Books by B. V. Larson

HAVEN SERIES

Amber Magic

Sky Magic

Shadow Magic

Dragon Magic

Blood Magic

Death Magic

HYBOREAN DRAGONS SERIES

To Dream with the Dragons

The Dragon-Child

Of Shadows and Dragons

The Swords of Corium

The Sorcerer’s Bane

The Dragon Wicked

OTHER BOOKS

Swarm

Extinction

Mech

Mech 2

Shifting

Velocity

Visit BVLarson.com for more information.

Death Magic

(Haven Series #6)

by

B. V. Larson

Copyright © 2011 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 write this passage in response to those who claim we Kindred are secretive and ill-mannered. When questions are posed to the Kindred, individuals such as myself who’ve seen many centuries of life do not always give clear answers. We are thus labeled evasive, and are quickly accused of secrecy, duplicity and even conspiracy. As the Clanmaster of the Talespinners, I heard the complaints constantly.

Our detractors come from every possible group: the River Folk, the Wee Folk, the Dead and even the Fae in their myriad forms. To those who would mutter and grumble I say they would do better to hurl their insults into a mirror! It is always they who suspect us of great wrong-doing. The slander and whisperings are too numerous to count, but I will point out the worst here: We are known to many as the Battleaxe Folk, but we do not account ourselves as warlike. In times of strife we often withdraw into our mountain fortresses, but where is the crime in doing so? We are called secretive, but no characterization could be less accurate! Among the Kindred, there are no secrets. We may not care to share our lives with random outsiders, but that is only due to natural caution and hard-won wisdom. On this basis, I will continue to routinely reject the probing of foreign dignitaries without a qualm!

…after hours of quiet deliberation and healthful jacks of ale, I’ve decided to relent somewhat. In the interests of coexistence, I will pen a limited response to commonly made queries here. I will focus only upon our sacred text, which is known to us as the Teret, and upon our corresponding beliefs. The meaning of the word Teret in the language of the Kindred translates as “circle” or “cycle”. The Great Book is the core of our collected wisdom, gathered while watching the world beyond our stone halls for millennia.

One fundamental observation I can share with all: this world’s history should not be viewed as a linear sequence of events, but rather as cycles of repeating occurrences. Among all mortal beings, one cycle takes the form of birth, life and death. Among the Kindred specifically, we go through long periods of dithering and sleepy, pointless behavior—eras that often span centuries. But, when a monarch is selected from among us, the nature of the Kindred undergoes a drastic change. Like swarming creatures we become a people apart from ourselves, bent upon a single purpose. Peaceful dithering followed by frenetic activity, this is the cycle that defines us.

The world at large is driven by other cycles. Events of the past often seem eerily similar to those of the present. Although individuals are not destined to suffer the same fate as their ancestors, they are destined to suffer similar trials when caught up in one of these elemental loops of time. Slaves become masters and masters become themselves enslaved. The greatest creatures of the world sleep, awaken and then drift off to sleep again periodically. Their behavior is as cyclical and predictable as the routine-driven lives of our Mechnician clansmen, who are unsung heroes among the Kindred. They oil the clockwork devices which give our underground world life and sustenance. Their tireless repetition of appointed tasks aids us all, providing us with breath, heat and light in the depths of the cold earth.

Knowing now this fragment of Kindred wisdom, I ask the reader to look at events and faces around them and compare them to those of the past. What has gone before will come again. What will you do to make your mark upon this world as it spins under all of our feet?

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

Chapter One

The Gift

I need to find husbands for these daughters of mine. More than four score of them. Brand remembered Oberon’s words, and he remembered staring at elf lord as he said them. A year passed quickly, and when the time came he was ready for the elf’s return. There had been no lack of volunteer husbands, as it turned out. There had been too many, in fact. Brand had held a lottery and the winners were to meet him on the Riverton Common near the Faerie mound tomorrow as the sun fell.

When the big day came, Telyn did not want to let him go. He was her husband now, and her hands clutched at him as he made ready to walk out their door and head for Riverton. It had been his mistake, of course, to make plans to leave her on their first wedding anniversary. At the time, he had not even considered the significance of the date, having been very new to married life.

“It’s been a year and a day, Telyn,” he told her.

She gripped him. “Not yet. That’s tomorrow.”

“But I must go today, in order to be at the common in the morning.”

“It will rain. Let him wait a day.”

Brand shook his head. He kissed her gently. “The Fae will not understand. I will have broken my word with them. Who knows what ill they would make of that?”

“This is our anniversary,” she said. She stood with her arms crossed and her brow furrowed. “This is our day. It’s my day.”

“Listen,” he told her. “I thought we had worked this out? I can’t send eighty men to stand upon the mound alone waiting for the elves to appear. I must guide them and see that nothing horrible happens to them. Think of their mothers.”

“I’ve seen these prospective husbands,” she said. “That gaggle of ruffians doesn’t look like they have mothers.”

Brand chuckled. It was true, most of the men were Silures and Hoots, mixed in with various other ne’er-do-wells and layabouts from all over the Haven. A few were honest men in search of good wives. Most of the latter had lost their own women and were hopeful of new companionship.

Telyn pressed close, and he patted her absently. To him, she seemed overly worked up about this trip.

“Brand,” she whispered. “I’m with child.”

Brand blinked in shock. He opened his mouth, but no sound issued forth. He hugged her, and when he managed to unlock his tongue, he whooped and lifted her into the air. He set her back down again quickly, gently.

“Sorry, sorry!” he said, eyeing her midsection in alarm.

“I’m not going to break!” she said, laughing.

They hugged and kissed for a time. At last, she sighed and let him go. She pouted and demanded that he promise to return. He did so solemnly, then strapped the axe in a rucksack across his back and threw open the door. What he saw there made him stumble back a step.

Oberon himself was on his doorstep. From his posture, he seemed to be leaning close and listening. Brand felt an instant surge of annoyance. The axe upon his back twitched excitedly.

“This is a surprise,” he said stiffly.

“I’d hoped it would be!” said the elf. He bowed to Telyn, somehow sweeping up her hand and kissing it all in one smooth motion. “Congratulations, milady! When will your bounty arrive?”

Telyn reddened. “Early next winter, I should think,” she said.

“Excellent!”

Brand realized as this exchange occurred that Oberon had indeed been eavesdropping at their door and had overheard Telyn’s news of the coming child even as he did. A new flash of irritation swept through him. He tried not to show his anger, however. His face turned to stone. He tried to force a smile, but failed. He knew this was simply a matter of different peoples having different expectations, but still…knowing the elf had listened into their intimate talk disturbed him.

“Have you come to escort me to your lands, then?” Brand asked when he had regained some of his composure.

Oberon cocked his head. He stared for a moment with his very odd eyes. “After a fashion,” the elf said.

“Shall we be on our way?” Brand asked. He noted the elf’s eyes had drifted to the rucksack on his back which contained the axe.

Oberon snapped his eyes back to Brand’s and a smile flickered there. “Certainly! Let me show the way! Long has it been since I’ve entertained a human lord in my lands. I’m not quite sure how to be the perfect host.”

With a pasted-on smile, Brand delicately extricated himself from Telyn’s grasping fingers and followed Oberon out into the yard. For a time, he feared Telyn would trail after them. He glanced back over his shoulder to see her staring, eyeing the elf with stern distrust.

Oberon’s white goat stood waiting just within the trees. The axe twitched on Brand’s back when he laid eyes upon it. The beast turned its head and eyed him in return with one red eye. There was an unnatural intelligence in its gaze. Brand frowned at the creature as Oberon threw a leg over its back and grabbed up the reins. Brand had seen the creature only once before, at his own wedding. Had the beast been red-eyed and intelligent then? He could not recall.

Another thought struck him as he followed Oberon down through his apple orchards. Could this be the same mount Oberon had been riding when he led King Herla into the mountain passages so very long ago? A normal goat would have aged and died a hundred times over…but this one seemed anything but normal.

“I’ll need to take my boat,” Brand said, veering from the path Oberon took.

The elf lord turned and looked at him quizzically. “There’s no need for that!” he said, and laughed musically. “Come, I’ll show you.”

Oberon led him not to the low side of the island, the eastern side that looked out toward the Haven Woods. He went instead to the western shore which Brand and his family had often called the ‘high side’ of the island. On this shore, facing the tall trees of the Deepwood, there was a drop of some twenty feet into the flood of the Berrywine. The water moved faster past the high side as the channel narrowed and became more rocky. The high side was almost a cliff, although a crumbling one.

Trying to seem unperturbed, Brand followed the elf and the white-furred rump of his goat. He wondered if all this was somehow a great joke played upon him. Feelings of anger flared at the thought, and had to be stifled down. The axe was merely tense and looking for trouble, he told himself. He knew its sensitivities and paranoid concerns well by now. Still, he was on his guard.

When they reached the highest point on the western cliffs of Rabing Isle, Brand saw their goal. He stopped walking and sucked in his breath.

“A bridge?” he said in wonderment.

Oberon leapt from his goat and performed a sweeping gesture toward the river. “For you, Lord Rabing! I’ve toiled all night to construct it!”

The bridge was not made of stone, as the Kindred might have done. Nor was it assembled from cut tree trunks as the River Folk would have built it. Instead, it seemed to have been grown there, and was formed of a single, looping vine of bright green foilage.

Immediately, Brand thought of Myrrdin. He’d not seen or heard of the wizard this last year. Not since they’d had a falling out and warred with the elves upon Snowdon’s shoulders. Surely, this growth was his work.

“Am I mad?” Brand asked Oberon. “Or is this the work of Vaul?”

Oberon looked at him sharply. He paused before answering. “Not exactly. It is an experiment of sorts. You see, I wield the Red—”

“And Myrrdin wields the Green, yes, I know.”

Oberon continued as if the interruption had not occurred. “This is a blended thing. An intertwining of both.”

Brand blinked at the bridge, trying to absorb Oberon’s words. “You mean…you’ve mastered both Jewels? You’ve worked the Red and the Green together—upon my island?”

“After a fashion,” said Oberon. He hopped back upon this goat as he spoke further. “You see, I grew a seedling…a very special seedling…using the power of the Red and the nodules that the Green naturally produces.”

“So you plucked seeds from the Green? Did it turn into a tree again?”

Oberon turned him a slit-eyed stare. “You know about that, do you?” he asked. He shook his head and made a tsking sound. “Ever was Myrrdin’s tongue loose in his head.”

The elf guided his goat out upon the vine bridge. Huge leaves wavered as he brushed by them. Brand followed hesitantly, feeling his way with wary, shuffling boots. The bridge was little more than a two-foot thick growth that arched over the river. It was worse than walking along a fallen tree. A log was at least straight and had bark to give one’s boots something to grip upon. This vine was not slick, but it was freshly-grown and smooth. There were huge triangular leaves thrusting up on stalks all the way along the path as well, obscuring it and providing things for a man to kick and stumble over.

Oberon pressed ahead, crossing the bridge without concern. “Come along!” he cried over his shoulder. “There is something on the far side that may interest you.”

Brand stood on the vine and grimaced. He looked down into the river, and gauged he could survive the plunge if he went down. He would probably lose his boots and his dignity, but at least none could say afterward that he’d quailed and balked in fear. What was the elf’s purpose? He had to wonder about it. The entire affair could be a matter of idle caprice, or it could be a sinister game with a definite joke to be played upon him at the end.

He took two more steps out, and found the going reasonable enough. As a river-boy, he was not frightened by the water, nor was his balance less than excellent. But still, some part of him was wary and annoyed with the elf for taking his plans and dashing them all from the outset. As he reached the half-way point of the bridge, he thought he should perhaps take charge of this farce. Perhaps he should draw the axe and slash this vile bridge down. A single stroke—that was all that would be required! Fresh green sap would run like warm blood.

Brand shook his head and continued. Oberon watched him from the far side now. Brand increased his pace, wanting to be across it and done with the whole thing.

“What do you think of your unique gift?” Oberon asked him.

“I thank you for the thought,” Brand said as he drew closer to shore. “I would have rather you put the bridge on the far side, however, spanning to the Haven Wood.”

“Of course,” Oberon said. “Unfortunately, that was not within my capacities.”

Brand approached and hopped off the vine with a sense of relief. He stood now at the foot of the tall, dark trees of the Deepwood. Already, the land seemed hushed on this bank. Even the river babbled more quietly in his ears. Brand marveled at the vine, admiring it.

“Quite an amazing thing,” he said. “And I’ve always dreamt of making a connection between the island and the riverbanks.”

“I know,” said Oberon. “I need your help in this matter, you see.”

“My help?” Brand asked incredulously.

“Yes,” Oberon said. “To grow a more substantial bridge would require a fine work, more control. I envision a safer structure, with a dished out center and leaves growing only along the sides.”

Brand stared at the vine. “You could do that?”

“Yes. I believe I could, but as I said, I would need your help. You wielded two Jewels once. None I know who draw breath today have managed to duplicate the feat. I’ve tried, but failed. This beastly thing was one of my few partial successes, you see. Blood and plant can work together, but the results aren’t always as desired, and the greater problem lies in containing both Jewels as they war within one’s mind.”

Brand stared that the elf, who stared back intently. Did Oberon really expect he could describe the process of containing two Jewels in simple words? He’d worn the Blue Jewel Lavatis and carried the axe with Ambros embedded in its head for a brief time, but he’d never tried to work the two together. He’d never tried to get the Rainbow to pick up and swing the axe, for example. He had barely managed to keep from going mad. Just having both the Jewels in contact with his person at the same time had threatened his sanity.

“I bore them, but did not seek to twist together their magic as one might braid hair,” Brand said.

“But how did you even manage that much? Tell me your secrets, if you would.”

“There is no secret,” said Brand, shaking his head. “I think if there is one, it is in the utter innocence of the bearer. By not knowing I could not wield two Jewels, by not understanding what it would be like, I managed to muddle through. Call it beginner’s luck. It was nothing I’d care to repeat.”

Oberon gazed at him, and slowly nodded. “You’ve answered as well as you could. And your insight might not be as valueless as you think. In return, let me show you how I managed to grow this wondrous bridge.”

Brand followed Oberon, who walked to a spot where the huge leaves grew in profusion. They stood at the base of the growth, where a wild spray of greenery erupted. Brand expected to find roots there, tangled and thick. What he saw at first baffled him, and then as understanding sank in, it caused his stomach to roll over in his guts. A pile of furs lay about—but they were not furs, they were empty sacks of hide. They had recently been living animals he knew, with their insides leeched away.

“What’s happened here?” asked Brand in disgust. “Is that an elk carcass I see?”

“The two Jewels,” Oberon explained. “I needed big animals, you see, to feed this large of a growth. The kind of animals which only flourish in the Deepwood.”

Brand looked at him in alarm. “Are you telling me this vine is grown with blood as well as leaf and stalk?”

“Exactly!” cried Oberon, almost dancing in agitation. “Isn’t it fantastic? It was my greatest experiment.”

“It’s disgusting!” shouted Brand. His breathing caused his sides to heave as he gulped air. His teeth bared themselves as might those of angry wolf. His hand trembled, but he did not yet reach for the axe.

“Not perfect, no,” Oberon said.

Brand stared, barely able to credit what he was seeing and hearing. He kicked aside leaves and stalks to get a better view of what lay here on his riverbank, hidden by the massive, fluttering leaves. There were feeding tubers, operating like hoses or straws, which ran from each carcass to the plant’s thick root. This elf had gone too far. He had intruded with his magical experiments upon Brand’s own home isle. He’d practiced his vile research upon Haven lands without permission.

“What of Myrrdin?” Brand demanded. “Why is he not bearing his Jewel? Why does he not instruct you on the use of the Green, if that is his wish?”

“He is…missing.”

“I see,” said Brand. He stood tall and grasped the haft of his axe. Strength and resolve surged through him, and later he could not recall drawing it forth—but there it was, in his hand. He walked to the root of the thing that had been grown across the Berrywine. With a single flashing stroke, he chopped it down. A massive, rippling roar went up as the living bridge splashed into the churning river. The vine cracked and snapped on the far side, breaking away from Rabing Isle. A section of the cliff tore free with it, showering clumps of soil and stones into the river. Brand watched in satisfaction as the entire thing collapsed and was washed downstream.

“Your latest abomination befouls Haven waters,” Brand complained. He watched the bridge roll over and partly sink. The fast-moving waters tugged at it, however, pulling it downstream.

At Brand’s feet, a vile substance bubbled and spat. It was a mix of blood and sap, as far as Brand could see. It came up from the roots which had simultaneously drunk at the river, suckled the dead animals dry and consumed the soil of the riverbank.

Oberon watched the proceedings coldly. “I take it you did not approve of my gift,” he said.

“No. Please never grow another new evil upon my lands.”

“Will you still come to the weddings?”

Brand thought about it. He wiped the axe clean on huge leaves nearby and dipped the blades in the river. The shining edges were soon clear. He shoved the weapon back into his rucksack and let go of it. He could think more clearly once he’d released the handle.

“I will come, because I’ve said that I would. But I will not help you master Myrrdin’s Jewel.”

“Tomorrow night at the mound, then,” said Oberon, touching his hat in salute. He turned his goat into the Deepwood. Soon, he’d vanished into the gloom under the trees.

Brand looked after him, wondering what this was all about, and wondering how far he would have to walk to find a boat. Cursing every elf the worlds had seen fit to birth, he began walking downriver toward Hamlet. If he walked all night, he could get a ferry from there to Riverton.

Chapter Two

Beneath the Great Erm

Myrrdin’s lot in life had taken a turn for the worse. Unable to forgive Oberon’s treachery and, more importantly, unwilling to swear fealty to his father, he had been cast into a dungeon within the Great Erm.

Fae dungeons were things quite apart from those built by the River Folk or the Kindred. They were not made of stone, mortar and iron bars. Instead, they were simple holes in the earth. These holes, however, were covered completely and amounted to forgotten nodules, enchanted pockets of air within the greater stratum of forest loam.

