Books by B. V. Larson

HAVEN SERIES

Amber Magic

Sky Magic

Shadow Magic

Dragon Magic

Blood Magic

OTHER BOOKS

Blood of Gold

Blood of Silver

Real Life

Lost Shores

Mech

Shifting

Visit BVLarson.com for more information.

SHADOW MAGIC

(Haven Series #3)

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:

I will begin by pointing out that magic, in all its forms, is the greatest mover of land and folk alike in our world. The history of magic in Cmyru, and in all of greater Albion, seems ever to twist and turn. But always it returns to the omnipresent themes of color and light. Digging deeper, the hooded scholarly Talespinners of Snowdon, Cardiff and Harlech come almost without fail to the bedrock legends of the Jewels of Power. Each of the Jewels harness a flavor of magic in a pure form, split apart from the others into the variety of hues that now exist.

Having established that most magic has at its source one or another of the colored Jewels, the next question is clear: From whence came the Jewels themselves? There are two legends that are most often quoted to answer this question. The version ascribed to by the Kindred, of course, involves the demise of the Sun Dragon. According to our legends, the Sun Dragon spawned nine lesser dragons which devoured their parent for the power the elder possessed. These young dragons fought for choice bits of the Sun Dragon, but each only managed to eat a portion, thus giving them specific powers. Over time, these foul dragons were each hunted down and slain by heroes of old. When their bodies rotted away, their bodies decomposed except for one jewel, the lens of each dragon’s left eye. These came to be known as the Nine Eyes, or Nine Jewels, and each possesses the power of the original dragon.

The other often quoted story involves a Fallen Sunstone and its fragmenting. The River Folk claim that Cewri, the ancient Troll King of Gynwedd, broke the Sunstone into shards. Supposedly, Cewri struck the Sunstone asunder with a great blow from his hammer, the haft of which was made of a single whole trunk of a mighty oak and the head of which was forged from a mountain’s heart. The place where this occurred, Cewri’s home valley, is now known as the Vale of Flowers. According to the legend, the sundering of the Sunstone released a rainbow of colors onto the land that resulted in the lush growths of beautiful flowers that grow there in such profusion to this day. Some of these flowers were so pure of aspect, that when picked, they formed the Jewels as we now know them.

These topics might seem to young, yawning minds as worthy only of theological or theoretical debate. Others of a more fanatical bent might believe that seeking out answers to these questions is akin to blasphemy, and will result in the ruination of the Kindred through the awakening of sleeping enemies. I assure readers that neither of these proposals are fact! The Jewels exist and are physically evident, as are their effects upon our world and daily lives. Understanding the truth of their origins can only serve to better our lives through our increased wisdom.

—Jerd of the Talespinners, written circa the Third Era of the Earthlight

Chapter One

Twrog Returns

The giant known as Twrog had stolen four pigs on his first visit to the farm. But these had not sated him for long. He felt no more need for revenge, that particular thirst had been quenched by the blood of the farmer he had smashed flat with a single cast of his lucky club. All that drove him now was hunger. He had already devoured the last of the pigs days ago. He had skinned them, an extra effort he rarely bothered with, and roasted them to perfection on a spit over an open fire of elmwood. They had indeed filled his belly and provided excellent flavor. Rarely had he dined so well. He had finished off the last hogshead and forelegs for breakfast on the third morning.

They had been fine-flavored, but not quite as good as the ham hock he had tasted once, the taste he had slavered over all these long years. That flavor still evaded him, still haunted him. He dreamed of it, even as he gorged himself upon the fresh pigs. What was it that made the ham different? He could not say. But it was beyond his primitive cooking skills, which amounted to little more than searing flesh, to achieve. And so it was that when the last of the fresh pork was gone, his mind went back to the farm. Could there be, somewhere on that farm, a better flavor still?

Soon after having this thought he found himself under his favorite Rowan tree, eyeing the farm once more. His belly rumbled. Somehow, the game he trapped did not compare to the sweet meats that came from the farm. Those tame, farm fed pigs made his normal diet seem rough and dull. Worse still was the tormenting memory of those ham hocks. Another detail had brought him back as well: the loss of his lucky club seemed to be hampering his hunting. He had not found it so easy to feed himself. The game seemed more scarce, agile and wary.

The truly galling thing was the sight of his lucky club, sitting right there where it had come to rest in the middle of an open field. The club lay in the midst of a large area of disturbed earth. He wondered, vaguely, if his club could have possibly turned up so much dirt, or if perhaps the strange River Folk had buried the farmer right there. In any case, the fact that it lay in plain sight was goading him. If only he could retrieve it, he felt sure, his luck would return and his larder would be full again.

Still, he hesitated. He was not a genius, not even for one of his kind. But one thing he did know was that robbing the same folk many times was asking for trouble. They soon grew wise and tricksy.

Before midday, he had given up on subtleties and postponement. His stomach noise, once a gurgle, had become a full-throated growl. He marched downslope to the farm, determined to regain his club at the very least. And if one of those excellently flavored pigs happened by...well, a giant could not control his appetite forever.

The first minute or so of the raid went very well indeed. No one was in evidence, in fact, the farm looked deserted. Only a few pigs milled about in the damaged pens. Of the River Folk and their accursed crossbows he saw nothing.

Greed split his huge shaggy face with a grin. He had worried for nothing. He would get his club and have the run of the place. Clearly, the humans had been so terrorized by his first visit they had quit the farm and left it all to him!

He took another step, reaching his club. His hand never made it to his lucky weapon, however, because as soon as he stepped into the area of black disturbed earth, he fell. At first, he had no idea how this thing was possible. Had the land itself opened up some magical doorway to devour poor Twrog?

Then a stake shoved its way through his foot, and he unleashed a grating sound, a roar of pain. They had laid a trap for him! As if he were the game and they were the hunters! The wrongness of this crashed through to Twrog, who barely managed to keep from falling face-first into the trap. Had he done so, he realized, he might have been killed, for there were dozens of thick stakes planted down there.

Fortunately, the trap was only waist-deep. Possibly, they had not had time to finish it, or they had underestimated his size. In either case, his shock and hurt quickly turned to rage. He retrieved his club and heaved himself painfully out of the hole.

He pulled the stake out of his foot with another roar of pain. He threw it at the farmhouse, but it fell far short of the mark. Hefting his lucky club, he began to limp back toward the Deepwood.

Twrog stood, rubbing at his bloody foot. His brow furrowed. He couldn’t simply slink away from these vicious farmers. He knew they might have other surprises awaiting him, oh yes, Twrog knew that very well. But he was hungry, and angry. This is not a safe combination when giants are involved.

So he limped not to the safety of the forest, but rather toward the pigpens and the farmhouse. First, he crashed in the roof of the pigpen just for spite. But he didn’t tarry there, having other things in mind. He headed with a humping gait for the farmhouse. Sure enough, just as he suspected, several River Folk came out and pelted him with arrows. He grunted at their sting, but knowing he could not easily catch his tormentors when he had a bad foot, he focused on the house itself.

He smashed in the roof with a tremendous roaring swing. The chimney crumbled, and somewhere inside a high-pitched keening began. This brought a fresh grin of satisfaction to his face. He hoped he’d crushed another of the farmer’s family members inside. People, including little ones, came running out the windows and doors. He raised his club to smash down a child as it wriggled out of a second story window, but a scent he caught then made him freeze.

Was it? Could it be? Yes! He smelled that which he had thought lost for all these long years. It could only be one thing, ham hocks. He paused, sniffing, idly swishing his club at men who got to close and thought to frighten him with pitchforks and torches.

His nose led him to limp over to the far side of the house. There, he found a small outbuilding with smoke trailing out of the roof. With a quick swipe, he removed the roof from the place. A smell of smoking wood and succulent pork met him. He reached inside and found the place full of hams.

Twrog had found his first smokehouse. He filled his game sack with all it would carry, while the River Folk tried to put out the fire that had erupted in the house and worked to save the children crawling out the windows.

Dragging the game sack behind him, he soon vanished into the cool gloom of the Deepwood. His club rode his shoulder again. His foot hurt badly, but he would wrap it in a poultice and eat well. Overall, he accounted the raid a grand success.

Chapter Two

Little Timmy Hoot

After Thilfox Drake had chased him from his freshly gained cradle, the changeling named Piskin fell into despondency. He had managed no better than a few hours with his pretty maid, and had gotten no more than a single meal at her breast before disaster had struck. How had the River Folk gotten wise to him so quickly?

There was only one likely reason, Piskin’s eyes narrowed to slits as he whispered the name to himself as a witch might whisper a curse: Dando.

Bitter, bitter Piskin! Oh, how the fates had shifted against him! Oh, how he hated that little monster Dando. He still was not sure whether Dando had failed in his task of disposing of the babe, or if he had committed a base act of treachery. Was he a simpleton or a conniving devil? The results were the same in either case; the River Folk were wise to him now. His own folk, he reflected, made the very worst of friends and the most vicious of enemies.

He tried to sneak his way into more windows, of course. But every human in Riverton now scrambled to lock their doors and ward chimneys. He searched, but all the easy spots had been taken. Ever it was that when he finally found a tiny bed with a cooing infant ensconced, that prospective babe turned a leering eye and thumbed its nose at him when the mother’s back was turned. Every cradle in town was strictly guarded, or had already been claimed by another changeling.

He was driven from the best houses down to the worst. Skinny brats with boils and bruises, their sort he found plentiful in stilted shacks that huddled around the fish-smelling docks. Their mothers were frazzle-haired and twisted of lip. Kind words were few, and buffets many. Still, he had to take what there was. Even a cold crib and a sneering mother was better than life in the woods.

And so it was that he managed to pluck a year-old child from a sour-smelling cradle. The mother’s name was Beatrice Hoot, and she had a pack of seven older children to worry about. Stealing the babe, little Timmy Hoot, was likely the easiest job Piskin had ever bothered with. Wanting to make it quick—and since he was only half-hearted in the task at best—he simply launched the child out the nearest window. It fell like a stone into the Berrywine that flowed under the shack and floated away with all the other refuse.

Sighing with resignation, Piskin transformed into a vague semblance of the child he’d disposed of and winced in distaste as he pulled the stained bedclothes up to his neck.

Soon after, Beatrice Hoot slapped open the door and marched up, staring down at Piskin. So sour was her expression, Piskin felt sure at first that she had witnessed his abduction.

“Quiet today, ain’t you Timmy?” she asked.

She dug at the foot of the bed and lifted aloft a stone ward. Piskin sucked in his breath at the sight of it, but realized almost instantly that the ward was a false one. It had been drilled through, and had no power. He almost snorted, but managed to hold back the un-babe like sound. Not all the River Folk were so wise yet!

Seeing that the ward was still there, Beatrice’s face softened and she tucked it back into place. She gathered up Piskin to her breast. “There now, little Timmy, time for some lunch.”

Piskin opened his mouth and smiled. At least, this was something.

His shock was unimaginable when a cold nasty substance was rammed into his open mouth on a hard spoon. He choked and sputtered. Fish-paste? What’s more, it was cold fish-paste!

He spit it out, and she cuffed him. The second spoonful came, and he choked it down.

The door creaked open.

“Mama?” asked a boy at the door.

“What? Can’t you see mama’s busy? Go work the nets, boy.”

“That’s just it, mama! I’ve caught something special.”

Beatrice cocked her head to look, as did Piskin.

The boy held aloft a dripping baby. “Look what came up in the net! It’s brother Timmy! He must have fallen out the window.”

After a stunned moment they both shared, Piskin felt Beatrice’s fingers squeeze like iron bands into his flesh.

By the time Piskin had escaped that foul shack, Beatrice Hoot’s fingers bled and his head had many lumps and bruises. He barely made it out with his life. Still spitting fish-paste, he was forced to leap out into the river itself and float away with the rest of the local waste.

When at last he managed to drag himself onto the shore like a half-drowned alley cat, he hung his head and fumed.

Not long after, when twilight came to the land, a flittering wisp came to whisper him a tale. He batted at her, not in the mood for gossip. But she was excited and insistent. Finally, heaving a sigh, he listened to her news.

As he listened, hearing of the great battle at the merling stronghold, hearing of the Wee One who had stolen Lavatis from Oberon himself, he was impressed. There, he thought, was a kinsman who knew what he was about!

But, as the tale turned dark and full of woe, he learned that this fellow had wielded the Blue Jewel poorly, and had been devoured by the very Rainbow he had summoned. Lastly, he learned another of the Wee Folk had stolen the Jewel yet again. The entire story could scarcely be believed.

As he questioned the wisp, one final detail changed everything for Piskin. That detail was the name of the Wee One who had wielded the Jewel. The name was that of Dando.

Piskin bounced a foot into the air. The wisp backed away, her wings buzzing. Piskin breathed through clenched teeth. Something was up. Something big. Some conspiracy had brushed by him and he had been too thick, just as Dando had said, to even notice it. A conspiracy, perhaps, of impossible proportions.

He learned the name of the second Wee One, the barbaric one who now purportedly possessed the Jewel: Tomkin.

There were great plans afoot up in the north, in the marshes where dead things thrived. Piskin knew in an instant that all his misfortune was wrapped up in this tale somehow.  He had been a dupe, a fool, the ignoramus of the story. He swore to himself by the silver light of the Moon that he would get to the bottom of all this. And when he did, there would be repayment.

He turned north and headed up the riverbank with great, determined strides. Each bounding step carried him further than any human had ever managed to leap.

Chapter Three

The Elf in the Wood

Mari Bowen never got the calico dress she had wanted for her birthday. She had, however, escaped the elf in the woods with her soul and her life, and she accounted this as an even better birthday gift.

After moping about her birthday disappointments, she considered telling her mother about the elf she’d met under the ash trees. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that telling mother would be a bad idea. Her parents were already rattled with gossipy stories about a giant killing a farmer up near the border of the Deepwood. And, of course, there were many claims of changeling children being discovered all over Riverton.

Mari thought that probably not all the stories were true, but she felt sure that some of them had to be. After having met an elf herself, she knew such creatures were real, and they were dangerous.

The elf. She couldn’t stop thinking about him—that was the real truth. She had danced with him, he had touched her, and she had felt things awaken in her she had never known were there.

Oh certainly, she was not entirely innocent. She had known some boys. She had been kissed and chased. But the elf was different. She had felt real desire with him. She had wanted to give her virginity to him—he who was not even a man.

She was no fool. She knew that she had been in mortal danger. Quite possibly her encounter could have ended when her heart exploded in her chest, like that of a horse ridden to ground by a drunk rider who wields his whip with abandon. But maybe, just maybe, it would have ended differently. She might have lain with the elf sweetly, under the spreading branches of the silent ash trees.

Mari sighed. Her household chores seemed more stiflingly dull than usual. She felt like slumping over her broom. She tired at the very thought of churning milk. Morning dragged, turning into an eternity of folding bed sheets, hauling water and stacking firewood.

By the time she was freed for lunch, she had already made up her mind. She would head up the hill—but not to go into the forest. Elves liked the cover of trees too much. She would be safer in the open fields.

She went to her dresser and after a few quick glances about to make sure none of her siblings watched, she had pulled out the ash leaf ward she had found when she had first met the elf. She secreted it under her shawl and hurried out into the sunlight. She affixed the ward around her neck with a loop of braided yarn. The leaf fluttered against her chest and she felt braver knowing it was there.

When she found the spot where she had first met the elf, she stood in her father’s field aghast. She put her hands to her face and stared in open-mouthed disbelief. Every stalk of the field was blackened and curled with blight. She had not a moment’s doubt where this curse had come from.

Mari called to the elf, her anger growing. She knew how hard Father had worked to grow that grain. The elf had spoiled it, just for spite. Just because she had resisted him. She marched to the edge of the woods, and she called him. She demanded that he come forth.

There was no response. The slight breeze that ruffled her dress and her hair, but carried no music with it. She felt a pang of regret, even through her anger. Would she ever see her elf again? Had he found another girl to accost, at the next farm perhaps? For some reason she could not quite understand, this thought upset her. It caused her pain.

She called out again, stepping into the green cool gloom under the trees. There was no response.

She finally did what she knew she should not do. She called the elf by his true name. She walked deeper into the wood and called his true name, over and over.

“You?” said a soft voice from behind her. She turned, and saw him. Some of her anger evaporated. It was hard to stay angry with one who was so beautiful to gaze upon.

“Yes, me.”

“Why do you shout my name as a bird might sing of worms in the Earth?” asked the elf, walking around her. He was clearly vexed. His manner was anything but seductive this time.

Mari turned to keep facing him. She held her ward tightly. She pointed to her father’s blackened field. “You did this, didn’t you?”

Half his mouth smirked. “You summoned me from my home to file a complaint, girl?”

“Why did you wreck our crops?”

The elf shrugged. “I owe you no explanations. My folk do as they will here. Our Pact is broken, remember?”

“You and I made a bargain. We danced. Both halves of the bargain were completed. You had no cause for spite.”

The elf finally looked troubled. She knew that bargains and wagers were important points of honor for his folk.

“What will we eat when the snows come and there is nothing for the mill?” she said, scolding him as her mother might. She put her hands on her hips. “Had you thought of that?”

“Hardly,” he said, “but you have a point concerning idle malice after a bargain is complete.”

He gazed at her, bemused at her manner. He smiled. He began to circle her again, slowly.

She turned her head to watch him. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

“I’m thinking that you didn’t come here to complain about a blighted field. I’m thinking that you came here to dance with me again.”

Mari crossed her arms. “I came here to see if you still haunted these woods,” she admitted, “but all such thoughts were driven from my mind when I found the sorry mess you made.”

The elf had stepped behind her. Suddenly, his face and breath were at her shoulder, whispering hotly into her ear. “Let us make a new bargain,” he said.

“What bargain?”

“I will repair your father’s fields. The grain will wave yellow and pure again in the breezes. All you need to do is put aside that dirty leaf you wear.”

She rolled her eyes and turned to him, shaking her head. She pushed her face almost into his, teasingly. “Not likely. Try again!”

He stepped back from her, surprised. She was glad to see him look surprised for a change. She felt a touch of pride, she had faced one of the Fair Folk and she could plainly see he was not her master.

“You intrigue me, child,” he said, smiling anew, “I will offer you a fair bargain, something I’ve never done with one of your kind. Let us just dance together. That’s all, just dance. And neither shall owe the other anything when the dance is done.”

“With my ward on?”

“Naturally.”

“And at a normal pace?”

He chuckled. “It will be most gentle and slow, I assure you. Stately, even.”

And so she agreed and Puck did play his pipes, and they did dance together under the ash trees. Mari felt her heart quicken at his gentle touch. She had danced before, of course. But the thumping tread of boot-wearing farm boys was nothing like this.

The elf was gentle and seemed to be enjoying her company just for what it was. Neither of them had further designs, she felt. He played sweet music that did not intoxicate her mind, but simply made her happy with its clear sounds. They danced together, for the joy of it. His touch was light and kind, but it did not make her burn. She could still think. She could still decide.

After they had danced to many songs, the elf finally stopped. Twilight had begun to fall over the land.

“Milady,” he said, “I must take my leave of thee. It has been sweet, but time is pressing.”

Mari felt a pang. She knew that he meant that it was the twilight hour, the time when his kind could most freely move about. He would seek out another to dance with. She knew this, as that was the way of his people.

“I have another bargain to suggest,” she said quietly, coming to a decision. “I wish to lay with you. And neither shall owe the other anything when we are finished.”

The elf looked very surprised indeed, and she was glad to see his expression. Perhaps no other had freely made such an offer to him. He recovered quickly, however, and began to circle her again. This time she let him step behind her, without turning to face him.

“Such unions are forbidden, for your people and for mine.”

“I thought the Fair Folk did as they pleased.”

“That’s true,” he said, and he stood still. He blinked at her, uncertain. It made her heart glad to see he felt conflicted.

She began to step around him, while he stood in thought.

“You will wear the ward?” he asked.

“Naturally.”

He laughed, noticing her circling and the reversal of roles. It was clear to them both that he was now the hunted.

“And we will proceed at a normal pace?” he asked, eyes sparkling as he repeated the question she had asked earlier.

“It will be gentle and slow,” she said laughing in return.

“Stately, even?”

“Yes.”

And so it was that they both came to realize he was as entranced with her as she was with him. She let him lay her down. She felt the cool leaves on her back and in her hair. Events took their natural course, and she would never forget them.

When darkness had fully fallen over the land, Mari Bowen hurried home again, knowing her mother would be crying and her father would be looking for a switch. Behind her, the field of grain was whole and wholesome again. She sighed to see it and to see Puck, who stood at the very edge of the wood, his skin shining slightly with reflected moonlight. This time, she left Puck wistful and restless, rather than the other way around.

What she did not know was that she was already with child.

For, you see, surviving such close contact with one of the Fair Folk was exceedingly rare. But when both parties agreed to such a union, and both lived through the experience, there was always a half-fae child born. This fact had a great deal to do with why such willing unions were strictly forbidden by both peoples.

Chapter Four

Castle Rabing

“So this is the property of our ancestors?” asked Corbin incredulously. “Why have we never heard of it?”

Myrrdin looked troubled. “That omission from your education has much to do with me,” he said.

Brand eyed the cloak of night that fell around them. He was worried about the redcap. He had warned the others about it, but none save perhaps Modi seemed concerned. All of them felt that the creature wouldn’t dare attack with so many of them together, but Brand wasn’t so sure.

Castle Rabing had once been a huge fortress, but now it lay in ruin. The outer walls, long since torn down, were now no more than a set of long low hills that drew lines around the region. But those low hills still held some power and could avert the Faerie, which was why the group had come here. Inside the fallen walls, there were towers at the four corners, each broken and toppled long since. The southern tower was near the river and it was there that Brand had met the redcap one night. Facing the East was the gatehouse, a structure that remained somewhat intact. In the middle of the fallen walls was the largest and most intact structure, the central keep. It still stood, but with many smashed in walls, fallen stairways and tumbled stones.

Instead of settling in the keep or one of the towers, they huddled around a too-small fire in the midst of the ruined gatehouse. It had four walls and only one entrance, as the inner gate had been filled with fallen debris. For a small group, it functioned as a fortress in miniature. Brand sat on a tumbled stone block from the damaged walls of the gatehouse around him. The firelight illuminated the rusted iron grille of a great portcullis that had once barred the outer entrance. Warped and hanging loosely, the portcullis was now easy to slip past. Diced by the grille, squares of orange firelight flickered on the landscape beyond.

They had debated camping in the ruins of the main keep, which was more intact and much larger, but had decided against it. Myrrdin assured them that the keep had no potable water, unlike the gatehouse, which had a spring-fed pool at its center. Brand suspected that there were darker reasons for avoiding the keep. He thought of the redcap in the southern tower, but said nothing to the others. Worse things still might haunt the keep.

“You were here when this castle was...alive?” asked Telyn, intrigued.

Myrrdin looked uncomfortable. “Normally, only the wisest few do I take into my council,” he said. As he spoke, he fiddled with his staff, poking at the fire. He used the staff for everything from walking to stirring coals, but never did it seem to scratch or blemish. Brand wondered where within it the green Jewel Vaul resided. For he was quite certain now that the staff held Myrrdin’s power.

“We aren’t the wisest, perhaps,” commented Corbin, eating an apple he had gotten from somewhere, “but we do have a need to understand these things.”

Myrrdin nodded. He poked at the fire some more and tossed on a few more dead sticks before answering. “Yes,” he sighed, “I was here when this castle was more than an abandoned pile of masonry.”

“But why don’t we know of these things? Why don’t we have some memory of our people’s lives before migrating to the Haven?” asked Telyn.

“Because your elders and I, at the time, felt that it would be best if history were forgotten. You see, people had had enough of war. Most of the warrior houses—you call yourselves clans, now—had been wiped out. People considered them largely the reason for the devastating wars, and no one wanted to see them rise again to repeat past mistakes.”

“So Clan Rabing was one of these warrior houses?” asked Telyn.

“Exactly so,” said Myrrdin.

“They wanted to forget, so they didn’t tell their children of the past,” said Corbin, staring into the flames. “It sounds more like we were beaten then, and that the Pact was a surrender, a shunting aside of humanity to a wilderness that no one else wanted.”

Myrrdin moved uncomfortably. “There is some truth in what you say. But recall that the Faerie were devastated and exhausted as well. They lost far fewer lives than the humans, but they can’t replace them so quickly. A hundred warriors lost among the Faerie may take as many years to recover.”

“That, of course,” interjected Modi, “is one reason they used humans to produce rhinogs. They needed warriors that bred more quickly.”

“Well,” said Brand, speaking for the first time. He noted that they all turned their eyes to him and there seemed a new respect in their attitudes. It gratified him and made him a bit uncomfortable all at the same time. “Well, let’s discuss our current situation. We have yet to see Tomkin, but he is of the Wee Folk and their stealth is legendary, so he could be anywhere. We haven’t seen the Wild Hunt yet, but they too, could be hiding themselves. I don’t think they can come across the outer walls without great effort, if at all, so we should have the warning we need.”

Before continuing he glanced at Myrrdin, who nodded in agreement. “But we must assume that they will come and that they will work to break the ancient charms of this place,” he said. “I suggest we finish our talk quickly and prepare to meet our enemies.”

Modi grunted in agreement, but seemed disapproving of Brand’s commanding tone.

“Agreed, Brand,” said Corbin. “But I for one must know what happened to bring you all the way to the merling stronghold.”

Brand quickly related the events of the last several days, discussing Old Hob, the Will-O-Wisp, Tomkin and Voynod. He made sure to mention their deal with Tomkin, as he had promised. He hurried his tale, leaving out any mention of the axe’s effects upon his thinking and emotions. Indeed, it seemed that the axe tugged at his mind even now, for he felt anxious about the redcap and the expected arrival of the Faerie.

Brand stood up at the end of his tale, but Telyn waved him back down. “Wait, Brand. I simply must know what happened to the rest of you while we wandered the marshes for days.”

As no one else spoke first, Gudrin took up the tale. “The night of the merling attack was a strange one. I can’t account for the others, but it seemed to me that the wisps that you speak of so highly led me astray, although I’m loathe to admit it.

“Separated from the rest of you, I soon found myself alone in the blackness of the marsh, in a darkness as complete as any I’ve ever known in the deeps of the Earthlight below Snowdon’s frozen crown. I found to my despair that I’d left my knapsack and the axe behind. Only my Teret did I take with me, doubtless because I love it more,” she said, thumping her leather bound tome affectionately.

“The merlings fell upon me, and they netted and bound me. I managed to lay a few of them upon the mud, but it was not enough,” said Gudrin, glowering into the fire at the memory. “I believe I would have wielded the axe that night had I been carrying it. I might well have gone feral then, and ruined everything. For this reason, I account us all lucky that Brand took it up that night and still bears it now.”

“I too,” said Corbin, “was captured in a similar fashion.”

“Yes,” said Gudrin, shooting a disapproving glance at Corbin for the interruption. “We were both taken, and brought together, being dragged in a most undignified fashion through the muck trussed up in nets like huge frogs. That’s when Myrrdin and Modi appeared and raided the surprised merlings.”

“Indeed,” smiled Myrrdin. “You did look like great netted frogs.”

Gudrin snorted. “Anyway, they bashed and thrashed the merlings that dragged us and we searched for you two until the sun rose, but found only a few mushy tracks leading off into the trackless regions of the marsh. We followed them until we found what must have been Old Hob’s pond, although we didn’t know it at the time and saw nothing of that evil being. After that, we lost your trail. We found the skiff and decided to continue our journey, since it seemed that your tracks led north as well.”

“Also,” said Corbin, “we didn’t know that you had the axe and had reason to believe that some other party of merlings had taken it back to their stronghold. We thought that way might lead to the axe as well.”

Brand nodded and rubbed his hands together. He gazed out into the darkness of the gatehouse. He thought to see movement, but then figured he had been mistaken. He wanted to rub his eyes, but his gloves and his hands beneath them were too encrusted with filth from the hard trek across the swamp. He ground his teeth together instead.

“When we reached the merling stronghold we came as guests,” continued Gudrin. “The merlings encircled us with armed fighters, but kept their distance. We met with their king and managed to find a means of communication. He related to us that he was essentially neutral, but was glad for the recognition of his people as worthy of notice. He spoke much of the unfairness and misunderstood status of his people amongst the other races.”

“Never have I heard such a complainer!” said Modi unexpectedly. “Not even the Wee Folk can whine so interminably!”

Gudrin gave him a withering glance. “On the second day of our discussions with the king, we learned that Dando was already there, making deals with the merling king on behalf of the Wee Folk.”

Brand smiled despite his unease. The thought of the Wee Folk and the merlings bitterly lamenting to one another of their misunderstood statuses as thieves, spies and prowlers amused him.

“Then the Wild Hunt came in search of Dando and Lavatis. Dando sought to wield Lavatis and turned feral, as you witnessed yourselves. Now, we find ourselves here, alone, and perhaps the target of the Wild Hunt as well.”

A silence fell over all of them, but it was broken when a branch sailed down out of the darkness and landed neatly in the fire. The fire flared up a bit, eating the dry stick hungrily. Modi and Brand were the first up, and both reached for their weapons reflexively.

All of them looked up to the highest pile of stone that still stood in the ruined gatehouse. There, still wearing his fawnskin cap, sat Tomkin. Calmly, he hopped down to the ground and bounded forward to join them at the fire.

Brand sat back down, breathing deeply. The axe on his back shifted and he patted the knapsack absently to quiet it. “To what do we owe this pleasure?” he asked.

The manling warmed his fingers over the fire. “Tomkin is here to claim the promised boon.”

Brand nodded. “Ah, the pouch!”

“Hast thou the craft to remove thy own curse, cheating witch?” asked Tomkin of Myrrdin in a conversational tone.

Myrrdin laughed off the insult. “For you, I would do so even without the bargain you made with Brand. For you have stolen that which Herla so greatly covets!”

Tomkin looked startled then suspicious at the idea of Myrrdin freely removing the pouch. He recovered quickly, however. “Wouldst thou then grant another boon?”

“Possibly,” said Myrrdin in a tone that indicated he already regretted his rash words. “As long as it involves not one drop of my precious blood.”

Tomkin shook his head. “No. Tomkin asks for something far more difficult to provide.”

“What?” asked Brand, interested now.

“Sanctuary,” said the manling. He nodded, indicating something beyond the twisted grille of the portcullis.

Brand turned and gazed out into the darkness.

“Music,” said Telyn. Her voice was not elated this time however, but fearful.

Then the sounds came to Brand, the sounds of wind in trees and water running over stones. The music of earth, sky and water.

“The dark bard has come,” said Telyn.

“Dost thou grant my boon?” demanded Tomkin.

Myrrdin appeared serious. “Yes. We will defend you to the best of our ability.”

Tomkin nodded, satisfied. Then he produced the pouch from beneath his tunic. There was no sign of Lavatis, but Brand suspected it was in his bag or stashed beneath his cap.

“Removing the enchantment will take some time,” said Myrrdin, tapping his bearded chin thoughtfully. “I’m not even sure I can find the required ingredients here on this damp ground. It will take an extensive search, at the very least.”

Tomkin scowled and opened his mouth to speak, but Brand cut him off. “There is no more time for that, or any more chatter,” said Brand, coming to his feet. “The dark bard can’t pass the walls by himself, of this we are sure. About the others, and Herla’s powers using Osang, I don’t know. What do you know, Myrrdin?”

“He will be stopped, but only for a time. I don’t know how long. There is no telling how the centuries might have eroded the charm that protects these walls. It was once quite strong, but now...” Myrrdin shrugged.

“Then we must assume we are about to be attacked,” said Brand. “Let’s man these old walls and get this grille back into place. This gatehouse and the main keep seem to be the most intact spots to defend. Telyn, would you be so good as to climb up that wall and keep watch for the enemy?”

Nodding and smiling, Telyn climbed nimbly up to the spot he indicated.

“Kills two merlings and fancies himself a captain,” muttered Modi, stumping off into the darkness.

“Modi?” Brand called. He frowned to himself. He needed the big warrior’s cooperation.

Brand and Corbin set to work on putting the grille back into place. They soon found they could barely move it.

“Look at the blast marks on this thing,” said Corbin as they grunted and heaved. The rusted metal creaked and grated against stone. “It appears as if the grille was blasted inward! I wonder what terrific force could have done such a thing.”

“The Rainbow could have done it,” said Brand.

Corbin looked at him. “You’re right. Think of it, Brand, centuries ago our ancestors fought for their very lives on this very ground.”

“Let’s hope that we fare better than they did,” replied Brand.

Chapter Five

Tomkin’s Freedom

They toiled at the grille, but at first it would not budge. Then abruptly, they made progress. The grille gave a grinding screech and moved with a lurch. Stumbling, they looked up to find that Modi was at their side. He had a huge branch in his hands and was using it for a lever. All straining and working together, they managed to get the grille back into the archway. Using levers, they tumbled stones up against it to hold it in place.

“There!” said Brand, “that’s something, anyway.”

“Not if they jump the walls,” said Modi, stumping away into the darkness again.

Brand and Corbin looked at one another, deflated. They had forgotten the way the huntsmen had so easily passed over the walls of the merling town.

“Perhaps we should consider a retreat to the river,” said Corbin. “We could use Myrrdin’s craft again to escape them.”

“But where would we go?” asked Brand.

“Back to the Haven?” suggested Corbin.

“It would be like the flight of the Rainbow all over again,” said Brand, shaking his head, “they would eventually run us down and slay us all. At least here there is a charm and walls that might help us.”

“Besides,” said Corbin, eyeing him carefully, “you rather like making a stand here, in the ruins of our ancestral homeland.”

Brand looked back at him and smiled. “You always know me best, Corbin. What better place is there for two river-boys of Clan Rabing to die?”

Still the music of the dark bard played in the distance. It made them want to sit and listen to it, to be lost in the beautiful sounds of the world around them, but they resisted the temptation.

“Hard physical work seems to help keep your mind clear,” Brand told Corbin. “Let’s shore up the walls where we can.”

Tomkin perched atop the broken walls and watched them work. “We need more than stone and steel to hold out the huntsmen,” he said.

“What do you suggest?” asked Corbin, leaning on a branch he’d been using as a lever.

“I could go for help.”

Brand and Corbin looked at one another. “But if we lose the Jewel you bear, our whole purpose is lost.”

Tomkin shrugged. “If we sit here and wait, all is lost anyway.”

Brand discussed the matter with Myrrdin, who had just come up with more wood for the fire.

“My, but that infernal music is persistent, isn’t it?” he asked the others. “Usually, it is quite compelling and all who hear it are soon dancing until their hearts burst. The charm on this place must be working still. Any sign of the other huntsmen, Telyn?”

“None, I can’t even make out the dark bard. I wonder how long it will take him to realize we aren’t being affected by his spell.”

“Hopefully, a great while,” said Myrrdin.

“What do you think of Tomkin’s idea? He wishes to go for help.”

“I will alert both the River Folk of North End and Riverton about our situation,” said Tomkin.

“You would be willing to endanger yourself to save us?” asked Corbin in a somewhat incredulous voice.

“Certainly!” said Tomkin. “Thou hast no cause to call me a coward.

Brand and Corbin exchanged glances and pursed their lips, but said nothing.

“Well,” sighed Myrrdin, “There’s little else we can do, unless we try to flee. We can’t last long in a siege, there is little food or water here. I agree, it is best that you go get help, Tomkin. None of the rest of us could slip past the Wild Hunt...but I would require that you leave the Jewel here with us.”

“Mistrustful witch!” declared Tomkin.

Myrrdin held up his hand. “We need to be sure that the enemy doesn’t get his hands on that which he has sought for so very long. You must leave the Jewel with us while you go to get help.”

Tomkin pursed his lips. “That could be managed,” he said with the air of one making a great concession. “I can promise that the Jewel won’t leave these walls. If...”

Brand rolled his eyes. “Another boon?”

“Not a new one, but the fulfillment of an old one,” said Tomkin. He produce the pouch again and waggled it at them.

“Right, go ahead and remove it, Myrrdin,” said Brand.

Nodding in agreement, Myrrdin sat down and reached out with the tip of his staff. He lifted the burden from Tomkin’s neck. With a deft flip of his wrist, he tossed the pouch into the fire. It snapped and crackled. A brief gout of green flame shot up in response.

“Done!” said Myrrdin, getting back to his feet.

“That’s it?” sputtered Tomkin.

“You said it would take a great while,” said Brand.

“Yes, I wanted to maintain our leash over this little gentleman for as long as possible...” said Myrrdin with a reluctant shrug.

Tomkin nodded slowly and narrowed his eyes. This bit of trickery was something that he understood. “Finally, thy behavior appears rational.”

“And now,” said Brand, holding out his hand. “Let us relieve you of Lavatis that you may complete your quest.”

Tomkin hopped up and grinned at each of them in turn. Brand frowned and the axe twitched suggestively upon his back.

With a tremendous bound, the most amazing Brand had yet to see performed by one of the Wee Folk, Tomkin leapt up to the top of the damaged walls of the gatehouse. Taking great, springing leaps he commenced running along the walltops.

“Free! Free! At long last Tomkin knows freedom once again!”

