumbled upon one another as if a great upheaval had occurred in the distant past.

Brand walked among the stones. He could tell immediately this was a spot of elder power, of potent spirits. The Fae must walk here nightly.

But in the light of morning, they could not circle the mound and travel to the Twilight Lands. It was clear to them that the girl Mari had done so, with Piskin leading her. The trail led to this spot, but did not exit the glade again.

Brand frowned fiercely. “What kind of Wee Folk trickery is this, Tomkin? Had I not seen you fight with Piskin with my own eyes I’d think you were in league with him. You have led us here, after delaying long enough for the other to escape. Perhaps the girl was led with just such trickery.”

Tomkin fell flat upon his back, clutching his heart and head, imitating a swooning matron. “Whoop!” he cried. “You have stricken my heart with your horrible accusations! I’m truly mortified, and can’t bear to listen to further slander, lest I faint dead away.”

Brand’s hands were on his hips. It was all he could do to contain his right hand, which wanted to grasp Ambros and get some clear answers from his tiny friend.

“Speak plainly, manling.”

Tomkin hopped up again, and bounded around the tops of the tumbled stones. When he had circuited them twice, he came to stand upon the very tallest and stood there, looking down upon the River Folk, who all watched him with annoyance.

“This is not up to me, huge children,” he said. There was a devilish twinkle in his eye. He was enjoying their befuddlement, and that made dealing with him all the harder. “The choices here are all yours.”

“And what might those choices be?” asked Corbin. For once, he was of a more even temperament than Brand, who had had enough of Wee Folk riddles.

“Why, to pursue the maid—or to not,” said Tomkin, as if he were the simplest child in school.

“Pursue her? You mean to enter the Twilight Lands?” asked Corbin.

“Exactly.”

Telyn spoke up, frowning. “I don’t know, Brand. You said the Shining Lady came to warn us, to tell us that Oberon was seeking to destroy us. If that’s so, he may march an army of elves out of the mounds, appearing upon the Riverton Common tonight. What will our people do without warning? What will they do without your axe and your strong hand to guide them?”

Brand pursed his lips sourly. It was a dilemma. Should he continue his quest, marching into the Twilight Lands after this girl? If he did so, he moved even farther away from the borders of the Haven. He left his people open to attack. He growled aloud.

In a way, his axe and his role as Champion were a curse, he thought. He could not be everywhere at once. If his people needed him at home, that meant there was no one to go out and fix an injustice somewhere else. And yet, even if he did sit tightly on guard forever, nothing may ever happen back on Stone Island, meaning he’d wasted his time, and no wrongs had been righted.

Lastly, there was the axe itself. It scratched at his mind with each inactive day, urging him to go out and find evil and slay it. In fact, it was very free with its definition of evil, wanting mostly to slay something, anything, whenever it could find a hint of guilt. It would trump up any excuse and seek an immediate execution. It was the hardest judge in the Haven.

“What do you think, Tomkin? Do the Dead serve Oberon?”

Tomkin froze and pondered, taking the question seriously for once. “No. They do not. They are as fickle in their own way as the faerie, and work toward their own mysterious ends. They might float amongst the Fae, haunting the same places, but they do not serve us.”

Brand rubbed at his face, uncertain. Finally, he made a decision.

“I will not have it said that I came all this way to be turned away by the idle whispering of a ghost. The Dead may not serve the elves, but why should I trust their motivations? Perhaps they wish Piskin to escape. He has after all, gone to great lengths to steal this girl Mari. For what purpose? There must be one. I suspect she is to be a sacrifice of some kind. The Dead may wish to help him, to aid him in whatever dark plans he might have.”

“So, we will ignore the Lady’s warning?” asked Corbin.

“We will heed her warning, but not in a panic. Tomkin, I want you to strike out for Riverton. You can reach there in a day’s run I’ll wager. If you please, stand guard over my people until I can get back. I’ll wait until dusk, and then travel to the Twilight Lands to seek the maid. She might be right here at this spot, mirrored as it must be in Twilight. If such is the case, it will only cost us nine turns around these stones to reach her. I won’t leave without giving her that last chance.”

“Brand,” said Corbin seriously. “I must ask to take my leave of you then. I’m a Captain of the Haven Militia now, and I feel it is my duty to get back to my post. The council must be warned and the call to arms will go out. There will be a muster. If Oberon marches, he must be met with our best.”

Brand nodded. “Telyn will come with me as my second, then. Farewell cousin.”

They clasped arms, and looked about for Tomkin, but the other had already departed.

Brand shook his head at the behavior of the Wee Folk. One moment, they mocked you, the next they diligently worked on your behalf. They were irritating, but invaluable.

So, after the others left, he and Telyn settled down to lunch and to wait for the day’s end. It was difficult for Brand, who could barely listen to Telyn’s boundless enthusiasm for their wedding plans. He looked forward to the day, certainly, but his mind whirled with heavier thoughts. He did his best to smile and nod and murmur.

“Don’t you even care?” she demanded after one of his platitudes had fallen flat.

He sighed. He had hoped she would not see through him. He should have known better.

“I’m sorry my love, I’m distracted. This venture has taken a strange turn.”

She nodded and patted him. “I understand. But nothing has happened yet! It is only a lovely spring day, and I think we should make the most of any peaceful moment we have. Forget about ghosts and elves for a moment. I think tonight will take care of itself, and we should focus on other, more pleasant things while waiting.”

“You’re right, of course.”

“Then do you want to discuss the colors in detail?”

“Okay.”

She bounced and smiled hugely. “You won’t regret it!” she assured him.

But he already did.

Chapter Ten

The Kindred Bubble

When evening finally fell, Brand stood and stretched. In truth, he had enjoyed a relatively peaceful time with Telyn this fine afternoon. But the stone circle, which had been quaint and entrancing at noon, came to be increasingly sinister as night fell and the trees of the Deepwood seemed to lean inward over the clearing, making it smaller.

The blue stones, in fact, shone with a tiny nimbus of eldritch light when darkness finally came. As the last orange gleams of sunlight died and the sky was all a distant pink fire overhead, the shining nimbus that surrounded each blue stone grew. Brand suspected the shine had been there all along, but had been invisible in sunlight. The circling radiance grew into a silver outline that circuited each of the great tumbled stones individually. Brand was reminded of the mushroom circle he’d once found in the Deepwood. He wondered just how many such secret places existed within these ancient woods.

“It’s beautiful,” said Telyn, sighing by his side. As always, she found evidence of the Fae more entrancing than he did. He saw the beauty of it, of course, as well as any man, but it was a wild, dangerous kind of beauty. Unlike a clean waterfall, the beauty of a faerie mound was more like the bubbling crater of a volcano, filled with a lake of lava. Beautiful, but sinister.

Brand took two steps toward the stones, but did not yet begin to walk a path around them. Instead, he watched. It was best to see others make the trip before trying a new path for oneself.

After a dozen minutes had passed, during which the silvery outline of each stone had grown brighter still and the skies had birthed their first stars, something else joined them. A floating ball of fire, amber in color, glimmered slowly. The ball grew from nothing to something in less than a minute. It was the first of the wisps.

Telyn hugged him closely, and he put his arm around her. She could feel her excitement. He recalled that she had not been close to an active Fae mound for a long time. Not since the fateful night they had realized that the Pact was broken and their world had forever changed had she seen a sight such as this one. That night, only last year, seemed like an age ago to him now.

The wisp noticed their scrutiny, after a time. She floated closer to investigate. Brand made ready to grasp the axe, should he feel the need. The entrancing powers of a wisp were as nothing to him now, but still he was wary after he’d felt real power, that of the Shining Lady, on the night before. He never wanted to be caught underestimating the power of these creatures.

“Here she comes,” whispered Telyn, hugging him in excitement.

He smiled in spite of his mistrust, and hushed her, lest they scare off the tiny being. Amber in color, with golden eyes, golden hair and a single swath of silver light for clothing, the wisp was exquisitely beautiful. Brand knew that the vast majority of wisps were female, perhaps ten or twenty to one of the males. He thought that on the whole of it, the larger, rare male wisps must have had life pretty well in hand. Of all the Fae, the wisps had never harmed him, and had even helped him upon occasion. He would not go so far as to say he trusted them, but they never seemed to be outright evil in their intentions, unlike most of the others.

The wisp floated around the two of them, clearly as curious about them as they were about her. She zeroed in on the bone-white handle of Brand’s axe, where it poked up out of his pack. She buzzed around that spot, peering inside the pack.

Brand waved her away as a man might wave at pestering bee. She backed up, flapping hard, and tinkled sounds at him.

Telyn laughed. “She’s scolding you, Brand.”

And so she was. Brand smiled at the wisp, with half his mouth.

“Don’t touch the axe, little one. Either it will slay you, or I will.”

He had meant it as a warning, not a threat, but she whisked away from them just the same, heading back toward the circle of blue stones.

“Wait, wisp!” he cried after her. His heart ached to see her go. But he need not have worried, for he saw now that a dozen others floated amongst the stones. They were many varied hues. Pinks, mauves, one of sea-green and two of silver.

The amber wisp who had circled them turned and paused in her retreat.

Telyn took a step forward, pushing against Brand’s chest, indicating he should stay back. He got the message. The wisp had run from him. He did not want to frighten her further.

The wisp floated closer, and Telyn took several slow steps to meet her. Brand watched apprehensively as they stood a few feet apart, regarding one another. The tiny face watched Telyn with intense curiosity. He supposed she had not dealt directly with many humans before.

“I would ask something of thee,” said Telyn. “I would ask for news of this place. Has another of our kind passed here recently?”

The wisp drifted in the air uncertainly.

“We mean you no harm. We only wish to find a girl. One who is with child. One who is lost.”

Slowly, the wisp backed away, her golden eyes narrowing.

Telyn took two matching steps forward.

“We know who the father of the wisp is. We know the nasty little Wee One who escorts her. We only want to help her.”

Still, the wisp showed signs of wanting to escape. Brand knew they loved to gossip, and would tell tales all the day long if you were in a spot or a state of mind where you could hear their tiny voices. But this one seemed worried.

Telyn took a single step closer, and the blue shining stones now loomed all around her. The other wisps seemed surprised to have a human amongst the stones. They flittered about, tinkling unintelligible words amongst themselves. Every one of their reflective eyes shone as they watched Telyn.

“Have no fear, we know Puck is the father. We only want to help.”

At the second mentioning of Puck, the wisp’s attitude changed. She lifted her finger and pointed.

Telyn and Brand followed her gesture, but it was too late.

A flashing blade came out from behind one of the blue stones where its owner had been hiding. The blade shone silver-white in the eldritch light.

Telyn gave a cry, and fell forward, grasping one of the stones. She pulled out her own fine dagger, and put her other hand to her back.

“She’ll tell you nothing, little witch,” laughed a familiar little voice. It was that of Piskin, for it was he who had stabbed her in the back.

Brand had his axe out before Piskin had finished the sentence. He charged, roaring, into the stones. He chided himself in wild rage for letting Telyn walk off into the stones by herself. He had trusted the wisps, and they had betrayed him. He would slay them all, and Piskin last, only after he had sheared off his last arm and both his legs and left them in a twisting pile of his own skinny limbs.

“Cover your eyes,” he shouted to Telyn, and she, who was well-versed in his ways of fighting, did so immediately. Brand called for a bolt of light to flash from Ambros, and he delighted to hear the squeaks of dismay among the floating wisps. Their paper thin wings smoked. Their hands rubbed at their eyes. A few of them dropped to the grasses, stricken.

Brand’s mouth was open, he roared or laughed or both. He leapt among them, slashing nothing but air. He stood over Telyn, and grabbed her up with his free arm. She cried out in pain at his touch, but he lifted her as a man might lift a tiny tot. He threw her over his shoulder and whirled.

Holding his axe aloft, he began to rush amongst the stones, slashing at wisps and shadows. Where was Piskin? He had been here a bare moment ago.

He ran out of the stones and looked at their tops, suspecting the manling might be bouncing along their tops as Tomkin had earlier. But there was no one up there.

He cast about, and finally caught a glimpse of the other. He had not fled away into the Deepwood. He had instead begun to circle the stones. He was retreating into the Twilight Lands.

Brand shouldered Telyn, who moaned in response. He felt her blood in his fingers. He breathed hard, trying to think. She was badly injured. If he carried her into the Twilight Lands, if he ran all night with her, she might die untreated.

“You will die by my axe, manling! This I swear to thee!”

There was nothing for a moment, and then came a tiny, mocking laugh that drifted back to his ears. Brand clenched his teeth so hard his entire face would ache for days later, but he cared not. Piskin ran by him, for three circuits. With each circuit, the Wee One grew fainter of aspect, becoming indistinct, ghostly. Brand slashed at him as he passed, but struck nothing. He knew Piskin was no longer in this world.

When Piskin had vanished entirely, Brand put Telyn down, and slashed the blue stones themselves. Sparks flew, and any normal axe would have been broken or horribly chipped. But Ambros was not made of mere steel. He clove two in half, breaking their power so that their silvery nimbus of light died.

Then Telyn moaned at his feet and he struggled to control himself, his rage. The wisps had long since fled. He stood alone, but for his shivering love, who bled upon the moonlit grasses.

He grabbed her up, as gently as he could with one arm, and carried her away into the Deepwood. He kept the axe out. He would march all night, and all day, and into the next night if need be. He would find her a healer, and he would make certain she was safe, and then he would come back to this spot and hunt down Piskin and slay him.

One way or another.

* * *

Oberon had scooped up the minds of the merlings, they were as easily caught as swamp-frogs at dusk. Brand had helped a great deal by attacking one of their villages out of spite. The fact that Brand was seeking Piskin at the time he attacked the merlings was delightful. What a twist of fate! Oberon himself sponsored Piskin, making the sweet irony of Brand’s futile thrashing about all the more amusing.  The fact that Brand and Piskin’s struggles had incidentally improved his growing army was just happy circumstance, but seemed to Oberon a finely demonstrable instance of justice, of rightness in the world.

The merlings had been more than happy to join Oberon’s growing alliance. He smiled still, just thinking about it. A simple people at best, they would serve his purposes very well. He would dash them against his enemies, using them and their tiny disgusting lives as the perfect foil, distracting those who might cause trouble were they free to maneuver and think.

The kobolds, with whom he treated with now, were somewhat more wary. Too bad, Oberon lamented, that Brand hadn’t stomped down here and senselessly slaughtered a few of them as well to make matters easier. The kobolds had the power of simple logic on their side, of course. They asked him straightforward questions. Why would they wish to irritate the Kindred when they had freshly chosen a new queen? Was that not the height of folly?

“Seemingly,” admitted Oberon, making a stroking motion in the air, as if he smoothed the fur of an invisible cat. “But things are more complex. The Kindred are coming to slay you in any case. They will root you out of your dark holes even down here, in depths of the Everdark. They will send clicking machines and creatures of living flame into your tunnels to burn out your spratlings. They will sing while they march, and soon there will be no more elders or ancients among the kobold tribes. You will all be broken flesh and bone. I’ve seen it, in my foretellings.”

The kobold chiefs hunkered around the greenish-blue light of one of their strange firepits, in which they burned stones as other peoples burned wood. The chieftains were huge folk, as kobolds grew each year of their lives and their chiefs were always the largest and oldest among them. For kobolds, this meant they were more than a century in age, and had long ago outgrown the cramped, slimy tunnels of their youth. The chieftains, being the largest of their kind, were bent in a permanently hunched position. They lived scuttling and crawling through their warrens on scarred knees.

The kobolds eyed Oberon with vast distrust. “You must help us. Our enemy is your enemy,” said the wisest of them. He had but one eye and one arm, but there was a red gleam of cunning in that sole remaining eye.

“Aye, and we will!” shouted Oberon, leaping to his feet. The sudden movement caused the huge, wary kobolds to grope for their flint knives and heavy stalactite clubs.

Oberon strutted before the hulking figures, having not a care for their firepit of burning stones or their crude weapons. Their knobby knuckles popped and bulged as they gripped their clubs, but they did not lift them.

“It will be this way: We elves are not close at hand, dwelling as we do in another place. When the Kindred bubble and churn and finally boil over, they will seek the creatures that are easiest to reach, the way lava flows down into tunnels beneath it first, before shooting up shafts to the surface.”

The kobold chieftains relaxed somewhat. Oberon spoke now in terms they comprehended.

“Your people will thus take the brunt of the pain early on,” Oberon continued in a most reasonable voice. It was very hard to argue with his words. Every single syllable sounded self-evident and truthful to a mortal listener. “Kobolds will be exterminated first, almost immediately in fact, as you are very near at hand. So your question should not be when will the elves help, but why would we help you at all? Why should my people move to your aid? Would we ensure that the Kindred will turn their yellow greedy eyes toward us secondly? It would seem in our best interests to wait, and to hope you quench their flame for conquest with your collective bloods.”

Kobold throats growled. Bent spines twisted and shoulders rubbed against the tunnel ceiling, which was only a dozen feet high.

“But we elves see more deeply than that,” said Oberon. He had every one of their eyes now. Even the single red orb of the wisest was intent upon his words. “We will strike. We will help. We will die with you. Not to save kobolds, but to save ourselves.”

The others stared at him, and the fire of burning stones shot up a hissing white flare. A pocket of magnesium had no doubt been set alight.

Oberon hopped forward and leaned over the flaring fire, as if the intense light and heat of it meant nothing to him.

“All the folk, all of us, must fight the Kindred at once. We must stand together. We can’t wait and sit back and huddle while they rebuild their walking machines and forge demonic weaponry. We must strike hard and fast. Each day, they grow stronger, preparing to march. Each day, we grow weaker in comparison, and if they slay the kobolds and then the gnomes firstly, well, that will only put off the day of reckoning for the elves by a month or three. They will come for us, we know that. They have Dragon Magic, and we have lost our Sky Magic. They do not fear us.”

Oberon produced a tiny lyre, and he strummed it idly while he spoke. The chieftains were so intent on his words they did not think to demand he stop, to insist that no enchantments be cast.

But the wisest one, the kobold with the single red eye, spoke up. “Then strike with us. Bring your elves into the caverns through the mounds that exist here. Stand behind each rank of kobolds a line of elf archers. Let us, as you say, work together.”

The lyre stopped strumming. An almost infinitesimal flicker of anger could be seen as it ran across Oberon’s face.

They stared at him, awaiting his response.

Oberon, not for the first time these many days of traveling among the most unwholesome of folk, doubted his strategy. These oafs were so simple and distrustful they could not grasp the perfection of his plan. They suspected him of duplicity, and wriggled upon his baited hooks with tenacity. He heaved a breath, and regretted the action instantly, as his nostrils filled with the rich foulness of kobolds. In truth, he cared not one thin whit if the Kindred exterminated the lot of them. The world would be a better place without these filthy creatures.

But, unfortunately, he needed these lowly beings. That very fact was depressing, and worthy of vengeance all by itself. He vowed, right then and there, to add this ignominy to the list of crimes performed upon his dignity by Brand and the Kindred. There would be an accounting, and soon, of these accumulated insults. He should not be forced to ally with crude creatures such as these. They were not worthy of his spittle.

He forced a smile, and raised his head again, removing all dark thoughts from his face as best he could. “You ask a piercing question, ancient one,” this last statement caused a real smirk of amusement to come unbidden to Oberon’s face. He, who was as old as the stones in their firepit, had called one of these infantile animals an ancient. The irony was enough to make any thinking being smile.

“There is the small matter, unfortunately, of trust,” said Oberon, speaking as one might to a half-wit. “You will strike first, and thus commit yourselves to war. We will follow your action. That way, we will be ensured of your cooperation.”

“Why we go first?” grunted another chief. This one was the fattest and had the largest mouth, two factors that were probably complimentary in nature.

Oberon shot his gaze that way. “Because otherwise, my people will do nothing, and you will be rolled over by the maddened Kindred. Like ants swarming over a carcass, they will pick your foul bones clean.”

“Your turn will come if you wait.”

“True enough, but we have many other allies and will simply take the time your demise provides to better ready ourselves.”

The kobolds set up a storm of annoyed grunting in their own crude language. Oberon knew some of their speech, but preferred not to listen. He would feel sullied if he listened to their prattle of grunts and whistles too closely.

Finally, they came to a conclusion. The one with the single red eye spoke for the group. “We will do as you ask. We will set a thousand traps. We will throw a thousand darts. We will slay every Kindred we can find alone, and we will creep forth in their artificial night and set alight their fields of mushrooms and lichen.”

“Excellent,” said Oberon, beaming.

“But, we ask something from you now. Give us weapons if you won’t stand with us. Give us something to better slay the Kindred than our sharpened stones.”

Oberon, for the first time, paused in thought. He placed a finger to his mouth, then he swept up that finger upward into the thick air of the tunnel.

“We will do it. You will throw darts that will not miss. The triggers of your traps will snap with clockwork precision. Your archers will bend bows with a greater spring to them than any they have ever held.”

The deal was struck. Oberon was forced to touch the knuckles of each of the foul beasts in turn, as was their custom. Leaving the stinking tunnels, he reached fresh air an hour later.

Finding a clean blue lake, he spent a long time bathing and scouring the soiled hand that had touched their foul, scabbed flesh.

He steeled himself for his next visit. It would be the last, and the most important of the lot. In foulness, the next meeting would far surpass his experience with the kobolds. In comparison, he would recall their company and liken it to a fresh spring morning.

* * *

Gudrin accepted that the effects upon the Kindred of having a living monarch were undeniable, but inexplicable. The Kindred, when under the sway of a monarch, were a people apart from their normal selves. The phenomenon was well-known, but little studied, even by the Kindred talespinners. She found herself to be the locus of this strange reaction, but that didn’t make it any easier to explain to races that had never experienced a time of group madness.

As a naturalist and a scholar she could find corollaries in the world. Other species behaved vastly differently when an instinctual drive overtook them, such as salmon dashing their brains out on wet stones, trying to reach their home waters to spawn when one would think that any spot would do. As well, many varieties of insect exhibited specialized group behavior when the queen of their nest was ready to mate.

She was aware of these comparable instances, but was unable to apply any of them to her own folk. Firstly, because such a comparison was disgusting, and likened the Kindred to creatures that were nearly mindless. Her people didn’t respond to some chemical signature. They were not thrown into a constructive—or destructive—frenzy by some primitive instinct shared with hive creatures. She rejected such comparisons out of hand as insulting. Her people were instead, she knew in her heart, driven by a sense of loyalty and bravery and self-sacrifice. It was honor that drove them to wild acts when they had a monarch. They were capable of surprising things under normal circumstances, but when following a leader they truly believed in, one that inspired the Kindred heart do its utmost, that was when others had cause to eye them fearfully.

A clear example of this natural behavior might be the warrior company that had followed Hallr into the breath of Fafnir, powered by Pyros. More than willing, nay, with eagerness they had followed their clan leader into hopeless battle. The reason they changed so drastically when they had chosen a monarch, she decided, lay in the fact that the Kindred were a folk normally divided into thirteen clans. Only when they had a monarch did the center of their existence change. No longer were the Kindred just one of thirteen striving groups, but rather there rose up a single individual to whom all of them owed their total allegiance. They replaced a diffuse organization with a single focus for their prideful, honor-filled eagerness. Their king, (or in this case, their queen) by his or her very existence, drove the Kindred to great heights of activity. All rivalries ceased, all quips and snubs were pointless. Everyone was instantly on the same side, and all anyone cared about was the current goal of the monarch.

For good or ill, they had chosen her—or fate had. She had borne many great burdens in her long life, including for a time, two of the Jewels of Power. But this was by far the greatest burden of her difficult life. She had no choice but to lead, and lead she would. But she worried, especially at night when the repaired vents of the Earthlight were reduced to three dim red lines on the horizon, that Pyros would impair her otherwise excellent judgment at a critical juncture. She was sure her people would follow her, marching into the magma itself if she led them there. She had no doubts of their strength, honor and loyalty. But she doubted herself at times, at quiet times, when the Jewel whispered disturbing things to her.

She could see no flaw, however, in rebuilding the Kindred army to new heights. Their allies she trusted, but no farther than the reach of her axe. Their enemies—she trusted them, too. She trusted them to try to steal from the Kindred the glory, wealth and power they had so recently gained. She knew they would covet Pyros, and think she was weak and unable to properly wield its flame. They were wrong. And she would instruct them most harshly when they came to test her mastery of the Orange Jewel.

She expected to be attacked, and soon. It only made sense. Why wait until she had a firm grasp upon the Orange? Why not strike while they tarried to repair the damage Fafnir had done? Oh yes, she knew their plans. She was supposed to happily rebuild brass and stone, bending a thousand backs to pointless toils. All the while the enemy snuck up from the Everdark and gathered in the darkest regions of the Black Mountains and the Deepwood.

“Warriors, report!” she ordered, slamming an open hand down on a six-inch thick oaken table. She sat in the ruins of the citadel, where the rubble had been cleared out, but the carven stone furniture still lay broken. They had no time for re-cutting the great stone table that had once been sculpted up from the basalt interior of the citadel. Instead, she had ordered a heavy wooden replacement.

The reports came in from every sector. None of them were good. The kobolds below and the gnomes down still deeper were very busy indeed, constructing traps and moving about in great numbers. In the trees that huddled against the feet of her Black Mountains, more gnomes, elves and even goblins had been sighted, meeting in quiet moonlit glades.

Of her allies, Brand was the only one she had the slightest trust in. He was a boy, but naturally gifted as a leader. He would come to her aid, she felt sure, when the time came. The Wee Folk were little better than knaves, and might or might not lend a hand, depending on their fickle calculations of the state of affairs when the time came. But she didn’t have any plans to depend on the people of the Haven for salvation. In fact, she rather thought it was the elves and gnomes who skulked about her mountains—in, under and around them—who might be the ones needing help, ere long.

“What are we doing about all this enemy activity?” she demanded.

The new clan leader of the warriors stood. He was a relatively young fellow, barely four centuries old. His beard, however, despite his youth, reached the top of his boots.

“My Queen,” he said. “We have begun training our troops to follow the brass walking machines, but they blow so much steam into our faces as to obscure our vision. We request a new tactic, to spread out to the sides of the machines, to support them on a wider front.”

“Denied,” said Gudrin sharply. The warrior looked surprised, but she had no time for softening her opinions. “The battles will often proceed underground in places where there will be no way to flank anything. We must find another expedient.”

Gudrin spun half around to face the Mechnician clanmaster, who recoiled slightly, having known the Queen’s scowl would turn to her next.

“We are working on it, milady,” said the mechnician. “With new exhaust fittings, the steam shall be ejected upward, not backward. But, I must add, in a tight tunnel the entire area will be affected anyway.”

Gudrin nodded. “We’ll try the new fittings. What of the killing arms? Are they strong enough yet to move stones? I’ll not have obstacles stopping my forces so easily.”

The mechnician rustled her scrolls nervously. She took a breath and selected one to read from. “Our tests show improvement in this area, but the length and sharpness of the tines will be affected if we continue to make them thicker and more powerful. They can’t be optimized for piercing thrusts and digging work at the same time.”

Gudrin pursed her lips. “Strive for a happy medium. I want them to perform both functions competently.”

Next, she turned to her own talespinner appointee. He was a young male, who kept his beard trimmed scandalously short. Most disapproved of him, she knew, but she had to have someone for the job. She could not very well lead her clan and run the kingdom at the same time. She had put a waif in charge, one who many thought was exceedingly young for the job, but who she knew was a genius at quick adaptation. She had no need now of some hoary librarian from the central scroll repository. She didn’t want someone who was interested more in dusting their knowledge than using it.

“Talespinner. What of our efforts to capture a sufficiency of elementals from the magma?”

This one was so nervous he spilled his scrolls when addressed. They splashed over his boots and his lap like a hurled deck of cards. “Ah,” he said, snatching at scrolls.

The warrior clanmaster rolled his eyes to the ceiling, clearly unimpressed.

Gudrin slammed her hand down on the table again. This time, her hand had formed into a fist, and a gush of flame scorched the table where she struck it. For several long seconds after the booming report of both the blow and the blossoming flames, her fist continued to burn. It blackened the table surface, bubbling the varnish from a new patch, one of many such scars the table displayed. She wondered distantly if this sort of thing was the very reason her forebearers had always built council chambers out of pure stone.

“Leave the scrolls, man! Report!”

Flustered, the talespinner stammered something about finding enough flame elementals, but almost none of the molten earth types. Gudrin calmed while he spoke, and when the flames on her fist were down to a bare flicker she rubbed her bare cheek.

Everyone watched quietly, seeing clearly that the flames had no effect on her whatsoever. She let them stare. A powerful monarch gave them faith in her leadership.

Finally, the talespinner offered his resignation at the end of his report. He sat with his dejected face aimed downward at his avalanche of scrolls, which still fluttered around his seat.

Gudrin snorted. “Request denied. I’ll decide when you are relieved of your position. It is none of your affair.”

“Thank you, my Queen.”

“Don’t thank me! This is no time to play with scrolls! Get out there and catch more elementals! We must have them to provide the heat source for our steam-driven machines. And pick up your flapping papers before I burn them all by accident.”

Gudrin left the council to their muttering and went to inspect the construction pits.

The crawler in the pits was a prototype, an early model based on scrolls that crumbled with age. There were many improvements to be made, but the thing was still deadly. One could sense, in its presence, it would be wicked indeed in combat. She eyed it critically. So long had it been since her people had marched behind such things. Seeing the evil of it, she no longer doubted why the Kindred council had seen fit to destroy the old ones nearly a millennium ago.

The crawler had a central torus of shining brass. The body of it was pot-bellied, in the general shape of a teakettle. But this teakettle had six multi-jointed steel legs like a giant crab. Also like a crab, two killing tines thrust forward, resembling claws, but each of them were sharpened to perfect spear-like point. They could thrust forward with startling rapidity, and were capable of piercing any armor, or even punching through stone.

As well, there was a rotating cap atop the metallic monster. Inside the turret sat one of the mechnicians, fully dressed in his thickest heat-resistant leathers. A nozzle attached to the rotating cap was able to spew flame or superheated steam with equal facility.

She watched as the pilot drove the clanking, hissing monster around the construction pit. This one was finished and ready for action, although it had a dozen design flaws that would be fixed in the next unit. Steam puffed behind from the rear exhaust vents. She could see how it would cause problems in an enclosed space. They would have to improve that design point.

She knew that inside the heart of the machine, a tiny being of living flame was imprisoned. To cause the machine to move, the elemental was tormented lightly with sprays of water from the central brass boiler. The resultant steam drove pistons and clockwork gears, moving the legs and providing locomotion. The machine would have to carry a vast amount of fuel to operate without the elemental inside it. There was no more efficient source of compressed heat available, other than her own Jewel. She wondered vaguely, while inspecting the machine, if she could easily power and drive one of these contraptions herself, with the help of Pyros, of course.

“Milady!” cried a voice from the top of the pit.

She craned her neck and saw a messenger. She waved her forward, and the young messenger came without hesitation, sliding down the side of the pit. Shale trickled and clattered in a tiny splash of loose stones at the bottom.

“Yes, yes, what’s the hurry?” Gudrin asked.

The messenger picked herself up, limped closer and held out a scrawled note.

Gudrin eyed the note. “Just tell me.”

“The kobolds, milady. About a hundred of them. They were seen in the night hours. They burned out two farms in the far eastern caverns. A full raiding party it was, with elders in the group. It was no random group of spratlings. One of the tribal chiefs must have ordered it.”

“You’ve come from there?”

“Yes, the watch commander sent me, he said—”

“Of course. You did well to find me quickly. What of the families?”

“All slain, milady.”

Gudrin nodded. She put her hands behind her back and clasped them. Where her two hands touched, a circle of orange flame appeared and flickered. She marched slowly in the bottom of the pit, pacing around the monstrous thing her mechnicians had constructed.

“Milady? What are your commands?” asked the messenger.

“So it has begun,” she said, as if she had not heard the other. She pointed up to the killing tines. Inside the metal monster, she could hear the ticking of gears and the gentle hiss of released steam. “What do you make of those, girl? What do you see?” she asked the messenger.

The young face looked up at the brass horror and eyed the killing tines critically. “Fine workmanship.”

Gudrin nodded again. “Just so.”

With a heavy heart, she ordered the mechnician to pilot the machine. She summoned the warriors who would form a company behind it, to follow it on patrol.

Gudrin ordered them to find the war party that had attacked the farm. They were to track them into the Everdark and destroy them all, but to pursue no deeper than a kilometer deepward. Farther than that would require a full company of the machines.

She heaved another sigh. The killing she had known was near at hand had finally begun. Part of her exulted, while part of her despaired.

The Orange Jewel, she knew, was the part of her that caused her face to split into a wide, excited grin. For Pyros, the nearness of battle was a thing of joy.

Chapter Eleven

To Coax the Hound

Mari had rested for hours, and had even begun to worry when finally Piskin returned to her. She had thought of running. In fact, she had thought of little else. But she was in the Twilight Lands, with only a few drifting wisps to keep her company. Even they seemed to be growing bored with the novelty of her.

Where would she run to? There were horrors moving in the distance, seemingly in every direction. To the east, where the forest and the Berrywine River should be, were she in still Cymru, hulked blue mountains. They bore caps, not of white snow, but of a greenish material. She knew not what it maybe, perhaps islands of grass grew up there.

To the west and north were huge trees. These were trees of impossible size, she could tell that even at this distance. They stood so tall they thrust up above the clouds, as if they were themselves mountains. Around the base of those trees moved shadows, what must be living things, but creatures so great in size they stood hundreds of feet tall. In the south, at the end of plain flatter and wider than any she’d ever seen in her life, a sea sparkled distantly, reflecting the endless starlight. She knew the sea was supposed to be to the west, not the south, and that there were mountains in her world between these places. But there were the waves, plain to see.