To prevent escape, a tough shell was grown around the cell. To keep the prisoner alive, the tiny region inside was fed with natural organs. A hose-like tuber provided air—which was not by any definition fresh—but it was breathable. Fleshy roots gently drew liquids from the soil around the cell. Dribbling down the rippled interior walls like tears, the slimy waters gathered around Myrrdin’s bare feet and pooled there, mixing with his wastes. He soon learned to lick at the orifice that dribbled the waters in maddeningly tiny amounts down the walls, before the liquid became befouled at the bottom of his spherical cell. A thin, mealy gruel was provided by repulsive-tasting fungus that grew constantly near the water orifice. The evacuation of waste was a function managed in a similar fashion to the way air was provided: tubers had been grown into the floor of the cell. All these growths were especially for their purposes by Oberon’s clever, elvish foresters.

Myrrdin spent an unknown and unknowable time entombed there within the earth of the Twilight Lands. He knew that above him each night, on the distant surface world there were open skies and cheerful music. Above him elves danced with elf maidens and made merry. The wind ruffled their shining hair and their fine cloaks, and the eternal starlight lit their beautiful faces. He wondered if they had forgotten about him entirely, or if they drank a toast of ale and relieved themselves nightly atop his tomb, knowing that the plants that fed him would eventually transport their bodily waters down to his waiting lips.

A thousand regrets would not begin to cover Myrrdin’s mood. He knew every form of reaction possible over time. He raged, he cried, he sat despondent for days. He tried to allow himself to waste away, but eventually he always came crawling back to the orifice and licked there, cursing his weakness of spirit. He sometimes told himself long, exquisitely worded oratories. He composed songs and even experimented with new dances and exercises—although his tomb would barely allow him to stand erect.

In the end, it was madness that threatened him most greatly. An elf, or any true immortal, could fare better under such circumstances. One might think the knowledge of immortality and thus a possibly endless imprisonment would work against one of the Fae, but their minds were differently constructed. Knowing they were immortal allowed them to endure under such horrid circumstances. They existed, secure in the knowledge that in the greatness of time their current situation, while regrettable, was only temporary. They knew they would, in the fullness of their existence, come to forget this unhappy chapter, whether it lasted a month, a decade…or a century.

Myrrdin was only a half-elf, however. He had enough human blood in him to grow old. He worried about the wastage of lifespan this unjust imprisonment represented. It took longer for him to lose his mind than it would have for a human, but insanity finally came to swallow the last of his faded spirit. He gave into its darkness in the end, and when he finally embraced the loss of his mind…he felt a strange sense of relief.

* * *

Only a single man of the four-score souls Brand led to Oberon’s Twilight Lands caused undue trouble. Bret Silure was a grand nephew to Old Tad Silure and a general wastrel. Skinny, long of limb and tooth, Bret had never said a kind word to anyone, as far as Brand could determine. He had volunteered to take a Faerie wife, however, and had won the right in the Riverton lottery to do so. Word was he’d spent the night before carousing with his equally unsavory friends, bragging of his future exploits upon the wedding bed of wild flowers the Fae were reported to prefer. In the morning he’d brought a fresh jug of broadleaf whiskey with him to the Riverton Commons and worked on it steadily throughout the day. By the time twilight came and the future husbands followed Brand around the mound, he had to be hauled to his feet and frequently kicked in the direction of the path by the others. Stumbling and half-blind, still with one thumb hooked in his jug’s handle, he managed to make it seven circuits around before seeing something that gave him a great fright. He panicked and ran from the path.

Brand heard the fuss behind him, but was not sure what the matter was. He stood on the path, and urged others forward. “We’re almost there, keep moving, men!” he called, and they shuffled past him. There was yellow fear in every eye that met his as they passed. He could see they were glad to have an experienced veteran who knew how to cross between worlds to lead them.

When the final knot of men went by, they walked with many glances over their shoulders. “He’s vanished, Brand,” said a Hoot boy who looked too young to take a wife, but who had somehow slipped into the mix.

“Who?”

“Bret,” said the Hoot boy. “Bret Silure. He’s lost his way.”

Brand felt a pang, but it was not a sharp one. “Damn the man. He should never have become so drunk.”

“I wish I was drunk,” said one of the men, a fat baker of Clan Gwyr who’d lost his wife in the Riverton Fire a year earlier.

“Me as well,” chorused others.

Brand called to Oberon, who led the procession to his world on his goat, but the other was too far ahead to hear—or so it seemed.

“Stand where you are and close your eyes, everyone,” Brand said loudly. “I’m going to try to signal Bret.”

The men did as he asked after a moment. Brand pulled out the axe, and felt an unexpected surge of excitement. The axe was tense—more than usual. He tried to push aside the strange thoughts that interrupted his mind.

—treachery!

The axe spoke to him, telling him the things it imagined with its usual paranoid fervor.

Brand shook his head of these alien thoughts. He commanded the axe to wink. An amber gush of light bathed every face. Those that had obeyed and closed their eyes winced, seeing it right through their eyelids. Those who had not screamed and clutched at their faces. Brand paid no heed. He had not directed a full strength flash, one that would burn the skin and boil away the eyes. The fools who had not listened to him would be dazzled for a time, but not blinded.

When he flashed the axe, he eyed the gray world around carefully. He did it again, then twice more. Curses and complaints came up from the men who stood near.

“Do you want to blind us all, man?”

“Bret is lost. Stop with the lightning!”

“Can we walk yet? I want to get away from this place.”

“Hold,” said Brand. He looked and thought to see movement in the distance. He directed the axe that way, and let it flash one more time. A beam of amber light shined into the infinite fog between worlds, illuminating that which is never normally seen by mortal eyes.

What Brand saw there caused him to suck in his breath. He caught a glimpse of two creatures he’d never suspected could exist. They were shaped like leaves made of skin, like things that swam in the deepest seas. Between them they held what appeared to be a flopping corpse, but Brand quickly realized the skinny man was still alive. The creatures worked to devour what could not be anyone other than Bret Silure. Blood flowed from his eyes and wide-open mouth. He appeared to be screaming, but no sound issued that Brand could detect. He still had his jug wrapped around a single thumb.

Brand let the axe drop to his side. There, it bubbled with light, wanting to release more energy, wanting to chop at the things that consumed a man nearby. Brand knew he could not afford to leave the path, however. He could not go to rescue the man—if he could be rescued. The chances were too high he’d never find the path again himself.

“He’s gone,” Brand said. “Open your eyes, and keep them open until we reach our destination.”

“What of Bret?”

“He’s one less fool I’ll take to wed an elf today,” Brand said gruffly. He turned and pushed his way through the throng, walking quickly and shouldering his axe. The men ducked and swallowed in fear as he passed them. None wanted to be near the axe which rippled with yellow light as might a guttering candle flame.

At the distant head of the line, he found Oberon on his goat.

“Could you not hear my calls?” he demanded.

“Hmm?” Oberon purred. “I suppose I could.”

“There were to be no tricks played this day!”

Oberon laughed. “I’m not responsible for a trick one of your River Folk plays upon himself!”

Brand fell silent and brooded the rest of the way. The men following him were subdued and quiet. No more of them strayed from the path.

When they had circled the mound for the final time and stepped out onto the silver grasses of the Twilight Lands, the men gazed around with open mouths. When their eyes rose to look up to the top of the mound, they froze there and gasps escaped them.

Atop the mound a great throng stood. Most of them were lovely elvish ladies dressed in spun gossamer. These were the widowed daughters of Oberon. Their hair shone like spun gold, silver, raven-black, cobalt or sparkling magenta. Each fair lady had an attending wisp to orbit her form, tending to her hair and fine clothing. Their clothing was considerably less substantial than when they’d come to visit Brand on his wedding day. In the tradition of elves, these females dressed without modesty. There could be no doubt to any male gazing upon them that they were interested in attracting mates—and with their shapely forms, they would have no trouble doing so.

Brand walked up the mound toward Oberon, who stood proudly in front of his brood. “How is this to be done?” Brand asked.

“Such crude manners,” Oberon said. “Put away the axe, axeman, so we may talk civilly.”

Brand noticed with some surprise that the axe did still ride his shoulder. He thought about putting it away—really, he should do so. But something made him doubt this thought. He did not want to put it away. The axe fairly hummed with excitement, counting every elf it sensed near as an enemy and every man at his back as a warrior to lead to battle.

Oberon hopped from his goat and trotted close. He leaned near and whispered. As he did so, the axe shivered in Brand’s tight grip.

“Recall, axeman, how badly things went with another of my daughters upon such an occasion. I do not relish a repeat performance.”

Brand jerked his head at the elf lord’s words. He had slain one of Oberon’s innocent young daughters long ago on a mound such as this when the axe had goaded him into swinging it thoughtlessly. He nodded.

“As you say,” he said, putting Ambros away and releasing the handle. It was more difficult than usual, but he managed it. The axe had been drawn and had used its power over light, but had not been sated with blood. It felt cheated, and was reluctant to be set aside.

Everyone relaxed around him when the axe was safely out of sight. Brand forced a smile. “So, how shall your daughters and my men choose their mates?”

Oberon clucked his tongue. “Directly to the point, is it?” he asked. “How disappointed Telyn must be every eve.”

The elves and a good number of the River Folk snickered. Brand’s face darkened and he yearned to draw out the axe again. Ever it was with these little—

“Brand?” asked Oberon. “Do I have your attention again? I said it must be done randomly, with beauty and decorum.”

“Randomly?” echoed Brand.

“Aw,” complained a man behind him. “I had my eye fixed upon the gold-haired nymph in the front row.”

Oberon flicked a look of annoyance at the man. It was Brand’s turn to smile. Calling an elf maid a nymph was an insult. Nymphs were mindless beings of sensation, not the same as elves, who viewed themselves as infinitely more sophisticated.

“Randomly…” Brand said thoughtfully. “We could roll dice, I suppose. The men who roll the highest can choose.”

Oberon huffed. “Where is the fun in that? My daughters will choose. But they will do so blindly.”

Brand shrugged and agreed. The men were sent out to the bottom of the mound in a great circle standing a few yards apart. The elf-maids were blindfolded and instructed to dance their way down the mound until they fell into the arms of a prospective husband.

Elf males appeared, a trio of them. Brand recognized a few as Oberon’s sons. Puck was among them and held a lute, another lifted a grand set of pipes and the third worked upon skinned drums with his fingertips. All of them wore broad smiles and seemed eager to give away their sisters.

Oberon stood with Brand behind the circle of hungry-seeming men, who laughed and called to one another. Atop the hill the females blindfolded one another securely, making sure none of their sisters could see and thus cheat. When they were all blinded, the music began. It was sweet and enchanting. The tempo increased and the elf women began to dance. The sight of eighty lovely maids moving with poise and grace made Brand’s heart pound. His men stopped their calls, so stricken were they all.

The elves twirled and kicked and dipped low. Ever as they cavorted, they seemed about to crash into one another, but never did. Each wild movement moved them this way and that over the hilltop, causing the men at the bottom to lunge and grasp as they came near but then danced out of reach again.

“Your men must stand, Brand,” said Oberon.

“You can grab, but keep your places, boys,” Brand called. “Don’t worry, you’ll catch one eventually.”

As they process continued, Brand himself became almost overwhelmed by feelings of lust. He even thought for a short span, that he regretted being the only married man here today. Then he closed his eyes and conjured Telyn’s face to keep himself under control, if not calm.

A shriek and a giggle made him open his eyes again. The first maid had been caught. A long-fingered man from North End had managed it. A marshman by the look of him. He looked as if he’d caught the biggest fish in the swamp and leered happily at his prize, a small elf with curly hair of shining black.

The process continued and men grabbed their new wives-to-be with gusto. At last, only a few danced and Oberon ordered the remaining men to advance. Soon, it was over except for a single elf female who stood atop the mound.

“Stop the dance!” shouted Oberon. He clapped his hands and the piping halted. The last silver-haired maid stood still, crestfallen and silent. Her lovely chin dipped until it touched her chest and stayed there.

Brand realized he had brought one less man than he had promised. That fool Bret Silure had left this fine woman with no mate. Teased and spurned, the girl was dejected.

“What of the last one?” Brand asked Oberon.

The elf lord shrugged. “She will go back to being a spinster. There is nothing for it.”

Oberon led them all off the mound then into the trees that surrounded it. Brand looked about in wonderment.

“Would this be the Great Erm?”

“Yes, my forested homeland. It is something like the Deepwood for your people. We’ve shunned this place in the past, but now that I have the Red attuned, I can keep the creatures that walk here under control.”

Huge trees towered over them. Brand was astounded by their size and thickness. Truly, they stood as tall as the peaks of the Black Mountains themselves. He could not credit his eyes when he saw the animals that lived here. Gnats were the size of birds. Creatures that were of no consequence in the Haven, things that crawled in the grasses and were ignored by all, were big enough here to be collared and yoked to a farmer’s cart.

In a clearing at the foot of a dozen towering trees that spanned a mile, a strange town had been built. The structures within the town were like nothing Brand had yet seen. Shaped like mushrooms, but hollowed out with windows in the caps and doors in the stems, Brand came to realize as he toured the place that they were mushrooms. So tall, stiff and strong were they that the elves had decided to live among them and make them into homes.

In the town square, the ceremony was to be held. Oberon did not have the time nor the patience to perform seventy-nine weddings, so he married them all at once. Every man of the River stood with his spine straight and his eyes shining with excitement. Every lovely maid stood at his side, her hands on her man’s elbow and her eyes no less alight.

Words were spoken, vows were murmured, and the ceremony was over quickly. Brand was accustomed to the droning affairs of the River Folk, and so the early ending surprised him. No less surprising was the striking up of the musicians, who burst into a lively tune the moment Oberon stopped speaking.

Every maid turned to her surprised new husband and kissed him passionately. Their fervor was returned by the crude River Folk males, but their rough lips and bristling beards caused some consternation.

“It appears your daughters will have some adjusting to do,” Brand said to Oberon, who had come alongside him.

“As will your men, I assure you,” Oberon replied.

Brand glanced at him sidelong, not sure what his meaning was. He soon was handed a cup of Fae nectar however, which tasted as fresh as morning dew. He quaffed it and reached for another. The celebration had begun in earnest.

While he watched the merriment, participating little save for an occasional cup of Faerie wine, Brand wondered where it all might lead. These marriages between elves and men must result in children. What would their offspring be like? Would they be loyal to the elves or to the River Folk—or to both, as he hoped? He could not think of a way to predict the outcome.

An hour or six later—it was difficult to measure the passage of time here under the permanent glow of the stars—Brand thought again of the maid who had gone without a mate.

“Oberon,” he said, his tongue thick with drink. “I have a proposal.”

The elf lord leaned close and stared at him fixedly. “Describe it, by all means.”

“The maid who was left upon the mound. I would take her home to Riverton to find her a mate…” he said. “If you approve of the idea, of course.”

Oberon’s eyebrows rose high and stayed there. “Interesting. She is lovely to look upon, isn’t she?”

Brand startled. He realized now that the person his eyes were gazing fixedly upon was the girl in question. She was lovely…in fact, that term was almost too weak to describe her.

She had silver shoulder-length hair that made him think of moonlight. Her lithe form had more curves to it than most of her sisters, making her look more womanly, but she still appeared very young and entrancing. Both her eyes were a tawny orange, and a light burned there when she met a man’s gaze.

If he had to put a ranking upon this vision of beauty, he would say she was more intensely attractive than any other elf present. Perhaps even the Shining Lady had not been so pleasantly alluring. And as a bonus, this girl did not have the clawed feet of a bird of prey.

“I’m sure I would have no problem finding a man to match her,” Brand said.

Oberon laughed. “I would be shocked if you could match her. But I will allow it. Kaavi will be grateful for your offer, I’m sure.”

“Kaavi?” asked Brand, slurring his words slightly.

“The one you are staring at,” said Oberon with smirking delight. “I’ll tell you another secret: she is my youngest daughter of marriageable age. She was married moments before the war broke out, and never managed to consummate the relationship as her fiancé died in the conflict.”

Brand eyed him. “You mean she’s...?”

“A maiden, yes,” Oberon said.

“I detect subtlety in your voice,” Brand said, frowning at the elf lord with sudden distrust. “Don’t think that I’m helplessly drunk, elf.”

“Oh no,” Oberon purred. “I’m quite sure you are as dangerous as ever. Perhaps even more so.”

“Right,” Brand said, satisfied. He sat back and sipped his nectar more slowly. It went down like drinking spring water, but hit a man like whiskey.

Kaavi, he thought, nodding off. He wondered what she would be like.

Chapter Three

Coming Home

When Brand led sixteen men of the River with their elvish brides back to Riverton Common, he was bleary-eyed and tired. The drink from the night before had taken a toll upon him. The rest of the couples had stayed behind in the Twilight Lands. Each couple had been provided a mushroom cottage, fresh grown from the thick loam of the Great Erm. Some had decided to live there, liking the world so much. Others had been talked into at least continuing their honeymoon with the Fae. In truth, Brand thought it was only the most stubborn and homesick that returned with him. Those whose fear of being left with the elves outweighed the promise of wild pleasures.

Brand might have been in a sullen mood due to his aching head and the long journey, had it not been for the seventeenth elf girl in the group: Kaavi. She brightened things considerably, and was a delight in every sense of the word. She reminded him of Telyn, as she had been when they were younger and at their most flirtatious. He felt a strong desire to bed her, and wondered if there had not been so many witnesses trailing him if he would have tried to do so there in the silver grasses. Would she even have him? She gave every sign of interest, but that could just be the natural demeanor of her kind.

Kaavi twisted about under his scrutiny and smiled up at him. She was incredibly flexible, and could bend about like a stalk of grass in the winds. She wore little in the way of clothing, and thus provided Brand with a continuously changing and always pleasant view.

Brand grinned at her antics, but the grin faded into a frown. He gave his head a shake. What kind of thoughts were these? He had a wonderful wife who sat at home even now, worrying about him and the child that quickened in her belly.

“Have I displeased you?” asked Kaavi.

The sadness that came over her face was difficult for Brand to bear. He felt a deep sense of guilt for having brought her pain. Such beauty and life, who was he to insult her? He was an insect beside a goddess, and he was not worthy of distressing her with his petty worries.

“I—I’m sorry,” he said, trying to think clearly. “There’s nothing wrong. I just thought of something I should be doing.”

“And what should you be doing?”