The others watched him bemusedly. When he came to Telyn, sitting at her watchpost, he gave another great bound and cleared her head. She ducked reflexively, smiling. Brand noted that she was working at something up there, fashioning it with her hands. He was too distracted to be feel anything but a flash of curiosity about it.

“What treachery do you plot? Don’t try to leave with the Jewel, Tomkin!” called Brand.

“There is no fear of that, river-boy!” Tomkin shouted back, laughing.

“Enough celebrating, Tomkin!” called Gudrin. “Time now to go get the help you promised.”

Tomkin stopped his bounding and came back to the fireside with two startling hops. He sat near the blaze, once again warming his fingers.

“Well?” demanded Brand, increasingly impatient.

“It is done,” said the manling.

“What do you mean?” demanded Gudrin.

Modi snorted, shook his head, and went back to work on shoring up the grille.

“It is done, the task is already complete,” said Tomkin. He gave Brand a leering grin.

“Tell us how then!” demanded Brand.

“For another boon, perhaps,” said Tomkin.

Brand stepped forward. The axe moved with excitement upon his back. “For the boon of not being sliced in twain, you—”

Corbin stopped Brand with a gentle hand laid on his shoulder. “Indeed, Tomkin, you surprised us all with your speedy execution. Forgive us if we are at a loss concerning how your task was completed. But before more boons will be forthcoming, including that of your protection, we must feel that you have been honest in your dealings with us.”

“Right,” said Brand, “tell us what you’re talking about or Herla can have you right now.”

Gudrin smiled at Brand’s vehemence. “There is some of your brother Jak in you after all, Brand,” she said.

Tomkin took it all quite well. Hopping up, he set his cap to a more rakish angle on his head and eyed them all. Clearly, he relished their lack of understanding. “Quite simply, I located the wisps that fled Old Hob’s lantern several nights earlier. Distant cousins of mine are the wisps, as thee might not be aware.”

Brand felt it unlikely that Tomkin was related to anything as delicate and beautiful as the flittering wisps, but said nothing.

“I told them of the situation here, and asked that they return your favor by flittering off to Riverton and North End to summon help,” finished Tomkin.

“But they can’t use our speech!” objected Brand, pacing now. “How will they communicate the message? Why would the Riverton council believe a creature such as a wisp in any regard?”

Tomkin shrugged. “This is none of my affair. My part of the bargain is already complete. Word has gone out.”

Brand felt his anger rising, but Myrrdin tried to calm him. “It is no matter, Brand. There could be no faster way to get to your relations. A wisp could fly there in a single night. It might not work, but then again, it may.”

Shaking his head, not trusting Tomkin an inch, Brand walked away to talk to Telyn. She still sat upon the wall top, fashioning something up there in the darkness.

“It looks like Tomkin has had the last laugh on us again,” he called up to her. “What are you working on, Telyn?”

She made no reply for a moment, and then she lifted something white up in her hand. He frowned up at her, but before he could ask about it, she tossed it down to him. He fumbled with it for a moment, and then lifted it up into the light cast by the distant fire to examine the object. It was a candle, a rolled taper of white wax. It had an odd smell to it...then he knew.

“More witchery?” he hissed up at her. “Is this what you’ve been up to all this time?”

Her soft laughter came down from the darkness. “Oh Brand, you really must drop some of your prejudices. After all, you do bear a living axe on your back!”

Brand frowned at the thing and held it pinched between his thumb and forefinger as one might a dead rat. “What’s it for?”

“It’s a beacon,” said Telyn. “The same as before. It’s to guide the army of the Haven to us.”

Brand snorted. “The army of the Haven? It doesn’t exist.”

“Well, I know of one of its best soldiers.”

Brand smiled and tossed the candle back up to her. She caught it deftly. It felt good to be free of the thing. “But the last one called more than we bargained for. Might that not be the case here, too?”

“Possibly,” admitted Telyn. “But Myrrdin and I have been working together on it. He’s been teaching me things about the craft that should greatly improve the results.”

Brand nodded, not liking the sound of it. He sighed. “I should go back to the others.”

“Yes,” she said. There was an awkward silence, and Brand felt the fool. He wanted to tell her all sorts of silly, emotional things, but he didn’t.

“Take care,” he said, turning to leave.

“Brand?”

“What?”

“I think of your kiss all the time.”

“And I think of yours,” he said, smiling in the dark. Then he left her and rejoined the others who argued over the best way to mount a defense of the ruins.

Chapter Six

Oberon’s Daughter

“Let us assume that help is coming,” said Corbin. “That means that we are under siege. The charm may or may not hold until our reinforcements arrive, so it makes sense to continue preparing for an assault.”

“Exactly,” said Myrrdin. “There are a few things I can do to aid us, but I need help.”

“Name your needs, wizard,” said Gudrin.

“I require many fresh shoots of hardy plants,” said Myrrdin. “Sapling trees, young ferns and vines would do the best. I need all that we can gather.”

“You plan to wield Vaul,” said Brand. “We will gather all that we can, but it is dark and this land isn’t terribly lush.”

“Yes, you must carry torches and go in pairs,” said Myrrdin. “Please don’t stray far from our defensive position, such as it is, and come back at the first sign of trouble.”

“I’ll go with you, Brand,” said Corbin. Brand nodded and smiled, it would be good to work alongside his favorite cousin once again.

“Hold, Brand,” said Myrrdin, lightly touching his arm. “I have another task for you. One of greater import.”

“What is it?” asked Brand.

Myrrdin waited for a moment as the others broke up and headed out into the darkness. Gudrin and Modi formed one team, while Corbin and Telyn formed the second. Tomkin remained to tend the fire. He cast occasional glances at them. The firelight reflected from his glass-like eyes.

“Even if I wield Vaul and our band stands together, I don’t think we can face the Wild Hunt. In the coming hours you will have to wield the axe, Brand,” Myrrdin told him. “You will go feral as surely as did Dando if you aren’t properly attuned by then. Therefore, there is no greater need for us than that you gain mastery of the axe.”

“How do I do this?”

“Unfortunately, it is the Faerie that will decide that.”

“What!” said Brand loudly. He glanced toward Tomkin and found that he was staring back at him. He lowered his voice. “I’m lost then!”

“Not necessarily,” said Myrrdin. “In any case, you must try.”

“What do I do?”

“There is a Faerie mound within the walls of Castle Rabing. It is an ancient place, Cairn Browyyd, it is called. You must locate it, out to the west of the fallen keep. It is said that four great human kings lay dead beneath the earth there, and in their noble death they have opened a path for the Faerie. Like all the mounds, it is a spot they can gather when called and ignore the normal rules of movement—and the magic of wards.”

“I must go there?”

“Yes,” said Myrrdin. “You must walk nine times widdershins around the mound, following the path of the Faerie.”

Brand blinked at Myrrdin. Part of him could not believe he was even contemplating such an act. To summon the Faerie, to invite them to join him at one of their mounds—this was a mad thing, sorcery. Only witches and short-lived fools attempted such nonsense.

“Am I to dance with them?” he asked, his voice querulous. “I—I am not like you, Myrrdin. I couldn’t dance with the Faerie and survive.”

“I don’t know what will be required of you. It is never the same thing twice with the Shining Folk.”

“Shouldn’t I take a second? Isn’t that what you said I should always do with the axe?” asked Brand.

“Normally, yes,” said Myrrdin. He smiled. “I’m pleased that you have been heeding my words. But for this task, you should go alone. Your friends can’t help you on this journey.”

“What if Herla is summoned? Could he be the one that is called to the mound?”

Myrrdin frowned. “Possibly, I don’t know. I doubt he would come. Things are going his way now, he has no need to take such risks. More likely, you will meet with the idle and curious among them. Hopefully, they will not be unpleasant...”

Brand thought to himself that this seemed a faint hope, but he said nothing. “I suppose I will set out, then.”

“Yes, time is of the essence.”

Their eyes met, and each knew that they may not survive the night. “Thanks for your help, Myrrdin,” said Brand. He moved to walk past him.

“Often,” Myrrdin said, grasping his arm one last time, “often, it is the way of the Faerie that a wager must be made. You must make the wager, and it must be made wisely, to achieve what you desire.”

Brand slipped through the gap they had left in the archway where the grille didn’t quite meet the stone and he found himself alone outside the walls of the gatehouse. The stench of the swamp wafted with the cool night breezes. Mists chased one another across the face of the gray-shrouded moon overhead.

He headed for the ruins of the main keep. To the westward side of the ruins he found Cairn Browyyd. The grassy mound was bare of trees, vines and shrubs, as always seemed to be the case with such places. He approached the place without hesitating and soon found the ring in the grass that circled the mound. He set his boots to the path and walked widdershins around the mound. On the fifth time around, it seemed to him that the moonlight had brightened. The breezes are sweeping away the mists, he thought.

As he completed the seventh circuit, the moon was brighter still, and he knew in his heart that he had never seen it so bright. All the world around him was lit by the silvery light. He didn’t dare to look up at the swollen, gibbous moon that surely hung overhead. Like a great baleful eye in the heavens, it had taken notice of him, one particular insect crawling around this sensitive spot upon the night shrouded world. As he completed the eighth circuit, the breeze died and the world seemed to hold its breath.

As he walked the last circle around the mound, his head slowly filled with lovely sounds and smells. Hot, fresh honey and spices seemed to boil beneath his nostrils. Rippling music played in the distance. It grew harder to place one foot ahead of the next, but still his boots went on, seemingly of their own accord.

His gaze, fixed down upon his boots, fell upon shining cloth of a radiant garment. He looked up slowly to see who he had answered his call. He faltered and almost fell. It was the Shining Lady.

He opened his mouth to speak, but words were far beyond him. Hers was the unearthly beauty of the moon and the stars. Telyn was crude and simple beside her, flawed in a thousand ways. Compared to her ethereal beauty, all human women were as animals: gross and unrefined.

She smiled at him and her arms floated forward to poise, ready for his embrace. Brand’s knees threatened to buckle, but he kept his feet. Hot desire flooded through him. He took a single step toward her.

Vaguely, he became aware of others that moved around him, but he had eyes only for the Shining Lady. Wisps flittered and swooped. Slit-eyed goblins scuttled about the crest of the mound. His back felt the prodding of what was perhaps one of the elfkin. It poked at him with its finger and doubtlessly laughed. He imagined that the elfkin joked with its fellows, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered but the White Lady.

He took another step forward, and now he knew that he would embrace her, that he would lie with her. Her eyes told him that he wouldn’t be refused, that he would know more pleasure than any man of the River Folk could ever comprehend. The fact that her embrace meant death was nothing.

The elfkin prodded him again, more insistently this time. He rolled his shoulders, trying to evade it. He didn’t turn away, he remained fixated by his Lady. He took another step. He reached out with his hands and his fingertips almost met hers. An electric thrill ran through him. Sweat flowed from his hair down into his eyes and burned them.

The elfkin rapped upon his shoulder now, rudely. It all but drove its fist into his back. Brand snarled, but could not, would not turn from his Lady. When he had her in his grasp, he vowed, he would strike the blighter down with his axe.

His boot swept forward again. Now his fingers touched hers, and he knew expectation and tension that he had never felt before. Her lips curved to form the inviting shape of an open-mouthed kiss. He began to fall into her embrace.

The elfkin struck him. Hard. It rapped him on the skull so hard that for a moment, it seemed that his vision faded out. Purple splotches of color and pain marred the vision before him.

Enraged, he knew there was nothing for it but to act. Thinking not at all, he wheeled, snarling, and reached up to grab the haft of the axe. He lifted it out of the stifling knapsack and it flashed, shining brighter even than the giant moon overhead.

There was no elfkin there. A few wisps floated curiously about, but the nearest creature that could have struck him a blow seemed impossibly far from him. Confused, Brand turned back to the Shining Lady, who still rode foremost in his mind.

She too, was gone. This horrible fact all but broke his mind, then. Tears sprouted from his eyes. His knees gave out and he fell upon them, weeping.

He heard a twitter, then a giggle. “You stole her!” Brand screamed. Raving, he lurched up from the ground. He didn’t need the axe to urge him into a lumbering charge.

The Faerie gave way before him as he reached the top of the mound. They circled him, dancing away as he came close and laughed at him in childish voices.

The manlings and wisps danced about him in a circle, dodging his rushes with glee. Spittle ran from Brand’s mouth, his eyes bulged from his skull and only hoarse croaking sounds came from his throat. Fully in the grip of the berserkergang, he charged at first one flittering shape then another, axe upraised. He didn’t slash and cut at them, but always kept the weapon high and ready.

Sure that no mortal man could catch them, the Faerie played the game, expecting him to collapse in a shivering heap. None accounted for Ambros. Perhaps they didn’t truly know what it was that they faced.

The axe waited for its moment, and when it came, the Eye of Ambros winked, as brightly as a stroke of silent lightning. Blinded, one of the scattering figures dashed the wrong direction, and Brand struck. The axe cut the creature in twain. It tumbled to the grassy mound like a stricken child.

Gasping, Brand halted. The Faerie were gone.

He blinked at the dark world around him, uncomprehendingly. It took a hazy length of time for his eyes to fall down upon the small corpse at his feet. He gazed at it in growing horror.

It was an elfkin maiden. A beauty not so perfect as the Shining Lady, but much more innocent and child-like. Letting fall the axe, Brand gathered up the corpse and clutched it. He wept to see such a lovely creature in death and to know himself as her killer. He found that a lock of her spun-silver hair had been shorn off and lay in the grass. He grasped the lock, brought to his lips, and felt its light, feathery touch.

“Why?” asked a voice from behind him.

Brand cringed with guilt. “I lost my temper and my mind with it. One of them kept poking and prodding at me!” he said, hating the whining sound in his voice.

“None of my folk touched thy person.”

“But, I felt...” Brand trailed off and realized the truth with new horror. It had been the axe itself. There had been no elfkin poking at him. The axe had prodded him and rapped his skull just as it had in the past, trying to warn him about the Shining Lady. In his charmed state he had become enraged and misdirected his wrath toward the Faerie.

“Thou hast taken from me Llewella, one of my own daughters. I request repayment of this debt,” said the voice.

Without turning, Brand knew the voice to be Oberon’s.

Unbidden, the image of Myrrdin came to his mind. He recalled Gudrin’s story about Myrrdin’s youth, so many centuries ago. He felt he understood the moment that Myrrdin had met with the farmer, bearing the man’s dead daughter in his arms. He hung his head in shame. When he could speak, he nodded to acknowledge the debt. “Tell me what you want.”

“The Axeman will grant my wish?”

Brand felt some of his composure return. He felt distant from himself. He touched the silvery lock of hair that reflected the liquid moonlight into his eyes. “Tell me what you want,” he heard himself say.

“Thou art wiser than when last we met. I request a small thing.”

“The return of Lavatis,” said Brand.

“Wiser, indeed wiser,” said Oberon, as if to himself.

“I need something as well,” said Brand quietly. “I need to be attuned to my accursed, but beloved axe, so that I might never strike down another innocent.”

Oberon laughed. He laughed long and loud, he laughed until tears burst from his eyes and the world rang with the sound, but there was no mirth in it. “One debt of blood is not enough!” he cried. “He commits murder upon my family, Llewella’s body is not yet cold before him, but still he asks for a kindly boon!”

“I would not want to repeat tonight’s mistake,” replied Brand.

Abruptly, Oberon stopped laughing. “That is not a matter to be decided by me, Axeman, but rather by thee.”

“Why do you call me Axeman?” asked Brand. Finally, he turned to face Oberon. He looked so marvelously young. He was the father perhaps of a hundred generations of his folk, but still his body was that of a young teen. The light of the overlarge moon reflected from him, so that his smooth skin seemed a luminescent white.

“Are you not the Axeman? Did you not wield Ambros tonight, and then set it aside unaided?” asked Oberon, almost in a whisper.

“Yes, but only after slaying with uncontrolled bloodlust,” said Brand.

“There! The proof is in thy own words! Thou art the axe’s master, child. For none, young Axeman, can set aside the axe unaided, save for its master.”

Brand blinked at him. He looked down at the axe. His hand trembled as he reached out and grasped the haft of it. To his surprise, his mind did not leave him. His thoughts were rougher than before, but they were still his own.

* * *

Telyn had been restless in Brand’s absence. None of the party had been idle, but Telyn found the waiting very hard indeed. She felt each hour tick by since Brand vanished upon the Faerie mound. The ticking was extremely difficult to endure. The pain of separation took her by surprise. She’d always been a free spirit, and was unaccustomed to pining away for anyone. She’d liked boys before, but had never felt great anguish at their absence. Out of sight, out of mind, that’s how it had always been with her.

She had to admit to herself her feelings for Brand had grown curiously over these last weeks. She had not been an innocent before…but with Brand, matters had taken a more serious course. She even wondered at moments if they might marry one distant day—should they both survive this perilous time.

Overwhelmed by an urge to do something, she slipped out of the camp in the midst of the night when Brand had vanished upon the mound. She did not intend to follow him—to spy on him. But she had to admit to herself, she wanted to do precisely that. She kept thinking about what might have happened to him. That he was only a mooncalf river-boy, one who was even more sheltered in the ways of the world than was normal for citizens of the Haven. Could he really stand up to a pack of the Shining Folk, even with his fancy axe? What if he were lying upon the mound wounded, bleeding out his lifeblood into the grasses? No one would be there to hear his weak cries. They might come look in the morning to find his cold eyes staring into the bright sun, with dew droplets forming on his motionless lashes.

Telyn had to go look for him. She could not help herself. Confident in her own skills of stealth and flight, if not fighting, she slipped away over the crumbling walls and crept out of the circles of light formed by the fires. She ran lightly across wet grasses and did not halt until she stood at the foot of the mound.

It was bigger than it looked in the distance. Surely, it had to have been a great king they had buried here. Perhaps it was an entire family. She wondered briefly what they’d been like, and if their name had indeed been Rabing, as Myrrdin had suggested.

A soft sensation came to her as she eyed the quiet scene. Was it a sight or a sound? Oddly, she wasn’t sure at first, thinking perhaps it was both. The moonlight seemed to brighten overhead as she stood there. Then the music came clear and swelled in volume, and she knew the truth. It was a lute, with a masterful player plucking the strings. The lute was her favorite, she thought. How had the player known?

“Step forward musician, that I may know you,” she said. She hoped desperately it would not be the Dark Bard. She did not want to think for a second she had enjoyed the sweet music of a dead-thing.

A figure walked around the mound toward her. He was a glimmering figure—like a man, but smaller and more lithe. He looked both young and ancient at the same time. His face was full of cheer and sadness in equal measure. Seeing his fine features, Telyn’s breath caught in her lungs and she had to tell herself to continue breathing. His strumming continued, and it filled the air with sweet music.

“Don’t you like my playing, maiden of the River?” the elf asked her.

“Indeed I do,” said Teyln, sighing the words. “I think, in fact, I like it overmuch.”

“Good,” said the elf. He walked closer until he stood a dozen steps from her. He smiled and tilted his head. “How is it I’ve been so fortunate this evening?”

“Fortunate? How so?”

“Why, to find a girl like you here in this lonely place.”

Telyn eyed him warily. “I search for another.”

“Indeed?” said the elf, stepping three paces closer. “Is he more fair than I?”

Telyn paused, but she forced herself to nod. “Yes. He is to me.”

The elf stepped backward, as if injured by her words. “But he is not here, is he? He has perhaps, forsaken you for another? Will you not follow me, maiden? I will lead you to a place of—”

“No,” she said, and she reached into her tunic and pulled out her ward, which was a river stone worn through naturally and looped with a thong. “This stone is not drilled. It is powerful enough to keep your kind at bay.”

The elf’s upper lip twitched. Was that a sneer? He recovered quickly, and turned the twitch into a fresh smile.

“Why would I need to be kept at bay?” he asked, and his voice was as smooth and soothing as his music. “Can we not just talk? You have nothing to fear from me while wearing your ward.”

Telyn blinked at him. “I would know your name, elf.”

“I will tell you, if you would only agree to walk with me. I’m so lonely this night. It is quiet here, and all the others have gone to play around mounds that do not reek of death.”

Telyn’s heart pounded at his words. What did this being know? Did he speak of Brand?

“I will walk with you,” she said.

He turned, and offered her the crook of his elbow. It was a courtly gesture. Telyn took his arm without thinking and together they walked beside the mound.

“Now, tell me your name,” she said.

“My,” he chuckled, “you are a strong one. Most would have forgotten to insist. Wouldn’t you like to know of other things? Such as what has become of your beloved?”

Telyn’s worries resurfaced, but she regained her composure quickly. “One thing at a time. Tell me your name, elf. You have promised.”

The elf gave a shuddering sigh. “I have promised,” he echoed. “I am known as Puck.”

Telyn almost ripped her arm from his, but controlled herself. She knew something of the lore of elves. This one was high indeed in their lineage. “Are you then…the son of Oberon?”

“The same,” he said. “Would you like to dance? I sense you are an excellent dancer. And I am an excellent judge in these matters!”

Telyn, to her surprise, found she did wanted to dance with him. She imagined herself twirling and kicking while he smiled and both their eyes shone with shared moonlight. The strumming…but how could she be hearing his lute now, when he was no longer playing it?

She shook her head. “Not now,” she said. “Let’s just talk for a time.”

Puck pouted. “Always is this the way of the maiden,” he said. “They claim we influence them, but in truth, we males are always the ones that are manipulated! How many hours have I spent wooing softly for so few moments of bliss? The ledger is harshly in your kind’s favor, I assure you.”

Telyn laughed. Puck looked at her, and laughed with her. The two stepped along their way more lightly now. They were as two schoolchildren skipping down a road.

She smiled broadly and felt herself slightly drunk. Her feet were light beneath her, and they carried her effortlessly forward on the path. Looking down, she noted that there was a path beneath her feet. A shining path of silver grasses. She halted, swallowing a giggle that tried to burst from her throat.

“You’ve tricked me!”

Puck looked at her in mock horror. “How so?”

“This path! We walk beside the mound!” she said, ripping her arm loose from his. “How many times have we made the circuit? If I step from the silver grasses, will I be lost in-between?”

He cocked his head and gave her an appreciative nod. “You are no foolish stripling, are you? Rare it is I meet one of your age who knows of these things.”

“Answer my questions, Puck,” she said.

He shook his head, his face absurdly mournful. “Alas, I am not in your power, fine lady.”

“I know your name.”

“And thus, you can call upon me, and perhaps do me some small harm. But you can’t command me, as I have made you no promises.”

“I will walk with you no further.”

“You make me sad,” he said. “Are you certain?”

“Yes,” she said firmly.

Shaking his head, the elf backed away from her, continuing on the path toward the Twilight Lands. He circled the mound and vanished from her sight ahead.

“Should you change your mind,” he called, his voice sounding distant and echoing, as if he called up to her from the bottom of a dark well. “Come find me!”

And so Telyn found herself standing alone beside the mound. She knew a deeper terror then than she’d ever felt before. She tried to think, but it was difficult. She knew that if she had stepped too far along the path, she could not deviate from it or she would be lost forever between the world of the Fae and the world which was her home. On the other hand, if she continued on her way forward, she would arrive in a strange world where she had never been. She would surely be lost there, more surely than she was now.

Looking this way and that, she almost called for Puck to return and guide her. Perhaps she could survive his gentle touches and caresses at least long enough to return home.

Telyn opened her mouth, but no calls issued forth. She stopped herself. This was exactly what the elf wanted. This is why he had abandoned her. He was waiting. He would come back, after a frightening delay. He would wait until she sobbed for him, frozen with fear on this path of moonlight. He would wait until she offered to remove her ward…he would wait until she was his.

She made a decision. She turned around on the path, and took a step backward along it. She took another, and then a third. This was dangerous, she knew. Reversing oneself while circling a mound was possible, but increasingly difficult the further along one had gone. She was not sure how far she had come, but she felt certain that if she called for Puck’s help, she would be lost forever. She would never have Brand—possibly, she would never see her world again.

Clearly envisioning Brand and clutching at her ward with both hands, she took six more steps along the path, then two dozen more.

The land wavered before her. Instead of silver, the grasses appeared coppery. At times, they bled until they became the color of a sunset over water. She took another step, and could no longer see the path at all. There was nowhere to go. Tears streamed from her face. She did not look back. She did not want to see if the rest of the world was gone behind her as well. She lifted her foot to take yet another step. There was nothing else to do. Perhaps she could still win through and find her way home, somehow.

A hand fell upon her shoulder. She jumped and put her foot back down without taking the step. She whirled her head around.

Puck stood there, very close to her. “Don’t move,” he said in a whisper.

“I don’t want to go with you.”

“You’ve made that abundantly clear, stubborn child,” he said, but there was some gentleness in his voice. “Why won’t you come with me? Would it be so unpleasant? Am I so unsightly?”

“You are beautiful, and I’m sure the experience would be glorious. But my heart belongs to another.”

“Humph,” said the elf. He reached up and took her chin very delicately. His touched had a burning coolness that was exciting and slightly painful at the same time. She allowed him to guide her with his touch, as she was desperate.

He turned her head, and pointed a long finger to her left. There, she saw the silver grasses. They were no more than three steps away.

“I see the way,” she whispered. She turned to thank him, but there was no one there. She knew a new moment of panic. She turned her head slowly and found that only when it was directed precisely so, was she able to see the path. She aimed herself that way, and took three quick steps.

Telyn found herself on the path again. Her body was sheened with sweat, despite the coolness of the night air. She followed the path around the mound without further incident until her world was strong and vibrant around her.

It was just before dawn when she returned to her own world. It had taken half the night, she realized, to walk less than a mile. But that was no matter. All that mattered was that she had returned.

When she made her way back to the crumbling walls, she decided not to try to follow Brand into such places on her own again. She would make a guiding candle instead, a beacon to direct him home. Like the case of her own plight, in such places each person had to test their own resolve and could not rely on others to save them. Brand would make it home or he would not. It was his fate, and she did not have the craft to alter his destiny for him.

Chapter Seven

The Armory

Brand stood in a very different time and place than Telyn. He stared down at the axe in his hand. It was true; he was the axe’s master. But was this yet another of Oberon’s tricks? Had he been the axe’s master all along, and simply not known it? Or had the wily old elf actually done him a service? It was difficult to tell. He had asked for the ancient Oberon’s help in mastering the axe, and now he could not deny that he had mastered it. But the experience had not been as expected. It had been rather like asking a jailor to be freed and having him point out the prison door was unlocked. Brand felt the fool.

“Now, I require that my debt be paid,” Oberon told him.

Brand narrowed his eyes. He realized that if he gave up Lavatis for his debt, he then would have nothing left to bargain with to rebuild the Pact. He thought of arguing that Oberon had done nothing to help him, but he could not do so in good conscious. Possibly, Oberon’s words had served to convince him he had mastered the axe, and that was the key to it all. He doubted he would get any straight answers out of the elf concerning the matter, so he didn’t try.

“I will wager with you,” Brand said, his heart heavy as he spoke the words. “Double, or nothing at all.”

“Double?” said Oberon, immediately intrigued. “Double meaning...?” He pointed a long finger in the direction of the axe.

“No,” Brand snapped quickly. He knew he loved the axe too much now, despite what it had made him do. He could never give it up. He also knew that one couldn’t hope to win a wager with the Faerie if it wasn’t honestly made. He could never give up the axe, but....

“I will only wager what I can give,” Brand said. “I will wager my head.”

Oberon nodded, as if not in the least surprised. “Very good. And the wager itself?”

Brand thought hard. “I’ve chosen the items wagered, perhaps you could suggest an acceptable challenge,” he said at last.

Oberon looked at him then, and smiled. “Wise again,” he said. He thought for a quick moment. “I will wager that thou cannot strike through the central flagstone of this castle’s southern tower.”

“Strike through a flagstone? With the axe?” asked Brand, surprised. “I don’t know if I can do it. Won’t the axe shatter, or just bounce off?”

“That’s what I’m wondering, Axeman!” Oberon laughed and circled Brand twice. He took out his pipes and played six thrilling notes. “Hence, the excitement of the wager!”

Brand opened his mouth then closed it. Words failed him. The Fae were so strange. One moment they might be your mortal enemies, the next they may appear to be blood-brothers. But then the third moment came, when they seemed completely mad. Their natural way was to treat all of life as a game—even death could be an amusement.

Oberon circled him again and came close, putting his lips near Brand’s ear. The axe twitched at his presumption.

“Hast thou never a thought for the axe?” the elf lord whispered. “Does the mystery of it not burn thy very soul?”

“I think of little else,” Brand admitted.

“Then we shall test its edge and your strength of mind together upon a single flagstone!” proclaimed Oberon. A cheer went up from the smaller ones, who had returned and now surrounded them. “The wager is spoken and it is done!”

“It is done,” said Brand.

Oberon danced with excitement. His pipes traveled up and down the scale twice with impossible speed and precision. Brand wondered that Oberon could be so joyous while his dead daughter lay cooling at his feet. The Faerie were a strange folk, of that he was sure. Grief and joy, life and death, these things seemed so close together with them as to be one and the same.

Shouldering the axe, he followed the elf toward the southern tower. As he walked, he noted that he still held the silvery lock of the elfkin-maiden’s hair, Llewella’s hair, in his hand. Absently, he slipped it into his pocket.

Surrounded by the Shining Folk, he saw that they carried the dead body of the elfkin maiden, held high like a trophy. Of his own companions, he saw nothing. He wondered vaguely if they could see him. It was said in the old tales that those taken by the Faerie often saw the same world, but couldn’t locate the people in it. To both the taken and their families, it forever seemed as if the others had vanished from the world.

Brand soon stood in the midst of the southernmost tower. It was the one where Telyn and he had spent the night when they met the redcap.

Oberon indicated the very flagstone upon which they had lit their fire. That night now seemed a very long time ago. It was here that the redcap had stained its cap with Telyn’s blood. Brand eyed the top of the broken walls, but saw nothing of the creature. Shining Folk thronged the walls, however, reminding Brand of Riverton children watching the Harvest Moon races.

Brand eyed the flagstone and reached up to grasp the handle of the axe again. “Lavatis and my head are yours should I lose. Should I win, my debt is erased,” he said to Oberon and half to himself.

Oberon just eyed him. He cocked his head, in what Brand had learned to be the manner of the Faerie when they were curious about River Folk. It seemed that for them, once something was said, there was no need to repeat it later.

Brand flexed his fingers and reached for the axe. Around him, the gathered Faerie fell silent. All their strange eyes glittered, focused upon him and the haft of the axe.

Brand raised the axe aloft. As if it had been awaiting this moment, the axe sent a surge of pleasure through him. His face split and his teeth revealed themselves. The axe rose overhead almost by itself. The Eye of Ambros burned brightly, out-shining the moon that rode the heavens overhead. The warm amber light lit up the ruined tower and the encircling Faerie, and even the Shining Folk drew back from its glory. The manlings and wisps whispered in hushed tones, striking wagers of their own.

Brand no longer doubted himself or the axe. He stood squarely over the scorched flagstone and held the axe aloft in both hands. He brought it down with a single, crashing stroke.

The flagstone exploded into fragments and fell inward with a  crash. A pall of dust exploded up into Brand’s face. He realized that there was a hole there, that he had broken into a hidden chamber beneath the tower. The amber light of Ambros caused things to gleam with yellowy reflections. Golden motes of dust glittered and floated around him.

“What trick is this?” demanded Brand. As the dust cleared, he made out the shapes of weapons in the chamber. Swords, pikes and crossbows filled the space beneath the tower.

“An Armory?” asked Brand. “What are you playing at, Oberon? I’ve won our wager!”

“Almost,” said Oberon quietly.

Brand looked at him then turned back to the broken flagstone. Yellow eyes glared up at him from the chamber. He knew in an instant the he was face to face with the redcap.

“Ah!” shouted Brand. “You want me to slay this foul bogey! I see your game now, and you won’t be disappointed!”

He jumped down into the dusty blackness and the very stones of the castle seemed to swallow him up.

Brand stumbled, and felt a pain that should have crippled his ankle, but it was as nothing to him. He held the axe high to light up the scene. A great number of finely-made weapons met his eyes, and the sight of them brought him pleasure. Then he saw the redcap. It had retreated to one of the racks, where it took up an ornate sword and shield. Brand recognized the black diamond on its shield: it was the mark of his clan.

Without further hesitation, Brand strode forward to strike down the redcap. It was a menace and it had harmed Telyn. It was not fit to live.

The redcap hissed and made ready to meet him. There was a brief passage of arms. Brand was surprised when the redcap caught his axe upon his shield and turned it. He was even more surprised to find the other’s sword poised at his throat.

For some reason, however, the creature paused in slaying him. Its yellow gaze met Brand’s, and Brand knew he faced death a thousand times over in those ancient eyes.

Then he willed the axe to flash, and it did as he bid, filling the chamber with blinding Amber light. The redcap screeched and Brand beat its sword away from his throat. He struck again and again, knocking aside his foe’s guard. When its breast lay open to a killing stroke, he raise the axe again.

Panting hard, he felt the exultation of victory. To slay his enemies and drink their small lives, that was his purpose now, it was clear in his mind.

Yet, something tugged at him, gnawed at his guts. It was the black diamond on the shield. The creature at his feet, he knew, was the last defender of Castle Rabing. It was related to him, somehow. It seemed wrong that its passing should be so ignoble.

“Know, last defender of Castle Rabing, that your task is at an end,” he told it. “I, a Rabing by birth, am now the lord of this place. I release you from your duties.”

For a frozen moment, the two regarded one another. Brand wondered if the thing could even understand his speech. Then it made an effort, although not a violent one, to rise. Moving with the painful efforts of an old man, the creature knelt before him, exposing its neck.

Brand knew immediately what it wanted, but despite the axe’s urging, he resisted. “No,” he said. “Perhaps you have had a hard path, but it is at an end. You are free to go.”

The redcap said nothing. It removed its stained cap, clutching it to its breast. Brand wondered how many victims had been drained of their blood to feed this thing and soak its vile cap. His lip curled of its own accord.

Brand turned as if to go. The redcap’s hand shot out and it grasped his ankle with steel fingers. “Release me, lord,” it croaked.

Brand knew pity and disgust. He gave in to the urgings of the axe. With a single stroke, he chopped off its head.

The head rolled to a stop at his feet. The dead mouth smiled at him.

Brand grabbed up the shield and climbed his way back into the tower and the misty night outside. The Faerie were gone. There was no sign of them. Brand realized numbly that he had won the wager. His head was his to keep—for now. He felt alone and cold. He shivered in the darkness.

He walked back toward the tiny flame of what he suspected must be another of Telyn’s beacons. Singular point of light burned steadily in the distance. Nothing else of the gatehouse could be seen in the darkness. Brand indeed felt drawn to that steady pinpoint of brightness. He wondered distantly if he could have seen it from leagues away. Had the axe changed him in some way, so as to make the beacon shine more clearly to him? Had he become a creature of the twilight? He was only a river-boy of the Haven, yet lately he had walked and dealt with the greatest of the Faerie. Could a man do such a thing without permanently changing his spirit?

As he walked onward over the dark landscape, thinking such weighty thoughts, he absently put the axe back into his knapsack.

It went without complaint. He stared down at the ice-white blades. His hand was free of it, without a struggle. It was as Oberon had said: he truly was its master.

* * *

“Brand!” cried Corbin. “Brand has returned!”

Brand made no response, but instead trudged up to the gatehouse’s entrance with his head hung low.

“You’ve been gone for days, man!” said Corbin. “We worried you would never return!”  He scrambled down from his watchman’s post on the walls and strained at a lever. The grille shifted just enough to allow Brand to enter the gatehouse.

“Days?” asked Brand vaguely. “I recall only one night.”

“Often,” said Myrrdin, “people who walk with the Faerie find that time moves at a different pace with them.”

Corbin came close to him now, and Brand heard him suck in his breath. “Are you hurt, cousin?” asked Corbin in concern. He took Brand’s arm. “You’re wet and sticky—” Corbin drew in his breath sharply. “Is that blood? Are you wounded?”

Brand shook his head. “It’s not my blood,” he said in a hollow voice.

Brand felt the other’s hands lessen their grip then, as if they wanted to pull away from him. He felt a pang at this. He was a murderer, and none would want to stain themselves with the blood of his victims. He thought of Oberon’s daughter and her silver locks. He recalled her name, Llewella, and felt a wave of sickness come over him. Would all others revile him from this day forward?

Corbin helped him to the fire, then drew away and tried to inconspicuously cleanse his hands. Brand felt tainted. He thought of the redcap, who also wore garments soaked in the blood of its victims. He crouched before the fire and stared into the dancing yellow tongues, oblivious to those around him.

Myrrdin approached him. He sighed as he seated himself on a fallen log they had pulled near the firepit to serve as a bench.

“A new dawn is only hours off and Herla has yet to break through the charm that protects this place,” said Myrrdin. “Even the dark bard has given over his endless music as futile. It appears that we will pass another night safely.”

Brand stuck out his hands to warm them. Then he saw they were stained and splotched with blood and drew them back into his cloak. In his pockets his hand felt the feathery touch of the elfkin-maiden’s silvery hair. He rubbed it briefly between his bloodstained fingers. His eyes stung and he blinked back tears.

“I’ve looked often to the Faerie mound where I sent you,” said Myrrdin gently. “Each night there have been dancing colored lights and signs of great activity. What has occurred, Brand?”