And so, she asked herself, if she were to run, which way was best? She was not even sure in which direction the tumble stones stood. What if she could not even find the mound by which she had come to this place?

Gulping back tears, she spent her time asking the wisps to find Puck, to bring him to her. They shook their tiny heads sadly. Who could have instructed them to ignore her pleas? She did not know. She had not seen Piskin do it.

Frightened and alone, she sat, hugged her belly, and soothed it with her hands. Her baby may come any day now, she could tell that much. What kind of world was this to birth a child into?

Often, she thought of Piskin’s dagger. She thought of being cut, so that she fell the way sails had fallen when the ropes were slashed. She thought too, of plunging it into Piskin and taking her chances with the wisps.

Finally, Piskin returned. He looked worried and hurried.

“Come girl, up now. Surely, you’ve rested long enough.”

“Where have you been?” she demanded.

“To tend to a matter that doesn’t concern you, petulant girl. Up with you! We must make haste. Many dangerous creatures roam this land, you know. I half thought to come upon your shredded corpse. Let’s move on, while your luck still holds.”

She struggled to her feet. He let her eat a morsel from her bag and gave her a cup of water that shone like moonlight. She hesitated, then drank it. The taste was fresh, wonderful, metallic. Soon, she was able to follow him at a fair pace.

They marched southward, across that wide flat plains. They left the tremendous trees, their moving shadows, and the green-capped mountains further behind. Heading this way did at least make some sense to her. That was the direction in her world where Frogmorton would lie. The very southern border of the Haven was nearby if the two worlds measured distance in the same way.

“Piskin,” she asked, having a sudden, disturbing thought, “is it still night back where we left?”

She knew from many stories of the Twilight Lands that things here didn’t always proceed apace with her own world. Time was often slower her, and faster in Cymru. A night spent here might mean a week or more had passed when you went back home.

Piskin flapped his single hand at her, disinterested in her fears. “Step it up, girl, or perhaps your family will have died of old age before you return with your babe.”

She had wondered where they might have been heading, as she had seen nothing but rippling silver grasses and occasional herds of elk. The elk here were quite impressive. They had great spanning antlers, like those she’d seen as trophies but never in person. A dozen feet wide, their antlers were like spreading tree branches, and must have weighed a great deal. The elk themselves were massive as well, standing ten feet or more at the shoulder. She had seen deer all her life, and these were like them, but impossibly huge. They stared at her as she walked by, chewing and making the ground tremor when they shied and trotted. They passed the elk and kept going southward.

“Ah, here we are!” said Piskin at last, after she had become tired. She had walked many a mile in her life, and she thought they had marched at least ten miles southward. They must be near Frogmorton, in Cymru. If distances were true, that was.

Before them a pit opened up in the ground. It was more of a black wound, really, almost a burnt spot where no silver grasses grew. At the bottom of the pit was a three-sided building. A small stone pyramid of sorts.

“You see the very cunning of it?” he asked her. “This spot is not well-known, even though it sits in the most open spot in the world. Everyone travels by, but few notice this hole in the ground, and fewer still stop to investigate.”

She was bewildered. “This is no mansion. Where is Puck?”

Piskin made an easy gesture. “In good time, my dear. You are the sort who must have demanded your cupcake each night before supper, I imagine.”

She huffed. “Indeed not. We did not eat cake every night.”

“No matter,” said Piskin. He seemed to be in an excellent mood, which was unusual for him and immediately put her on her guard. “If you would be so good as to follow me down this stony slope. The sides are likely to slide away with you, have a care!”

Mari stood on the lip of the pit and looked down dubiously. She put her hands on her hips. “I’m not going down there unless you give me an excellent reason to do so.”

Piskin stopped and eyed her darkly. He pursed his thin lips. He drew himself up after a moment to his full height. She could see he had come to some kind of decision. Her heart fluttered in her chest to watch him. Her eyes crawled over the horizon, but she saw nothing but the grasses and the elk, now distant dark shapes.

“I see. You leave me no choice in the matter then. I want you to remember this moment, when things between us become unpleasant. Remember all the times you refused to cooperate. All the moments of vexing recalcitrance. All the fine words I’ve poured over your stubborn head like warm silky honey.”

She frowned down at him, wondering what the manling was thinking. His black stone eyes glittered back at her. She thought to herself they were the eyes of a rat, but harder than that.

He produced his dagger. It flashed silver in the starlight. It wasn’t a long thing, probably only four inches of razor-like blade. Her stomach hardened in fear to see it in his hand.

“You will follow me down, as I ask. You will obey my commands without further nonsense. Or I shall cut the strings from your legs and drag you down.”’

Mari gasped and put her hand to her mouth. Her other hand went, fingers splayed, over her swollen belly.

“Oh come now, you can’t be all that surprised,” he said in annoyance. “Innocence may be accounted a virtue, but stupidity is never becoming.”

She made a choking sound and backed away from the pit and the little monster in it. “You never even met with Puck! Why did you bring me here! Stay away!”

“Halt! This is your last warning. Heed my words, girl.”

She stopped. She thought of bolting, but she did not want to turn her back on him for an instant. Besides, she knew she couldn’t hope to outrun him, he’d be on her in a flash. And even if she could, there was nowhere to go. Her hands formed fists. If she could get both hers around that tiny wrist of his, strong as it was, maybe she could wrest the blade from him.

“That’s better,” he said, coming up to the rim of the pit. He approached her slowly, in the manner of a man stalking a hen in the barnyard, just before Sunday dinner.

“Just tell me, what do you want?”

“Why, my dear, I need blood.”

Her breath and her fright grew, if such a thing were possible.

“You brought me here to bleed me?”

“Not precisely. I require the blood of the babe in your womb.”

Mari shook her head, her horror greater than before. She had been thinking of bargaining for the life of her babe, of offering herself up as a sacrifice, if that was what he needed, but if only her babe might be birthed first and spared. But to learn that her child was his goal? Her last hopes evaporated.

“But why?”

He halted his advance. “A reasonable enough question. Come down here with me and find out. At the very least, you will learn the answers to your questions, and I will make things as pleasant as possible for the both of us if you do.”

She could hardly see how killing her and her child could be made in any sense more pleasant, but she had no options, other than to try to catch his wrist. She doubted she could, having seen his speed.

She nodded, unable to speak, and walked back to the rim of the crater. For that’s what the pit seemed like to her now, a hole dug into the earth by a great impact. As if this pyramid had been dropped from the heaven upon this spot from such a height it had driven itself into the ground and sunken from sight.

Mari followed him down the sliding stones toward the pyramid. The structure at the bottom seemed more alien of aspect as she drew nearer to it. Built of hundreds of cubes of black stone, she could see now that each cube was strangely decorated with runes of some kind. Symbols were carved into each of the cubes with precise shapes and doubtless ancient meanings.

When they neared the bottom and she could stand balanced again, her legs felt all but locked with fear.

Piskin, however, made no move to slaughter her yet. Instead, he pointed at the base of the pyramid.

“Do you see it? Do you see the opening, girl?”

She looked and indeed saw what she thought to be dark space, as if a single block were missing from this vast puzzle.

“Look inside,” he whispered, startling her.

He stood to her side now. He stood close. His blade glittered with starlight and matched his mad eyes. She saw no pity in them. No human kindness. If she were to bargain with him, it could not be an emotional appeal. He would not even understand her meaning.

“Piskin,” she said, making no move toward the shadowy opening. “I will have a child soon.”

“Yes, yes, I would think that was abundantly clear.”

“Piskin, I know what you are. You are a changeling. You would like to be mothered, wouldn’t you?”

She had his attention now. His black eyes, like two oily raindrops, fixated upon her face.

“What are you suggesting?”

“When my babe arrives and my milk comes in, I will have plenty for two. Have you ever had a willing maid to care for you? One that knows what you are, but accepts you, as the brother to her own child?”

“Of course not,” he said, but there was a fascinated quality to his voice. He looked at her with a new light in his eyes.

She knew that light wasn’t the light of kindness, nor concern, nor—furthest from his mind—shame. It was the light of excitement, of greed.

“You could be like twins,” she said. “I wouldn’t know which of you was my babe.”

“Like twins, you say? But, what of my hand? I could never be a proper twin.”

“I wouldn’t care,” she said. She made a mistake then, reaching slowly out to him.

He bounced back, snarling. “You think me the fool? You weave words like a spell, but I’ll not be entranced. No, you would seek to strangle me in my sleep within the fortnight. You would hang wards all about the crib, and set it alight, shoving me down into it to burn there, trapped.”

She nodded. “Just something to think about. My offer stands,” she said, hoping her words might work upon him. She had seen the wanting in his face. Perhaps he would be tempted, or at least distracted.

She turned toward the opening. The missing black cube had been replaced by a matching cube of shadow. Deep shadow, that seemed to swallow all light that entered there.

Piskin stepped closer to her, watching her and the opening. She thought of grabbing him, right then, but he was too intent upon her. Better to wait for a moment when his eyes were on something else.

She sidled away from him and toward the opening. She steeled herself to feel his blade, or to be snatched into the jaws by some horror within the pyramid.

What she saw inside made her forget all these thoughts, if only for a moment.

She saw two red eyes. For some reason, she wanted to stare at those eyes. They were entrancing. Beautiful, evil and alien of aspect. She squatted on her haunches without thinking and peered into the opening.

The eyes looked back at her, and blinked. She felt they looked into her. They were not afraid, nor aggressive. Only, perhaps, they were vaguely curious.

“What is it?” she asked.

Piskin spoke. Again, he was very close to her ear. They both gazed into the black cube of shadow, inside which absolutely nothing was visible except for those ruby eyes. Mari slid her own eyes to Piskin, who crouched beside her, seemingly as curious about the creature inside as she was.

Mari’s right hand, the farthest from the manling, closed over a stone. It was a good-sized stone, and she threw it as swiftly as she was able.

She had considered attempting to crash it down upon Piskin’s skull, of course, but she had seen him move. He would be wary, he would be expecting such a thing, despite all his simulated friendliness and preoccupation. If she were to have a chance, she must do the unexpected.

It would have been easier, in a way, to do nothing. To talk herself into following him down here, knowing her own slaughter was imminent. But by simply by refusing to believe such an awful thing could happen to her, these final moments would rest much more easily upon her mind.

But she could not do that. She could not take that easy path. She had to act. She had to at least try to save her babe. And so she threw the stone at the thing that lurked inside the dark cube of shadow. She struck it, surprising everyone. There was a thump, and tiny growl.

Piskin shrieked in disbelief. “Peasant oaf!” he hissed, turning his wide eyes upon her in shock. “This is no pond full of fish to play with, girl! We are here to coax the hound, not brain it with a stone!”

It was then that he turned away from her. He moved closer to the thing in the dark, as if concerned for its welfare. Momentarily, he turned his back to her and turned his eyes from her, too. He wanted to see how the creature had taken being hit with a stone. It was a natural enough reaction and she had hoped for such a moment of distraction.

Her hands flew around him and closed on his skinny wrist, the one that still had a hand attached to it. They clamped down upon the wrist and the hand that gripped the blade.

Piskin squeaked and struggled. She held fast, knowing he was stronger than he looked, but she had two hands on his one and she was desperate.

Mari grunted as he elbowed her swollen belly and breasts. He gave a great bounding leap and rammed the top of his skull into her jaw. She hadn’t been expecting that, and her vision blurred, but she held on and squeezed her hands all the tighter. She had to keep her grip, she knew, or she was lost.

She thought then of what she must do, she must roll her body atop him. She must crush him and grind his small struggling form into the black stones of this place. So she did it, having a care she didn’t plunge his blade into herself by accident. She let her weight force him down on his face.

He wriggled with mad vitality. It was like holding a serpent to her breast. A flipping, writhing length of muscle.

Mari was winning, she could feel it. She was crushing him down. She had to have five times his weight. She dared allow herself a sliver of hope.

All the while they struggled and rolled, breath hissing out of clenched teeth, the ruby eyes watched them, unblinking and curious.

Then a tremendous pain blossomed in her left wrist. Piskin had bitten her. She held on while she bled on the flat black stones. Her blood ran more freely as he bit further.

She tried to roll and dislodge him. Her arm ripped loose from his teeth and the pain was tremendous, but she still held on. She had churned a thousand tubs of butter and milked cows every morning before breakfast. Her hands had a grip to them. They were white and pink and now splashed with red.

Then, something strange happened. Both Piskin and Mari felt it. They both knew something crept closer.

It was the bloodhound. Smaller than any normal hound, the creature with the ruby eyes came slowly out of it hiding place beneath the stack of black stones. It crept forward and halted at the growing pool of Mari’s blood.

There, it began to lap the blood pooling in the carved runes. It began to feed.

“You have coaxed the hound,” hissed Piskin beneath her. He relaxed and stopped struggling. “It’s over, girl. Get off me.”

“I will not,” she said, meaning to suffocate him if at all possible.

“Listen, just for a moment,” he breathed. “I came here for this, to coax the hound. I see now, I never needed the blood of your half-fae babe. Your blood is enough. The babe shares its blood with yours. You have half-fae blood in you.”

“So what? I’m going to kill you.”

“Then you will surely die here in this place, and your babe as well.”

“Fine. At least you will do no more evil.”

“Listen. Listen!” he hissed, panting now. “We can work together. I will swear it.”

She paused. She knew that the Fae took great pride in their sworn vows and did not break them. In truth, she had no idea what she would do after having killed Piskin.

“I’m sorry,” he was saying in a very earnest voice. “I abjectly apologize. I miscalculated. I was only doing my lord’s bidding.”

“What lord?”

“Oberon, of course.”

At that name, both the girl and the hound shifted their vision from each other to the manling.

“You swear not to harm me? To lead me from this place and back to safety in the Haven? And finally, you must swear I shall have your blade.”

“I do so swear, if you will swear to help me coax the hound with your blood,” he responded, then grunted, “and to get your fat bulk off me!”

She thought about it, watching the hound lap for a moment. Somehow, the disgusting sight was mesmerizing. She wondered what kind of beast this could possibly be that it was worth such trouble to coax with her blood.

“I agree,” Mari said. “I do so swear.”

“I agree as well, and I do so swear.”

And so, distrustfully, they disengaged from one another. He dropped the blade and she snatched it up, wiping away a coating of her own sticky blood. There was an alarming amount of it spread over the stones now. She worked to wrap her wrist with what shreds of her dress she could find that were still relatively clean. She knew a bite from the likes of Piskin might well turn septic.

She watched the manling and the bloodhound with equal distrust. The hound was a small dog, no bigger than a housecat. It was short of hair and had a whip-like tail. Except for ruby eyes of unnatural intellect, it seemed like a normal dog. But it was clearly a dog that subsisted on a diet of blood.

“I now require a bit more of your blood, my dear.”

“What? It’s had quite enough.”

“Do you wish to break our pact? Do you wish to try wrestling with me again so soon? I’ll not trust your word a second time, I warn you.”

“Why more blood? I’ve—I’ve lost a good deal already.”

“It has lapped, but requires more to sate its great thirst. I only need enough to work with the hound, my dear Mari. Only enough to cool its burning thirst. I happen to have a cup here in my pack.”

And so he bled her further, and rubbed his stump of a wrist in her blood. She watched aghast. Somehow, the blood from her veins, still warm in his hands, thickened. It became paste-like in consistency, and Piskin worked at it as a sculptor might work with wet clay. He worked it and worked it, until the blood formed a black putty.

He was shaping himself a new hand from it, she saw with growing amazement and horror. A new hand that was fashioned with her blood. The hand was unlike his other, however. It was more twisty and consisted mostly of bone and leathery skin.

The lich’s hand tremored as she watched with her mouth hanging open. She felt an urge to retch.

“My first!” Piskin declared excitedly. His face and arms were slick with gore. “I’ve got a lot to learn. It’s like working pottery, in a way.”

He flexed the trembling hand. She could see bones and thin exposed muscle clench with quivering motion. She saw also that the hound had lapped up every dribble of her blood from the stones, working its tongue into the grooves of the runes for the last drops.

“This will serve, don’t you think? But isn’t quite finished—if you could but fill the cup again. Only a single time more, my dear. The hound thirsts.”

And so Mari thought of her babe. She thought of returning home to the Haven—and she fed the hound.

Chapter Twelve

Piskin’s Fancy

Brand walked through the woods and through the night, almost insensate. His love lived still in his arms, although her breath came raggedly and blew wet and hot on his cheek. He had staunched the leaking blood. Piskin had stabbed her just below the ribs in the region of her kidneys. The wound was not terribly deep, but it was deep enough. With proper care, she might live. Then again, she might not.

In either case, Brand would not have it said that he did not bear her to aid. He burned for revenge, but that would have to wait. Whatever the final result of this foul eve, he would find help for her, or die trying.

In his right hand, in addition to the weight of his love, he bore the axe. Its strength kept him marching quickly, resolutely, to the east. There lay the Berrywine River, and for any of the folk of the Haven, it was there they turned for solace when things went badly. Along the River were farms and people and hope. He wanted to leave the Deepwood behind forever.

His mind had difficulty forming reflective thought, given that his emotions were running high and his axe was driving them to even higher peaks. Mostly, he fantasized of slicing Piskin into thin servings. But he did wonder to himself that if he bore Telyn to safety, if she should somehow survive this night, if he would be able to adventure with her further. He could not bear the thought of leading her to her death in another infested hole or hazy dreamworld. She was the better companion for him, a better Second than Corbin. His cousin did well in a pinch, but only Telyn could truly stop his rages. That was the true purpose of the Second, he’d come to realize. With Ambros, one needed a Second who was close to the heart, one that the bearer could never slay. Only true love could be counted upon to shine through the red haze of bloodlust that gripped one’s mind at critical moments and thus prevent disaster.

Perhaps, however, it was he who had to adjust. He who had to learn better self-control. He had been in the grip of the axe’s fury many times. Why couldn’t he control his raging alone? He had done many things in his short span as the Champion of the Haven. Perhaps it was time to improve his skills at willpower and self-control.

Beneath him, his legs pumped relentlessly, carrying the weight of himself, Telyn and his armor. He walked on as if in a dream for a long time.

He heard a sound when he reached a particularly dark part of the forest. Under different circumstances, the sound would have made him halt, turn and investigate. What was it that rustled about nearby in the gloom beneath the trees? But he kept walking. Reaching the Berrywine was all that mattered.

The forest was so dark, it created purple splotches of color in his vision. There was nothing to see, or so little that each tree came up toward him into his face before he knew it was there. Only his axe-sped reflexes had thus far kept him from slamming into a black trunk or a vine-laden boulder.

Brand heard the thing in the trees behind him again, but he still ignored it, because it did not matter. The axe in his hand twitched excitedly, but he ignored that as well. If his shadow engaged him in speech, possibly he would answer, but he would not stop striding for the shores of the Berrywine. Perhaps it was an enemy who was about to attack. He would let them come, and he would slay them. In truth, he hardly cared what followed. All that mattered was getting Telyn under a roof and into a warm circle of yellow light where her wound might be properly tended.

The rustlings increased. They began to pace him, on both sides and to the rear as well. They carried no lights, whoever they were. He was quite sure now that it was a group of someones or somethings. But still, their origins and their designs mattered little to him. He tracked them, sensing them, but took no other action. His plan was simplicity itself: If they got to close, he would put Telyn over his shoulder or set her upon the ground and he would slay them all. Then he would continue his march.

Then an arrow struck him in the back. He still wore his breastplate, and the arrow spanged off the polished surface. He doubted it had even left a dent.

He could not take the chance they would sink an arrow into Telyn’s unconscious form however, or find a gap in his armor and injure him. He sighed in annoyance. They were not content with just following him. They were not content with their lives.

He stopped marching a few score paces later in an open area between seven trees. To call it a glade or a clearing would be to overstate the case. It was only a gap in the endless sea of growths, nothing more. But it did allow moonlight to shine down and touch him and reflect from the bone-white blades of his weapon. Here, he might be able to see the lie of the ground and the shape of his enemies.

He placed Telyn upon the ground and secured his helmet on his head, adjusting the faceguard. He slid around his shield as well, which had ridden unused for a long time upon his back.

Two more arrows rocked him. One stuck in a wooden corner of his shield. He brushed it off with his axe. Ambros’ yellow eye flared, gleaming as it sheared off the shaft of the arrow. The axe was excited, knowing that bloodshed was near at hand.

“I would know those whom I am about to slay,” said Brand loudly to the seven trees.

No answer came immediately, but the arrows did stop.

More sounds came from the left. He turned that way, his shield raised. Another arrow hit him in the back, but he had his feet set now and ignored it. He suspected whoever they were, they were a small folk. Their arrows weren’t much cause for concern. They were not long enough or fired with enough force to bite through his breastplate and mail.

Still, he didn’t want them to continue to pepper him with arrows from the darkness. He could not charge them without leaving Telyn on the ground, defenseless. Possibly, that was exactly what they wanted and they were simply trying to goad him into a blind attack. Eventually, they may decide to simply shoot Telyn, whose leathers could not stop a shower of arrows and darts.

“Abject cowards, is it? Must I root you out of your holes myself?” he taunted.

Silence reigned for a span of seconds. Then he spotted, by peering into the gloom, a glimmering shape. It hid its body well, so that only a foot or hand came from around the black trunk it hugged.

“Ah, goblins,” said Brand, nodding to himself. He lowered the head of his axe and let it touch the ground. “None are so great a tribe of cowards. Old Hob himself laughs at his minions in private, did you know that? Elves do it openly, scorning your ilk as bald, two-legged rodents.”

A small shower of arrows erupted, which Brand weathered stoically. He counted bows. He suspected there were twenty of them at least.

He laughed. He did it with all the derision he could muster.

A shrill order rang out and the arrows stopped coming. Another goblin showed himself. He had a melon-shaped face that shone with a blue-white glimmer in the moonlight. Fangs like a housecat bracketed his mouth. He appeared to be their captain. A cap of silver sat on his head, no doubt marking his rank.

“You will yield, River Folk,” said this captain.

“Why?” asked Brand reasonably. Inside, he raged. But he wished to contain himself. He needed to save that rage for a more opportune time. That time, he suspected, was soon at hand.

The question seemed to surprise the goblin captain. “Because you are surrounded.”

More faces showed themselves now. To Brand’s surprise, they were not all goblins. There were others present, the dark snouts of rhinogs were not a surprise, but the merlings were. Since when did merlings and goblins march together?

“Your master has given me his word,” shouted Brand into the night. “He withdrew your folk from Cymru. Why have you returned from Eire to break your master’s promise?”

“You speak of Hob,” said the captain. He grinned and his white cat’s fangs gleamed wetly.

“Yes, I speak of Old Hob.”

“It is he that would speak with you. Drop your weapon and crawl here. We have binding fiber ready.”

Then, Brand really did laugh. These folk did not know him. They could not have seen the axe in action at Castle Rabing. It occurred to him that if they did not know him, he could use that to his advantage.

“Very well, you have me surrounded. Simply come forth and grab me, little ones. What do you have to fear? Don’t shame yourselves. I’m alone out here in the woods. If you can’t overpower a single man under the light of the moon, how can you hope to stop our armies?”

“River Folk have no armies,” spat the captain.

But Brand’s words were beginning to work, he could tell. The fact that none of them had yet died emboldened them. They crept forward, two score of them he saw. Half were merlings, accompanied by a dozen goblins and as many rhinogs.

When the pack of them reached the edge of the gap in the trees, Brand gave them all a strange smile. He could not help it. He almost laughed maniacally as well, but that he managed to contain.

There were a lot of them, and they might well pull him off his feet. The rhinogs carried clubs to beat him down. The merlings bore nets. The goblins were in the rearmost rank, naturally. They crept forward with two daggers shaped like rippled icicles, one in each hand.

He realized they were under orders to capture him. All the better, he thought. To capture a man, you must surely come within range of his axe.

A moment later they made their final rush. Rhinogs snarled with clubs upraised. Merlings lifted their nets, swung them overhead and made ready to cast the moment he went down under the thumping storm of clubs. The goblins excitedly lifted their twin daggers and opened their shining maws, mirroring their daggers with their fangs.

It was that moment when Ambros flashed, and yellow lightning fell across forty sneering faces. They barely had time to recoil, to lift their hands to their burnt eyes before Brand’s first cut traveled low and sweeping, horizontally over the ground. He took their legs out from under them, and six blind rhinogs toppled dying to the ground.

Most of the rest clawed at their eyes and dropped their clubs, but a few managed to swing their clubs from behind him. His shoulder caught one blow, his helmet the next. Inside his mind a great sound rang, but he paid it no heed.

The scene took on a dream-like quality for Brand, as blood ran down into his eyes, nose, ears and mouth. The blood was his and others both mixed in many salty flavors. He hewed wildly with the axe now.

Merlings threw their nets, but most tangled themselves or their fellows, their aim spoilt by steaming eyes and sudden terror for this demon who’d stepped from nowhere among them. The nets that reached him he swept from his shoulders and legs with strokes of the axe and then he was enclosed in a struggling knot of them.

To their credit, the rhinogs who he had crippled still strove with him, grabbing blindly with their clawed hands at his feet and pulling away his shield. They had no legs nor working eyes, but they still chewed at his boots and clutched at his greaves.

He hacked them until they stopped moving and then went for the goblins. The merlings had fled, croaking in horror, the moment things had gone wrong. But the goblins had waited to see how their rhinogs fared. The delay soon turned out to be a costly mistake.

Brand ran them down and chopped their heads from their hunched shoulders. Some fought and slashed at him, others fell while running in terror. It mattered little, as either way, if Brand got within range they died.

Brand took several wounds before it was over. The goblin daggers, rippled icicles of cursed metal, were by far the worst. Three of them had left their points within him. Inside his body, like triangular shark’s teeth, he felt the tips worming their way for more vital spots. He might have shorn away his own limbs to stop the tips, if it would have helped. But alas, one was working up his thigh, a second his belly. The third wormed high on his back, trying to cut through his scapula. He might be able to cut that one out easily, if he could reach the spot.

The goblin captain did him the worst injury of all. Missing a leg, the captain didn’t make a hopeless attempt to escape. Instead, he crawled to where Telyn lay helpless. With spite and a hissing sound of satisfaction, he drove the silvery point of his last dagger into Telyn’s back.

Brand sprang back to the spot as if he himself had been stung. Screaming incoherently, he shot a beam of yellow light into the captain and then lopped off his head, which went flying into the night.

But it was far too late. His love lay dying at his feet now. He cared not for his own injuries, which were likely fatal. Instead, his attentions frantically focused upon Telyn. She moaned, feeling the bite of the triangular tooth of cursed metal within her. The agony of it cut through her delirium.

Brand stood over her, breathing through his mouth like an animal. Blood trickled from his lower lip and fell upon the ground, unheeded. They were both dead. He could walk still, but only due to the power of the axe.

He would carry her as far as he could, he decided. But they were both unlikely to see the dawn.

They might yet reach the shore of the Berrywine. He promised himself that he would do this thing. It would be a fitting end, or at least as good a one as he could provide. He would carry Telyn to the River and he would bathe her there as they died together in the moonlight, wading in the waters for which his people were named.

As he lifted her into his arms, flopping and moaning, he heard another sound behind him. It took him a moment to identify it, but then he had it. A clapping sound. Slow, deliberate claps, as if someone mocked a performance.

“That was magnificent!” said a voice. “Absolutely stunning.”

Brand turned, head low, eyes blazing. Telyn lay in his arms, cradled to his body. His chest rose and fell rapidly. Each breath, he knew, he drove the dagger points deeper into his flesh.

The one who clapped was small. Ridiculously small. He stood upon the goblin captain’s head, which had come to rest at the edge of the clearing. Brand knew the figure and the voice. It was Piskin of the Wee Folk.

And the manling now had two hands with which to clap.

“Are you hurt, great knight? Oh dear, if I’m not mistaken, so is your lovely lady fair!”

Brand grinned at him. It was as if death itself split apart his face. “I’m glad you’ve come to gloat, Piskin. I shall enjoy this immensely.”

Piskin sniffed unconcernedly. “No children for you two, I’m afraid. It does an old changeling’s heart a twist, it does. I so hate to see a maiden die before she even produces a litter. Such a waste.”

“You will cease your mocking, manling, or I will slay you now with my last breath. Do not believe that I can’t do it.”

“Then why do stand there jawing, oaf?” asked the other, smiling.

Brand raised the axe, shifting Telyn’s weight. He would burn the little monster, he would burn him through with a tightly focused beam of Ambros’ light. Death had come tonight to him and his, but he could still do the world this final service.

“Hold!” said Piskin, eyes glittering in sudden alarm.

Brand knew the other was only mocking him now, enjoying his death throes the more. Maybe he simply wanted to watch two River Folk die close-up. The axe continued to rise, and the Jewel lit the glade with building light. He would make this beam of light his brightest. The sun itself could not flare so brightly.

Piskin lofted his own two arms and did something Brand did not comprehend. Somehow, a black mist formed in front of him, as if the air itself thickened. Indeed, in less than a second, a dark, liquid-seeming wall formed between them.

But then the power of Ambros was strong in him and he no longer cared. He loosed a beam of light toward his tormenter. He grunted with the passing power of it.

The beam struck the thickened air, which had now become opaque and taken on a reddish flavor. The beam burnt into this circular shield that had formed before Piskin. The beam caused a great hissing. A gout of what could only be steam plumed up. Brand could hear the manling shrieking something, but he didn’t know what the words might be, and he was beyond caring.

But Piskin lived. Frowning, Brand let the beam die down. He was more tired than ever. He was gladdened to see that the manling had slumped down upon the ground and looked worn and terrified.

Piskin raised a hand toward Brand, and even the hand looked strange—twisted.

“I can save her!” said Piskin, as Brand took a step toward him.

“Speak, manling.”

“I can save her. I can save you both. I wield the Red!”

Then Brand saw then the thing that followed Piskin. The thing that stayed close to the manling’s legs like a pet rodent. It was the bloodhound. It returned Brand’s gaze curiously, much as it had the very first time he’d seen it, when it had ridden upon Herla’s steed with that ancient, deathly king.

And Brand, gazing upon it, was just as certain of the hound’s evil intent as he had ever been.

“You have the hound,” said Brand, regarding Piskin with eyes that were half-shut. He knew he did not have long for chatting and fighting. Within an hour or two, he would be slumped upon the ground, axe or no. “You claim yourself to be attuned to it?”

“Did you not see?” exclaimed Piskin, daring to approach one step, then two. “I wielded it just now, in my own defense.”

“Blood magic,” said Brand, trying to think. What had Myrrdin said of it? So long ago, it seemed now. Power over flesh and blood. Healing, wounding, cure and pestilence. All these things were within the power of the Red, and the manner in which it was used depended upon the nature of the wielder. He reckoned that Piskin was more likely to bleed him than to heal him. Perhaps, his own dribbling blood had been part of that used to form the shield that had stopped the burning Eye of Ambros from scorching the little monster.

“Hold, manling. Creep no closer, or you life is forfeit, be you in truthful earnest or filled with deceit.”

Piskin, who had been about to take his fourth step, froze. He returned his foot to the ground beside its brother, thus retreating a fraction.

“Very well. Let us parlay. But, as a token of good faith, I would ask that you set aside the axe.”

Brand laughed. It was an unpleasant sound, and ended with a bout of wet coughing. “You are the one who talks like a youngling fool. You know nothing of the power of the Jewels. The bloodhound already grips your mind, whether you know it or not. If you can spurn the Red, then I will put down the Amber.”

Piskin frowned. He made no attempt to shoo away the bloodhound that crouched at his feet. “Very well. We’ll proceed. Firstly, to demonstrate my good intentions, I will remove that ugly splash that emblazons your face. I will trowel new flesh over your scarred cheek. Poor boy, simply shaving every morning must be an ordeal of self-mutilation. Wouldn’t it be better, on your wedding night, not to make such a pretty maiden look up into a hideous twisted mask?”

Brand grunted. He cared little for his scar. He wanted Telyn to live, and himself second.

Piskin lifted his arms and produced a flashing, tiny blade. He stabbed himself, one hand slashing the other. The blood ran, and the hound at his feet gave excited hops, licking the drops from the air as they fell.

Around him then, the blood of a dozen corpses rose up in tiny dark droplets. Like a cloud of mist that gathered together rather than spread apart, it formed into a ball in Piskin’s upraised hands. He threw the ball toward Brand.

Brand stirred, lifting the axe and suspecting treachery. The ball floated in his direction very slowly, like a giant soap-bubble.

“Touch your cheek to it, Lord Rabing,” said Piskin gently.

With infinite suspicion, Brand approached the undulating globule of blood. Faintly sickened, but allowing hope for Telyn and himself to blossom in his heart, he slid toward the bubble. He first poked his finger into the bubble, one that had sustained a crushing blow from one of the rhinogs. The nail was black and swollen.

There was a strange sensation in his finger. It seemed to him that hot ants crawled over his fingertip. He snatched it back. Piskin made an exasperated sound and gestured for him to continue.

“The sphere won’t last forever. Do you care nothing for your lady? Set aside your superstitions and embrace the finest gift this old changeling has ever bestowed!”

Brand examined his finger, thinking it looked the same to him. But wait... was that a new growth of nail? He pushed his finger back into the purplish mass and left it there for several seconds.

“That’s long enough,” snapped Piskin.

Brand pulled his finger out, and indeed, it appeared to be fully whole again. Pink skin covered the tip. On the back rode a fresh, unblemished nail.