“I should be remembering my fine wife, that’s what.”

“Oh, that,” she said, giving her head a delightful nod. “Why worry about her? She’s not here. She will never know your thoughts.”

Brand grimaced at the mere idea. If Telyn could hear his thoughts today—well things would become grim around Rabing House. He was not so sure, upon reflection, that she could not hear them. He was also unsure if this entire affair of bringing home an elf princess was such a fine idea. It had seemed like a fantastic plan when he’d thought of it at Oberon’s festival, but now….

“There it is,” Kaavi said. “That worried expression again. It’s most unpleasant, you know. If you worry too much, your hair will fall out and you’ll become old. Did you know that?”

Brand’s lips flickered upward, creating a tiny smile. “I suppose that I did.”

“We elves live for the here and the now,” she said, as if explaining things to a child. “To worry about futures and maybes…well, it doesn’t bear thinking about! One could never do a thing if tied up in thoughts of possible consequences!”

“What do you mean?”

“What if a dozen vicious beasts await you when you return to Riverton?” she asked.

“They don’t.”

“But you don’t know that they don’t. Perhaps they do. Perhaps there will be two dozen. Perhaps today, Old Hob has marched a horde of rhinogs to your town, flying them there from afar.”

Brand’s axe shifted on his back. His smile, which had been a fleeting affair at best, faded into a snarl. “Are you telling me you know something? Speak plainly, girl!”

She laughed and the sound was like tinkling silver bells. “Of course I don’t know any of these things! The point is: you don’t either. If you let yourself worry about these maybes and wherefores, you will never rest and enjoy life. The key to the joy of my people is we don’t worry about what might come to be.”

“A man does not gain much in life if he doesn’t face his responsibilities,” Brand said sternly.

She shook her head and took his arm. Her hands felt like butterflies landing upon this skin. Her touch tickled slightly, but it was definitely a pleasant sensation.

“You don’t understand at all,” she said. “My worries will come or not come. If they do come, I will be there to greet my woes when they arrive, but not a moment before. For example, all of us must die someday, but should we think of nothing else today, while we yet live?”

Brand stared down at her. Her large, round eyes looked back up. She seemed most sincere, and he really did think he was beginning to understand her point. If one was a worrier, one could forever find a new thing to worry about. In a way, everyone had to decide at some point not to worry about the future in order to be able to enjoy the present. What if, for instance, Telyn was destined to die in child birth with their first child? Should he be fearful of that possibility? Or joyous with the hope all would be well?

“So,” he said slowly. “Your people believe happiness is a choice, not a reality?”

Kaavi stared up at him. “Very insightful!” she said. She gave her tinkling laugh again, and jumped up toward him. Her lips brushed his before he could pull his face back from her.

Brand reddened and turned away. Looking ahead he saw now they had almost reached his own world and the Riverton Common. Delicately, he plucked her tiny hands from his arm and cleared his throat.

“All right boys,” he said loudly over his shoulder. “None of you have gotten lost, have you? Good. We’ll be home in a moment. Don’t step from the path now, or no one will be able to retrieve you.”

His eyes slid to fall again on Kaavi, who paced beside him. She took two quick steps for each of his sweeping strides. She caught his gaze, and wiggled her nose at him.

With his own world and people so near, Brand became suddenly aware of her near-nakedness. I occurred to him he was about to march through Riverton with this impish, nearly-nude elf girl at his side. He removed his cloak and swept it around her, putting it on her shoulders. It dragged on the ground behind her.

“What’s this about?” she asked in bewilderment. “I’d thank you, but I’m not cold, sir.”

“Pull it about you, please. I don’t want all the River Haven to be talking.”

Kaavi shook her head and smiled, but she did as he asked. “Only for you, Brand,” she said.

Brand sucked in a deep breath and wondered how he had gotten into this situation.

* * *

Riverton Common was a harsh dose of sunlight and reality as they stepped out upon it. Every man of them in the procession blinked at the sunlight, which still died in the west, filtering through the treetops. As it left them, they were better able to see in the gloomy twilight which they’d become accustomed to.

“They’re back!” shouted someone. There was a considerable amount of whooping and a half-dozen individuals trotted toward them. Most were children.

Brand strode forward and hailed them. “Yes, we are back!”

“Where are the rest?” asked a child in disappointment. Brand thought she might be little Jenny Fob, a cousin of Telyn’s. She was about ten years old, and had blonde hair cut short with rough shears. She looked dirty and unkempt.

“There are a few more coming,” Brand said, looking over his shoulder as more men and their new wives appeared as if walking out of a thick morning mist.

“I don’t see daddy,” said the Fob girl.

“Are you Jenny Fob?” he asked her.

“Yes Lord Rabing,” she said.

“Poor girl,” said Kaavi coming and kneeling before her. “Your father is one of those who stayed behind. I’m sure he’ll come back when he’s done with his…ah, honeymoon.”

Brand walked close and loomed over the two of them. “How long have you been waiting on the Common, Jenny?” he asked.

“Over a month now,” she said. Jenny put up a brave front, but a tear ran down her face. “I come here every morning and night.”

Kaavi caught her second tear with her finger and lifted it high.

Jenny stared at her. “Are you an elf?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“Yes dear,” said Kaavi. She peered inside the droplet of water as it clung to her fingertip.

“What do you see in my tears?” asked Jenny.

“Lots of things,” Kaavi said.

“Like what?”

“A hot meal and a warm fire, for two!”

Brand cleared his throat and they looked up at him. “Let’s take you back to Riverton. I’m sure the Fobs at the Tannery will look after you tonight.”

He led the way toward town. The group broke up behind him, every man taking his wife a separate direction. It felt good to be home, even if he was a month late. He wondered if Telyn had worried overmuch. He suspected that she had. As was often the case when journeying to the Twilight Lands, time had moved differently here. Historically, this was particularly common when Faerie celebrations were involved. He supposed he should be glad only a month had passed rather than a year.

Kaavi took Jenny’s hand automatically. As Brand walked beside them, he could not help but smile. Kaavi had Jenny giggling before they dropped her off at the Tannery. Afterward, he saw the elf girl tasting her finger. Was that the same teardrop? Had she carried it somehow, all this time? She ran her tongue over her finger with an odd expression of curiosity? He suspected it was the first child’s tear the elf had ever experienced.

* * *

They spent the night in Riverton at the rebuilt Spotted Hog. Brand paid for two rooms with clinking silver coins. Kaavi complained when she realized she was to be left alone in an unknown town in an unknown world for the night. She tapped at Brand’s door and asked to be let in.

Brand opened the door, but put a big hand up to stop her as she tried to slip by him into his chamber.

“Kaavi,” he said, whispering in the quiet hallway. “You have your own room.”

“The bed is rough,” she said. “It’s as if they stuffed it with straw!”

Brand chuckled. “They did precisely that,” he told her.

“Beastly!” the elf said. “Have they no goose down?”

“Not here.”

“Well, the bed is cold besides,” Kaavi said. She looked up at him with eyebrows raised high.

Brand blinked back. Was she asking to share his bed? To warm it with him? He felt a flush creeping up his neck. “I’ll have a bedwarmer full of fresh coals sent up,” he told her.

Kaavi pouted, but eventually returned to her room. Brand spent a fitful night after that, trying to shed thoughts of Kaavi, Telyn and Jenny Fob from his mind.

In the morning they set sail for Rabing Isle. Brand had nowhere convenient to drop off Kaavi, unlike Jenny Fob. He had promised to find her a mate. There was nothing for it other than to take the elf girl home with him on his sailing skiff.

They rode the River peacefully. There was little other traffic. As they traveled the quiet waters, Kaavi did not seem to be at peace, however. Brand sat in the stern of the skiff to steer it after having seated her in the prow, thinking she could best see the Haven passing by from there. She slipped under the boom of the sails and soon came back to place herself beside him.

“Can I steer?” she asked. “I’ve never guided a watercraft before.”

“We call it a boat,” he said, chuckling. He let her take the tiller, but soon had to put a guiding hand atop hers as they neared rocks, shoals and rapids. She seemed to have no aptitude for steering safely down a river, that was for certain.

Brand soon noted his hand felt hot upon hers. Was he sweating? How odd.

“What’s that?” she asked, leaning suddenly across his body.

Brand sucked in his breath at her nearness, and the scent of her filled his head. It was hard to think clearly. He found himself wanting to wrap his arms around her. She was right there, pressing against his chest, almost embracing him….

“Ah,” he said, following her pointing, outstretched arm. “That’s a woodpecker.”

“Such a strange call it makes.”

He laughed. “That’s not a call! It beats its beak against trees to dig out insects.”

She frowned at him and pouted. “I’m a joke to you?”

“Certainly not.”

Mollified, Kaavi went back to staring at the passing world with big, intense eyes. “You’re trees are rather small here.”

Brand huffed. “Would you believe our insects are so tiny, we can crush them with a single boot?”

Kaavi looked at him disapprovingly. “Father said you were a murderous people.”

“He should talk!”

She withdrew from him somewhat and crossed her arms under her small, perfect breasts. At some point he realized, she’d managed to remove the cloak he placed upon her shoulders in Riverton. It now lay discarded at the bottom of the skiff. Brand picked it up.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Kaavi said. She grabbed up this cloak, folded it neatly and stowed it in the nets along the gunwales that were hung like baskets for storage purposes. There it wouldn’t be soaked with the water that sloshed at the bottom of the skiff.

All the while she worked, Brand’s eyes drifted to watch her. His heart quickened in his chest to see her, moving precisely and primly. Her shape was so attractive he found himself wondering why he had not volunteered himself to find a wife among the Fae. He envied the men he’d led to that mystical place. They were off bedding new wives like this…fantastic women who would never grow old, careworn and slow.

Brand shook his head suddenly, as might a man who awakens from a dream. He saw she was sitting beside him again, very close. Her body was in contact with his, and when he moved the tiller, he could not help but touch her.

“I say, could you move up to the prow again?” he asked.

“Whatever for?” she asked.

“I’m a married man,” he explained.

“So?”

“Well, I know it is not the same for your folk, but I’m feeling an urge to…” he said, and trailed off, not wanting to put his thoughts into words. “Anyway, it would be better if you did not sit so close.”

Kaavi stared at him for a time, then tilted her head charmingly and gave him a knowing smile. “Take me,” she said. “If that is your wish.”

“What?” Brand croaked. It was hard to think. He felt a surge of excitement run through him.

“Right now,” she said. “Before we get too close to your home.”

“I’ve just finished telling you I’m married—”

“I will not tell any tales!” she said.

“I don’t want to hurt her.”

“Exactly,” Kaavi said, almost in a whisper. She leaned conspiratorially close again, and he caught her wonderful scent. “You must hurry, if your wife is not to know!”

Brand kissed her suddenly. She responded immediately, passionately. He almost lost control. Something distracted him, however. Something that prodded at his spine tenaciously. It was extremely irritating. He felt a weight on his back, and he reached back to scratch it or remove it, with violence if necessary.

The axe handle slapped into his hand. A hot rush of rage coursed through him. His eyes bulged until they all but popped from his head. He stood in the skiff, causing it to slide and wallow. Kaavi, who had crawled up into his lap, fell to the bottom of the boat in shock. The axe rode high in the air, his white knuckles wrapped tightly around the haft. He could not recall drawing it, but there it was.

Ambros spoke into his mind: Slay this witch before thou art lost, fool!

The axe released a yellow flash of silent lightning. The brilliance echoed back from the trees around them. A dozen birds launched themselves from branches, screeching in fright.

Kaavi crawled quickly away from him toward the prow of the skiff. He moved to follow her, but the sails got in the way and fouled his legs with infernal ropes and ties.

Brand’s axe struck and chopped through the mast, cleaving it down. The Golden Eye of Ambros flashed as it bit into the wood and cut right through it. With an oath, he heaved and kicked the mass of wood and canvas over the side. The sails were still attached by ropes to the skiff, however. They slowed the boat and caused it to twist around and become caught on boulders as they passed by. Brand paid none of this any heed. He advanced on the cowering elf girl, the temptress who’d dared place her spell over him.

Kaavi knelt before him in the prow of the boat. Clearly, by the terror in her face, she felt her life was forfeit.

“I am the axeman!” he roared, and he lifted the axe again.

“I plead for your forgiveness and mercy, axeman!”

“You have tempted me with your person!” he cried. “You must confess: you were sent here by your father to cause me discord and strife, weren’t you?”

“You asked to bring me here, milord!”

Brand blinked. Some part of him which was still whole and clear-minded asserted her words were truth, but he was not yet dissuaded. The axe had not tasted blood for months, and it hungered for a meal.

“Can you deny you have flirted and caused me no end of lustful thoughts? Was this not done purposefully?”

“I thought you enjoyed my company, Lord Rabing.”

Brand gave a roar of frustration through his gritted teeth. Spittle flew, and the elf girl cowered further. “Of course I enjoyed it! That is not the point! You were sent here to disrupt my family, to ruin my home. I beg you to deny it!”

“Then I do so: I deny your accusation.”

Brand knew now that he was in the right. His face split into a broad grin. The Amber Jewel in the axe flared bright with anticipation, and he took it into both hands at once. Ambros filled him with a sense of justice and well-being.

“Lies!” he roared. “You have compounded your slattern actions with LIES!”

Kaavi shook her head emphatically. “I cannot help my nature, Lord Rabing. I beg of thee, do not slay me as you have slain my twin sister!”

Brand faltered then. His grin faded, and he stared at her for a time. She spoke further, but he heard none of it. Her voice was like the babbling of the River itself that flowed beneath his boat. His axe stayed upraised, lifted high and shining brightly, competing with the sun itself.

He knew now why her face had been too lovely to him, why he had almost recognized her and felt so haunted by her beauty. This girl was full-grown now, but she was the same as the elf girl he had once cut down upon a Fae mound in the Twilight Lands. He had carried a silver lock of her hair for years, and had only recently set it aside in a cedar box for safe-keeping.

Brand sank down onto the boat’s stern bench and replaced the axe on his back. It went reluctantly, squirming to get past its master’s will as might a hound that smells fresh meat. He forced it away and felt tired when it left his mind. He sat there on the bench for an hour while the elf girl wept. Brand ignored her, lost in thought.

At long last, he cut free the wrecked mast, rope and sails. He began to pole the river bottom, pushing the skiff toward home.

Kaavi watched him all the while, not daring to speak further. Her eyes were wide with fear. Each time he moved suddenly, she winced or ducked away from him. He handed her his cloak again.

“Put this on,” he said.

This time, she did so without argument.

When the sun had almost set, they arrived on Rabing Isle, tired and late. Brand wondered what Telyn would say when she met this pair on her doorstep. It was sure to be an awkward homecoming.

Chapter Four

The Houseguest

When they arrived, Telyn was in the upstairs window. He could see she had out one of her enchanted candles. He didn’t like when she made such things, as one never knew what they might attract. This time, however, he decided he would say nothing. He’d been gone a month, rather than the few promised nights, and she was with child. How could he complain if she’d done whatever she could to guide him home to her?

“Brand?” she cried out.

“I’m home, love!” he shouted back. He tried to inject as much joy into his voice as he could. It wasn’t difficult to do. Home had rarely looked so good to him.

She ran down from above, but it was Jak who threw the door open first and came out, lifting a lantern. Lanet and Telyn rushed out after him. There were shouts and greetings from all sides. Brand trotted forward and hugged everyone. To him, he’d only been gone a few nights, but to them it had been a long and worrisome wait. His joy was not based upon the length of absence, but the degree of peril the journey had presented. He felt as if he’d truly been away a month or more.

The biggest shock for Brand was the swelling in Telyn’s midsection. Soft but firm, she was definitely showing. The outward signs of her pregnancy befuddled Brand. He was not quite sure if he should acknowledge it or not, knowing that some women worried overmuch about their appearance at these times. To him, it was not unsightly, but wondrous instead.

“Brand?” asked Telyn after the initial rush of greetings subsided. “Who’s that?”

She pointed at the edge of the apple orchard. Kaavi’s small form stood there, lithe and quiet, almost hidden among the trees.

“Oh yes,” said Brand, clearing his throat with a touch of self-consciousness. “Come on forward, Kaavi. I’d forgotten to introduce you in the excitement. My apologies.”

Kaavi came forward, but she did so with huge watchful eyes and a mouth that trembled more than smiled. Damn the girl, did she have to look so frightened and guilty?

“This is Oberon’s daughter,” Brand explained. He quickly told them she had been left without a matching husband after that fool, Bret Silure, managed to drink himself into a stupor and wander off the path around the mound. The others gasped in horror at the idea he was lost in-between the two worlds. He did not share with them the grim details of his death.

“Poor thing,” said Lanet, coming up to Kaavi, who had stepped further from the shelter of the apple trees. They could all see her silver hair and her lovely face, which still wore a worried expression.

The shadows were getting long, and the world was growing much darker. Kaavi looked around at her surroundings suspiciously. “Is this darkness? I’ve never really seen it before. I’ve only spent the one night here, at the Inn.”

“Yes dear,” Lanet said, standing at the strange girl’s side. “This is night. We see quite a bit of it here, I’m afraid.”

“It gets beastly cold at night, doesn’t it?”

“Oftentimes, yes.”

“Lord Rabing refused to allow me to share his bed last night,” Kaavi said. “Will I be forced to sleep alone and cold again this eve?”

Everyone stopped talking. They all turned and stared at Kaavi for a second. Telyn wore a particularly strange expression. Brand thought it was a mix of shock, dismay and embarrassment.

“How long will you be staying with us, Kaavi?” asked Telyn quietly.

“Until I find a bedmate to warm me!” she said brightly. “That’s why I’m here, after all.”

There was another moment of uncomfortable silence. Everyone except Kaavi was embarrassed. She seemed to have lost much of her fear. She walked forward between them and looked into the doorway, turning her face this way and that. She stood on tiptoes and kept her hands on the doorjamb, leaning inside as if she were examining a house full of spiders.

“Do you have any luggage, dear?” asked Telyn from behind her.

“Luggage? What’s that?”

“Never mind.”

Lanet came up to Telyn and touched her shoulder. “I’ll take her inside and find our guest a room upstairs.”