“I’ve slain innocence and evil both,” said Brand. He stuck out his hands again and looked at them. He wondered at the price upon his soul that mastering the axe had taken. “I’ve slain them in the world and in myself, both together.”

Myrrdin looked troubled, but he nodded. “Was there a wager to be reckoned?”

“Yes,” said Brand.

“Have we lost—anything?”

“Oberon wanted Lavatis, but I wagered my head instead,” said Brand in a dead voice.

Telyn sucked in her breath sharply in alarm. Modi gave a heavy grunt of approval. Brand realized for the first time the others were all listening intently.

“It seems to me that you must have won the wager, given the stakes,” said Myrrdin.

Brand nodded.

“Who then was slain?” Myrrdin asked.

Brand eyed the blood on his hands and flexed them experimentally. For the first time, he considered washing them, but doubted he could ever fully remove the stain. “A daughter of Oberon. I cradled her severed head in my hands.”

“Ah,” said Myrrdin. He nodded in understanding. “It is a wicked feeling, is it not?”

“Yes, wicked,” said Brand. He eyed Myrrdin, and the other looked to him like an ancient man, crooked and bent with years and hard times. Brand knew he thought of the farmer’s daughter he had danced to death, or perhaps of worse things that he had known over his long life. “I also slew the redcap that guards this place,” Brand added.

Myrrdin bounded up from the bench. He stood over Brand. “You have slain the redcap of Rabing Castle?” he demanded.

“Yes,” said Brand, not looking up from his hands.

Myrrdin set to pacing then. He tugged at his beard ferociously as he circled the fire. “This event is three things at once,” he said, “amazing, good for the future, and terrible in the present.”

“What do you mean, wizard?” asked Gudrin. Brand noticed for the first time that Gudrin had been scribbling notes of this entire conversation. He snorted softly, wondering if he would be the subject of a story in the Teret some centuries from now.

“Amazing because the redcap is not easily overcome,” explained Myrrdin. “It is the vengeful spirit of this place, made here long ago by great butchery and empowered by the rage of all the victims of that butchery. Good in the long run, because all this area shall return more quickly to purity and usefulness with the absence of such a creature. Terrible in the present, because I believe the redcap’s presence kept alive the charm of warding upon this place.”

“So,” said Gudrin, “with the redcap dead, Herla should soon be able to cross the fallen walls. This siege may soon become a battle.”

“Exactly,” said Myrrdin, “we have little time left now, I should think.”

Brand thought about Myrrdin’s words, and soon came to better understand Oberon’s choice of contest. He had caused Brand to slay the redcap, which would allow Herla to pass the walls. There would be a battle now for certain. Perhaps Oberon thought he might do better than to gain just one of the Jewels. Now there were many in play and there would be many chances for a wise player to snatch them up.

“I have some small good news,” Brand said. He told them briefly of the armory he had found guarded by the redcap. They quickly agreed they should set out at first light to investigate the find and arm themselves for the coming conflict.

“Too bad we have no army to supply with these arms,” said Modi regretfully.

Brand blinked as a pail of steaming water was placed before him. He looked up to see Telyn there, smiling at him worriedly. He nodded in gratitude and she touched his brow with her lips before going to gather more wood. Brand began to carefully wash his hands. The spot where she had kissed him still tingled and it warmed him somehow.

“What about all these green shoots you’ve had us gather for days, Myrrdin?” asked Corbin. “What will you make with these?”

Myrrdin smiled at that. “You’ll see!” he said. “In the first light of morning, you’ll see what!”

They talked for a while longer, but soon decided it was best to bed down again for whatever remained of the night. Modi was already snoring by this time. Corbin’s watch continued on the walls, and even Brand lay down and closed his eyes. Sleep didn’t come easily however, as each time his eyes shut he saw the child-like face of Oberon’s daughter.

His eyes snapped open when the axe tapped his back some time later. He found that Tomkin crouched before him, head cocked to one side. He sat up and the manling hopped backward reflexively, then crouched again.

“What do you want?” hissed Brand. From the sounds the others were making, it was clear that they slept.

“Thy tale was woefully incomplete,” said Tomkin.

Brand was irritated at having been awakened. He rested his head on his hand and laid down on his side. “You should have tagged along if you wanted to know more,” he growled. “They are your people, after all. Why didn’t you just join the throng that circled me?”

“And have it be my head that thee wrongfully severed?” chuckled the manling.

His words caused Brand a pang of guilt that the creature couldn’t have understood.

Tomkin continued talking unconcernedly. “I would be hard put at any rate to fit in with Oberon’s court. I’ve spent too much time with River Folk. Thy stink permeates my person. The others would have known.”

Brand waved him away and tried to go back to sleep. This time, his axe gave him a sharp rap of warning. A sudden pressure on his ribs made his eyes snap open again. Tomkin now stood on his chest. The manling gazed down into his face like a presumptuous housecat.

“What are you doing?” Brand asked in amazement. Brand shook him off and sat up. Tomkin hopped down and smirked at him.

“Calm thy anger. We must speak plainly.”

Brand was as surprised at the idea of one of the Wee Folk speaking plainly as he was to have been walked upon. He glared at the manling, but nodded for him to continue.

“Dando had a dream, and I think it was a good one,” Tomkin said. “He wanted the Wee Folk to wield a Jewel and thus become more than sneer-worthy. I bear Lavatis, and thou art the wielder of Ambros. If we can strike a bargain of sorts, we shall be the ones to govern a new Pact and hold Herla at bay.”

“But what of Oberon?”

Tomkin sniffed. “The elf lord has no basis for power left. It is best to deal with those who wield power.”

“But you don’t wield power,” pointed out Brand. “Dando tried and went feral. Oberon is already attuned to the Jewel and would do the best to balance things between the Haven and Herla.”

“Ah, but he is also likely to give the worst terms for just those reasons, is he not?”

Brand thought about it for a moment, recalling the Pact and the seemingly endless tribute of one seventh of their crops. At the time, such a bounty was unquestioned and reasonable, but now, with the expansion of possibilities, it did seem a lop-sided arrangement.

“If a deal was struck between the River Folk the Wee Folk—given that we could properly wield Lavatis—our terms would be nowhere near so harsh,” said Tomkin.

“But you don’t speak for your people,” object Brand. “You are only a spy from the marshes.”

At this, Tomkin grinned. “Thou art mistaken,” he said. He turned, placed his fingers over his mouth in an odd configuration and performed a perfect imitation of the call of a night insect that infested this region of the swamp. An odd buzzing sound filled the gatehouse, but no one else took notice.

“I’ve brought a companion.”

There was a blur of movement and a creature very much like Dando sprang over the gatehouse wall and scuttled forward to join Tomkin. The creature tipped his hat to Brand and bowed low so that his coattails flipped up.

“Piskin, at your service, sirrah,” said Piskin. He flashed a winning smile. His accent and speech were quite different than Tomkin’s, being both more modern and more eloquent.

“Huh! Another spy!” whispered Brand. It came to him Modi would have said exactly the same thing. Perhaps he was beginning to think like a warrior. The idea made him smile grimly.

Tomkin looked angry and opened his wide mouth to retort, but Piskin laid a hand on his shoulder and shook his head.

“Not at all, sirrah, not at all,” said Piskin, taking Brand’s comment in stride. He paused his strutting in front of Brand, and gazed up at him steadily. Brand thought that perhaps the creature recognized him, but he could not recall having met him.

“I’m an envoy in fact, for my people,” continued Piskin. “The Wee Folk have lords of our own, you see.”

“Are you a lord of the Wee Folk, then?” asked Brand, putting his head on his elbow. He recalled once having been greatly interested in the Wee Folk, but now he just wished he could get some sleep.

Piskin cleared his throat, touching a lacy handkerchief to his lips as he did so. “I am of noble birth, yes,” he said, “but let us speak of more worthy things—”

“Are you from Herla’s pack? Do you run before the coursers?”

“No! No! A thousand times no, sirrah!” said Piskin, horrified at the suggestion. “I’ve nothing to do with those hotheaded turncoats and runabouts. Not a brain between the lot of them, I’ve always said.”

Brand smiled despite himself. He nodded to indicate that Piskin should continue.

“I represent the high-born and—” here he glanced sidelong at Tomkin, “—and the low-born amongst the Wee Folk. We feel that we’ve never been given a fair shake. We’ve never been taken seriously as a political force. This has changed, now that first Dando and now Tomkin have gained and maintained possession of the Blue Jewel. Clearly, although Dando wielded it prematurely in his own defense, the Wee Folk can and will defend their right to this source of power.”

Brand yawned. Piskin reminded him of the lawyers that old man Silure had sent to try to argue them out of Rabing Isle. He was only two feet high, but he was clearly a stuffed shirt.

“So, I’m here to bargain on behalf of my Folk,” Piskin continued. “We will soon be in the position to summon the Rainbow in our defense—and control it.”

“But Lavatis is staying here for now,” said Brand. “We made a deal to that effect with Tomkin, who possesses the Jewel.”

Piskin cleared his throat again. He paced back and forth before Brand, twirling his walking stick with easy grace each time he turned around. “This is an unfortunate detail,” he admitted. “Let me come to the crux of our offer. We wish to form a new Pact with the River Folk. The new Pact shall be one of mutual defense. You shall retain the axe and wield it in our joint effort at the head of a respectably-sized army. We shall provide information about the enemy and wield Lavatis as our part of the defensive effort.”

Brand frowned in concentration. This was serious business, he realized. It sounded attractive, but he didn’t like the idea of enraging Oberon, nor the idea of depending on the Wee Folk for the Haven’s defense. Still, he was in need of whatever allies he could garner.

“In principle, we’re in agreement,” said Brand. “I would propose something perhaps less grand and more immediate.”

Piskin leaned forward intently.

“We both need to survive this siege by the Wild Hunt. If we work together, I think the Wee Folk are more likely to retain control of Lavatis and we the axe.”

Piskin paced a bit more. When he stopped, his eyes narrowed, and he took on the more cunning look that Brand had so often seen on the faces of his kind. “What is to keep us from taking the Jewel away to safety right now?”

Brand shrugged. “Tomkin has given his word. And as I understand it, any of the Fae would sooner die than break their word.”

Piskin pretended to cough into his hanky. “Indeed,” he said, “well, what if others, shall we say, decided that Tomkin wasn’t the best guardian of Lavatis?”

“What are you getting at?” asked Brand. Tomkin too, seemed suddenly more interested.

“What if Tomkin were to ah—lose the Jewel?” asked Piskin. He gave a suggestive twirl of his cane, ending in a light rap upon his skull that dented his top hat.

“Thy hands would be severed first,” growled Tomkin.

“I’m but one agent of the Wee Folk,” admitted Piskin. “But as the River Folk say, where there is one Wee Folk in sight, in the brush there are another dozen.”

Brand frowned and Tomkin glared, but both realized that he could be telling the truth. If any type of creature could slip into Rabing Castle unnoticed, it would be the Wee Folk. There could be a small army of them nearby and they would never know. Their presence standing in front of him showed that the charm that kept out the Wild Hunt had no effect upon them.

Tomkin snarled and crouched, eyeing the brush around him with sudden suspicion.

“Okay,” said Brand, “you could take Lavatis away right now. That would help the Wee Folk. But still the Wild Hunt would be on your heels. And you would have abandoned us and all hope of a Pact with the Haven. Worse, Herla might well overcome us and the axe would be lost as well.”

Piskin thoughtfully smoothed out the dent in his top hat. “Sirrah, you make a fine point.”

“Will you work together with us, to gain our trust?” asked Brand.

Piskin pursed his lips and nodded. “Agreed,” he said. He replaced his top hat upon his head and twirled his walking stick once. “There is much to be done.”

“What exactly—” began Brand, but he was speaking to the night air. Piskin had bounded over the walls and away. Tomkin, running in a crouch, followed a moment later.

Brand lay under the stars and thought about how strange the world had become. Sleep soon overcame him, despite his worries.

Chapter Eight

The Living Wall

Tomkin sprang after Piskin and although the other was surprisingly spry, Tomkin managed to catch him as they passed over a thorny mass of blackberry bushes. He grabbed hold of the other’s foot and they went rolling in a squabbling heap.

“I demand you unhand me, sirrah!” hissed Piskin when they were both standing again.

“What’s all this then about my losing the Blue Jewel?” demanded Tomkin. He studied the other with narrowed eyes. He’d only just met him, and he had seemed a harmless, overly talkative sort. Now, after having listened to his proposals to Brand, Tomkin was not so sure Piskin was on the same side as the rest.

Piskin shrugged and straightened his top hat with excessive care. He pushed out each dent and smoothed the creases with rapid, irritated strokes of his fingers. “You can’t be serious about wielding the Jewel yourself, can you?”

Tomkin’s lips uncurled, showing rows of ice-white, triangular teeth. He was gratified to see mild alarm on Piskin’s face at the sight of them. “I’m serious when I say thou shalt not wield it!”

Piskin tried to smile, but it was a flickering expression. “Let’s not bicker, brother!” he said. “Now is not the time for squabbles. We shall stand united as a Folk. We shall hold onto this Jewel for all Wee Folk everywhere. Who wields it is immaterial. What matters is that we are now a force to be reckoned with. None shall sneer at the Wee Folk after this day!”

“I can hold with those words,” Tomkin agreed cautiously.

Piskin’s manner changed on the instant. He was again wreathed in smiles. He reached to clap Tomkin on the back, but at the other’s snarling reaction, he withdrew his hand like a snapping turtle pulling its head into its shell.

“No matter!” he said. “No matter at all! Let us head onward now, we are late for the gathering.”

“What gathering?”

“Why, have you not heard?” Piskin asked, incredulous. “I can’t fathom it! And you being the guest of honor!”

“Speak plainly, fop.”

Piskin’s lips quivered again, but he regained his composure. “Such rough manners! I constantly find I must remind myself of your upbringing. No fault of your own, it was, I know, I know.”

Tomkin glared at him suspiciously.

“Well, to continue: the gathering is in your honor, as the new bearer of the Jewel. As Dando sacrificed his whole being, we hope it won’t be the same with you. The gathering is not far from here.”

“Where is it?”

“Did I mention there will be ladies there?” asked Piskin turning suddenly with eyebrows riding high. “Yes, many lovely women of our kind are attending. Rare they are in these parts, I understand.”

Tomkin licked his lips. In truth, he had not laid eyes upon a member of the opposite sex since Dando’s party in the marshes long ago. He felt temptation tugging at him—but still, he was wary.

“Where is it?” he repeated.

Piskin sighed with a burst of exhalation. It was a sound of bemused exasperation. “Persistence is a virtue!” he said. “But in your case, you might be taking things too far! Allow me to give you a word of advice: don’t inspect every gift given too closely—or you might find people stop giving them to you.”

Tomkin blinked, then tilted his head. “Where…is…this…gathering?”

“Very well, if you must know, it is atop mount banning in the Red Rock range. We’ll be there in a trice, if you would only follow along like a good fellow.”

Piskin arranged his hat on his head, twirled his walking stick twice and hopped off into the night. Tomkin did not move. He stood staring downslope at the other’s retreating back.

Finally, as Piskin reached the edge of the marshland, the border where the territory of Rabing Castle’s walls once stood, he halted and looked back in surprise. “Hullo? What’s the hold up?”

“I’m not going,” said Tomkin.

“WHAT?” Piskin cried, and came hopping back up the slope. His hops were small, rapid and irritable. “How can this be? How can a bumpkin refuse the hand of a dozen maidens who might otherwise be unwilling to grace his lumpish face with their spittle? This is your hour, man! This is your moment. You simply have to make the most of it.”

“No,” said Tomkin.

“Why?” hissed Piskin in utter vexation.

“Because I will stand here with the River Folk. I trust them more than I trust the likes of thee.”

“Fool!” said Piskin through clenched teeth. He hopped in spun in angry circles around Tomkin, who watched him closely all the while. “You will do no heroics. You will die here, as did Dando. You are even less attuned to the Jewel. You will be forced to use it, and you will die, and they will take it from us. Can you not see, brother?”

“Do not come near me again,” Tomkin said.

“Why ever not?”

“Because I will remove thy head and thy limbs,” said Tomkin in utter sincerity. “I will toast them over a peat fire and chew the meat from thy bones.”

“Barbarian!” huffed Piskin, but he retreated a yard or more.

Tomkin turned away and headed toward the River Folk and their fire. He glanced over his shoulder several times as he went, but he saw no more of Piskin.

* * *

“Brand! Wake up, Brand! Look, it’s wonderful!” said Telyn. Her hands shook him. Brand groaned aloud and opened one bleary eye. Instead of bright sunlight, he found himself bathed in a cool green gloom. He sat up blinking in astonishment.

Vines as thick as tree trunks plunged up from the ground, growing before his eyes. Trees and bushes rippled and thrust upward, reaching for the morning sun. Stone blocks heaved and were shouldered aside by living green spears. A tangle of tea roses battled a sapling tree, each climbing the other like bundles of twisting snakes. Even the grass rustled and groaned. At the edge of the wall, dancing with his staff upraised, Myrrdin coaxed each of the drooping shoots they had planted the night before into explosive growth.

The walls now completely surrounded them, but still Myrrdin worked. Sweat sprouted from his brow despite the chill morning air. He ran back to the center of the gatehouse and stood upon the cracked fountain. Spring water bubbled up into the bowl of the fountain and trickled away through the mossy cracks. He held his staff overhead with both hands. At his feet the moss rippled and grew up over his boots. Tiny purple flowers sprouted around the buckles and laces.

The walls continued to grow. Brand watched in amazement as the stone ruins of the gatehouse were overcome by towering walls of dense vegetation. As the plants surged ever taller they turned inward, bowing to form a dome. Rustling leaves knitted themselves together. Vines grew crosswise now, binding together the curving tree trunks like the poles of a river raft. As the vines thickened, they sprouted sharp thorns as long as daggers.

“And so we lose sight of the sun again,” said Gudrin.

Brand looked at the others. Modi gaped upward and frowned. Telyn clapped her hands and laughed. Corbin sought for fruit amongst the brush near the entrance. Already he had an armload of what looked like peaches.

“Peaches in winter!” cried Brand. Corbin walked up to him with a grin and tossed him one. Brand caught it and bit into it. It was delicious. Both of them grinned at one another and the miracle that grew around them.

“So what if they can fly?” cried Corbin, gesturing at the dome overhead that now closed itself completely. They were enclosed in a cool green gloom. The plants continued to rustle and twist.

“So what?” echoed Brand. He laughed aloud and ate the rest of his peach. Corbin handed him a second.

“It’s good to have you back again,” Corbin said.

Brand looked at him. He nodded and sighed. “You too,” he said.

Corbin nodded and ate yet another peach. He moved around to the others, handing out fruit. It was good to have clean, fresh food in this place. Everyone’s spirits ran high.

Finally, when it seemed that the wall of greenery would swallow them whole, Myrrdin stopped his magic. He lowered his staff and stepped back. He turned to them, disheveled and bathed in sweat from his labors. His grin was wide and his eyes alight. “I’ve done it!” he cried. “I’ve not conjured such a thing since the dead kingdoms lived!”

“It’s beautiful!” gasped Telyn. She rushed up to the leafy walls and ran her hands over the woven vines and thorns. She plucked a flower from a bed of ferns and held it out to Brand. He took it, smiling. Just to look at her radiant face seemed to lift more of his burden from his shoulders.

Myrrdin was eyeing them while he brewed a pot of tea over the breakfast fire. “It seems clear that you have two seconds, Brand,” he said. “Such a thing isn’t unprecedented.”

“Will it last, Myrrdin?” asked Telyn. “Is it truly alive? Will it fade soon?”

“It is a living wall,” said Myrrdin. “The best that I could make it. The wall will live, yes. A very long time I should think. Especially if it is cared for and provided sufficient water.”

“Brand!” said Telyn, whirling on him. “If we survive this, we should make this all part of the Haven! People should live here again and see this wonder!”

“Ha! Next, you’ll be planning to raise these old walls again!” said Gudrin.

“And why not?” asked Telyn. “The old pact is finished, anything is possible. Who knows what new provisions the next pact will hold?”

Telyn turned a sly glance to Brand then, and gave him a sidelong smile. Brand stiffened, suddenly wondering if she had overheard some of last night’s talk with the Wee Folk.

“Um,” said Brand. He cleared his throat. “I have some news in that area.”

Everyone turned to him.

“I spoke with Tomkin and another of his kind, Piskin. We came to an agreement of sorts.”

“What!” shouted Gudrin. “You’ve been negotiating with the enemy without our knowledge? First, I hear that the walls of Castle Rabing are being raised again, and now this!”

“I – I didn’t plan it that way,” said Brand. He looked to Myrrdin from support, but he seemed more interested in his tea than the conversation. “They just came to me and wanted to talk.”

“I see,” said Modi coming forward for the first time. “Now that the Kindred have given over the axe to the River Folk, no one is concerned with their fate. Their opinions amount to nothing.”

“No, no,” said Brand, “it’s nothing like that. They just woke me up and we decided that it would be in both our interests if neither the axe nor Lavatis fell into Herla’s hands.”

The two Battleaxe Folk grumbled something to one another and crossed their arms.

“Continue,” said Gudrin.

“That was it, really. That’s all I committed to, mutual defense in this place.”

Nodding, the two Kindred stumped toward the entrance. The grille that covered the entrance was now all but buried in a mass of fern fronds and woven thickly with thorny vines. They stopped there and began a heated discussion of their own, in their own tongue.

Corbin and Telyn came close to Brand. Corbin put a hand on his shoulder and whispered in his ear. “It seems that the Battleaxe Folk aren’t pleased. Perhaps events haven’t proceeded quite according to their plans.”

“But what did they want?” asked Brand. “They gave us the axe to defend the Haven and eventually to come and aid them at Snowdon, I suppose.”

“Perhaps you weren’t supposed to negotiate a new peace with the Wee Folk and set about refortifying Rabing Castle along the way,” replied Corbin.

“Yes,” said Telyn in his other ear, “and perhaps they realize that you left out much of last night’s conversation.”

Brand looked at her, startled. If she knew that, then perhaps they did as well, hence their distrust. “But I wasn’t trying to hold out information on them, I just wanted to make things seem innocent, which they were,” sputtered Brand.

Their conversation was interrupted by a squeak and a sudden thrashing about in the thorny wall Myrrdin had created. They broke apart and lifted their weapons, approaching the living wall with caution. There they found Tomkin, arguing with a thorn. It was determined to hold on to his deerskin tunic.

“Ah, another spy!” said Modi. Brand smiled, thinking of his own words last night. Modi reached up and released the struggling manling with his powerful hands. He was careful, but even so, Brand noted a trickle of blood running down into his sleeve. Brand’s respect for the wall rose a few notches, it seemed to work like a living guardian to prevent intruders.

Tomkin hopped down into the green gloom that enclosed them all and rearranged his torn clothing. “Never in all my days have I struggled with such a beastly growth,” he complained. He hopped close to Myrrdin. “Thy doing, I suppose, cheating witch?”

Myrrdin ignored him. He seemed to be busy now with his staff, whittling and trimming it. Brand blinked in surprise. The staff seemed to have grown, at least a foot. Several leaves sprouted from it now as well. He resolved to question Myrrdin about it later.

“What have you to report?” he asked Tomkin.

“Report?” sniffed Tomkin. “Humph. I bring thee tidings from the Wee Folk.”

“Very well,” growled Modi, “Speak! Can we expect an army of little bounders to help us?”

“Hardly!” snorted Tomkin. He laughed aloud. “Clearly, thy misunderstanding of my folk runs deep. No, our army consists of many scouts and envoys. Even now they approach every power in reach of here for help.”

“Ha!” shouted Modi. “Spies and foppish liars!”

“Tell us of what’s happening!” urged Brand. “Where is Herla? Did the wisp you sent out get through to Riverton?”

Tomkin grinned, showing his sharp white teeth. “Herla circles these very walls, just beyond thy senses. Every puff of white mist hides the shadows of a dozen Huntsmen. We’ve tried to lure them off, but we have not the craft to fool Osang, which rules any illusion or image we can conjure up. Six of the Wee Folk lie trampled in the mud around this place, having tried to fool him.”

“What of the Wee Folk that are loyal to him?” asked Corbin.

Tomkin looked disgusted. “He trusts none of them. He has leashed them like dogs. They bound about on long leads before his coursers, those that haven’t deserted him.”

“That’s good then!” said Corbin. Tomkin glared at him. “I only mean that they can’t spy on us if they are bound.”

Tomkin nodded, but kept a slitted eye on Corbin. “The wisp made it to North End and Riverton. The word from that way is that a flotilla of River Folk are even now poling their way through the swamp to our aid.”

The River Folk cheered at this. Modi looked sour.

“The wisp, however, was captured upon her return to the swamp. Old Hob caught her like a firefly in June while she slept on a leaf, exhausted from her trip.”

Brand drew his lips tight. “Poor thing,” said Telyn.

Tomkin grinned at Brand. “Already, thy reputation grows, Axeman. Thou art now the man who turned Old Hob’s lantern yellow, rather than its ancient green! Every kind of folk whispers of it and laughs, as Old Hob has few friends.”

“What news of Snowdon do you have, manling?” demanded Modi.

“Thy folk too, have benefited,” said Tomkin, clearly displeased, “but for those tidings, I shall require a boon.”

Modi roared with disgust, and Brand believed for a moment that Tomkin had forfeited his life. Sensing conflict, the axe twitched and lifted the flap of the knapsack of its own accord.

“Speak, manling!” boomed Modi. “Thy boon is thy continued life!”

Tomkin smiled and bounded away. In a thrice he crouched upon the broken fountain. “My boon only grows with threats!” he cried.

Enraged, Modi stumped after him. Tomkin loosed long ringing laughter as he bounded about the gatehouse, easily evading the warrior. Modi stooped to grab up a rock and hurled it. Tomkin dodged offhandedly.

Brand ran forward, feeling the axe’s excitement grow. He grabbed Modi’s arm as he went to hurl another chunk of masonry. “We must cooperate!” he shouted.

Modi moved to shake him off, but Brand held fast to his arm with both of his. Modi roared and threw him backward. Brand lost his feet and fell. Tomkin’s laughter rang in his ears.

Brand leapt back to his feet and reached back for the axe. The haft of it came easily into his hand. Vitality surged through him. Tomkin’s laugh became shrill and tinged with insanity. Brand opened his mouth and loosed a battle cry that burned his throat and made his lips run with spittle and blood.

Modi, transformed before him from an ally to a savage enemy. Brand realized then and there with perfect clarity that Modi had always desired the axe, that he coveted it, that he had never meant anything less than to take it. It was a filthy thief that stood before him, a liar and traitor who had posed as a friend just to come close to his beloved Ambros.

Brand lifted Ambros high, planning to will the Jewel to flash and blind the thief. Then he would rush in and end it.

Then the world turned green. He himself was blinded. He blinked and staggered back, wondering what trick had overcome him. He heard heavy tread before him and he struck blindly before him. He chopped into something hard. There was a grunt and a clattering sound. Then a new set of lights went off in his head.

He crumpled into the grass and broken stone. As he lost consciousness, he willed the axe to flash. He thought it did so, but it might have just been Modi’s heavy boot, slamming into his head.

He knew no more.

Chapter Nine

Story of the Jewels

“It’s obvious,” said a heavy voice. “A stripling river-boy can’t be our champion.”

Brand’s eyes fluttered open. Overhead, the green of the living wall filled his vision.

“Ah, the champion awakens,” said Modi, for now Brand knew it to be his voice. Modi’s huge features came into view. He stood over him, grinning. One of his eyes was closed. He put a gloved finger to the closed one. “You only blinded one of my eyes. I was ready for the sole trick you’ve learned,” he said with a rumbling laugh.

Brand tried to rise. He winced and grabbed his head. Lights flashed and played inside his skull.

“Never,” said Corbin, “has there been any doubt that you are the superior warrior, Modi. That was never the question. The question has always been one of control.”

“Ah, and I’m not worthy on that account, is it?” asked Modi. “I think I showed great restraint in not killing the fool.”

“You goaded him!” shouted Telyn. “You lost your temper first, going after Tomkin with stones! If you’d had the axe, you’d have gone feral and tried to kill us all!”

Brand struggled to rise again. This time, he made it to his elbow. His first thought was of the axe. He couldn’t see it or feel it. It had been taken from him. His heart despaired. He got to his feet with a groan.

Everyone stood near, save for Tomkin, who was nowhere in sight. They all stood around him, arguing, except for Myrrdin who huddled by the fire. Brand saw his knapsack there and headed toward it.

“When it comes time to face Herla,” said Modi behind him, “you will all wish that I were wielding the axe, feral or not.”

Myrrdin stood and shouted at them. “Enough bickering! We need to get the arms from the south tower stored here in case the Riverton forces arrive before the charm fails us!”

The others looked at him, and then reluctantly separated. Soon the two Battleaxe Folk headed out of the entrance, talking in their own speech. Corbin and Telyn soon followed.

Rubbing his head, Brand sat down beside Myrrdin. His eyes were on the knapsack. He thought to see it twitch. Perhaps it could sense the nearness of its master.

“I’m sorry, Myrrdin,” said Brand. “I lost control again.”

“But you didn’t kill him,” said Myrrdin.

Brand blinked. “I thought I was the lucky one.”

Myrrdin shook his head. “You are the axe’s master. Had you truly wanted to kill Modi, things might have gone differently.”

“Was it you who caused the green flash?”

Myrrdin held up his staff as an answer. He had carved it down considerably, to where the green Jewel Vaul could be seen. Still half-covered in fresh wet wood, the Jewel glittered in the cool gloom of the gatehouse.

“Does the wood always grow over it that way?” asked Brand, fascinated by its beauty.

“Yes. I first found it in the Vale of Twrog, a troublesome giant that lives in the Deepwood. The Green Jewel stood in the heart of a stout oak tree. The leafy tops of the tree rose a hundred feet or more. Never had I seen such a tree, and in my heart I knew what had been lost lay inside.”

“You had to cut to the heart of a great oak to find it?” asked Brand, amazed. “In comparison my efforts seem minor.”

Myrrdin shook his head. “No less than mine. The Jewels are different, that’s all. Vaul is no less capricious in its own way. For you see, as I cut into the great trunk, I found the bones of Vaul’s former master, embedded in the living wood. I had to cut away many finger bones to pry the Jewel from its former master’s dead grip.”

“How did you defeat the giant?” asked Brand feeling like a child listening to the wild tales of a drunk oldster by a tavern fire.

“I didn’t. I made a bargain with Twrog. I fashioned him a club from the stoutest limb of the oak. I told him it was magic, and it would bring him luck, and it did. He helped me take the tree down, in fact.”

“So you got a Jewel of Power and he got a big magic stick, eh?” asked Brand. “That sounds like a deal one of the Shining Folk would make.”

Myrrdin didn’t answer that, so Brand hurried on, not wanting to offend him. The wizard was reputedly of Fae blood, after all. “Can all of the Jewels flash to blind people?” he asked.

“Those of light and fire can, such as the Jewel of Flame,” said Myrrdin, cutting away a bit more wood with deft strokes. About half of Vaul’s green surface was revealed now. Several strips of white wood still enclosed it, however. Brand was reminded of fingerbones, clutching at something beloved. He shivered, wondering if the axe would someday have to be pried from his dead fingers.

“Tell me of each of the Jewels,” asked Brand. “It seems that I must know what I’m dealing with. I’ve heard nothing but childhood tales.”

“There is much in those tales,” said Myrrdin. “There are various theories as to the origin of the Jewels, but in all the legends, the Sunstone or the Sun Dragon was split into the nine known colors, which when mixed or shown apart in their pure form represent all the forms of magic. This process works in a similar fashion to the human eye. Everything that can be seen is represented to the eye as a combination of colors and light. Just so, all magic is some mixture of the various varieties of magic of which the Jewels are capable.

“The three primary Jewels: Crimson, Blue and Amber, are often judged more powerful than the three secondary stones of Green, Lavender and Orange. The three less known, but no less important stones are called collectively the Dark Jewels. They are those of Quick-silver, White, and Black.

“Of such great power were the Shards of the Sunstone that many duels and even battles were fought over the possession of each. In olden times Pyros the Orange – as the Jewel had been named after one of its earliest and cruelest possessors – was perhaps the most destructive and well known. Pyros was infamous for the burning of the six villages of the lake peoples many generations ago. The sorcerer and tyrant Pyros had fashioned the Jewel into the crest of his silver crown and enjoyed lancing anyone or thing who stood up to him with a fiery beam of pure heat. After a time this habit led to a bald, scarred head and a terrifying countenance and reputation, which seemed to suit the tyrant’s tastes. Eventually, he was brought down, but not soon enough to save the lake people, who afterward retreated into the cool gloom of the forests and rivers and never seemed to regain their former numbers nor their trust of Men. They are now known to you as merlings, I believe.”

Brand looked up in surprise at this. Could merlings and their deep hatred of men have stemmed from such a time? It seemed very plausible at the moment. He gazed at the fire again. It crackled and popped as it ate the dry wood.

“The Orange Jewel is the heart of fire,” continued Myrrdin, “Legend has it that after Pyros was killed, an ancient wurm devoured the Orange to make his fire hotter, and managed to make his fire so hot he could burn his way into solid rock. So doing, he burned himself an endless labyrinth of trackless tunnels beneath the Black Mountains. It was a labyrinth so immense that the wurm has for centuries been lost to the light of the sun. To this day, the Battleaxe Folk attribute the wurm with the creation of their home, the Earthlight, beneath Snowdon.”

“I’ve never heard that story from Gudrin.”

Myrrdin smiled. “Not all the Kindred agree with that version of history. They like to claim that they created the Earthlight themselves.”

“Pray continue. What of the other stones?” asked Brand, putting his chin in his palm.

“In the present age of Albion, many of the Jewels are lost,” continued Myrrdin. “Others are hidden, to be used only in secret. Few even among the wisest of folk know where more than one or two of the Jewels might lay, and none know the whereabouts of them all.”

“What of our enemy of the moment?” asked Brand.

“Herla wields Osang, the Lavender Jewel. Osang rules magic of sight, sound and movement. His coursers can ride over water, over or even through obstacles, silently, invisibly. At times they can even fly for short distances or seem to teleport.”

“Are we safe inside your living wall, then?”

Myrrdin snorted. “By no means! –but, we are less vulnerable than we would be in the open.”

“What of Vaul?”

“Ah! My favorite! Glad I am that I was fortunate enough to become its master. The Vaul, the Green Jewel, is the most creative of the bunch. It gives me power over earth, plants and growth...or rot, poison and spoilage. Its wielder is a shaper of nature, for good or for ill.”

“And Lavatis?”

“As you know, it has the power to summon the Rainbow. It rules the rain, wind and is powerful upon the sea. Lightning can strike those near it when it is wielded.”

“What of the other colors?”

“Sange, the Red Jewel, wields blood magic. It possesses power over flesh and blood, allowing the wielder to heal wounds...or do other, terrible things. It was lost in the same great war that brought down these walls. Ambros, as you’ve already learned, is the Jewel of combat, bloodlust. It’s able to drive men wild in battle. It can put fear into the hearts of enemies as well. It’s perhaps the most emotional of the Jewels.... The one who wields it can inflame the hearts of an army.”

Brand was silent for a moment, mulling over this. He wondered if he would ever lead an army into battle. Somehow, the berry patches of Rabing Isle seemed more distant than ever.

“Those are the six colors of the rainbow,” said Brand. “What of the others?”

Myrrdin glanced at him, then continued. “The Dark Jewels are less known, and were lost in the distant past. If they exist today, we have only legends that hint about their nature. The White Shard was the creator, the basis of all the others that split apart and is now gone from the Earth. The Quicksilver was the molten reflective lump left behind by the White after all the color had been drain of it. It is the Jewel of null-magic. It removes color and life and magic from the world, rather than adding it. The Onyx is the Black Jewel of death and decay. Darkness, vile evil and unspeakable spawnlings come from it. All true evil powers seek Necron, the Onyx Jewel.”

Brand fell silent for a minute or two, contemplating all the Jewels. He held up his hand then, although he would have loved to hear more of Myrrdin’s tale. “What’s that? I hear something.”

Myrrdin halted his tale and blinked. “Drums,” he said after a moment. “Wardrums, I should say.”

There was a creaking, scraping sound as someone struggled with the grille at the entrance. Both of them stood and Brand shouldered his knapsack. The axe inside quivered excitedly.

Telyn’s face came into view. She struggled with a load of full quivers. “Rhinogs!” she cried. “I see a band of them, they must be scouts. They’re coming down from the northwest!”

Chapter Ten

Battle

Everyone ran to the walls and looked out to see the rhinogs, but none had eyes as keen as Telyn. After a while, they thought they saw a few black-furred backs moving over the downs a mile or more off.

“I see many men on rafts as well!” cried Telyn excitedly, pointing in the opposite direction.

“Can you see whose side they’re on?” shouted Brand.

Telyn leaned out farther, poking her head through the opening Myrrdin had made in the living wall with a single wave of Vaul. As the lightest and most agile, she had been elected to climb the thorny mass to the top of the dome overhead. “Ouch! Damn these thorns. Yes, I see the blue and white livery of the Riverton Constabulary. They must be ours!”