Experimentally, he next touched his cheek to the sphere, the results were the same. He sighed and smiled despite himself when he pulled away from the gelatinous touch of the bubble.  His face was smooth and fresh again. His beard was still gone there, but he suspected it would now grow in to match the rest.

Excitedly, he reached down to take hold of Telyn. He would grab her up, as gently as he could, and lift her into the bubble of mixed bloods. His heart leaped, he would save her after all. He would save them both!

Before he could move further, the bubble popped. A splash of dead blood splattered his boots and wetted the dark glade, which was already sticky with a dozen such fluids.

Piskin chuckled at his dismay. “First, there shall be a bargaining.”

Brand looked up slowly. His eyes were hooded, but he knew he was at the other’s mercy. Such a strange twist of fate, he thought. Here he was, quite probably the most dangerous fighter in Cymru, and he had been bested by a knee-high manling and his tiny hound.

He took a deep breath then, damning the immediate pain created by the wriggling points within his chest and fighting not to cough. He would bargain, if that was how it was to be. He would bargain, but he would not grovel. He would not become Piskin’s creature. He would not abase himself, nor turn traitor and let his axe fall upon the River Folk. He would listen, and decide if death were preferable.

“I will listen to your terms,” he said.

Piskin strode about the place confidently. Now and then, he dipped a finger into a bloody wound or a puddle of gore, and as often or not he tasted the finger. He resembled a smug farmer, judging a ripe field of grain which was more than ready for the harvest.

“What varied and sweet flavors your folk have. I found a bit of yours here, I believe, on this goblin’s blade. These others,” Piskin gave a little shudder, as if revolted. “Not only are they unpleasant flavors to begin with, but the merlings in particular taste like mud. I suppose the bloods of various creatures are not all the same to the distinguishing palate, just as wines from different grapes don’t taste alike. The goblins are bitter, it seems to me. While the rhinogs are simply foul.”

“Are you going to describe your bargain?”

Piskin continued talking as if he had not heard. “But it is all stale, all befouled by death. Like beer left to sit overnight. I need fresh blood, you see, to start any spell. The hound can be fed any blood, but to start things, it needs to be fresh.”

“I don’t have all night, Piskin.”

Piskin halted and faced him. He grinned widely. “No. No indeed, you do not. I’m quite sure of that.”

“So,” said Brand, trying to contain his growing anger. “What would you want in return?”

“A trifling affair.”

“Explain, I grow weary of treating with you.”

“Tired already? Have you lost so much blood as that? A pity. I hear her shallow breathing as well. Your love no longer mewls in your arms. She dreams the final dreams in gray lands beyond our reckoning now.”

“Get on with it then,” Brand snapped. He wished he had thought to thrust his entire body into the bubble now. Perhaps he could have gotten enough healing from it, before Piskin let it pop, to allow him to bargain from greater strength. Mentally, he shrugged. The spell had ended, the opportunity was gone.

“I do believe we can come to an easy arrangement. Firstly, you must agree never to attack me. The axe must never so much as twitch in my direction. There shall be none of your blinding beams of light or slashing about.”

Brand tried hard to think. When bargaining with the Fae, one had to be careful and non-committal. A thoughtful turn of phrase might prevent disaster later.

“I find that agreeable, but reserve the right to defend myself if you or yours attack me or any of the River Folk.”

Piskin tilted his head. His tiny, thin lips pursed themselves. “Fine. Let us move on to the second point, concerning a traitor to my people known as Tomkin.”

Brand snorted. “Tomkin is the traitor?”

Piskin shrugged. “In my way of thinking, yes. There is a debt yet to be repaid with him. I require the Blue Jewel to be transferred into my possession.”

“You think you could wield the Red and the Blue?” asked Brand, taken aback by the other’s audacity.

“My purposes are my own. I ask only your aid. A quick flick of the wrist, I would imagine, would suffice. The bounder would be cut in twain and the Jewel could be easily delivered to me.”

Brand shook his head. “I can’t do as you ask.”

“Not even for your life?” asked Piskin, grinning again.

“No.”

“Not for the life of your lady?”

Brand shook his head. “You ask too much. I will not dishonor myself or my folk in such a manner.”

“Bah! Tomkin would do it in a moment if the roles were reversed.”

“I do not think so,” said Brand. “He is my friend.”

Piskin blew out his cheeks in disbelief.

“It is true. We have a strong friendship, Tomkin and I. That friendship has been earned, not given. As all true friendships must be.”

Piskin peered at him in wonder. “You speak wisely. Ever, it must be so.” He sighed and strutted. “This stubbornness on your part is unforeseen. However, the Blue is not really critical to my personal plans... I suppose I could let it go, and other, sponsoring parties can take up the matter on their own. My circumstances have changed. I no longer need to serve others. In short, I think we can still work a deal, if you will agree to one more trifling detail.”

At this point, a third person entered the conversation. A figure came out of the dark trees behind Piskin, where she had been hiding all along. She wore a white gown, which was torn and dirty. By her swollen belly and haunted face, Brand knew in an instant she must be Mari.

“Brand,” she said, stepping out from the trees where she had been hiding throughout the confrontation. “Lord Rabing, I mean. May I speak with you?”

“Of course,” answered Brand.

“Silence, gross woman!” said Piskin gruffly. “You will attend me shortly, I’ve all but concluded my business here. I won’t have you interrupting your betters. It’s simply rude, even for a peasant girl.”

“Silence yourself, Piskin,” she returned crossly. “We’ve come to the point of parting ways, I believe. This is the Haven, is it not?”

“It is,” said Brand, watching the two of them. “Although we stand within the Deepwood, the Berrywine runs only a mile or two east of here.”

“I’m so glad to hear it,” she said. She turned to Piskin. “We’ve reached the Haven, and I’ve been delivered into the hands of its Champion. I can’t think of a better way to call your part of our bargain finished, Piskin.”

Piskin made an annoyed gesture, flapping his hand at her. Mari advanced and stood near Brand, whose eyes stayed upon the manling. It was quite possible, he knew, that this entire sequence of events was some kind of elaborate ruse. Perhaps, stealing the axe was still the other’s goal.

Mari found Telyn and stooped, trying to administer whatever aid she could. Brand decided he could trust her, and would offer her what protection he could. She was, after all, the reason he had come on this ill-fated expedition.

“You have not yet stipulated your third requirement,” said Brand. Time was pressing. His heart and Telyn’s still beat, but for how much longer? Already, he felt himself sway upon his feet.

“How interesting! How fine a point of my existence this moment is! Shall I request that you kneel before me, axeman? Shall I request you bequeath me the axe?”

“As I said, that is impossible.”

“Ah, but I have only to wait, don’t I? Should I desire a second Jewel, another richly deserved boon for the Wee Folk, it will be mine within the hour.”

“You would not be able to carry it. Not physically, or mentally. Two Jewels—neither properly attuned—you would be lucky to survive a single hour.”

Piskin smiled and nodded. “That makes two of us, does it not, my friend?” He chuckled, enjoying his own joke immensely.

Brand’s brow tightened and again he knew if the matter wasn’t decided soon, he would have to slay this manling, if only to prevent him from torturing any more of his folk. Perhaps Mari would yet walk out of these woods alone, the sole survivor of this dark night.

Piskin sensed his mood. “No feeling for humor, you louts. Very well, the third and final stipulation is that I be allowed to travel the Haven freely, with no form of interference from you or your axe. I must also be allowed, as a changeling, to indulge myself in my natural calling.”

“You mean you wish to steal babes?” asked Brand, taken aback. He had not thought of this wont, not among all the dark ideas he had considered.

Piskin tsked and tutted. “Harsh words,” he said, shaking his head. “I only wish to be comforted by a few of your finest maids. Why, I ask for no more than what any infant would want. Surely, you won’t deny me this simple pleasure in trade for the life of your own lady?”

Brand stared at him. Piskin was indeed a monster. He hesitated, thinking about it. “I can’t do this thing.”

“Hold,” said Piskin, taking a step forward. He leaned excitedly, sensing weakness.

Could it be, thought Brand while he watched the manling, that securing this disgusting indulgence was his primary goal?

“Don’t decide with haste!” said Piskin. “Remember, your own woman lies here in the balance. What’s more, if I simply wait, I may have my pick of your mothers anyway.”

“If you should fall, Lord,” said Mari suddenly from behind Brand, “I will take up your axe myself and cleave this little blighter in two!”

Brand smiled with half his mouth. Somehow, he believed her.

“There’s no need for any of this unpleasantness,” said Piskin. “I’ll add this to the offer as well: none of the Rabing clan’s children will be touched. Nor shall your babe be touched, girl. I’ve had quite enough of your embrace for a lifetime.”

“Take the deal, milord,” Mari hissed at Brand’s back. “Without you, we are all lost anyway.”

Brand turned his eyes to look at Telyn. She had a deathly pallor. She had not moved nor made a sound since the goblin captain had driven home his cursed dagger.

“I accept, but you must bring any stolen babes to my clan, that we may care for them. You are not to dispose of them in the River or the wood,” said Brand. As he said these words, he wondered what new dark path he had set his foot upon.

“We have a bargain, Axeman!” said Piskin. “Stand well back. My hound thirsts.”

Piskin set to work, loosing his Blood magic immediately. He began by methodically stabbing every nearby body. A few moaned and squirmed, not yet corpses. A great ball of blood formed over his head and floated behind him and his hound. The bloodhound, for its part, licked the open wounds of every corpse greedily.

“So much blood,” cackled Piskin. “Surely even you, my pet, will be sated tonight!”

Brand watched, sickened, as the healing ball came to them and he bathed Telyn in it, allowing its sticky embrace to repair limb, skin and punctured organ.

After a few minutes of bloody, stinking work, four silvery points twisted out of their bodies, one from Telyn and three from himself. The points clinked upon the ground and wriggled there like exposed worms. The metallic points died slowly, as if they were indeed worms, twisting upon a hot slab of sunlit stone.

Chapter Thirteen

The Dead Speak

Oberon had but one call yet to make. This last one, the most crucial, would tip the balance of power clearly in his favor, should he be successful. He had little to offer the Dead, however, except a great bounty of new minions.

Even Oberon, ancient and knowing as he was, did not seek the Dead without trepidation. Of all the folk of Cyrmu, they were easily the most mysterious. Their motivations were strange—twisted. They did not seek to build. They did not seek to destroy. Some thought they sought rest, but why then did they occasionally march upon the land and the floor of the sea, slaying all that stood before them?

Any sane being feared the Dead and their awesome power. If they all arose at once, how could the living hope to prevail against them? What generation of any folk were not outnumbered by all their passed on ancestors, should they decide to rise up from their cold slumber and slay their own descendants?

The Dead felt nothing, most of them. Not sorrow, remorse, joy or pity. Certainly pain and mercy were beyond them. Those times they had marched in the past—and Oberon was old enough to remember several such events—they had devastated all that stood in their path. They had consumed the living, adding them to their own ranks as fresh troops with every bloody yard of ground gained. They had only been stopped by some failure within their own multitudes, some signal to sleep once more.

It was quite mysterious, and Oberon quailed somewhat, for only he knew the real nature of what he attempted to release. But such was his desire to return things to their rightful balance, with the Shining Folk clearly dominant, that he was willing to risk the entire world. Some would think him mad, but then, other folk commonly considered all the Fae to be half-mad at best. Oberon smiled grimly at the thought. Perhaps there was a grain of fact in their judgment of his people.

One of the many benefits of immortality was that you eventually learned, after some millennia, where things lay. In this case, he knew where the Dead had gone to ground, where they had sought refuge from the random buzzing of the living. A spot where they could rest, relatively undisturbed for one lazy century after another.

The Dead Kingdoms were empty of the living, but most of their citizens had never left. They had simply been interred. One spot, in particular, had a catacomb of note. A fantastic affair, full of a thousand layers of dusty skulls, cobwebbed archways and segmented, scuttling things.

Castle Anwyn had been the greatest of all nine of the destroyed castles of the Dead Kingdoms. Only a dozen miles from Castle Rabing, it was said to have suffered more than any of the other great structures of stone.

It was at Anwyn, amongst the blasted, tumbled masonry and cratered earth, that Oberon found a particularly soupy spot in the land. He stood atop a great granite head that sat in a pocket of mud. The head, an effigy of King Arawn in life, was in a sorry state. The statue’s great eyes bulged at horrors unseen. Its great mouth, from which had once poured sweet water, was cracked and obscenely agape.

It was into this granite orifice Oberon crawled and soon vanished from the light of day. Behind the mouth was a brass throat, still intact nine centuries after it had ceased to pump water for the people of the square. The throat was dry now, but it still led downward, to a place forgotten by man and beast. All had forsaken this kingdom, save the few immortals old enough to recall this place as it had once been, a place of glory and achievement brought low in a terrible war.

As Oberon slid down the brass throat, careful to not slice himself in twain on the jagged fittings that were worn and snapped with age and destruction, he thought of how the world had changed. Once, this spot had been a wonder to visit. Even his own people, sly and cunning in their ways, had been impressed by human ingenuity. They were not builders, his people. Craftsmen yes, none could make a better pair of shoes or a sharper lance. But they tended not to build huge impressive structures. His folk lived closer to the land, often without anything grander for a home that a treetop with leaves woven into a nest, or a hollow spot inside a great tree, or—nothing at all. A bare clean spot upon the grass did as well as any featherbed for many of his kind.

So different were the humans and the Kindred from the Fae. Perhaps such differences helped drive them to war occasionally. But he knew that wasn’t the main cause of strife. The primary motivator of all war was always the same in Cymru: The Dragon’s Eyes. They drove men and Fae alike mad, whether they possessed them or desired them, it was all the same.

The irony of this thought, given the nature of his present quest, caused a rippling laugh to erupt from his fine thin lips.

Reaching the bottom of the ancient brass throat, he found only enough water left in the cistern to splash lightly over the tops of his shoes. He landed lightly, and on his feet. He brought out his blade and stood crouched, listening. One never knew, in such places, what might be disturbed by the passing of a living person, even one so whisper-footed as he.

Nothing stirred, save a few collected drops of water from the ceiling of the cistern, so he continued on his way. He had far to travel.

Below the plumbing and the wells, he found the dungeons, which were best bypassed. Most likely, their contents were long since faded to dust. But if something there still stirred, it would be well-thought to circuit around. He found a hidden spot, another shaft once used for sewage which led much deeper down to the catacombs proper. It was there he collided with his first obstacle.

A single beast, made up of many churning legs and a thick black carapace, sensed him in the dark and felt for him, waving sensory appendages. Oberon quickly removed those, but except for a mild hissing, the beast had no reaction. The centipede came for him, sensing him in some other fashion that was not immediately apparent, for the thing had no eyes.

Unerring mandibles sought his flesh. He found that his blade, as fantastically sharp as it was, could not slash them away. He bounded upward, onto its back, and before it could curl around and jab him and tear his flesh, he slipped his blade between the armored interlocking curves of its back. He flicked his weapon side to side, and in an instant the work was done. The creature fell apart into two, thrashing halves.

Oberon bounded away again, satisfied. The thing would not die for a long time, he suspected, but it was no longer capable of effective locomotion. And so he left it to squirm and hiss in the darkness.

His second encounter was entirely different and more dangerous. To prevent grave-robbers, a group to which he might be considered a member, the builders of this deep place had set upon the walls and ceiling a great variety of small dark holes. Each hole led to a reservoir of black dust, something vicious left over from the ancient wars.

He triggered one such trap by placing his foot carelessly upon a cobble that shifted fractionally under his foot. Feeling the shift, and thusly warned, he sprang back, doing a complete backward flip before landing upright.

Using the tiny light of his glimmering blade, he saw the black dust, floating between the stones of the archway. He retreated further. One nostril full of that stuff, he knew, and his lungs would turn to bubbling slag. He sought and found another route around the traps, avoiding the slightly ovoid-shaped cobbles that triggered them.

Then came the Great Stair. As if built for underground dwelling giants—and perhaps it was—Oberon came to the top of the stair and looked down, vexed and uncertain. He had already spent many hours in this place. Could it be he wasted his time? If he traveled downward another mile or so, he knew, he would reach the chamber where King Arawn had been unsuccessfully put to rest. But would the king still be there, puttering about, having simply waited for this visit for a dozen centuries?

Oberon tapped his fingers upon his face. He was within the other’s realm now, so he decided to call upon him. For that strategy, this spot was as good as any other.

“King Arawn? I, King Oberon, would have words with thee.”

His eyes slid about the dark cavern for several seconds. Water dripped.  Somewhere, a tiny underground breezed sighed. Pebbles ticked as they fell upon larger stones.

He lifted his blade aloft for what little light it gave. He peered around the cavern and down the great spiraling steps, each cut stone block a dozen feet wide and three feet lower than the last.

It was there, in the mirror-polished surface of the blade, that he caught the reflection of something approaching from behind.

Oberon gave a hop, landing atop a spherical knob that crowned the banister that followed the Great Stair down into the abyss from which it came. The banister was as tall as a man and far thicker. As he hopped, he spun, so that he might turn to face the thing that approached him.

It was not, he was sorry to see, King Arawn.

He recognized her, however. His pulse quickened, for not even the Lord of the Fae was completely immune to the deathly charms of the Shining Lady.

“Lady,” he said, bowing deeply at the waist and sweeping his cap from his head. “Has your lord sent you to treat with me?”

“You are no King,” said the other.

Oberon blinked in annoyance. Ever were the Dead sticklers for formality. He supposed it was in their nature to be so.

“Perhaps I overspoke the case,” he said smoothly, replacing his cap upon his head.

“Why have you come?”

“To speak with your King, as I have said.”

“The Dead do not wish to be disturbed,” she said, floating a yard closer.

Oberon swallowed. He did not close his eyes, however, as others did to evade her power. He faced her unearthly beauty and gazed into her ethereal eyes. His gaze met hers, and his eyes burned, but he kept them fixed. His chest pounded, and there was a rushing in his ears. He thought vaguely, with idle amusement, that this must be what it was for a mere human to face one of the Fae.

“Lady, excuse my rudeness, but I must ask your purpose.”

“Milord?”

“I know that you are the consort of the King, but not his Queen. Therefore, you do not speak for Arawn.”

There was a moment of cold silence between them. It seemed to him that she flowed less softly, that her lips were less perfectly pursed into a puckering shape for sweet kissing. Could she be angered? He could not be sure.

“You speak truly,” she said at last.

“Then I must ask, are you here in an official capacity? Has your King sent you to me, to entreat in his name?”

Another hesitation. “No. I wish to entreat with you personally.”

Oberon chuckled and shook his head. “I’m sorry, milady. I mean absolutely no offense, but I can hardly imagine another of the living better equipped to resist your charms—as intensive and lovely as they may be.”

“No. You misunderstand. I ask you—not for myself. I ask you—not for the Dead.”

“Then, milady, for whom do you speak?”

“I speak for the Living.”

Oberon chuckled at the irony of her statement. “Very well!” he said, hopping up and putting his hands on his bent knees. “And we are glad for your patronage, I’m certain.”

“You mock, but still I will ask.”

“And what, pray tell, do you ask of me?”

“To give over your folly, elf lord. To take your foot from the path you are on, before you lead all the Living into destruction.”

And so Oberon gazed into her eyes curiously, more deeply than before. He saw there something that surprised him. He saw within her, ghost though she might be, an unexpected, earnest concern. He knew that she spoke the truth, as she knew it. That she felt concern. Such an emotion he had never known among the Dead, as it was rare enough in his own folk who still breathed. She did not seek to deceive him, he felt, for after a so many centuries of life, he had grown quite good at divining a lie.

Troubled, he straightened his mocking stance and faced her squarely. “I thank you for your concern, milady. And in truth, it troubles my heart. But I am determined, and will not be swayed from my path.”

“Then I can only hope that you fail, elf,” she said. With these words, she faded from sight, turning to vapor, then mist, then a wisp of cold air.

Oberon faced the Great Stair again. He began to hop down them, two at a time. If his fate were here under the earth, he would rush to meet it, he decided.

At long last, he reached the burial chamber of King Arawn. The chamber itself was daunting, built as it was out of a thousand bones, each pressed and folded into shape. Strangely, although the floor was uneven, it served as well as might wicker to walk upon. He found King Arawn on a slab of marble in the midst of this odd room. A pile of bones he was as well, as if to match his surroundings. His white robe had rotted away and his crown had slipped from his fleshless pate. A silver rod lay across the curve of his ribs to be clutched by twin fans of laced finger bones.

Oberon spoke the name of King Arawn thrice, and the bones did stir.

“Who disturbs my rest?”

“It is I, Oberon, King of the Elves.”

“The elves serve no king,” said the other, irritating Oberon on a fine point of formality twice in one day.

King Arawn was up now, and faced the elf. He took a step forward, and used his rod as an old man would use a cane, leaning heavily upon it.

“I can scarcely believe even a foolhardy elf would come to find me here.”

Oberon’s smile flickered. “I came to bargain with you, King.”

The skull nodded. It took a shambling step forward and lifted a network of rustling bones. It was the lich’s hand. The hand gestured, indicating he should approach and kneel.

Oberon did not move. “I said I was here to bargain.”

“Of course, and you have only a single thing to bargain with, fool. Now, come here. I would caress your fine locks. I have not tasted an immortal soul for many a year.”

“I have more to give you than that, sire,” said Oberon. His legs tensed, he readied himself to leap.

“Oh, don’t tell me this is to be some kind of contest? How annoying. Can’t you see I’m bent over my cane?”

The lich shuffled forward, and Oberon, trying to retain his dignity, stepped to one side and around. The chamber wasn’t all that large, however, and he was soon forced to circle.

“I don’t think I have made my meaning clear. I wish to form an alliance. I lead a great army, an army of a dozen races. We march to war.”

“To war, you say?” said Arawn. He paused in his shuffling approach. With both sets of knuckles, he leaned upon his rod.

“Yes, my good King. I need your forces. I need you to raise the Dead and march with me.”

“Whatever for?”

“Why, to ensure that I win the battle, sire.”

The lich threw back his skull then. The lower jaw sagged open and a strange rattling, gargling sound emanated from it. Oberon realized after a moment that he was being laughed at. Unused to scornful treatment, his eyes narrowed. He wondered if taking the thing’s head from its shoulders was perhaps not the best idea after all.

The laughter went on and on. Finally, face reddened and brow storming, Oberon turned and made ready to leave.

In that instant, the laughter stopped. “Hold! I wish to show you something, foolish elf lord. You who would be king of a folk who will never serve a king.”

Reluctantly, Oberon turned to eye the other. “What would you show me?”

“This!” said King Arawn. He lifted his rod from the floor, now clearly having never needed it to stand erect. A darkness emanated from the rod and a thousand bones rose up from the floor, then the ceiling, and finally the very walls themselves. A thousand arms extended, white dusty bones all, and five thousand fingertips of ash-grey grasped.

Oberon was held fast, though he sprang up into the air. There was simply no safe place to land. Every inch of his flesh was firmly grasped in hard bone, clutching as they did with cruel, mindless strength. Every bone left an individual impression, sinking deeply into his skin.

Held fast, he did not bother to struggle. “And what was it that you wished to show me?” asked Oberon, mocking to the last.

King Arawn shook his skull and glided forward, his foot bones sliding over the floor of twisting, fleshless arms. The lich came close indeed and tilted its skull to one side, as if curious.

“I relish souls such as yours, you know. They are fine-flavored. Full of memories, both foolish and wise. It would be a delight to drink your life from you, it is the only sensation left to me now.”

Oberon tried not to fear, but he could not help it. He wondered where a soul might go, after having been drunk by such a creature as King Arawn. Still, he stared back at the other evenly. Perhaps, he thought, this was what the Shining Lady had been alluding to. He wished she could have been more clear.

“Then get about it, lich. I’ll not beg.”

“But I won’t,” said Arawn, shaking his skull sadly. He floated away, and the countless finger bones loosened their grip, unknitting themselves from Oberon’s bruised limbs. Oberon stood with difficulty.

“Will you march with me then?”

“Never, my ancient fool,” said King Arawn.

“And why would you let my fine-tasting soul escape?”

“Because fools such as you are far more useful to me whilst alive.”

As Oberon exited the crypt, he thought at times to hear the mocking laugh of King Arawn floating up behind him.

He vowed, should he live long enough, to return one day and burn out this foul place.

Chapter Fourteen

A Babe is Born

Less than a month after her ordeal in the forest, Mari found herself in her parents’ house again, going through another ordeal, but one with a far sweeter ending. Her babe was born one fine morning in mid-spring. Outside, the sun shone bright and strong. Beams of sunlight streamed in from the blue skies, and every time her mother tried to draw the curtains, she begged her to leave them flung wide. Somehow, the floating flecks of golden dust gave her something to focus on, relieving her pain.

The birth went relatively smoothly, and her fears shifted once it was over with. Would it be a troll, as the old crone in the forest had hinted? Would she have made something that bore fangs and fur and wanted only to creep upon her roof at night? The birth itself had been bad enough, but it was torment of an entirely different kind to have no idea what she was she birthing.

She’d been somewhat relieved to know it could not have been covered in spikes and hooked talons. She would have been ripped apart and likely bled to death if that were the case. But many a twist of flesh were still possible, even if it was smooth-skinned.

Her first hint of good tidings came when she saw her mother’s eyes. Before the baby was out, her mother had mirrored her fright, sucking on her lower lips with every moan and heaving contraction Mari had given all morning. Both had been hoping for the best, but fearing the worst, all day. Neither had voiced their concerns, not wanting to fan the flames of worry in the other.

But as the babe came out and her mother’s hands reached down to take it up and sever the cord with an old pair of thick knitting shears, Mari stared at her mother’s face. Mother would be the first to see it. The first to know the truth, awful as it might be.

Concern, yes. Horror, no. Mari could stand it no longer.

“What is it, mother? What is it?” she asked.

Her mother looked up at her, and gave her a smile. “It’s a boy,” she said. “A boy with a full head of hair. Each lock is like spun silver.”

And so she spoke the truth. After bathing him and swaddling him, she brought Mari her boy, her first grandchild. The boy, unlike most human babies, never cried. Never a peep came from him. But he suckled well enough, and Mari smiled down at him. Tears ran down her face silently. She had never seen such beauty in a child before, she didn’t know they could possess it. As well, her tears were those of relief. She did not have to care for a troll. With a pair of shears she could keep his hair cropped. With a snug cap, no one would even know. She could lead a normal life.

“Mari,” said Mother, sitting on the rocker beside the bed. She eyed the babe with mixed emotions. “I think it’s time we had a talk.”

Mari glanced at her, then turned her eyes back to her babe. She felt so relieved, she doubted her mother could upset her on this fine day. She began to wonder, having strange thoughts. Had the birth come at midnight, rather than midday, would the results have been different? It seemed like a silly thought, but with the Fae one never knew.

“Mari,” said Mother. “You told me the father wasn’t from the Haven. I had always assumed you meant he was one of these new drifter folk, these people who drag wagons behind bow-backed oxen. But now, I want you to tell me of the father.”

Mari looked at her for a moment. She sighed. There was so much she’d left out of her tales with mother. But now was the time, she supposed. She told her mother of Puck, of their meeting in the woods. Of her dancing and her ward of a double ash-leaf.

Her mother was naturally appalled. “He might have ridden you to death! He was a villain, a—a,” words failed her.

“I chose to lie with him in the end, Mother,” she said.

“Yes, but an elf? What were you thinking, Mari?”

“I wasn’t thinking, Mother. He was so different. I don’t know if you can understand the allure. Not unless you meet them.”

“My first grandson is an elf,” said Mother, deflating into her rocker. “Did you somehow forget we just fought a war with these creatures? That we are likely to do so again any day now?”

Mari heaved a sigh. She flicked the silver locks of her babe’s hair about his head, reshaping them. It would be a shame to have to cut it, she thought. The locks were quite beautiful. “Isn’t he beautiful, though, mum?”

They both sighed and gazed at the child, who gazed back with big intense eyes. Mari had to wonder, seeing his gaze, what he was thinking of them. Could it be as they said? That elves were born wise?

* * *

At twilight, as evening fell over the land, there came a knock at their door. Mari, who had been dozing, sat upright, sucking in her breath. She felt something. Her eyes went to her babe, who was awake as well in his basket beside her. His big eyes were wide. He had still yet to make a sound in this world. She wondered at that. Could it be that elf babies didn’t cry?

She gathered him up and held him to her chest. She wondered who was at the door.

She could hear words spoken. Her father’s voice was a bass rumble through the floor. Her room, on the second floor, had only a row of pine planks between it and the parlor below.

Her mother’s voice now, and then a stranger’s. She looked at her babe, and he looked back. Somehow, she felt she should leave again. She had come home for the birth, and things had gone well. Her parents had been apologetic. Everything had been forgiven, or at least had been dropped.

But she didn’t completely trust them, especially not her mother. What if she had sent for someone? Someone like the crone in the forest? Someone who took gold to rid a family of a little problem like her silver-haired son, who she had not even managed to name yet.

She hugged the babe, and had to remind herself not to squeeze him too tightly.

Footsteps came upon the stair. Her breath quickened. It was too late to run, and she was too weak in any regard.

She took up the knitting shears her mother had used to cut the babe’s cord. She slid them underneath the pillows piled behind her back. Her babe, she noticed, watched her with big dark eyes.

“It’s okay,” she told him, not knowing it was or not, but lying the way every parent does to every child in bad moments. “Everything is going to be fine.”

The babe’s eyes slid to the door, and hers followed.

Her mother opened the door. She looked in at her, and then backed into the hall. “She’s awake. You can speak to her, I suppose.”

Lord Rabing walked in then. He had removed his helmet. He looked even more strikingly handsome now, with his scar gone and his beard shaved away.

Mari sighed with relief. “I’m glad it’s only you. You gave me a fright.”

“I’m sorry,” said Brand. He looked behind him. “But I’m not the only one here. I’ve brought another who would speak to you. Will you see him?”

Mari opened her mouth to ask who, but stopped herself. She stared at Brand, at his worried, slightly embarrassed face. She knew who it was then. Her heart began to pound anew. What should she do?

“All right, send him in.”

Puck walked into her room and Brand shut the door behind the two of them.

Puck smiled at her. “You are as lovely as when first we met,” he said.

“Perhaps in your eyes,” said Mari. Her words came out harshly, but she was already blinking back tears.

“This is the babe? A boy? I hope all is well.”

“I’m fine.”

“Excellent,” he said.

The conversation lagged. Tears rolled down Mari’s face. She could not face him.

“I can see you are overcome with emotion. Perhaps I should not have come.”

“Why did you abandon me? Us?”

Puck paused. He blinked at her, as if the question had never occurred to him. “Abandoned? We had an arrangement.”

“You must have known how I’ve suffered. What I went through. How I searched the Twilight Lands for you. You must have known.”

Puck approached the bed, intrigued now. Without asking, he climbed onto the bottom of her bed and sat with crossed legs. “You have been to the Twilight Lands? What must I have known, sweet Mari?”

Mari stared at him. Her babe strained in her arms, turning his head to look at Puck. It was strange behavior for a newborn, she thought.

She proceeded to tell him her tale. When he got to the part concerning Piskin, his face changed from surprise, to a frown. By the end of her story, his face was dark with anger.

“A changeling,” he said, as if trying to wrap his thoughts around something inconceivably monstrous. “He took you to the Twilight Lands to sacrifice you. To bleed our babe to feed the hound.” He nodded slowly, as if some parts of her story had knitted together with thoughts of his own. Then his attention turned to the babe.

“Might I see the babe?”

Mari’s arms tightened reflexively. She didn’t want him jumping out the window with her child, who she’d gone through so much to bring into the world. Grudgingly, she turned him to face his father.

“Might I take a pin and prick his foot?”

“No! Whatever for?”

“To be sure.”

She almost said, to be sure of what, but stopped herself. She looked at her babe. Could it be? Could this be a changeling? Perhaps, as she slept... But no! She thought hard. It could not be.

“If you are Piskin,” she told the babe, “I will be forced to burn you in my mother’s stove. And after, I will likely cast myself into the Berrywine with my pockets full of stones.”

Puck came near. She could not release the babe in her hands. Puck inspected him closely, and the babe did inspect the elf in return.

Puck went to the fireplace, and he performed a rite of exorcism. It was done differently than she had heard in tales. An egg was blown, but nothing was brewed within it. Instead, it was tossed unbroken into the flames to sizzle there.

Puck shook his head when he finished. He laughed, and the sound of it was fresh and full of life again. Mari smiled at him, despite all her worries. It was good to hear his laugh again. It reminded her of happier times.

“The babe is just that,” pronounced Puck, coming to her and kissing her suddenly. She responded and they smiled at each other, their faces close.

“Here, take this,” he told her, pressing a small, hard object into her palm. It was a ring of fine silver. Very fine scratching script decorated its face. She could not read it, as the script was not in the language of the River Folk.

“What does it say?”

“It is my signet. Show it to any of the Shining Folk and they will know you are my consort.”

Puck kissed the babe’s silver locks then, and opened her window. Outside, it was a black night. The winds were fresh and cool.

“Where are you going?” she asked him in sudden concern. She had hoped that he might stay. She had hoped he might, somehow—impossibly—try to become a proper father.

“Why, to find Piskin, of course.”

“What for?”

Puck shook his head slightly, as if her questions were silly, the answers being so obvious that only a child would ask them. He tilted his head and gazed at her warmly. He smiled at her, and his pleasant expression filled her heart with new hopes.

“I will first slice out his heart, his eyes and his lungs. I will set aside each part, each limb, and each finger. I will bury these slices in different eldritch places, so that forever they will haunt the land, every ghostly piece searching the long nights for its brothers.”

He vaulted out the window then, and Mari looked after him into the quiet dark.