Telyn nodded and Lanet went inside, leading Kaavi. The two women gave one another significant glances. Brand watched this interplay uneasily. Telyn and Lanet got along so well, they often seemed to know what the other was thinking. He wondered what the secret was this time. He hoped perhaps the women would be equally accepting of Kaavi—different though she might be.

Jak quietly followed his wife into the doorway. Throughout the greeting, he’d scarcely said a word. Now, however, when Telyn’s back was to him, he caught Brand’s eye. He grinned hugely at his brother and made a slashing gesture at his throat. Brand watched him disappear, frowning. Did he mean Brand was in some kind of danger?

He only had to return his gaze to Telyn’s face to grasp Jak’s meaning. His wife’s arms were crossed and her mouth was a tight line of disapproval.

“Yes,” she said, “I’m still here. Nice of you to tear your eyes from your nymph and look at me again.”

“What?” he said.

“She’s nearly naked, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“No,” he said, “I was looking at Jak.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “You can do better than that, Brand.”

“No, really.”

Telyn whirled and stepped very close. He saw she had a knife in her hand. Damn, the girl had always been quick with her blade. She brought it up into his face, but he caught her wrist. She glared at him, and he stared back in shock. The axe trembled on his back, begging to be let loose, but he ignored it. This was his wife, after all.

“Just tell me one thing,” she said. “Have you put your hands on her?”

“What do you—”

“You know what I mean.”

“Keep your voice down,” he hissed. He could not recall having seen her so jealous before. He had never really given her cause before, however.

“Did you, or did you not—” she began.

“She told you herself I refused to let her into my bed,” he said.

She stared at him, and nodded at last. “All right. But something happened, didn’t it? You’ve had your hands on her. I can smell her on you. I can smell your guilt, too.”

Brand tried not to look even more guilty. “The Fae are not like us, Telyn. She doesn’t mean anything by it. She tempted me—and I almost killed her. I brought her here, because I lost her promised husband, and then I almost cut her in twain. That’s why I feel guilty.”

“All right,” she said again, and this time she put away her knife. “But I’m a Fob girl Brand—not some silly Drake princess. I’ll cut her eyes out while she sleeps.”

Brand knew she meant it. “You won’t need to,” he said.

Finally, he walked into his house and sought a comfortable chair and a mug of berrywine. He listened to the sounds of feet on the floorboards over his head. The women were finding a place for Kaavi and providing her with bedding and the like. Their voices sounded cheerful enough, but he knew better. He decided he would have to rid himself of Kaavi as soon as possible to know peace in his house again.

He gulped his wine and cast the swill at the bottom of the mug into the fire, where it hissed and sizzled. It had not been the homecoming he had anticipated.

* * *

Mari had named her baby boy Trev after his great grandfather Trev Bowen, who’d been the leader of Clan Bowen many years ago. Her husband Puck had offered no objections to the name. A year had passed and Trev had grown strong, but he was still silent. He almost never cried, and when he did, his mother had to lean close to hear him. She hoped the boy would not turn out to be a mute. On top of being the only half-elf Mari knew of in the Haven, such a further disappointment would be hard to bear and would permanently move her son onto the list of persons none wished to associate with.

Her mother had whispered of odd things that could go wrong when a woman dared give birth to a child of mixed heritage—that creatures like trolls and ogres were born of such unions. Trev looked normal enough, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t twisted up inside somehow. Mother had warned of possible horrors with a hushed voice and narrowed eyes. Sometimes, Mari caught mother looking into Trev’s ears or peering down his throat as if he might be hiding a second tongue. Mari hated mother more than usual when she did these things. She told herself it was all foolishness—but she couldn’t help but worry all the same.

Puck was gone often from their modest cottage in the Haven Woods. He left to perform the strange doings of his kind every fall and winter, but generally returned in spring and summer. Mari had often grilled him on the topic, making sure he had never frolicked with the nymphs of his homelands. Many times he had to assure her his duties were more mundane, such as the transport of messages from his father Oberon to other lords in other lands. He explained that a few days of travel in the Fae lands might make weeks pass here in her world, so it seemed he was gone longer than he really was.

Mari accepted his explanations, but she also knew the reverse was often true—sometimes a year in her world went by in a day in the Twilight Lands. She trusted her husband, of course…but she worried. It was not natural for his kind to forsake the pleasures of feminine company for so long. Had they not met as he did his best to seduce her in the woods? What new maiden was he off wooing with his pipes and his dancing?

It was one fresh morning after a light rain in spring when a knock came at her door.  Puck was due home but had yet to return. It was a heavy knock, and it made her cottage door shake slightly with the rapping. She hesitated at the door before opening it, knowing it could not be Puck. He would have come home piping in the woods or calling sweetly to her.

Mari glanced over toward Trev, who sat near the fire. He could walk now, but did not do so often. She sucked in her breath, because Trev was standing. He stood freely, with his hands out to his sides to balance himself. His wide, staring eyes were fixated upon the door. His silver locks hung around his shoulders and reflected the dancing light of the cookfire.

The door shook again as three sharp raps rained upon it. Mari stood, uncertain. If she did not open the door, perhaps the strangers would go away.

She heard voices then. The twitter of one that was high and light of tone. A girl’s voice, or that of a young woman. Another spoke after her, and she was able to make out muffled words.

“No. There is nothing for it. You will have to search elsewhere for what you require.”

Mari sensed the man was about to rap again, and that this pair had no intention of leaving her doorstep. The fact another female was present eased her mind. She told herself she had worried about nothing, and she opened the door.

“Lord Rabing?” she asked in surprise. Brand stood before her.

“Sorry for the intrusion, Mari. I did not know where else to turn.”

Mari admired this man, this hero of the Haven who stood on her doorstep. She smiled at him, pleased to have such a guest.

“I’m honored, please come in,” she said.

It was only as he passed her at the door that she saw the other who had come with him. She was tiny and perfect in form, with a face that shone with beauty. Mari knew right away she was looking at an elf girl. A young one, but still mature enough to attract any man who was in sight of her.

“And who might you be?” Mari asked.

“I’m Kaavi!”

“I’m sorry,” said Brand, addressing Mari. “I should have introduced you. This is Kaavi, she’s an elf maiden from Oberon’s court. She is in fact, his daughter.”

Mari blinked at him. Slowly, her mind calculated the situation. She knew Brand had led a pack of fools off into the Twilight Lands to meet arranged wives among the Fae. Could this visit be related?

“Oh, look at him!” exclaimed Kaavi. With startling speed that made Mari twitch protectively, the elf trotted to Trev and swept him up in her arms. “He’s so lovely, so perfect. You must be proud, Mari.”

“Yes, I—we are very proud of him.”

Kaavi studied Trev’s eyes, and he studied her with great seriousness. “I’m your auntie Kaavi,” she told the baby boy. “Can you say that? Can you say Kaavi?”

Auntie Kaavi? It was only at that moment that Mari realized Kaavi was her kin by marriage. As Puck was Oberon’s son, and Kaavi was his daughter, that made this elf her sister-in-law. It was something of a shock to Mari and it was as if she was jolted out of a dream.

“Oh dear! My stars!” she said. “Kaavi, I’m so sorry. Welcome to my home. I just didn’t even see you standing out there behind Brand, he’s such a mountain of a man.”

“Isn’t he though?” asked Kaavi, giving Brand a wink.

“Ah…” said Mari, her eyes drifting between the two wonderingly. Brand looked embarrassed and annoyed. Mari wondered for an instant just what had gone on between these two, but knew better than to ask. “In any case, I welcome you to my home, Kaavi. A sister of Puck’s is of course a sister of mine.”

“Thank you, milady,” Kaavi purred. She still held Trevor up and gazed into his face. He was returning her stare, as he was apt to do.

“Ahem,” said Brand, clearing his throat. “I’m here to ask a favor, Mari.”

Mari looked at him, wondering what favor the Champion of the Haven could possibly ask from the likes of her. “Ask,” she said. “We all owe you a great debt.”

“No, you don’t owe me anything,” he said, “other than support in times of war. In any case, I’m looking for a place for Kaavi to stay. I came to this house as I know she had relatives here that might take her in. Is Puck home, by chance? I’d hoped to speak with him about this.”

Mari blinked at Brand for a long moment, then she shook herself, smiled and said: “Of course she can stay! I’m sorry, I’m just so surprised…and delighted. Sadly, Puck is away from home this week. He’s due back any day now.”

“I see,” said Brand, looking relieved. “Well then, perhaps I should leave you two to get acquainted.”

“Don’t worry Mari,” Kaavi said. She had placed Trev upon the floor again, where he stood upright on legs that wobbled slightly. She sat cross-legged in front of him and beamed a smile that would have melted any Riverton boy’s heart. “I can help out with Trev. There are many things I can teach him.”

“I’m overwhelmed by my good fortune,” Mari said. They were polite words her mother often used—whether she was happy or not.

Brand quickly took his leave and ducked out the door. Mari’s hands clutched at her own skirts as she watched him go. He did seem to be in a hurry. She turned back to the elf girl and Trev, who were still considering one another carefully, quietly. It was not like a meeting of a human girl and an infant. There was no cooing, no tickling, nor giggling. The matter appeared very serious, but both seemed excited to participate.

Trev stared at Kaavi as if looking into her soul. Mari knew that stare, which had often upset the women of the Haven. They muttered that it wasn’t natural. But Kaavi did not seem in the least perturbed by her son. This fact did warm Mari’s heart somewhat.

“Kav-vi,” said Trev suddenly, perfectly.

Mari’s mouth dropped open and hung there. She could not believe she had just heard her son’s very first spoken word.

Kaavi clapped her small hands together excitedly. “There!” she said. “You see? He can speak. You’ll talk for your auntie Kaavi, won’t you?”

Mari knelt beside the two. It was a tremendous relief to hear her son speak, but she felt a pang knowing Kaavi had managed to do what she could not. She could not deny these two had a strong rapport.

“I’ve been trying to get him to talk for months,” she confessed.

Kaavi glanced at her and pursed her lips. “I’m going to suggest something,” she said. “And I want you to feel free to deny it.”

“What?” asked Mari, trying not to sound wary and failing.

“I’ll stay and help get Trev off properly. Then I’ll go back to my search for a husband of my own. That is, if you agree.”

“Why would you offer to do this?” Mari asked. She could not help herself.

“A few years time is such a small thing for an elf to give,” Kaavi said. “Trev is half elf and half human. He might respond as would an elf or as a human to one thing or another. We learn differently, you know. Together, the two of us can get him off to a good start.”

Mari felt a fluttering in her stomach. Just thinking of having this girl about the place…possibly for years. If Kaavi had not been Puck’s sister, she would never have agreed. But in the end, she did agree…with private misgivings.

Chapter Five

The Gravedigger

A year after Brand’s journey to Oberon’s court, Morcant Drake gave up on searching for a job. He’d been to every shop, dock-master and farmer on Stone Island in years past without success. He had a reputation, Morcant did, and no one wanted any part of it. He tended to get into fights—too many of them. Every man who had hired Morcant had eventually ended up in fisticuffs with him. Rarely had the matter gone well for his employer. Morcant was tall and strong, with a jaw constructed of thicker bone than most men. That jaw jutted out, and when he was in his cups and finely drunk, his glowering brow and thrusting jaw meant trouble for anyone in the vicinity.

Fortunately, Morcant didn’t really need to work. He received a small stipend from the Drake clan, part of the money handed out by old man Thilfox every fifth week to the less fortunate family members. Morcant had long ago been thrown out of Drake Manor, naturally enough. But he still showed up for his share of the family coin. The clan was rich, and it only seemed fair that some of the money would be distributed to everyone. It wasn’t meant to be lived on, of course. One couldn’t afford a respectable home on the piddling amount. But, if you watched your coppers carefully, Morcant found he could eat fairly, drink cheap jugs of rotgut out of the Hoot stills, and have enough left over to rent a hammock from one tavern or another down on the docks.

One evening in early summer he ambled up to Clan Drake’s hilltop Manor overlooking Riverton and hammered on the gates to be let in. It was the day after the payment was normally made, but Morcant was always late to everything, even his own payday. He’d grown tired of the press of his relatives on these occasions, all of whom seemed to cast worried or pitying glances his way as they lined up for their thin sack of coppers. Those who showed up for the handout were the losers of the clan. Most were widows and the like, down on their luck. But he knew he stood out as the biggest, tallest and most absolute loser of them all. As far as he knew, he was the only drunken lout in the family who couldn’t hold a job. In order to avoid that staring crowd, he’d taken to arriving a day late.

He hammered upon the gates again, until finally an aged watchman with a fat gut named Roland opened it. Morcant pushed past him without so much as a by-your-leave.

“Humph,” said the watchman.

Morcant ignored him. Let the man huff and snort. Just so long as he got his coin and left this place behind. At the back entrance to the Manor, a half-door was open at the top. These were the kitchens, where young people tasked with scullery chores bustled about finishing the evening feast.

“Ah, there you are Morcant!” said the matron who ran the place, Dera Drake. “I’ve got your coin for you—knew you’d be late.”

“Thank you, Dera,” Morcant rumbled. He stood there waiting, knowing she would bring him the coins quickly and probably give him a sack of good dinner to go with it. He was always polite to Dera. She treated him well enough, and it was always wise to be on the good side of a woman handing out coins.

She gave him a thin leather pouch and a package wrapped in waxed paper. “Now, don’t spill that, man. And mind the bottom, it’s hot.”

Morcant thanked her again and wandered back down the lane to the gates. Roland threw them open and watched with hooded eyes as he passed by. There were no good-byes offered by either man.

A hot loaf of bread and two chicken thighs. It was better fare than he usually could afford, so he ate them both with gusto standing along the High Street outside the gates. After that, he was thirsty and decided to visit a tavern he knew with comely wenches and strong brews. Usually the first evening after he got his sack of coins was the best, because he could afford to get well and truly drunk that night.

While he stood there chewing, voices came down the lane from the Manor and the gates swung open again. He stayed put, not wanting to be caught walking beside a near relative for any length of time. They were likely to strike up a conversation, and next thing he knew they would ask: so, where are you working now? Or still down on your luck, Morcant? What he saw next was a surprise.

“Come on back anytime, fair lady!” said the fat watchman. Roland leered as a young lady stepped by.

Such a light step, such a fine figure! What cousin was this? He suspected perhaps she was a young thing, just having matured into a blossoming beauty. Then she turned him an appraising glance and he caught sight of her strangely-shaped eyes. He knew what she was then: an elf woman!

His gaze followed her with growing intensity. His lustful stare was nothing unusual, as most of the men in the Haven knew immediate feelings of desire when they saw such creatures. These enchanting women had been awarded to a lucky few, but not to Morcant, of course. He’d entered the lottery and lost, as he’d suspected he would. The entire game had been rigged, he felt sure of it to this day. That Brand and his axe was a cheat, as sure as the River’s flow.

The elf girl had hair that flamed red and blue at once. It wasn’t purple, being lighter and brighter than that. Whatever the color was called, Morcant was enchanted immediately. Ah, what it must be like to bed a fine creature such as this! He’d never been able to secure a wife or even a girlfriend who lasted more than an evening. The tavern wenches he occasionally paid for favors were more matronly than elf-like.

The girl eyed him in return as she passed close by, and flashed him a smile. Oh, how sweet that was! Morcant caught the smile as if she had cast a stone, and felt stricken by it. She walked past him and on down the High Street. He thought to follow her, but knew it was worse than useless to do so.

She paused however, and turned back. She tilted her head toward him and beckoned. Her tiny, crooked finger was like a giant hook to Morcant. He stumbled forward, an oaf in a dream.

She led him down the High Street at a stately pace. Breathing hard, he walked no more than a pace behind her. She turned when they came to the side path that led up to the cemetery on the next hill over from Drake Manor. This was a lonely, overgrown lane with dark trees looming close overhead. Morcant could hardly see it was so dark, but she began to glimmer as the Shining Folk often did in darkness. He followed her glimmering form into a copse of trees near the cemetery and she finally allowed him to take her. He could not believe his good fortune. When they were finished, he fell upon one knee before her. Even so, with her standing and him kneeling, they were the same height and their eyes met.

“Milady,” he said. “To what do I owe this honor and how may I ensure it happens again?”

She smiled at him and licked her lips. “My name is Tegan,” she said. “Tegan Drake.”

He stared at her, and his big face fell. His heavy jaw sagged open. “You are married? To my own clansman?”

“Yes,” she said.

Anger stirred within Morcant. He’d been the fool. He’d been misled by this foreign woman. “Did one of those jackasses at the Manor put you up to this?” he asked dangerously.

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked, sounding amused.

“I mean, if there was a wager made and won by one of my relations tonight, I’m going to pound him into the dust that encircles your fine feet.”

Tegan laughed then, and the sound was like silver bells. “No, silly,” she said. “That isn’t it at all. No one knows what we’ve done.”

“Talk then. Tell me why you would do this.”

“My husband is Gwril,” she said. “Perhaps you’ve met?”

“I know my own cousin,” he rumbled. Gwril was a bookish type who’d never been able to get a maid to marry him, a smallish man with spectacles and a pate as bald as a polished stone. He didn’t like Gwril—he didn’t like most people. But the man had never done him any harm.

“He’s not been—enough for me,” she explained.

Morcant’s stern expression softened somewhat. He thought perhaps he had begun to understand the situation. “You have appetites?” he asked.

“Yes, and I want them fulfilled.”

“What of Gwril? What of my clan?” he demanded. Immediately, he thought of his stipend. It had to be in jeopardy over this. It was one thing to be the family’s brawling, drunken black-sheep. It was quite another to take his own cousin’s wife. Old man Thilfox wouldn’t stand for such nonsense and disloyalty. Morcant knew he would be expelled for good.

Tegan stepped forward and let her lips part slightly. She tapped his big nose and ran her fine fingers over his thrusting jaw. “Such a strong man you are. I’ll make a bargain with you: never you tell a soul about us, and I’ll do the same.”

Morcant blinked, considering the concept. He could not find a flaw in it. They embraced again, and did so several times a week thereafter—whenever she could get away from the Manor without rousing suspicions.

When fall came, she lay with him in the woods once more and afterward, she patted her belly. “Do you know what I have in here, Morcant?” she asked.