“Will they reach us before the rhinogs?” asked Corbin.

“They come by water while the rhinogs march through mud. They should be faster,” said Modi.

“There are others with the men,” called down Telyn. “Wee Folk bound ahead of them on the shores and I think some of the Battleaxe Folk are weighing down the rafts as well.”

“Huh,” grunted Modi. “It would be good to have some true warriors at my side.”

Brand ignored the jibe and went back to work, storing arms the others had carried up from the redcap’s armory inside the dome. “We must work fast. We can’t be sure that the charm will hold Herla until help arrives. Already, his coursers test the boundaries.”

“Already the place abounds with Wee Folk spies,” complained Modi, moving an armload of crossbows to the walls where loopholes had been set up.

Tomkin put in an appearance then, using the front entrance this time. He watched Modi warily as he entered, but the big warrior just ignored him. He approached Brand with a toothy grin.

“It appears that help is on the way,” he said.

“I doubt your word no longer,” said Brand, grunting as he helped Corbin roll a fallen stone back into place on the wall.

He looked down at the armor he had gotten from the red cap’s horde. Most of it he had not bothered to put on yet. The breastplate and greaves lay in a heap, but he wore a chain shirt over his homespun tunic. The rings jingled and clinked against the stone as he heaved stones with Corbin. He wasn’t sure if all their efforts would help in the coming fight, but it was easier on the mind than just sitting around waiting.

“Thou art clad in armor,” said the manling, watching him. He looked Brand up and down with a discerning eye. “Add the breastplate and some leggings...a full-fledged Rabing knight you would be! To the untrained eye, that is.”

Brand tried to think of something useful that the manling could do, but he was so small that nothing came immediately to mind. “What tidings do you bring?” he asked.

Tomkin grinned. “Popular, we are. Three armies march to meet us. And a likely Fourth might appear.”

“Three? Four?” demanded Brand, almost letting go of his end of the block.

“Watch what you’re doing, Brand!” cried Corbin. They both had to shuffle under the block’s weight to prevent smashed fingers and toes. Grunting and heaving, they worked the block into its place, and slumped against it, panting.

“What are you talking about, manling?” demanded Brand. He was wishing he had removed his chain shirt now, as Corbin had. The extra weight was tiring. But he couldn’t help thinking that a pile of armor lying on the ground would do him little good if the enemy were to suddenly appear.

“Army one, the rhinogs who follow their goblin sires, who in turn follow their sire Old Hob,” began Tomkin, ticking them off on his thin fingers. “Two, the merlings that churn the river to boiling mud as they come down from their village bent on vengeance, no doubt. Third is the possible—and quite likely—appearance of Oberon with a host of his kind.”

“You said four armies. Was that just big talk?”

“Four would be the River Folk coming to help. But, as you suggest, they hardly count as an army.”

“That wasn’t what I meant, you—” snarled Brand.

“What of the Wild Hunt?” interrupted Corbin.

Tomkin shrugged. “Good point, but I account them as one with the rhinogs.”

“Merlings and Oberon,” muttered Brand. “Who will they side with?”

“Themselves, of course,” said Tomkin.

“I think Tomkin’s right,” said Corbin. “We ourselves aren’t the reason they come, it’s the concentration of power that we represent. They aren’t interested in us, just the three Jewels that we bear.”

Tomkin nodded. “The Wild Hunt has treed us, but has taken too long to finish the prey. Now others have taken an interest.”

“Hmm,” said Corbin, rubbing his chin. He walked over to his own chain shirt and began to struggle it down over his form. It clinked and rasped as he fought with it. A shirt of chain is much harder to put on than a normal shirt of wool or leather. Metal links do not give and stretch like cloth.

“What is it?” asked Brand, looking around the green dome. Everything seemed deceptively calm and normal.

“It occurs to me,” said Corbin through the clinking links, “that the merlings aren’t likely to be stopped by the charm. I doubt the rhinogs are ghostly enough to be halted, either. Could you give me a hand, here?”

Brand helped him tugging the chain shirt down over his barrel-chested form. He then eyed his own pile of armor. “I think you’re right. The time is past for shoring up our walls. We must prepare ourselves for battle.”

Tomkin hopped after him as he began to don his armor. The metal pieces had been well cared for. Wearing his regular clothing for padding, Brand pulled on a chain shirt and worked to buckle on a breastplate. Corbin helped him don the unfamiliar armor. Modi had suggested that they only wear a few key pieces as they were unaccustomed to it and that full armor would be as likely to kill them as save them in battle. As he buckled on the breastplate Brand realized with a shiver that the leather straps should have long ago fallen to dust. They felt supple and fresh, however.

He looked up to see that Corbin was looking at him in concern. As had so often happened in their youth, they were thinking along the same lines.

“How is it that these straps and buckles are so fresh and new?” asked Brand, his lips curled.

“I think we both know,” said Corbin, eyeing the straps in his hands as if he held a fistful of worms.

“The redcap?”

Corbin nodded.

“But what kind of leather, then...?” asked Brand. He dropped the breastplate and wiped sweat from his brow. “It’s human, isn’t it? What else would the redcap use for leather?”

“I don’t know,” said Corbin, examining the straps, “he could have used merlings, or animals...I doubt too many of the marshmen would have ventured this far north, so far past the borders of the Haven.”

“Right,” said Brand, grabbing at this straw to keep his stomach steady, “right! Just merling skin at worst, perhaps even something more wholesome.”

Not speaking, they buckled the rest of their partial armor into place. Still, each time his hands had to touch the supple leather of the straps, Brand’s finger tingled and his stomach churned. He had touched merling skin before, and this felt different, and the tone of it was much too light.

“How are our junior warriors?” asked Modi, coming up to them. He wore a breastplate and a giant shirt of chain that hung down almost to the ground.

“We stand ready to fight for the Haven,” said Brand, reciting a line he had heard from the Riverton Constabulary weekly meetings.

Modi nodded at this answer. “Good,” he said. He paused for a moment, thumbing his axe. “There are things...” he said, and then faltered.

The two river-boys watched him, their faces expressionless.

“There are things that warriors must say to one another before entering battle together,” said Modi at last. “Our personal differences we must set aside. Often, warriors in the very act of a duel will quit their struggles and fight together as brothers against a common enemy. Sometimes, after the battle is done, the duel resumes. Other times, it does not.”

Brand and Corbin looked at one another, and each knew what the other thought. It wasn’t exactly an apology, but it would have to do. “We will fight at your side, Modi,” said Brand.

Modi nodded. He opened his mouth as if to speak again, but nothing came out. He nodded again and turned to stump away.

Brand and Corbin each carried shields now. Brand had given the sword he had found in the armory to Myrrdin, who refused to wear armor. Corbin had a real battleaxe now, to go with his shield. Even Gudrin had armed herself with a jacket of woven steel scales and a heavy crossbow. Telyn kept her familiar bow, but chose a long slim dagger with a very keen edge and attached the sheath to her belt.

Brand, having found no better storage for the axe than the knapsack, kept it there still, riding on his back. It seemed less troublesome when it was kept covered, like a horse that is quieted by wearing blinders.

Telyn shouted down a warning that none of them understood.

“What?” shouted back Brand. She poked her head down from the leafy dome and Brand’s heart was gladdened by the image of her face, surrounded by her dark hanging hair.

“The Riverton Constabulary! They’ve made landfall at the ruins of the southern tower!”

“Perfect!” shouted Brand back. “We must meet them and show them the arms there!”

It was quickly decided that he and Corbin should go and greet the newcomers. They marched proudly out into the daylight. Brand felt glad to be free of the oppressive green gloom of the domed gatehouse. The axe was particularly pleased, it sensed battle was imminent.

“I wonder if your father leads them,” said Brand, puffing a bit as he hurried in the heavy armor. He wondered too, if he could last a whole day’s march in such gear.

“I hope Tylag is with them,” agreed Corbin. “He will be proud to see us armored like lords.”

“Do you think he knows of Clan Rabing’s real history?” asked Brand.

“He might. I find it difficult to believe that the Clan Elders don’t know the truth behind these secrets.”

Brand nodded and was about to say more when a shape bounded up from behind them. He reached for his axe reflexively.

“It’s only Tomkin,” said Corbin, putting a hand on his elbow.

“And a good second you make,” replied Brand quietly. He turned to the manling. “Are you joining us to greet your fellows, Tomkin?”

“My fellows are knaves,” said Tomkin, “I am to bring two wet-nosed warriors back to the gatehouse.”

“Why?” demanded Brand.

“The wench lookout has spied a conflict. The merlings have met with thy army before it could reach safe land. The river is filling with blood even now. I suggest you forget about them and retreat.”

Brand and Corbin looked at one another. They both knew there was only one thing to do. They took off toward the southern tower at a run. As he ran, Brand pulled the anxious axe into the light. It gave him a surge of strength and soon he had outdistanced Corbin. The other shouted to him, but Brand neither heard, nor cared to hear, his words.

Tomkin kept up with him, however.

“Thy feet are like the pounding hooves of a charger,” he remarked.

Brand made no reply.

“Thy pace is a killing one. I wonder at the endurance of thy heart. Will it explode, or simply stop of its own accord?”

Brand felt a flash of irritation. He made a sudden sweep with the axe, and clove Tomkin’s soft fawnskin cap from his head. Tomkin made a squeak of surprise and missed the next log he was bounding over. He tumbled through the air and landed in a heap.

Corbin puffed by a few moments later, hooting at the Tomkin, who growled back at him. Corbin’s chain shirt jingled madly as he followed Brand, hopelessly trying to keep up.

Brand reached the southern tower and paused there. All along the shore raged the first true battle he had ever set eyes upon.

About half the rafts and boats had reached the shoreline. A line of blue and white clad men, armed with every manner of makeshift weapon, faced the swarming merlings. On the land they had the advantage, but in the brown, churning water the merlings roped and plucked them one a time from their boats. Once in the river, the men were made quick work of.

In the center of the conflict a large raft worked its way toward the shore. A banner of blue and white flew from its mast. The men aboard cast lines to the men on the shore, but as often as not the merlings intercepted the casts and yanked the boatsmen into the muddy water. Brand’s eyes fixed upon a large figure at the center of the raft. It was his uncle Tylag, Corbin’s father.

Vaguely, he knew he should wait for Corbin, his second. But the desires of the axe, never greater than when in the face of battle, were too much. He raised both his shield and Ambros high over his head and charged. As he charged he screamed like a madman. Flecks of spittle showered his new grown beard and his eyes all but started from their sockets. Far more noticeable to the combatants, however, were the brilliant flashes of light that Ambros loosed. It was as if lightning struck in their midst. Merlings and men alike were blinded and many were struck dead on both sides after a slight lull in the fighting. The merlings got the worst of it, as they liked bright light less than men and seemed to recover more slowly from the dazzling effects.

As he charged, his scream was drowned out by the rumble of the skies overhead. Thunderclouds billowed and darkened the skies with unnatural speed. Brand knew in his heart that the thunderclouds gathered for the axe and would follow it to the ends of the Earth if battle could be found there.

The men of the Haven, turning to see this armored madman charging their flank, fell back before him. They opened a hole in their lines, and he plunged through it. He splashed into the river and lay about him with the axe, slaying merlings with each stroke. Often, the axe flashed, and the heat of it caused the bloody water to boil away upon its bright surface. The merlings sought to slip close and jab at his legs under the water, but the flashes revealed them and he slew them with swift strokes that threw up clouds of steam and spray. They tried to cast their barbed grapples, but he severed them in midair so that they splashed down harmlessly.

Around him, the men of the Haven took heart. They didn’t know who this knight of olden times was, but they realized he was fighting for their lives and they joined him. They took up bows and boathooks, using both to keep the merlings at bay while they drew in the rafts to shore. Brand’s lips stopped screaming and instead he broke into song. It was a song that he had never heard before, nor could he later recall the words, but he knew it was a battle song, one that Ambros had perhaps heard centuries before.

Soon, the men of the Haven around him had taken up the song as well. Brand noted with frustration that he could only rarely find a merling now to slay.

“Cowards!” he raged at them, seeing them flip and slither through the water upstream. He shook the axe at them, and the men who had gathered around him quailed at his fury.

“They are gone, Brand,” said a voice at his side, “but we have more enemies now.”

Brand whirled to see Corbin, who pointed back up the rise that led to the southern tower. There, gathering silently from the white mists, were the mounted coursers of the Wild Hunt. A dozen, then two dozen, then three dozen appeared. They seemed to take form out of the mist itself, as if mothered by it.

Chapter Eleven

Voynod’s Challenge

“Brand? Corbin, my son?” roared a familiar voice.

They turned to see Tylag, wading in from his raft, which had all but reached the shores by now. “Could it be that two Rabing boys have become knights of old?” he asked, incredulous.

Brand smiled to see his Uncle safe, and in that instant, he felt much of his sense return. He could think clearly again, even with the axe in his hand and blood coating his face. “We must get everyone into the ruins, Uncle,” he said, “we have a great store of arms in that tower, and a strongpoint built further back.”

“But we have defeated the merlings!” said Tylag, raising his hands high. “I had thought us betrayed by the Wee Folk when they attacked, but now I see that those we came to rescue turned and saved us first!”

Brand pointed up to the rise where the horsemen gathered. “Now we face the Wild Hunt.”

Tylag’s face darkened and fell from elation to dread. “The Wild Hunt,” he said in a haunted voice. “I had hoped they were only horsemen from the north. I had told myself and my men they were nothing more for days now. But how can I doubt you two, who wield such power? Truly, it is a dark day for the Haven when we must face fell legends that should have long since passed on.”

“We are beyond the borders of the Haven, father,” said Corbin. “And I doubt our borders would now provide any barrier to these foul things, in any case.”

Tylag nodded, gazing up the slope with haunted eyes. A subtle piping began then, slipping into their thoughts insidiously. Brand became aware of it and knew it to be the work of the dark bard. It was the song of the dead, the dead that still walked and acted as if they lived. He wondered how long it had been playing.

“You bear the standard of Riverton on your raft, father,” said Corbin. “Does this mean you are their leader?”

Tylag looked startled, as if he had been sleeping. “Yes, yes! I...I was once Chief of the Riverton Constabulary. No one else on the Council had the training to lead the army....I am the general of this army,” he finished vaguely, as if just realizing the truth of his words. He turned to his captains, who had come up around them. Everyone but them seemed to be gazing up the slope, as if sleeping on their feet.

“What are we doing standing in the bloody river!” roared Tylag in sudden rage and disbelief. He slapped the lieutenant nearest him and cuffed a soldier who had sat down in the shallow water and closed his eyes. “Up men! Secure the boats! Form up ranks on the shore!”

While Tylag and his lieutenants spread out, waking up their troops, Corbin and Brand made their way to shore.

“That was frightening,” said Corbin. “I had no idea that the enemy could stop an army with a song.”

“The Dark Bard is entrancing,” agreed Brand, although his voice sounded not in the least entranced. “There must be justice meted out here,” he said. “These cursed creatures used up their lives long ago, and if they won’t die of their own accord, I shall personally finish the lot of them.”

Corbin looked at him in surprise and uneasily eyed the axe that rode Brand’s shoulder. “We should break past them, Brand,” he urged. “We should break through their line and get the army into the protective region of the ruins. There, we can give them better arms and positions.”

Brand paid him no heed. Sloshing out of the river and onto the muddy shore, Brand raised his axe in challenge to the enemy. A scattering of those that sat their dead horses on the rise lifted their weapons in answer.

“We should kill them all now,” he said, “while we have the numbers. Soon the rhinogs that follow their goblin sires will tip the balance in their favor. That is why they wait to attack us! They fear us!”

“I don’t think so, Brand—” began Corbin.

Brand whirled on him and for a moment seemed about to raise the axe to him. He contained himself with visible effort. “They hope we will quail and become weak under the force of the bard’s music!”

“Yes, but look!” said Corbin, pointing. “They are gathering their strength even as we gather ours. More of them appear out of the mist with each passing minute! This must be the work of Herla wielding Osang.”

Brand looked and glowered to see that Corbin was right. He looked back at the army that surrounded him. Already, he had begun to think of it as his army. “They are gathering strength more quickly than we are. Our men are slowed by that irritating piping. I don’t even see Herla yet, nor the bard, but I shall put a stop to that damned piping!”

Brand slowly lifted the axe high into the air. A liquid amber light poured from it, not a single blinding flash as before, but a river of light that reached out to touch every soldier that struggled on the muddy shoreline. He began to march up the slope with long strides.

Corbin followed him, calling to Tylag, who quickly ordered his men to advance. Many of the Riverton troops, seeing the champion who had forced back the merlings advancing on this new threat, had already fallen in behind him. To everyone, especially Brand, this seemed the natural order of things.

“Voynod!” he bellowed, “cease your infernal piping, man! I would rather hear the sounds of a tavern hound sicking up the putrid contents of its stomach!”

At his words, as if a spell had been broken, the piping stopped. A familiar figure pressed its way through the coursers to the fore. It was Voynod upon his unbreathing horse.

“We meet again, river-boy,” said the bard. “This time, you are on the wrong side of these charmed walls. There is nothing to save you.”

Unbidden, the image of Oberon’s daughter came into Brand’s mind. Once again, he cradled her severed head in his arms. He could see the life drain from her whitening face. Rage filled him.

“You face the Axeman now, piper!” he roared. He began to trot forward, getting ahead of his men on the difficult slope. “Where is your master? I wish to slay all your company at once! I will slay each of you in turn!”

At this, Voynod lifted a black-gloved hand. The coursers, who had been readying to charge Brand and the men advancing behind him, halted.

“You seek to challenge me?” hissed Voynod.

“I DO!” Brand shouted back without hesitation. Still climbing the slope steadily, he paused only to sweep the popping sweat from his brow. “As a lord of Rabing Castle, I challenge thee!”

“I accept your challenge, child,” hissed Voynod.

“Brand, no!” cried Corbin from behind him. “Wait for us!”

“Stay back!” roared Brand over his shoulder. “All of you, stay back!”

Tylag had no need to repeat the order. All along the advancing line of men, they halted and watched quietly. None shouted encouragement, nor did any man make a wager. Not even the darkest heart among them could face the Dead with a smile or a thought for anything other than destroying these foul creatures.

Brand, however, was wreathed with smiles. He tossed aside his shield and took up Ambros with both hands as the bard began his charge. He set his feet flat upon the earth and crouched. He planned a low sweep to cut the horse’s legs from beneath it. All he had to do was bring the bard to the ground so that the good sweet earth might finish its long overdue work.

The bard thundered down the slope at a gallop, heedless of the rough terrain or the treacherously wet slope. His horse’s hooves pounded and tossed up great clots of black dirt behind it, but it didn’t snort, nor make any sound of fear or effort. Despite its charge, the horse’s great, dead lungs were as still as the grave.

Brand swung his blade in a low sweeping cut. The bard was right there, on top of him. He caught sight of malicious lavender eyes, like those he had seen within Herla’s stag head. Brand was shocked when the galloping stopped and became silent at the last instant. His axe cut through nothing. He could only think that the horse had taken flight. Then a great shock went through him, and he was knocked backward with terrific force. He rolled down the slope head over heels. He regained his feet, but slipped in the mud. He looked down to see a great dent struck in his breastplate. The blow would have cut him from belly to throat if he had been unarmored. Behind him, the line of men set up a ragged cheer to see their champion back on his feet.

The axe! The thought was a scream in his mind. Without it he was just Brand, not the Axeman. Without it, everything hurt: his breastplate pressed against his sternum, his legs trembled with the strain of running in heavy armor. He saw Voynod wheel and come around for another charge. His horse tossed its head in a horrible parody of life. If anything, the dead animal was more horrifying than its rider.

Even as Voynod raised his silvery sword and charged again, Brand spotted the axe. It was nearby, lying beside the blackened corpse of a tree that long since given up the struggle to survive in the swamp’s evil soil. Brand scrambled toward it, and a polyp exploded under his feet. He grimaced as a thick acidic liquid sprayed him. His eyes blinked and teared.

His breath came in hoarse gasps as he reached the axe. Behind him the thunder of hooves grew. He turned and raised Ambros even as Voynod’s blade swung for his head. He blocked the cut with the axe and it flashed when the two weapons met. Voynod hissed and the foul smelling vapor that issued from his lungs was like a cold wind in Brand’s face. Walking his horse around Brand in a circle, Voynod rained blows down upon him. Brand managed to block them, staggering under the assault. Each blow caused the axe to flash. Overhead the thunderclouds boiled and rumbled. To the men at the foot of the slope it was as if a dozen strokes of lightning struck the combatants in quick succession.

“Know, river-boy, that I myself slew your cousin Sam,” Voynod told him mockingly.

“Ambros!” cried Brand, blocking another blow. “Know, piper, that I wield Ambros the Golden!”

“When Herla learns of your death, I will be granted a boon,” hissed back the other. “As my boon, I will ask for a steaming draught of your lifeblood, river-boy!”

Brand caught another blow with the axe and this time he slid the edge of it down to the base of the other’s sword. He managed to slip the blade over the sword’s hilt. Three black-gloved fingers fell into the muck and squirmed there for a moment before falling to dust.

Losing only a moment’s focus, Voynod switched the sword to his left hand and wheeled the horse so that he could still strike down at Brand. Brand jumped back and hacked at the horse’s legs. Hamstrung, the dead thing staggered, but didn’t fall. Urging his crippled horse to retreat, Voynod headed back up the slope.

Brand gave chase, crying out as he leapt after the rider and wrestled him from his failing mount. In a last vile act, the bard sank his teeth into Brand’s gauntleted hand. Brand yelled in pain, so great was the power of the bite that it crushed his finger right through the steel mesh. Then the flesh fell away to dust and only a skull still remained, its teeth clamped upon his hand. He tore it away and tossed the crumbling skull from him. The horse, riderless, soon staggered and fell apart.

“Victory!” shouted Brand, holding Ambros high. The golden eye winked, and the army of the Haven came upslope, cheering. Brand noticed that only the dark bard’s sword and pipes remained behind to show that he had ever existed.

“Let no man touch these accursed things!” he commanded them as they swarmed around him. “We’ll carry them with sticks and bury them in the deepest sinkhole of the marsh.” There was no argument from the troops.

Brand led them in the final charge upslope, but the coursers just sat upon their horses, waiting. As the men came close, the white mists that had birthed them closed around them and the Wild Hunt vanished from view. Reaching the spot where they had stood, Brand would have believed them all to have been ghosts except for the hoofprints that marked every inch of the muddy ground.

“Where have they gone?” he snarled.

“Herla has pulled them back,” replied Corbin, gasping as he topped the slope. “Perhaps he awaits the rhinogs—or the darkness.”

Brand nodded. “He won’t wait long. But it matters nothing! We shall be victorious in every instance!”

Corbin nodded and slapped his back. “You fought well, cousin. I did fear for your life.”

Brand tolerated his touch with difficulty. “I fought poorly, but I will do better next time.”

Corbin handed him his shield. “Here. You forgot this.”

Brand took the shield and thanked him. “It seems so much less important than the axe, but thank you.”

“Perhaps it could have taken that blow that so mars the beauty of your breastplate, Brand!” said Tylag, finally huffing up to the top of the slope.

To Brand, his Uncle’s words burned like base insults. He glared at him, and the bloodlust that still gripped his mind caused him to see a mocking smile on Tylag’s face.

“Shut up, fool!” Brand muttered. It was hard for him not to shout at his Uncle. He even thought of shoving the old man back down the slope to see how far he would roll.... That would be good sport!

He reminded himself with an effort that such thoughts must be spawned by the axe, and that he was its master. To demonstrate the truth of this to himself, if no one else, he put the axe back into his knapsack and pried his fingers loose from its haft.

A wave of fatigue and even vertigo passed through him. He swayed on his feet and Corbin slipped a supportive arm around his shoulders. Corbin and Tylag exchanged relieved looks, which Brand noticed and felt embarrassed by. He thought of the things he had said and done and his face flushed redder.

“I’m sorry,” he said to his relatives, almost in a whisper. Tylag came up and hugged him.

“There’s no need, Brand,” said Tylag, gripping his shoulder. “You saved us all! We can take a harsh word from the champion of the Haven!”

Then they all marched to the gatehouse. It had begun to rain, but for most of the men the day had just gotten started. All the supplies needed to be unloaded from their boats and the craft needed to be secured. Tylag himself supervised the unloading and the distribution of the arms found beneath the southern tower.

All that afternoon they worked until, just as dusk reddened the skies, the rhinogs arrived and surrounded the ruins.

Chapter Twelve

Strange Leathers

All the way back to the gatehouse, Brand thought of Voynod’s words. Could the bard truly have been the one who executed Sam in the barn at Froghollow? It seemed so long ago and far away. Should he tell Corbin of it?

“What is it?” asked Corbin, following his thoughts and feelings as usual.

“I—just something that the bard said to me before falling to dust.”

“He was a foul dead-thing, Brand. Nothing he could say would bring anything but pain to the listener.”

“True,” said Brand. They went on several steps in a growing silence.

“So what did the monster say?” burst out Corbin at last.

Brand would have laughed, had the news not been so grim. Instead, he only glowered at his feet, which felt too tired to keep going. Somehow, he managed to force them to keep plodding on.

“Something bad, then,” said Corbin, filling in the silence. “Something about the Haven, about our people there….”

Brand sighed. “What’s the use? If I wait long enough, I suppose you’ll just figure it out in that clockwork mind of yours. The bard claimed that he, himself, slayed Sam.”

Corbin stiffened, and Brand bit his lower lip, feeling his cousin’s pain. Ever since they had spilled Sam’s body from the cliffs into the flood of the Berrywine, Corbin had not been as light of spirit. “I’m sorry to tell you. Who even knows if it’s true, Corbin? We have no way of knowing.”

Corbin nodded grimly. “He could have just been trying to unnerve you,” he said, “but I think not. It makes too much sense. The blow was a clean, single sweep, which Voynod could have managed with his sword. Things were more likely to have been drawn out and messy if the rhinogs had been involved.”

Brand winced at the image that came to mind at Corbin’s words, but he couldn’t refute the other’s logic.

“You yourself had sighted the bard over several days prior to Sam’s death,” continued Corbin. “No, it makes sense. I believe it, and I must say I’m greatly relieved.”

Brand looked at him in surprise. Corbin looked haggard, his eyes dark in their sockets. He seemed anything but relieved.

“No, really,” said Corbin. They halted and Corbin grabbed both of Brand’s shoulders and held him at arm’s length. “I’m indebted to you, Brand. I would never have known if Sam’s death had gone unavenged. It would have always haunted me.”

Brand smiled then, but it was a grim thing, with no mirth in it. His smile turned to a humorless grin. He felt a wave of pleasure that he couldn’t understand, and then he realized that it perhaps had something to do with the axe. It was pleased, pleased that a wrong had been violently righted. Harsh justice had been meted out, and nothing gratified it more.

Corbin looked at him oddly. “The axe?” he asked.

Brand nodded, his odd expression fading.

“I wonder what motivates it,” said Corbin.

“I do too, sometimes. It seems like a strange spirit.”

“I mean,” said Corbin, groping for words, “does it think? If so, what does it think about? Is it just reacting to things or does it make plans and execute them?”

Brand shook his head. He had no answers. Both brooded over this for a time. The two marched the rest of the way to the gatehouse in silence. When they arrived the grille was levered back to allow them to enter.

Modi clapped a heavy hand onto Brand’s shoulder the moment he appeared inside the green dome. “Well done!” he said with more feeling than Brand had ever heard in his voice. “Well done indeed!”

Brand smiled tiredly. “Thanks,” he said, thinking that perhaps Modi wasn’t such a dark-hearted bully after all. It seemed that he could admit when he was wrong, which counted for a lot in Brand’s book.

“What happened, Brand?” called down Telyn. She still maintained her post at the top of the dome. She hung upside-down with her knees crooked over a thick branch. Brand marveled at her lithe form.

“We won!” he shouted up to her, knowing that would please her. “But looking at you hanging up there, I know the battle was nothing next to your acrobatics. I thought I was reckless!”

She laughed and their eyes met. Brand felt a thrill go through him. She swung down a vine that Myrrdin had conveniently grown from the top of the dome to allow her easy access to her perch. She ran to him and kissed him, and Brand learned the best time to greet one’s love was after facing death.

“I feared for you,” she whispered, her head on his chest.

He stroked her head awkwardly, trying not to catch her hair with his gauntlets. He shook them off when he realized there was merling blood and the dust crumbling dead-things on them.

“I need to clean up,” he said in her ear.

She nodded, but didn’t let go. She hugged him and he could almost feel her squeezing even through the armor that encased his chest. Then she pulled away and examined the dent in his breastplate.

“You were nearly killed,” she said matter-of-factly.

Unable to deny it, he said nothing. Corbin came up to say it all for him. “Brand here is indeed the Axeman, the Champion of the Haven,” he began. In glowing terms, he detailed the events of the battle. Everyone hung on his words, save for Brand, who tried to shed his dented armor, and Myrrdin, who brooded near the broken fountain.

He went to rest with Myrrdin. Moodily, Myrrdin scratched at the soil between his feet with the freshly-carven tip of his staff.

“Did you enjoy it, Axeman?” he asked after a time.

“No, and yes,” said Brand.

“What do you mean?”

“It was like smashing your hand on a table after drinking too much in the tavern. It feels good at the time….”

“But afterward, when the glow fades, you’re left picking splinters from your bruised palm?”

“Exactly,” agreed Brand.

Myrrdin nodded. “I’m glad to see that the glow has faded.”

“So am I.”

“You will have to wield the axe again, Axeman. Very soon, I should think.”

“I know,” said Brand, rubbing his sore arms and legs. The armor he had shed had bruised him.

“Soon the sun will set, and all through the night, the goblins will not let us rest,” said Myrrdin in a faraway voice. Brand felt that he wasn’t predicting the future so much as describing a painful memory. “In the last hour of night, when humanity is at its lowest ebb and the Shining Folk at their peak fervor, they shall flail and torment their brutish offspring into a frenzy great enough to overcome their natural cowardice. At that hour they shall attack us.”

Myrrdin dipped his head back down and continued to scrawl shapes and lines in the soil at his feet. Brand looked at them for a moment, but found them disturbing to the eye and quickly looked way. He gave an involuntary shudder as he rose and left Myrrdin to his sorcery.

He looked up into the dome of greenery and thought he could make out the steady glow of Telyn’s unnatural beacon. It burned still, although there had been many gusts of wind that should have blown it out and it should have long ago exhausted the tallow coating its wick. It made his mouth go dry to think that Myrrdin was teaching his arts to Telyn. Could he truly marry and bed a witch? He made an effort not to cast his eyes to where she now built a fire. After pondering it, he concluded that if she could stand living with a moody, murderous Champion of Ambros, he could learn to tolerate her witchery. He sighed and once again longed for the simple life of the Haven. It seemed all but lost to him now.

Some hours later Tylag and his lieutenants came to inspect the domed gatehouse and the defenses they had put up. Brand was gratified to see that they now wore proper armor and bore real weapons of the sort that normally only hung over the mantles in most of the Haven. Tylag carried a fine broadsword, its shine and luster showing a keen edge.

“What I can’t understand,” Tylag told him after he had gotten over his initial amazement and distrust of the unnatural dome, “is how this weaponry was so well cared for! It must have been a dozen centuries since our clan manned these walls in whatever great battle brought them down.”

“Nine centuries, to be exact,” said Gudrin.

Tylag shot her an odd glance, and then turned back to Brand again. “How is it possible? If I didn’t know better, I’d say that this sword had been freshly oiled within the last month!”

“Most likely,” said Brand, “it has.”

“And the oils and the leathers used,” marveled Tylag. “I’ve never seen their like! Could it be merling skin?”

“There are many wonders here beyond the borders of the Haven, Uncle. Some are best left unquestioned.”

He gave Brand a hard look, and Brand returned it. Tylag nodded as if in understanding, and eyed the blade speculatively. He took Brand’s hint and asked no more on the subject. They needed the weapons, and perhaps even more they needed the morale that the weapons gave his ragtag army of farmers.

“There isn’t enough room in here for our whole force,” said Tylag, switching subjects. “Not even for half of us. But, it will make an excellent headquarters and bulwark for our troops to rally around. Crossbowmen can man the loopholes you’ve been setting up and easily shoot over the heads of the footmen outside. We can maintain a shelter in here for the wounded, as well.”

The wounded. Those words echoed in his mind. He had marched on ahead, still wrapped in the glow of the axe after the last battle. He had thought only of his own killing, but had little considered the number of Haven people who must have died in the fighting. He felt a pang in his gut. Which of his childhood friends had already fallen unnoticed into the mud behind him?

Soon after that thought, the wounded began to arrive. Borne on palettes and makeshift stretchers from the shoreline, tired and muddy troops began to carry them into the cool gloom of the gatehouse. Outside the sounds of digging could be heard as fresh, shallow graves were being dug. The dead of the Haven were buried outside the borders of their homeland where they had spent their entire lives up until this very day.

“Here,” said a bass voice behind him. Brand turned to see Modi, thrusting his breastplate at him. Brand took it, and saw immediately that the dent had been hammered out. He smiled at him and Modi looked uncomfortable.

“Here, wear a helmet this time, or the rhinogs will shoot your fool eyes out,” said Modi gruffly. He extended his other thick-fingered hand and gave Brand a steel helmet with a neck guard of fine mesh hanging from it. The helmet was brightly polished to a mirror-like surface. A single spike protruded from the top of it.

Brand took both the breastplate and the helmet with a nod. “Thanks,” he said, “those of the Haven say that there are no finer arms or armor than that made by the Kindred.”

Modi smiled briefly. “Then they are right. I chose this helm from the pile because it is indeed from the forges of the Kindred. The cursive mark of the forges beneath Snowdon decorates the spike.”

Brand nodded, examining it. Fortunately, Modi had left before Brand went to put the helm on his head experimentally. Inside the helm, the protective sheath of leather padding had that same disturbing softness to the touch that so much of the other gear from the redcap’s horde had. Brand rubbed his fingers together as if to rid himself of the feel of it. Was it merling, or human? He wondered what marshman had never returned to his humble hut after perhaps hunting for merlings in the far north....

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to place the helm upon his head. If one of his fellows had given his life to help arm the army of the Haven now, in its hour of need, he told himself he must accept the gift and hope the man’s spirit would be forgiving.

“Rhinogs!” came a shout from above. Others had taken over Telyn’s post among the leaves now, giving her a rest. A red-faced man with long, skinny limbs had clambered up the rope and now shouted the alarm to those below. Even as he cried his warning, the man fell from his perch. He crashed down onto the stone fountain that stood in the center of the gatehouse. A huge shaft, perhaps an inch thick, had pierced his skull. The black tail feathers of a raven fletched the heavy bolt. Blood filled the fountain where once sweet water had flowed.

Even as the warning shout came, Brand realized that he could hear something in the distance. It was the beat of the rhinog wardrums. This time, however, there wasn’t just a few of them, hammering out messages from scout band to scout band. This time, there were hundreds of drums – maybe thousands, all pounding at once, all in unison.

As the next few hours passed, the noise grew and grew. By nightfall, the sound was that of an army of ogres hammering on the door at midnight.

Chapter Thirteen

Hilltop Meeting

Brand and Corbin stood together on the top wall of the old keep, one of the few structures that remained relatively intact. The night had closed around them and everywhere was the noise of the rhinog army. Brand turned his eyes to the west, where three great catapults had been dragged through the muck and into a ragged line. Riding upon each of the catapults were five or six goblins, their eyes slitted and their thin long whips flicking out viciously. Scores of rhinogs strained in the mud to drag the catapults closer to the ruined castle. When they staggered or fell, the goblins whipped their offspring furiously.

“What do you think they’re loading into those catapults?” asked Brand, watching. “There is little stone over that way, they would have to drag each load up from the river.”

Corbin eyed him sidelong. “I can barely make out the silhouettes of the catapults themselves, much less what they are loading into them!”

Brand glanced at him, and then peered out into the darkness. He watched as a rhinog fled from his task, dropping the heavy rope and dashing toward the trees. A goblin sprang after him and ran him down quickly. The rhinog, although he was twice the size of his sire, fell to the ground in submission. The beating was lengthy and wickedly thorough. Brand watched the brute thrash in agony and felt some small remorse for the creature.

“What about those two?” he asked Corbin. “Surely, you can see that devil of a goblin beating his own offspring so viciously.”

“What are you talking about?” responded Corbin. “Brand, it’s dark out. Night fell an hour ago! These creatures need neither torches nor lanterns, it seems. I can’t see a thing out there.”

Brand felt a cold hand squeeze his insides as he realized the truth of Corbin’s words. It was dark out. The enemy only had a few fires going here and there. But somehow, he could still see them.

Corbin turned to him. Brand kept watching the goblin beat his offspring, refusing to look at Corbin. He could all but hear his cousin’s mind working.

“You can see in the dark, can’t you?” asked Corbin simply.

Brand nodded. He continued to watch the goblin. The creature’s thin arms lifted the whip again and again. The whip was slick with blood now. The rhinog only quivered as each blow fell upon it.