She shuddered, closed the window, and suckled her babe. After a moment’s thought, she slipped the silver ring onto her finger. In the darkness, it shone with a blue radiance.

* * *

It was Lanet who found the babe. Dripping wet, half-frozen and squalling, it lay upon the porch of Rabing house. They didn’t recognize the newborn, and there was nothing left with the child to identify it. She took it in, calling for Jak. They looked at one another, and Jak nodded. They would care for the babe until such a time as they heard of a mother who had lost a child. Brand had warned them such a thing might happen, but hadn’t explained why.

Piskin left Jak and Lanet behind. The babe was no longer his concern, and he was glad to be rid of the beastly thing. He trotted briskly to the river and dove in. He swam to a series of handy rocks that poked above the surface. He left Rabing Isle behind and hopped from stone to stone, grumbling all the while with intense dissatisfaction. He should never have made such an absurd deal with that lumbering farm-boy, axe or no. Many a moment he had been sorely tempted to simply drop the babe in the forest or into the deeps of the Berrywine. But he had not done so. He had kept his word, as his kind, even the lowest of them, were ever compelled to do.

He cared not a wit for the babe, of course. He cared only that it had been a screamer and a fatter load than most. He had been forced to carry it an absurd distance, not just to a scouted disposal point, but all the way to Rabing Isle. He lamented the fact that his folk had such a sense of honor and kept their word so tightly. To be completely duplicitous would be so much easier and more true to his nature. He did suppose that if his folk never kept their word, however, bargains would be few and far between.

He tried to stop thinking and to focus on covering ground as quickly as possible. He had been forced to carry the babe far too long. The mother, off to milk the cows as they lowed for relief at dawn, would not be absent forever. Already, she might have come back to check on her sleeping infant. If that were the case, he would return to the outlying farm and be treated to her screaming and histrionics, something he’d heard quite enough of lately. Shifting into the form of her babe then would arouse strong suspicions. Not even the River Folk were that gullible. She would have a ward on his neck before the day was out, and then all would be lost.

He tried to keep his mind on the positive as he ran. She was a lovely, lonely maid. Perfect for Piskin’s purposes. He’d taken his time with his choice, hunting amongst a dozen young wives for one who truly piqued his interest. He had to account his luck as good in this one regard: many new folk had come into the Haven from wilder lands of late. They were often wide-eyed, simple people who’d never seen anything outside of their home villages. The Riverton council handed out title to parcels of scrub land all along the Havenwood, and let them scratch out a living there as they might. They built their tiny cabins and dugouts, and soon enough began raising fine litters.

Piskin had held out for the best this time. He’d found plenty of sagging matrons with a half-dozen brats crawling around their skirts, but they did nothing for him. A thorough search had paid off in time, at last bringing into his sights a charming female with apple cheeks and a tiny, upturned nose. She was full of life and song, humming as she worked the day alone in her tiny cabin long the Berrywine. Her husband left early, as soon as the sun rose, to work at a sawmill downriver. The situation was perfect, except for one thing: a damnably long run from Rabing Isle, not even mentioning the cold swim.

He’d watched the maid and her habits for days before making his move and stealing the babe. First thing every fair day, she saw off her husband, fed the babe, and then went to milk the cows and perform countless other chores around the tiny farm.

Piskin, peeping in through chinks in the hastily constructed cabin, had bounded in the window and stole the babe in a thrice. Taking great leaps as he ran, he’d made off into the woods with the child immediately. He’d wanted to put as much distance between himself and the mother as possible before the babe fully awoke and began bawling. After depositing it upon Rabing Isle as he’d promised, he now traveled with even greater speed back toward the farm.

The bloodhound had been able to keep up when Piskin had been weighed down with the babe, but was now left behind. It set up a most pitiful baying, and Piskin was forced to gather it up and carry it, even as he had the babe. He cursed and muttered, but bore the hound as fast as he could. There was no time to lose.

As it was, he barely made it. She was stepping in the doorway, even as he popped in the window and dove into the cradle. He changed into a fair semblance of her brat in a moment, and hoped she wouldn’t be wise to him.

She came forward hesitantly. She frowned at him, and he tried to act like a baby, but it was difficult. He was out of practice and annoyed.

“What are you frowning about, sweets?” she asked. “My you must be kicking hard, the entire cradle is rocking.”

Believing he might have pulled it off, Piskin kicked and cooed. It was all coming back to him now.

She stood over him, and her face softened. That worried look, the suspecting one he hated so much, faded from her brow.

Piskin knew he shouldn’t, but he had waited so long he couldn’t help himself. He gave his hunger cry. He squeezed his eyes tightly and worked tiny fists in the air.

“Are you hungry again?” she asked, coming near. “You are a greedy little fellow today.”

She picked him up and took him to the rocker. Piskin allowed himself a smirk. He had found a new home.

Chapter Fifteen

The Kindred Boil

Atop Snowdon there sat a cap of ice that had yet to melt in the spring sunshine. Up there, all was peaceful, with cold breezes and bright skies.

Hidden beneath the hollowed mountaintop lay the Kindred city. There, Gudrin and her folk were hard at work. It had been a busy month indeed beneath Snowdon. Instead of a single prototype of the walking, crab-like machines known to their ancestors as crawlers, they now had more than thirty. There were different constructs too. Golems, a full squad of them, stood with infinite, motionless patience. Each more than a dozen feet tall and nearly as wide, they were armed and armored with heavy axes in each seven-fingered fist. When the time came, these beings of cold stone, animated by the spirits of captured earth elementals, would unleash all their pent up fury, taking out their rage at being captives upon whatever flesh dared draw near. Until activated, the granite golems stood stock still, only their eyes hinting at the seething hate that lived inside.

Gudrin had personally worked the forges to help construct the steam-driven bombards. Looking like gigantic tilted urns, they rode on four wheels and required twenty goats or Kindred to drag them. They had precious few bombards as yet, only a handful. She had personally cut their trigger mechanisms and bloomed out their pot-bellied boilers from single blocks of glinting brass. She, with a single finger of white-hot flame, could cut and mold metal as others would shape clay or candle wax, but she could not be everywhere at once.

The first of the great bombards had exploded upon use. This wasn’t entirely unexpected, but three mechnicians had suffered ghastly wounds and lost limbs in the process. Perhaps, Gudrin thought regretfully, after the wars that were coming she would sculpt them clockwork limbs so they might do useful work again.

The second bombard had operated properly. Using the south wall of Snowdon as a target, the machine had hurled a series of bouncing stone balls more than two thousand paces. Fortunately, no one died in the mushroom fields when the shots fell short. After a hundred or so firings, she declared the bombard functional, and ordered that six more be built.

The majority of the smiths worked on arms and armor, naturally. Although not as impressive or terrifying as their war machines, the backbone of any Kindred army had always been their heavy infantry. Thousands of scaled suits and heavy, beaked helms were manufactured in an organized fashion. To supplement the work, she threw open the doors of her armory, which fortunately had escaped the wrath of Fafnir in the basements of the crumbled citadel. There, shining as they had in the darkness for a thousand years, lay an axe for every Kindred beneath Snowdon.

The expedition she had ordered into the Everdark after the kobold raiders had failed to find the enemy in the upper galleries. They had returned, as ordered, after searching a mile deepward into the depths.

Gudrin gritted her teeth as she listened to the shamed captain’s report. They had not moved fast enough. They had even lost a dozen or so troops to the endless traps of the enemy. A complete win for the kobolds, well-executed. She thanked the commander for following her orders, for having not led his troops to their final destruction.

“They planned the entire thing. They worked hard to frustrate you, to bring you so deep you could not retreat. You did well to return.”

“I failed,” said the captain, abjectly. “The least I could do was follow your orders, my queen.”

Gudrin nodded. She pursed her lips. She fought down her anger. She felt the need to strike the captain, but that was just Pyros flaring up. She wondered, not for the first time, how things might have gone if Modi or Hallr had gained possession of the Orange. They would have gone feral the moment they tasted warm ale and slain the innkeep. She almost smiled at the thought, but did not want to confuse her captain, who expected at the very least harsh words.

“It’s my judgment that you did well, considering the circumstances. It was my failure to order the reprisal be so quick and undermanned. There will be no such mistake again. We will take two squadrons of the crawlers down this time, each with a full regiment of warriors in new armor will follow behind each squadron of machines.”

“‘We’, my queen?”

She nodded. “I will command the second regiment and the expedition. We must test these machines anyway. The kobolds are to be plucked squalling from their holes.”

“Yes—yes, my queen,” said the captain, eyes wide.

And so the following morning they marched. They encountered many traps, as she expected. Kobold sappers had been as hard at work as her own people. But the wisdom of the new crawler design soon showed itself effective. When great blocks fell upon them, they did not crack open, and the killing tines were able to lift away the blocks and shunt them aside.

Always, the expedition continued, making rapid, deepward progress. When they passed the upper galleries and were more than a mile deep, the magnesium bowels began. That region was fraught with its own unique dangers, but at least the troops could spread out and breathe something besides the choking fumes of the crawlers.

It was among the dusty hillocks of the bowels that the first enemy attacks came. Showers of a black-headed darts fell among them. Most clanked upon scales, helms or upraised shields. Rarely, however, they sunk into a crescent of exposed flesh. Grunting in pain, troopers snapped the darts off and tossed them away, or sagged down, depending on the location of the strike. When the Kindred charged their tormentors, the enemy melted away into bolt holes and behind crags. Fully armed and armored, the heavier troops could not catch them.

Gudrin ordered her crawlers to spread out on a wider front, flanking the troopers. Each tunnel they came upon was shot full with gouts of dribbling wet flame. The Kindred smiled grimly when bubbling screams erupted.

Onward they marched, snapping crossbows at the elusive kobolds that continued to harry their flanks. She kept up a killing pace, letting the wounded drop where they may. Exposed in the relatively open area of the bowels, she could not afford to wait. They must reach the enemy villages and force them to engage in defense of their territory.

After two days in the bowels, scouts returned with news of a broad shaft that led to signs of heavy habitation. They followed the trail, and met up with their first true resistance.

A surprising number of kobolds made their stand at the mouth of their cave. They snapped darts, sprang up from beneath hidden dusty holes in the midst of the Kindred ranks and stabbed any back they could reach. A few Kindred fell, and Gudrin had to admire the kobold spirit. They were all quickly overwhelmed by the heavy armament of her troopers, however. The crawlers jerked forward with their killing tines and ran the enemies through. Showers of crossbows snapped in answer to the darts. The unarmored ranks of the kobolds trading fire with them, but soon grew ragged and broke.

The Kindred pursued them, whooping, into the broad cavern. Surely, an enemy village must lie within. Instead of a helpless village, however, they ran into an ambush. Side tunnels ran to either side. A dozen huge elders charged from both flanks against them. They each carried a stone club, the usual weapon of larger kobolds. Those clubs, while fearsome weapons when wielded by ten foot elders, were not what caught Gudrin’s attention. The weapons that each elder held in its off-hand were far more riveting.

They were lances, silver-tipped, of a fine length and wand-like thinness as to arouse her suspicions immediately. The kobolds were, simply put, incapable of producing such elegant weaponry.

There was no time to call a retreat. The corridor was broad enough for two crawlers or ten Kindred to march abreast, but it still narrowed her regiments into a column. Then the raging elders rushed into their thin column, the results were spectacularly bloody.

Great clubs crashed down, dashing Kindred to the dusty black floor. Bones broken, the Kindred troopers struggled back up, still game, only to be dashed down again and again. Worse, much worse, were the lances. They sizzled when they struck, flashing with an unnatural shine in the dark tunnel. They sank thorough upraised shields and punched into scales, even through helms. Like dolls stuck through with hot needles, the Kindred inside their armor were pinioned, but fought on until the broken tips of the lances wended their way quickly to still each great beating heart. They bled to death inside their own newly-forged armor.

“Crawlers, charge left flank!” she screamed over the din. “Right flank, get out of my way NOW!”

Her troopers, realizing the queen herself shouted the orders, hastened to obey. She rushed to the right, and for the first time wielded Pyros in battle. The elder kobolds, thinking her a fool, came on toward her.

Like a puff of dragonflame, she opened her jaws wide and with the help of Pyros breathed a cone of pure heat into their faces. They melted to slag, then ash. Only stinking smoke, blackened stone clubs and the strange silvery lances remained when her long exhale ended. She stumped forward, unconcerned about the slaughter behind her on the left flank. She knew her crawlers would thrust their killing tines in unison and tear apart the elders. Lances and clubs were useless against them.

She kicked aside a huge kobold leg bone that ended in a steaming, broiled foot. She bent forward and grabbed up one of the lances. It was red hot in her hands, but she felt nothing. She eyed the lance suspiciously, then nodded her head, seeing the runes running up the sides. It was a Fae weapon. Of that much she was sure.

When the elders were swept from the corridors, the last of the defenders lost heart. She steeled herself for the slaughter that followed. The machines hunted down each kobold, tiny young spratlings and hunkering chieftains alike, and slew them all. As she had commanded, they were plucked from their holes mewling and slain.

She shuddered only once during the proceedings, then ordered her regiments to fall back.

“Shall we drive deeper, my queen?” asked the captain whose first mission had failed here. He had a light in his eyes she knew well, reminding her of Modi. He had blood in his teeth, and like all vengeance it tasted sweet to him.

She showed him the lance. He shrugged, admitting it to be of Fae make.

“All the more reason to destroy them now, while we have them at an advantage.”

Gudrin nodded slowly. “Wise thinking, but I am wiser still, captain.”

The other blinked at her.

“We are not fighting the kobolds here,” she told him. “The kobolds serve our greater enemies. If we hadn’t brought the machines or if I hadn’t been here to wield Pyros, the kobolds might well have won the day.”

“I don’t know if—” he began.

“Well, I do know, captain,” she said quickly. “If we press hard now, we might well slaughter a dozen more villages. But in so doing, we will meet more resistance like this. We will suffer losses and risk disaster. Worse, what if there are more surprises, deeper down? What awaits us?”

The captain frowned. “We can’t know.”

She frowned and paced. Her armor smoked from the heat of Pyros still, but she ignored the wisps rising up from her burnt gloves. “The Kindred can’t afford to lose these machines, or Pyros. We aren’t fighting kobolds here, they are sponsored by others. We don’t know who is in league with them, who we might meet down here.”

“Shall I order a withdrawal?” he asked her.

She smiled at him. He had passed a private test of hers. He was no coward, but no fool, either. That was the kind of warrior she needed in the war she foresaw.

“You are raised in rank, captain. You are to command the Great Gates garrison now.”

“Yes, my queen,” said the captain, looking surprised.

“Now, order your troops to withdraw in good order. We return to the Earthlight. And pray, warrior, no more surprises await us there or on the journey.”

* * *

Puck, who now made regular polite visits to Rabing Isle with Brand’s grudging approval, had never told the humans what he was looking for. But when Lanet appeared with a newborn in her arms, and he inquired politely about it, she had hesitantly told him the tale of its mysterious appearance.

Puck had made a point of presenting fine gifts on each of his visits, but he reserved his best for the babe. He gave Lanet a flower, a violet of brilliant lavender.

“If you keep it near the babe, no changeling can come near,” he told her.

Her face altered sharply when he said the word changeling. It was more of a hint than he needed. She had encountered his less scrupulous cousins before.

“Never will the flower fade,” he told her, “as long as the stem is kept moist and the petals kept dry. If a single raindrop touched the petals, it will disintegrate into the dust it truly is.”

Lanet, eyes intrigued, nodded and thanked him.

Puck took his leave and then began his search. He did not search for Piskin, who was naturally disguised. Instead, he sought the telltale hound, which Piskin would never allow to stray far.

And so it was that on the dawn of the fourth day he found the hound and took after it. He slashed it in twain, and followed it into the tiny cabin, where it crawled toward its master.

Puck stood in the doorway, his shadow casting long over the bloodhound, which dragged itself toward Piskin in his cradle. The hound left behind it a long red trail on the fresh-swept floor.

* * *

Piskin, alerted by the cries of the bloodhound, bounded out of the crib. He tried to grow a ball of blood in the air, but there was so little to work with, and the hound was spent. It had to be healed before it could be wielded. If he sated its thirst, it would become whole again.

His eyes flashed around the cabin. He went for the family cat, cutting the air with his small flashing knife, but the cat scampered away, never having trusted him. Yowling, it sprang from the window and made good its escape.

Puck cleared his throat. He still stood nonchalantly in the doorway. “We have a certain matter to discuss, changeling.”

Piskin retreated to the top of a wardrobe built of stout oak and faced the elf. He wanted to run. Desperately so. No elf had ever been born that could run down one of the Wee Folk who was bent on escape. But the problem was the hound. He had come to love it so. He could not leave it behind for the cold hands of this interloper. Nor could he carry it at full speed.

Piskin glared at the elf, who stood with a strange smile on his face. There was no warmth in that smile.

“What do you want, elf?” demanded Piskin, deciding to bluff it through. “Have a care here, I’m welcome in the Haven, and you’re not.”

“Indeed?” said the elf. He leaned nonchalantly against the doorjamb. From his fine-fingered hand a long, thin blade dangled. He looked as if he hadn’t a care, but Piskin knew better.

Piskin’s eyes went to hound, where it crawled pitifully to the bottom of the wardrobe upon which he stood. Still in the guise of the babe, he hopped down and bent to tend it. He could not help himself. He took up a knitting needle and jabbed his palm. Wincing, he let the beast lick the trickle of blood that came from his hand. But it was not enough. The hound’s eyes brightened, but it didn’t regrow its hindquarters.

The hound could not truly die, Piskin knew. Perhaps, it wasn’t even truly alive. If one were to take the thing and shave it down to a single ruby eye, plucking each strand of flesh from the Red Jewel at the heart of it, it would still grow back. With enough blood applied, the entire hound would regrow, to whimper and stare disconcertingly again.

Piskin eyed the only available source of such a large amount of blood, the elf himself. The elf, for his own part, had not moved. He still stood in the doorway, watching.

“I demand retribution!” Piskin shouted, growing in confidence. “Extend your arm, so I might achieve well-deserved satisfaction.”

“You wish to take some of my blood?”

“Of course. As payment for your abuse of my hound.”

The other took a step forward. Piskin glared at him. Something in the elf’s eye, however, gave him pause.

“Wait!” he said, backing up and hopping onto a dresser. “I wish you to simply leave. I’ll mark no debt for this, if you get out now.”

The wintery smile stayed fixed. The elf took two steps closer. The bloodhound curled its lips at the approaching feet. “Very generous of you, but you see, I must decline.”

“Who are you, elf?”

“I am known as Puck.”

Piskin’s eyes flew wide. For a second time, the urge to run almost overcame him. He hopped back to the floor, scooped up the hound and stood fast, his tiny blade in his hand. He tucked the bloodhound under his arm. The other approached, and finally Piskin recognized the look in the elf’s eye. It was the glint of murder.

In the manner of all his folk, Piskin began the fight with evasion. A wild session of bounding about commenced. He knocked over brooms, tore curtains and swung from the hanging lamps. Puck lay about him, slicing air, sheets and jars of fruit preserves with abandon.

Normally, he could have evaded the elf, but Piskin’s every leap was slow. His shorn-off hound splattered blood and weighed him down. He tried to dash in and slash the elf, going first for the calves, next for the wrist. But ever was he slowed too much by the weight of the hound.

He never even thought of dropping it. The hound had too much of a grip upon his mind for that. Instead, he only wanted to wield it. He needed blood, and he preferred the source to be the elf. Such were his only thoughts.

Then the maid, her apple-cheeks red in horror, entered the doorway and screamed. She saw the unthinkable. A nightmare from which there was no waking. Her babe bounded about the house, making impossible leaps with every step. Blood was everywhere, spraying from the stray hound she’d taken in. A tall, thin stranger in the middle of her floor moved with almost as great an impossible rapidity as the babe, slashing her house to ribbons. His sword followed each flying leap of the infant, each stroke a moment too late.

She fainted dead away at the threshold.

The elf glanced at her, giving Piskin his chance. He landed upon her soft back and thrust his blade into her neck. Blood spurted and she moaned, putting one fine hand to her throat. She coughed, but neither the hand nor her filling lungs could stop the flow of slick blood. Piskin dropped the hound there, and then went back to bounding about.

The hound lapped, rapidly. The stricken woman struggled to rise. She slipped in the growing slick pool of her own blood. Sensing its meal might end soon, the hound licked faster. Its tongue darted and lashed, taking every splatter from the floor as it fell. With each tongue-full, its body regrew.

Puck glanced at the hound. He gave a final slash at Piskin, then wheeled and thrust his fine blade toward the ghoulish hound. The tip of his weapon skewered the regrowing creature and it popped, as might any bladder filled with blood. A gout of dark gore splashed the woman and the floor.

This assault upon the bloodhound was more than Piskin could take. He leapt, hissing, upon the elf’s back. His blade plunged into Puck’s shoulder. To see another strike his beloved Red, that was too much. The dagger rose and fell again and again. With each stab, Piskin hissed, then howled, then screamed in frenzy.

A long-fingered hand reached over the elf’s back and dragged the manling away, despite Piskin’s desperate clawing and scrabbling. Piskin’s hand, which still slashed wildly with the dagger, was taken off with a sweep of Puck’s blade.

Piskin, who had truly lost his mind and gone feral, was one-handed again. But still he reached for the elf’s throat with snapping jaws, bulging eyes and five clawing fingers. Puck welcomed the embrace, and the two strove, choking, reaching for eyes.

Before the struggle was finally over, it became dreadful indeed.

At their feet, all the while, the bloodhound licked the floor. The woman’s blood it no longer craved, as she had already passed on and her fluids had grown stale. Following its preferences, the hound drank from the growing puddles at the feet of Piskin and Puck.

Puck, the final victor, tossed Piskin’s tiny body to the floor of the place. He checked the woman’s pulse, but there was none.

He staggered to the door and away. Having had his fill of madness, vengeance and blood, he left the Red Jewel behind. The thing truly disgusted him. He needed the healing help of the nymphs in Twilight. They would provide a balm for his mind and his body.

Later, Puck never did slice Piskin apart and distribute the pieces, but he did return to the other’s unmarked grave upon occasion to relieve himself.

* * *

After night had fallen and the sun had risen freshly, another came to find the gruesome scene. Myrrdin clucked his tongue and shook his head. Such a waste of life all around. He went in search of the hound, and found it, haunting the dark root cellar beneath the house. He did not coax it, not wanting such a vile thing to touch his flesh and thus his mind.

Instead, ignoring the hound’s warning snarls, he found a potato in the cellar that had grown white eyes. He tapped it with his staff, and Vaul flashed its Green Eye.

He rolled the potato toward the hound, who backed away from it, growling and curling thin, crusty lips. The potato rolled to a stop, then promptly sprouted green thick vines. These growths quickly enveloped the hound, and formed a woven cage of strong, whip-like fibers. The hound scrabbled, but was caught fast within a cage of living, rustling vines.

Myrrdin eyed the hound with distaste. Brand should be told, but he would not be. Not this time. Brand was a hothead. He had brought all this upon himself and his people. But he would not see it that way. He’d ruined everything Myrrdin had worked for, striven for, over centuries of time. What did a man in his twenties know of centuries? How could he be made to understand the folly of his ways? He seemed not to grasp that balance was the key, not decisive victory. Humans could never hope to defeat such an implacable foe as the Shining Folk. Brand had won temporary advantage, true enough, but the game was far from over and there would be a terrible price to pay for his overreaching. And the people to pay the price when it came due would be the common folk. The simplest of people. They would pay with blood as they had in this tiny hut along the river.

So worked up was the old wizard that he began to speak to the hound, to lecture it with a wagging long forefinger. The hound, for its part, narrowed its beaming ruby eyes at the finger, and snapped at it, growling from deep within.

“You’ll not decide the fate of the world with your idle whimsy. Not this time, Brand. You would not do what must be done! You would not return the Blue to its rightful owner, and thus buy peace. The blood of this young family is upon your head. Not mine!”

The bloodhound, perhaps taking his words as threat or mockery, chewed at the squirming vines that formed the bars of its cage.

“You swore never to slay one so vile as Piskin, just to save yourself? Very well then, I owe you nothing in this matter. I wash my hands of it. The hound may have fallen into my possession within the borders of the Haven, but it is my prize now, to distribute as I will.”

Myrrdin lifted the cage and slung it on his back, careful the hound couldn’t bite him. He carried off his prize, lamenting the dark way it was gained. He muttered to the hound and the stars as he marched. The darkness swallowed him up as he left the Haven.

Chapter Sixteen

The Hound Thirsts

Oberon knew of Myrrdin’s return to the Great Erm. But he sent out no scouts, no greeters, no simpering nymphs nor honor guards of elf bowmen. He let his son come, unchallenged and unheralded.

The Great Erm had changed in character by the time Myrrdin arrived. Once a pristine wilderness, it now teemed with elves. Normally, even elves shunned the looming trees and the massive creatures that dwelt here beneath them. None relished being crushed by the hoof of a startled stag that stood a hundred feet high. But the spot excelled for the purpose of raising an army in secret. None came here, and with nymphs posted at every bordering tree trunk in a huge ring, few of the giant beasts of the Erm wandered into the camps.  For added security, the elves had woven a massive net of living thorns. Each loop of the net was wide enough so an elf could walk through without stooping, but the weave was tight enough to stop the huge animals of the forest.

In the center of the netted region lay a faerie mound, serving as an easy exit point to the world of the enemy. The twin to the mound, a stone plynth built for the express purpose of bloody sacrifices millennia ago, stood in the Deepwood near the Kindred town of Gronig. None visited the site in either world, not in Cymru nor the Twilight Lands. The remoteness assured Oberon that his troops could be mustered and armed discreetly.

He had started by gathering a great number of smiths. His people were not fond of work, but they were skilled craftsmen when properly motivated. The motivation portion of the formula, naturally, had proven to be the tricky part. To provide his fickle people with the drive to obey him, Oberon had worked hard upon their injured pride. He promised them a return to their proper status, to their capricious ways. Once again, the humans would swoon upon sight of them! The best maidens of every hamlet would be their playthings, the bright-eyed children would be theirs to lead astray.

These promises were just what the elves wanted to hear. For them, the world had become tiresome and dreary without the youth and innocence of the younger races to prey upon. Being ageless became a chore after a few dozen centuries, and had recently become a positive burden of purposeless existence for many of the Fae. Deprived of their dances, their festivals and their victims, they had lapsed into a sullen state, even as had Oberon himself.

Oberon understood their malaise. They needed, above all else, a new purpose. Returning things aright, bringing back the glorious days of the past, these were worthy goals they well understood. And so, he motivated his indolent people with promises of even more vast indolence to come. If they would but work in a sweating frenzy now, if they would but march with him to destroy their enemies, all could yet be set right. Decadence would return. Idle cruelty and tinkling laughter would rule the Twilight Lands again, and every child in Cyrmu would quiver upon hearing the sound.

Oberon’s second motivator took the form of a dark rumor, which he spread far and wide with the aid of a thousand whispering wisps. It played upon every elf’s natural fear of the Kindred. The stumpy oafs were normally nothing but a stubborn nuisance, but with a monarch to lead them, the purposeless, near-idiot folk came to life like a serpent with its head sewn back on. Things were far different in both worlds when the Kindred awoke and took up their collective axes. They took on, as a folk, a sinister cast. This ancient fear worked very well as a goad, and using these two levers he gathered his folk in secret beneath the great trees. He gathered them, and he got them to labor.

And so the smiths hammered, and the fletchers fletched, and the bowyers bent yew to meet cords of thick sinew. The first task they’d undertaken was the production of all the promised armaments for his allies. Countless enchanted weapons were produced, with a speed impossible for a mortal folk. Oberon gave out lances, daggers and black-tipped darts to the kobolds, goblins and merlings respectively. These three primitive folk now stood well-armed and ready. They would march with him.

Only two armies still were not ready to march. Firstly, the gnomes had stipulated that he produce proof he had real magic, which to their stone minds meant he must be seen to wield one of the Jewels. In that direction, Oberon’s thoughts turned murderous. Piskin had never delivered the Blue. In fact, when he reportedly managed to gain the Red, he had immediately selected a babe and robbed a crib, returning to his roots as a changeling. So much for the manling’s talk of righting of past wrongs. Wee folk! He could spit the words.

The second missing army had never truly been his. He had never been certain he could gain their support, and had never counted upon it. Worse, he had been equally unsure he should gather the Dead to his banner. In truth, Arawn had given him a slight chill. He didn’t like dealing with the Dead, not in their own cold strongholds, certainly. Even the ageless could die, and thus feared the Dead.

So it was, when his errant son Myrrdin arrived bearing none other than the Red Jewel itself, Oberon’s worries slid from his ancient face. He looked young again, like a boy of the Haven just beginning his fourteenth summer. A smirk slipped over his face, and bubbled up into a grin. As unreliable as Piskin was—like every Wee Folk—Oberon found his own seed to be the opposite.

“Myrrdin!” he shouted the greeting, throwing his arms wide. He flipped high and landed upon the reddish crest of a massive toadstool twenty feet up.

Even Myrrdin’s brow shot up, impressed by such a bound. He laughed to be so greeted, and smiled with half his face. “Have you become half Wee Folk, sire?”

Oberon shook his head. “Don’t mention Wee Folk to me today.”

“Ah,” said Myrrdin, sliding the hound from his back in its vine cage.

Leaves rustled and the bloodhound gave a small growl. Oberon watched the hound intensely, with an unblinking stare. Clearly, it had not been attuned. Perfect, thought Oberon.

Myrrdin grunted and stretched upright. “The thing is an unwholesome weight, even when caged on one’s back. But about your dislike of Wee Folk...”

“Yes?” lilted Oberon, his eyes still adhered to the hound, which watched him balefully. Of all the Jewels, he liked it the least, save possibly for the Black. But in hard times, such niceties were best set aside.

“I’m not sure what you might have heard. But Piskin is no more.”

Oberon nodded, unsurprised. For any creature to pass on one of the Jewels normally required its death. He had been a rare exception, losing the Blue Jewel due to base theft. But still, every day, Lavatis preyed upon his mind.

“Did you—” said Oberon slowly, “perform the necessary deed yourself?”

“No, no,” said Myrrdin, shaking his head, which needed a shave. “I merely gathered that which was left behind.”

Oberon hopped down from the mushroom and took two smooth paces closer. “And so, what plans do you have for the hound?”

Myrrdin watched him closely. “I wish to buy something with it, father.”

The elf lord’s lips pushed outward. “And what would that be?”

“Peace. Peace for both the peoples I call my own. I would have the River Haven and the Twilight Lands—even the Kindred, all live in peace.”

“A noble goal.”

“Indeed. I wish to gift you the bloodhound, father. But only if you swear right here, with all your folk as witness, to disband this camp, cast down these fell weapons, and march nowhere but back home.”

Oberon met Myrrdin’s eyes for the first time. He began to circle him. He noted Vaul, which stood upright and firmly gripped. In a place like the Erm, Vaul would be strong indeed. Life magic bulged here.

“You make me proud, son. None of my own full-blooded Fae children have ever managed to do so much. Here you stand, master of one Jewel and bearer of a second,” said Oberon, raising his hand to the circle of elves who had gathered around. They leaned on their bows nonchalantly, but there was tension in their faces. Silently they watched Myrrdin, Oberon and the hound.

Oberon addressed them scornfully. “Who among you, my children, have not just been bested your younger brother? He, who is not so ancient as any of you. He, who is slower of limb, but no slower of wit.”

Oberon circled around Myrrdin, heaping high his praise. The other elves hung their heads and cast dark looks upon their half-brother. Myrrdin, for his part, was unused to praise of any kind from his father. He beamed and stood impossibly tall.

Oberon came close to Myrrdin then, being truly proud of him. “I want you to know, my most accomplished son, that I meant every word that I said this day. That no praise is too great for you. That you have exceeded my every expectation. You have fulfilled my fondest hopes.”

Myrrdin opened his mouth to make his thankful reply, but instead of words, only a croak came out of his lips. His eyes bulged. A coughed trickle of blood bubbled from his shivering lips.

For this father’s blade had sprouted from his back.

The blade was withdrawn and rapidly plunged in again.

At the third strike, Vaul rose up and flashed green, filling the Erm with a glare like that of a heartbeat. But Oberon swept the staff away and knocked it to the ground. Myrrdin had not the time or strength to summon its power, such was the completeness of his surprise and the speed of his sire’s attack.

Five times, then six, and finally a seventh strike plunged home.

The wizard sagged down and Oberon snapped his fingers, gesturing to the vine cage with the growling red-eyed hound inside. The other elves, their faces twisted in disgust, brought the thing close so that it might drink the spilled liquids with its darting tongue.

“You see, son,” said Oberon, his face as kindly as it could ever be. He knelt beside the gasping old man and tousled his locks. “There is something that perhaps you don’t know. The bloodhound favors a certain variety of blood for attunement, and you are one of the few beings that can provide it.”

Myrrdin struggled to form words. But his eyes darkened, and his lips turned blue, and his mouth would not operate.

Oberon kissed him then, for the first time in perhaps a thousand years. “There, there,” he said. “Sleep, my son. When I have attuned the Red, I will heal the hurts I’ve performed upon your body this day—if not the hurts upon your mind.”

The lapping sounds of the bloodhound’s tongue became suckling noises.

“Sleep, son. The hound thirsts.”

* * *

Brand received a scroll from Gudrin. He hesitated before opening it. Telyn eyed him, as did Jak. They had been discussing with great animation their plans for his wedding, which would be held not on Rabing Isle, but rather on the Riverton Commons, so that all who wanted might attend. Already, the Rabing fortune had been used to help rebuild Riverton. Now, at the grand event of the Summer Solstice wedding, the treasures from the Everdark would be dipped into again. There was still plenty to be had, fortunately.