He stared at her fine, flat stomach hungrily. “Everything I want,” he said.

She laughed again. He loved her laugh, and he realized he’d come to love her very much.

“No, silly! I mean I’m carrying the fruit of your seed.”

Morcant blinked. “You are with child?”

“Yes, love.”

“Are you sure it’s mine?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “Gwril can’t make a child. He is flawed.”

“He knows this?”

“Yes. But I didn’t when I married him. If I had, I’d never have agreed. Among my folk, such a thing voids the marriage instantly.”

“Well, it doesn’t among mine!” said Morcant, sputtering. “This means he’ll know the baby is not his! What should we do?”

“Do?” she asked. “We’ll be parents, that’s what we’ll do.”

Morcant’s mind raced. The kid wasn’t likely to turn out short and bald. The truth might not be discovered, but Tegan would be suspected.

“Can I still…see you?”

“I don’t know about that. I’ll be watched much more closely now.”

Morcant saw she was pulling away from him. Their eyes no longer met when she spoke. Had this been all she wanted? A child from his loins? He felt a great ripple of emotion run through him. For once, it was not a feeling of anger, but of despair. He’d come to love this elf woman, and he did not want to give her up, nor his unborn child.

“I know what to do,” he said. “I’ll gather money—you’ll see! Then we’ll run from here. We’ll go to North End, then to the sea, and maybe to Eire or to live with the wagon peoples. We’ll go somewhere. Will you come?”

She looked at him, then smiled sweetly. “The Manor is so boring,” she said. “I’ll come with you. But wherever we go, there must be trees, love. Tall, green trees.”

Morcant promised there would be trees. After they had parted, he found himself seeking work. He did so with a new fever, an urgency he’d never felt before. He took off his hat when he met with men of means, and clutched it tightly in his heavy hand. He tried to look contrite, and tried to stop his cheek muscles from bulging as they explained carefully they were not hiring at the moment, but he should check back in a month or two.

Morcant knew that in a month or two it would be too late. He had to have work and coin now. Tegan would begin to show with child soon, and then the game would be finished. He knew despair by the third day. He’d tried every shop, dockhouse and farmer in the vicinity of Riverton.

Finally, he decided to try the less clean jobs—work for people who were not fickle about what their hands touched or how they smelled afterward. They turned him away at the fisheries where they gutted and dried stinking fish all day. The fisherman families did all such work themselves, the boats were clan-owned and operated and always had been, he learned. This did not really surprise him. River Folk generally functioned that way. The jobs one performed were largely guided by the family one was born into. Morcant had been born into a clan with means, his people were healers, bankers, accountants, scribes and lawyers, but he’d long ago squandered such opportunities.

When he was close to despair, it was the Fobs who gave him a kindly steer. They were tanners, and had a monopoly on every part of the making of leather, save for the breeding of the animals themselves. Morcant was almost glad to be turned away by them, the stink of their tanning vats was even worse than the fishery had been. But on the way out, they suggested he try the old cemetery up the lane. They’d heard Daz the caretaker was getting on in years and was looking for a helper with a strong back.

Morcant marched up cemetery hill with hope in his heart. It had been a week since Tegan had given him the news and they’d struck their bargain to run away together. It was about time he was given a break in this world. The lane was familiar to him now, as he’d spent many evenings here meeting with Tegan in secret. He liked the place immediately, as it was full of fond memories.

He met with Daz, who invited him into his ramshackle hut for a drink. They tipped cups together, and Daz hired him on the spot. Morcant knew a great sense of relief. This job would be perfect. It didn’t pay much, but with careful accounting, he should be able to afford passage north within a month. They would then travel to the sea beyond the Haven and figure out their next move there. The reach of Clan Drake was impressive, but it did not extend past the borders of the Haven.

As he started his first days of work, Morcant thought the quiet environment of the cemetery would be good for him. It was a restful place—and the tenants were quiet indeed. There was no one to trigger his nasty temper. Even Daz seemed like a reasonable fellow who wouldn’t badger him about his work and get himself punched in the eye—as all his previous bosses had managed eventually. The old man would give him chores and Morcant would do them all without complaint. At least until he had the coin he needed. After that, he would spirit Tegan away, and they would put the Haven behind them.

The day Morcant dug his very first grave, he dug it deep and square. Daz inspected the work and praised him. It was a job well done and both men knew it. Standing in the grave, Morcant grinned up at Daz and shaded his face with his heavy hand. Things were definitely looking better from his point of view. He could not wait to tell Tegan the news.

Two weeks later, they had a surprise burial. A woman had died in childbirth and her infant son had not survived the night. For reasons Morcant didn’t understand, the Silure family wanted them both buried the very next evening. This gave Morcant two graves to dig in a single afternoon. He didn’t complain when Daz told him of the rush job however, he simply grabbed up his spade and headed toward the graveyard, which was essentially grassy open area of the hilltop. Daz would give him a silver farthing for each grave, he knew. He told himself the work would help a family that wanted an urgent burial and they would pay extra for the service. It could only help him achieve his own goals more quickly.

Trees covered most of the hill, but not the graveyard itself. Each year, Daz cleared the trees from a new section of the hill, enough for twenty to thirty new graves. This had become part of Morcant’s routine, chopping down trees and clearing land when there were no graves to be dug. The hardest part was ripping out the stumps. They had to bring up a mule team from Riverton to help with that. Today there would be no chopping, but instead it would be a long day of digging. Fortunately, an infant’s grave did not need to be as large as an adult’s, but it wasn’t that much smaller. There had to be room enough for the gravedigger to stand in the bottom of the hole and work, after all.

He started by laying out leather tarps to catch the dirt as he threw it. When the ceremony was finished, the earth had to be shoveled back in without covering the nearby grasses. Then the same sod, carefully cut into squares, would be replaced atop the soil. With proper workmanship, the family would be able to visit the spot the next day without seeing so much as a clod of spare soil to remind them of the hole he’d dug today. Daz had taught Morcant this procedure, and the bigger man had not argued. There were few things in the world he respected, but the Dead were among them.

When he had the graves dug down to the level of his shoulders, he was almost finished. The rule was the hole had to be as deep as his shovel was long, and a little bit more. Standing in the grave, throwing scoop after scoop of dark earth over his shoulder onto the tarps, he heard a rumbling sound out on the lane. He looked up and saw a cart rolling up from town. He could tell immediately what the cart carried. Two boxes of rough-hewn wood rode behind the cartsman. Morcant frowned and leaned on his spade. His head, sticking up from the ground, gave him an odd perspective. He wondered if the dead saw the world this way, from a flat angle where they laid within the earth.

The cart was clearly carrying the corpses in their coffins to the gravesite. But there were no mourners, and the ceremony wasn’t due to commence until sunset. Morcant frowned and heaved himself up out of the grave. He stood and straightened, hailing Daz, the figure he now recognized as the cart driver.

“Ho, man!” he called. “Why so early?”

Daz shook his head. “I’m not sure. Old man Tad Silure didn’t say. He just gave me three crowns and told me to bring them up here today.”

Morcant stared, thinking of three crowns. “Silver or copper?” he asked.

“Silver,” Daz said, shaking his head.

Three silver crowns? Morcant thought about that. This was not at all like Old Tad, nor anyone else in his clan. There was something strange afoot here, of that much he was sure.

“I know,” Daz said. “It is odd. But sometimes, in their grief, people behave differently than they would otherwise.”

Morcant nodded. “We are to put the coffins in now?”

“Yes. Before the people arrive.”

“Should we fill the graves? We don’t even have proper headstones ready yet.”

Daz nodded. “I know. I haven’t had time to chisel a single letter yet. There will only be their names on these. That much I know.”

Morcant thought about asking the names, but didn’t. It was best he didn’t know, he figured. This job could be strange enough without knowing an old schoolmate was in the box you were busy lugging about.

“Let’s get them off the cart,” said Daz. “I’ll go work on the stones. Do you think you can finish the graves and get them inside by yourself?”

Morcant eyed the two boxes. Neither was large. “I can do it,” he said.

Daz gave him a quick smile. “That’s why I hired you.”

They carefully set down the two coffins. Neither felt as if there were more than a few pounds of flesh in them. Morcant was slightly troubled in fact, by their lightness. Did the Silures’ starve their matrons?

Daz soon had the cart wheeling away toward his workshop and Morcant was left digging again. He worked at a steady pace. His body had grown more powerful since he’d taken this job. The first week had been all aches and pains, but now that he was growing accustomed to the work, he rather enjoyed the labor. As well, put side by side, he had to say that grave digging was better than chopping down trees and clearing the land. The single reason was that the earth down inside the holes was cool. He still sweated and got dirty, but at least he was out of the blaze of the sun when he stood at the bottom of a grave.

After an hour or so of more digging, Morcant heaved himself out of the grave again. It was harder this time, his muscles were sore and the hole was quite deep. He bent over with his hands upon his knees, sides heaving as he sucked in air for a time. He stared at the two caskets. He decided he’d put down the bigger of the two first. Small ones were tricky, they could tip over on you. He eyed the ropes and straps they usually used to lower caskets. Setting up that mess would take another twenty minutes or more. Deciding to just get it over with, he took hold of the casket and dragged it to the edge of the grave.

Morcant looked over his shoulder and gauged the sun’s position. It was quite late. He’d have to hurry or the mourners would arrive. One firm rule of this business Daz had drilled into him was his role: he was to be invisible. His work was to be the work of quiet magic when no eyes were upon him. No one wanted to see a gravedigger, least of all when they mourned a great loss. Morcant could understand that, and he worked to follow Daz’s rules.

He hopped down into the grave and tugged at the casket. It slid easily down into his grasp. His position was awkward, however. He put the coffin down between his legs, but there was no room for his boots to fit on either side. Cursing, he struggled in the hole. Dirt sifted down from the walls as he tried to climb out. He put his boot down upon the lid, and strained to pull himself up by his arms.

He’d almost managed the feat, when a terrible sound met his ears. A cracking sound. He looked down in horror. He’d cracked the lid of the casket. Cursing wildly, he scrambled out of the hole. He laid down upon the dirt and grasses and stuck his head down into the hole to examine the damage. The crack didn’t look that bad. With the sun shining above, a person would have to come right to the edge and peer down closely to notice it. How likely was that?

Morcant felt a wave of relief, until he noticed something. A wisp of gold. It came out of the crack in the lid. What was that?

He felt sick when he realized what he was seeing. It was hair. The occupant’s hair. That color…it wasn’t natural. It shone—like spun gold.

Suddenly, Morcant knew who it was he buried in a hurry this day. This was an elf maid, one of the ones Brand had brought back from the Fae lands. She had died in childbirth and lost her child as well. The time was right, he’d heard many of the elf girls were pregnant now and some of those pregnancies had gone—oddly.

Morcant thought of Tegan. She was with child, and quickening fast. Faster than what anyone would call normal, that was for certain. Already, he could see the roundness of her midsection, even if others hadn’t noticed yet. He wondered what might be inside her. So lovely she was, but with his bastard child in her guts. How could something unpleasant come from such a thing of sweet beauty? What might his child be?

He’d not really thought of this before. He’d heard legends and rumors, naturally. But when he was with his elf girl, he could not think of her as anything other than an exquisitely formed human girl. He knew she was something else, but oftentimes he believed what his eyes saw rather than whatever whispers came from the back of his mind. He saw what he wanted to see. Not a creature from another strange world, but a pretty maid who would naturally birth perfect children for him.

His eyes traveled to the second casket. There lay the answer.

Morcant looked all around the hilltop. There was no sign of the mourners yet, nor of Daz. Distantly, he could hear the tink-tink-tink of the old man’s chisel striking stone. There were no other people in the cemetery. Even the birds were hushed and still in the final warmth of the day.

His eyes went back to the tiny casket lying in the green, waving grasses. He swallowed, and he remembered his oath to Daz. He’d promised many things, and one had been not to disturb the Dead unnecessarily.

Morcant walked to the casket and his shadow fell over it. He knelt down, and opened it. The hasp flipped up effortlessly. The hinges did not creak, as they were freshly oiled. The lid came open, and inside he saw a bundle wrapped in a stained woolen blanket of faded blue. He hesitated, and almost closed the lid again.

But he had to know the truth. He spread open the blanket, revealing the small face inside. A hideous sight filled his eyes and his mind.

A moan escaped his lips, and he reached to close the lid again, sorry he’d ever thought to open it. He could not close it, however, he could only run his eyes over the pathetic, vile thing in the casket. Fur, sharp teeth—staring eyes that were those of a human child. The last thing he fixated upon was the strangling cord wound around its neck. They had killed it, he knew in an instant.

He slammed the lid closed and fumbled until he had the hasp closed. The memory of what he’d seen haunted his mind. He could not escape it. He dragged the tiny coffin to the edge of the small grave he dug for it and cast it in. The thin wood shattered and the blue blanket could clearly be seen inside. Worse, he could see the dead, glinting eyes staring up at him. They were filled with madness. He wondered: How could something be born mad?

Morcant began shoveling then, filling both graves. He could not recall if these were his instructions now, and he did not care in any case. He wanted these two sad, horrible deaths put away into the earth and forgotten.

He heard a voice as he shoveled and grunted. A voice that came from behind him. “Do you know what you have done here?”

Morcant twisted around, almost stumbling and falling into the graves. His eyes were wide with guilt and fear. He fully expected Daz to be standing behind him, hands on hips and a scowl upon his features. He was about to be fired again, and this time the punishment was richly deserved.

But it was not Daz. It was another. A hunched figure with a cowled face and a silver rod in his hand. The figure used the rod as a cane, walking closer with uncomfortable steps.

“I’m sorry,” Morcant said. He thought perhaps this was an early mourner. “I slipped. I’ll fix the grave before the others come, have no fear.”

“Sorry?” asked the other, coming a step closer. “Fear?” The head beneath the cowl shifted and Morcant heard a strange rattling, gargling sound emanated from it.

“Do you laugh at me?” Morcant asked, bemused and annoyed.

“I always laugh at fools. That is their purpose.”

Morcant stood to his full height. Under different circumstances, he might have taken his shovel and given the oldster a good crack on the shoulder. He turned instead and went back to his shoveling.

The voice came again to him, very close now. It was just over his shoulder. The words were mere whispers. “Takes a lot of guts to turn away from the likes of me,” said the old man. “I’ll give you that much, gravedigger.”

“If you could please wait for the others, sir. Just go up the hill and wait there by the workshop, if you would.”

“But you still haven’t answered my question,” the raspy voice said. “Do you know what you have done here?”

“I’ve filled in the graves. I’m sorry.”

“That’s not good enough, gravedigger!”

Morcant whirled to face his heckler, and the spade fell from his numb fingers. Forgotten, it tipped up and slid into the larger of the two graves.

He faced the Black Jewel. Clasped by a claw of wrought silver at the end of a silver rod, it emanated darkness and icy cold. The hand holding the rod was a fan of finger bones. The oldster’s cowl had fallen back, revealing the horror within. The lich was plain to him now. Its skull was ancient, and its eye sockets were empty orbits of shadow that no light could penetrate.

“I’ll answer my question for you,” said the lich. “You have forfeited your existence.”

“Why?” bubbled Morcant. It was his last word among the Living.

“You took an oath to care for the Dead, child, and you violated that oath. I am your master now. You will never offer insult to the Dead again.”

Chapter Six

The Boy with the Silver Hair

A year passed and then two more came and went. Mari reflected as the fourth began that her marriage was a strange one. For one thing, her husband was not often home. Puck lived a second life apart from her, and sometimes that made her feel sad and alone despite Kaavi and Trev’s company. She stayed with Trev in the River Haven, as Puck assured her this was for the best. She never followed him into the Twilight Lands. Puck came and went with the seasons, spending most of spring and summer with the family, but often leaving during harvest and making only rare visits in the winter months. Trev was always there for her during these lonely times, with his big round eyes, solemn expression and long silver locks. Kaavi helped her educate him and made the house charming with a dozen small projects. Wildflowers now grew upon the roof in the warm seasons and humming birds were thick at every window in spring. Neighbors exclaimed, telling her the house was enchanting, but she noticed they rarely visited and spoke in hushed voices when she went to market.

The hardest thing for her was the absence of any new children. It wasn’t for the lack of trying when Puck was home, she could assure anyone of that. But it just never seemed to happen. No new life was implanted in her womb, and the cheer and warmth of each spring was slightly deadened for her. Had she somehow become barren after giving birth to Trev? She did not know, and did not know who to ask.

It was the fifth autumn that she dreaded. When it came at last, Puck had left her again to perform whatever duties were expected of an elf prince. It was time for Trev to start his daily treks to the schoolhouse with the other local children. In the River Haven, the clan rules were quite strict concerning education. Every capable child was required to attend six full years of school, or as long as it took for them to read, write and do simple sums. Kaavi had taught him much of these things already, but he would have to go for several years just to prove himself. It was the law of the Haven.

School had been something Mari had dreaded for years. She worried about what Trev’s schoolmates might say and how they might treat him. Many boys had lost fathers and uncles fighting the elves and they might not accept his differences. Her greatest fear revolved around Trev’s strange, silver hair. The hair was his sole characteristic that clearly and immediately marked him as half-elf.

Puck had told her not to worry about it, but he’d been gone for weeks now, and she couldn’t stop fretting. In the end, she decided to cut the boy’s locks. She did it the night before he was to begin school, when Kaavi wasn’t around to stop her. His hair had never been a problem before and she thought it was quite lovely to look at—but she couldn’t bear the thought of other children bullying her son. She took a pair of long, sharp shears and cut the locks all the way around his head. She did a poor job of it, but Trev did not complain. Only a single tear showed on his cheek to make her feel dark-hearted.

“It’s better this way, Trev,” she told him. “I want to give the children a chance to get used to you. If you look just like they do on the first day, they’ll come to like you.”

Trev had not objected. It was not his way to do so. In the morning, however, after he’d slept the night, Mari was shocked to see the hair had grown back. All of it had returned—as if she’d never cut it at all. It reached his shoulders again, just as it always had. And it was the same bright color he’d been born with.