“You’re glad you can’t see it,” he said quietly.

Corbin continued to stare at him. “It’s the axe. Ambros has worked a change upon you,” he said.

Brand breathed deeply, but said nothing. The goblin halted its punishment and now kicked the rhinog repeatedly until it heaved itself up and staggered back to the rope it had dropped.

“What if you become something...else?” asked Corbin. “Maybe you should put aside the axe while you can, Brand.”

“You know I can’t,” answered Brand. “The Haven needs me as a champion. I’ve borne the axe for days now. I can bear it one more day. I only pray to the River that I never become something wicked.”

“I think we should talk to Myrrdin about this,” suggested Corbin. “I don’t recall him mentioning any such changes coming over the bearer of Ambros.”

Then Brand told him of what Myrrdin had said, about finding Vaul in the center of a great oak tree that had encased within it the bones of its previous owner.

Corbin’s eyes were haunted as he envisioned it. “It consumed its master,” he said. “Just as Lavatis went feral and consumed Dando. Just as perhaps Osang has taken the human heart from Herla and turned him into a wraith of the night.”

Brand nodded. “I wonder how Myrrdin has managed to keep Vaul at bay, supposedly for centuries.”

Together, they returned to the gatehouse of rustling greenery and sought out Myrrdin. They learned from the others there that Myrrdin had left, heading out on an unexplained errand to the east.

Brand and Corbin looked at one another. “That’s where the Faerie mound is,” said Brand. Concerned, the two headed out with more urgency into the night again. As they trekked toward the mound, they heard an odd sound. A tremendous cracking sound rang out across the ruins. Then a brilliant ball of flame arced through the night sky. It made an eerie, whooshing sound like the flaring of a smithy’s forge when it is being stoked when it passed overhead.

“Burning pitch!” cried Brand, halting. “They are going to fire our camp!”

“Should we turn back?” asked Corbin.

Brand looked at him for a second, then snapped his head back up to the sky as another great crack was heard and the catapults launched another crackling fireball at the army of the Haven. He realized that the decision was his, as the Champion of the Haven. He had become a leader and even Corbin reflexively turned to him for guidance. He didn’t like it, but there it was. He had to decide.

“No. We’ll find Myrrdin. He said they would harass us all night until just before daybreak when the real attack would come.”

“Let’s pray that he’s right,” said Corbin, following his lead. Soon they reached the Faerie mound, and Brand could tell in an instant that something was happening. The mound seemed brighter than it should be, as if the moon shined down upon it, although there was no moon overhead. The silvery light that he had seen while summoning Oberon was growing upon the mound.

“There he is!” shouted Brand pointing toward the ghostly image of Myrrdin, who was just rounding the mound. “He’s walking the mound!”

“What? I don’t see him,” replied Corbin, peering into the darkness. He took a step in the direction that Brand had indicated.

As Brand watched, he saw Myrrdin fade in and out of his vision. A shiver ran through him. It was as if he saw a ghost walking the circle of fallen grass around the mound. “No, we must follow his path. Widdershins, we must walk, nine times around the mound.”

He set off, and after a moment’s hesitation, Corbin followed him. As they marched around the mound, it seemed that the fireballs quieted and dimmed as they burned wide swathes across the sky. The flaming explosions they made as they struck the gatehouse and the encampment around it seemed dream-like and distant.

“How many times have we walked the circle, Brand?” asked Corbin behind him. His voice seemed a trifle faint.

“Three times,” he said.

“The mound seems brighter each time we circle it.”

“Yes,” said Brand.

“But,” said Corbin, “there is no moon tonight, Brand.”

“I know.”

They marched in silence. Three more times they saw the keep, the catapults and the burning camp.

“Is this how the night world looks to you now, Brand?” asked Corbin, his voice a wavering echo. “This silvery brightness that turns everything into colorless shadows.... Is this what you see without sun, moon nor torch?”

“Yes, it is like this—but not as intense.”

They fell silent until they had rounded the mound eight times. Corbin halted as they began the ninth. They could no longer see much of the world around the mound. Only the burning camp was recognizable, now a silent yellow shimmer on the horizon.

“I—I think maybe we should stop,” said Corbin.

Brand turned back and looked at him. “I don’t think we can. It would break the spell.”

“Can’t we just—” said Corbin. “Can’t we just step off and get back to the camp? They must need us there.”

“We’re entering Oberon’s realm now,” said Brand. “If we stop between realms, we may never find our way back.”

“I’m afraid, Brand.”

“I know.”

They completed the ninth circuit, and as they did so music came to their ears. It was sweet music, beautiful music. It wasn’t the same as the deep earth sounds that the dark bard had played, but rather the lively tunes of the elves.

Several figures stood at the top of the mound. Brand made them out, marching toward the top, although it seemed a long way. He passed the spot where he had slain Oberon’s innocent daughter the night before. The grass was withered and blighted where her blood had stained it.

Myrrdin was there, speaking with the others in low tones. Beside him stood Oberon. It was he who played sweet music. Towering over them all was the unmistakable figure of Old Hob. Wisps no longer circled the eldest goblin, but he had one in his lantern again. By her yellow glimmer, Brand knew it to be the wisp he had returned to her people days earlier. He recalled that the Wee Folk had told him of her recapture after she had spread the word that they needed aid around the Haven.

Corbin’s labored breathing behind him told him that his cousin still followed despite his fears. Brand wondered at his own lack of fear and could only attribute it to the events of the past several days. Had he become accustomed to contact with the Faerie? Or was the axe somehow filling him with courage and a level head? He didn’t know the answer.

The conversation was held in low tones, but it was clearly heated. Frequently, Myrrdin gesticulated with his arms and robes flaring, while Old Hob made violent gestures with equal emotion. Only Oberon seemed to be keeping out of it, content to play his pipes and listen.

“Hail!” called Brand to them, making his way to the top of the mound.

The three turned to face him, and only Oberon seemed unsurprised.

“What are you doing here, Brand?” demanded Myrrdin.

“Ho, Ho!” roared Old Hob. He took a step back and raised his lantern, peering with its shimmering light. “A Knight? What treachery is this, witch? You plan to slaughter us while we parlay, is that it?”

Brand wondered why Old Hob didn’t recognize him, but then realized that he must look quite a bit different in his armor and wearing his spiked helm. He drew himself up a few paces from the three and stood as tall as he could. If he was to be cursed with bearing the axe, then so be it. He would act as the Axeman.

“I am Brand, the Champion of the Haven, the wielder of Ambros the Golden,” he said.

“Ah!” said Old Hob in recognition. “The snot-nose that lost me my pets! And who is the ragamuffin that struggles up the slope behind you?”

Brand glanced back at Corbin, who returned Brand’s supportive smile with a wan one of his own. “He is my second.”

“You should not be here, Brand!” called Myrrdin.

“Ah, but he is here,” said Old Hob. He stepped forward, causing Oberon to hop nimbly from his path. The yellow circle of light cast by the last wisp in his lantern pooled about Brand’s feet. “You’ve changed, man-child.”

“You, on the other hand, have not,” replied Brand evenly. Just the presence of Old Hob, so near, set the axe on Brand’s back to quivering. It was all he could do to keep his lips from curling into a snarl. “Myrrdin,” he called. “What are you doing here? Are you parlaying with the Faerie?”

Myrrdin came close and hissed in his ear. “Yes! I work to arrange a new Pact, but it hinges upon us being victorious over Herla in the coming battle.”

“What is the nature of this new Pact?” asked Brand.

“There is no time to explain!” said Myrrdin. “You must return to the camp, where you are needed! Dawn is coming very soon!”

“First tell me of this new Pact. Dawn is many hours off.”

“No, it’s not,” replied Myrrdin. “Day-break is almost upon us. Time works in tricksy ways when one walks in Faerie light. Do you remember tales of people being lost for a year and a day, but not having aged but a few hours?”

Brand nodded, but he grabbed Myrrdin’s arm as the other turned to walk away. Myrrdin gave him a dark look. Brand removed his gauntleted hand.

“Have a care,” said Myrrdin.

“Tell me what you have wrought here in this devilish place.”

“I seek to rebuild the Pact, to restore what was.”

Brand turned hard eyes upon Myrrdin. “You would have us tithe again? You would have the Haven give tribute to the Faerie in turn for their protection?”

“What other arrangement could there be?” interrupted Old Hob, looming near. Brand looked up into the hideous face of the eldest goblin. He backed away and reached back for Ambros. Old Hob lifted his lantern high overhead and cackled. Brand grasped the haft of Ambros and stood his ground.

“You! Are you a traitor to everyone?” demanded Brand, pointing the head of the axe at Old Hob’s chest. “You plot peace with us even while your goblins fight the Haven!”

Old Hob hissed at Brand, causing a fog of cold breath to descend and cling to his face. “Right now my goblins will not follow me, their own sire. I plot for the future, manling.”

“Brand!” pleaded Myrrdin. “There is no time! Whatever the future, in the present the Haven needs you! Dawn approaches!”

“Then I will go,” said Brand. “But know this, Myrrdin: Things have forever changed. The River Folk will not bow down to the Faerie again. We will not give tribute, nor restrict ourselves to our native lands. We will live again within the walls of Castle Rabing!”

“Impudent spratling!” shouted Old Hob.

Brand ignored him. “Oberon!” he called, looking past Old Hob’s leering bulk. “I must go, but when we meet again, we will wager once more!”

Oberon merely nodded to him.

Brand retreated down the slope. Behind him, he could hear Old Hob’s continuous, bitter complaints.

* * *

After Brand left them, Myrrdin could barely meet the eyes of Oberon or Old Hob. He’d promised the boy would be reasonable, but he’d changed. Perhaps it was the influence of that accursed axe. Whatever the cause, it was unforeseen and unfortunate.

“You’d better get the leash back on that barking dog of yours, Myrrdin,” said Old Hob.

Myrrdin glared at him, but did not respond.

“Stuff and nonsense!” Old Hob proclaimed. He shuffled away, still shouting to the others over his shoulder. “I’ve better things to do than whisper on this mound. One way or another, things are in flux. Mark my words! Goblins will have their due yet!”

Myrrdin watched the misshapen figure retreat downslope. Oberon, Myrrdin’s sire, sat upon the grasses at the very crest of the enchanted hill and took out his pipes. He did not play them, however.

Myrrdin wondered what his father was thinking. He thought perhaps he knew. “You believe this to be a grand error in judgment? Is that it?”

Oberon smiled and shrugged. “What is done is done. The question is: can matters be repaired?”

“That’s what I want!” Myrrdin exclaimed. “We’ve had two centuries of easy times since we’ve last faced one another in battle. What good can come of returning to armed conflict now? Have we not learned the benefits of peace?”

“The goblins certainly have not,” Oberon laughed.

His father’s laugh did not fool Myrrdin. He was not piping or dancing. He was displeased, despite his easy manner.

“This all started with the Wee Folk, of all creatures to launch a war!” Myrrdin said in frustration. “They have played their grandest trick of all this time! They broken the world around them wide open, and now the blood will be flowing on all sides.”

“Don’t forget the Kindred,” said Oberon. “They were not innocent. They recklessly released the axe into the hands of the River Folk. They have irresponsibly unbalanced the natural order of both worlds.”

“But it all goes back to the Wee Folk stealing Lavatis,” said Myrrdin. “The Kindred knew the Pact would fail when you had no power to control the Fae. They moved to aid the River Folk and forge a new alliance. The Wild Hunt saw their chance and moved in to scoop up more Jewels. It’s a disaster all the way around.”

Oberon looked at Myrrdin’s staff speculatively. “Where shall thy Jewel stand on the fateful day?”

Myrrdin sputtered. “With the River Folk, as I have pledged,” he cried, scandalized at what his father subtly suggested.

“Even if the River Folk become the central cause of this bloodshed?”

“It is a maelstrom. No one party is to blame. I can’t say Brand is wrong to demand new terms for peace—no more than I can blame you for letting the Blue slip from your fingers.”

Oberon gave him a dark look. He stood and put away his pipes. He touched his forehead with a single long finger of salute. He did not embrace his son before he vanished from the hilltop. Myrrdin did not expect it. They had been no more than civil to each other for years.

Chapter Fourteen

The Keep

Telyn had never been one to sit still for long. The siege of the crumbling castle wore on her nerves. In the night, as the enemy arranged their catapults and formed ranks, she slipped between walls of the stronghold and glided away into the darkness.

She’d seen something out in the fields southward. Something that reflected moonlight. It was small, but did not resemble a goblin. When the small figure took a great leap from a tumbled pile of boulders and sailed over a briar patch, she knew what it must be.

Telyn was fast, but few were as fast as one of the Wee Folk. She was forced to call out to the other to hold and let her catch up. The figure vanished when she called to it. She knew it had gone to ground. She accounted this as a good thing. If the manling had sprung away and run off at full speed, she would never have caught up.

She trotted forward to where she’d seen the other disappear. She crouched in the grasses, breathing hard. “Tomkin?” she hissed.

Unexpectedly, another of the Wee Folk popped up to greet her. “Madam,” he said with a sweeping bow. He removed his hat as he bowed and then returned it with a flourish, tossing it into the air so that it landed at a perfect cant upon his pate. He smiled at her, and his teeth seemed overlong.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“The name’s Piskin, pretty maid!” he said. He ran his eyes over her in a somewhat predatory fashion. “Might you not have strapping a baby at home? You do appear to be of age….”

“Ah, no,” said Telyn, taken aback by the odd question. “I am not married.”

“A pity. Well, soon enough that will change, I’m sure. Don’t say no when your young man comes knocking, now! We would not want your best breeding years to pass you by, would we?”

Telyn blinked at him. She was on the verge of becoming angry, but decided to mark down the matter as one more odd interaction with the Fae. “On another matter, Piskin: have you seen Tomkin?”

Piskin cleared his throat. “Indeed,” he said. “He’s not the most gentile of my folk is he?”

“I suppose not,” she said. “Would you happen to know where he is?”

“Chasing a rabbit down its hole I suppose, to eat its kits raw.”

“Oh, I should hope not. That sounds vile.”

Piskin hopped two steps closer to her, and leered upward into her face. She recoiled from him slightly. She hoped her reaction was not obvious and rude. Piskin seemed to take no notice of her retreat.

“I will confide in you, and you alone, milady,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “He is a vile one, that Tomkin. Bumpkin, that should be his name, I say!”

Telyn blinked at him and laughed. “I have to admit, he is ill-mannered at times. But his heart is in the right place.”

Piskin harrumphed and tsked. “As to that, I cannot say. He is not here, however, and I would urge you to avoid him. But something else comes to mind: I had thought he would be hiding with soiled trousers behind your ramshackle walls. Your inquiry, however, indicates he has been absent for quite some time, am I correct?”

Telyn blinked in annoyance. Moment by moment, she continually found herself liking Piskin less. “Yes,” she said, wondering if she should offer this ill-mannered manling any information at all. “I don’t know where he is, but he’s not behind our walls.”

Nodding, Piskin tipped his hat to her. “Good luck with your hunt then, milady. I must be off. Remember what I said when this is all over: don’t let yourself become barren and old! It would be a grand injustice for all!”

“Um, right,” she said, and watched him bounce away. She frowned after him, marveling at his rudeness and single-mindedness. What business was it of his when she wedded and had children?

She returned to the stronghold certain of only one new thing: she did not like Piskin.

* * *

As Brand and Corbin rounded the mound for the last time and returned to their version of the world, they realized that much time had indeed passed. The sky was not yet pink, but neither was it black. The bluish twilight heralded the coming of dawn. They walked away from the mound and toward the camp, which was nothing but smoldering embers now.

“There!” hissed Brand, grabbing Corbin’s arm and pointing with the axe into a nearby thicket. “Rhinogs are inside the perimeter and inching closer to the camp.”

“I don’t see them, but I no longer doubt your night vision,” replied Corbin in his ear. “They must not be affected by the charmed walls.”

“Either that, or the charm has lost its potency. Myrrdin said it was only a matter of time.”

The two hurried toward the camp. Brand found there was no point in trying to be discreet while wearing metal armor. He strode proudly, almost wanting the rhinogs to attack. It would feel good to cut some of them down. Very good. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew that what he felt was the bloodlust of the axe, but that didn’t seem to matter. He saw no way to avoid killing this day.

As they neared the burnt camp, he saw that it had been all but abandoned. Burnt corpses marked where some of the Haven troops had met with grim ends, immolated by burning tar.

“Here, look!” said Brand. A sick feeling ran through him. “This is the body of Pompolo! The hetman of North End! There will be no more good ale left in his town after this.”

“Pompolo? No! Could it be someone else?” Corbin asked as he came to gaze upon the corpse for a moment. A dozen days ago they had supped at Pompolo’s table. His hook, which he had ever claimed helped him take up even more empty ale jacks, made his corpse unmistakable.

“It seems worse somehow,” said Brand, “to look upon the body of a friend. It makes me think that everyone of these dead men had loved ones, people who would be shattered and weeping to see this.”

“So many of us have been killed already,” agreed Corbin. “But I fear that many more will fall before the battle is done.”

“This body has been beheaded!” said Brand moving on across the battlefield. “Could we be too late? Has the battle already been waged and lost?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Corbin, eyeing the corpse he indicated. “The head is nowhere near. The bodies are all soaked in the muck of the swamp as well, as if dragged through it.”

“But no fire has touched it,” protested Brand. “If the rhinogs haven’t yet attacked, how did it get hacked apart?”

“Over there is another, and it is more completely dismembered,” said Corbin. “I see no signs of rhinog dead, however. I must admit I’m at a loss.”

“Let’s move on to the dome,” said Brand. “I’m wondering how it has fared through this fiery night.”

As they approached the entrance, they were halted and challenged. Brand lifted the axe and let it wink its golden eye once, to identify himself. A ragged cheer went up from the men in the gatehouse when they entered.

“Where is Tylag?” demanded Brand.

The men at the gate ushered him through and into the gatehouse. There he met Modi.

“Tylag has left me in command here. He has taken most of the militia to the keep. They have concealed themselves in the crumbling walls and the thick brush there. The rhinogs have been dropping flaming pitch on the camp all night, although we left it hours ago.”

“Is Telyn still here?”

“The girl? No.”

“Have the rhinogs attacked yet?” asked Corbin anxiously.

“No,” replied Modi. “Not in strength. Just fireballs and raven-fletched crossbow bolts. They will attack soon though, just as Myrrdin said. They have waited the night to harass us and keep us from sleeping. At our lowest ebb, they will attack. Their ways redefine cowardice.”

“But what of the bodies outside?” asked Brand. He explained about the dismembered corpses that littered the area.

“They are from the river, from the battle with the merlings. Every tenth volley or so from the catapults launch bodies, rather than fireballs,” said Modi. “The fighting has slowed of late. I think they prepare for a new stage of battle.”

Brand eyed the smoldering keep grimly. He felt the axe urging him to charge, to take matters to the enemy, but he fought to think clearly. Perhaps his companions were right. Brand looked down at the axe. The haft of it was still in his grasp, despite the fact that the last attack had long since been beaten off. With a concentrated effort he placed the axe back in his backpack. A wave of fatigue swept over him and threatened to turn the world black.

“I think I must take this pause in the fighting to rest,” he said. For a time, he knew no more.

* * *

Telyn sought Tomkin in the ruined castle. Moving about in the fortress was difficult. The stone was old and had been weakened in unknown battles centuries earlier. A granite bridge between battlements might be as solid as bedrock or as treacherous as a muddy cliff in a storm. Often, as she climbed between broken towers and crumbling parapets, she was forced to take leaps to cross yawning expanses and thus avoid a fall. All the while the slow, steady bombardment continued. Stone balls, the heads of slain River Folk and occasional clumps of burning pitch flew and crashed all around.

She found Tomkin at last in a dark chamber in the back of the castle. It was a protected area at least, and the bombarding stones had not yet managed to penetrate the old walls this deeply. Tomkin was alone in the chamber and stood at the rearmost window, gazing out toward the Black Mountains.

Sensing something odd about his manner, and the manner of those who stood guard outside, Telyn approached him quietly. Her padding feet made little sound on the rough flagstone floor. Each flagstone, mortared together in a perfect mosaic a thousand years earlier, was emblazoned with a painted symbol. Glancing down at the faded paint she thought she recognized the symbol. The writing was ancient in style, and the script was hard to read, but it had to be the cursive form of the letter “R”.

“Yes,” Tomkin said. “They painted each stone the same. Clan Rabing always was a prideful bunch.”

Telyn’s eyes flicked up toward Tomkin, but he still stood gazing out the window. How had he seen what she saw?

She knew the answer the moment he turned to face her. He was wearing the Blue Jewel. Lavatis glimmered on his chest, hung there by a light chain of silver. The Jewel brightened as she gazed at it, almost as if it greeted her. Could it be winking in acknowledgement of her gaze? How strange was the Blue! She knew only a little of its history. Long in the possession of the Faerie, tales of the Blue were wild and fanciful.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

Tomkin stared at her. His odd, black-glass eyes reflected the light of the Jewel on his breast. When he drew breath, she saw now, the Jewel brightened, ever so slightly, as if it drew breath with him.

“Indeed it ‘tis, girl. Its beauty corrupts my mind. I can feel it.”

Telyn stared at the Jewel. “It’s different than Ambros,” she said. “I know a little of the Jewel’s history. It is a long story of bizarre behavior—and frequent death. It is known to some as the Jewel of Madness. Only Oberon has been able to hold it at bay for long.”

Tomkin’s nose lifted. He stood proudly on the window sill. “Much of that history was due to the odd habits of those who possessed it, not due to the nature of the Jewel itself!”

Telyn nodded in understanding. “You love it dearly now, don’t you? You can’t bear to hear even a bad word spoken of the Blue.”

Tomkin nodded, and his prideful gaze dimmed somewhat. “There is a grain of truth in thy words.”

“Are you going to wield it, Tomkin?”

“I have donned it, and I have attuned myself to it. The Blue stands ready should the need come.”

Telyn licked her lips. She moved to stand next to him in the arched window. There was no glass there, if there ever had been. Winds puffed in through the window into her face, lifting her hair up so it flew about her in a wild pattern. “I fear for thee, Wee One, should you need to wield this glowing thing on your breast. Some say you will fail.”

“Who speaks so?” Tomkin growled. His teeth bared themselves, and if anything, she thought they were a shade brighter than before.

Telyn slowly turned her head, eyes wide, to gaze down at Tomkin. There was an odd look on his face. “Piskin showed great concern,” she said, “he told me—”

“That vicious little fop!” Tomkin shouted with sudden feeling. Then he laughed wildly. His head opened wide so his teeth, gums, flaring lips and flapping tongue were all revealed at once. “He plays every game at once, and invents two more besides!”

She knew a sudden rush of fear as she gazed into his face. She saw a fresh, frightening madness there. Was it the Jewel’s influence, or was it Tomkin’s natural personality coming to the fore? She could not be sure. Brand changed when he took hold of the axe. She had expected some variety of change in Tomkin, but she had not expected this. She did not see bloodlust in the manling’s eyes, but rather a new light that did not come from a sane, healthy mind. She was not sure which was worse. She thought about her task as Brand’s Second. Could she perform such a service for Tomkin? She doubted it. Things could not be the same, as Tomkin had no love for her, and she would not even be able to catch him, should he spring out this window and race away.

Tomkin stopped laughing, and Telyn realized it was raining outside now. A gentle sprinkle at first, which quickened into a steady tapping.

Telyn stared outside, not daring to look at the madness in Tomkin’s face. “Tomkin,” she said in a whisper, “did you call this rain?”

“It will come from there, when it is born upon this land,” said Tomkin, as if he had not heard her. He pointed out the window into the hazy distance past the limits of the silvery rain drops.

“What will come, Tomkin?” she asked in a whisper. “Do you call the Rainbow?”

Tomkin did not answer. It was as if he dreamed, or hallucinated with a fever. She was sure he was seeing and hearing things her mind had no hint of. The rains paused outside, but these skies did not clear. Clouds shifted and roiled up there, hanging over the castle walls.

“Will thy hand reach to mine, should I fall?” asked Tomkin suddenly.

Telyn looked at him in surprise. There was a new expression there upon his waxy skin, one she had never seen before upon the face of a Wee One. It took her a moment to recognize it as a look of fear.

“Yes,” she told him gently. It seemed to her as if her voice came down from miles above them both. She almost could not credit herself with saying the words. “I will stand with you—whatever comes to greet us.”

The two gazed out the window together, side by side, tiny manling and human maiden. Neither knew what was coming, but both understood they would at least not face it alone.

Chapter Fifteen

Brand’s Gamble

Brand awakened in confusion. He had just put the axe down, hadn’t he? Wielding the weapon was exhausting. Had he truly slept long? He checked the sun in the sky, noting it had moved further to the west, but he could not have slept for more than an hour. His mind dulled again and his chin sagged down again to touch his breastplate. He forced his eyes to open fully and snapped his head back up. He blinked at Corbin in confusion. “I must have nodded off for a moment.”

“Indeed you did,” said Corbin.

“You should not have let me sleep.”

“You needed it.”

“I must admit I’m unsure what to do,” said Brand, climbing wearily to his feet. “If we hold, can we truly kill all the rhinogs ever spawned that are sent against us? And then the Wild Hunt after that?”

“I can’t answer such a question, I’m sorry, cousin,” said Corbin.

Brand looked at the men around him. They seemed a frightened lot of farmers, which was exactly what they were. They were tired and scared and dirty and cold. Soot-streaks, burns and bandaged limbs were everywhere. He felt all the worse for having abandoned them, but at least he had stopped Myrrdin from reforging a Pact that would put them under the yoke again for another century. He wondered how the day would end.

Inside, he knew what he must do. He needed the axe to uplift him, and he called upon it to do so.

“Take heart, River Folk!” he shouted and grinned at them, and let the axe surge heat down his arm and into his body. He held it aloft and the Golden Eye winked brightly, blinding everyone present. “The Axeman is among you! The rhinogs are cunning and vicious, but they are cowardly by nature. They are no more than merlings bearing fur and you all saw how the merlings fared against the axe! The rhinogs will do no better!”

The men cheered and wiped at their tearing, dazzled eyes. Their cheers turned to cries of fear as a fireball whooshed down and landed upon the dome. A smattering of liquid flame dripped down into the enclosure, but somehow it held up. Brand could see now that many burnt spots decorated the once leafy dome. It was still solid however, and nowhere had it been burnt completely through.

There came a keening sound from outside, and a dozen low horns blared at once. The men inside the dome scrambled back to their positions without having to be told. The attack was on.

Brand and Corbin rushed after Modi to the entrance where they looked out into the dimly lit landscape. Dark figures ran forward in crouched positions, hurrying from one scrap of cover to the next. Suddenly, a great flight of black-fletched arrows and bolts clattered against the walls. One bowman of the Haven fell back, clutching at his chest. They returned fire and Brand saw several rhinogs fall.

“There!” he told Modi. “Tell them to concentrate their fire to the west. That brush is hiding a dense pack of the enemy, massing up for a charge. I think the goblins themselves may be in there.”

Modi gave him a quizzical look, but relayed his orders to the crossbowmen, who fired with good results. A number of rhinogs and several goblins fled the thicket. Those that ran in the wrong direction were shot down as they came out into the open.

In the meantime, a large number of enemy had reached the walls. Even as the Haven archers trained their weapons down upon them, several new companies of enemy bowmen appeared as if melting into being from the landscape itself and pelted the Haven troops with arrows to keep them ducking. Thusly covered by their archers, the assaulting rhinogs threw up grapples and clambered up the crumbling walls. Wielding a knife in each hand, they fought viciously with the men on the walls. But the thorn-laden vines and the longer weapons of the River Folk tore them apart. Brand and Corbin moved from spot to spot and hacked down any of the enemy that managed to wriggle their way into the gatehouse before they could stab men in the back.

Suddenly, the rhinogs fell back and retreated. The River Folk cheered and drilled arrows into the humping furred backs. The assault only lasted minutes, but they all felt exhausted. A few rhinog injured still wriggled amongst the vines, skewered by thorns and arrows.

“We showed them something of the Haven!” shouted Brand, elated to see their enemy fleeing.

“Your cheek is torn,” said Corbin.

“It’s nothing. I would love to pursue them and cut them down, but even the axe couldn’t protect me from so many arrows,” said Brand. “Here, man! What are you doing?”

“I’m bandaging your cheek. It’s bleeding.”

“Nonsense! It’s nothing but a scratch! Leave it, man!”

Corbin gave up, throwing his hands up. “Okay. You’re the Axeman. I’m sure you can’t be bled to death.”

Brand sighed and closed his eyes to think. “Yes, all right cousin. Fix my wound.”

Even as Corbin finished his work, not ten minutes later, the goblins managed to whip their offspring enough to launch another assault. This time, they focused on the entrance, sending dozens of fresh troops against the makeshift barrier that the old, twisted portcullis provided. Again, the enemy archers pelted the walls heavily with black-fletched bolts. Modi, Brand and Corbin ran to the entrance. A desperate struggle commenced. The sheer force of their stinking, struggling bodies forced open the portcullis. Modi threw his weight and strength against it, along with the two strong river-boys. For a moment, they held. Grunting and sweating, the struggling knot of soldiers on both sides filled the air with foul stenches. Finally, their sheer numbers overwhelmed the defenders and the rhinogs forced their way inside.

“Brand! Behind you!” cried Corbin as he battled a furiously screeching rhinog that thrust and slashed like an ape with arms made of leather ropes. Brand whirled and split the skull of rhinog that sought to ram a long knife into his back. He turned back to the flood of rhinogs that were pouring into the breach and raised aloft the axe.

“Ambros!” he cried aloud.

It flashed with the brilliance of a lightning stroke. Those rhinogs that were immediately before him fell back, screeching. Smoke rose from their fur and their eyes had been turned to steaming, boiled eggs in their sockets. Brand realized with a mild shock that they had been struck blind. He strode forward into the reeling mass of them, laying about with the axe. Each stroke stilled another wriggling form.

Two goblins, brave enough to follow at the rear of their broods, met him at the fallen gate. They hissed at him in hatred. Their whips lashed the air like leather snakes. He caught and severed one lash with Ambros, but the other slipped into the protective shell of his helmet and laid open his cheek where Corbin had just closed it. That goblin he cut down, while the other made good his escape. The dozen or so surviving rhinogs chased after their fleeing sire. Another assault had been broken.

“Oh, by the River,” said Corbin in a weak voice.

Brand turned to him, suddenly concerned. His own eyes were streaming tears of pain. “What is it, cousin? Are you injured?”

Corbin made no reply. He laid about him with his sword, butchering the blind and injured rhinogs. Their quivering, stinking mass of bodies choked the entrance. Corbin hewed twice more, then fell to his knees and vomited.

Brand walked back to him, his footing made uncertain by the shifting soft backs of the dead. “Are you injured?” he repeated.

Corbin looked up at him gasping. He shook his head. “No, I’m just sickened by the slaughter. Aren’t you?”

Brand blinked at him, and realized with a shock that he wasn’t. The coppery smell of blood and the roasted-meat smell of burnt flesh did nothing to turn his stomach. Vaguely, he wondered at what he had become. After a time, Corbin regained his feet and went to rest by the fountain. Someone had removed the body of the lookout that had died the day before at this very spot, but his blood still stained the bowl of the fountain.

“Am I unnatural, Corbin?” asked Brand.

Corbin looked up at him and shook his head. “No more so than Modi. Look at him. He is a veteran of many wars, I suppose. He is no more concerned by the dead than we would be for a pile of fresh-picked broadleaf melons that leaked their sap upon our cart.”

After they had cleared the dead from the entrance and replaced the gate, no more attacks came. Dawn finally arrived, and the cold light of early morning lit up the awful scene of carnage. Brand thought that it had been better left hidden by darkness. They watched the battle that progressed some distance away at the main keep. At first, Tylag and his men had surprised some of the rhinogs, having dug into hiding places amongst the brush surrounding the crumbling keep. Soon, however, the enemy had encircled them and hemmed them in. The catapults had been concentrated there as well.

As they watched the battle rage, they ate salted beef and swallowed their rations of water. Corbin worked at not sicking up all that he ate. Brand ate steadily, without sickness or gusto.

“Somewhere, in the middle of all that, is Telyn,” said Brand in a distant voice.

“Tylag, too,” echoed Corbin.

“Had I known she’d left, I wouldn’t have come here first.”

“Then all might have been lost for these men,” Corbin sighed. “Besides, we had no way of knowing.”

“We should go to their aid.”

“How can we? If we leave here alone, entire companies of rhinogs will fall upon us.”

“We need not go alone. We can lead the men on a charge. They won’t suspect such a thing.”

“Of course they don’t expect that! It would be suicide! Even your axe can’t stop a storm of arrows, Brand. Our armor might see the two of us through, but we would be killing our fellows, as surely as if we had swung the blades ourselves.”

“We shall go alone, then,” said Brand.

“You shall do no such thing,” said a bass voice.

Brand turned from eyeing the keep to see Modi looming over them. He turned back to the keep. Another fireball arced high and belched more smoke and flame from the crumbling battlements. Distant screams could be heard.

“I shall do as I will, warrior,” said Brand.

“Then you are a fool.”

“Have a care.”

“You are the one without a care. Haven’t you noticed the conspicuous absence of Herla? Do you not wonder why he lets the children of goblins do all his work and waits to launch his huntsmen?”

“He’s right, Brand,” said Corbin, “he’s right. Herla is only interested in the Jewels, naught else. Rhinogs will die and more will be spawned, the same can be said of River Folk. True power lies in the Jewels. In a way, this battle is just a distraction for us.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Brand.

“Don’t you see?” responded Corbin. “Herla’s just waiting for a chance to come out of hiding and sweep down on you. He wants nothing but the axe. We can’t just give it to him.”

Even as Corbin spoke, thunder rumbled in the North. Brand followed the sound and turned toward the Faerie mound.

“What I want to know is what happened to Myrrdin,” said Corbin. “Perhaps we were wrong to stop him from arranging a renewal of the Pact with Oberon. Right now he could be bringing his archers to our aid. Surely, that would rout the enemy.”

Brand turned on him. “We weren’t wrong. Is that all we of the Haven have died for here today? To return to serving tribute to the Faerie? Perhaps you would have us wash their feet for them as well.”

Corbin made no answer. The thunder in the North rumbled again, and the sky seemed to darken a bit as clouds rolled in from that direction.

“Another storm?” asked Modi with a grunt. Brand could see that his military mind was factoring that into the situation. “We could use the water. I’ll have the men set up buckets to catch the run-off,” he said, stumping off to shout orders to the weary troops. Many of them slept now, slumped over their weapons and using cold stone blocks for pillows.

Brand stared northward.

Corbin followed his gaze, and then looked at him. “What is it?”

Brand just stared. He reached back and pulled the axe from his pack. “I’m only glad it was not I who had to decide how things would go this day,” he said.

“What are you talking about, Brand?” asked Corbin, sounding alarmed.

Brand stood up. He planted his feet and set his spiked helm upon his head. To Corbin he said:  “Follow me, my cousin, or follow me not, as you will.”

With that, he paid no more heed to those around him. A feral grin split his features as he felt the joy of wielding the axe once more. With three deft strokes he cut a path through the thick blackened vines. Sap ran and bubbled like blood from the damaged growths. They parted and fell away from the incredible sharpness of the axe, vines that had withstood fire, knives, axes and arrows.

Brand kicked out the vines that choked the opening and tensed himself to jump through. He felt hands upon him, and had he not known them to be Corbin’s, he might have severed them at the wrists. Instead, he used the strength of arm that the axe lent him to throw his cousin to the ground. Gathering himself, he crashed through the living barrier, which already crackled as it sought to knit itself back together.

He hit the ground hard and grunted heavily. He climbed quickly to his feet and set off at a trot toward the main keep. He never looked back to see if Corbin followed, nor did he watch for rhinogs or the Wild Hunt. His eyes stayed upon his destination, only glancing now and then to the north and the growing storm that brewed there.

The rain began to spatter down and the sky darkened rapidly. The morning sun had long since vanished. Clouds of steam rose up from the smoldering encampment and the burning keep ahead. The thunderclaps to the north became more regular and louder.

Brand heard another, running beside him. He knew without turning that it was Corbin.

“The thunderclaps,” gasped Corbin. “They’re footfalls, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“It must be Tomkin, then! He’s summoned the Rainbow, even as Dando did before!”

Brand didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Even as Corbin shouted the words in the growing wind and lashing rain, the shimmer of the Rainbow was clear in the north.

They topped a low rise and looked down into a gully. The gully was filled by a dozen or so huddling rhinogs. A single goblin walked among them, administering salves to the wounded among his brood and lashes to those that irked him. Brand hesitated only a moment. With a wild howl of ferocity, he jumped down amongst them. Ambros winked of its own accord, bringing shrieks of terror from the huddled enemy. Corbin plunged down the slope after Brand.

The rhinogs scattered in all directions as would rabbits discovered at midnight in a farmer’s garden. Even the goblin scrambled to get away, perhaps believing that these two armored soldiers were but the point men of a company of attackers. Brand strode after this last and ended its long life with a single stroke. The head he grabbed up and hurled after the fleeing backs of its offspring.