Brand held the scroll in his closed fist. He considered crushing it and tossing it into the fire unread. The manling who had brought it pretended to care not a whit, standing as he did upon the mantle inspecting his overly-long nails. But everyone else present watched closely.

Brand sighed and unrolled the scroll. There had never been another option, of course, but he had enjoyed pretending he could do otherwise. Sometimes, in positions of great responsibility, he reflected, power limited one’s actions and choices rather than widening them.

The scroll was in Gudrin’s spidery script. The corners of the parchment were scorched, he noted with some concern. Had she trouble controlling the Orange still?

Lord Rabing,

The Kindred have a Queen. This document is therefore official, and represents the will of all my folk, embodied as it is within my own person.

I’m afraid I must ask a terrible thing of you, friend. I must ask that you march with your axe, and all of your blue cloaks you can spare, to my aid. You know that I would never ask this were it not absolutely required. I will not write down any knowledge I have of those that oppose us, save to say they are strong and numerous.

Awaiting your arrival expectantly,

-Queen Gudrin of the Kindred

P. S. - Bring along that runabout Tomkin and all his folk you can gather.

The manling on the mantle, who had all along feigned great disinterest until the very moment Brand opened the scroll, chuckled as he read this last. He had carefully situated himself so he could read over Brand’s shoulder.

Brand turned to him. He lifted the rolled up scroll to him. “Relay this to Tomkin, if you would be so kind.”

The other nodded, took the scroll and bounded out an open window.

“She asks for help?” asked Telyn, keeping her voice even with difficulty.

He looked at her, knowing how disappointed she must be. If he marched now, less than a month before their wedding date, the odds were not good he would return in time to meet their carefully worked out plans.

“I must go. I will take the militia with me.”

Jak spoke next. “Brother, should you perhaps take only half our force? Something must be left to protect the Haven.”

Brand looked at him, then cast his eyes to the fire. “I don’t like the way it sounded. I think Gudrin is really in trouble. I will ask the council to give me three quarters of our army. All of our new troops. Everything except for the fat old constables themselves.”

“I want to march with you this time, Brand,” said Jak.

Brand looked at him, and saw his cheek muscles were jumping. He feared being brushed aside by his own younger brother. Brand smiled at him. “I will be glad to have you, brother.”

Jak beamed his thanks. Lanet, who appeared at his side, looked anything but pleased. Brand wondered if he were about to lead her second husband to his doom. He shook himself and took a deep breath. A commander could not allow himself such thoughts.

“I belong with you as well, Brand,” said Telyn. She already had her bow in her hands, as if they were leaving this very night. Brand frowned. He recalled his personal vow, the one he had made to himself the night he faced Piskin. He said nothing for a moment.

Everyone stood quietly, waiting for him to speak.

“Your place is indeed at my side, my love. But I’ve dragged you along on many missions, Telyn. It is only fair that Jak get his turn, for better or worse. And if it be for worse, I want a skilled hand here defending Lanet and the two babes.”

Telyn blinked at him in surprise. He could tell she had truly thought she would march with him. But she looked around at Lanet. It was true, anyone could see. They could not all leave her, with her own babe and the adopted one on the eve of an unknown war. Rabing Isle was isolated.

“Perhaps we should withdraw to Thilfox manor,” said Telyn uncertainly.

“That might be a good idea. But I still say Lanet needs looking after. She will be your sister-in-law soon.”

Telyn nodded. “But who will be your Second? Jak?”

“In a pinch, I’m sure he’ll do well. But I’ll ask Corbin to do it.”

Telyn’s face was tight, but Brand did not expect her to rage or fall to tears. She had been through worse.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll stay with the family. One quarter of us should stay, after all.”

Brand nodded, and beamed at her. He gave her a hug, and she melted against him. It was an emotional moment for all of them. A new war had sprung up, and all their plans had been dashed so quickly.

They talked and planned for the rest of the afternoon and on into the evening. In the morning Brand went to his Uncle Tylag and an emergency council meeting was held. Brand stood before the council, and eventually got what he wanted. A muster went out, and a hundred war beacons were lit all over the Haven.

The system of warning fires was new, but quick and effective. Each tower of oiled wood stood in highly visible spots, such as atop cliffs and along the wide banks of the Berrywine. Each beacon was within the sight of two others. When the blue-cloak whose job it was to tend each beacon saw either of the others lit, he quickly lit his own. Thus was the entire network of fires seen and relayed to every member of the militia within hours.

Each village gathered a company, each town a regiment. Together, they marched. Within a day, they were streaming into Riverton, their eyes serious and dark with worry. Many among them were veterans of the Dead Kingdoms. None who had been there had forgotten those grim days. They had buried many friends in that haunted swamp and fought foes that no man wanted to meet, not in battle nor nightmare. But there was more than worry in those faces. Brand saw pride and determination as well.

He was glad to see many new faces among the gathering folk. They could only be recruits from the wagon peoples who had gathered to the Haven over the last months. He felt honored that they would stand and fight beside him on such short acquaintance.

The Wee Folk, led by Tomkin, arrived at midnight the night before they were to march. Brand raised his eyebrows, then smiled broadly. There had to be a hundred of them. He had never seen so many of the tiny creatures bounding about in all his life. He was glad his Aunt Suzenna wasn’t there to witness the sight. She might have fainted dead away.

And so, upon the third morning after receiving Gudrin’s plea, Brand marched at the head of the largest army the River Folk had ever gathered. A great column of men, women and beasts wound its way into the Deepwood.

And not a man of them knew what they were about to face.

Chapter Seventeen

Gronig’s Fate

Two days march ahead of Brand and his army, Oberon met with King Groth of the gnomes. He stood once again in the gnome city in the Everdark. Their deal, once conditional, had now moved forward.

“Show me as you might, elf, your mastery of the Red.”

Oberon, smiled with confidence. His blade, ever bright and silvery, stroked his palm. Such was his nature that his smile did not flicker, but broadened slightly at the pain. The bloodhound lapped up the blood rapidly as it cooled upon the worn stone floor.

Oberon summoned up a star of blood, a floating mist with seven points. He lifted his palm to the thick red bubble of his own blood and plunged it in. When he withdrew it, he flexed his fingers and flashed the flat, unblemished palm toward the gnome king. There was no slash upon it. All sign of the hurt he had suffered from his own blade had vanished.

“Huh,” said the gnome king. The utterance resonated like two stones grinding one against the other. “You have not forgotten how to wield it then, not even after so many years.”

“Years mean little to either your kind or mine,” said Oberon, allowing the dripping bubble to pop. The hound quickly sought and lapped up the residue from the stones.

“So, we are allies. Who else stands upon each side?”

“The merlings, kobolds and goblins stand with us.”

Another grinding sound. Oberon thought it to be laughter. “Scum. Bags of liquid waste, the lot of them. What of our enemy? Do the Kindred stand alone?”

“The Kindred are alone in their mountain.”

“Then we have naught to fear.”

Oberon lifted a single long finger. “But the River folk march to aid them. And the Wee Folk march with them.”

“Both are bad jokes as military forces go. But they each wield a Jewel. With the Orange in the hands of the Kindred, that makes three of theirs against two of ours.”

“Not if we move quickly enough,” said Oberon. “We must strike now, immediately. Then it will be two against one and many more numbers on our side.”

The gnome king began pacing again, his stone feet grinding away fresh dust from his deep rut. “The Kindred will prove a tough nut to crack in their stronghold. Gudrin’s fire will burn even flesh of granite.”

“We will strike from below and above,” said Oberon. He made a swooping move with one hand from beneath. “The kobolds and gnomes will come up from the Everdark.” He made another sweeping gesture, his other hand coming down from above. “My elves, goblins and merlings will take the Black Mountains and drive into Snowdon itself from the surface. Gudrin will be strong, but she can’t be everywhere at once. Where she is not, we will advance and crush them.”

The gnome king froze in thought. It was perhaps the longest frozen time Oberon had ever observed in the other. He began to think, as the second minute stretched into the third, that the old gnome had returned to the lifeless stone from whence it had come so very long ago. But then Groth slowly turned his great, smooth head.

“We may succeed. I have promised, and so I must march. I will tell you, the decision was a narrow one.”

“And what, pray tell, would you have done if you decided not to march with me? How might an honorable being such as yourself live onward after having so wantonly broken your word?”

Groth gestured with a great stone fist. Standing outside the chamber’s only exit were a dozen restive gnomes. Dust dribbled from every thick finger as their fists clenched.

“In that case, both our lives would have been forfeit. Mine for dishonor, and yours for trespassing.”

Oberon nodded in complete understanding. He raised his chin and smiled. “Under these circumstances, I’m glad I made a convincing case.”

* * *

The Kindred tower full of red-cloaked warriors was Oberon’s first obstacle. Once past the tower, nothing more than a few stone shepherd’s stood between them and the bustling mining town of Gronig.

Oberon marshaled his archers in the gloom of the Deepwood. It was early evening, and they had just arrived. The enemy were at high alert, but their few crossbow-armed scouts that roamed the wood had been disposed of. The alarm had not yet gone out.

The first shower of arrows broke against the tower, and a warbling horn sounded. Less than a minute later, an answering horn sounded in Gronig.

With lips pulled back from his teeth in worry, Oberon sent in a wave of merlings bearing hooked ladders and stone-headed rams. More elf bows snapped and twanged. Arrows with deadly burrowing tips sought any tiny gap in the armored enemy. A few bit into flesh. Victims screamed and ripped at themselves. Those struck in a limb, like as not cut off their own arms and legs to stop the vicious, digging tips.

Crossbows snapped back, finding easy targets among the humping forms of hundreds of merlings. Once they reached the tower itself, the grim work of digging the Kindred out of their tower began. Behind the merling light infantry, dozens of cloaked killers came with winking ensorcelled blades.

The Kindred fought bravely, and in fact took longer to die than even Oberon had anticipated. They fought on despite being outnumbered twenty to one. Not a single red cloak surrendered. In none of their eyes did the elf lord see anything but fury and perhaps even a gleeful madness to meet their ends in defense of their lands and their damnable queen.

He could have wielded the Red to speed up the fight, but did not want to chance it. The longer the enemy stayed ignorant of his true strength, the greater the surprise would be when he finally displayed it.

And so, without the use of anything other than sweat and blood, Oberon drove his troops into the tower in a final assault. Minutes later, he stood breathing hard over the Kindred captain’s body.

He took stock of the fight. He had to change his strategy somewhat. He could not bypass Gronig and climb the Black Mountains, as he had originally planned. It was clear to him now, after seeing the yellow glint of blood-madness in their eyes, the Kindred would form up, every last miner and barmaid, and they would march up the rocky cliffs behind him.

“We attack Gronig next,” he told his captains. They nodded grimly and leaned upon their bows and shimmering blades.

Oberon used the hound then, sucking blood from the Kindred corpses and healing those of the bodies of the merlings and elves who were not beyond repair. Sweating, he summoned his runners. “What of the goblins?” he demanded.

“No sign, milord,” said an elf runner.

Both of them turned their eyes toward the dark forest, then up to the starry skies. If that bastard Hob didn’t show up, Oberon swore to himself, he would hunt the goblin down in Eire or whatever stinking swamp he lay in. He would have his vengeance, if it took his dying breath from him.

Gronig had only a single regiment of heavy troopers and a company of lighter crossbowmen as a garrison. Oberon had long ago scouted the town, of course, and clearly recognized Gudrin’s wisdom. She had lightly garrisoned the town, just enough to give an enemy pause, but not enough to split her forces. The vast majority still guarded Snowdon.

Oberon ordered the merlings forward under the cover of darkness, which had fallen hard and heavy this moonless night. His people did not shine and give themselves away when the moon was absent from the heavens, making this the optimum time of the month for such an attack.

The enemy was ready, naturally. War beacons burned on every stone roof, providing light and signaling allies. All the way up to Snowdon, the roaring fires would be visible. His greatest desire was that Gudrin would march down into the open to meet him. He didn’t expect her to, but he could hope.

Just before he ordered his elves to commit to the assault, he paused. This step, attacking enemy families, would not soon be forgotten. The Kindred, should there be any of them left breathing when this was over, would sing of this day and curse by it. If the Kindred were to prevail, there would be a terrible price for the Shining Folk to pay in the Twilight Lands.

He nodded to himself. His path was clear. He must not fail.

* * *

Gudrin paced, her face storming. Few dared speak to her when she was in such a state, but the chamberlain, a sallow fellow who valued duty over his own skin, cleared his throat and approached her. She ignored him, and continued to pace.

The chamberlain cleared his throat a second time, but she still ignored him. He spoke anyway, impressing Gudrin, because as he spoke she truly did consider burning him down where he stood. His words were most unwelcome.

“The reports are in from the spyglasses buried within Snowdon’s crown, milady. It appears the elves are attacking Gronig.”

She stopped pacing, but her eyes stayed upon the flagstones at her feet. She did not look at the chamberlain, because she would have to burn him then, she knew. She had already burned off beards and slagged a few chins as well from messengers this dark day. She felt bad about it, but the Jewel, Pyros had a temper of its own. She wondered now that Brand had ever been able to control Ambros, which was reputed to be worse than Pyros. The Orange was positively evil when her mind was under real stress. Rather than just making one argumentative, it made one half-mad with fury at the slightest annoyance.

“What report is there of the River Folk?” she demanded, keeping her eyes focused on the cut granite at her feet. Each tile was carven with an intricate bas relief of crossed hammers. A thousand such fine, ancient tiles covered the floor for a hundred paces in every direction.

The queen of the Kindred and her counselors stood atop the Great Gate itself, on the inside of Snowdon. A large area of crenulated battlements thronged the inside of the mountain here. Few travelers ever looked up enough to examine the shadowy areas over the Great Gate once they passed inside, but it was in fact a strong point of the mountain’s defense. Should an enemy break the gates and press inside, they would be struck from behind and above by the warriors and weaponeers who waited here. The fortifications also made an excellent headquarters for the management of any fighting in the Black Mountains.

“My queen,” said the chamberlain, hesitating. For the first time, she heard a quaver enter his voice and knew that whatever he had to say, the news would be bad. She steeled herself, promising herself not to lose her temper—and thus her mind.

“Wee Folk runners have come from the River Folk,” he said at last. “The good news is that they march.”

“And the bad?” she snapped, pacing again.

“They have just entered the Deepwood—on their side, of course. They will not arrive for two days, possibly three.”

Gudrin halted. Everyone fell silent. The torches around them fluttered and roared with the whipping winds that came up from the open gates below them. There was always a strong breeze here when the Great Gates were open. Heated air was endlessly exchanged for cold through this portal to the surface world.

Gudrin’s eyes rotated up to gaze upon the chamberlain. Everyone tensed, especially the chamberlain. He did not cower or seek to cover his face, however. Instead, he stood taller. He even had the temerity to stare back at her.

“You’re telling me that Gronig is lost.”

“Yes, my queen. Unless—”

“Unless we do something.”

The chamberlain nodded. In her mind’s eye, Gudrin saw herself raising a single finger. No more would be needed. She would burn him down with a single blue-white beam of heat. She would burn him down to his boot stumps, and it would make her smile. Nothing else could please her right now.

As she thought about it more seriously, the idea growing in her mind, she considered he wouldn’t feel much from the kiss of her blazing fire. It would be very quick, and the shock would be such that it would be practically painless. As a bonus, some part of her mind argued, she would probably find discipline improved among all her commanders, who stood around watching.

She did begin to slowly raise her hand, and everyone in the room sucked in their collective breath. She caught the hand, however, with her mind. She caught her own hand the way a person might collect a butterfly that flutters near. She stopped the hand and forced it to obey her. She moved the hand to her own cheek, where she rubbed her scarred flesh as if thinking.

All around her, a collective breath was released.

She nodded and began pacing again. “The elf lord seeks to force me to take the field. He knows we are strong here. He wants us out in the open. He wants us to leave Snowdon undefended from beneath as well, so his minions might bubble up from the Everdark.”

“Milady, we don’t know that—” began one of her captains, but the rest of the words were swallowed. His name was Thorkil, and he was known for his outspoken nature, even among the Kindred. She had raised a palm to him, and Thorkil had frozen. She did not look at the captain, but everyone there knew she did not need to. From her palm she could release a gush of heat like dragonfire, a broad cone of flame that could consume many irritants at once.

“Yes,” she said, lowering her palm slowly. “Yes, we do know. We know they are down there, awaiting the signal. If you don’t know it, you are a fool.”

Thorkil stepped from boot to boot, frowning, but he kept quiet.

“We will move,” said Gudrin, coming to a final decision. Many of the assembled Kindred whistled and thumped their breasts with their shields. This they understood. This they yearned for with all their hearts. Hiding inside their mountain fortress was fine, but not when their brethren died at the cold stone feet of these same mountains, only a few miles away.

“I will send out a regiment of heavy foot. They shall be accompanied by an auxiliary force of three scout companies, armed with crossbows. The last and most important element of the expedition will be the steam-driven bombards. All of them we have built will be deployed.”

“What’s this?” dared captain Thorkil, who had spoken before. Thorkil was tall for one of the Kindred and had a wild froth of orange hair that stuck up in every direction. From the center of the frothing hair blazed eyes as orange as lava.

Gudrin turned to face him. She smiled slowly. “I like your fire Captain Thorkil. You will lead the expedition. Bombard the elves and allow them no peace. If our people attempt to retreat from Gronig into the mines, blast any elves that follow them.”

The captain sputtered, but lowered his frowning face under the gaze of his queen. “As you will, milady. But what if they slaughter the town?”

Gudrin tilted her head, pursed her lips. “If they see we are content to bombard them, and all they are gaining is more time under our heavy bombards, they will soon tire of their sport in my town.”

The captain shook his hoary head. “You are a cold one, milady. Despite the fire that whispers over your palms.”

Gudrin glanced down and noticed Thorkil was right, her hands were indeed running with crimson flames. She drew in a breath and nodded.

“It is the job of a monarch to make the hard decisions,” she said, surprised at how calmly her words sounded. She was back in control of herself, now that the initial shocking news of the war’s beginning had sunken in. She had known for months it was coming, but somehow the reality of it was worse still than the anticipation. “I will not leave Snowdon undefended. I will gladly forfeit one thousand lives to avoid losing ten thousand more. The elves will be in an uncomfortable position. Rapine and frenzy will be theirs, but they will be under fire and they will know another force marches up behind them. If they want to defeat us, they must advance onto the cliffs quickly or be caught between two armies. Oberon will see that and come up to silence the guns.”

“And what are my orders then, milady, when he does come for the guns?”

“Withdraw, firing as you can. Spend the lives of your troops to cover the bombards.”

The captain nodded. Thorkil looked anything but happy with his new command. He turned to go.

“Captain,” said Gudrin.

“My queen?”

“Bring everything you can back intact.”

Thorkil nodded. He shook his frothing orange mane of hair and grumbled as he stumped down the spiraling stairs to the Great Gates below. A dozen pair of eyes followed him, and everyone wondered as to their futures.

Chapter Eighteen

Twists of Flesh

Oberon’s forces soon surrounded Gronig and drove its pitifully few defenders back into the circle of blocky stone structures. Fortunately, the town had no walls. Crossbow bolts, well-placed, found the throats of a dozen merlings, but more poured forward. The elves stood in a rippling line behind the light merling infantry, shooting their bows with careful precision. Kindred chests and eye-sockets sprouted arrows. Often, the Kindred still fired and reloaded several times, cursing and working their weapons furiously. At last, however, the ensorcelled arrow tips worked their way too deeply and stilled their pounding hearts or severed their raging minds from their bodies.

Then the merlings were inside the town and the fighting became house-to-house. The heavy stone walls and small cut windows served the Kindred well in defense, channeling the enemy attacks through tight doorways. Vicious fighting erupted at each threshold as small knot of Kindred struggled with a pick, shovel or axe against a wave of croaking, hooting enemies. Hundreds perished on both sides.

It was soon after that Oberon saw the skies light up with orange glare to the North. Every elf and every merling who wasn’t in melee gazed up toward Snowdon. A few seconds after the orange glare came a booming report like thunder. The hearts of the Kindred who heard it leapt with glee. They struggled with the merlings in their own doorways with renewed ferocity. They grinned and howled, throwing off a score of slimy, grasping hands.

Oberon and the oldest of his children knew the sound. They had not heard it for many, many centuries, but it wasn’t something that one could forget. There was no time to signal for his troops to take cover, so Oberon simply dove against one of the Kindred houses, putting the solid stone walls against his back and crouching down. He watched the skies, as did a thousand others.

The first of the stones fell upon a Kindred brewery in the eastern quarter of Gronig. The roof had been built to withstand many things, but a direct hit from a bombard was too much. It stove in and a great explosion erupted. Fire and body parts flew everywhere. Kindred and merlings died, their bloods staining the ground and mixing like two shades of paint.

More stones fell and more explosions geysered up earth, stone, fire and flesh. This shock, combined with the renewed ferocity of the Kindred defenders, proved too much for the merlings. They broke at one threshold, then another, and soon were humping and croaking in all directions, screeching and clawing over one another in a desperate panic.

Oberon straightened, brushing his fine vest after the first volley ended. It would be a minute or two before the next volley fell among them. He heaved a great sigh. The merlings were second rate troops at best, worthy only of slaying peasant girls, and perhaps not even that task was within their power.

Gudrin had surprised him. She had overcome her fury at his attack, and worse, had cunningly fired her guns on his army when they were most exposed and embroiled in combat. She cared not a whit for her own folk, and planned his destruction with cold precision. He had hoped she would respond with the fury of Pyros and march to meet him, leaving Snowdon weak to the secondary attack from below. But that was clearly not to be.

Oberon gestured impatiently for his bloodhound. The creature’s head swiveled slowly, to look at him. It could smell the blood in the air and its tongue lolled. It watched its master, its ruby eyes knowing.

Oberon nodded to the little monster. “Yes. You will drink well this day.”

He had hoped to hold back his little secret. He had hoped that the enemy would know nothing of his command of the Red, and that he could use it at a surprising moment to gain advantage. But it was not to be. He needed the power of the hound now. He needed its thirst, if only to keep disaster from overtaking them.

He sprinted for the nearest flattened house. Gallons of blood soaked the cobbles of the street and the formed mud with the dusty yard. He summoned up a great rotating sphere of blackened blood over his head. Using the power of the licking hound, he caused a score of limbs to come together, to grow together. A thing formed under his direction. He sculpted it with his waving hands and his mind. With caressing motions, his arms slick to the shoulder with gore, he pushed a dozen legs downward and two score arms upward. Nine heads with gaping mouths sat atop the abomination, the eyes popping open with sucking sounds.

Knowing he had not much time, he ran toward the nearest concentration of Kindred. They had holed up in Gronig’s finest inn, the Shepherd’s Rest. Behind him, the abomination ambled after, tottering and lurching on pumping feet, each angled in a random direction.

To the Kindred defenders, it seemed as if a living giant with countless limbs came at them. Some of the limbs bore axes, splinters of stone and shafts of broken pipe. Merling heads, scarred in a dozen spots, croaked with mad glee. Kindred heads, mouths sagging open, gargled and howled incoherently from the fleshy mass.

The abomination tore the double doors off the front of the inn and strode into the common room. Some of the heads were slammed into the stone roof ten feet above.

Screaming in fear and horror, the troopers and patrons slashed at the thing, but it felt no pain. It knew no mercy, nor fear. It shambled amongst them, reaching for them, beating them with three arms while holding them with two more. Some of the Kindred were thrown down and flattened by the churning feet. Others were chopped to bits by thrashing weapons. A few unfortunates were sucked into the mass and consumed, becoming part of the fleshy mass and adding their own limbs to the monster.

Oberon crouched outside the doorway, stroking his hound, which licked desperately at the blood that flowed out of the doorway as if from a sluice.

The second volley came down then, and smashed more stone buildings, elves, Kindred and merlings. One of the burning strikes was very near. The damnable Kindred would destroy their own town and his army with it, he realized. Gudrin was annihilating her own folk to destroy his army.

With a hiss of fury, he jumped up after the second volley had fallen. He would not wait for a third. He had to get his army out of this trap.

He summoned his heralds, and silver horns were raised to thin lips. The horns pealed, sounding the withdrawal. They would head up the Black Mountains. They would destroy the bombards and leave what was left of Gronig behind.

Oberon looked back into the common room, where the abomination he had summoned now tore open one room of the inn at a time, consuming the screaming occupants. He shrugged, and left the monster to its work. It had already swollen so large with consumed flesh that it could not exit even the double-wide doors of the Shepherd’s Rest. He smiled to think that Brand would meet it soon. Perhaps the experience would expand the boy’s mind and outlook. He liked the concept so much, that he ran from house to house, finding those that had been flattened and were thus filled with fresh gore. He raised up a pack of smaller abominations, and set them loose upon the remaining inhabitants of Gronig. Leaving the tottering monsters to their grim work, he ran with his army toward the looming peaks of the Black Mountains.

As he ran, Oberon summoned up a great ball of blood. He passed among his troops, who recoiled in horror from the floating cloud of dark, sticky liquid. Everywhere he ran however, cuts closed, eyes were drawn back into sockets from where they hung out in the dry air, teeth regrew in mouths and bones unbroke themselves. Soon, horrified or not, his army followed close behind. The wounded in particular hobbled as fast as they could to hug up to the swirling funnel of blood mist that trailed behind their lord and his trotting hound.

* * *

Brand’s first day in the Deepwood was an uneasy one. No one liked the place, with the possible exception of the Wee Folk, who were not bothered by leaning trees or unnaturally clinging thickets. Brand, for his part, was more concerned with the length of his column. The road was very narrow and the forest very dense. This forced his troops to stretch into a narrow line that could march no more than four abreast. A long narrow column was vulnerable to attack from the flanks, and even he with his limited knowledge of tactics he could see the danger clearly.

He ordered the grumbling contingent of Wee Folk out into the forest on either side of the column. While the militia army marched westward toward the Black Mountains that rose up on the far side of the Deepwood, the manlings worked as reluctant scouts. They hopped and scrambled through the trees and thickets a hundred paces to the north and south of the column, with orders to sound the alarm if anything important was contacted. This caused serious delays at first, when various Wee Ones came shrilling and hooting to the line of stern-faced men. When the alarms had turned out to be things such as the sighting of a stag or the cry of a six-clawed raven, Brand had insisted upon a firm discussion with Tomkin. His scouts had to behave sensibly, or they were worse than useless to this army.

Tomkin was rankled, naturally. “Easy enough for a lout like you to say,” he complained. “You march sedately along in your festival best like a king on parade, while we hop about the forest like lost hares!”

Brand took a deep breath. It had already been a difficult journey. He’d never had to organize and march an army into a forest before. To allow Ambros its head in battle, to go mad with fury and slay the enemy, this was something he had become accustomed to. But cajoling allies into a cooperative mood was not his strong point. The presence of the axe, always strongest in his mind when adventure was near, made it hard to be diplomatic. He tried to keep his words civil, which he managed with difficulty.

He paused, closing his eyes to think clearly. The manling tapped his foot impatiently, but Brand ignored him. After a moment’s reflection, he felt he had an answer. “Very well, Tomkin, here is the new order of the day. I want all of your scouts to report directly to you when they spot something. You can decide if the news is worthy of relaying to me and the army in general.”

Tomkin blinked at him. “You trust my judgment over that of these others?”

“Absolutely. You are a most sensible member of your folk. Tomkin is no one’s fool! You know the difference between an attack and a flight of owls.”

Tomkin nodded sharply in agreement. It seemed to Brand that his nose rode somewhat higher in the air than it had previously. “Just so. Naturally, I accept your arrangement.”

Afterward, the scouting went on as before, with an excited manling running in from the forest every hour or so, as if the Wild Hunt had somehow resurrected itself and come after him. On each occasion, Tomkin listened to the scout’s frantic news of feral badgers and rutting warthogs, then cuffed the messenger and sent him back, bitterly cursing, into the dank forests.

By nightfall Brand felt sure they had made it over a third of the way through the forest. In fact, they had to be near the spot where he had once built a cairn of gnome heads for a certain lost boy. He felt a pang, thinking about that day, but he could not bring himself to regret it. The slaughter had been one barbaric act in response to another, certainly. But a thousand such ignominies had been heaped upon his people for a thousand years.

He called a halt for the night an hour before dusk. He had his troops use the dying daylight to hack reaching tendrils of the forest from the road. They used the area thus cleared for a camp. There wasn’t time to put up proper defenses, but he mounted a heavy all-night guard in shifts and let his men rest and eat well. They would meet battle within two days, possibly less. They had to be in the best shape they could be.

In his tent, he took council with Corbin and Tomkin. A few of his captains weighed in. He had placed Corbin in charge of the cavalry, and his cousin seemed anxious to deploy them.

“The battle ahead can’t be going well,” said Corbin. For once in his life he seemed eager to get to the fight. Brand wondered if all his stories of adventure as the axeman had rubbed off on his cousin. “The cavalry could ride ahead and strike a day earlier.”

They all looked expectantly at Brand. The Riverton Council had seen fit to send him out as the sole commander this time. Tylag and Thilfox had stayed behind to build up defenses and recruit and train more militia. Brand was, after all, the Champion of the Haven and the only Lord amongst living humanity. He had led them to victory before, and without his wielding of Ambros, they had no army to speak of that could stand against the other races. Making him the commander, but with the advice of militia captains to lean upon, was the best arrangement they could come up with. Everyone knew that once battle came upon them, it was Brand who would lead the charge and he was the only one the troops would follow. The influence of Ambros, with its flashing amber light, would goad every man of them to charge after Brand in any case, orders or no. It was an important part of the Amber Jewel’s power.

Brand took a deep breath. He eyed Corbin. “I would dearly love to arrive sooner to help the Kindred,” he said.

“Then give the order!” Corbin urged.

Brand shook his head. “I would do it, but we simply don’t have enough horsemen. If you are ambushed by the enemy before you get out of this accursed forest, they will cut you down. A light cavalry force is useless in a thicket.”

“Then perhaps you should lead the cavalry, Champion,” said another captain.

Corbin looked at this man with some degree of annoyance. But he considered for a moment, and warmed to the idea. “That would change things. You and I could lead an advance force. The infantry could come up behind a day later. If we run into serious resistance, all we have to do is wait for reinforcements.”

Brand considered the idea. It had merit. For all they knew, a small force now would do great good on the field of battle, and delaying could be disastrous for the Kindred. On the other hand, splitting their forces might result in disaster for the Haven.

The axe, for its part, liked Corbin’s proposal. Anything that made battle come faster, or better yet provided greater intensity, had its blessing. The thing shifted on his back, the handle sliding from the right side of his head to the left. Several of the assembled captains eyed the thing, trying not to stare. Brand knew it made them all nervous and yet provided them with comfort at the same time. They were like men who followed a frightening giant into battle, gleeful that they were not the ones to face the wrath of the monster, but wary all the same.

Brand thought for a moment, while others voiced their opinions. Finally, he spoke and everyone fell silent, even Tomkin, who wanted to know if his scouts were going ahead or staying with the column to protect its flanks. “This is a good debate. Both plans have merit. But I’m going to put my faith in Gudrin. She knows how long it will take the forces of the Haven to reach Gronig. She and the Kindred are no weaklings. They, with their fine fortress, might hold off the elves and their allies for months.”

“Well said,” agreed Tomkin, who was in no real hurry to honor his commitment to aid the Kindred.

“Gronig will fall,” said Corbin.

“Maybe,” said Brand. “But I’ve seen the town and I’ve seen the Earthlight. Their defenses make Riverton and Hamlet look weak in comparison. The Kindred are stronger than the River Folk,” he said.

Not liking the taste of his words, many there began to argue. No officer liked to hear any mention of weakness.

“No, no, let the truth be spoken,” said Brand, holding his hands up for quiet. “We’ve added new recruits, but the Kindred have always had double or triple our numbers. We will come to their aid as promised, but I’ll not dash my forces into some trap to speed up our arrival by a single day. Just as I won’t force-march through the Deepwood all tonight, I’ll keep my army in a single piece. The Kindred will have to see to their own defense for another day.”

Brand stood up suddenly. He left the tent, and everyone else soon figured out the meeting had been adjourned. Corbin followed him.

“It’s not like you, cousin,” said Corbin when the others were out of earshot. “What happened to the battle-lusting killer I witnessed at the merling village?”

“Fortunately,” said Brand, “I’ve got my wits about me right now. Listen, Corbin.”

The two men stopped and they leaned closer, not wanting the troops around them to pass on their every word.

Corbin put up his hand in a warding off gesture. “I’m sorry if I annoyed you by arguing. I suppose I should have asked you in private about my plans.”

Brand shook his head. “I don’t care about that. I don’t mind if you argue with me in a command meeting, as long as you support my final decision. What I want you to think about is the importance of this army to the Haven. We can’t lose this force. The troops you see here represent most of what stands between all our folk and a dozen enemies.”

Corbin nodded slowly, looking around at the troops who threw dice and ate hardtack biscuits by firelight. He looked at Brand with a new expression. “I begin to understand you better. When in battle, you are ferocious and aggressive. But strategically, when moving about your forces, you are cautious. It’s an interesting combination.”

The statement sounded so much like Corbin, so analytical, that Brand smiled at his cousin and clapped his stout back. “Good to have you with me, cousin. I’m going to get some sleep now, and I suggest you do the same.”

Much later, in the final hour of the night before dawn broke, Brand was startled awake. He flashed out his axe without hesitation. Shaking the sleep from his eyes, he blinked at Tomkin, who hopped away in concern.