Kaavi saw him to the door. She touched his locks and ran her fingers through them. Mari’s face darkened. Had she performed some elf-trick? Had Kaavi thwarted her plan to make him seem more normal? If she could make flowers take root on a roof, perhaps she could cause hair to grow where it had been roughly shorn off.

Mari fumed. She considered cutting it all each morning before he went to school, but the very idea of a daily haircut seemed absurd. Hands on her hips, she’d thought hard and finally sent him to the schoolhouse with a hat upon his head. The silvery locks were stuffed up inside.

A week later she’d tried to cut it again, with the same results by morning. By this time she’d become distraught, and after she’d sent Trev off wearing his hat, she confronted Kaavi directly.

“I know what you’re doing,” she said.

“Hmm?”

“With Trev’s hair. I want it cut short.”

“Whatever for, dear?”

“It doesn’t matter why I want what I want,” Mari said, becoming indignant. “I’m his mother, and I want you to stop fooling with it.”

“And I’m his auntie,” Kaavi replied. She still smiled, but there was a narrow cast to her eyes.

Mari drew herself up and put her hands on her hips. “Kaavi, I want to thank you deeply for all you’ve done for me and Trev. I do appreciate it, really I do.”

“Are you asking me to leave?”

“Don’t you think it’s time you sought a husband again?” Mari asked her. “It’s been so long. You need a son of your own.”

Kaavi’s face fell at these words and she looked at the floor. Mari knew pity for her then. The girl had come to think of Trev as her own, and both women knew the danger in it.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Kaavi said.

“There are any number of boys in Riverton who’ve been pining away for you for years. But you have never allowed any of them to court you.”

Kaavi laughed. “If I had, I would never have been able to help you with Trev.”

“I know you’ve sacrificed much,” Mari said. “And I truly thank you. You will always be welcome here should you need solace.”

“Solace?” laughed Kaavi. “What elf would ever need such a thing?”

Kaavi walked outside at that very moment, without closing the door behind her. The two women did not even hug.

Mari stood in the doorway and watched her sister-in-law walk toward the woods. She felt as if she stood in a dream. Kaavi went as she’d come, without a single possession other than her scandalous clothing and graceful self.

“Make sure to come back and say goodbye to Trev!” Mari called after her.

Kaavi laughed again. “He’s an elf, he’ll understand.”

Mari shook her head. She told herself that one could hardly marry an elf and bear his child and then expect to lead a completely normal life.

* * *

Trev had nearly a league to walk through the Haven Wood to school. There were spots along the way he liked to visit each day. These were private places, which he explored alone. His favorite was a tiny graveyard. Broken sticks marked most of the graves, but there were small, carven boulders here as well. Reportedly, a battle with the goblins had taken place here long ago and Haven militia men had been laid to rest where they died. More recently, it had served as a spot where children buried dead pets.

The graveyard was not deep among the trees, it was no glade or grassy dell. Instead, it was heavily overgrown with feathery ferns and ragwort. The graves themselves were all hidden beneath these growths. The lush greenery attracted Trev and made him feel at home.

The boy did not stop here to commune with the Dead, but rather to commune with the natural world. For him, it seemed that the Haven was not as lush as it should be. Many spots were positively barren. But not this place. It was a green tangle of leaves, vines and stony, forgotten graves. He was not sure quite why he felt so at home here, in a spot shunned by most children, but he did. With the simplicity of a child, he followed his instincts. In the morning he paused here and let dew drops falling from the trees above to wet his face. In the afternoons when he walked home and paused, he crouched below the ferns, delighting in the cool feathery touch of their fronds.

Trev crawled among the ferns one late afternoon when he noticed something odd. The birds, who forever kept him company with their cheerful songs, fell silent. Unlike a human boy, he did not stand and look about for the cause. He did not gaze into the trees to see if the birds were still there, or had perhaps flown off in a flock. Instead, he crouched and listened.

After a time, he heard something. The rustle of footsteps. They were not stealthy, but neither were they direct and purposeful. It was as if someone wandered nearby aimlessly, slowly, shuffling about. A scent soon came to his twitching nose as well. A musty smell of age and dust.

Still, Trevor did not move. Only his eyes shifted from where he sat under a large fern. Through the fronds, in the late afternoon gloom of the Haven Wood, he saw a figure moving about.

The figure appeared to be a cowled old man who leaned upon a silver cane. Trev knew where each of the graves were in his hideaway. The old man walked between them, almost without aim. At each spot where a carven rock marked a grave, he bent and touched the stone with thin fingers.

“What are you doing?” asked Trev suddenly. He still did not move, but instead stared watchfully.

The other did not lurch with guilt, but he did straighten. Slowly, the cowled head turned in his direction. Trev saw ice cold eyes swimming in pits of shadow beneath the cowl, and he knew in that instant he faced one of the Dead. He’d never met one before, but they’d been described to him by his Aunt Kaavi.

The dead-thing came a step closer. Trev’s haunches gathered beneath him, ready to bolt like a rabbit from the ferns. Something in the other’s burning gaze kept him from moving, however.

“I plant seedlings,” said the dead-thing. “What dares to speak with me?”

“You are a dead-thing. You haunt my place. You must answer my questions first.”

At that, the dead-thing halted its advance and made a raspy chuckle. “Such arrogance and assumption!” it exclaimed. “I sense youth! Dare you believe this is your place, not mine? I am a thousand times your age, stripling. Perhaps more than that.”

This answer disturbed Trev. He’d learned from Kaavi that as the younger of two who have just met and the interloper, he would have to answer the dead-thing’s questions first.

“Why do you want to know what I am?” asked Trev.

“It would not be polite to dine upon a stranger,” said the dead-thing.

Trev’s heart pounded and he swallowed with a throat that had gone dry. He had calculated he could outrun this shambling creature, as it had not moved quickly up til now. Could it be faster or more able than it looked? For the first time, he feared for his life.

“Good!” said the dead-thing. “I scent fear now. It is a perfume the Living ever wears to attract me.”

“I am Trev. You can’t eat me, dead-thing. I’m the son of Puck—the grandson of Oberon, King of the elves.”

“King of the elves, is it?” the dead-thing asked. “Such nonsense. Your grandfather does not know his place, any more than you do.” It shuffled forward with purpose.

Trev tried to run then, but he found he could not. Bones had reached up from the soil around him. They held him fast. Tiny claws, wing-bones and the lace-work of a single human hand gripped his boots. He knew they must be the bones of the Dead of this place, awakened and brought to movement by this thing that shuffled toward him.

“I have done as you asked,” Trev said. “Now name yourself!”

The dead-thing paused. “I am Arawn, boy. King of the Dead.”

“What do you do here in the Haven? What of the Pact?”

King Arawn chuckled. The sound was like grit being rasped between stones. “No Pact has ever included the Dead, child. Now sit while I taste thy tiny, flaring soul.”

“I would offer you magic,” Trev said, terrified.

The lich paused. “What magic would a child have?”

“I have magic. Mother says so.”

“Something you can give me?”

“Yes,” said Trev, almost unable to speak for his fear. King Arawn’s bony hand had appeared now and hovered near his brow. The staff he carried, Trev now saw, bore a Black Jewel in it. Trev saw the Jewel reflect light, even though there was only gloom beneath the trees. What shone within it, he had no inkling. It was as if an Eye winked at him.

“If you are playing me false, child,” said the Dead King in a hushed voice. “I can do with your soul as I will. You understand that, don’t you?”

“And you understand that if I speak the truth, you can never harm me?”

The lich rasped with laughter. “An immortal will never agree to never.”

“For a year, then.”

“Agreed,” said the lich. His bones shifted and creaked under his robe. The ice that formed his eyes shifted and glinted. He made odd sounds, as if he lusted.

Trev could not speak, such was his fright.

“Now, we have a bargain, infant,” said King Arawn. “I call upon you to give me this magical bauble of yours, which does not exist.”

“It is my hair,” said Trev. “Cut away a lock of it, and you will see.”

“What?” cackled the dead-thing. “Hair?”

“Yes. When it is cut, it grows back by the next morning. Mother has tried twice—”

“Ha!” shouted the lich, shuffling forward like a lusty merchant after a tavern wench. “Now I have you! Your soul will twist for me until the sun goes out and long after!”

“You dishonor our bargain?” asked Trev.

The lich’s staff hovered over him. Inches from his face, the Black Jewel stared down at him as a snake might examine a trapped mouse.

“Fulfill your part, foolish half-breed, or I will have you this instant! Give me your magic hair.”

Trev searched his pockets for a knife, but had none. He scrabbled amongst the debris at his feet, but found nothing but squirming bones. Finally, something nipped at his fingers. The exposed skeletal bones of a militia man who’d died here long ago had arisen with a dagger in its grasp. It was rusty and ancient, but Trev grabbed it up and sawed at his hair.

“Your time is up, child. Accept your fate.”

“Wait!” cried Trev. He could not cut his hair with the edge, as it was too dull and rusted. But he lowered the blade to his scalp and cut away a hunk of flesh and hair together. Trev’s teeth were set with pain, but he did not scream. He handed the mess to the outstretched, bony hand.

“What’s this?” asked the lich, holding up the bloody lock.

“It is my magic hair,” said Trev.

“Ha!” roared the lich again. “Fool, it is not magic!”

“But my mother said—”

“Then she is a bigger fool than thee!”

The bony hand extended, and the Black Jewel came down toward Trev’s bleeding head. He knew this was his last moment upon this green world. He wondered what the next would be like.

The Jewel stopped and did not descend to kiss his forehead. Instead, it withdrew. “You did believe your hair was magic, didn’t you boy?” asked the lich.

“Yes, I’ve always been told that.”

A long hissing sound erupted. Trev did not know what to make of it.

“You have frustrated me as few have in centuries.”

Suddenly, Trev understood. “You cannot take me, as I did not play you falsely. Is that it?”

“Yes, child,” said the Dead King, retreating from him. “I’m so glad I could give you this lesson today. Perhaps the next time we meet, you will not be so fortunate, and the learning will go harder for you.”

“I hope not.”

The dead-thing chuckled again, and shuffled away from him. When Arawn was gone, Trev found the bones that grappled his feet weakened their grip and he was able to free himself and run home.

Chapter Seven

Life and Death

Brand’s first child was a son named Cadmon. Two years later, his wife became pregnant again with twins. The twins were difficult for Telyn to carry, and Brand found himself wishing Gudrin or Myrrdin were around to help. He sent a letter off to each, but Gudrin offered him sagely advice, without her presence. He was hardly surprised, as she had a kingdom of her own to run. From Myrrdin, he got no response at all. To his surprise, Tomkin responded after learning of the situation. He’d been away in the land of Eire for some time now, and Brand had not thought to ask him. The Wee Folk lord sent a wise-woman midwife to aid with the birth when the day came in early spring.

The midwife was named Sofia, and she stood barely two feet tall, but she bustled about with such energy people tended to duck and wince when she entered a room. Sofia always seemed to be found standing upon chair backs and tabletops rather than the floor. Brand found her fascinating, as he’d never seen a female of the Wee Folk before. They were famously reclusive, staying in their homes, usually under a Deepwood oak or high up in a Deepwood tree house.

Quick of movement and wit, Sofia was less wild than males of her folk. She was almost practical, and never short-tempered. When the day came to deliver the twin girls, she’d built up a poultice in a pot that was almost as big as she was. Brand helped her carry it upstairs where Lanet fussed around Telyn, who laid sweating and puffing on her birthing bed.

“All wrong, the way you folk do things,” complained Sofia. “A bed? What kind of a place is that for a woman to have a child?”

All along, Sofia had requested Telyn tie her wrists to a tree and squat outside to have the child. Telyn had considered it, but the River Folk women had been scandalized at the very concept of such a lack of modesty and overruled the tiny midwife in this detail. She’d never gotten over it, however, and brought it up constantly.

“It’s all wrong, lying flat on your back. Don’t know why you girls relish the pain so much.”

Lanet rolled her eyes at Brand, who smiled, kissed his wife’s sweaty forehead, and ran out of the room as fast as he could. He felt instant relief when he closed the door behind him. He was worried, but he had faith in Sofia. The woman had reportedly managed a thousand births in her long life.

Brand walked out into the apple orchards. It was early spring, and the trees were blossoming. The scent in the air was fine, but when the winds came, sometimes his nose tickled. Jak followed him out into the orchard and offered him a slice of cheese he had cut free of a hunk he was carrying.

“Did you ever think we would get to this point in our lives, Brand?” Jak asked him.

“What do you mean?”

“Here we are, fathers five times over between the two of us. Yet we still live on our parents’ home isle.”

Brand chewed his cheese and nodded slowly. “I do still love it here,” he said. “But Jak, I’m leaving soon. After the babes are born and hale.”

“I know,” Jak said. “You’ve muttered and packed and planned all winter long.”

It was true, it had been no secret. The Haven had been quiet for some time now, and Brand wanted to get to the task he’d vowed he would: to rebuild Castle Rabing.

“Are you sure it’s worth the effort, Brand?” Jak asked.

Brand sighed. They’d had this talk a dozen times before. Strangely, it was not Telyn who forever tried to dissuade him from frittering away his fortunes upon a ruined castle in the badlands beyond the borders of the Haven. It was his brother Jak who took that role.

“Jak,” he said. “Don’t you want to see the River Folk grow and take root in new places? We once carpeted this land with villages, farms and castles. We had seaports and mills. Forges produced tools, weapons and armor comparable to those made only by the Kindred now.”

“And what a great deal of good it did our ancestors back then, didn’t it?”

“Is that it then? You fear to reach for our glory days?”

It was Jak’s turn to be annoyed. “You could just take down a dozen of these apple trees and build a second house, you know—if that is the matter.”

“It’s not about the size of your house, Jak! There are still two empty rooms upstairs, even with both our families living here. And I could always build a new wing, if that was the worry.”

Jak shrugged, looking down. “You could at least wait until next spring. Your family will be stronger then.”

“It’s now or never, Jak,” Brand said. “Soon, I’ll grow too comfortable. And Telyn might well have another child by then.”

Jak frowned fiercely for a time. Finally, he spoke up again in resignation. “All right, I’ll not try to turn you from this path, Brand. I know when a Rabing man has made up his mind there’s no convincing him otherwise.”

They clasped arms, and parted. He was glad to have his brother Jak’s neutrality, if not his blessing. He vowed in his heart to move forward. Someday, it would be his turn to offer his brother’s family a place to stay.

As Brand walked back to the house, he heard a scream that rose up and up until it filled his ears. He knew the scream—it was Telyn’s voice. He ran up the stairs, and despite Lanet’s hands trying to stop him, pushed past her.

Telyn lie on her back, her knees up and bare. Her face was as white as the pillows beneath her. The bed between her legs was bright red and pooled with blood. Standing in the center of the blood puddle was the tiny midwife, Sofia. Her boots were soaked, and her bare arms were slick and stained. She worked with unnatural rapidity. Her fingers seemed to glow—no, to shine. What was it she had? A needle and thread?

“Get out! Do not disturb me, axeman, or I’ll lose all three!” Sofia cried without so much as a glance over her shoulder at him.

Brand felt Lanet’s small hands, pushing him out into the hallway. He staggered back out of the room.

“We’ll do all we can, Brand,” Lanet said to him. Her voice was ragged. He could see tears glistening on her cheeks.

His mind turned to ice as he realized what the tears meant. Lanet was already mourning, already grieving for a sister-in-law lost.

Lanet pushed the door closed in his face, and Brand raised his fist to hammer at it, but halted himself. He must allow the women to do their work. He longed to reach for his axe, to cut something down—anything. But he fought with his emotions. This was a problem he could not overcome by force.

Brand went downstairs on numb legs. Jak brought him a mug of something that steamed and smelled of alcohol. He gulped it without a thought, and it burned until it made him cough.

Long hours passed, and Brand awakened in his chair with a lurch, thinking a cat had jumped upon his lap. It wasn’t cat, he saw, but Sofia who stood there, smiling.

“Life and death are twins you know, in the lore of the Wee Folk. They always come close together.”

“Telyn?” he asked, unable to breathe freely.

“She lives.”

“The twins?” he asked, daring to hope.

“Two fine girls. One is small, but both should make it,” Sofia said.

Brand’s head lolled back and he released a great sigh of relief. “I thought—from what you said about life and death—never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

“What are their names to be?” Sofia asked, watching him.

“Two girls? We agreed to name them Taffy and Dee,” he said, and he chuckled, shaking his head. The names seemed silly to him now.

“There is one thing,” Sofia said with a gentle voice.

“Tell me.”

“She will have no more children, axeman. I had to seal her womb to stop the bleeding.”

“Oh,” said Brand, nodding. He thought to himself it was a small price to pay for Telyn’s life. “I thank you for coming, lady. We are forever in your debt. Without you, I think tragedy would have visited this house tonight.”

“Just goes to show,” said Sofia, “there is plenty of grief in the world. There is no need to go looking for it.”

He frowned at her, not sure what she meant, but nodded in approval anyway. She bounded away to check on her charges upstairs.

Brand wondered what she had meant by her comments and had intended to ask her in the morning. But by the time the sun next rose, Sofia was gone, and he did not see her again for many long years.

* * *

Brand did as he’d promised. When summer came, he packed up his family, hired a swarm of retainers and workmen, and headed out to the ruins of Castle Rabing. It became apparent within the first month the job was tremendous and could not be done by his few score craftsmen. It would take a lifetime. He wondered that his folk could have ever built such a fortress in the past. There must have been a vast number of humans available as workers then. Tenfold what the Haven could boast now.

He sent a letter to Gudrin, requesting Kindred aid. He would pay in coin, of which he had plenty from past adventures. Ever interested in work and coin, the Kindred workers came to his call. A thousand of them swarmed the land and it became a chore just to feed them.

Brand and Telyn took up residence in a large tent out on what would someday become the village common—when such a village was built. Today, the village was nothing but a mass of canvas tents and cookfires. Brand had grand plans, however, and no one could dissuade him from them.