“That one will never spawn another monster!” he roared. He grinned at Corbin, who panted and stared at him as if he stared at a stranger. “Thanks for following me, my cousin! Are there any others behind us?”

Corbin shook his head. He was gasping for air, beyond speech. He leaned forward and put his hands on his knees. His sides heaved.

“So be it,” said Brand. “We shall win through alone. These foes have no stomach for a fight unless they have carefully planned every detail. We will baffle them by assaulting them single-handedly!”

As he climbed the far side of the gully, Brand heard Corbin mutter after him, “the River save us if they lose their bafflement.”

When they gained the far side of the gully and set off for the keep, they were buffeted by powerful winds. The shimmering colored lights of the Rainbow grew in the north. The huge feet and legs were almost visible in the pouring rain. With each fantastic footfall, a deafening clap of thunder rang out over the landscape.

“Fool Tomkin! You are the greatest of fools!” screamed Brand. The storm tore the words from his mouth. Blood, sweat and rainwater trickled down his cheek into his beard and his mouth. He tasted the salty mixture and it was sweet to his tongue.

As they ran, they saw the Rainbow reach the three catapults that sat at the edge of the dank swampland. Great shimmering hands descended from the skies and picked up one of the war engines as a child might pick up a toy. The catapult was raised up, up, out of sight, then came crashing down upon the second engine. Both smashed apart and burst into flames as their loads of hot oil and pitch ignited. The third catapult crew, under the harsh lashes of their masters, bravely worked to turn and aim at the monster. Even as the Rainbow took a step forward, the catapult snapped one final time and sent its fiery load into the shimmering mass of the Rainbow’s shoulder. A wad of gauzy, insubstantial flesh was ripped loose from the creature. It loosed a deep otherworldly cry of pain that caused agony in the ears of all that heard it. The catapult crew cheered and the Rainbow staggered, but didn’t fall. Moments later the last catapult was crushed beneath the heavy tread of glimmering feet.

Most on the battlefield had their heads turned to watch this struggle of titans. Brand and Corbin used the valuable time to run up undetected behind another band of rhinogs. Brand saw they were archers, and he felt a hot hatred for their black-fletched bolts. Ambros cut down several in a flurry and then they were through the enemy lines and running toward the keep. They ran right past a knot of struggling men and rhinogs.

“We should help!” cried Corbin.

Brand shook his head. “Can’t. If the Rainbow reaches the keep, Herla could at last gain Lavatis. We must be there.”

“Brand, look!” cried Corbin, pointing to the east.

Brand turned and saw the Wild Hunt. Following their bounding vanguard of Wee Folk were the Huntsmen, the unmistakable stag head of Herla among them. They were hellbent for the keep as well, and were moving much more rapidly than Brand and Corbin could on foot. Brand watched as Osang was raised to the stag head’s mouth and a long, low, mournful note was winded that rolled over the land.

“The charm has failed!” shouted Corbin in despair. “We can never beat them! Perhaps not even the Rainbow can reach Tomkin first!”

Brand cursed and wished for a horse, although he was no master rider. He was a man at home riding the ripples of the Berrywine, not the undulating back of a warhorse.

As it was, both the Rainbow and Wild Hunt beat him to the keep. A terrific struggle ensued: men, rhinogs, coursers and the great feet of the Rainbow all met and slew one another. The first gate they met as they panted up to the top of the rise was only a ruin of stone and twisted metal. Brand cursed as he saw the tunnel behind it had fallen.

“Must we climb the walls themselves?” he demanded aloud.

“Here!” cried Corbin. “The side door! It has been smashed in! Perhaps we can get into the tower!”

Brand followed him at a dead run and soon passed his exhausted cousin. He shouldered aside the last remnants of a once stout door whose ancient timbers crumbled to the touch. Into unexpected blackness they stumbled, groping their way over bodies and fallen bricks to a spiral staircase of cut stone. They quickly wound their way up the steps, ducking their heads and scrambling over yet more bodies.

“There are many more rhinog dead than human,” said Brand. “But we can ill afford the losses anyway.”

“I can’t but think of how many firesides will go without family members after this business is finished,” said Corbin. “I believe I just climbed over the fat body of Osho, the grocer from Riverton. Remember him, Brand? He used to give us barrel-apples for free when we were kids.”

“I can’t but think that there will be no firesides for any of us to go back to, should we lose this day,” replied Brand grimly. He continued to climb over the warm, sticky bodies to the top, ignoring the smells and the textures. Behind him, Corbin followed, making gagging sounds. Brand wondered that he had anything left in his stomach to sick up. For once he was glad for the axe and the callous courage it seemed to give him.

Up ahead the din of battle and the pink light of dawn filtered down. They tumbled out onto the crumbling battlements of the keep and almost immediately were spotted by a bounding figure. It gave a strange, warbling cry and pointed at them as if accusing them of a most heinous crime. Brand stepped forward, snarling at the Wee One.

“It’s one of Herla’s foul little jackrabbits!” he roared as he swung.

Bursting out with laughter, the Wee One launched into the air, doing a flip before it came back down in the same spot. It waited for Brand’s next move, its legs tense. Brand grinned grimly and took a half-step forward. The Wee One crouched, watching closely, clearly confident and enjoying the sport. Behind them, Corbin averted his eyes as he knew what would come next.

Ambros flashed then, even as Brand stepped up to swing again. Startled, the Wee One’s desperate leap took it right over the side of the battlements. Brand laughed as it blindly tumbled down to smash upon the rocks far below. Corbin shook his head and wondered if even one of the Wee Folk could survive such a fall.

They heard a sound behind them then, the sound a gusting wind whipped around great exposed stones might make. They turned back to see a courser land beside them upon the battlements. Another arrived a moment later, landing its horse as a man would taking a great leap over a fallen tree. Brand hadn’t until this moment really seen them fly, but now he had no further doubts.

“Retreat down the stairs, Corbin!” shouted Brand. “They can’t get off their horses, they won’t be able to follow.”

Corbin dove for the steps, even as the coursers began their approach. They ignored him and were intent solely on Brand.

“Come with me!” demanded Corbin.

“No!” shouted Brand. “Telyn and Tomkin are somewhere in this keep. I’ll not be driven from it.”

“Then I will stand with you,” said Corbin, coming up behind him.

Brand frowned, but felt a twinge of gratitude. He hadn’t relished facing two specters alone. The coursers came at them, and Ambros flashed, but seemingly without effect upon the enemy. Perhaps their eyes were too old, too fleshless, to be pained by light, no matter how bright.

“Look, Brand!” shouted Corbin. “The Rainbow!”

All of them looked, even the coursers. An astounding figure of beauty rose up and rounded the towers of the keep to stand beside them. Up close, Brand saw the pure colors that striped its body, each hue more brilliant than the last. Its head was on a level with them, and Brand looked into its dancing eyes made of blue flames. The otherworldly eyes regarded him and the others, each in turn. Even the coursers seemed at a loss in the face of such fantastic beauty.

A great hand rose up. With a deliberate, swift motion, the Rainbow swept the coursers from the battlement. They fell away into the wind without a cry. Brand saw one horseman’s claw-like hand of white bone clutch at the edge, and then it was gone. Brand and Corbin raced for the nearest doorway that led into the keep, lest the Rainbow change its mind about whom it favored.

“Well,” said Corbin as they huffed down another hall of fallen walls and bodies. “At least we know that Tomkin is still in command of his creature.”

“But for how long?” asked Brand aloud.

They continued through the keep in silence. Ever it seemed that the battle had escaped them. In the distance they heard the shouts and screams of dying men and rhinogs, but around them was only the aftermath of battle, never the event.

After mounting another set of steps, however, they came upon a knot of soldiers in the ragged, stained, blue livery of Riverton. As one, they raised their weapons at the sight of Brand and Corbin, and then lowered them in relief and recognition. They set up a ragged cheer as Brand lofted Ambros and commanded it to wink at them.

“Brand! Corbin, my son!” shouted Tylag, coming forward with his arms spread. “How glad I am to see your young faces!”

“How goes the battle, father?” asked Corbin anxiously.

Tylag’s face faltered. “Not well,” he said, his voice hushed. “We are reduced to small pockets like this.” He indicated the score of men who stood with him in the shadowy halls. “Our forces are scattered about the keep. I’ve dispatched messengers to try to gather them together, but as yet, none have returned.”

“What of Telyn and Tomkin?” asked Brand.

“They are both here,” said Tylag, nodding toward another chamber.

Brand noticed that Tylag and the other men of the Haven shunned that chamber. All of them stood far from the entrance. But his heart leapt at the news that Telyn still lived. Without waiting to hear more he strode into the chamber and found her crouched over the tiny figure of Tomkin. Tomkin lay beneath a pile of what looked like sackcloth. She looked up and briefly smiled.

“I’m glad that you live, Brand,” she said.

“I too, am uplifted,” he said. They came together and quickly embraced. Brand smelled her hair, and his chest seemed to expand with well-being.

“How is Tomkin?” asked Brand in a whisper. “Has he gone feral yet?”

“No, but I fear that is not far off. He has been calling for you.”

“How soon thy Folk forget the quality of good hearing,” chuckled a voice from beneath the sackcloth. There was a sudden flurry of movement under the material, and it was thrown back. “Ah! There, I can breathe! I’m not a sick child, woman!” shouted Tomkin irritably.

Brand’s mouth hung open to see him. The whole of the dark chamber throbbed with the light from Lavatis, which hung as an impossibly huge weight around his tiny neck. After a moment, Brand recognized the pulse of the light. It matched the beating of the Wee One’s heart. His face was pale, drawn and sickly-looking in the blue light. He struggled up to a sitting position, but then sagged back down with a sigh and closed his eyes.

“Another gang of rhinogs!” he screeched. “The coursers cut at me!”

Brand and Telyn knelt beside the dying manling.

“He’s torn between two worlds,” said Telyn.

“He’s strong, but it’s only a matter of time until he becomes one with the Rainbow and goes feral,” said Brand.

“Do not talk as if Tomkin were already dead!” shouted Tomkin, his eyes fluttering open. His great mouth split wide in a familiar grin. “Saved thy arse, I did, river-boy!”

“Indeed, Tomkin. You did that,” said Brand.

Shouts erupted from the larger chamber outside. Brand jumped up, expecting a flood of rhinogs and coursers. Perhaps Herla himself was making his final move to claim a second and third Jewel.

Instead, a bounding figure came into the room and pounced upon the prone form of Tomkin. Brand lifted the axe, suspecting it was another of Herla’s turncoat runners. But after a moment, he recognized the intruder. It was Piskin, the one who had made deals with him on the part of the Wee Folk just a few nights ago.

“Fool!” screamed Piskin, shaking Tomkin’s fallen body. “You’ve ruined the chance of a millennium! Never shall our people again be so close to grasping true power!”

“Have a care, changeling,” said Tomkin’s weak, but dangerous voice.

Brand and Telyn looked at one another. Brand realized then where he had heard Piskin’s voice before. It was that of the false infant they had chased from Lanet Drake’s apartments. He took a breath and took a single step toward the two Wee Folk.

Telyn laid a hand upon him. “Perhaps we shouldn’t interfere. This is their business.”

“I’ll have the Jewel instead!” shouted Piskin, “Dando was in my debt, he did me a great harm, and I’ll take the Jewel as my repayment.”

Brand thought to see him lay hands upon Lavatis. Tiny hands grappled and teeth flashed white. Brand was reminded of two tomcats as a flurry of a struggle ensued, the action too fast to follow. Before Brand could reach out to restrain Piskin, the manling leapt up and ran away, shrieking. His eyes bulged, his face was white. He held his right arm curled against his chest. Dark blood stained his fine waistcoat. Brand saw that his hand had been bitten off, leaving only a stump at the wrist.

Brand knelt again beside Tomkin, and the dying manling flashed him a smile full of blood-circled teeth.

“Told him I would have his foul hand!” chuckled Tomkin. He made no move to spit out the severed hand. Brand reflected that the Wee Folk were a strange lot.

The pulsing Jewel on the manling’s chest beat faster now, and it seemed less regular.

“Should we take the Jewel from him?” asked Telyn in alarm.

“Try it!” said Tomkin. “My hunger has yet to be sated!”

“Would it kill him to remove it? What would the Rainbow do?” asked Telyn. Even as she spoke, Brand knelt beside the manling. He reached out his hand tentatively, wondering if he would fare better than had Piskin, should he try to snatch it.

Tomkin made a choking cry. “The ants cut at me!” he cried. Brand’s eyes widened as he watched rips appear on the thin flesh of the manling’s shins and ankles. Blood welled up from the cuts. Tomkin writhed in agony. The blue pulses filled the chamber with rapid, flashing light.

“Brand! The monster is coming!” cried Tylag from the hall. Even as he spoke, Brand felt the stone beneath his knees shiver. The ancient timbers creaked and groaned. A great crash sounded out in the main chamber and men screamed. Daylight and clouds of choking dust flooded into the room.

“We must get out, Brand!” cried Telyn, tugging at him.

“Tomkin!” shouted Brand, and for a second the manling’s eyes fluttered open. “You have earned my friendship. Have I earned yours?”

Tomkin’s grin resembled a snarl. He nodded weakly.

“Then Tomkin, allow me to take the Jewel from you. Let me take up this burden, that you might live to see another day.”

Tomkin didn’t reply. His eyes were closed and his breathing was ragged.

Brand reached down and gingerly took the Jewel Lavatis from his neck, expecting at any moment to see those sharp ice-white teeth snap shut upon his fingers like a poacher’s trap. But although Tomkin’s body shuddered when the Jewel was lifted from his breast, he allowed it.

Brand staggered to his feet. The wall before him gave way, and he felt the terror of facing the Rainbow once again. A great shimmering hand forced its way into the chamber and began to grope for the Jewel. The Rainbow loosed an odd, insane howl that shook the flagstones.

Brand looked down and saw Telyn take up Tomkin’s limp form and hold it to her chest as one would a child. She fled the chamber with Tomkin’s body flopping loosely against her.

The Rainbow, now freed of any master and full of madness, reached for him and the Jewel. Brand cried out and hacked at the brilliant fingers. Chopping into the hand felt odd, almost as if he were cutting at a bag of soft cotton. A shimmering finger fell to the floor of the chamber and flailed there. The great hand was snatched back. The flagstones ran with liquid colors and outside, the creature loosed another howl. Its huge face came near the opening and a single, mad eye of blue flame regarded Brand.

He wasted no more time. He ran into the hallway after Telyn. Behind them there was a terrific sound as the Rainbow ripped away the wall of the keep. Those of the men who had not already fled in terror joined them, including Tylag and Corbin. As they ran they could hear the thunder and the smashing blows of the Rainbow as it followed them unerringly.

“It’s no good, Brand!” shouted Telyn. “The Rainbow can sense the Jewel! It is drawn to it the way things are drawn to my beacons!”

Brand stopped and eyed her, knowing the truth of her words. He put away his axe and lifted the chain from which Lavatis hung and looked into the depths of the stone. It seemed to him that something there regarded him in return. He felt a shiver chase through his body. He kissed Telyn’s head, and then pushed her away.

“Run,” he told her. He glanced at Tomkin’s still form, which Telyn still carried, and wondered if he yet lived. Telyn looked at him in surprise, and she searched his face for a brief moment.

“You mean to wield the Jewel,” she said, her eyes filling with an expression of horror. She opened her mouth to beseech him. He shook his head, kissed her mouth and lifted up the chain and the brilliant Blue Jewel again, gazing into it.

“Good luck, cousin,” said Corbin. He pulled at Telyn’s shoulder and together they fled with the rest of the troops down a stairway that still remained whole.

Left alone in the shaking keep, Brand stood to face the Rainbow. It shook the walls and stove in the ceiling. Insane eyes burned down upon him.

Brand slid the chain amulet that contained the Jewel Lavatis over his head, and he took it for his own.

He fell to the dust-laden flagstones and began to rave.

Chapter Sixteen

The Bloodhound

Brand awoke groggily with great pain in his legs and side. He was surprised to find that he was outside, lying across something large and hard. Disoriented, he looked around. In the west, the sun was dying, already half-hidden by the crooked dead trees. He was vaguely surprised to realize that the battle had lasted a night and a day. Then he rose up on one elbow, and saw that the thing pressing against his belly was the wall of the keep. Then he saw his belly, and he screamed.

His scream came out as an odd, warbling howl. His belly was a vast shimmering spanse of brilliant hues. He was the Rainbow.

Tiny things pained his feet and side. He turned ponderously to see that rhinogs were hacking and cutting chunks of the vaporous stuff of his body from him. He swatted at them and they died. He stood up, then staggered, unsteady on his injured feet. He fell to his knees again...

...and was back in the keep. His mouth was encrusted with centuries-old dust. He choked on it, and tried to rise. He sensed something near him, something bad...

...he was the Rainbow again, but now he had lost his balance and was falling. It seemed that he had been falling for a long time, as if it took quite some time to reach the distant ground with its tiny, fuzz-like grass and pebble-like boulders. He wondered if it would hurt when he hit, and it did…

...in the keep again. This time he tried to rise quickly. The thing that approached him, the bad thing, was very near now. He felt for Ambros, and it slapped itself into his hand eagerly. A shock ran through him as the two Jewels sensed one another, and declared war upon one another. The battlefield was his mind, and as the two siblings charged one another, it seemed like great wet clumps of brain were torn up and tossed about in his skull. He groaned…

...and found himself floundering outside the keep again. The ants were back at it, chopping at him, hacking the stuff of his body loose in cotton-like chunks. Determined to stop switching bodies, he fought to hang onto being the Rainbow. He rose ponderously up into a sitting position and crushed a band of rhinogs in the process. He recalled the bad thing in the hall, stalking his prone form. He turned to look into the keep, and saw himself, lying prone on the flagstones. An antlered figure rode a tall dead horse forward. It carried a boarspear with a broad gleaming head. A small dog rode with it on its unbreathing steed.

Not knowing what else to do, Brand reached down with his shimmering hand and placed his palm gently over his prone body. He took care not to crush himself accidentally. Some dark part of his mind wondered what would happen to his soul if he did die while in the body of the Rainbow. Would he become one with the wind and rain forever? Or would it be much worse than that?

Herla thrust the boarspear into the gauzy flesh of the great hand, and Brand worried for a moment that he might drive it all the way through the hand and slay him. He swept the hand toward the horseman, who backed away and then leapt into the air itself.

He saw more coursers and rhinogs approaching the spot, from all over the keep. Clearly, they had taken the fortress by storm, despite all that the Haven troops had done. Not knowing what else to do, he decided to pick up his own body and bear it to safety. Perhaps then, as the Rainbow, he could yet turn the tide of the battle.

He gently picked himself up and lifted his body high into the air. It was an odd experience, and his greatest fear was of losing control while transporting himself. He didn’t relish awakening as himself in the midst of a hundred-foot fall. Not knowing where to head, he turned toward the Faerie mound. The sun was almost gone and the twilight after dusk was falling over the land. Soon, he would be able to walk the path around the mound. Perhaps he could find Myrrdin.

It was exhilarating to be the Rainbow. He was a giant, a vast shimmering creature that could march where he would and do as he willed. None could oppose him. He felt now and understood the intoxication that had gripped both Tomkin and Dando. How could they, as the smallest of Folk, resist the allure of being an all-powerful giant?

And still, the ants bit his ankles. He looked down and behind him, and knew fear again. Wee Folk bounded like fleas about his feet. Coursers raced after him by the dozens. Herla himself trailed him, boarspear leveled. He saw Herla lift Osang and wind it. More coursers appeared from hidden spots all around and converged upon him. The Wild Hunt was in full pursuit, and he was the prey.

He ran for the mound now, and the coursers trailed him. Osang sounded again and the Wee Folk bounded about at his feet like hopping fleas. He soon outdistanced them, but he knew that he couldn’t outrun them forever. They would trail him to the very foot of Snowdon and beyond, to the distant shores of the sea itself. When he reached the mound he placed his human body gently upon the grass and let the body of the Rainbow lean back, back—back further still...

...he awakened as a great crash resounded behind him. The Rainbow had toppled. Wee Folk and coursers raced up to it and hacked at it. He climbed to his feet and began to circle the mound, widdershins.

Before he was around twice, the coursers had noticed him and came up to where he walked the path around the mound. They hacked at him, but to no effect. They were like ghosts to him. Their blades flickered and flashed, but could only make him shy away. As he continued to circle the mound the coursers faded until he could no longer make them out at all. Only the twilight land of the Faerie seemed real. He was relieved to find that the Rainbow no longer pulled at his mind. Somehow, by circling the mound, he had left it behind in that other place, and had freed himself of it.

But there was someone trailing him. He never doubted who it was. He glimpsed the other now and then, each time he circled the mound. As he rounded the mound the fourth time, he glanced back to see the antlers of his enemy as the other walked his horse on the path behind him. Herla was gaining on him. Brand turned back to the crushed grass of the Faerie path and tried to walk faster. It was difficult, like wading in sucking mud.

Clopping hoofbeats echoed strangely in his ears. He sensed his enemy coming closer. It was all he could do to resist the urge to look back. He lowered his head and pressed forward, putting one foot before the other, plodding steadily. It seemed that the more he tried to hurry, the more resistance he felt. It was as if unseen veils pressed against him, as if he fought the current of an invisible river.

He made another circuit, the fifth? Or was it the sixth? He could no longer recall. He sweated and strained with the effort. Slow hoofbeats sounded in his skull like the clanging of church bells. Unable to resist the urge any further, he looked back over his shoulder. His heart jumped in his chest. Herla was only a dozen paces behind him. He saw the Jewel Osang embedded in the great horn. Its deep, violet hue glowed in the Faerie half-light. The red staring eyes of the bloodhound matched it.

He halted and twisted his body to half-face his enemy. He dared not take his feet from the path. His sides heaved and sweat ran from his neck and burned his eyes.

The other halted his horse, and they regarded one another. A long moment passed, during which neither spoke.

“I require the Jewel, Lavatis,” said Herla. His voice was odd. It made Brand think of gravel rasping down a mountain face.

“It is not mine to give.”

“Do you serve the elfkin, then?”

“I am the Axeman of the River Haven,” said Brand. “I serve the River Folk.”

“Then Axeman, as your King, I command it,” said the other.

“You are not my King.”

“I am the last Human King. None other lives.”

“You are not my King,” repeated Brand stubbornly. He felt a pang as he said it, however. Did this thing really believe itself to still be the King of humanity? Was it possibly correct? He felt lost for a moment. He realized that he faced a being that had once been human, and who had once ruled among the Dead Kingdoms...when they had still thrived. He wondered what lost histories could be learned from its eldritch mind.

“I see that you do not understand,” rasped the strange voice. “You and I are not truly enemies. We have the same goals. I am still human, despite my great age.”

Brand felt an odd twinge of disbelief come over him that threatened to cloud his mind. Could he truly be having this conversation with King Herla himself?

“I ask a final time, Axeman of the House of Rabing. Yield to me, and join me to rule and empower all humanity. All the wrongs done to our people shall then be avenged.”

Brand took a moment to marshal his thoughts. It was difficult. “We aren’t the same. There is a great gulf between us.”

“What gulf? We stand in limbo, half-way between worlds, but only a few paces apart.”

“I speak of the gulf that stretches between the living and the dead. Whatever you were in life, I can’t accept the rule of the dead.”

“You sadden me, Axeman. Nothing has saddened me for centuries. Know that you cannot oppose me here.”

“If you close with me, I will chop the legs from your horse. You will fall to dust as you should have nine centuries ago.”

The other laughed. It was an odd, lonely sound with no joy in it. “If my end would come so easily, Axeman, why has it not happened for fifty generations? With my long weapon, all I need to do is knock you from the path, and you will be lost forever in the twilight lands of the Faerie.”

“Then the Jewels you crave will be lost with me.”

“Well said, but a small matter of sorcery will recover them.”

While speaking with Herla, Brand had been edging away down the path. Now, he willed the axe to flash and he turned to continue his march around the mound. He only had a few more circuits to make and he would have reached his goal. Perhaps he could somehow win this race.

Behind him, the odd laugh sounded again. “My eyes are old leather! My skin has long since been leeched from my skull! A bolt of lightning could not blind your King now, Axeman!”

Brand made no reply. Instead he saved his strength for wading ahead around the mound. He heard the slow clopping of the dead horse begin anew behind him. Dread ran cold fingers down his back. He wondered which would be worse, to die with a boarspear in his guts or to step off the path into the nothingness between worlds.

He made the seventh circuit, and began the eighth. But Herla was closer than ever now, and Brand knew he could never finish the ninth. His mind raced, trying to come up with a plan.

Halfway through the eighth, he stopped and turned. Herla was only a few paces behind him.

“You must decide what you value more, my death or the Jewel! I’ll not give you both!” Brand said. As he spoke he pulled Lavatis from around his neck and flung it by the chain into the air.

Before it could vanish into the netherworld of the Faerie twilight, however, Herla leaned forward with great speed and thrust his spear into the glittering chain. It snagged on the broad point and rang there with the sound of metal clattering upon metal. Herla pulled it back, making his odd sounds of laughter.

“No!” shouted Brand, aghast at the speed and accuracy of the creature. Why had it not slain him with a cast, if its skill were so great? He could only think that it had not dared to disarm itself. The spear would surely have vanished into twilight if the cast had missed. Not knowing what else to do, Brand swung Ambros at the spearhead. The axe flashed as it clove the head from the shaft of the spear. The broad killing point fell with Lavatis. It lay at the edge of the path, and Brand knelt to reach for it.

He was buffeted by the shaft and nearly knocked from the path. Herla swung it like a club and beat at him. Only one of Brand’s knees remained on the path, and he knew terror as he had never known it before. The numbing cold of the void ate into that part of his flesh that had strayed from the circle of beaten grass. Not even the depths of the Berrywine, running silently beneath a surface of ice, could have been so cold.

He struck with the axe again, but at the horse’s legs this time, as it had stepped closer. Ambros sheared off the right foreleg at the ankle, and the dead horse stumbled, but did not go down. It tossed its head and made an odd, rattling sound. Brand was sickened to think that it could still somehow feel pain.

Scrambling to regain the path and his feet, Brand dragged the chain behind him with Lavatis still dangling from it. Fighting to manage his crippled steed, Herla followed him. His progress had been greatly slowed, however, and now Brand was leaving the horseman behind. As he began the ninth circuit, he looked back to see that the horseman carried the shorn-off horse hoof in one black-gloved hand. He was still coming, although slowly.

Brand thought to hear the last human king say something as he left him behind on the path. “Axeman, you sadden me….”

Shivering, Brand pressed ahead into the unnatural land he sought. He yearned to see the sweet golden sun overhead again.

He finished the ninth circuit and stepped upon the mound in the silvery light of the full moon that always seemed to shine here. He walked slowly up the mound, tired from his struggles and bothered somewhat by his leg, which hadn’t fully regained feeling after touching the void. He could see a circle of figures that stood at the crest of the mound. They worked together to play a quiet doleful tune.

“Oberon!” called Brand to the tallest of them.

The figure rose up and lifted its lantern. Inside the iron cage, a lone Wisp shone her wan light. Brand’s heart fell as he saw he had been tricked. It wasn’t Oberon, but Old Hob who sat atop the mound. Around him capered a dozen or so goblins. They chortled obscenely among themselves as they came to encircle him.

“Ah, the river-boy returns!” said Hob. “I’ve been waiting for thee, there is a debt yet to be paid!”

“Hob, I’ve had a very long day,” said Brand, feeling his exhaustion and rising anger. “You’d best leave me, lest your spratlings be left without a sire.”

“Ho! The river-boy has teeth and dares to shake its axe at the great Hob!” rumbled Hob. Brand noticed that Hob’s advance did stop, despite his words. Around them the furtive pack of goblins shifted their feet.

“Six wisps, doest thou owe me, mortal child,” hissed Old Hob as he shuffled a step or two closer. His long knobby hand snaked out from his stinking robes and moved toward Brand. “For payment, I’ll relieve thee of Ambros the Golden.”

Brand ducked, for even as he watched Hob’s long, snake-like arm reaching forward, the other swept the lantern around in a low arc, aiming for his head. Brand stumbled and rolled once downhill. All around him the goblins rushed in, like jackals closing on a faltering beast. Brand caught himself and rose, however, Ambros still in hand.

The goblins leapt back, chittering in disappointment. Brand caused the axe to flash and cut at them. They fell back in alarm. Then he faced Old Hob, who now towered above him.

“I’ll have your head!” he cried, attacking Hob. Hob parried the slashing axe with his lantern and a great clang rang out across the silvery landscape. The last yellow wisp, released, flittered away into the darkness.

The goblins had scattered. Taking long strides, Hob retreated down the slope. He paused before vanishing into the void. “That’s seven! Seven Wisps doest thou owe me! I have a long memory when it comes to debts, Axeman!” hissed Hob.

Brand was left alone on the hilltop. His head turned toward the distant sound of slowly clopping hooves. As he watched, Herla came into being at the bottom of the hill on the opposite side from Hob. He saw with relief that the horse was having difficulty mounting the slope with a shorn-off hoof.

“Old Hob, heed me,” he shouted. “I would parlay with you.”

Old hob was only half-visible in the twilight, having nearly reached the bottom of the mound.

Herla paused in his efforts. He was busy with his horse and his hound. Could it be he painted the shorn hoof with blood from the hound’s bowl? That is how it looked to Brand, and he sickened at the sight of it.

“What is it, river-boy? Thou owes me a debt.”

“I acknowledge this debt, and I wish to arrange repayment,” said Brand. “I would offer you a Jewel to help me defeat Herla,” said Brand.

“That is an interesting proposal,” said Hob. He took several strides back up the mound and became more fully visible. “Thou hast my attention fully.”

“I would, of course, require a boon,” said Brand. Old Hob had spotted Herla now, and they both eyed the dead king warily.

“Ha! As I suspected, of course! Nothing but base trickery. A boon? The debtor requests a boon? Nonsense,” sputtered Hob.

“Well, if you have no interest in the Goblin Folk acquiring a Jewel of power, our discussion is at an end.” Brand made an easy gesture of dismissal.

Hob shuffled two more half strides up the mound toward Brand. He eyed Brand with slitted eyes. “What would be the nature of this boon? And what would be the nature of my repayment?”

“Osang. If I defeat Herla, and you have given me material aid to do so, I will grant you possession of the Huntsman’s horn.”

“The horn Osang?” asked Hob, almost as if he could not believe his ears.

“It would be fitting, don’t you think, for the lord of goblins to possess such a thing? It contains within it the Lavender Jewel of Shadow magic. Is it not the goblin way to have dominion over sight, sound and stealth?”

“What must I do?” asked Hob in a harsh whisper, taking yet another half-stride.

“You must help me defeat Herla. You must stand with me and fight, or help in some other way.”

Hob laughed at this. He did, however, take another few strides up the mound. He was now better than half-way up the slope. “Despite the fact that we have clashed at arms twice, such behavior is not the normal goblin way. We do not stand and fight face-to-face with anyone. We prefer subtler methods.”

“I care not what your methods might be, only that they are effective.”

“Osang should belong to the goblin folk. Long have I said it,” whispered Old Hob, half to himself, “I agree to your terms, Axeman.”

Hob took another stride upslope.

“All right then, if you will not be a comrade at my side, then give me a trick to help me defeat Herla. And hurry, he has finished repairing his horse with blood from his wooden bowl. Surely, you must know some weakness I can exploit.”

The huge goblin shuffled another step closer. Brand felt the axe twitch at the nearness of Hob. It wanted nothing more than to cleave the monster’s head from its grotesque body, and for once Brand agreed with it. But he held it in check nonetheless, for Herla was moving again.

Herla became more distinct, his outline fully formed at the bottom of the mound. He was in the same world as those who stood conspiring on the hilltop. The Huntsman cast aside the wood shaft of his boarspear and drew his sword.

Brand snapped his head back to Hob, who had taken the moment of his distraction to creep another shuffling step closer. Brand looked high, fully expecting to see Hob’s lantern coming down to dash his brains out of his helmet.

But Hob didn’t attack him. Instead, he leaned down, stooping over Brand. His noisome breath washed over Brand as he spoke in a hushed voice.

“One thing I do know.”

“Speak!” Brand commanded.

“I know the true name of the hound that has ridden with Herla for all the long, long years.”

“Tell me.”

And so Hob whispered the true name of the hound in Brand’s ear, and Brand shuddered to hear it. For it was a vile and evil name, a unique name that none other on Earth nor in Twilight had ever shared with it.

“I understand now,” said Brand. “Herla is the one haunted.”

Hob nodded and retreated.

Herla lifted his sword in challenge. “Have you changed your mind, boy?” asked Herla. “As perhaps the only kinsman I recognize in this world, I offer you another chance before I must slay you.”

“I will not yield,” said Brand.

Herla nodded, having expected nothing less. “Know that after you die, I would shed a tear for thy passing, if only my eyes were capable of it.”

Brand held his axe aloft, and knowing that battle was near, it gave him strength. “I will not shed one for you, Herla. You and your hound have drunk the blood of too many. Come, meet the Axeman.”

And so with a ghastly cry of challenge, Herla charged up. The steep slope caused the charge to slow. Osang did not provide him speed or flight in this place, Brand was relieved to see.

Brand managed to sidestep the charge, but it was a close thing.

They came to blows. The fight was terribly uneven. Brand knew himself to be little more than an untrained farm boy. It was one thing to chop at rhinogs that were little more than hairy beasts. It was quite another to face a true lord of battle, who had fought for nearly a millennium from horseback, and who had slain thousands of men before Brand.

The only thing that kept Brand alive at all was the flashing axe and the guidance and strength of arm it gave him. And so he managed to meet the blade that licked out in silver flashes from Herla’s arm.

The stag antlers of Herla’s headpiece blackened out the stars from his vision. The Lavender Jewel Osang didn’t flash or blind him, but it did pulse with each stroke of Herla’s sword.

Brand backed away, panting, beating down the other’s faster, lighter blade. He tried to circle in front of the horse to get a low cut where Herla could not parry. But his opponent would have none of that and kept circling the horse to match him. Brand caught the other’s attacks, but just barely. Any lesser weapon would have failed him miserably. An axe was not meant for this sort of thing. Any axe is a weapon designed to bash down the enemy weapon, to knock it aside. One could not stand and parry and thrust with an axe. An axeman had to be on the attack, his only defense was to weave an attack such that any enemy coming close would be cloven in two.

But Herla knew of such tactics. He knew when to give ground and when to advance. And he controlled his horse with such precision that it was as if he had four legs himself. He knew how to get around an axeman’s guard, the moment to step in, when the axe had made its cut and was on a downward path. Before Brand could turn it and cut a new arc in the reverse direction, his sword would lash out, forcing Brand to stumble back or catch the sword with the haft of his weapon.

Judging he was close enough, Brand called to the dog. He did call it by its true name.

The dog reacted, lifting its evil head to eye Brand curiously. Herla and his horse cantered back a step, surprised.

The bloodhound met Brand’s eye, and Brand knew then that the thing was something more than a dog. It was something else entirely.

“You call my pet?” asked Herla, chuckling. “Do you perhaps think she will turn on her master? Maybe bite my hand?”

Herla stepped close to attack again, and such was the ferocity of the attack that Brand knew then he was lost. Before, the huntsman must have been holding back, testing him. But now he came on with a violence that no mortal could withstand. The blade flickered faster than the eye could follow. Brand wove his axe in a defensive pattern, but the tip of the sword slipped past and pierced his mail at the shoulder. His left arm hung limp and bleeding.

Brand called the dog’s name again.

The horse reacted as if stricken and threw its head. Herla struggled to turn it back to press his advantage. He lifted Osang to his lips and blew a single clear note. At the bottom of the mound, dark figures on horseback began to slowly appear out of the mist. Herla had summoned his coursers.

Brand raised the axe, willing it to flash its most brilliant. Ambros did as he bid, and a blazing light shone forth that would have burned away the flesh and eyes of any normal man. Even Herla was affected. He cursed and threw a black-gloved fist over his face. Then he recovered and moved forward, holding his sword out for a killing thrust.

“Sange!” cried Brand, speaking the dog’s true name a third time. Hearing it, the dog did alight, hopping from Herla’s saddle for the first time after nine centuries of riding.

Chapter Seventeen

Osang

The bloodhound landed on the ground between them. It looked from one to the other, and it lifted its lips from its sharp fangs and grinned at them. Brand saw something in its eyes. He saw the red glimmer of ruby light. Then it ran away down the slope.

“Blood magic,” said Brand, staring at it. He understood then, seeing the thing run from them, that it had long been Herla’s master, not the other way around.

Herla stared with him after the retreating bloodhound. He let his sword arm drop to his side. The coursers, who had been advancing up the slope, held their ground in a great circle around them.

“You have not defeated me, Axeman,” said Herla.

“No.”

“You have, however, freed me at long last.”

“So I had hoped,” Brand said.

“You are truly of the Clan Rabing, Axeman. I, as your King, wish to return you a favor for having freed me of the bloodhound.”

“Speak.”

“I grant you title to these lands, to these kingdoms of the Dead. I will tell you that if you drive out the evil that sleeps here, these lands can flourish again and times can be good for our people. There is a power here that has turned this place foul. A power like the bloodhound that was my master for all these long years, even as I dreamed that I was its master.”