Brand’s brow furrowed. What had the manling been up to? Had he dropped seeds into his nostrils again? Had he tugged at his fresh growth of beard? Ambros pulsed, and he kept it upraised.

“Tomkin? Why are you messing about?”

Tomkin hopped down from the peak of his tent, where he had taken refuge. Brand lowered his axe slowly, forcing himself to take deep breaths.

“News, Lord Rabing,” said Tomkin. He performed a mocking bow.

Brand let his axe drop all the way down to his side. Of all the folk in his army, Tomkin was possibly the only one who still had the guts to toy with him. He had to force himself to keep the axe lowered. The Amber Jewel still throbbed, like a growling dog at its master’s feet.

“Speak,” he said, swaying slightly. He was still half-asleep. There had been a terrible dream, he recalled vaguely. Creatures of marching bones had crossed the Berrywine by walking upon the river bottom. Could such nightmares have a basis in reality? He almost shuddered to think it, despite the courage provided by the axe.

“Word has come from the front. My scouts have returned. The news is not good.”

“Yes, tell me.”

“The Kindred town of Gronig is broken and burning. The Kindred shoot flaming weapons, raining sparks down upon the elves and their own townspeople indiscriminately. The elves are advancing into the mountains to stop the bombardment.”

“What? Are we to miss the battle then?”

“Possibly,” said Tomkin with a shrug.

Brand growled with frustration. It took a fantastic effort to put away the axe again. After he managed it, he sat down upon a bench, sweating.

With typical nonchalance, Tomkin took up a comfortable stance atop a small folding table. As the commander, Brand’s tent boasted amenities that no one else had.

“Are you addled with sleep?” asked Tomkin after a few moments.

“I’m thinking, dammit,” growled Brand.

“None too clearly, I’d wager.”

Brand closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. He wondered that he rarely took swipes at Tomkin with the axe. His tiny friend could be thoroughly irritating at times. He called for the guard who was stationed outside his tent and the man poked his head in immediately.

“Get me some broadleaf coffee,” Brand snapped. “Hot coffee.”

After the guard hurried off, he stood up and began dressing. He would have to get the army moving early.

He turned to Tomkin, who yawned mockingly. The manling’s thin fingers tapped his lips.

“We are breaking camp, and we will march. We will move out at dawn’s first light. We will not stop marching until we reach Gronig.”

Tomkin snapped a shoddy salute and hopped outside into the chill air. The guard who now hurried back toward the tent was startled and ducked as Tomkin bounded cleanly over his head. Tomkin slapped the top of his helmet with both hands and whooped.

The guard nearly dropped the steamy mug of broadleaf coffee he carried.

Chapter Nineteen

The Starbreak Fells

There were seven major tunnels that led from the Earthlight down into the Everdark. Five of them were blocked with huge plugs of burnt stone laced with iron. The sixth was the magma pool beyond the Great Vents, by this route Fafnir had entered and attacked the Kindred months ago. A seventh, lesser known path existed inside the cone of fire, into which the Kindred regularly tilted the bodies of their fallen.

Accordingly, Gudrin had set one of her precious few golems on guard at each of the five major plugs, skipping only the magma chamber and the cone of fire. Kobolds and even gnomes were not immune to the effects of lava. She felt it unlikely that an attack would come that way, from the fiery pits themselves.

Many smaller routes existed as well. These were usually no larger around than a Kindred was tall, but with enough time an invading force might manage to use them to great effect, gathering a host upon the floor of the underground chasm without the Kindred realizing they were there until they were ready to attack. At each known minor tunnel, she stationed a bored trio of Kindred. Two of each trio were to stay awake and watchful at all times, while the third rested.

And so it was that while the great bombards arced fire across the skies outside the Earthlight, inside things were quiet and even dull. Stationed as they were, each trio of Kindred at the tunnel mouths had no knowledge of the battle that raged outside in Gronig and upon the shoulders of the Black Mountains. Instead, they rolled dice and muttered in their beards of less frightful times.

At the low ebb of the night, just before the Great Vents were tipped open slowly to reveal the red light of the world’s core—what served the Kindred as “dawn” in their underground world—the attack from below finally began.

First to begin the assault were the stealthiest of kobolds. Small, wiry things with arms like broomsticks and eyes like fireflies, they crept up the black tunnels. A dozen or more snaked their bodies forward, a painted-black dagger in every mouth. In some cases, the guards were distracted, playing their dice and yawning. In a few, they had even nodded off. But in most cases, they were detected before they could sidle close enough to strike with their deathly weapons, made by the elves and distributed for this very moment.

All over the great chasm, unknown to the sleeping Kindred citizens and the red-eyed sleepless commanders as well, more than a dozen desperate struggles erupted. Daggers snaked forth from shadows and bit deeply. Dead on their feet but roaring anyway, Kindred launched themselves awake and fought with savage tenacity. In most of the fights the guards, surprised and sleepy, were overwhelmed and eventually brought down. In a few isolated spots, the kobolds were defeated and the last Kindred guards tottered away from the carnage, blood running from a dozen wounds, to sound the alarm.

All of these miraculous survivors carried within their bodies several dagger points, however, each of which wormed its way with agonizing, unnatural movement toward their vitals. All save one of them died on the way to the nearest guard post.

The last, a young female named Anna, reached her destination. Behind her, a trail of dark drops lay in the dust of the cavern floor. She had taken a slash to the throat, and was unable to speak, but reached her guard post. She pushed past the oak doors and crawled to the gong. A dozen strong hands lifted her, and many gasped to discover their fingers were sticky with blood.

“Anna? Is it the kobolds?” demanded her commander, but she was beyond answering him. She struggled with the hands holding her aloft and they gently let her go. She limped, almost crawled, to the gong that lay in the center of the post. Half-mad with pain and exhaustion, she beat the gong with her fists. The others tried to help her, but she beat the gong for a full minute until she slumped down, stone dead.

All eyes went to the commander. “Fire the beacon,” he ordered. Several hastened to obey.

Up atop the Great Gate, the queen remained at her headquarters. She slept upon a couch they’d dragged up to the battlements for the express purpose. When the chamberlain awakened her and told her a beacon had come alight on the floor of the cavern, far to the west, she sat up and nodded.

“It has begun.”

“Surely milady, the kobolds don’t have the strength nor the stomach to assault the Earthlight in force. We will slaughter them.”

“They can, they will and in fact they already have, I’d wager,” said Gudrin, struggling into her boots. “Order out a single crawler to each of the great plugs, with a company of troops behind it.”

The chamberlain sputtered. “But milady, the attack has come from the tunnels, not the great plugs.”

Gudrin turned around and slapped the fool. She glared into his startled eyes. He was too surprised to be angry. “We are not facing a single attack, a single enemy or a single army. We are facing a dozen armies, perhaps. The elves and merlings should not have the guts to attack us either, but they do. Why? Because they are not alone. If they were alone, we would slay them easily. But Oberon is no fool. He would not launch this attack without having the forces necessary to win. We must assume he does. Now, get out and send a crawler to each of the plugs before I blast you!”

He hurried off to do her bidding. She called for her attendants and breakfast. She would eat quickly and well, as she suspected it would be a very long day indeed.

* * *

Oberon and his forces left Gronig behind them and mounted the steep cobbled road that led up to the ridge where the bombards belched fire in an endless series of slow volleys. The run from the skirts of the smoldering town to the foot of the mountains was the worst part of it. In the open, there was no defense from the flying shot from above other than speed and luck. The black-hearted Kindred commander knew it too, and immediately trained the bombards on the land between the town and the roadway. Terrifying splashes of fire erupted. Elves, merlings and great gouts of green, grassy earth rocketed skyward wherever the shot happened to fall. Far from precise in their aim, firing into a mass of struggling troops was a perfect situation for the bombards.

Oberon sensed, rather than was told, that the merling forces were near to breaking again. If a panic set in, he would be forced to either order his elves to cut down the deserters or to let them go, and neither solution was satisfactory.

They had not signed on for this sort of abuse, he knew. He had given them sweet words, promises of Kindred wealth untold in the looting of the fabled underground city. Instead, they were miles from the Great Gates and were already taking grievous losses.

Accordingly, he ordered his own troops to take up the lead with lances that shimmered at their tips. The order wasn’t received well, but it was obeyed. After seeing the elves with fluttering cloaks striding ahead of them, the merlings hastened to follow. Perhaps, they believed, they were being led to an escape route, rather than into the teeth of the bombards.

Once the army reached the cobbled path that wound up the mountainside, they were relatively safe, as the bombards could not easily be angled to strike the road. When they reached the top, however, Oberon knew that doom awaited many of them. If the bombards fired into their charging column, backed by a Kindred host, many if not most of the attackers would perish. There would be no escape up upon the ridge. On either side a cliff dropped away into the fells, forward would lie the enemy, rearward would be the pushing mass of more charging, screaming troops. It would be a struggle to the death up there.

Oberon ran with the rest. Merlings croaked and slapped their great flapping feet beside him, elves loped with easy grace. Everyone carried weapons, many of which glimmered with ensorcellment, but not all. Quite a few of the magic weapons he’d spent months crafting in the Great Erm had already been used upon one Kindred corpse or another. Their tips, rather than shimmering, were burnt to a smoky gray and blunted.

When he reached the top of the ridge, he realized he’d made a mistake. The enemy had not stood their ground. As soon as the elves had reached the roadway, the enemy had fled. He cursed volubly. Shouting orders that were largely stolen by the stiff cold winds, he ordered his archers to take the van.

They should easily be able to outrun the enemy, burdened as they were with the fantastic weight of their bombards. He did not want them to reach the safety of Snowdon with those weapons intact.

By late afternoon, they’d reached the top of the ridge which was perhaps twenty meters wide. The troops pursued eagerly now, sensing revenge would be theirs for hundreds of lost comrades.

In the distance he saw the escaping bombards. They rumbled along the ridge, stone wheels crunching the cobbles. Kindred heaved at the rear of each deadly contraption, trying to push them faster, while ahead Kindred dragged long chains, roaring as the hauled upon them.

The elves advanced into a region known as the Starbreak Fells, where to either side twin cliffs dropped away into a jamble of broken, jagged rock. Soon, running fast and lightly, Oberon’s archers led the pack. They gained ground upon the fleeing Kindred and could see their chainmail up ahead, flashing in the sunlight. As he watched, a group of them detached and stood their ground with shields upraised. Behind every shield crouched not one Kindred but two. The second was a scout with a crossbow.

Oberon nodded as he watched the formation gather. They would sell their lives dearly, giving the bombards more time to escape. He screamed for his forces to charge, to overrun the enemy.

A hundred bowstrings snapped. A hundred arrows with deadly black tips flew truly and sank into shields, armor, and occasionally the flesh of a screaming Kindred victim. A lighter shower of crossbow bolts pelted them in return, doing far more damage. His army, particularly the merlings, had little in the way of armor that could stop a Kindred crossbow bolt. Dozens fell keening and writhing. Some toppled off the ridge and slid downward into the waiting stony teeth of the Starbreak Fells.

The charge went on for what seemed like a very long time. Volley after volley was released by both sides, but the crossbow volleys came much more slowly. The Kindred line held patiently, seemingly unaffected by the elf archery. It was as if they shot their arrows into living stone.

And then, suddenly, the rolling mass of troops reached the enemy line and they were among the Kindred. Oberon’s column of lancers and croaking merlings broke over the Kindred like a wave striking a rocky shoal. The fight was vicious and short, but not short enough. They were delayed.

When finally the last of the hard-dying Kindred was pushed off the cliffs down into the rocky fells, his red cloak fluttering as he dropped, Oberon felt a flash of admiration for them. Two dozen of them lay hacked apart at his feet, along with an equal number of elf lancers and a full company of merlings. Not a single one of the enemy had wavered for a single moment. Not one trooper had begged for mercy, jumped over the side, or turned to hopelessly flee. Each of them had fought with grim tenacity, teeth bared, eyes wild. Although he was not easily capable of the emotion, he felt a touch of melancholy at the passing of such heroic fighters.

A ragged cheer went up from Oberon’s troops at this small victory, and they were ready to surge forward. He took the time, however, to stir up a monster from the remains of the fallen enemy. The bloodhound lapped at his feet, its tongue darting with impossible rapidity. Its eyes glowed with a redness that spoke of madness and death.

A new abomination arose, fully a dozen feet tall and with twice as many twitching limbs. It stood unsteadily and tottered upon the ridge before him. He launched it into a lurching charge toward the next knot of Kindred defenders. He ordered his troops to follow behind the monster, in the wake of its shambling run.

Up ahead, the next suicidal knot of Kindred waited for them stoically. He had no doubt they would delay him as had the first group. Oberon smiled grimly. His abomination might speed up the matter. At the very least, it would absorb the deadly crossbow fire. He would let the next volleys of Kindred crossbow bolts sink into his creation. The Kindred would be shooting into the very flesh of those who had once been their own comrades.

* * *

Inside the Earthlight, some sort of signal had clearly been given. Already forming into companies upon the cavern floor were thousands of kobolds, slipping out of the tunnels, each led by an elder or two that wasn’t too large to come up that way. All of the larger creatures gathered in another spot, waiting to gush forward and join the assault.

One of the five great plugs, only the very largest of them which existed near the Great Vent itself, was pounded down from within. The plug, which happened to be the most ancient of them all, older than the memory of any living Kindred, had only a single golem standing ready in defense.

Gnomes rolled out, mixed with the largest of the kobold ancients and chieftains. The golem strode forward purposefully. Even the largest of the kobolds and gnomes were given pause, for here was a monster new to them. The granite golem, built of cold living stone, was redundantly armored in thick bronze plates. In either seven-fingered fist it gripped a massive axe of the finest folded steel the Kindred could forge. Only the burning emerald eyes revealed the seething hatred for all life that filled the monster.

Outnumbered a thousand to one, the monster set about its task with unconcerned relish. Axe blades rose and fell with a machine-like rhythm. The rushing horde of gnomes and kobolds sought to bowl it over, but its weight was such that they could barely rock it. Setting its broad feet flatly, the sole of each stone foot the size of a Kindred warrior, the golem swung its axes in wide, irresistible sweeps. Dozens died.

As the fighting went on, various relationships became self-evident. Blades, pikes, darts and the like were worse than useless against the golem, be they ensorcelled or not. Heavy stone clubs and fists could chip away pits into the monster, however, and with luck dislodge an armored plate. Usually, however, the attacker was cloven in twain for his troubles. Soon, corpses mounded around the golem. Commanders ordered their troops to disengage and the order was followed without argument. They circled the monster and considered bypassing it entirely, but the thing headed for the breach, clearly planning to stand there and slaughter new companies of troops as they attempted to enter the cavern.

It was Groth himself, along with the kobold chieftain who had but one bright red eye, who came up with the solution. They distracted the monster into a charge, then ordered their troops to bring up a great length of black iron chain. The kobolds had planned to use it to link the necks of a hundred Kindred captives, who they would take down into their tunnels as slaves and sources of amusement.

Taking up either end of the rattling chain, they ran with it and caught the golem’s legs. The monster teetered, then went down with a resounding crash. A choking cloud of ash plumed up and the rock shuddered at the impact. They wrapped up the thrashing feet in the chain. Two kobolds were slashed down by the axes the thing still held onto when they got too close. Taking up either end of the dangling black chain, a company of straining gnomes and kobolds dragged the thrashing golem to the nearest river of lava and cast it in.

As they watched, the thing still struggled in the orange magma, not yet finished, but unable to escape.

The army of the Everdark, led by Groth himself, turned then to advance upon the central citadel of the Kindred. Even the coldest heart among them was concerned, however, and none could help but wonder what other grim surprises the Kindred had in store for them this day.

They advanced slowly and cautiously over the ash heaps. Finding the bridges had all been withdrawn by the Kindred mechnicians, their advance was slowed to a crawl.

* * *

Brand’s army marched all day from dawn to dusk. Night had long since fallen when Brand’s tired militia came out of the trees to the edge of Gronig.

The town, once proud and industrious, lay in ruin. A dozen fires were lit, and twice as many more spots smoldered and trailed black smoke into the starry heavens. Brand heaved a breath, and ordered Corbin and his cavalry to follow him. He rode his roan onto the shepherd’s fields and trampled the furrows of the Kindred. Dead were everywhere. The stink of far worse things clung to the night breezes, telling in advance of the slaughter ahead.

Tomkin, unasked, accompanied Brand and Corbin and their thundering horsemen. The manling’s Blue Jewel lay openly on his chest now. He did not hide it, and clearly planned to use it at the first opportunity.

Eyes wide with fear and shock, the River Folk farm kids that rode behind him now doubted their wisdom in joining the militia, he felt sure. Here they were, outside the Haven for the first time in their short lives, only to find themselves in a field of slaughter with unknown deadly threats lurking somewhere ahead in the dark landscape.

The night was moonless, but the few fallen elves they passed over still glimmered with the faintest pale radiance. It was impossible not to look upon those beatific faces, both ancient and young, both dead and yet still full of ageless vigor, and not feel sadness in one’s heart.

It was when they reached the town proper that they ran into the first of the abominations Oberon had seen fit to leave behind to greet them. It came out of a stone-walled barn, the roof of which had been burned away. Inside it had feasted upon the carcasses of slaughtered livestock. Upon sensing the approach of fresh meat, it came out into the scorched yard. As it shambled toward them, a dozen Kindred heads lolled atop the monster, their mouths grunting with collective effort as an unknown number of lungs within the rotund body sucked in air.

The cavalry troops paused, uncertain what they faced. Their horses however, were much less hesitant. They backed and reared, eyes rolling in terror. They threatened to bolt while the riders fought the reins.

“Blood magic,” said Brand aloud. He had never seen Piskin produce anything like this, but he was sure he recognized this flavor of enchantment. Brand felt that his expertise would be needed. He approached the monster, trotting his roan closer. At the smell of blood and rotting meat, however, even his veteran horse began to sidestep and grew skittish. Brand had Ambros in his hand now, and hardly cared about his mount. If the roan was too frightened to face this fiend, he would have to do it on foot. He launched himself from his saddle, unslung his shield and marched forward. In his hand, he held Ambros upraised. The Amber Jewel pulsed like an eye, filling the yard with throbbing light.

Brand’s men dismounted and followed him, despite their every instinct to flee this nightmare that lurched toward them. Worse than a dead thing filled with unnatural vigor, this monster was built of living flesh that had once died. It was the reanimated and reconstituted mass of living tissue. Lungs flapped with a horrible, audible gasping. Knees creaked with the impossible weight of it. Each hand carried some form of weapon. Swords, elven lances with shimmering tips, Kindred battleaxes and even farm implements such as iron hooks or dangling lengths of chain. More than a dozen rolling eyes sought victims to target. What central brain ran the mass of it? Was there a single mind, or a communion of many? One could only conjecture.

Brand engaged the monster warily. It was not fast on its many feet, but was essentially unstoppable. He dared not allow it to corner him, he must be able to retreat. He traded blows with the nearest weapon-bearing arms, but soon found that to be dangerous indeed. The arms up high on the mass of it carried implements of longer reach. He danced in close, slashing away an arm, only to find his shield grasped by a fist and a chain wrapped around his midsection. Only a frenzy of inhuman strength, donated by the axe, saved him and allowed him to withdraw.

He tried burning the creature next. Ambros winked with golden light. Mouths hissed and stinking flesh bubbled. Blackened blisters arose everywhere he had burnt it, but he had in no sense slowed it. Backing away, he found his men were poking lances at the far side, but it had fixated upon him. Many men stood back and peppered the monster with arrows and bolts, but with little obvious effect.

He backed into a stone wall then, and it almost had him. Only by rushing in low and slashing at the pumping jumble of legs did he escape. If it had simply sunk down and sat on him, he might have been crushed, but fortunately, it did not. Perhaps, he thought, it could not have arisen again if it lowered itself, so it did not dare to do so.

Free of the grasping hands, panting and bleeding, he ran to his line of lancers, who watched the thing shamble forward. They were at a loss.

“Let’s douse it with lantern oil and set it alight,” said Jak grimly.

Brand nodded to his brother, who he only then noted had joined the fight. He had to contain the fury of the axe, which still wanted to slash every limb from it, and after a brief struggle he managed it. He gave the order.

Even after they had emptied a dozen bladders of oil upon it and lit it, the thing shambled about, smelling of burning meat. Blinded and fully mad now, it tore up the barn from whence it had come, limbs churning with frantic strength. Kindred fingers worked alongside merling flippers to clutch and rip at bare stone, even as the flames had their way with the massive blob of flesh. When it toppled over and thrashed upon the ground, they left it to die eventually.

The rest of their visit to Gronig was equally unpleasant. They slew several more horrors, losing a screaming trooper now and then. They found groups of huddling Kindred here and there, and urged them back toward the edge of the Deepwood where they set up camps for refugees and the wounded. Food, water and medicine were distributed, and Brand thanked the River that they had had the foresight to bring plenty of each.

Up upon the ridgeway that led to the Great Gates of Snowdon, a series of flashes lit up the clouds. Brand, and a thousand others, gazed that way. Booms followed the flashing, and he had to wonder what transpired up there, upon that lonely strip of cobbled stone.

He felt sure that it was nothing pleasant.

Chapter Twenty

The Great Gates

Deep in the darkest hours of night, a pitched battle raged on the shoulders of Snowdon. Oberon had managed to catch up to the bombards before they could reach safety, and Gudrin had not sent out a task force to rescue them.

Oberon smiled, knowing what had distracted her. The gnomes and the kobolds must be within their cavern now, causing great destruction, and more importantly, distraction. Gudrin was weak in few ways, but he felt sure she would not allow wild looting, slaughter and rapine inside her own mountain kingdom. She may throw an outlying town to the wolves, but not her own stronghold, not the majority of her citizens. She must have turned her forces inward and left Thorkil’s troublesome little army to fend for itself on the ridges and fells.

Still brimming with these happy thoughts, he followed his latest abomination as it teetered over a rise and lurched down into a sunken part of the cobbled roadway. It was there that the first bombard spoke.

They had caught up with them, and their evilly effective commander had ordered the bombards turned when they were low, and the elves must come over a rise to see them. As soon as the shambling mass of flesh Oberon had crafted came tottering over the rise, a single shot boomed with a deafening noise and a terrific flash. The shot struck high, but fully half the horror’s mass was blasted away. A gout of gore splashed a hundred paces behind it, showering troops and Oberon himself with dripping bits of flesh. The legs buckled and the thing sagged down on the left side, while the right side struggled to straighten a collection of bent knees. Hands from a knot of arms reached out, dropping weapons, grasping boulders for support. Leg bones could be heard snapping as the monster struggled to rise, despite what had to be a mortal wound.

Oberon’s troops rushed past the monster and down the far side, but something gave him pause. The elf lord himself retreated one step, then three.

A second tremendous boom and flash shocked them all. The abomination disintegrated, struck squarely for a second time.

“Archers,” screamed Oberon, though his own voice seemed muffled as his ears still rang with the aftereffects of the bombard fired at such close range. “Kill the crews! Silence those bombards!”

The volleys were ragged, but effective. Oberon gathered what infantry he could and threw them into the charge. Slipping over the bloody pile of flesh that was his destroyed abomination, merlings croaked hopelessly as they scrambled to obey the terrifying elf sorcerer.

The rest of the bombards cracked and flashed, firing gravel into the charging infantry, but once the elf arrows sizzled into their flesh and the infantry were among them, the weaponeers were quickly slain. The last to stand was the wild-haired commander known as Thorkil, a Kindred with orange hairs sprouting in every direction and eyes that were even more mad than usual. He simply would not die, and took a dozen wriggling lance points and black-tipped arrows to the guts before he cursed them all and sagged down, wheezing.

Oberon stood upon the blood-slick cobbles and thought that perhaps his curse had already done its dark work. They had lost too many.

Then he ordered his exhausted troops to take up the yokes of the great bombards and serve as beasts of burden. To aid them, he built smaller horrors with no more than a dozen limbs each. These applied their unfeeling strength to move the fantastically heavy bell-shaped metal bombards. They would drag the weapons to the nearest rise, and they would turn them on the gates of Snowdon itself.

They would pound the Great Gates to rubble and then Snowdon itself would fall.

* * *

Brand held a second council with his commanders. This time they had no tent, no roof, and it had begun to rain in cool, whispering sheets. Their heads dribbled water, and their hair hung in limp curls that clung to serious faces.

“Milord, the men are nearing exhaustion,” said a captain.

Brand whirled upon him. He was one that had, back in the Deepwood, urged them forward with great zeal. Brand leveled a finger in his direction. The axe shifted upon his back restlessly.

“You quail now? In the very face of the enemy? These men know nothing of exhaustion. Not yet. They have not even lifted their swords against a charging line of foemen.”

“But, milord,” said the captain, his eyes hollow. Brand eyed him. He was a few years older than Brand, perhaps thirty. But he had not seen the things Brand had seen. Not a tenth of them. Not a twentieth. By that measure, he was a stripling.

Brand lifted his arm upward, to where the bombards flashed and boomed every half hour or so. They fired at something, but none who stood at the foot of these mountains knew what.

“A great battle is being waged up there. At the very entrance to Snowdon itself. For all we know, the Kindred are falling as we speak. We’ve had no word. Gronig has been erased, its people slaughtered and turned inside-out into hideous monsters.”

Brand began striding among them now, his hands balled into fists. The axe was safely away, but it still had a grip upon his mind. As well, he truly felt for the Kindred.

“Always, we have called upon the Kindred for aid. They helped us when the Fae hunted us for skins in the forests. They helped us in the swamps of the Dead Kingdoms. Today, if we had called them to Riverton to aid us, they would have come without hesitation. So why do we hesitate?”

He glared at each of them in turn. Only Corbin and Jak, who still wanted to rush up that black stony path to an unknown ridge and an unknown battle, dared return his gaze.

Brand nodded. “Gather every man you can. Arm any Kindred survivor who might march with us. We will leave in one hour. I will personally decapitate any man who cowers and shames the Haven.”

Tomkin whistled long and low as he walked away from them. He hopped close and winked at Brand.

“What do you want?” demanded Brand.

The manling grinned and pointed up at the night-shrouded ridge. Rain lashed the peaks and cobbled roadway alike. “I want to march my Rainbow along that lovely pathway. Can you imagine the destruction?”

Brand paused and blinked rainwater from his eyes, staring at Tomkin. He slowly smiled. “That would be a lovely start to the day for the elves. You need a bit of sunlight and rain to form up a good Rainbow, don’t you?”

“Indeed,” said Tomkin, grinning as widely as only one of the Wee Folk could.

“Would dawn do the trick?”

“Aye, that would serve very well,” chuckled Tomkin.

Brand, feeling heartened, rushed to find his roan and to gather his forces for the ascent.

* * *

As dawn tinged the skies pink over the Black Mountains, Snowdon shook with the impacts of multiple strikes against the Great Gates. They held yet, but for how long?

Dust sifted down from overhead. There was dust everywhere, and Gudrin could taste it in the air. Heavy thuds came up through the stone tiles right into her boots. She could feel every strike with her toes.

The bombards spoke again. Gudrin walked unsteadily to the viewing mechanisms. Built with ancient wisdom, tubes ran from the battlements over the Great Gates to spy on the external world. Using mirrors, prisms and carefully polished lenses, the viewing mechanisms allowed her to survey the outside world. Drilled holes, carefully hidden here and there amongst the cliffs and scrub growths of Snowdon’s face gave her many secret sights. Possessing the many glittering eyes of a spider, Snowdon could not easily be blinded. As Gudrin worked a series of wheels and gears, she reflected once again that in the end, the stoic mechnicians were perhaps the greatest heroes among the Kindred. Few songs were sung of them, not even among her own folk. But their fantastic works had, in many cases, been the cause of Kindred triumphs.

She watched Oberon and his unholy throng of allies. She had ordered her own troops to retreat behind the safety of the Great Gates, and closed the mountain behind them. No army since the stronghold’s construction had ever managed to breach the gates. She hoped that they would stop Oberon.

Inwardly, she chided herself. The bombards might break through the gates, and her own orders had given those weapons to her enemies. There would have been no chance of the gates falling if the enemy not taken the bombards. She did not blame Captain Thorkil, however. She had sent him out to fire upon the elves and distract them from their grim work in Gronig. He had fought well, and retreated exactly as she had ordered. But the elves and their new monsters, work clearly of the Red Jewel, had been a nasty surprise. They had caught Thorkil, when he should have been able to escape.

It had been a grave miscalculation, and it was entirely her fault. She had not known Oberon wielded the Red. In retrospect, she realized now she should have let them utterly destroy Gronig. That would have been the safe move, but she had not in her heart been able to abandon so many of her people to slaughter. She had none to blame but herself for the capture of the bombards. Hopefully, that mistake had not cost her people their existence. Without them, even the abominations had not the strength to hammer their way through the Great Gates.

“My queen,” said the chamberlain behind her. There was open worry in his voice, as she had scorched him earlier upon learning the bombards had been captured.

“What is it?”

“I would suggest you gaze upon Gronig.”

She blinked and glanced at him. “What new hellish news do you bring me?”

He smiled hopefully. His fingers waggled in the air. He was a diffident member of the Talespinners, one that she had never liked much. “If you would but look,” he said. “I think you will find the news pleasing.”

She sighed and stumped over to the viewing apparatus that gazed eastward. There she worked the wheels until a vision of the smoking ruin that was once the thriving town of Gronig came into view.

“I fail to see what—” she began, then she broke off. “Are those horsemen? They mount the ridge. The River Folk! Brand has come at last.”

“Yes, milady, that was our conclusion,” said the Chamberlain, effusing at having pleased her. “Now that the sun is rising, you can see clearly that the River Folk have a serious force and are marching up to trap the elves on the ridge.”

Gudrin hooted and laughed. It was a sound she’d not made in a weeks. “If we can hold here, we have them.”

She hammered her fists upon walls around the viewing apparatus and stared into the mechanisms. Her fists ran with flame and blackened her already crispy leather coat, but she took no notice.

She turned away then, calling for her captains and for messengers. They would relay her orders throughout the caverns, transmitted to her troops via flashes of light generated by lantern-like devices built with mirrors, lenses and flame. Using these communication systems, they were able to send coded orders over great distances to troops in the field, so long as there was nothing blocking the beams.

She had distributed her troops as best she could, given the circumstances. The kobold raiders ran about burning lichen farms, breweries and mining operations. She had companies of scouts armed with crossbows hunting them, but they were not her primary concern. They were an irritant and a distraction, this she knew. The real threat came from the concentration of gnomes and kobolds that had boiled out in the dusty wastes near the vents of the Earthlight itself. They could not be allowed to destroy the works there, nor could they be allowed to take the citadel. So far, they had not made their move. They had spent the hours since breaking through the plug gathering their numbers and organizing. Soon, however, she knew they would move. She suspected they waited until the gates were breached. Then, they planned to strike her army from both sides at once.

She and her Kindred regiments had not been idle, however. Between the gnome army and her own city, at the center of which stood the broken citadel, she had gathered the majority of her forces. Fully five regiments, each led by a squadron of three crawlers, stood at the ready. In reserve, she had the golems, called back from guarding the plugs. They had proven to be the most difficult for the enemy to defeat.

Now, however, with Oberon at her gates, she wished she had a greater force up here. If those five regiments or the golems were available, she could sally when Brand arrived and crush the elves between two armies with no retreat.

Chewing on her hand, she felt flames tickle her nostrils. The bright orange light of them, dancing up from her hands, did not burn, but made her squint. It was odd, she thought briefly, how accustomed she’d become to the gentle licking of flame. As the master of the Orange, flame did not burn her, but it did feel as if the finest gauze was being fluttered over her skin by a mischievous child.

She nodded to herself, coming to a conclusion. She would order her remaining five golems to march up the long walk to the gates. The good thing was that when they arrived, they would devastate the elves. But she had to hope that five regiments of heavy troops with crawlers leading them were enough to stop the gnomes and the kobolds.

The mountain shook with another impact, as the bombards snapped and hurled another volley. There was no time for further dithering. Still chewing upon her flaming fingers, she shouted out her orders.

She had a heavy heart, for she was committed now. The golems were far too slow to switch fronts a second time.

* * *

Like a great blue snake, Brand’s army wound up the steep cobbled road to the ridge. They were tired, but still game, when they reached the top. But once there, they saw nothing of the enemy. To the north rose up Snowdon, looking majestic, its crown laden with icy mist. Below a great battle raged, they could tell that by the continued flashing and booming of the bombards. But they could not see how it went.

“That way, comrades, lies the enemy,” he shouted to those nearest. “By moving up behind them, we have trapped them on this ridge between the army of the Kindred and our own. I do not expect this to be easy, but we clearly have the advantage.”

Jak had joined with the archers since he had the most training as a hunter. He tugged at Brand’s leg as he sat upon his roan, watching the army march by.

“Brand?”

“What is it, Brother?”

“Some of our hunters have noticed—shapes moving about on this mountain behind us.”

Brand craned his neck, frowning. Jak referred to the nearest peak of the Black Mountains, which loomed to the south. He knew nothing of it, but plainly it wasn’t as large as Snowdon and was rather barren at the summit.

“I don’t see anywhere for troops to hide upon its face. But the Fae are nothing if not tricksy. If your men see more shapes up there, shoot them!”

Jak nodded, and gazed up at the mountain with troubled eyes. Brand turned back to toward Snowdon. There, in his mind, lay the real battle.

It felt good, so very good, to be close to battle again. It had been too long. His mind, his hand, and most of all his axe ached to get into the thick of it again.