Events proceeded apace. Within a month, a wagon train loaded with stone blocks arrived from distant quarries in the Black Mountains. It was the first train of many. The Kindred fell upon the bricks and worked with a frenzied pace no human could match. They had been mixing mortar for days, and now they employed it, troweling a thick coat between each cut block. The outer walls were three feet high within a month. By the second month, they were a dozen feet high and growing still. Brand had specified the walls must encircle an area big enough to hold all of Riverton—should the folk from that place ever need the protection. Just outside the limits of these wide-running walls was the mound where he had defeated Herla and gone to treat with the Fae on many occasions. It would not do to have the mound inside the walls of course, as it would give them far too tempting a route to circumvent his defenses. He placed two towers along that section of wall and planned a separate gate, in his mind already naming it the Fae Gate. He hoped to see a great deal of trade between the mound and his castle in the years to come. Caravans might well ply the route.

As autumn began the wall was twenty feet in height. The top of the structure was finished in most places, crenulated and built with stairways for easy defense by archers. Towers stood at six strategic points, and the following year would see the building of the front gatehouse down near the river. At that point, Brand would invite folk from far and wide to settle here and farm the lands around. The swamp would be drained with banks and berms built to keep it at bay. The flooding rivers would be put back into their ancient courses where they had flowed in centuries past. Brand looked forward to the day they would build his central keep, and Castle Rabing would stand proudly again.

* * *

It was later in the year, as winter approached and the walls had been built that the first inkling of troubles arose. Grasty came to his attention with his sock-like hat in his blocky hands. Grasty was the Kindred foreman of the Workers Clan. He had only one eye, which squinted continuously. The other had been lost in a metalworking accident decades earlier. Brand marveled that Grasty could see at all, but he seemed to miss little.

“Milord, I’ve a problem and a solution to offer,” Grasty said.

Brand nodded and smiled. This was the sort of thing he’d hired the Kindred for: they were intrepid and reliable. “Tell me both together, man!”

“Well,” began the other, directing his single eye at the ground, “there are certain elements of the land here…that had best be dealt with.”

“Out with it!”

“There are—openings milord. In the ground beneath us. The dungeons of this place run deep, and harbor foul things.”

Brand nodded, touching his chin which now bristled with a heavy, dark beard. He had found shaving regularly became tiresome in this rustic environment. His piercing blue eyes stared at Grasty. From the other’s manner, there was more to this than he was saying, and there were elements he expected Brand not to like.

“Grasty,” he said, “I’m not going to become angry. I’m intensely pleased with the work of your clansmen. You have done ten years work in a single season. Tell me plainly what the matter is.”

Grasty looked up and attempted a smile. Teeth that looked like they belonged in a horse’s mouth revealed themselves. “Very well. The matter is there are creatures living below this castle, as I’m sure you know. We can’t very well build a wall to keep out invaders if they have a warren of tunnels below us.”

Brand frowned. “I know there are catacombs beneath us. Are you saying they are—inhabited? That these things you refer to are—dead-things?”

Grasty nodded solemnly.

“We’ve known of this all along,” Brand said. “What has changed to bring this matter up now?”

“I sent down a few explorers, sir. Just to have a look about, mind you. One can’t very well build a castle without knowing what the foundations look like.”

“Quite right. I take it the explorers did not fare well?”

“There are traps down there, sir. Vicious ones. And ghosts, and—well, the reports from those that made it back out to the surface were confused. Talk of mountains of bones. Stairways that led to nothingness. White maids with gossamer bodies beseeching them—bah, it doesn’t bear talking about.”

Brand stared at him, plucking at his new beard. He found that it itched more when he was irritated. “Are you telling me they encountered the Shining Lady?”

Grasty made a dismissive wave of his hand. “Possibly, or just as likely they met their own reflections in a stinking slime-pool. I’ve no doubt there were hazards, but I also know they may be exaggerating to increase their pay.”

Brand’s frown became intense. “You said you had a solution as well as a problem to present?”

“Yes, well—right. I want to block these portals down into the underworld. We Kindred have dealt with this kind of thing before. We can build up a pile of crushed granite, iron and the like and then—”

“You’ll light a great fire on the mass and melt it down into a hard, impenetrable plug, right?”

Grasty looked surprised. “Exactly, sir…ah, right, you have been to the Earthlight and down into the Everdark below, haven’t you? I’ve heard the tales. Let me assure you, your lordship, whatever dark things dwell below us now will not escape! They will never get past one of my plugs!”

Brand nodded slowly. He paused. He wondered how many Kindred leaders had been faced with such a decision. To his mind he had two choices: he could plug up these holes and let the mess fester below, or he could take the surgeon’s option—he could excise the cancer before it grew worse.

“Grasty, I want you to mix up your plugs. Cook them until they are thick and reliable. But before you pour them into place, I think I will take an expedition of my own down to see what is what.”

“Is that wise, sir?” asked Grasty in surprise.

“Probably not,” Brand admitted. “But shouldn’t a lord at least know what it going on beneath his very own castle?”

Chapter Eight

A Ray of Hope

When Trev returned home, he was exhausted and disheveled. His mother met him on the doorstep, as if she’d been watching for his return—which she had.

“You’re late!” she scolded. “What’s happened to you? Your head bleeds! Where is your cap, child?”

Trev told her of the dead-thing he’d met in the woods. He told her everything, except the reason he’d been there, playing alone among the ferns and grave-markers.

“An old man grabbed you? He held you to the ground?”

“Not exactly. He had a staff, with a black rock at the tip. He was all bones, mum. There was no meat on him at all.”

Mother made a gasping sound. Her eyes were alarmingly wide, and Trev thought he might be in trouble.

“But I’m fine, mother. I talked to him, and I wagered with him, and he lost, so he had to let me go.”

“I must sit down.”

Trev followed his mother inside their cottage. She seemed sick with worry, which surprised Trev. After all, he had survived and due to his wager he was safe from this new danger for a whole year.

Mari sat upon an old rocking chair made of lashed willow sticks. She began to rock, and she didn’t look at him.

“Where’s auntie Kaavi?” Trev asked.

“She’s gone, boy. She’s left us.”

Trev felt tears in his eyes. Kaavi was his only playmate. She understood him and was always cheerful.

“I must call your father,” Mari said. “I must contact Brand as well.”

Trev barely listened. He looked out the room’s lone window into the world. The forest was out there, darkening as the sun fell. He wondered if the dead-thing was still under those trees somewhere and if it had caught any other little boys and consumed them.

“Did Kaavi follow the path?” he asked.

“I’ll go in the morning,” his mother continued. She was not listening to him. Her face was dark and full of fear. “We can’t go out now. We’ll go for help in the morning. Oh, what did you find, Trev? What did you awaken in the Haven Wood?”

“If Kaavi’s out there, she might run into the dead man,” Trev said, staring toward the trees.

His mother’s hand fell upon him. He had not heard her get up and come close. Her hand closed on him, and squeezed his shoulder tightly. She began to tend to his cut scalp.

“You’ll not go out there, Trev,” she said in his ear. “I’ll not have it. Kaavi can take care of herself.”

“But—what if she can’t?”

“Then there will be one less elf in the woods. But you are too young yet to save her, regardless. Don’t worry. I have a way to call your father. He will know what to do.”

Trev did not respond. He was thinking hard. He knew there was only one person in the Haven who was safe from the dead-thing in the woods, and that person was him. He’d bargained and won a year’s safety. Kaavi didn’t have any such assurances, and in any case he doubted his auntie had ever met someone like King Arawn of the Dead.

He waited until the moon rode high over their cottage. His mother went to light a lantern on the roof’s peak among the wild flowers and began to play a set of wax pipes. Puck had left them with her to call him, and she did so now. Softly, she repeated his name three times, then blew upon the pipes and burned the lantern and then called out seven times more. Trev knew it didn’t matter if she called loudly or softly, just that she used his name and yearned for him to come to her.

Trev was well aware of this arrangement between his parents, although they’d never told him. He heard things, oftentimes things he was not meant to hear. Some called him inquisitive, while others used words like impudent and snoopish. In any regard, he knew more things than anyone suspected he did. Kaavi had taught him that staying quiet and listening closely tended to gather wisdom, if not high regard.

While his mother went out onto the roof to cast her tiny spell of calling, he slipped out of bed and donned his best traveling clothes. They smelled of green grasses, and made him homesick for the forest. If the truth were told, he felt more at home and safer among the tree trunks than he ever did in the cottage.

Being only six years of age, he did not think to carry a weapon or even take his jacket. He did take some food, however. He’d stashed away a rucksack with three apples and various other odds and ends for exploring in the woods. He’d hoarded the apples over the week, left over from his lunches. He didn’t like apples, but he didn’t like wasting things either, so they’d stacked up in there. The sack went over his shoulder and it was time to make his escape.

There was only one door in the cottage, and only one window in the front room. But there was a crawlspace under the house. He slipped down there and passed a dozen spiders and sacks of turnips. Crawling on his hands and knees, he went out through a loose board into the yard and ran quickly for the forest. He was a fast runner, the fastest in his school. The others didn’t like to run against him, they said it wasn’t natural. Trev didn’t know how unnatural he was, but he knew he was very fast and he liked to run. Within a minute or two, he had reached the trees and the darkness beneath them.

Trev looked back to see his mother on the roof, still calling to father. He told himself not to worry. He’d be back before the morning sun rose. She would never even know he’d gone.

He did not head to the pet cemetery. He didn’t go toward the nearest village either, nor the schoolhouse on the hill covered with rowan trees. Instead, he journeyed to another private spot he knew of. It was a small mound, a secret one that was rarely visited by anyone. Not even the Fae danced here much, it being such a lonely place. Whoever had been buried here could not have been that important, Trev figured, as the grave wasn’t big enough to house a king or even a lord. Less than a dozen feet high and no more than twice that around, the mound was covered in velvet grasses and circled by evergreen poplar trees. Trev didn’t know if anyone ever came here—he’d certainly never seen anyone on the mound or near it.

Tonight was different, however. When he arrived, there was someone there. A dead someone. He knelt beside the corpse and drew a candle stub out of his rucksack. He had a few matches as well, and he lit the candle and examined the small body. It was the tiny figure of a woman with a perfect shape, a lovely face and lavender wings. A wisp—it had to be. His aunt Kaavi had taught him all about wisps.

Trev prodded the tiny figure’s feet for a moment, hoping maybe she would hop up and come alive. She didn’t. Using his hands, he dug a small hole in the side of the mound and rolled her inside then covered her up. He didn’t want a fox or a crow to carry her off in the morning.

After he’d buried the wisp and stood, he sensed something near him. He whirled and saw a figure standing at the foot of the mound.

“Father?” Trev asked.

“You’ve grown so!” Puck answered, coming forward and kneeling beside the boy.

Father’s face was alight with good cheer and it made Trev’s heart glad. He knew that his father used mounds like this one to travel between the Twilight Lands and the Haven. He didn’t know how he did it, but it was no surprise he had shown up here, as this mound was the closest one to their cottage.

“I’m glad you’ve come. Mother was worried.”

“So I gather. Is it you she’s worried about? Have you run off and hidden in the woods?”

Trev shook his head.

“What are you doing here then?” asked Puck.

“I was burying a wisp,” Trev said, pointing to the tidy heap of fresh earth at his feet.

The joy drained from Puck’s face. “A wisp? Who would murder such a lovely thing?”

“King Arawn of the Dead, I think,” Trev said. “It is he I came here to speak with.”

Puck stared at him. “Whatever for?”

“To tell him to leave aunt Kaavi alone. She’s out in these woods somewhere as well, since mother and she had a falling out. I don’t want King Arawn to harm her. I thought I might bargain with him again and save her life as well.”

Puck made an odd sound. It was as if he choked upon a bean at dinner. Trev had heard River Folk make such sounds in the past, but never an elf.

“I think your mother was quite right to call upon me,” Puck said at last. “Let’s go to her now, shall we?”

The two of them set off at a run toward the cottage. Trev was surprised at his father’s speed. He could not keep up.

Puck’s homecoming was not a happy one. Usually, when father returned after a long stay abroad, Trev would be sent to bed early and would pretend to sleep while his parents made love quietly downstairs. Tonight wasn’t like that, however. Tonight, father stayed up all night with his blade across his knees. He stoked the fire high with the tip of his sword and added wood frequently.

Trev found the blazing fire annoying, as it was summer and the house was quite hot enough already. He did not complain, however, and in the morning the family headed for Riverton. Trev was excited about this unexpected development. He’d only been to Riverton a time or two and he found all the motion and noise of the place entrancing. Others talked about visiting far-away worlds, but Trev thought all he had to do was go to Riverton to experience the same sensation.

Along the journey, his parents had some loud discussions.

“He needs to talk to Brand and the rest,” said Puck. “I think he really did meet this monster from the past. If he did, or met something like it, Oberon and Brand both need to know.”

“Well, where he goes, I go,” Mari said stubbornly.

Puck sighed. “I’m not taking you two to Castle Rabing if the Dead are on the rise. I’ll leave you both in Riverton. I’ll try to bring Brand to him. You should be safe there.”

“We were probably safer in our cottage.”

“No, the ancient one knows of you now. The boy is safe from him, but not you. He can get to the boy through you, if he wishes.”

“How so?”

“What if he caught you, then told Trev he could save you by rescinding his arrangement?”

“I wouldn’t do it!” piped up Trev from the back. “If I did, he’d have us both.”

“How would you save me then, Trev?” mother asked, smiling at him.

“I’d light his old bones on fire and burn him to ash. I made no deal not to harm him.”

Both the adults laughed, but Trev was quite serious. He crossed his arms defiantly.

“Well played, son,” Puck said. He turned back to Mari. “You’ll stay in Riverton for now, and I’ll go see Brand. And one more thing.”

“What is it, love?”

“Stay away from the cemetery.”

* * *

When Myrrdin regained possession of his mind, he was sorrowful. He sensed a number of years had passed, but he had no way of knowing the truth of this. His waist was thinner now, and innumerable ridged scars marked his hide where he had clawed himself with his remarkably long fingernails. He yearned for the return of madness. Being aware of his predicament did nothing to improve it.

I am old, he thought, in my dotage. How else had he been so taken in by his own sire? How had he not known the depths to which his father would sink in the name of power? With his half-breed blood, was he not more aware of the Fae and their dark, mercurial ways than any other?

Myrrdin had done everything he could in the hopes of peace. He had not wanted a new war only two centuries after the last had ended. He, who alone among the people of the Haven could recall the horrors of warring with the Fae, had been determined to bring peace at any cost. In the end he had failed, and war had marched onward over his broken form.

Bouts of madness, despair and fury took turns holding his mind in their grips as further months passed. He decided in the end that everyone had been right—everyone except for him, that poor old fool Myrrdin. How his elf half-brothers must laugh far above as they made water into his feeding tubes! How they must dance and giggle at his misfortune!

In the end, he had a change of heart. His philosophies shifted forever. Peace was not to be bought at any price…not because it was too expensive, but because it could not be purchased. War was inevitable. Brand had been right to fight for what was his. And Oberon had been right to take whatever he could and make with it what he willed. The Kindred had built horrors of metal and flame that had slain with mindless, mechanical efficiency. They’d all been on the right side of the matter. Together, all those who’d wielded their Jewels with abandon had been right to do so. They’d fought a great war and each had killed a generation of their own Folk—but that was right for them.

Myrrdin felt he’d come to better understand the hard ways of the worlds. What the various folk had achieved after the bloodshed was finished, after the last vein had been opened and bled white, was the only kind of peace that was achievable: the peace of exhaustion. The peace of two drunken louts who’ve beaten one another unconscious in an alleyway. Afterward, these louts would sleep together, arm-in-arm like babes. That was the only sort of peace that a man could hope to bring to his people.

After long sessions of self-recrimination, Mrrydin again took to exploring his cell. It was an old habit, one that he’d not bothered with for months, as nothing had ever changed within his tiny tomb. There were the fleshy growths that grew like tubes to bring in air and water, and a third to exit wastes. There was the hard, smooth skin of the cell itself, which felt cool and waxy to his fingertips. To one side he found the bulbous growth of the fungus that fed him, and his pool of waste still wet his feet. Nothing was different.

It wasn’t until he felt the ceiling that he noted a change. There was a bulge there that he did not think had been there before. He frowned in the perfect blackness. Only afterimages met his eyes when he moved them, purple splotches and memories of vision lost in the dark. He felt the ceiling carefully, precisely, every inch of it.

There! He’d definitely found something different. A rupture—albeit a tiny one—had appeared in the surface above his head. He dug his finger up into it and felt a protuberance. Licking cracked lips, he worked at the fleshy object carefully. It felt like a root. There were hair-thin bits that came away from it, and the tip was narrower than the part above, which ran upward into the earth.

Myrrdin ran his fingertips over the root delicately, not wanting to damage it. A tiny spray of grit showered him. He wanted to encourage the root, to bring it down to him. He took wastewater and cupped it in his hands, lifting it high to the root to keep it wet and to attract it to grow further.

After hours of arm-breaking work, he squatted and slept. When he awoke, he felt for the root again. It was something living, something fresh…something from the wholesome world of starlight above. Strangely enough, its simplicity cheered him.

For a few panicked seconds, he could not find it. But then he did, and he exclaimed in surprise. The root was thicker. Where before it was no more than a man’s finger, now it was a tuber, as thick as a carrot that might win an award at the River Folk harvest festival.

How could this be? What could have grown so quickly?

Myrrdin felt it delicately, and rubbed it between his fingers. Such a supple, fresh root. He tasted it, and felt a familiar tingle on his tongue…he knew the truth then. There could be no doubt. Could his sire have made grievous error? Or was this all a grand trick? Or perhaps he was caught up in part of a masterful plan full of deceitful webs? He did not know which it was, but he was helpless against the power of hope’s flames, which had been relit in his mind.

He ripped away his remaining rags of clothing and stood naked in the dark. He grabbed onto the root, and indeed, found two of its hair-like brothers nearby. He wrapped himself up in them as best he could. He needed maximal contact—he needed to blanket himself in the essences of this living thing.

Days passed, and the root grew with astonishing rapidity. When he had as much of his person touching the roots as was possible, Myrrdin called to the living thing that had driven roots so deeply and managed to penetrate his impenetrable prison chamber. The roots became cool to his touch. They tightened in places, hugging to his skin, adhering to it.