Herla’s dead eyes looked down at the ground, and he pondered the earth which had awaited him patiently for centuries. Finally, the earth would feel the touch of his feet. “Do you know from whence came this mound?” he asked Brand.

Brand shook his head.

“It is a burial spot for our people. Here are buried all the kings that built these castles. To this place all our kings eventually come to rest,” Herla said. He lifted Osang then and winded it for a final time. The coursers moved uneasily in their saddles. Their steeds stamped, but blew no pluming breath. Each of them raised a weapon in salute of their king.

“Know thee all that Brand is now the lord of this land. The last living lord. The hound has jumped from my horse and our curse is finally lifted. We can step down from our mounts and rest our weary bones. I command you all to do so.”

After he finished speaking, Herla and all the Wild Hunt stepped down from their horses. The horses stepped lightly, feeling no burden for the first time in their memories. The horses melted first, then their riders. Herla still stood, however, after the others had faded to dust and black smoke.

“You are free, but your bones will still dissolve?” asked Brand.

“This is as it must be,” Herla said, nodding. “We have lived on in death for far too long. I thank you, Axeman.”

He raised his sword in one hand and held it high. In the other hand he held high Osang, the horn of Shadow magic, and he sank down into the mound. After a moment, only the horn and the sword remained lying at Brand’s feet.

Brand put his axe away on his back again.

He shed a single tear, not for Herla, but for the passing of the last king of humanity. He had been a force of evil, but even the Faerie had feared him, and it was hard not to be prideful of that fact. Possibly, for many centuries, Herla had been the only human they had not dared to mock or scorn.

Then Brand heard a raspy throat being cleared. He didn’t need to turn to know that Old Hob crept closer up the slope out of the shadows.

“Excuse me, lord Axeman,” said Old Hob. The huge goblin’s eyes were fixated upon the bejeweled horn which now lay upon the grass before Brand.

Brand nodded. With his gauntleted hand, he pointed at the horn. “I give you Osang, goblin, as was our bargain. But know this: the axe is a greater power than the horn, and the humans will ever defeat the goblins should you choose to wield it against us.”

Old Hob took several half-strides closer, knobby hands working together. A single long string of liquid dripped from beneath his cowl.

When towering goblin had dared come close, Brand brandished the axe and let it glow in Old Hob’s face.

“Treachery!” wailed Hob.

“No,” said Brand. “A clarification only. This is the boon I ask: You must marshal your goblins and their rhinog offspring and quit the field. You must withdraw and allow your goblins to make no more rhinog offspring with human women.”

“As thou wishes,” said Hob.

Brand nodded and stepped back.

A vastly long arm with a twisted hand and six long fingers stretched forward. With wickedly-curved nails at the end of each finger, the hand snatched the horn from where it rested on the grass.

Brand allowed it. He had no desire to touch Osang. He had already dealt with two of the Jewels at once. The very idea of placing his hand upon a third Jewel was unthinkable. He was certain that the burden of it would break his mind completely.

Hob took a huge breath and slowly let it out. He clutched Osang tightly to his chest. “Ah, the power of it,” said Hob. “It throbs and trembles against my breast, as warm as a fresh-caught maiden. Your debt is forgotten, Axeman. My wisps are freed, but I no longer hold you accountable for their loss. I will marshal my goblins and their children and march them from this place.”

Shuddering from the power of Osang and salivating with the joy of holding it in his lumpy green hands, Hob hurried downhill. He vanished when he reached the misty bottom of the mound.

Brand sighed, finding himself all alone in the silvery lands of the Faerie. “I suppose I must circle this mound nine times more to get back to my land,” he said aloud to no one.

A flittering golden ball of light came up to him then, and he recognized the wisp whom he had released for a second time this night. He smiled at her exquisite beauty and she lit up his face with her yellow glow. She blushed and curtsied in the air.

“I will lead thee,” she said, her tiny voice squeaking in his ear.

He startled to hear her, and she flittered backward in concern. “You can speak?” he asked.

She nodded. “My voice is too faint for a human ear in thy lands.”

Brand nodded in return. He followed the floating golden mote that was the wisp down the slope.

* * *

While Brand walked the Twilight Lands, Telyn again found herself feeling restless. The battle was over, her young man was gone to places unknown and the combination was too much to be borne. She helped with the wounded for a full day, every few minutes gazing out toward the mound where Brand had vanished. Was he alive or dead? Did he lie in silver grasses, wondering if he would ever see her again?

Telyn took to heading out to the mound at odd hours, usually at dawn and twilight. He was most likely to return then. Sometimes, wisps appeared and twittered at her. She ignored them, not impressed by their ethereal beauty. Somehow, when one was truly worried and heartsick, the wisps were less enchanting to gaze upon.

On the second night of waiting and checking for Brand, she heard a strumming lute. She stiffened, but kept walking. The chords were lovely, and the sound filled the night air with a warmth that was unnatural for this time of year. Her head filled with the scents of lilac and honeysuckle. She knew of these tricks, however, and did not falter in her step. She turned away from the mound and headed back toward the ruined castle with an even stride. She promised herself she would not stop walking, nor would she deviate from the path until she reached safety.

The lute and presumably the player followed her. She did not look around over her shoulder, although she burned to do so. Every dozen steps she reached up and touched her ward—making sure she had not somehow lost it. The grasses beneath her feet took on the silvery quality of the Twilight Lands, and she looked up to see the moon was riding high and was no long obscured by clouds.

The player came to walk with her across the lonely field.

“Lovely night, is it not, darling?” asked Puck.

“It is cold and the air smells like stumpwater,” she replied. She was lying, but she did not want to give him the pleasure of knowing his enchantments were working.

The elf chuckled. She still did not look at him, but she could see out of the corner of her eye that he was living up to the name of the Shining Folk. He glimmered brightly in the moonlight as if filled with soft radiance.

“You are a stubborn one!” he said.

“If you must talk, tell me something useful,” she answered. “Tell me of Brand.”

“Must we discuss a boring river-boy?”

“You could leave me in peace instead.”

“Ah, but I sense you came here for love! If Brand does not return, will you not dance with me? I could make you forget him.”

Telyn broke her vow to keep walking. She stopped and drew her knife. She raised it to the elf, and he backed away, throwing himself down upon his knees.

“Oh please!” Puck said mockingly. “Put away your blade! Do not sever my head from my shoulders. I will make amends.”

Telyn huffed and began walking again. Suddenly, the elf was at her other side, whispering in her ear. “I can tell you about Brand, if you will tell me something first.”

She stopped again and looked at him. He was lovely to look upon. The very opposite of crude, craggy-faced river-boys. He was refined and sculpted and—almost perfect.

“What do you want to know?” she asked.

“Tell me of the Blue Jewel. What will be done with it?”

Telyn nodded slowly. “Ah, I see now why you have come. You are your father’s lackey. You are here to wheedle and plead for his foolishly lost bauble. Well, I don’t have it, and I’m not in charge of its keeping, either.”

For a fraction of a second, the elf registered anger on his face. He stared at her, and his lips twitched as if they wished to pull into a tight snarl. She tightened her grip upon her knife. At his side, she noted now, he did carry a rapier. If he drew it and lunged, she was not sure she could defend herself.

Puck watched her closely. After a moment, he regained his composure and went back to pleading. “Lovely lady, you wound me with your scornful words.”

Telling herself to stay more civil, Telyn began walking toward the castle once more. It was difficult to turn away from him, to force her feet to begin moving again. Hadn’t she made a pledge to herself? Ah yes, she recalled it now. She was not going to speak to the elf. She was not going to pause in her journey or be turned to another path. So far, she had not kept her pledge. Her jaw set itself, jutting forward, and she forced her feet to move. Once she was walking again, each step became easier. She wondered at the elf’s power. Surely, without her ward, she would have been swept away and become his plaything. She shivered, although the night air was not truly cold.

Puck followed, pacing alongside her again. “My offer stands,” he said. “Tell me something of the Jewel, and I will tell you something of Brand.”

“I don’t know anything special,” she said. “Tomkin wielded the Blue and called the Rainbow. When he lost control of it, he handed it over to Brand, who commanded the Rainbow, as I’m sure you witnessed.

“Did the Wee One die?”

“No, he had a hard time of it, but he managed to survive.”

“Interesting. Did he hand over the Jewel willingly, or was it taken by force?”

“He was very weak at the time, but he did not fight.”

“Hmm,” said Puck. He did not sound happy with her answer. “And what of Brand?”

“He wielded the Jewel in Tomkin’s stead. Have your people no eyes? I would think you knew this story by now.”

“We have eyes everywhere,” said Puck, smiling oddly. “Sometimes, we even share your own with you.”

Telyn shuddered, and again had to force herself to start walking. She had unaccountably stopped.

“What I want to know,” said Puck, “is whether Brand wielded the Jewels both together?”

Telyn considered it. “Yes, I would say he did. But not quite at the same time, since he could only see out the Rainbow’s eyes or his own at one time, not both together. Still, they were both actively affecting him.”

“Very interesting. Now, I see the hour is late, and we are near your encampment. I will take my leave now, pretty maiden—”

“No,” she said. “I will not permit it. You will tell me of Brand, as you promised.”

Puck’s answering smile was wide, but insincere. “Of course,” he said, speaking through two rows of perfect teeth.

“Where is Brand?”

“In the Twilight Lands.”

“Has he been wounded?”

“Several times.”

Telyn sucked in her breath. “Is he mortally wounded?”

“I should think not.”

She sighed in relief. “What of Herla?”

“That creature has sadly passed on.”

She cocked her head and regarded the elf. “You feel sadness at the passing of such a monster?”

Puck drew himself up. “The Dead are merely in another state of being. We among the Faerie do not judge them as harshly as your folk tend to.”

Telyn shook her head and laughed. “We find bloodthirsty Dead to be unredeemable and thoroughly evil.”

“Nonsense!” said Puck, and she thought there was a ring of honest outrage to his words now. Perhaps with this topic she had somehow struck past his fawning façade. “There is no true evil—only the pleasant and the unpleasant.”

“Well then, I would most definitely say the Wild Hunt qualified as unpleasant.”

“A difficult point to argue,” he conceded.

The two walked together until they’d reached the foot of the crumbling walls.

“Good bye then,” she said as the elf lingered.

“Can I not be rewarded with token of affection?” asked Puck.

Telyn looked at him and shook her head. The elf was positively incorrigible. He stood expectantly, hopefully, and she found herself weakening. She straightened her back and thought of Brand’s face.

“No,” she said.

“Not even a single, chaste kiss?”

“Never,” she said, but she smiled at him as she left him at the walls and walked back into the encampment.

Chapter Eighteen

Homeward

When Brand left the world of twilight and returned to the world of sun and stars he found the area around the Faerie mound deserted. It was morning, as best he could tell from the bluish cast to the sunlight. How long could he have spent in that other place, he wondered? Perhaps, he thought to himself with a chill, it had been much longer than a single night.

There were a few rhinog bodies laying about, stinking in the sun. He thought they had a great stench about them, living or dead, but that in death they were probably worse.

He trudged wearily, wounded and sore, toward the damaged keep. The bright sun and his fatigue caused his eyes to squint. But even with his eyes half-open, he kept them sliding from side to side warily. Who knew how things had gone during his absence? Hob had promised to withdraw, and Herla had fallen, but there were still the merlings and the Faerie who might attack him.

After he had gone no more than a dozen heavy steps and had begun to consider removing at least some of his armor, someone hailed him.

“Oh hey! Brand!” shouted Corbin. He came up behind him and clapped him upon the shoulder.

Brand turned him a tired smile. “I’m very glad to see you made it.”

“I feel the same. I’ve camped upon that hill, waiting for two days now. The nights were hectic, let me say.”

“Thanks for waiting for me. Had it been a century, I would hope you would have given up.”

“Never!” beamed Corbin, “but seriously now, you must tell me how things went. We know that the Wild Hunt vanished. Soon after that the rhinogs withdrew, marching in the direction of the Black Mountains. They flew a white ribbon, so we let them go. I hope this was the right move.”

Brand nodded.  “It was indeed.” He told Corbin the details of his adventures in the twilight lands.

“So, you gave Old Hob the Horn of Shadow?” he asked, worriedly.

“I know, not the best of enemies to empower. But I needed his help to beat a greater evil and we struck a bargain. If you don’t keep your word with these creatures, there is little basis for ever achieving peace.”

Corbin nodded, for once he kept quiet about his own opinions. He turned to helping Brand remove his armor and bandage his wounds. None were life-threatening. Brand reflected that he made an excellent second. There was nothing the axe needed more to help balance a man than a trusted, cooler head.

Brand enquired about Myrrdin and of course Telyn. Myrrdin had never returned from the Faerie mound after the night Brand had told him he would not remake the Pact. None had seen him or Oberon from that day to this. Telyn had been sick with worry about him and had taken shifts upon the mound, as well attended Corbin’s. She had kept busy helping the wounded, hunting for food and scouting for the army.

Others of the River Folk army soon joined them as they marched to the ruins. The news of Herla’s destruction spread quickly. When Brand arrived at the encampment, the army was in fact packing up to march homeward. They had lost nearly a third of their number, but at least some kind of happy news was theirs to report.

“We will return here one day,” Brand told the assembled men when they had finally stopped cheering him. “We will make this place green again, and it will be part of the lands of men.”

The cheering was muted and more ragged as he talked of returning. Many of the men looked as if they would rather never leave the Haven again. Some, however, roared approval for his fighting spirit.

“I will say this last,” said Brand, pulling out the axe again. It provided him a burst of energy and good spirit. “We will not have the Faerie or any other folk as our masters again. The Pact was an arrangement of tribute. It was a servile, pathetic state for the River Folk. We will not buy peace that way again. By the Golden Eye of Ambros I do swear this!”

He lofted the axe and it flashed. Everyone there felt a ferocity of spirit overtake them, and their voices rose up to a roaring shout. They cheered and slammed their palms together until they stung. The walls of the ruins rang with the sound.

Brand marched to the boats and the army followed him. Brand saw Tylag and Corbin exchange glances, but he didn’t care. Not one whit. For he meant his words, Axeman or not, he would live and die by them.

They sailed home and none dared to delay them.

Brand’s heart grew heavy, however, as they approached Riverton. He feared, somehow, that the town would have been fired and ruined in his absence. Perhaps everyone he knew, save those on the boats with him, had perished in some attack while the army was away.

Corbin and Telyn had asked him about his dark mood, but he didn’t tell them what he was thinking. Best to let them enjoy the feeling of victory for as long as possible, should despair be waiting for them at home.

So it was, when Stone Island hove into view and everything looked right about it, his face split into a grin. Only Corbin caught on.

“You thought perhaps we were coming home to something awful, didn’t you?” he asked quietly as the boats all jockeyed to be first to the docks. The River Folk on the docks cheered to see the returning army. Soon half the town turned out, fluttering handkerchiefs and colored ribbons at them.

Brand shrugged. He knew there was no dodging Corbin’s mind. “Oberon and Hob were missing from the battlefield. Not to mention the merlings. Our army wasn’t home to protect our people and I didn’t know where the enemy might be.”

“You feared they may have attacked here,” said Corbin, nodding, “now that I think about it, the thought makes me shudder. Do you really think that our enemies might have fallen upon our civilians out of spite?”

Brand snorted. “How do you think the Dead Kingdoms came to have their name?”

Corbin nodded gravely but clapped Brand upon the back. Brand winced from the wound Herla had given him. Somehow, it seemed to hurt more as the days passed and it began to heal.

“Forget all those worries! They must have feared our vengeance too much to dare it!”

Brand thought about that as the celebrations began. As usual, there was wisdom in Corbin’s words.

After the celebrations, however, certain key questions remained. Everyone wanted to know the answers. Chief among them was the question of what was going to be done with the Blue Jewel. People seemed to accept that he was the Axeman now, that the Amber Jewel should be Brand’s to keep. But the second one, no one knew what to do with it. They all seemed to want to talk about the subject, however.

One night in a remote parlor of Drake manor, Tylag and Corbin discussed it with Brand. Tylag was of the opinion that it should be taken to the Riverton Council and there a decision could be made properly, in accordance with Haven law. Brand rejected this idea.

“I’ll not give it to a crowd of River Folk elders. No offense, Uncle, but they wouldn’t know what they were dealing with. Can you imagine Old Tad Silure with a Jewel of power? He’d drill a hole in it and sell it as a ward.”

Tylag had to laugh at that, but his manner was uneasy. Brand could tell his Uncle was handling him delicately, so as to not set him off. Ironically, just the thought of his Uncle having to dance around with words like that made him angry. He fought to control his temper, and the axe rolled around on his back restlessly. He had, by now, gotten a much heavier pack of thick black leather and metal studs to stow it in. He dared not carry it on his belt, it was just too dangerous. If even a child walked up and ran a finger down the blade, well, that would be a nine-fingered boy who went home that day.

“They all have read and heard of the Jewels,” said Corbin, supporting his father.

Brand laughed. “That’s nothing. Hold one in your hand and let it burn a hole in your mind. Walk as the Rainbow. Then face down the Faerie in their own lands. At that point, you will know what you are talking about.”

“No need for disdain, Brand,” said Tylag.

Brand took a deep breath, but he made no apology. “I’ll not leave the choice up to them. I know Uncle, this is hard to take from a youth, but I don’t think they can make this decision. They would want to keep it and would fight over who should try to wield it. Any of them that did might well end up like Dando. Either that, or they would want to trade it back to Oberon for a renewal of the Pact. I find both of these choices unacceptable.”

Corbin nodded approvingly. “Your logic is accurate. I can’t see another result from the council.”

Tylag shot his son a look of annoyance. He continued talking, but Brand could not do more than appear to listen. He tried hard to think about his uncle’s words calmly. He knew he was a wise man, but he also knew that Tylag really didn’t understand what the Jewels could do to a person. He understood his uncle’s point of view, but the argument remained.

“You don’t want to try to use the Lavatis again yourself, do you Brand?” asked Tylag gently.

Brand looked up. His uncle and cousin were leaning forward over the table, looking at him. He realized they knew he hadn’t even been listening.

He shook his head. “No. Absolutely not,” Brand said. His voice lowered, and sounded almost haunted. “I never want to be the Rainbow again. There is madness in its eyes. And if you walk as the Rainbow, I think you lose a tiny bit of your sanity, permanently.”

The others looked relieved and haunted by his words at the same time. Brand told them he had decided to leave Riverton and return to his own Isle.

In truth, Riverton seemed oppressive to him now. He needed room and time to think.

Chapter Nineteen

Parlay

When he finally did make it home, Jak welcomed him, but looked at him as if he didn’t know where his little brother had gone. He kept giving him sidelong, worried glances. Brand knew what was wrong. Brand Rabing wasn’t the same man at all.

For a day or so, he knew relative peace. He had grown up, and the world had changed around him as much as he had. His home wasn’t the same as before, but it was still good. He felt he could breathe easily again, and that was a good thing. But this breathing space didn’t last long. Very soon, visitors began popping up. Brand would soon find there was no end to them and that as the Axeman, he was never going to have much peace in his life.

Among the first visitors, and the most insistent, was Tomkin. Telyn had told Brand that after the Rainbow faded away and the rhinogs had retreated, Tomkin had recovered quickly. In typical Wee Folk fashion, however, he had not focused on gratitude for his life. Instead, he had fixated on the idea that Brand had made off with his Blue Jewel into limbo. Never mind that the Jewel had almost killed him and that if it hadn’t then the Rainbow, when it went mad, would surely have finished the job. What Tomkin wanted to know was where his Jewel was, and when Brand was going to hand it over.

Not knowing what to do, he put off Tomkin, asking him to return at the end of the week. Hopping mad, quite literally, the wild little fellow had run out of the place in a huff. Brand didn’t blame him. But he just didn’t feel he could hand over Lavatis to the folk who had so recently run with Herla as the vanguard of his coursers. At least not without thinking about it.

Before the week ended, he had several other visitors. Gudrin came next to the Isle and stumped up to his door. Brand threw it open before she could raise a fist to knock. He smiled at her and threw his arms wide for a hug. She blinked, slightly shocked, but allowed him do to it. He gathered that hugging wasn’t something the Kindred did often, but he didn’t care.

“I’m very glad you came, Gudrin. I need advice as never before.”

Gudrin nodded and sighed once they were seated comfortably. Jak withdrew to the kitchen and busied himself with mugs of coffee.

“I’m not surprised,” she said, “when one has wealth or power, that is when the decisions become the most difficult.”

“Why is that?” Brand asked. He didn’t doubt her, but truly wanted to know her reasoning.

“You see, when you truly have wealth, everyone needs you. That is when relatives come out of the stone itself needing a loan. This places the rich woman in the position of having to decide who gets help and who does not. She must decide who pays the rent, who eats and who starves. A poor woman has no such worries. Power of any kind works the same way. The more you have, the more others will seek it, and you must then decide how to distribute what you have.”

Brand nodded, seeing her point. As a lowly river-boy no one had much cared about his opinion, and the good part of that was they weren’t angry with him if he didn’t agree with them. But now that his opinion carried such weight, everyone around him was anxious.

“I’m finding new friends at my door every day,” he said.

Gudrin chuckled. “I’m sure they are very friendly until you tell them ‘no’.”

“Exactly,” said Brand. “But what I need help with today is what to do with the Blue Jewel. I’m assuming, of course, you are an impartial party in this matter.”

“No, I’m not,” said Gudrin, shaking her head sadly. “I can make no such claim and I doubt few can. But at least I can tell you that the Kindred are not seeking ownership of the Blue Jewel. But neutrality? Of course we are not neutral! We are very interested in who gets the Jewel.”

“All right then, I can accept your honest answer. Who do you wish to see with the Jewel after the dust settles?”

Gudrin frowned into the fire. She did not answer immediately. Jak brought out two steaming mugs of coffee, and Brand thanked him. Brand asked him to sit and listen to their talk, but Jak begged off, saying there was work to be done on the east side of the island.

Gudrin and Brand looked after him as he left. “It is the same way with Modi. They have strong opinions, and don’t trust themselves not to blurt out their thoughts at such a meeting.”

“Where is Modi?”

“Outside, watching the river for trespassers.”

Brand nodded. He was quite used to Modi’s paranoia by now, and he had learned to approve of it. “You still have not answered my question.”

“True,” said Gudrin, sighing. She fumbled with her Teret, but then put it aside again. “I can’t think of a single passage that would help in making this decision. Let’s list the possibilities. You could keep the Jewel, or give it to another of the River Folk. This would make you strong, but also create new enemies, namely the Faerie and the Wee Folk.”

“Exactly my thinking.”

“You could return it to Oberon, asking to remake the Pact in a new form. This restores the balance of power to what it once was, and has the benefit of stability.”

“I’m sure that is what Myrrdin wishes me to do.”

Gudrin nodded. “Besides that? I’m not sure. Find a neutral party you trust? I’m not sure I know of any.

“What if I gave you the Jewel, Gudrin?” asked Brand, eyeing her intensely.

She looked surprised. She laughed and sputtered. “I can hardly think of a worse fit for one of our breed than that of Sky Magic! Imagine! A creature that lived fully forty years before she first felt a raindrop trying to master the Rainbow!”

“I think you have the strength of spirit. Commanding the Rainbow isn’t like mastering the axe, it doesn’t drive you mad with bloodlust.”

“Perhaps not. You aren’t overcome with the berserkergang, that’s true, but you are quite easily driven insane by it. In case you hadn’t noticed, Brand, all of the Jewels are somewhat mad. Possessing any of them inevitably affects the mind of the bearer.”

Brand nodded, admitting what she said was true. Twice, the Wee Folk had tried to wield the Blue Jewel and had been overcome by Sky Magic. Dando had died, and Tomkin would have died as well had Brand not been there to interfere.

“So,” he said, “you don’t desire the Jewel.”

She sighed. “I’m too old. The burden would be too great.”

“There is one other option you have not mentioned....”

“What? Do you think to buy off the merlings and end your conflict with them with this gift? I don’t think they have the strength to wield a Jewel, Brand. They would only lose it to the first one strong enough to come and take it.”

“No, no,” Brand said, shaking his head. “Not the merlings. I’m thinking of the Wee Folk. Tomkin, most likely. He gave it to me as a matter of trust. And he survived his first attempt with the Jewel.”

Gudrin looked at him as if he had gone quite mad. “The Wee Folk? And a wild one at that? Brand, I can hardly think of a more chaotic bunch. The merlings are organized in comparison!”

Brand nodded, frowning deeply.

“I can see this decision weighs heavily upon you. But I’m afraid I’m here to make matters worse, and worse still after that.”

Brand looked at her unhappily and gestured for her to get on with her news.

“First of all, the Riverton council asked me to tell you they have officially declared you to be the Champion of the Haven. This is a new title, and makes you a lord. In fact, you are now the only lord of the River Folk.”

“A lord?” asked Brand, aghast, “we have no lords in the Haven. We swore off such things...long ago.”

She nodded and sighed. “Nevertheless, you are now a titled lord.”

“No, that simply won’t do. Do they plan to provide me lands and a tower and retainers? That is simply not the way of the River Folk. I’m not even a clan leader.”

“It hasn’t been your way for many years,” Gudrin conceded, “but you have to understand that everyone will feel better about your possession of the axe if you are a lord. You can’t be a person of great personal power and refuse the title of lordship. People expect it, they desire it. They want you to be a personage of greatness, so that there is an easy, understandable reason for why you are special.”

“Fine,” Brand grunted. “You can tell them I’m Lord Rabing, and I’ll take as my land the ruined Castle Rabing. That, at least, I feel I’ve earned.”

“Good enough,” she said, and then she gave him a hard look. “Have you already decided who will have the Jewel?”

“No. Not yet.”

Brand studied his mug of coffee. He didn’t like this title, it sounded more like a job than an honor. “They mean to send me hither and yon seeking out evil, don’t they?”

“You are indeed getting wiser,” she chuckled.

“In a way, that is probably a good thing,” he said. She watched him, not offering any comment. After a moment, he continued. “It’s the axe. This thing doesn’t want to sit still. Never. It craves adventure, and if I ever sit still, as I’ve been doing these last few days, it grows ever more concerned about every fly that taps at my window. Every deer seen nibbling at the melon leaves causes the axe to jump about in paranoia.”

Gudrin snorted. “I’m not surprised. We had the axe for a long while in our keeping, and we kept it far from any of our hands. All our folk who wielded it managed to slay great evils, but ever would they turn back upon our own people and slay them as well until brought down. Many eventually took their own heads with the axe.”

“Ah,” Brand said wryly, “I see now why you brought it to Riverton. Dupes abound here.”

She laughed, but turned serious soon after. “Lord Rabing,” she said, using his title for the first time and smiling at his alarmed reaction, “there is one last thing the Kindred would ask of you out of friendship.”

“We have no greater friends than your people. Ask,” he said.

“The goblins and their rhinogs have withdrawn from our mountains. But our problems are far from at an end. If you find you have a peaceful moment here, and the axe desires adventure, please come help us beneath our mountains.”

Brand nodded without hesitation. He felt the axe shift excitedly on his back.

“I will most certainly do so.”

Chapter Twenty

Telyn’s Kiss

Gudrin didn’t stay the night, but rather returned with Modi, who tirelessly rowed her back to Riverton. She said she planned to return to Snowdon with the good tidings of Brand’s victories and his plans to come aid them in the future. She bade him not to wait too long.

The axe, for its part, was enthusiastic about the idea. It wanted nothing more than to head off for a new adventure in a new part of the world. The more enemies encountered on the way, the better.

Brand quelled it and his own wanderlust with some difficulty. He still had not decided what he would do with the Lavatis, and the end of the week was approaching. He felt determined to give Tomkin an honest answer by then. He felt he owed the Wee One that much at least. But by midweek, he had still come to no decision, and the stress of it combined with the restlessness of the axe had put him in a foul mood.

Telyn showed up at the door as darkness fell over the island. A light dusting of snow came down behind her as he opened the front door and smiled to see her. She had a shawl wrapped tightly around her head, showing only her smiling face. The knife she had found back in the redcap’s armory was still ready at her belt.

Brand let her in and took the liberty of brushing the snow from her shoulders. Once the door was shut with a grinding of frost, she leaned close. “Are we alone?”

He shrugged and smiled. “Jak is about, but he is probably reading upstairs in his room.”

She looked scandalized. “Corbin isn’t here? I thought he was supposed to be your faithful second!”

“I didn’t think that meant he should follow me about like a hound,” said Brand shrugging and smiling at the idea, “he’s back with his parents in Riverton. Aunt Suzenna needs more looking after than I do. Her grief is all the worse with winter falling around us.”

She looked somewhat upset still, but the expression quickly dropped. She grabbed his tunic and kissed him by surprise. It was a hard, full kiss and his pulse quickened at the feel of her lips.

The axe interrupted by rustling and thumping his skull lightly. All but snarling, he pulled the pack from his back and tossed it onto a waiting easy chair by the fire.

Telyn cocked her head at him. “Is that axe a she? I sense jealousy.”

Brand laughed. “The axe is upset by squirrels in trees. Jealous yes, but I don’t think of it as female.”

“Does it move while it’s alone?” she asked, eyeing the pack on the easy chair, “can it move by itself?”

Brand shook his head and rubbed his chin, looking at the thing. When it was further from his body, he felt less irritable, but even so he was annoyed that Telyn had halted kissing and started talking about the axe. Perhaps, he thought, this was the thing’s evil plan all along. Perhaps, it had gotten what it wanted by distracting her.

“Now, where were we?” he asked, pulling her close.

They kissed for several minutes longer. Brand reflected that he had never had time like this to really be close and alone with Telyn. He enjoyed it thoroughly.

Finally, she stopped him with a soft hand to the chest. Brand looked down at the gently pushing hand with disappointment.

“Brand Rabing!” she said, laughing quietly, “You have changed! I recall being the one who chased harder.”

Brand smirked. He had his hands on her elbows.

“I have a confession to make,” she said, “I didn’t come here just for this.”

“No?” Brand tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

“I am enjoying it, don’t get me wrong. But there is something bad going on, down south along the Deepwood border. There’s a giant, Brand.”

Brand pulled her a fraction closer. He shrugged. “There are always giants in the Deepwood.”

“Of course, but this one has been raiding a pig farm in the Haven.”

“A pig farm?” snorted Brand. He managed to sneak in another kiss and she responded briefly.

“Yes. A farm owned by my cousins. A Fob farm.”

Brand sighed and let go of her. He put his hand to his face.

“What is it?”

Shaking his head, he walked over to his pack and strapped the axe to his back again. It shifted about excitedly. “Fine,” he said, “if that’s your purpose, I’ll be off. Just tell me where it is, and I’ll bring you this giant’s head for your father’s mantle down in Riverton.”

She pouted. “You are mad at me?”

“Not at all.”

“Liar.”

“Did you even want to kiss me?” he asked, suddenly feeling a pit of depression coming over him. All everyone wanted was his service. He had become the rich man Gudrin had described. Even his love wanted something for every favor.

“Oh, Brand,” she said, sensing his mood, “of course I did. Don’t be upset. We can go in the morning. Just because I came to you for help doesn’t mean I don’t really care about you.”

Brand thought about that, and took a breath. Perhaps the axe heightened every emotion, not just anger.

There were two easy chairs in front of the fire. The axe soon occupied one, while they occupied the other.

Chapter Twenty-One

Twrog’s Hunger

Twrog was back, barely a week after the second raid on the farm to ponder his third. He had his club, but he had run out of ham hocks. He had promised himself this wouldn’t happen. He had counted the hams several times, each time resulting in a different total, as often happened to him. But he was fairly sure he had about a dozen of them. This should have lasted him nearly two weeks, if he had only stuck to his promise to himself. He had sternly resolved to eat no more than one a night.

The very first night, of course, he had broken the promise by consuming two. He forgave himself this weakness. After all, it had been the very first time he’d tasted ham in so many years. Could he really blame himself for his lack of control?

The second day had gone poorly, however. He had consumed one ham for breakfast, figuring that after all it was indeed a new day. This left him starving by lunchtime of course, but he had managed to sate himself with a rather stringy black bear that he had dug out of its lair where it tried to hibernate. By evening, he lost control and gorged himself on the fourth and fifth hams.

And so it went throughout the week. He had miscounted, fortunately, and had several more than the dozen he had estimated. But they were all gone far too quickly. It was with great sadness that he gnawed on the heavy bone of the last one. He cracked the bone and used the shards to pick at his teeth dismally.

Within a few days he found himself eyeing the farm again. His foot hadn’t even healed over, and there had been no less than seven arrows and bolts he’d had to pluck from his hide. What horrors would he find waiting for him if he raided the farm a third time? He felt a new sensation as he eyed the farm this time. Twrog felt afraid of the River Folk and their wrath. Singly, they were helpless against him. But they were tricksy, and working together as a pack, they were dangerous and could cause him a great deal of hurt.

But his hunger would not leave him alone. The hams were forever in his mind now, his memory of their flavor sharper than before. He dreamt of them. Standing under the Rowan tree, he slavered over the heavy smells of the last pigs that still milled about the pens. He had to have them.

If only he could come up with a plan. He spent the night with his great arms wrapped around his knees, staring downhill at the farm.

The next morning at dawn he woke with a start. Birds scolded him from their safe perches. Squirrels cast sticks down at him. He considered uprooting their trees and giving them the surprise of their tiny lives—he had done such things before—but it was simply too much effort today. Besides, he was hungry. He had been here many times, looking down on the farm, while he was hungry. But today was different. Today, he felt he could do something about it. Today, he knew where they kept the hams. And so he stood and stretched, reaching for his club.

And he froze. Down in the yard around the farmhouse, something was happening. There were people down there. Four of them. They marched out toward Twrog. One of them looked shiny and glinted in the sun. Twrog had to search his hazy memories, but he felt sure that the man wore armor. He had not seen a man in armor in many, many years. He could not recall the last time, in fact. But he knew that a man in armor was dangerous. Such men knew weapons, and knew how to hurt a harmless fellow like Twrog.

Twrog growled and slammed his club idly into the trunk of the Rowan tree. It shuddered and burst with fleeing birds and at least one shocked squirrel. Twrog paid no heed to these tiny creatures. His eyes were fixed upon the man in armor. Had the farmers brought him to protect their hams? Just how many hams did they have left?

Twrog’s eyes narrowed in calculation. They would not have brought a man in armor for just their last broken buildings and a scattering few hams. They probably had to pay the armored man in hams, what else did they have? He nodded to himself with a growing certainty. They had more hams, somewhere. Plenty of them. Scores of them. Perhaps down in the basement. He might have to dig them out, and he vowed to do it. He would tear that house apart this time. They had unfairly hidden their meats from him, and made a fool of him. He would not leave again without having them all.

The man in armor walked closer. A few others with bows ready walked with him. He seemed to be heading toward the very spot Twrog stood. Could he have seen him? Or perhaps they had noticed the burst of birds? Twrog wasn’t certain, but he hunkered down and moved away from the hill, circling the farm in the forest. He would wait until the armored man was gone, then he would find those hidden hams.

Twrog managed to stick to his plan for many long minutes. He hunched in the trees, at the very border of the farm that was closest to the farmhouse. He would begin his search at the house, for he could not figure any other spot they might be keeping their horde of fresh hams. He was quite convinced by now they had a great number of hams. Probably in the basement. It would be cool and dark there, like a cave. They must have stacked them down there. Stacked them like cordwood.

After the armored man had long since vanished into the trees, Twrog made his move. He felt he was quite clever, actually. They had gone to the spot where they had twice seen him exit the forest. Now, he would surprise them with a trick! He was coming at them from a completely different part of the forest. They would have nothing planned to stop him now, he felt certain of it.

He gripped his club and regripped it. Slaver ran from his chin. The farm was quiet, and he couldn’t stand to wait any longer. He stood tall and marched out into the open fields.

At first, everything went very smoothly. He was wary, however. His foot had not yet healed, and it still pained him and caused him to walk with a limp. But as he approached the farmhouse and heard the whoops of the surprised humans inside, he began to run in a stumbling gait, dragging his bad foot behind. The thatch roof had not been completely repaired since his last visit, but they had done some work on it. Timbers shored up the beams, but it still sagged down deeply in the midsection.

He dug into the smokehouse first, of course. He was horrified to find it empty. He could have sworn that he had left a few hams behind in his rush to escape last time.

He roared in disappointment. It was so wrong! So unfair! They had taken their meats and hidden them. They wanted them all for themselves, these greedy little creatures. He swung his club with a heavy grunt and demolished the smokehouse once and for all. Splinters and smoldering bits flew everywhere.

He stepped up to the farmhouse next, and small screaming figures fled in all directions.

* * *

Brand was in a foul mood. Telyn had brought him here, and he had expected a fight. Instead, he’d found a lot of stinking pigs and a cold trail. She had neglected to mention the giant hadn’t been seen in a week. The thing could have been anywhere by now. He had no desire to trudge about in the Deepwood on the barest hope they might encounter the creature again. He was no tracker, no huntsman. He (and the axe, very definitely) preferred a stand-up fight. Brand found himself nostalgic for the circumstances of his earlier battles. Rhinogs didn’t make you go hunting for them! They came up and did their business and died where they stood, at least you could say that for them.