He urged his roan to a trot and pushed through his marching troops to the front. Tomkin hopped up there with Corbin. Everyone was eager. After the horrors they had witnessed in Gronig, there was a general desire to get to the elves themselves, to slay the real culprits.

* * *

Gudrin watched in alarm as the Great Gates cracked. It was near midmorning now, and she could see Brand’s forces coming up the ridge behind Oberon’s. The elves had played a cagey game, skirmishing with their archers to slow down the advance of the River Folk. Every time they drew near, elves would shower them with deadly arrows with squirming tips. The humans answered with snapping crossbows, but their fire was never as accurate and never as deadly. A single scratch from one of the Fae enchanted arrows would cause it to send a worming sliver into their bodies.

Brand’s axe was no defense against such evil weaponry. The humans had put up large walls of shields, behind which their archers wound their crossbows. The elves kept retreating out of range, and the humans kept advancing, but it was slow going.

This had given them time to work the bombards upon the gates in earnest. They had run out of proper shot long ago. They now loaded the steam-driven weapons with whatever was available, stones from the fells, Kindred heads, even buckets of gravel. The bombards, as long as they had water to feed the angry elementals inside them, could keep firing indefinitely.

Unfortunately, Snowdon’s gates, although very ancient and extremely thick, were not boundless. Now that cracks had finally appeared, Oberon had rushed forward two of his largest abominations as the crews reloaded the bombards between volleys. These monsters had at least thirty hands each and an equal number of legs. Most of the protruding limbs and heads were Kindred Gudrin noted with a shudder. Straining in frenzy, the abominations ripped pieces of stone from cracks, widening them. A dozen throats raved with madness and exertion as the monsters strove to rip their way into Snowdon. Fingers were torn loose and bones were snapped as often as chunks of masonry were brought away, but Oberon quickly patched these injuries. All that was required was the gentle caress of the swirling bladder of blood that floated behind him and his ghastly hound.

She was more than tempted to give the elf a surprise. She could allow the gates to fall open suddenly, and light up his monsters and his hound with a gush of flame that would be the envy of any dragon. That, however, would give Brand less time to get into the battle and would give her golems less time to arrive.

She considered retreating further into her mountain fortress. She could not take this option, however. It was the safest, but smacked of cowardice. Out there, Brand marched to her aid with every man he could bring, she knew. He had come at her call, and she could not leave him to face the elves in a relatively even fight. This fight involved the Kindred, they were obviously the target, and she would not have it said that her folk sat out the battle at their doorstep. The Kindred would not huddle and quake inside their caverns while humans fought their war for them.

So, she heaved a sigh. There would be no easy way out this day. The golems were coming, but by all estimates the gates would be rubble before they arrived.

She called for her battlemaids. She donned a full suit of armor. She girded for war in steel that gouged her skin, with only a layer of mechnicians leather beneath, though she expected that would soon burn away in the tremendous heat she planned to release. She insisted that every piece of mail she donned be made solely of metal, though it might tear at her skin. She had no hair left to speak of, so that wasn’t a problem. Her armor was specially made using the hardest high-carbon steel her people could forge, each piece folded one hundred times or more. It was very important that her armor could not melt.

Once properly attired for battle, she summoned her regiment of heavy infantry, bolstered by the only squad of crawlers that garrisoned the Great Gates. As per the ancient defensive plans of the Kindred, they would not make their stand right behind the gates. They would withdraw to the first tower. There they would have to hold.

And if they fell, it would all be up to the golems.

Chapter Twenty-One

Stone Fists

Brand grew tired of the cat and mouse game very quickly. He called Tomkin, who hopped to his side. Brand’s face was tight, his breath hissed through his teeth.

Tomkin grinned. Clearly, he had expected this moment to come. The Wee One was unusually eager for battle. Brand could tell he was as interested in beginning this fight as anyone was. It had to be the influence of Lavatis.

Brand looked at him, and nodded. “It is time.”

Tomkin grinned widely. Far too many teeth for such a mouth showed there wetly. They were very white teeth, and many of them boasted fine points.

“It is high time!” shouted the manling, slapping his palms together. He pulled Lavatis into the open and the Blue Jewel did flash. For just a single second, Brand’s eyes were captivated by its beauty, its power. He thought then that this was the Blue’s perfect arrangement of elements. A high mountain ridge with windswept stone everywhere. There was nothing in sight around them but clouds, blue skies and wet rock. Lighting and blasting winds would be at home in this spot.

“Tomkin!” shouted Brand, giving the other a moment’s pause.

Tomkin stopped his reaching fingers with difficulty. He all but trembled with the desire to summon the Rainbow. His eyes, black shining marbles, glittered. Brand hoped that his small friend would not go feral this day.

“Tomkin, I did not want to send the Rainbow against the elves while the bombards are still in their hands, but I fear we have no choice. They will soon breach the gates and we must strike them before they push into Snowdon. I don’t know what the situation is inside. Gudrin may be overwhelmed if struck from a new front. The very fact she closed the gates and has not answered their attack on her front doorstep makes me think things are not well inside.”

“Stop prattling, river-boy and let me do my work!”

“I’ll speak quickly. The bombards will destroy the Rainbow, given the chance. You must march right through them to the bombards and destroy them.”

Tomkin paused, struggling to think. Having the Lavatis in his hands, staring into the Blue Eye itself, must be difficult, thought Brand. Much like fondling the axe when it wanted to be free and swinging.

“The Rainbow will lose its legs amongst such a host,” said Tomkin. “It will go mad.”

Brand nodded. “Likely so. Drive it to the bombards, and let’s pray you can silence them all with your mad creation before it falls.”

Tomkin heaved a great breath. “Your plan is sound. The bombards must be destroyed first.”

He gave a great bound then, directly into the air. A gust caught him and tossed his tiny body up higher still. Brand threw back his head and squinted to see where he would alight.

Tomkin came down upon a spire of rock up over their heads. There, exposed to the winds and the rains, he threw his thin arms up toward the heavens. The clouds darkened the day and horses nickered and stepped nervously everywhere along the ridge. A rain began to fall, a patter of fat drops from the gray skies.

Brand turned up squinting again, to watch the manling at work. The Blue flashed like lighting and somewhere in the great distance out over the sea, a crackling flash answered Lavatis’ call.

The Rainbow had been born. It marched across the sea toward its master. Each crashing step flashed with blinding light upon the waves that surged at its gauzy feet. A riot of colors made up its translucent body, and briefly Brand was reminded of the blood bladders Piskin had formed. Perhaps the two magics were remotely related, one like the other in that they both manipulated elements both liquid and gaseous.

Brand turned to Corbin and his men, who had watched these last proceedings with a mix of awe and terror in their eyes and hearts. “It is time to attack! We stand shuffling about on this ridge no longer! Corbin, the next knot of elven archers that stand before my column will be ridden down by your cavalry!”

Corbin snapped a salute. “Yes milord!” he shouted over the growing winds. He spurred his horse, and Brand watched him gallop forward screaming for his bugler. He wondered, just for a second, if they would both live through this day.

The bombards flashed again. They made the skies rumble with their own unnatural form of thunder. Brand’s eyes flew immediately to the charging Rainbow, but was relieved to see no great chunks were torn from its body. Instead, they still fired upon the crumbling gates of Snowdon. Perhaps the elves did not yet realize their danger, or perhaps they were desperate to break inside.

Brand looked up to see Tomkin atop his spire. He appeared to be running in place with great sweeping strides. He stayed in place, but mimed the actions of the behemoth that charged to the shore and past it, into the forests. Soon, it would reach the foot of the Black Mountains.

Watching, Brand realized the wisdom of Tomkin’s choice. Rather than walking along the ridge, possibly killing their own men, the monster would scale the Starbreak Fells and come up among the elves, striking into their midst.

Nodding, he walked the roan forward. He would command the infantry directly. In the end, this would be their fight.

Corbin’s cavalry did indeed gallop into the surprised face of the enemy after a short charge. The elves only had time to get off two volleys then a ragged third, before Corbin’s horsemen crashed into them. By that time fully a third of the light horse had taken mortal injury. Stricken, many horses tripped and slid off the ridge. Riders and animals screamed all the way down until silenced by the sharp teeth of the fells. Blue cloaks and banners fluttering, others rode on with arrows in their breasts, eyes bulging, sabers uplifted and lances leveled.

At the last, the elf company broke before them. A few stood with light, flashing blades in their hands, others ran, but all were ridden down. Within two minutes, the last of the shining warriors sagged down in disbelief that their own tremendously long lives could have ended this day. An exhausted cheer went up from the milling horsemen. Their hooves splashed into hair of silver and gold, which floated upon oily slicks of rainwater, mud and blood.

When the infantry trotted to the scene, Corbin met Brand with a broad grin.

“Well done!” Brand shouted, and the two cousins clasped and hugged.

They parted, and Corbin’s smile faltered.

“What is it, cousin?”

Corbin didn’t reply, but instead had a coughing fit. Brand looked quickly. As he feared, there was blood at the corners of Corbin’s mouth. He was wounded inside.

Corbin looked at him sheepishly. “I must have caught something back there.”

Brand shouted for bandages, but Corbin grabbed his arm with a firm grip.

“It’s nothing, Brand.”

“You need patching up.”

“No,” said Corbin, shaking his head. He leaned close, coughed wetly. “It’s in my lung. Such a tiny thing.”

“I’ll have you taken back down to Gronig.”

Corbin straightened. His eyes were angry. “What’s the point of that? If I’m going to die this day, at least let me lead my men. I can still sit a horse. I’ve got one good charge left in me.”

Brand nodded, although the idea crushed his heart. Somehow, letting Corbin carry on in battle when he was so grievously wounded—somehow that forced him to admit his cousin was dead on his feet.

Brand sucked in his breath and shook his cousin’s hand. He dared not hug him, although he wanted to. His eyes stung, but he did not allow himself to shed a tear. Death would come to many this day, he felt sure. He sent Corbin back to his horsemen, and ordered them to press ahead. The enemy ranks were sure to be over the next rise or two.

“You called for bandages?” asked an older gent who came to check on Brand. He eyed him, looking for injury. Brand looked at the man, thinking he was a barber from Riverton, but he could not recall his name.

“See to the wounded horsemen. I’m fine.”

The barber nodded, but eyed him strangely. He carried a roll of fresh white linen bandages and a large bag of medicines. “Aye, Lord Rabing.”

Brand mounted his horse, got together the infantry and ordered them to march forward. Before they had moved out, however, Jak came hustling up to him. The look in his eye made Brand call a halt and he bent to speak with his brother.

“Brand,” said the other. “There are ghosts behind us. Hundreds of them!”

Brand looked down from his roan at Jak, clearly suspecting his mind.

“No, no brother. You have to come look. They are sneaking up behind us, on the ridge.”

Brand tried to think. The axe wanted to decapitate his foolish brother and charge the elves. The Rainbow, he could see now, was about to reach the foot of the Starbreak Fells. Once it climbed to the top, they needed to strike the elves with it, to grind them between several forces with no escape. With luck, the Kindred would sally forth and join in.

But at the same time, he could not allow an unknown force come up behind them and strike them from behind.

“You have two minutes,” he told Jak.

His brother nodded and hustled toward the rear of the column, pushing through the infantry who followed Brand’s orders and marched north toward the battle.

There, at the rear of the column, Brand climbed from his horse and followed Jak, who he believed had quite possibly had lost his mind. He came to crouch beside him, peering through a slit between boulders.

“There, did you see that?”

“See what?” snapped Brand. His axe twitched violently. The battle was the other way, and this fool wasted his time!

“There! In the grasses, and amongst the puddles. See the splashing? What splashes, where there are no feet?”

Brand finally saw it. Something—yes, something, was splashing in puddles behind them. Something crushed down the wet grasses. It was as if feet, scores of feet, passed over the land, but the owners could not be seen with the eye.

“Are they ghosts, Brand?” asked Jak with a quaver in his voice.

Brand looked at him, and the splashing puddles. Whatever they were, there were a lot of them, and they were following closely.

“Call up your archer company, this instant. Order them to fire, pepper the road with arrows.”

“What are we shooting at?”

“Tell them the road is haunted. Tell them anything. Just fire, now!”

Jak hustled off, and in less than a minute, arrows began to loft. Soon crossbowmen came up and dutifully fired into the puddles of the road behind the army.

It was only a half-minute before the first scream went up. It was high-pitched, enraged, inhuman.

Brand smiled widely. He had Ambros in his hand. “Goblins!” he roared. “Fire around me. Try not to shoot me in the back, men!”

Baffled, the company of archers nodded and watched him lurch up with eyes possessed. He charged downslope into the invisible ranks of the enemy, commanding Ambros to flash.

In that single flash of Amber light, a hundred goblins, each bearing two daggers, were lit up. The archers had time to mark their targets and snapped off a volley. The goblins, caught by surprise and without cover, fell by the dozens.

Worse, Brand charged among them, axe aloft, eyes insane and as filled with a yellow light as Ambros itself. Heads flew off and arced over the cliffs. Ambros flashed again and again as he struck, revealing the goblins to everyone.

The enemy panicked. Few things are worse for a stealthy group, confident in its unaware prey, than to be caught by surprise. Not known for their stalwart qualities, and distrustful of Hob’s magic in any case, they broke. Hob had clearly flown them to the southern peak and made them into rippling shadows. But now the axeman was among them, slaying with abandon. Brand’s archers showered them with arrows and blood was everywhere. Some threw themselves screaming off the cliffs to escape the sweeping axe. Others made it over the next ridge. Many died to the axe or the endless stream of bolts and arrows.

Within two minutes it was over. Brand scanned the area, but there was no sign of old Hob himself.

Then, he saw something. Footprints exploded into being in the mud, splashing hugely. Something was moving fast, with massive feet, running away from the battle southward.

Brand lurched after him, only Hob could have feet so large, but he stopped himself. He had no time. He looked back and saw that the Rainbow now climbed the Starbreak Fells. The battle would meet soon, and he had to be there. He must command the infantry. They would grind away the elves.

At a dead run, Brand went to his roan and mounted. Panting, he managed to get Jak’s attention. “You did well. Stay on station here. If you see any more puddles splash, or shimmering, or anything, lay a volley upon the road. You are our rearguard.”

His brother shouted a reply, but it was lost to Brand’s ears. He was already galloping northward, toward Snowdon.

* * *

When the gates of Snowdon gave way finally and completely, Gudrin stood ready. Fresh cold air tinged with dust and the smell of rain blew into her face in a sharp gust. If she had had hair, it would have been ruffled and left fluttering down her back. She waited until the tremendous din of falling masonry subsided, then shouted a guttural warning to her troops, a whoop that they knew well. It was the sound any sergeant of the Kindred might use to awaken the slovenly amongst his squad. This was the moment. The battle for Snowdon was at hand.

The first in, unsurprisingly, were a croaking wave of hapless merlings. She let a shower of crossbow bolts disperse them. Dozens fell, a few threw their deadly darts, but the weapons clattered harmlessly upon stone. Gudrin and her troops stood behind the first tower, with the portcullis firmly down.

At first, the merlings dared to creep further into the red lit cavern. Dust filtered down from overhead, with sifting earth falling upon their oily skins. The scouts stationed above them in the battlements that had served for the last several days as Gudrin’s headquarters waited. Once the merlings drew close to the tower wall, the archers opened fire. Caught with bolts flashing at them from above and in front, the enemy wavered, and then broke.

Looming up behind them came the first real wave of combatants. Abominations, a dozen of them, tottered forward. They snatched up merlings: dead, wounded and fleeing alike. Gudrin’s lips curled to see these monsters in person. They stripped the merlings, living or not, of their limbs. They stuffed the limbs appropriately into their vast shambling bodies, adding to their own mass. Torn off legs were placed beneath to keep the churning feet moving. Newly added merlings arms were given fresh darts to wield. Merling heads were planted on top of the mass, to croak and roll their eyes, gasping to drag breath into lungs that were somehow affixed within the central lobes of flesh.

It was these last, the lobes of wet flesh, into which were stuffed the bloody torsos. With each merling thus subsumed, the abominations grew in strength and size. Relentlessly, they lumbered forward.

At a single shouted command, scores of crossbows snapped, targeting the leading abomination. The rippling impact shook its flesh, staggered it back upon a squad of heels. It did not fall, however. Although the bolts drilled into flesh so deeply as to vanish, the mass of the living creature could not so easily be halted. How do you find the vitals of a monster with a dozen pair of flapping lungs and perhaps a score of thudding hearts? The abominations were unstoppable, and left behind smears of blood on every surface, as a snail might leave a glistening trail on garden bricks.

Gudrin watched them advance in alarm and disgust. If they were to reach the portcullis, they might well rip it free, such was the berserk strength in those grasping, unfeeling arms. She was loathe to order her troops to engaged the monsters, they would surely slay her Kindred and add their mass to their bulbous bodies.

Heaving a sigh, she gave her orders. The crawlers would sally forth to meet the abominations and she would give support. The crossbows were to seek to blind every head they could. The heavy infantry were to stay in reserve, and sell their lives as dearly as possible, should matters go poorly.

The portcullis rattled upward, chains clicking. Six crawlers, driven by nervous, grim-faced mechnicians, clattered forward like metallic spiders. Gudrin followed them, stumping out onto the cobbled road that already ran with blood, dust and broken bricks.

For a frozen moment, the crawler pilots and abominations regarded one another. Both were monstrous, in their own way. The Kindred machines of clockwork, elemental magic, brass boilers and killing tines thrust forward. The abominations of flesh and blood, work of the Red, tilted their mass and charged with a dozen warbling battle cries erupting from their community of throats. They had in them, perhaps, less of nature and sanity than the clockworks themselves, each of which at least boasted a single thinking driver.

The clockwork crawlers rippled forward, tines upraised like lances. The first meeting was uneven. Twelve lengths of spine-like metal pierced the flesh of their opponents. Gouts of gore spilled, shrieking. Heads died and raved. Arms strove with the tines, the legs, even the cupolas that protected the drivers. Gushing flame and steam, the crawlers burned and stabbed. They were outnumbered, but metal is always harder than flesh. In most cases, the flopping monstrosities were cast down to be burned and stabbed unto a final group death.

Not every fight went well, however. A crawler was lifted by two abominations and tossed unceremoniously over the edge of the road to smash upon rocks a thousand feet below. Another crowd of hands managed to pry off a cupola, and the driver was plucked into the air and torn apart.

In each of these cases, Gudrin stepped into the fray. She directed both arms upward, forming two brilliant points of light with her fingers. Firing thin beams so bright and white-hot she herself had to avert her eyes from them, she cut down those abominations that were victorious. She cut their legs from under them with beams of heat so intense they were like blades of light and heat fifty feet in length. Cauterized flesh stank, filling the area with billowing greasy clouds of smoke. She slashed the monsters time and again with her beaming fingers, burning them down to slag. The goblins fell in thrashing heaps of cooked flesh.

She had just begun to let herself believe they would hold, that with Pyros and her machines, they would win through. Then a blow struck her head from behind. She felt a number of dagger points stabbing viciously, desperately, at her spine. It was a tribute to Kindred skills at forging that none won through and bit into her flesh.

She fell, however, stunned. A puff of orange flame blew up from her mouth as she roared in rage, surprise and frustration. That puff of flame illuminated her attackers. Goblins. A dozen of them at least. They knelt to stab out her eyes, and she screamed. More flames gushed up, as if she herself had become a wurm. They cast themselves away from her, grasping at their burning faces and hissing.

How had these bastards snuck up on her? She blinked once before she had the answer. Hob must have brought them, wielding Osang with its mastery of light, shadow and sound.

The pack lunged again, pinning down her arms and throwing a boulder down into her face. She felt her armor dent, her face was wet with blood. If she could not blow flame or direct her fingers like wands of brilliant death, they could kill her if only by crushing her limbs and stripping off her armor if they had to. Even the best armor could not halt an icicle-thin point worked between the links.

She struggled, but they held her and she knew it was over. She willed her hands to gush and run with flame, which they did, and the goblins shrieked with new pain. Large stones began to buffet and bruise her body. They were beating her to death.

Suddenly, everything changed. A figured loomed over her that was not goblin, but she had trouble seeing it clearly through her blood-filled eyes. She raised a finger, and only an act of will kept her from burning away the face, beard and all.

It was the beard that stopped her. Goblins didn’t have beards. This single fact saved the life of the captain that had rescued her. She was borne aloft by a dozen Kindred hands. They carried her at a run toward the portcullis, which now stood open again.

She spat blood and was soon able to speak. “You disobeyed me, captain,” she managed.

“Yes, my queen. You may flog me after the battle.”

She snorted, and would have chuckled, could she have managed it. Pain lanced through her in a dozen places. Her ribs were broken, she surmised. From the sensation, they all were.

Once safely back behind the tower again, she took count with one good eye. Most of her regiment of heavy troopers had survived. Of her squad of crawlers, only two had made it back.

Inside the breach, where sunlight poured through the dust clouds, no more attackers came at the moment. She wondered why the attacks had halted. Did they not know how close they were to victory?

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Rainbow

The Rainbow scaled the Starbreak Fells with what looked deceptively like slowness. Each glimmering hand of gauzy, insubstantial flesh gripped great spires of rock and dragged the titanic form upward. Now that the gates lay in ruins and the assault was underway, the elves turned their bombards, tilting them downward. None but two were in position to fire. They spoke, booming with an incredible sound at short range. One missed, but the second furrowed a great line of shimmering flesh from the Rainbow’s back.

The alien creature arched itself in response. The mouth yawned and loosed a warbling, otherworldly cry of agony. The elves clapped their hands over their ears, more disturbed by the sound of impossibly deep pain than by the roar of the brass-bellied bombards themselves. The Rainbow’s eyes spun with colors. The legs flexed and the knees straightened. Each heaving effort brought the monster a hundred feet closer.

Oberon screamed for his elves and the last surviving merlings to drag back the bombards that had expended their loads. He ordered the next two to be rolled forward into position.

The Rainbow reached, and heaved. Another step closer. Then another, and then a fourth. A tremendous hand came down out of the mists that rose from the steamy bombards. That huge hand, looking like a gel of many-colored raindrops, grabbed up a one of the brass guns and swept it up into the skies.

Together, the hand and the bombard, still clung to by screaming crewmen, came downward with whistling speed. The bombard, freshly loaded, boomed. The force of it blew off the Rainbow’s hand that held it. Falling away into space, the brass gun and the cart wheeling bodies of its screaming crewmen spun away and off the cliff.

The Rainbow drew back its lost hand in a spasm of pain. The maw yawned open again, and the elves gritted and bared teeth, squinched eyes, clapped hands to their heads. But the roar was so great that no barrier could stop it. The sound so filled their skulls that many dropped to their knees, bleeding from their ears.

The Rainbow climbed the rest of the way up onto its knees atop the ridge. The cobblestoned road was nowhere near wide enough for an army to share footing with such a monster. Troops scrambled to get away, pushing one another. Only the abominations, oblivious to anything but rage and a protective instinct for their master, rushed to meet the Rainbow.

Another of the bombards boomed, blasting away a goodly portion of translucent leg. Crippled, the Rainbow thrashed upon the ridge, kicking elves and bombards in every direction. Many elves spiraled down to their deaths, bodies twirling end over end for several seconds before the sharp spikes of rock ended their hopeless cries.

The abominations grappled the Rainbow, and strove with it. A hundred hands, bolstered by the strength of berserk madness, dug their collective fingers into the yielding flesh of the Rainbow, and tore great chunks from it. Where it kicked and thrashed, lighting flashed, but it was dying now. Writhing in the final agonies, it went mad, and Tomkin, over a mile southward, went mad with it. He slid from the spire of rock he had chosen to make his stand upon and lie on his back, kicking in the muddy puddles, eyes as lost and full of spinning color as were the Rainbow’s.

The abominations finally stilled the Rainbow, but only after losing half their number. The bombards were gone, all smashed upon the cliffs of the Starbreak Fells. Hundreds of bodies lay strewn over the cobbles and the fells. And into all this chaos Brand charged at the head of his Riverton infantry.

Blue cloaks fluttered. Banners rippled in the screaming winds. A thousand throats roared until they were raw and kept roaring as they charged behind Ambros, who drove them into a killing frenzy with its flashes of golden light. The elves looked to the charging humans and knew a new fear, because there was yellow, gleaming madness in those eyes. Centuries of idle amusements were about to be avenged.

Oberon screamed for his archers to fire their bows. Some did, standing their ground and loosing a deadly stream into the maddened infantry. Many went down and were crushed beneath the churning feet of their insensate comrades. Others twirled, caught themselves and staggered forward, coughing blood, but still marching.

The column of River Folk followed Brand directly into the mass of disintegrating flesh that was the Rainbow. A thousand puddles of dripping, sticky, multi-hued liquids slicked the cobbles.

Oberon sounded the retreat. Silver horns rose and pealed. Elves ran back to their master with light fast steps. The abominations that had survived the Kindred and the Rainbow lurched forward eagerly to meet the humans.

Brand, at the front of the infantry now, threw himself from his saddle. With a broad grin and a long-forgotten song on his lips, he rushed into the bloody monsters with their flapping feet and screeching heads. He lopped off limbs and flashed his axe to blind countless eyes. All the while he sang, and men who knew nothing of battle, who had never done anything more violent than gut a fish, now slashed and thrust at his side.

One abomination went down, gut open and mouths collectively gasping. The second was pushed over the side of the cliff to the west, its grasping hands gripping the hair of six shrieking men and taking them all with it.

The third Brand burned blind, then ordered his men to take off the limbs together. The legs went down with methodical efficiency. The archers were coming up behind both sides now and exchanged volleys. The humans always got the worst of it, but at least the withering fire was kept from the knots of infantry that struggled with each of the monsters.

Silver horns pealed again, and the elves withdrew, running up to a rise and over, vanishing. Brand and his men made the quick work of the last monsters among them.

Glad for a respite, however slight, his troops sagged down in exhaustion. Many fell to the ground, dying on the spot. Others fell unconscious once the throbbing light of the Amber Jewel no longer gripped their minds with battle fever.

Brand himself fell to one knee and his sides heaved. Every breath hurt, and he supposed he may have taken another cursed weapon into his belly. He looked around for Corbin, but didn’t see him. Had he fallen? He did not know.

“What of the cavalry?” he gasped to one of his sergeants.

The sergeant shook his head. “I think they joined us, they dismounted at the rear of the column.”

“Any word of the goblins behind us?”

The man looked at him with a mix of concern and surprise. “Goblins, lord?”

“Never mind.”

Brand struggled to his feet. It would not do to have his men see him kneel into a puddle. He decided to advance. Time was not on their side now. He suspected that Oberon would use the carnage to form new abominations. They could not defeat them all without slaying the elf lord himself. As well, there were the cursed weapons to consider. Dozens of his troops choked and coughed around him. Some foamed blood like horses ridden too long and hard. Their eyes showed whites all around. They would be dead within hours.

“Advance!” he cried, and his men rose up to follow their champion. To their credit, few moaned aloud.

When they reached the top of the rise, they found no resistance. Instead, the final stretch of ground showed the way to the blasted gates of Snowdon. The sight saddened Brand’s heart. How fared the Kindred? Had they been taken? Was he too late? What hells, he wondered, went on inside that brooding mountain?

Along the slopes all around the crown of Snowdon elves perched. They thronged the mouth of the broken, dusty gates as well. Brand chewed at his lower lip as he gazed upon the scene.

Corbin came up to him then. He stood yet, but with an arm wrapped around his chest as if it hurt him a great deal.

“I’m glad to see you, cousin,” said Brand. He felt an intensity of emotion. He had watched too many fine men die this day.

“Milord,” gasped Corbin.

“Here, lean your back against this rock. Look at our enemy and tell me what you see.”

Corbin did as he asked. He eyed the elves carefully.

“They are hurt,” he said, “badly. But so are we. I suspect they still outnumber us.”

“I agree with all that.”

“What are your orders, Lord Rabing?” Corbin asked formally.

Brand looked at him. His jaws were tight. “Corbin, you are most loyal. None were ever more so.”

Corbin did not reply.

“We must think,” said Brand. He considered putting away the axe, as that always helped clear his mind, but he worried that he might sag down unconscious if he did so. “The elves have pulled back. They broke the gates, but seem to be regrouping. They look defensive. They are not assaulting the entrance, I see no one going inside.”

Corbin nodded. “What’s it like inside? Do the Kindred have a strong defense?”

Brand snorted. “The most fantastic series of towers and castles guards every inch downward into their stronghold.”

“Then it would seem that the elves are up to one of two things. Either they are gathering their strength for the final push, or they are trying to take up a defensive posture.”

“A little of both, I suspect. Oberon will use the Red to heal his troops and form fresh abominations. Possibly, Hob will fly his troops to join him. Maybe there are other allies coming.”

“In that case, milord,” said Corbin. “We should attack at once. They grow stronger, while we weaken.”

Brand nodded. “You are right, of course. We gain nothing by sitting. Do you think we can take them?”

Corbin shrugged. “If the Kindred are able to sally forth, even weakly, we will catch them between us and they will have nowhere to retreat. But...”

“Yes?”

“It will likely be very bloody, milord.”

Brand nodded. “I’m loathe to see us all die here. I will try another approach first. Give me your undershirt, will you?”

Corbin eyed him, then did as he asked. Brand put the fluttering white, stained with blood, upon the head of his axe. He marched down the stony cobbles, still slick with blood and fresh raindrops. He held the axe high, and none of the elves who raised their bows fired at him.

In a few minutes, Oberon marched forward to meet him. His bloodhound trotted faithfully at his heels. Brand had to wonder if it had ever, in all its existence, feasted upon so much blood as it had this day.

“Lord Oberon.”

“Lord Rabing.”

“Will you treat with me?”

“Speak,” said the elf, making a smooth gesture with his white hands.

“We have you at an advantage. I suggest enough elves have reached the end of their very long lives this day.”

Oberon blinked at him. “I had thought you might want to settle matters between us.”

“A duel?”

“Crudely put. But yes.”

Brand nodded his head. “What would you say to such a suggestion?”

Oberon laughed. His laugh, despite the terribleness of this long day, was light and full of easy joy. How could he, in the face of such horrors, laugh like nothing was wrong? Brand knew he would never understand the Shining Folk.

“That’s your answer? You laugh at me?”

Oberon tilted his head and gazed at him. “I would deny your request. If you attack me now, I will prevail. Each battle we have, I grow respectively stronger. I shall use the bodies of your own troops against you. I have only to wait for midnight, and half your men will fall dead. You have no chance, River-boy. Go back to your Haven and wait out your few remaining years. You should not be here, amongst your betters.”

Brand’s mind flared. The Amber Jewel throbbed, and almost, he launched himself at Oberon. But he checked himself. Perhaps this was exactly what the other wanted. If he broke the parlay first, the elf archers would pepper him with arrows. He was too far from his lines to make it back.

With great difficulty, he nodded and smiled. “I see you are afraid.”

Oberon’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Clearly, this was not the response he had expected. “Whatever do you mean, child?”

Brand nodded, as if with growing certainty. “Gudrin prepares to push out and finish you. We stand at your rear. There is no escape, so you try to trick me into breaking the parlay. A desperate gambit, well-played.”

Oberon made a gesture of annoyance. “If that is all you came to say, then be off with you. Attack or not, as you will.”

“We will attack then. Tomkin will have his new Rainbow up here soon, and we will finish the pack of you. Perhaps the Kindred will help, perhaps not.” Brand shrugged.

“You have no new Rainbow. Tomkin could never have mastered Lavatis so tightly.”

Brand shrugged again and turned to go. “Believe as you will. May the River allow us all to sleep soundly tonight, dead or living.”

“You would be mad to attack. We will fight to the death.”

Brand turned back around, and smiled with half his mouth. “Exactly. Many of us will die, and just as many of your folk. But, our folk grow back at an astonishing rate. In a dozen years, I’ll be back here with an army just as big. My heir will carry the axe if I can’t. Your people will be broken, too few to matter. The world will know new masters.”

Brand turned his back on the elf then, and marched away. He managed to make it a dozen paces.

“Hold,” called Oberon. “I would ask you: what terms might be acceptable?”

Brand allowed his face to split into a grin for a second, then he stuffed the expression away. He turned around, frowning and thoughtful. He bargained then, as he had watched Jak bargain, when he truly wanted a plow or an ox, but pretended all along to be uncaring. They talked for some minutes. Brand got him to agree to healing all the folk of every army, to use the bloodhound in a positive way. Afterward, the elves would never attack the Haven or Snowdon again.

Oberon shook his head and smiled sadly. “No immortal can ever swear to a Pact that is unending. We live too long for that.”

“Very well. For ten years and a day, no elf shall raise a weapon to the Haven, the Kindred or the Wee Folk. We will do your folk the same favor.”

Oberon agreed rapidly. He gestured for Brand to follow him into the broken gates of Snowdon.

“Where are we going?”

“We must get Gudrin to agree as well.”

“And the hurry?”

“Her golems are almost upon us.”

Brand laughed then, and followed the wily elf into the gaping mouth of broken stone. He wondered at that moment, who had truly swindled whom?

Gudrin was agreeable, if distrustful. She had seen enough bloodshed. So many had died, and hundreds more were wounded on every side. King Groth and his gnomes were shown white banners and listened to the parlay. Learning that the elves had been defeated and had agreed to peace, they had no choice. The gnomes and the kobolds retreated back into the Everdark, with no promises made in either direction.

Oberon worked all night to heal all the wounded, serving the worst first, then those with lesser hurts, until he proclaimed all that could be saved, saved.

Dawn broke over the battlefield. It was pink and glorious. Fresh rain dribbled from the skies, and Brand tasted it with his tongue.