He walked with Telyn and her two cousins, glowering fiercely. His chainmail, the same shirt he had taken from the redcap’s armory, glinted and jingled as he walked. The Fobs all exchanged worried glances, eyeing him in concern. He tried not to notice this, as it would only irritate him further.

They led him up to a spot under a rowan tree and showed him where the earth was trampled down. They explained the giant had often watched them from this spot. They figured that he might just come back at any time.

In fact, they stared at the trees around them and gripped their bows tensely, as if they thought the monster might burst out upon them any second. Brand snorted. They weren’t cowards, not exactly. Cowards would not have come out to a giant’s favorite spot in the first place. But they were a nervous bunch of farm folk. Telyn nosed around in the trees, showing more bravery than her cousins.

“Come out! Come out! Come on, worthless, fat oaf of a giant!” shouted Brand at the trees. The Fobs looked at him, startled. He grinned at them. He thought suddenly, strangely, how easy it would be to pull out the axe and slay them both. He would make quick work of it, that was for sure.

He shook his head and took a deep breath, trying to settle himself down. His mood dampened somewhat. He told himself that was the axe talking. It was bored, and had been promised a fight, and now it wanted blood. Any source would do.

The Fobs were staring now. They weren’t staring into his eyes, but rather.... He looked down and noticed he had the axe in his hand. He could not quite recall having pulled it out of his pack.

Even the axe made him angry. He gave it a good shaking, cutting about at the air with it. His throat burned with a growl.

“Brand?” asked Telyn from behind him. He almost whirled, but caught himself. He didn’t want to face Telyn like that, with the axe in his hand and having a good grip on his mind. Lavatis, which still rode in his pocket, wasn’t helping. The Blue Jewel was not in contact with his skin, but his mind was affect just by carrying it. His mind, for its own part, squirmed.

“Brand, I don’t see the giant. Why don’t you put that away for now?”

Brand took another breath and nodded. He put the axe away, slowly.

“Sorry,” he said briskly, “the axe is just bored, that’s all.”

He noticed the Fobs were all a fair distance from him. This made him grin. They were afraid of him. Telyn blinked and smiled in return, hesitantly. She took a step forward, but only a single step. Brand figured there must be a wolfish quality to his grin.

He threw his hands up and laughed a true laugh, shaking his head. “It does that sometimes,” he explained, “if I become moody, just back away. Telyn will handle such moments, she’s very good at it, as you have just witnessed.”

Before any of the Fobs could speak, however, a great cracking sound came to their ears. The sound was rather like that of a tree being felled in a forest. It came from the direction of the farm, behind them.

“The giant!” said Brand, and the grin slashed open his face again. He showed all his teeth and flashed out the axe.

“Brand?” said Telyn at his back, but he didn’t stop. He was running and the axe was out, and life was good again. The others ran after him. Let the fools follow. Let them play with their bows. He would give them a show.

When he came out of the forest and first saw the giant he felt surprise. Not shock, but surprise. It was bigger than he had imagined. Its head rode even with treetops, as high as any farmhouse chimney. The legs would be all he could reach, most likely, the belly being too high, about ten feet up.

He ran faster.

The giant, having finished with the smokehouse, advanced upon the sagging farmhouse. Children and oldsters ran from the windows and doors.

Brand gritted his teeth and ran hard, wishing he had a horse. He had less than a quarter mile to go when the giant took hold of the roof. The giant’s arms bunched, then relaxed as the roof came away. Brick walls shivered and fell partly to rubble. A plume of smoke and dust curled around the huge head as the giant dipped its face down into the interior, looking for something.

“What do you hope to find, monster?” roared Brand, hoping the challenge would slow it. The monster showed no sign of hearing. Taking up its great club again it beat down the walls with methodical swings. Brand was surprised at its power, but didn’t slow his step or feel even a thread of fear.

The giant was digging now, tearing into the floors. The second floor pancaked down onto the first. The giant smashed its way further in, standing fully in the house’s remaining walls. Suddenly, it went down to one knee. Brand realized that it must have driven a leg down into the basement.

Roaring, the thing continued to smash downward with its club, widening the hole.

Brand raised the axe, he was near the monster now. He commanded the axe to flash, and was gratified to see the great head wince. A thick-fingered hand came up to shield a misshapen face.

Brand was winded, but cared not one whit about it. He began slashing. A huge hand batted at him, as if he were an insect to be shooed away. The ends of two great fingers fell into the barnyard. A great gout of blood burst from the severed fingers and the giant loosed a howl of pain.

The giant threw handfuls of bloody bricks at him. One struck his head and his skull rang inside as might a bell. He saw arrows sprout from the giant’s face and chest, but both of them knew arrows were insignificant.

The giant had its foot free of the cellar. With its good hand, it lofted a massive club.

Twrog turned to face the Axeman, and the Axeman did what he had to do. He did not step back, he did not quail in fear, he did not worry about the brick that had that left one eye shut and swollen. He charged in close. The club whistled down, striking explosively where he had stood a moment before.

Brand came close enough to slash at the legs, making the giant back up. It smelled of sweat, blood and crushed leaves.

The giant’s leg slipped into the hole it had made so recently. Brand swept with the axe once more, slashing open the great belly which was now within reach.

An ear-breaking roar sounded. The great oaken club swung and Brand’s axe flashed to intercept it. Brand was shocked that club didn’t give way to the sharpness of the axe. Any normal wood should have parted, but the club was not a normal club. It caught Brand and sent him sprawling. Only the giant’s awkward position kept Brand from being dashed to death upon the ground.

Struggling to rise, Brand wondered if he lived his last moments. One more swing and the giant would have him. But the giant had other concerns. Holding his slashed open belly up with one hand and dragging his club with the other, he yanked loose his foot and ran for the Deepwood with a rolling gait. As he ran, he gave great honking cries, like blasts of a huntsman’s horn.

Brand judged the giant’s pace, and decided he could never hope to keep up. He thought vaguely that he needed to get a horse for these adventures.

He let himself sag down in the dust. Bricks pressed against his back, but he didn’t care.

Telyn came to him and ran soft light fingers over his face. The fingers felt nice and he smiled with bloody teeth at her. She was saying something, but he didn’t know what it was.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Tree-bones

When his eyes fluttered open again, he saw a different face looming over him. It was Myrrdin. He struggled and sat up, grunting. Telyn and her cousins had dressed his wounds. He found himself leaning against the side of the barn in the shade. They must have dragged him here.

With a sudden jolt of worry, Brand looked for his axe. He found it still in his white knuckled grip. He had not released it, even when his mind had left his body behind. He sighed and put the axe into its sack and rubbed his face. The axe did not complain, as it had let blood flow today.

“Welcome back, Myrrdin,” he said, trying to sound cheery and failing.

Myrrdin chuckled and pulled a kitchen chair with a missing leg from the demolished remains of the farmhouse. He propped the broken chair against the barn and sat beside Brand. “I came to see how you were doing as the bearer of two great burdens. Not so well, it appears.”

“I’m doing quite well! You should have seen it. Did the others tell you? The thing was huge. Not as huge as the Rainbow, of course, but bigger than anything else I’ve ever faced.”

“I’m told that before you caught up with that unfortunate giant, you nearly turned the axe on the Fobs.”

Brand growled. “That’s gratitude for you!”

“Oh, they are thankful. But they are still afraid. Of both you and what may come out of the Deepwood next.”

“Afraid of me?”

“Brand, you are not acting as your normal self. You are bearing two Jewels. Many minds would break under the weight of just one.”

“I only wield the axe. I never touch Lavatis.”

“Yes, that is wise. But the Blue Jewel is still affecting you. It magnifies the fury of the other. It makes it harder for you to resist. You must give it up.”

“The Fobs all live and the giant is gone,” complained Brand. “What more do people want?”

Myrrdin shook his head sadly. “They want peace, not vengeance. None of this had to happen. Many have died here.”

Brand eyed Myrrdin coldly. His eyes were slits. “So, what do you really want, wizard?”

Myrrdin took a deep breath, but Brand put his hand up to stop him from answering. He struggled to his feet. “Don’t speak, for I know the answer. It is plain on your face. You want the Blue Jewel for your own.”

“No Brand,” said Myrrdin gently, as if he were addled. “I want to return it to Oberon, who has wielded it for so many years. He kept creatures like this out of the Haven for two centuries.”

“I think we can handle our own affairs now. As should be self-evident from the state of that giant.”

“Oh yes, he was mortally wounded, of that I have no doubt. But it’s a sad thing to be forced to take a life, Brand. Oberon kept this tragedy from occurring without killing anyone. He could have kept the giant in the Deepwood, where it has dwelt for so long. Even I took pity upon Twrog long ago when I found him there.”

“So, you once took pity upon that giant?” asked Brand becoming furious. Every time a story of Myrrdin and the Faerie came to his ears, the tale ended in deep sorrow and death for the River Folk. The pity was always bestowed upon some other creature. “You admit yet another mistake that has caused my people yet more grief. Come with me, we will find the truth behind this giant.”

Brand stood up and didn’t want to listen to any more nonsense from the Fobs or the meddling wizard. He marched into the Deepwood following the blood trail. Myrrdin followed him quietly.

They marched for hours, until at last the shadows stretched long between the trees. Night fell, and still they kept marching. Brand’s axe lit the way, showing the giant’s trail clearly. Brand marveled at the giant’s vitality. A man would have succumbed to death miles earlier. It was early morning the next day when the two of them finally came to an open glade surrounded by vast thickets of spiny vines. The giant had run through these, blazing a trail through the twisted morass of wild growth. In the center of the glade was a massive oak tree. The giant’s corpse rested against the trunk amongst the black, snake-like roots. So large was the oak that it dwarfed even the giant’s body. The tree itself had been broken, the top half having long ago been torn away. Like a broken black tower, the trunk stood alone in the center of the glade.

Brand stepped out into the glade and eyed the giant. The slack face drooped down upon the chest. Somehow, seeing the great being in death caused him to feel a twinge of pity for it. There were so few of its kind, and he could see that in many ways it was like a huge lonely child.

“Why did he come here?” he asked aloud as the Myrrdin came out of the forest behind him. He turned to Myrrdin. “Why did Twrog come here to die?

“I’ve told you about this spot before. Recall the story of Vaul. This is the spot where I came to possess the Green Jewel.”

Brand marveled at the tree, circling it. He remembered the tale well. Myrrdin had told him that he had found it inside a huge tree in the Deepwood. He had dug it out of the tree with the help of a giant. Brand nodded slowly, understanding now. Twrog was the giant who had helped Myrrdin dig the Green Jewel from its living encasement.

“And the club? It is a piece of this great oak, isn’t it? That is why it didn’t shatter when I struck it with the axe. It was enchanted by your Jewel.”

Brand mounted the tree, climbing up some fallen limbs.

“Sometimes Brand,” said the wizard, “it’s best not to look too closely at the past.”

Brand ignored him. He climbed up until he could see into the rotted core of the huge trunk. He saw where the Green Jewel must have been discovered. Encased inside the core of the trunk were white bones.

But the bones enveloped in six feet of solid oak did not surprise him. He had known that the previous owner of the Green Jewel had been overcome by it, and had been consumed by it. The power of the Jewel was the creation of huge, roiling growth, and that was also the danger of it. Unless one mastered the Green Jewel fully, the wielder could become one with the greenery it so loved to create.

So, what surprised him was not the presence of the bones, but their size. The finger bones, each as thick as his own arm, were upraised from the core of the trunk upon a wrist of even thicker bones. Clearly, he looked upon the entombed skeleton of a giant, a giant that was even larger than Twrog. The upraised hand had once held Vaul and in a final act, had lifted the Jewel up to keep it from being consumed by the uncontrollable growths. The love the owner had for Vaul was beyond all else in the world. Even as Vaul killed her, the giant had reached up to ensure that the Green Jewel was the last thing to be consumed by the great tree’s trunk.

“She loved the Jewel more than even her own life, didn’t she?” asked Brand.

Myrrdin looked troubled. He had come to stand near Twrog’s foot, which was still caked with black forest earth and dried blood.

“The hand is here, Myrrdin, just as you said,” Brand said, “but you left out a critical detail. The hand is that of a giant. One even larger than Twrog here.”

“Yes,” said Myrrdin. He did not raise his eyes to meet Brand’s.

“She was his mother, wasn’t she? The giant you slayed to take the Green Jewel.”

Myrrdin sighed. “It was a very long time ago, Brand.”

Brand laughed. “You lied! No wonder you took pity upon Twrog. Compared to you, this creature was an innocent.”

“The Jewel consumed the she-giant. I didn’t slay her.”

“Nonsense. Come clean, man! Don’t you have enough riding on your conscience without more pretentions and deceptions? You did something. Something that caused her to wield the Jewel before she had mastered it, perhaps.”

“Brand, you have to understand the times. I was much like you. Young and new to battle. The last armies of your people were following me. They needed strength to stop Oberon.”

“Something vile. That’s what you did,” said Brand. He hopped and slid down the branches of the great oak to look up at Twrog’s corpse.

“Brand, you should understand better than anyone. What would you have done to save your people when we faced Herla in the Dead Kingdoms? Or, to put it more clearly, what would you not have done?”

Brand rubbed his chin with the attitude of one that was puzzling something out. “Oh, I’m not saying I’m better than you, wizard. Not that at all. I’m not saying I would have done anything different. But I am enjoying your discomfort. Let’s have it all out now, the truth.”

Myrrdin sighed and shook his head.

“None of that now. I’m going to get to the bottom of this. Corbin could do it, and so will I. First, there was how you found the place. The Deepwood has a thicker, more lush growth of trees and brush than anywhere else known to us. That’s what attracted you here, to search for the Jewel. You knew it must be here somewhere.”

Myrrdin flashed him a look of sheepish annoyance and did not answer.

“Ah-ha!” shouted Brand. “I can see I’m on the right track. Let’s see, you figured out the she-giant had the Jewel. But giants are a simple folk, probably it would be difficult for her to master Vaul. Apparently, she knew this and you had to force her to do use Vaul’s power. So you...you went after her child, didn’t you? You captured him, tormented him perhaps. And so she used the only power she had, the Jewel, and it consumed her. After that, all you had to do was dig it out of the trunk. Am I missing any important bits?”

Myrrdin glared at him. “Let’s talk of other things.”

“Let’s finish the tale. Out of pity for the giant child, you cut him a great branch from this trunk and fashioned him a club from it, so he could survive alone in the wilds.”

Myrrdin looked up, thrusting his chin high. “Your deductions are close enough. But let us finally talk of current events. That’s what matters now. What do you plan to do with the Blue Jewel?”

“Oh, that? I’m supposed to hand it over to you. Perhaps you would be so good as to transport it for me to Oberon.”

Myrrdin shrugged. “You can walk the mound in Riverton and give it to him yourself, if you like.”

“No. No, I will not.”

“And why not Brand? Why not return it to the rightful owner and cause ruffled feathers to lie flat again? You might achieve another century of peace for your people.”

“What will Oberon trade me for the Jewel?”

“What do you suggest?”

Brand smiled widely. “I suggest an offering. Let them toil all year long, every year, and then bring to us the results of their labors. Magical cloths, rare gems and delicacies such as the fruits from their fantastic orchards.”

Myrrdin sputtered. “What nonsense! None of Faerie would toil for an instant to give their goods to the River Folk! Your demands border on the insane, Brand. The sibling Jewels have addled your mind.”

“Nevertheless, that is my price. Humanity has two Jewels, the Faerie, so far as I know, have none. If they want parity with our strength, they must face reality. They are no longer our overlords.”

“What you speak of is unthinkable. I would not even dare discuss it with Oberon, for fear of losing my head.”

Brand shrugged. “You wield the Green Jewel, you have nothing to fear from them.”

Myrrdin peered at him closely. “You have no intention of returning the Jewel to Oberon, do you? This is not a serious offer.”

Brand peered back. He advanced a step and then stood close, facing the wizard. “Every story involving the Faerie and humanity is one of woe. Almost always, the sorrow has been upon the human side. This will not continue to be the way of things.”

Myrrdin nodded slowly. “I understand now how my sire felt when I abandoned him. He raged and he wept. He felt I was a traitor for a long while, that which he had raised as his own son had turned upon him. The same has happened to me this day.”

Brand nodded in return. The axe wanted him to draw it. The desire was sharp in his mind. But he resisted the urge. “You have guided us for very long, Myrrdin, and we are grateful. But those times have come to an end. I will not return the Haven to the quiet servitude of the past. We will not bend a knee to any other folk.”

“Oberon will not be pleased.”

“If Oberon has more to say on the subject, he is welcome to come and discuss it in person.”

Myrrdin walked away from him then, as darkness fell over the Deepwood.

Brand was left pondering the dead giant, the broken trunk of the oak, and the huge skeleton that lay entombed within it.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Brand’s Decision

On the seventh morning, Tomkin showed up promptly at dawn. He rapped upon the door of the Rabing house with great tenacity until it was opened.

“‘Tis the end of the week,” said Tomkin, glaring up at Jak, who nodded and let him in.

Tomkin stood upon the table between the two easy chairs. Brand came in with two mugs of steaming broadleaf tea. He offered one to Tomkin who took it and drank greedily.

They eyed one another for a moment.

“You have made your decision,” said Tomkin, “I can only assume you’ve decided to swindle me, as there is no welcome in your eyes.”

“Perhaps you are right, Tomkin my friend.”

“Friend?” spat the manling. “You dare use that word? It was through the power of that word that you first robbed me of Lavatis! Do you know what they say—my folk?”

Brand smiled thinly, amused by the Wee One’s manner. Tomkin had begun to strut back and forth upon the table, gesturing with long-fingered hands. He reminded Brand of a rooster putting on a display for a flock of gullible hens.

“Tomkin the fool, Tomkin the mooncalf. That’s what they say. My own relatives snortle behind their palms. Taken by a river-boy, he who has prided himself for decades—”

“Tomkin,” interrupted Brand, “I’m giving the Jewel back to you.”

The manling froze with both hands waggling every finger high over his head. He cocked his head at Brand and for once in his long life he was struck speechless.

“That’s why my heart is heavy. You are a friend, and I fear that the Jewel will be your undoing, as it has been for so many others.”

Brand produced the Blue Jewel, which did flash like the brightest summer sky as it came out of his pocket. He tossed it, rattling on its chain, to Tomkin. The manling snatched it out of the air and held it tightly to his chest, as a mother might hug her long lost babe.

“I—” said Tomkin, halting for a moment. Brand could tell that he was almost unable to speak. The Jewel reflected in his obsidian eyes. “I can’t believe it. I know now that the Wee Folk can truly call you friend. None other has made a gift to us, other than the tip of a boot or the spittle flying from their lips.”

“I only hope the River Folk and the Wee Folk can work together now. All changelings must be removed.”

“Of course,” said Tomkin quickly. “We will guard your borders as scouts. Not a rabid squirrel will set foot in the Haven without a prompt report being made to Riverton.”

“Great,” said Brand, smiling. It was true, now that the Blue Jewel was gone from him he did feel more at ease. “Tomkin?”

“Yes, friend?”

“Just don’t lose it.”

End of Shadow Magic

BONUS Excerpt:

DRAGON MAGIC

(Haven Series #4)

by

B. V. Larson

Translated from the Teret, the compendium of Kindred wisdom:

Some worry that we drill too deeply. Nay, say I! Ever has it been that our strongholds do not grow upward, nor outward, but always downward and deepward. The Kindred derive their strength from the rock itself, unlike the many other races that scurry bug-like upon the cooling crust of the world. They think of us as living in cramped holes. Nothing could be further from the truth! Our worlds are infinitely larger than the surface dwellers can conceive. They stand proudly before stone towers five stories high, while the Kindred scoff at such miniature achievements. We do not need to build a city, we simply dig it out! Our walls are thousands of feet thick, our towers are as tall as we wish them to be, and a good team of Kindred miners can dig a new stone keep in a month.

Certainly, it can be argued that the creatures encountered grow in strength and ferocity as we go deeper into the Everdark. But that is only to be expected! If we keep our lanterns bright, our axes and picks sharp, we shall overcome everything that bubbles up at us from below. Let no goblin, nor spine-fin, nor tentacled thing, trouble our thoughts. The Kindred shall defeat them all in time, as we always have.

Have a care with the great wurms, however. Should one be encountered, very rare though they may be, the tunnels had best be blown down. Cleanse the dreaming mind of fantasies! The wurm means only death, not riches and glory! Fill the hole with bedrock, iron pellets and lime, then melt it all with coal-fire to make the plug hard and seal off the entrance forever against the dragon’s fire. Too many of our brethren have been burned to ash by wurms, and ever afterward our folk have sworn to never forget the lesson.

—Ursula of the Talespinners, written circa the Fourth Era of the Earthlight

Chapter One

The Ruby Tunnel

Modi’s expedition was in its third week into the Everdark. Things had gone well at first. Few monsters had been encountered and those that did come at them were small of jaw and short of tooth. The blind, croaking things that had wandered into their camp seeking a meal had been easily dispatched with flashing picks and snapping crossbows.

Along with light resistance, Modi’s company boasted many excellent finds in the deep. Milky chambers of crystalline helicates of every hue, taller than pipe organs, drew gasps of appreciation from the adventurers, but were of little value. Rich tunnels, laden with gold-flecked ore, were of somewhat more direct interest, but too heavy to be easily transported out. The nuggets of purest gold had gone into Kindred pouches as souvenirs, of course. Gemstones were plentiful, but of the less valued sort: garnets, turquoise, onyx, fiery opals and chunks of green jade crunched under their heavy boots. These thin pickings had long since been gone over by a thousand dirty hands before them.

It was only upon the third week, after they had entered and passed the region known as the Magnesium Bowels, did they find jewels that brought real smiles. Emeralds came first, only in small nodules, but often gleaming and unscratched by any pick before. Deeper still they found a network of twisting tunnels clustered with rubies. It was there, as they excitedly picked at the walls and gathered a rich harvest, the first of them fell.

A spine terror, of the sort the Everdark was famous for, took the hindmost of them unawares. Githa, their youngest and least experienced miner, was too focused on her work as she struggled to loosen a ruby as big as her fist from the ceiling. Impaled upon a six foot spine, she bled and called for aid. The rest of them set upon the beast and killed it in the normal fashion, driving a dozen pitons into the stony body and pulling the terror apart with ropes and hooks. Mindful of the thrashing spines, none of the rest of the crew had been seriously injured. But their vengeful shouts were short-lived, because Githa soon lay dead and cold upon the gritty floor of the tunnel.

Over the following days, their progress slowed as they wrapped the body and carried it with them, as was their custom. Never was a Kindred left behind in the endless dark to be gnawed by blind things, not unless no other recourse was possible. Githa would be carried up to the Earthlight and given a proper cremation, or at worst, slid down an available hot volcanic shaft if her body became too great a burden. Such were the ways of the Kindred.

Saddened by the fall of their youngest, the team gathered around Modi. Delicately, they suggested to the touchy warrior that they should head back home. He had glowered at each of them in turn, until they dared not meet his burning eyes.

“We’ll head back up,” he said finally, when he had satisfied himself that they had all felt his disdain. “But only after we’ve come to the end of this fine tunnel. We’ll take back a king’s ransom in rubies, and each of us will give an extra tenth-share to the bereaved family.”

They had eyed one another over this idea, but quickly came around to it. Having a debt to repay made them all the more willing to stay longer and gather as much as their bulging leather sacks could carry. Feeling they were carrying on for a good cause, their spirits lifted and they sang a tune that rang from the tunnel walls, as the Kindred are apt to do in both the best and the worst situations.

Modi, for his part, did not want to return without the mission being a clear success. A death amongst the crew was not a devastating blow, such trips into the Everdark were always assumed hazardous. But his father had all but forbade him to go, and that gave him his true motivation. He wanted nothing more deeply than to prove his aged father wrong. His father was fully seven centuries old, while Modi had barely reached his second. Such an age difference between two Kindred made for a great divergence in their modes of thinking. The young were always impetuous and headstrong. And while the old were by no means weak, they were certainly more cautious.

It was Modi’s intent to demonstrate that a strong will and a mighty arm could conquer anything the Everdark had to throw at him. And so Githa’s death made him all the more driven to find something bigger. Something much more impressive than a sackful of gems. He sought a hoard that would make everyone forget Githa’s death. A hoard that would cause them to draw in their breaths and widen their eyes when they saw it.

They followed the tunnel for two days on a winding, drifting track. As they went, they soon filled every sack with red jewels of the finest quality. This didn’t stop them from mining more, however. As they went, they carefully dug through their sacks, appraising each stone with cold eyes. Anything found smaller, anything found with the slightest flaw, was discarded in favor of each newer, superior find. Most of the emeralds and even the best of the gold nuggets were dropped, replaced with blood-red rubies fit for crowns.

Modi led them down the tunnel, and he was the first to feel the all-too-familiar puff of heat in his face. It served to dry his sweat, but was otherwise an unwelcome sensation. He said nothing to his crew and pressed onward. But soon there were whispers behind him, and these whispers turned into mutterings. He fought against the urge to stop and demand them to speak plainly. Then he would thrash the first of his crew who dared open his mouth. They sensed his darkening mood. For a full day, they stayed relatively quiet.

But then the sounds began behind them. Chittering noises at first, the sounds that falling pebbles might make. Everyone was filled with disquiet. On the third day after Githa’s death, the facts couldn’t be ignored by anyone. They were heading into a hot zone, quite possibly a lava chamber, and they were being followed by... Something. Most likely, from the growing volume, a lot of somethings.

Whenever the tunnels forked, Modi took the cooler route, the direction that flowed less hot air into his face. But still, the heat grew with each passing hour. They began to sweat, and then as the heat grew greater still, the sweat was dried from their brows as quickly as it formed there.

In a relatively cool twist of the tunnels, they found the plug. It was the end of the third day. And no one was happy to see the plug, save for Modi. It was a large black thing, as burnt, beaten and melted as an old iron kettle. They stood around it gazing upon the rough surface, and none spoke.

Such plugs were not unknown. In fact, many were mapped by the Kindred, for they were the ones who created them. Always a plug of this type, formed of iron and melted slag, represented a sealed off region of the caverns. Below this plug in the floor, which was a good dozen feet in diameter, had once been discovered something that had given their ancestors great trouble. The fact that this plug was not on any known map, that they had no knowledge of what was beneath it, was the most disturbing thing about it.

The Kindred are not a cowardly folk. Anything but, most will tell you. But when faced with lava ahead, the unknown below, and the creeping sounds of creatures following behind, even their brave hearts will fail them eventually. And so it was that upon the end of the fourth night after Githa’s fall, the crew approached Modi and made their plea. They wanted to turn back and head up the way they had come. They wished to make all haste, casting aside all unnecessary gear and carrying nothing but weapons, climbing necessities, Githa’s body—and of course, their rubies.

Modi eyed each in turn with disgust curling his lip.

“One more day,” he asked them. “Follow me one more day. I have a feeling about this shaft ahead. I know it looks worrisome, but I ask you for patience. I have led you this far into the Everdark and I ask that you don’t abandon me now.”

They looked to one another, uncertain, but in the end none dared to face his will, nor his very possible wrath. They gave him one more day.

Before their delicate mechanical contrivances told them that one more day had passed, they reached the lava chambers. The tunnel did not pass through cleanly as all had hoped. Instead, it ended here, in a fiery pit of molten rocks and unstable ground. Chimneys rose up from the chambers to fresh tunnels above, but none of them could be certain what lay in that direction.

Modi faced defeat. He ordered that Githa’s body be cast into the fires they found there, which glowed a lurid red upon the walls. None of them argued. The heat had set the body to stinking and none of them wish to drag home her corpse to her family in such a state. When her body slipped into the liquid stone from whence it had originally come, there was a flash of yellow flame. He faced his crew again, and everyone was crestfallen.

“At least it was a proper burial. I did not wish to turn from our path, but the Shaper of the Earth has sought to change my mind. We will return up the passage the way we came.”

After this pronouncement, audible relief swept through his company. But it was to be short-lived.

“You, Gamal,” he said, pointing out a relatively skinny miner who had long been the quickest to complain. “You are light of foot and quick of mind. You have a special mission. You will shed everything but the equipment required to climb. Follow these chimneys up to find tunnels with sweeter air above.”

“Alone?” asked Gamal. Some thought to hear a tiny quaver in his voice, but they would not believe it afterward. None of the Kindred quailed from a dangerous task rightfully given.

Modi’s smile was grim. “I can only spare one. You will carry a message to my father. We don’t know what is following behind. We can’t all go up the chimneys, as we don’t know what lies that way, and we would have to abandon all our riches to do it.”

The others looked troubled, but had to agree with his logic. They liked the idea of aid coming down their way. Modi knew, of course, they would never agree to abandon all their rubies, not unless death faced them clearly. Even then, that was a command they might not have followed. Also, everyone but Gamal liked the idea that Gamal would be the one to undertake this very hazardous duty.

Gamal drew in a breath and arranged his bristling beard. He nodded, and it was agreed. They used ropes and tackle to hoist him up the first chimney, and he called back he had indeed found a tunnel that was passable. A ragged cheer went up from the crew. He waved at them from the top of the shaft and they waved back. Then he was gone.

Distributing the weight of Gamal’s rubies evenly, and relieved of the burden of Githa’s body, their spirits rose. They turned to face whatever it was that had followed them for nearly a week now.

Skittering sounds came from the dark tunnels ahead. Grimly determined, they followed Modi back into the tunnels from which they had come and left the lava chambers behind.

Chapter Two

Unrest in the Haven

The River Haven, generally called the Haven by residents, consisted of the lands stretched along both shores of the Berrywine river. The river itself was the biggest in Cymru, about three hundred yards wide in most places, and ran south to north. The forests to the east of the river were called the Haven woods, and were generally considered more wholesome, while the forests to the west were called the Deepwood, a place full of thorny thickets and wild things. The Haven was bordered in the north by the great marshlands and the town of North End. In that direction, past the great swamps, lay the sea. To the south, Frogmorton was the farthest settlement to be found, surrounded on all sides by forests and mountains. And in the center of the Haven, in the midst of the very river itself, stood Stone Island. The island boasted cliffs of granite guarding three sides, all sides save for the east. Riverton, the largest town and the capital of the Haven sat on the shores of the east side of the island. There on the island, a patch of land less than ten miles long, the River Folk gathered for every festival and felt safest.

Mari had grown up in the Haven, and lived on her family’s farm on the eastern shores of the Berrywine. The Haven woods had long been the border to her world, and she had spent her childhood playing in the shadows of the trees there. But now, she herself was with child.

She had lain with an elf named Puck after All Hallows Eve, and he had left her with a new worry. She knew she was pregnant by the time the second snows came, in mid-November. She should not have known so soon, she thought. She was a farm girl, and she had witnessed the process of mating and birth. It should have taken longer for her to notice the swelling, but there it was, plain to see.

She had met with Puck and lain with him on the final warm days of the year, after the first snows had melted. Barely two months had passed since then. The world had turned a wintery white and it would likely stay that way until spring.

She was swelling very fast. It was not possible, not so quickly, but it was happening. By the time the family prepared for the winter festivals, she had taken to wearing baggy clothing. She had told her mother she was cold and feared falling ill. Fussing, mother had dug into the wardrobes and given her a heavy flowing cloak that she now wore night and day. The cloak worked well to hide a bump, but the bump continued swelling with alarming speed.

Less than three months in, she could feel the child squirm and kick. Every time it did so, Mari’s heart pounded with fear. What had she done? What had she made?

One afternoon when she thought she could get away without notice, she made her way out to the wheat fields. She took with her the ash leaf ward and her great cloak. Crunching through snow that would not soon melt, she stood at the edge of the forest. She cried for Puck. She cried out his true name. But he didn’t come. No one did. When the land fell dark, she returned home with tears on her face.

Somehow, when she got back that night to the house, her mother knew. She looked at her and saw that tears had drawn streaks on her face. Her hair had not been done up in a ribbon for weeks. Her heavy cloak could barely conceal her swollen belly and breasts.

Mother, hands on her hips, stared at her. It was a hard, appraising stare. Mari met those accusing eyes briefly, but then cast hers downward. That was the moment. Mother knew now, and both of them understood this.

The men of the house, of course, were oblivious. Father wanted supper, and nothing else. Mari was the oldest daughter, and her brothers only had eyes for other girls. To them, she was a moody, fattening sister, and almost invisible.

After the plates had been cleared away and the dishes washed, her mother came to speak to her.

“You didn’t eat much, Mari.”

“I’m not very hungry tonight.”

“Strange. A girl in your condition normally has quite an appetite.”

Mari made no reply. Somehow, every moment of denial kept the truth away from her mind and kept her going. What had she been thinking? She had told Puck they would owe each other nothing after they had lain together. That was a fine arrangement for a male. But it had proven disastrous for her.

Still, her mother’s hands were on her hips. She stood closer now, looming over Mari. Mari said nothing. She fidgeted with the ties to her cloak.

Mother bade her to follow and led her outside into the cold, fresh night air. They went to get firewood together. It was there, in the woodshed, that Mari confessed she was indeed carrying a child. She did not say who the father was. Not yet.

Mother’s lips were compressed into two firm lines. The lecture was long and stern and Mari fully expected it would come to blows, but it didn’t.

Mother told her that they would not tell father, not yet. Maybe not ever. They would go visit an old woman in the forest. A woman who sold potions and poultices. She was a Fob woman, and she was wise in these matters. Mother said that they would talk to this old Fob woman in the forest, and they would see what could be done.

Mari blinked back her tears, wondering what she meant. What could be done, after all?

Mother left her there in the woodshed alone, before any more questions could be asked in private. Mari loaded up her arms with firewood and staggered back to the farmhouse.

She wondered where Puck was and what he was doing.

* * *

Piskin had been bitter and vengeful before. He had been robbed of his lady fair, the maid Lanet Drake, after only a few happy hours. He had been abused by Dando, and although Dando was dead, that abuse he still listed in Piskin’s private column of debts unpaid.

The abuses had not stopped there, however. Oh no, fate and every other actor on the stage had a ready foot to kick poor Piskin. After Dando’s friends had chased him from his fairly acquired crib, he had tried to seek reasonable compensation. When another of his kind named Tomkin had stolen the Blue Jewel, Piskin had sought to seize it. After all, it was only right that the property of the dead Dando become his. Dando had greatly wronged him and therefore first claim went to the wronged party. Any court would have stood with him, he felt sure. It was irrelevant that none of the Wee Folk had ever respected the rulings of any court in history. Fair was fair.

But, had Tomkin handed over the Jewel, that which was clearly Piskin’s due? Far from it, instead the vicious bastard had done him a grave injury. His hand was off, and wouldn’t likely regrow for decades, perhaps a century.

If one of his glass-like eyes could have cried, Piskin would have shed a tear for his severed hand. What good was a changeling with a missing hand? How would one carry off a babe with but a single hand? Worse, far, far, worse, was the second question: what mother would accept a semblance of her child when that child was suddenly missing a hand? She would at the very least consult a physician and demand an explanation. Piskin knew that physicians were charlatans, the same as he, but if there was one thing a sham-artist did well, it was spotting others of his own kind.

And so it was that Piskin had no chance of seeking solace in the arms of a fresh maid. That avenue of joy, which he had waited out the centuries of the Pact to experience again, was cut off from him, just as surely as his hand had been removed.

What he dwelt upon now, as he sat upon a tree stump in the gloom of the Deepwood, brooding, was something else entirely. He wanted revenge. He wanted blood and pain and most of all, he wanted his enemies to regret greatly what they had done to him. They would be sorrowful they had ever heard the name of Piskin.

Accordingly, he had investigated the players involved in his mistreatment. He had asked among the growing throng of fools and run-abouts that Tomkin had gathered to him. These dupes believed the black-hearted knave Tomkin to be some kind of lord, some kind of hero. They didn’t tell him much and he knew he was unwelcome, but he learned of Brand and the axe and the disposition of the other Jewels.

Each of the powers involved seemed well accounted for. Brand had the axe, Tomkin had Lavatis, Hob had the horn Osang. The possession of each item of power was known, save for one. That one was the bloodhound. What had happened to that creature? What was that creature?

Piskin intended to find out. He sought out the one person who possibly hated Dando, Tomkin and Brand as much as he did. The one person who had been wronged by these foul tricksters. Oberon.

Oberon, Lord of the Shining Folk and sire of many of them, had not been seen much of late. He no longer danced upon the mounds. At twilight, he did not accost maidens and play his pipes as had ever been his favorite pastime. Piskin imagined that somewhere, in the Twilight Lands, Oberon was sulking. Perhaps he was bitter, even as Piskin was. Perhaps his hate ran as deep, and the wrongs heaped upon him were as poison in his mind.

Piskin smiled at the thought. It would be good to have a fellow vengeful comrade. He set off around the nearest mound, starting at midnight. Nine times widdershins did he circle the mound, and with each circling he became less distinct to those in the mortal world.

After the ninth circuit, he vanished completely.

END Excerpt

Be sure to read the rest of the Haven Series by B. V. Larson!

HAVEN SERIES

Amber Magic

Sky Magic

Shadow Magic

Dragon Magic

Blood Magic

Visit BVLarson.com for more information.