He met Corbin and Jak. Wearily, they all smiled. They would see the Haven again.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Figure among the Dead

Brand clapped Corbin on the back when he saw him, hale and pink-faced again. It was good to see his cousin whole, rather than ghastly, gray and drawn.

Corbin, although looking health enough, seemed troubled. He pointed down into the grassy rise of Snowdon’s flanks.

Brand’s eyes followed his cousin’s gesture.

He saw there, upon a field of fallen dead men, elves and merlings, what appeared to be a cowled old man moving among the corpses. He walked between them, wandering. At each body, he bent and touched the brow with thin fingers.

“Some relative, perhaps? Looking for a fallen child?”

Corbin shook his head. “I don’t know. He touches every brow. Every man, Kindred, Fae or even goblin. How can he be looking for a relative, if he is not looking for a particular folk?”

“If he is robbing the dead, he must be stopped.”

Jak with his archers stood behind him. He gestured to his men, and bows were lifted and bent. Brand waved them down, and the bows were lowered.

“I will speak to him,” he said, and he marched alone downslope to speak with the stranger.

“Hail there! Old man! What are you doing here with our dead?”

The other stopped and turned to regard him. The cowl stayed in place, drooping over the figure’s face, but Brand thought to see ice cold eyes beneath it. But Brand did not hesitate. He did not break his stride. He walked up to the strange man. His axe was in his hand, but not held upraised.

“I ask you to leave the battlefield,” said Brand. “I ask you not to molest those who have bravely fallen here.”

“The Dead are not yours, axeman.”

“What? Who are you?”

“The Dead are mine.”

“No. Not those of the Haven. And not those of these other folk, either.”

“Why do you care so, axeman? A few hours ago, you were so kind as to slay them all for me. What a fine harvest it has been, too. I’ve not seen the like for a very long time. Do you now regret your actions?”

“No, I do not regret the battle. But I will not have you, whoever you are, molesting these corpses.”

“I seek only to bury them. Look! Gaze upon those I have touched.”

Brand did, and he saw that they indeed had been interred. Each body lie beneath a neat hummock of soil. But something was desperately wrong, because there should have been fresh black earth upturned over each shallow grave. Instead, each raised portion of ground had undisturbed grasses and flowers growing over it. The graves appeared as if they had been buried there for a season. Or as if someone had lifted the top layer of the earth and tucked them under it. The vanished corpses reminded him of how a shoe might look, hidden beneath a carpet.

As he watched, the cowled figured stepped to another, a fine young elf with eyes of magenta and hair the color of cobalt. He touched the pale brow, caressed it. The corpse immediately sank into the ground, as a drowned man might slowly drift to the bottom of a placid lake.

“Whatever you are doing, it is unnatural. We will bury our own dead. We do not need your help.”

“I’m reluctant to drink your soul, axeman,” said the other, taking a step toward him. Brand felt an undeniable urge to step back, but he held his ground. The stranger continued speaking. “I admire you and I’m in your debt. You have provided me a great bounty this day. Those lost souls at Gronig, they were sweet and countless. But these are better. These are the Dead of true warriors, not shepherds and miners. They will not simper and bemoan their fate. They will march as proudly in death as they did in life.”

“Who are you?” demanded Brand again.

“I am King Arawn,” said the other. “And I say again, I do not wish to strive with you. None in the recent memory of the world have been so kind to me as you have.”

Brand stared at the figure that faced him. “King Arawn? Lord of Castle Anwyn?”

“None other.”

“Then know, King of the Dead, that I am Lord Rabing, champion of the River Folk and Lord of Castle Rabing. Both of us are lords of fallen castles. Places remembered well only by those long gone from this world. I ask you, as an ally of those ancient times, to withdraw. And take no more of the honored dead from this place.”

King Arawn cocked his head. His cowled face and cold eyes, which Brand now suspected were empty sockets lit from within by an eldritch glow, regarded him curiously.

“You claim kinship with me?”

“I do,” said Brand, thinking of King Herla. Perhaps there was a spark of humanity in this creature yet. And if not that, then perhaps there was some desire for honor. Perhaps, it still craved respectful acknowledgement from the living, if nothing else.

“None but a true lord would know to make such a request so politely. Very well. As one King to another, I will withdraw from this place. I shall plant no more seeds here. But do not seek to cow me upon our next meeting, Lord Rabing.”

Brand bowed and walked back up the slope to Corbin and his waiting line of men. By the time he reached them and looked back, Arawn had vanished into the mists of the mountaintop.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Solstice Wedding

The trip home was wearisome and long, but when they reached the far edge of the Deepwood and stepped back into the Haven, everyone’s face broke into a troubled smile. It was good to be home again, but so many had been left behind.

The army disbanded officially in Hamlet, and there were many reunions, both tearful and joyful, in that town. They had chosen to bury the dead on the gentlest slopes of Snowdon, where enough soil and grass could be found to cover them. Bearing so many bodies back through the Deepwood for several days was deemed untenable.

Summer stretched out and Telyn grew more frantic with each passing day. Her wedding plans grew ever larger and more intense, until finally, the great day came.

Brand rode the family skiff, which sagged with a heavy cargo of broadleaf melons. Trailing behind it on a painter were a dozen floating berrywine casks. The casks bobbed in the rushing waters of mid-summer like a row of fat, dancing innkeepers.

“Here, Brand, keep that pole in your hands, boy!” complained Jak good-naturedly. “Are you asleep, man?”

Brand looked startled and grabbed for the pole that was slipping away from him. Corbin laughed and Brand gave him a sheepish smile.

“That’s right!” exclaimed Corbin. “Why, you’d think a man would have naught else but poling in mind on his wedding day!”

A thrill ran through Brand at the mention of the wedding. Somehow, he often managed to keep the frightening thought away for several minutes at a time, but always, all too soon, someone would bring it up. On other occasions, his treacherous mind would send unbidden thoughts of Telyn and the ceremony that stalked him this very evening.

“Everyone will be there today, Brand,” said Jak, sensing his mood and not wanting to leave him in peace. “The word is that the gnome king himself will put in an appearance.”

“Do you think Oberon might show up?” Corbin asked Jak loudly.

“I’m not sure, but if he does, wouldn’t it only be right that Brand return the favor?” asked Jak.

“Right, I say!” said Corbin. “It was good enough for King Herla, why not King Brand?”

“Brother, Cousin: it’s best that we not mention the Old One’s name aloud, even on such a fine day as this,” Brand admonished lightly.

Jak and Corbin looked at one another in mock astonishment. “Unless I’m mistaken,” said Corbin, “we’ve just been rebuffed.”

Jak nodded in agreement. The conversation continued in a light vein, but Brand noted that there was no more mention of Herla. Which was just as well, as he wanted to think of no such evils on his wedding day.

“As you wish, your majesty,” said Jak, bowing deeply and mockingly.

Brand gave them a wry look. “I’m no king, my noisy relations.”

“Ah, alas no,” said Jak with mock sadness. “Then we might have had someone to do all this poling for us.”

All too soon they reached the Riverton docks and found a crowd there waiting to meet them. Brand fully expected to help with the unloading of the cargo, but Gram Rabing, Uncle Tylag and the others would hear nothing of it. He was ushered up to the wedding cart, where his bride awaited him.

Gram Rabing kept running her fingers over the healed skin of his cheek, marveling at it. He let her, even though the new skin was still sensitive and her light touch was ticklish.

Brand laid eyes upon Telyn then, and his breath caught in his chest. Never before had he seen her wear a real, full length dress. Never had he seen her with finely groomed hair, clean face and unmarked hands. She smiled at him, and she was radiant.

As he climbed into the cart and his relatives began to walk the horses to the common, a cheer went up from the crowd at the docks. The axe on his back must have caught some hint of the excitement, for it shifted then of its own accord. Brand reflexively rolled his shoulders to quiet it.

Telyn noticed the movement and knew its significance. A shadow crossed her face, but she said nothing. He knew she would rather he had left it back at Rabing Isle, or at least not brought it to their very altar, but she said nothing. For they both knew that she married the Axeman this day.

They were to have a traditional wedding, done at sunset on the very eve of the summer solstice. The mari lwyd was hung over the archway of wicker, and both the horse skull and the wicker itself were heavily woven with daffodils.

Brand and his new bride had spared no expense. They had invited anyone in the Haven who wanted to come, and most of those from outside it, by the looks of things. The Riverton common was fuller of folks than Brand could remember ever having seen it. Not even during the old ceremonies of harvest and the renewal of the broken Pact had brought more people.

Loosening the strings of his normally tight purse, he had provided all the guests who came food and ale. At the height of the feast, he announced he would donate three of his finest rubies to the rebuilding of Riverton, which had been ravaged by Piskin’s dastardly fire. No other words amongst the many toasts was received with greater fanfare and cheering than this announcement, as many still struggled with homes burnt to ash.

It was after his announcement, and as the ceremony was about to begin, that a strange occurrence captured the attention of everyone present. A swirling mist full of colored lights appeared upon the Riverton faerie mound, near the spot the wedding stage had been built.

Brand gazed that way, as did a thousand other eyes. He licked his lips. Telyn, who had taken his hand, squeezed it so that her nails dug into his palm. He squeezed hers back, lightly, reassuringly. Together they stared at the mound.

People drew back as if realizing for the first time that the sun had faded overhead and Twilight fell. There was no panic, but many citizens grabbed up their picnic blankets and hustled their children away from the foot of the mound. Brand could not blame them.

He took a single half-step toward the commotion. Telyn held tightly to him. He glanced down to her, and she shook her head slightly.

“Let’s see what comes,” she said soothingly, with a voice that belied the tightness of her grip and her face. He had to wonder what she was thinking. Did she worry that somehow, at the very moment of their wedding, fate would steal him away from her side?

Brand nodded, agreeing with her. He stood his ground. Many of the Haven folk, confused, looked to him to take their cue. Since he stood and stared, seemingly unalarmed, they followed suit. Tense whispering broke out and swept the common with a surreptitious fervor.

Within a minute, figures could be seen. They were the Shining Folk; there could be no doubt of it. Within three more minutes, as the first stars popped out in the east, these hazy figures began to move down from the mound toward Brand, where he stood with his bride to be.

He waited, but gestured for those who crowded around to make way for the coming procession. He was obeyed with alacrity. None wanted to be in the path of the strange beings who passed this way.

At the head of the procession was Oberon himself, who rode a white goat. His hound rode with him, and he stroked it idly as he approached. Concerned, Brand eyed the rest of the line of Fae, hoping not to see King Arawn. Perhaps it was small-minded of him, but he simply didn’t want an undead lich walking into his wedding ceremony uninvited. He was relieved to see that Arawn was not part of the procession.

He estimated a hundred elves followed their lord. Most were his daughters, with hair of spun gold, silver, cobalt or sparkling magenta. Each fair lady had an attending wisp to orbit her form, tending to her hair and fine clothing.

At Oberon’s side rode an elf Brand recognized. He was a tall fellow who kept his back straight and whose eyes shone even more than most. It was Puck, the very son of Oberon who had slain Piskin.

Oberon rode up and halted, he bowed deeply, and awaited Brand’s greeting before speaking. Brand, impressed by this polite gesture, urged him to state his business.

“I’ve come to you this fine eve to celebrate your wedding with you—if you will have me, Lord Rabing.”

Brand didn’t hesitate. It would hardly do good for lasting peace to deny such a diplomatic and reasonable request. “I grant your wish, Lord Oberon!”

The old elf nodded, smiling. “Oh, and let me introduce my son to you.”

“We’ve met,” said Brand, nodding to Puck.

Oberon’s brow rose in surprise. “Indeed? I see. But I have more business and request an audience, if I may, after the ceremony. Now, please proceed with the wedding, and allow us to trouble your thoughts no further. We are only guests here.”

Brand turned to Telyn, who gave him a wavering smile. Brand blinked at her. He eyed Gudrin as well, who stood stiffly, staring at the elf with displeasure. Brand sighed. No one would be able to relax and enjoy the ceremony if things were not settled. Forever after, the only memory people would have would be of Oberon and his intrusion.

He let go of Telyn’s grasping hands. He turned back to Oberon. “I request to know your business now.”

“As you wish,” said Oberon, as if he were not in the least surprised. “Firstly, I would ask for the hand of Lady Mari Bowen in marriage to my son Puck, here. I understand the two are—acquainted.”

Brand smiled tightly. “Yes, I believe they are. But that wish is not in my power to grant. I would have you ask her parents and Mari herself, if she will have him.”

Mari and her parents pressed through the throng. Fortunately, Brand had made sure they were given a spot close to the ceremony. Mari held in her arms her serious-eyed babe, who seemed to take in everything with a continuously roving gaze. It was a disconcerting expression to see upon the face of an infant.

“He has your hair, Oberon,” she said boldly.

Oberon looked mildly amused. He nodded to her. “Would you have my son Puck, as your husband?”

Mari lifted her hand, which bore a silver ring. It shone slightly in the gathering dark with a blue radiance. “I wear his ring still, and he has my heart,” she said. “If he promises to shun all others while I yet draw breath, then yes. I will have him.”

“I do so promise,” said Puck.

Brand wondered at the elf’s commitment. Surely, he would outlive her and know freedom again, but to swear to spend many years with one who would grow old—it was unlike any elf he’d ever heard of.

“And what of your parents?” asked Puck, directing his gaze toward them.

“It’s only right,” said the mother.

Mari’s father nodded, looking as does a man who believes he is dreaming.

“Does this conclude your business, Lord Oberon?” asked Brand politely. “If so, I think Mari and Puck can stand with us, and share our day. If that’s all right with you, Telyn.”

“Of course it is.”

“Ah, there is one more thing,” said Oberon, his finger up and his goat shifting under his weight.

“What would that be?” asked Brand.

“I would request—with your blessing, of course—that you come to my lands at a future date.”

“For what purpose?”

“I need to find husbands for these daughters of mine. More than four score of them. They’ve lost their husbands, you see. I wonder if any of your folk might want to find a wife among them.”

Brand blinked at him. This development was even more unexpected. Had so many elves died that they sought fresh blood to swell their numbers? “You are inviting us to a wedding? You want me to bring River Folk to find wives among your daughters?”

“Precisely.”

He looked at Telyn and Gudrin. Neither knew what to make of it. Gudrin frowned distrustfully, but did not tell him to refuse the offer.

Perhaps this, he thought with blossoming hope, was a more permanent solution than any other. If they intermarried, if more neutral folk such as Myrrdin were raised and left running about, things might be different between their peoples.

Corbin, who was his best man, tugged at his shirt in concern. “I don’t trust him,” he whispered. “Recall what happened to Herla, when he made just such a promise to Oberon nine hundred years past.”

Brand turned to Oberon. He faced him fully. “I will do as you ask, and I will bring as many of my men as want to come and find new wives among your lovely daughters. But I must warn you, no tricks such as were played upon my ancestors will be tolerated, Oberon. I will not become Herla, your wraith.”

“You are indeed a rare student of history,” chuckled Oberon. “But I assure you, I have no such plans.”

“Good,” said Brand. “We will come to the Twilight Lands for such weddings as can be arranged, one year and one day hence.”

“One year and one day,” echoed Oberon. The bargain was struck.

Finally, Brand turned back to his own wedding, which had now grown into a double ceremony. Gudrin had to shout for quiet, practically screeching, before those present settled down enough to hear her words. Eventually, the ceremony commenced.

Brand, despite everything, was finally allowed an evening of peace, joy and feasting.

Epilogue

“You cheated me,” said Hob in a most severe tone.

“Not at all,” replied Oberon smoothly. “Your boon has been granted, in every detail.”

“I asked for every widowed elf maid to become my—the consort of a goblin. You have brought none of your fine daughters. Not a single one of them.”

“Exactly. My daughters are all betrothed.”

“And how did you manage that with such a deficit of living elf males?”

Oberon gently explained his arrangement with Brand. In one year and one day, his daughters would have their husbands.

Hob’s knobby forefinger came up, stopping him. “But what if no human males come? What if they reject your spinsters?”

Oberon laughed. “What human male wouldn’t give up his life and limb to lie with one of my lovely daughters?”

Hob made a sound of infinite frustration. “This will not be forgotten, elf!” he shouted as he glided away into the night. “You add insult to injury, preferring the dirty hands of the River Folk upon your daughters to one of your own goblin cousins.”

“Exactly,” said Oberon, smiling. But Old Hob had vanished into the infinite starry night skies.

End of Blood Magic

BONUS Excerpt:

DEATH MAGIC

(Haven Series #6)

by

B. V. Larson

Translated from the Teret, the compendium of Kindred wisdom:

I write this passage in response to those who claim we Kindred are secretive and ill-mannered. When questions are posed to the Kindred, individuals such as myself who’ve seen many centuries of life do not always give clear answers. We are thus labeled evasive, and are quickly accused of secrecy, duplicity and even conspiracy. As the Clanmaster of the Talespinners, I heard the complaints constantly.

Our detractors come from every possible group: the River Folk, the Wee Folk, the Dead and even the Fae in their myriad forms. To those who would mutter and grumble I say they would do better to hurl their insults into a mirror! It is always they who suspect us of great wrong-doing. The slander and whisperings are too numerous to count, but I will point out the worst here: We are known to many as the Battleaxe Folk, but we do not account ourselves as warlike. In times of strife we often withdraw into our mountain fortresses, but where is the crime in doing so? We are called secretive, but no characterization could be less accurate! Among the Kindred, there are no secrets. We may not care to share our lives with random outsiders, but that is only due to natural caution and hard-won wisdom. On this basis, I will continue to routinely reject the probing of foreign dignitaries without a qualm!

…after hours of quiet deliberation and healthful jacks of ale, I’ve decided to relent somewhat. In the interests of coexistence, I will pen a limited response to commonly made queries here. I will focus only upon our sacred text, which is known to us as the Teret, and upon our corresponding beliefs. The meaning of the word Teret in the language of the Kindred translates as “circle” or “cycle”. The Great Book is the core of our collected wisdom, gathered while watching the world beyond our stone halls for millennia.

One fundamental observation I can share with all: this world’s history should not be viewed as a linear sequence of events, but rather as cycles of repeating occurrences. Among all mortal beings, one cycle takes the form of birth, life and death. Among the Kindred specifically, we go through long periods of dithering and sleepy, pointless behavior—eras that often span centuries. But, when a monarch is selected from among us, the nature of the Kindred undergoes a drastic change. Like swarming creatures we become a people apart from ourselves, bent upon a single purpose. Peaceful dithering followed by frenetic activity, this is the cycle that defines us.

The world at large is driven by other cycles. Events of the past often seem eerily similar to those of the present. Although individuals are not destined to suffer the same fate as their ancestors, they are destined to suffer similar trials when caught up in one of these elemental loops of time. Slaves become masters and masters become themselves enslaved. The greatest creatures of the world sleep, awaken and then drift off to sleep again periodically. Their behavior is as cyclical and predictable as the routine-driven lives of our Mechnician clansmen, who are unsung heroes among the Kindred. They oil the clockwork devices which give our underground world life and sustenance. Their tireless repetition of appointed tasks aids us all, providing us with breath, heat and light in the depths of the cold earth.

Knowing now this fragment of Kindred wisdom, I ask the reader to look at events and faces around them and compare them to those of the past. What has gone before will come again. What will you do to make your mark upon this world as it spins under all of our feet?

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

Chapter One

The Gift

I need to find husbands for these daughters of mine. More than four score of them. Brand remembered Oberon’s words, and he remembered staring at elf lord as he said them. A year passed quickly, and when the time came he was ready for the elf’s return. There had been no lack of volunteer husbands, as it turned out. There had been too many, in fact. Brand had held a lottery and the winners were to meet him on the Riverton Common near the Faerie mound tomorrow as the sun fell.

When the big day came, Telyn did not want to let him go. He was her husband now, and her hands clutched at him as he made ready to walk out their door and head for Riverton. It had been his mistake, of course, to make plans to leave her on their first wedding anniversary. At the time, he had not even considered the significance of the date, having been very new to married life.

“It’s been a year and a day, Telyn,” he told her.

She gripped him. “Not yet. That’s tomorrow.”

“But I must go today, in order to be at the common in the morning.”

“It will rain. Let him wait a day.”

Brand shook his head. He kissed her gently. “The Fae will not understand. I will have broken my word with them. Who knows what ill they would make of that?”

“This is our anniversary,” she said. She stood with her arms crossed and her brow furrowed. “This is our day. It’s my day.”

“Listen,” he told her. “I thought we had worked this out? I can’t send eighty men to stand upon the mound alone waiting for the elves to appear. I must guide them and see that nothing horrible happens to them. Think of their mothers.”

“I’ve seen these prospective husbands,” she said. “That gaggle of ruffians doesn’t look like they have mothers.”

Brand chuckled. It was true, most of the men were Silures and Hoots, mixed in with various other ne’er-do-wells and layabouts from all over the Haven. A few were honest men in search of good wives. Most of the latter had lost their own women and were hopeful of new companionship.

Telyn pressed close, and he patted her absently. To him, she seemed overly worked up about this trip.

“Brand,” she whispered. “I’m with child.”

Brand blinked in shock. He opened his mouth, but no sound issued forth. He hugged her, and when he managed to unlock his tongue, he whooped and lifted her into the air. He set her back down again quickly, gently.

“Sorry, sorry!” he said, eyeing her midsection in alarm.

“I’m not going to break!” she said, laughing.

They hugged and kissed for a time. At last, she sighed and let him go. She pouted and demanded that he promise to return. He did so solemnly, then strapped the axe in a rucksack across his back and threw open the door. What he saw there made him stumble back a step.

Oberon himself was on his doorstep. From his posture, he seemed to be leaning close and listening. Brand felt an instant surge of annoyance. The axe upon his back twitched excitedly.

“This is a surprise,” he said stiffly.

“I’d hoped it would be!” said the elf. He bowed to Telyn, somehow sweeping up her hand and kissing it all in one smooth motion. “Congratulations, milady! When will your bounty arrive?”

Telyn reddened. “Early next winter, I should think,” she said.

“Excellent!”

Brand realized as this exchange occurred that Oberon had indeed been eavesdropping at their door and had overheard Telyn’s news of the coming child even as he did. A new flash of irritation swept through him. He tried not to show his anger, however. His face turned to stone. He tried to force a smile, but failed. He knew this was simply a matter of different peoples having different expectations, but still…knowing the elf had listened into their intimate talk disturbed him.

“Have you come to escort me to your lands, then?” Brand asked when he had regained some of his composure.

Oberon cocked his head. He stared for a moment with his very odd eyes. “After a fashion,” the elf said.

“Shall we be on our way?” Brand asked. He noted the elf’s eyes had drifted to the rucksack on his back which contained the axe.

Oberon snapped his eyes back to Brand’s and a smile flickered there. “Certainly! Let me show the way! Long has it been since I’ve entertained a human lord in my lands. I’m not quite sure how to be the perfect host.”

With a pasted-on smile, Brand delicately extricated himself from Telyn’s grasping fingers and followed Oberon out into the yard. For a time, he feared Telyn would trail after them. He glanced back over his shoulder to see her staring, eyeing the elf with stern distrust.

Oberon’s white goat stood waiting just within the trees. The axe twitched on Brand’s back when he laid eyes upon it. The beast turned its head and eyed him in return with one red eye. There was an unnatural intelligence in its gaze. Brand frowned at the creature as Oberon threw a leg over its back and grabbed up the reins. Brand had seen the creature only once before, at his own wedding. Had the beast been red-eyed and intelligent then? He could not recall.

Another thought struck him as he followed Oberon down through his apple orchards. Could this be the same mount Oberon had been riding when he led King Herla into the mountain passages so very long ago? A normal goat would have aged and died a hundred times over…but this one seemed anything but normal.

“I’ll need to take my boat,” Brand said, veering from the path Oberon took.

The elf lord turned and looked at him quizzically. “There’s no need for that!” he said, and laughed musically. “Come, I’ll show you.”

Oberon led him not to the low side of the island, the eastern side that looked out toward the Haven Woods. He went instead to the western shore which Brand and his family had often called the ‘high side’ of the island. On this shore, facing the tall trees of the Deepwood, there was a drop of some twenty feet into the flood of the Berrywine. The water moved faster past the high side as the channel narrowed and became more rocky. The high side was almost a cliff, although a crumbling one.

Trying to seem unperturbed, Brand followed the elf and the white-furred rump of his goat. He wondered if all this was somehow a great joke played upon him. Feelings of anger flared at the thought, and had to be stifled down. The axe was merely tense and looking for trouble, he told himself. He knew its sensitivities and paranoid concerns well by now. Still, he was on his guard.

When they reached the highest point on the western cliffs of Rabing Isle, Brand saw their goal. He stopped walking and sucked in his breath.

“A bridge?” he said in wonderment.

Oberon leapt from his goat and performed a sweeping gesture toward the river. “For you, Lord Rabing! I’ve toiled all night to construct it!”

The bridge was not made of stone, as the Kindred might have done. Nor was it assembled from cut tree trunks as the River Folk would have built it. Instead, it seemed to have been grown there, and was formed of a single, looping vine of bright green foilage.

Immediately, Brand thought of Myrrdin. He’d not seen or heard of the wizard this last year. Not since they’d had a falling out and warred with the elves upon Snowdon’s shoulders. Surely, this growth was his work.

“Am I mad?” Brand asked Oberon. “Or is this the work of Vaul?”

Oberon looked at him sharply. He paused before answering. “Not exactly. It is an experiment of sorts. You see, I wield the Red—”

“And Myrrdin wields the Green, yes, I know.”

Oberon continued as if the interruption had not occurred. “This is a blended thing. An intertwining of both.”

Brand blinked at the bridge, trying to absorb Oberon’s words. “You mean…you’ve mastered both Jewels? You’ve worked the Red and the Green together—upon my island?”

“After a fashion,” said Oberon. He hopped back upon this goat as he spoke further. “You see, I grew a seedling…a very special seedling…using the power of the Red and the nodules that the Green naturally produces.”

“So you plucked seeds from the Green? Did it turn into a tree again?”

Oberon turned him a slit-eyed stare. “You know about that, do you?” he asked. He shook his head and made a tsking sound. “Ever was Myrrdin’s tongue loose in his head.”

The elf guided his goat out upon the vine bridge. Huge leaves wavered as he brushed by them. Brand followed hesitantly, feeling his way with wary, shuffling boots. The bridge was little more than a two-foot thick growth that arched over the river. It was worse than walking along a fallen tree. A log was at least straight and had bark to give one’s boots something to grip upon. This vine was not slick, but it was freshly-grown and smooth. There were huge triangular leaves thrusting up on stalks all the way along the path as well, obscuring it and providing things for a man to kick and stumble over.

Oberon pressed ahead, crossing the bridge without concern. “Come along!” he cried over his shoulder. “There is something on the far side that may interest you.”

Brand stood on the vine and grimaced. He looked down into the river, and gauged he could survive the plunge if he went down. He would probably lose his boots and his dignity, but at least none could say afterward that he’d quailed and balked in fear. What was the elf’s purpose? He had to wonder about it. The entire affair could be a matter of idle caprice, or it could be a sinister game with a definite joke to be played upon him at the end.

He took two more steps out, and found the going reasonable enough. As a river-boy, he was not frightened by the water, nor was his balance less than excellent. But still, some part of him was wary and annoyed with the elf for taking his plans and dashing them all from the outset. As he reached the half-way point of the bridge, he thought he should perhaps take charge of this farce. Perhaps he should draw the axe and slash this vile bridge down. A single stroke—that was all that would be required! Fresh green sap would run like warm blood.

Brand shook his head and continued. Oberon watched him from the far side now. Brand increased his pace, wanting to be across it and done with the whole thing.

“What do you think of your unique gift?” Oberon asked him.

“I thank you for the thought,” Brand said as he drew closer to shore. “I would have rather you put the bridge on the far side, however, spanning to the Haven Wood.”

“Of course,” Oberon said. “Unfortunately, that was not within my capacities.”

Brand approached and hopped off the vine with a sense of relief. He stood now at the foot of the tall, dark trees of the Deepwood. Already, the land seemed hushed on this bank. Even the river babbled more quietly in his ears. Brand marveled at the vine, admiring it.

“Quite an amazing thing,” he said. “And I’ve always dreamt of making a connection between the island and the riverbanks.”

“I know,” said Oberon. “I need your help in this matter, you see.”

“My help?” Brand asked incredulously.

“Yes,” Oberon said. “To grow a more substantial bridge would require a fine work, more control. I envision a safer structure, with a dished out center and leaves growing only along the sides.”

Brand stared at the vine. “You could do that?”

“Yes. I believe I could, but as I said, I would need your help. You once wielded two Jewels once. None I know who draw breath today have managed the feat. I’ve tried, but failed. This beastly thing was one of my few partial successes, you see. Blood and plant can work together, but the results aren’t always as desired, and the greater problem lies in containing both Jewels as they war within one’s mind.”

Brand stared that the elf, who stared back intently. Did Oberon really expect he could be describe the process of containing two Jewels in simple words? He’d worn the Blue Jewel Lavatis and carried the axe with Ambros embedded in its head for a brief time, but he’d never tried to work the two together. He’d never tried to get the Rainbow to pick up and swing the axe, for example. He had barely managed to keep from going mad. Just having both the Jewels in contact with his person at once had threatened his sanity.

“I bore them, but did not seek to twist together their magic as one might braid hair,” Brand said.

“But how did you even manage that much? Tell me your secrets, if you would.”

“There is no secret,” said Brand, shaking his head. “I think if there is one, it is in the utter innocence of the bearer. By not knowing I could not wield two Jewels, by not understanding what it would be like, I managed to muddle through. Call it beginner’s luck. It was nothing I’d care to repeat.”

Oberon gazed at him, and slowly nodded. “You’ve answered as well as you could. And your insight might not be as valueless as you think. In return, let me show you how I managed to grow this wondrous bridge.”

Brand followed Oberon, who walked to a spot where the huge leaves grew in profusion. They stood at the base of the growth, where a wild spray of greenery erupted. Brand expected to find roots there, tangled and thick. What he saw at first baffled him, and then as understanding sank in, it caused his stomach to roll over in his guts. A pile of furs lay about—but they were not furs, they were empty sacks of hide. They had recently been living animals he knew, with their insides leeched away.

“What’s happened here?” asked Brand in disgust. “Is that an elk carcass I see?”

“The two Jewels,” Oberon explained. “I needed big animals, you see, to feed this large of a growth. The kind of animals which only flourish in the Deepwood.”

Brand looked at him in alarm. “Are you telling me this vine is grown with blood as well as leaf and stalk?”

“Exactly!” cried Oberon, almost dancing in agitation. “Isn’t it fantastic? It was my greatest experiment.”

“It’s disgusting!” shouted Brand. His breathing caused his sides to heave and he gulped air. His teeth bared themselves as might those of angry wolf. His hand trembled, but he did not yet reach for the axe.

“Not perfect, no,” Oberon said.

Brand stared, barely able to credit what he was seeing and hearing. He kicked aside leaves and stalks to get a better view of what lie here on his riverbank, hidden by the massive, fluttering leaves. There were feeding tubers, operating like hoses or straws, which ran from each carcass to the plant’s thick root. This elf had gone too far. He had intruded with his magical experiments upon Brand’s own home isle. He’d practiced his vile research upon Haven lands without permission.

“What of Myrrdin?” Brand demanded. “Why is he not bearing his Jewel? Why does he not instruct you on the use of the Green, if that is his wish?”

“He is…missing.”

“I see,” said Brand. He stood tall and grasped the haft of his axe. Strength and resolve surged through him, and later he could not recall drawing it forth—but there it was, in his hand. He walked to the root of the thing that had been grown across the Berrywine. With a single flashing stroke, he chopped it down. A massive, rippling roar went up as the living bridge splashed into the churning river. The vine cracked and snapped on the far side, breaking away from Rabing Isle. A section of the cliff tore free with it, showering clumps of soil and stones into the river. Brand watched in satisfaction as the entire thing collapsed and was washed downstream.

“Your latest abomination befouls Haven waters,” Brand complained. He watched the bridge roll over and partly sink. The fast-moving waters tugged at it, however, pulling it downstream.

At Brand’s feet, a vile substance bubbled and spat. It was a mix of blood and sap, as far as Brand could see. It came up from the roots which had simultaneously drunk at the river, suckled the dead animals dry and consumed the soil of the riverbank.

Oberon watched the proceedings coldly. “I take it you did not approve of my gift,” he said.

“No. Please never grow another new evil upon my lands.”

“Will you still come to the weddings?”

Brand thought about it. He wiped the axe clean on huge leaves nearby and dipped the blades in the river. The shining edges were soon clear. He shoved the weapon back into his rucksack and let go of it. He could think more clearly once he’d released the handle.

“I will come, because I’ve said that I would. But I will not help you master Myrrdin’s Jewel.”

“Tomorrow night at the mound, then,” said Oberon, touching his hat in salute. He turned his goat into the Deepwood. Soon, he’d vanished into the gloom under the trees.

Brand looked after him, wondering what this was all about, and wondering how far he would have to walk to find a boat. Cursing every elf the worlds had seen fit to birth, he began walking downriver toward Hamlet. If he walked all night, he could get a ferry from there to Riverton.

END Excerpt

Be sure to read the rest of the Haven Series by B. V. Larson!

Books by B. V. Larson

HAVEN SERIES

Amber Magic

Sky Magic

Shadow Magic

Dragon Magic

Blood Magic

Death Magic

HYBOREAN DRAGONS SERIES

To Dream with the Dragons

The Dragon-Child

Of Shadows and Dragons

The Swords of Corium

The Sorcerer’s Bane

The Dragon Wicked

OTHER BOOKS

Swarm

Extinction

Mech

Mech 2

Shifting

Velocity

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