Myrrdin called, and he was answered. For only one thing could have driven a root so deeply, so fast. Only Vaul could have done it. The Green Jewel was above, somewhere distant through the earth. It had grown a great oak tree about itself, as it was the nature of the Green to do when left idle.

* * *

Puck was not the first elf to reach Castle Rabing. That distinction went to Kaavi, who’d wandered the Haven for a day or two before arriving in the Dead Kingdoms, which were now coming to life under Brand’s care. She’d traveled far and when she finally found Brand’s tent, she was announced by a Kindred with a single squinting eye.

“Some elf to see you, sir,” muttered the Kindred foreman.

“Eh? Show him in. Have you got those timber reports back yet, Grasty? We’ll be months behind by spring if we don’t step it up.”

Brand glanced up, then straightened in surprise as Kaavi stepped up to the other side of the table he had been poring over. Behind Kaavi, the one-eyed Grasty made grabbing motions at her hindquarters and leered.

Brand frowned at Grasty and cleared his throat. Grasty left quickly, winking his one eye.

“Kaavi?” Brand asked. “It’s been such a long time. You haven’t changed a bit.”

She came around the table, letting her fingers drag over it. She stared directly into his eyes, and her beauty was startling.

“You certainly have!” she exclaimed. “Who stole your razor?”

“Oh, yes,” laughed Brand self-consciously. He scratched at his beard and grinned.

“What a bristling forest of hair! You look the way that a king should now. Does Telyn like your face covered with hair?”

“Ah—I suppose she does,” Brand said.

Kaavi came very close and stared up into his face, ostensibly to study his beard. Brand found the effect of her proximity disconcerting.

“Have you found me a husband yet?” she asked.

“I—I didn’t know I was still looking for one. What of Puck? Wasn’t he taking on that duty?”

“He set me up as his housemaid and wet-nurse for darling Trev.”

“Wet-nurse?”

“Oh…not literally. But I’ve become tired of watching their married life. I want one of my own.”

“I see. In that case, why did you come here?”

She smiled up at Brand mischievously. “I’d heard there were a lot of lonely men down here, working far from home in this wilderness.”

“You’ll be happy to hear I’m not one of them,” Brand said. “Telyn and the children are here with me in camp.”

Kaavi’s mouth twitched. “Lovely,” she said.

“Well, glad to see you again,” Brand said with a tone of dismissal in his voice. “I’ve got a lot of work to do at the moment. Feel free to explore the camp. I’m sure someone will take an interest in you.”

“I’m sure they will,” Kaavi said, but she didn’t leave. She drifted around the tent, looking at things idly.

Brand could not help but glance at her when her back was turned. She did have a lovely shape to her, he had to admit. He cleared his throat again and tried to turn back to his reports and maps, but found he could not concentrate.

“What are you working on now?” Kaavi asked. “Anything interesting to report?”

Vaguely, Brand realized that he would have thrown almost anyone else out of his office. But he just couldn’t bring himself to be gruff with Kaavi.

“There is something, actually,” he said. Briefly, he told her of the depths below the castle and the noxious things that seemed to have festered there.

“How exciting!” Kaavi breathed, her eyes glowing like stars. “What are you going to do about it? Burn them all out?”

“Maybe,” he said. “I was planning an exploratory mission to start. Just to see what we’re up against. A man can’t build a castle without taking stock of what resides below it.”

“Wise thinking,” Kaavi agreed. “I’d love to see such a place. Always I’ve heard legends and whispers, but I’ve never been into the Everdark.”

“Well, I have,” said Brand. “It is not a pleasant place, let me assure you.”

Kaavi was suddenly close, at his elbow. Her sweet warmth and breath felt hot upon his shoulder. She touched his forearm lightly, laying her delicate fingers upon him. She plucked lightly at his arm hair, as if idly seeking to straighten it.

“Take me with you,” she said. “I’ve been so bored in the Haven. I’m quick with a blade, and you could use the senses of an elf.”

Brand looked down at her, and her tiny, perfect smile greeted him. He opened his mouth to tell her no, she was being absurd, but could not quite get the words out.

“I’ll think about it,” he said at last, after a titanic struggle within himself.

Kaavi beamed. “Oh thank you! You’ll not be displeased with my performance, Lord Rabing!” She ran out of the place then, letting the tent flaps fly behind her. He looked after her, both glad to see her gone and uneasy about the future.

Chapter Nine

Fae Coins

Mari, Puck and Trev all arrived at Riverton together. Puck took Mari to the freshly rebuilt and repainted Spotted Hog, and laid silver down on the innkeep’s counter. The man took the coins, pinching them up between his thumb and forefinger and examined them suspiciously.

“Is Fae coin no good here?” asked Puck.

“It’s not that, sir!” the innkeep said. “Quite the contrary. We just don’t get much of it, you understand.”

The innkeep was Pompolo’s son, Kalix. He’d inherited the place from his father after Pompolo had been killed in the Battle of the Dead Kingdoms some years back. He was, if anything, fatter and redder of face than Pompolo had been himself. After accepting the silver, Kalix turned his eyes upon Mari and her son Trev. He recognized Mari with a start.

“Aren’t you that young girl who brought a weasel of a Wee One here some time back?” he asked darkly.

Mari swallowed. Piskin had been his name, and he had escorted her here when she’d been pregnant with Trev. He’d burned down half the town back then, igniting the Great Fire of Riverton as a distraction while he spirited her away for a sacrifice.

“I was taken against my will,” Mari said. “I hope you won’t hold past associations against me.”

Kalix eyed the elf and Trev’s silver hair. The boy was obviously a half-breed. Mari regretted not having covered his hair before they’d come to town, but there hadn’t been time.

“I’m not sure we have space tonight,” Kalix said. “I’ll have to check the rooms. There’s a farmer’s market going this weekend, you know. We’re always full up on such occasions. Perhaps you should come back tomorrow.”

Puck leaned forward, placing his long-fingered hands upon the counter. “I killed the little bugger myself, you know. With my bare hands.”

Kalix retreat a half-step. “Who?”

Puck smiled. “Piskin, of course. The Wee weasel who burned down your Inn years back.”

“You did?”

“I swear by it,” said Puck seriously.

Kalix nodded slowly. The expression on his face shifted and became more affable. Mari felt relieved. She could tell the man knew enough about the Fae to understand they did not swear to anything lightly.

“All right then,” Kalix said. “But promise me…no more accidents! The last one nearly ruined the family.”

Puck nodded and gave him a second coin. Kalix seemed mollified, but still wary. He showed them to a room and Mari was relieved to see the Inn did not look the way it did before. The old place had burnt, and she was almost glad of it, as her memories of that time were grim indeed.

Trev bounced on the bed excitedly. A few feathers puffed out of the mattress. “Look mother!” he said. “I’m making it snow!”

“Get off there, boy,” Puck admonished him. “We just promised the innkeep there would be no mischief. Are you practicing to become one of the Wee Folk?”

Smiling, Trev climbed down and went to look out the window at the bustling town outside.

“He’s only playful like this when you’re home, you know,” Mari told her husband. “When you’re away, he’s somber and serious the whole time.”

“Well,” Puck said. “I’m staying in the Haven now until I figure out what’s haunting us.”

Mari felt warm inside hearing these words. She kissed both the men in her life then, impulsively. One was so young, and the other incalculably ancient. But she loved them both.

When everyone was asleep that night, Puck slipped away out the window. Mari sat up, watching him go. She’d known he would leave that way, when he believed she was asleep.

“Is father gone again?” Trev asked behind her.

She glanced behind her in surprise. Trev stared with shining eyes.

Mari turned back to the window and gazed out into the night. She could see the glimmer of her husband’s skin as he left Riverton behind.

“Yes,” she said. “But this time he’s going out to protect us.”

* * *

Many folk had died in the great battles of the Black Mountains some five years earlier. The River Folk had buried their dead upon the shoulders of Snowdon itself, as bearing so many corpses home to the Haven had been unworkable.

The graves were not deep, nor in many cases were they marked. Forming humps in the earth, hundreds upon hundreds of them lay strewn over Snowdon’s flanks. At the foot of the mountains, near the town of Gronig, many more graves were scattered here and there. The Kindred had done the burial work in this case, and they were more thorough and familiar with delving into earth. They had buried all the dead: Kindred, merlings, elves, River Folk and even the blocky, stone pieces that were the remains of gnomes. Where their graves were placed, only small hummocks could be spotted in the fields.

The exception to all this were the abominations. Conglomerates of a dozen corpses that had died together, none of the races could rightly claim them. These were buried in great pits. Some had suggested burning them, but this was not done. For some folk, burning the dead was an insult, and everyone had suffered enough over slights and snarled words.

Here and there, amongst the grassy fields full of sheep, hillocks were raised over the bulging bodies of the abominations. It was soon found the best grasses did not grow upon these hillocks. Only twisted, spindly stalks with a yellowish tinge would sprout. Odd varieties of other plants grew as well: stinkhorn fungus, stichwort, carnivorous sundews and bladder-traps. None of these varieties were favored by the sheep of the fields, and so they shunned the hillocks and let them grow and fester.

Queen Gudrin was called upon by the shepherds of Gronig when it was noted the hillocks had swollen somehow. She came down from her fortress at a slow pace. Her age and her recent trials of spirit mastering Pyros had combined to make her more curmudgeonly than ever. She would not ride in a cart, nor mount a ram. She walked instead with only a stout staff of iron to aid her. Slowly, she marched down from the Great Gates of Snowdon and took three days to arrive in Gronig. By then, the shepherds were fencing off their fields and chasing their sheep from the region.

At last, Gudrin arrived at Gronig. This was the largest sunlit town of the Kindred, the only major community that stubbornly remained above ground. Used often as a trading post, it was an important spot where the Kindred met with the other races to do business. It had never quite recovered after the massacres during the war, however. A decade had passed, but still the Kindred avoided returning and settling here. Half the town’s houses, each built of heavy slabs of granite, stood empty. Each house was stoutly built and Gudrin knew pride to look upon them. The slabs, tilted up to stand on end as walls, were single sheets of cut granite, five feet tall or more and often more than twenty feet in length. The stone was thick, always thick. Each slab stood independently, hooked together with mortar and spikes of iron as thick as a Kindred thumb. They would stand here a thousand years, she thought, to greet any future generation of Kindred who might return to inhabit the place.

Gudrin did not head straight to the afflicted fields when she arrived in Gronig. Instead, she headed to the Shepherd’s Rest, which had been rebuilt, and there she laid low five stone mugs of fine ale. The townsfolk drank with her, but showed no gusto.

“A good brew still,” she said to the innkeep.

“Thank you, mum.”

She turned her head about the place, eyeing each detail of the tavern with a wistful air. There was a new line of stuffed merling heads over the mantle, she noted. The trophies were in poor taste, she thought, but she did not mention them.

“Now…let’s see what the matter might be,” she said, regaining her feet without aid. Hands reached out to steady her, to be sure, but she slapped them away with harsh buffets.

They had not yet even reached one of the mounds before she knew the sad truth. She did not speak about it, however. She allowed the locals to tell her their tales. The sheep avoided the spots where the abominations festered and dark areas of barren soil had grown from them. Reaching out like veins or twisting tree roots, these twisting paths led to spots where they stopped and formed humps in the earth.

Gudrin sighed to see the diseased lands. She shook her head and soon waved away the farmers and shepherds. She couldn’t do anything for them, and their tales of small woes did nothing to improve her spirits. She knew the tales before they were spoken to her. Animals that did dare graze here sickened and died. Water that ran nearby turned rancid. Crops harvested in the region caused sickness and delusions when consumed.

“Let’s dig this one up,” she said, pointing not to the big mound, which seemed to be the center of the affliction, but rather to one of the nodules it had spread to. She summoned her guardsmen with impatient waves of her gloved fingers. “Gather spades, men. I want this region of earth laid open.”

Surprised and blinking, the captain of her royal attachment walked near stiffly. He bent forward, his red Warrior’s cloak fluttering behind him in the open winds. In his hand a heavy-headed axe gleamed. The blade of it was polished so it reflected the sunshine blindingly. “My Queen,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Cannot these fine Clansmen of the farms do the work?”

Gudrin jerked her head around to face him. She glared up into his craggy face, and flames ran over her gloves. “Get shovels and dig! These people have suffered enough, and they will suffer a great deal more before this matter has ended.”

The captain offered no new arguments. The shovels were procured and soon a dozen kindred Warriors, red cloaks flapping, grumbled as they dug in the earth. The farmers nearby came to stare at the astonishing spectacle. The youngest among them dared to twitter, and earned themselves baleful glares from the sweating, irritated Warriors.

They had not dug down more than five feet before one of the men roared and stepped back. He clutched at the ground, dropping his shovel and grabbing up a battleaxe, which the Warriors had left in the grass.

“That’s my axe, man!” complained one of his fellows.

The Warrior with the axe stood with wild eyes. Gudrin came up to him and asked him what the matter might be. The rest of the troops furrowed their brows and shrugged their heavy shoulders.

“Something,” the man said, panting and staring. “Something in this hole is not right!”

Gudrin nodded and clucked her tongue. She bade them all to retreat. She stepped forward alone to inspect the wound they’d formed in the earth. There at the bottom, the soil had changed in both color and aspect. She did not see movement, but as she stared down into the hole, she thought she felt a presence of sorts. It was as if something down there, in that hole, returned her scrutiny.

She waved the warriors forward. “Dig further,” she said.

Muttering amongst themselves, they took up their spades again, and stepped forward. They dug down more deeply, keeping quiet and serious. Their eyes were narrowed and suspicious.

“I’ve struck something,” shouted a man. “It’s….”

Gudrin came forward, craning her neck and staring. “What is it?”

“A liquid of some sort, my Queen,” said the Captain, leaning over the hole and peering inside. “It seems to be filling the hole, and there is a strange vapor rising from it.”

“Get back!” shouted Gudrin.

Startled, several of her guardsmen stumbled back from the hole. Four of them, including the captain himself, either glanced at her in surprise or remained staring doubtfully into the hole.

A popping sound was heard by all. A gout of dark liquid splattered up into the faces of those who lingered. Like oil found deep within the earth, the liquid coated all who it touched. Unlike oil, however, this vicious stuff caused the men it touched to begin screaming.

Gudrin knew that her Warriors simply did not scream. They were as tough as stone wrapped in leather. The severity of pain they were suffering must be nothing a mortal could bear.

The men staggered away from the hole. Already, their bones were showing in spots. The man who had first sensed the danger and had taken up his axe stepped forward, taking his captain’s hand, trying to help.

“Stand away!” roared Gudrin at the top of her powerful voice. Pyros was upon her breast now, plain for all to see. Flames ran over her gloved hands. Her hairless scalp was a livid red beneath her simple Queen’s circlet of gold.

The warriors, suspecting what must come, threw themselves away from their staggering, screaming fellows. They grabbed up their axes and pikes, standing ready in a widening circle.

Moaning and gargling, the men coated in strange oils did not obey her or even seem to hear her. Sadly, Gudrin aimed her hand at them. A gushing cone of flame swept over the Warriors. They took a long time to die. When nothing was left but ashes and stumps in boots, she directed a new beam of heat into the exposed hole. The substance that had infected her men was destroyed.

“You,” she said, turning back toward the men who had run when she’d told them to. She pointed out the man who had first raised a weapon. The man who had come forward to help his captain. “Show me your hand.”

He did as commanded, lifting his battleaxe high. Everyone sighed in relief to see it was hale and whole. Everyone save Gudrin, that was.

“The other one,” she said.

Reluctantly, he lifted his other arm from where it had been inside his cloak. This one looked as if he had dipped it into a barrel of axel grease. It dribbled and ran with strange, dark liquids.

“Hold it out,” ordered Gudrin. “The rest of you, stand clear.”

The Warriors needed no fresh urging this time. They scrambled back in a wide circle. Farther back still stood the few farmers who had not run home by this time.

“You have done only as I’ve asked, Warrior,” she said. “I would know your name.”

“Rorvik, my Queen!” he shouted. It did her heart good to hear no quaver of fear in his voice.

Gudrin lifted her gloved arm and directed it toward Rorvik. Her body ran with flames now.

“This is no punishment. This is done for the good of all the Kindred, not due to some fault of yours, Rorvik.”

“I know, great lady. Now, get on with it!”

Gudrin nodded. She aimed and released an intensely bright finger of flame. It took his arm off at the elbow. After Rorvik had staggered away, she stepped forward and released a fresh gush of cleansing flame, burning the infected arm down to ash.

“Rorvik,” she called.

He came to her, his armor still smoldering.

“You were the first to draw an axe against a new foe. You sensed an enemy before any other of this company. Therefore, you are the new captain of this company.”

Rorvik’s teeth were gritted so tightly he could not answer her, but he nodded in acknowledgement.

Gudrin approached the hole again, and it gushed flames up into her face. She paid no heed, as heat could not affect her while she bore the Jewel Pyros. She gazed down into the bubbling, oily substance. Her flames were devouring it, but only slowly. She shook her head and glanced to her side, where Rorvik stood a few paces back.

“Away!” she said, waving him back. “No need to burn off your beard as well. You can’t protect me from this substance, in any regard.”

“What is this vile stuff, my Queen?”

Gudrin turned back to the hole and gazed into the flaming, smoking mass. She coughed, lamenting that while the Orange Jewel made her immune to heat, it did not keep smoke from choking her. She could swim in lava, but still drown if it entered her lungs.

She thought about the substance. “It could be something left over from the work of the Red Jewel. Blood magic left to rot in the soil. But I think it is more than that. I think it is a hybrid. A twisting of Blood magic and—something else.”

“What else?”

Gudrin shook her head. “I’m not sure. But I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.”

Chapter Ten

Brand’s Folly

It was in the evening, when Brand had grown weary of working and planning, that Puck arrived at the construction encampment. The hammers had finally stopped banging, and the Kindred workers had moved on to their tents, stone mugs of ale and sizzling meats cooked over open fires. The entire camp quieted, but then slowly grew louder again as Kindred voices rose in drunken song. Brand knew the routine well. They would sing and carouse until late. A few fights would break out, a few teeth would be lost. At some point, around midnight, they would slump down and slumber until dawn, when they foremen would kick them awake and send them back to their hammers, carts and ropes.

Puck walked into Brand’s tent unannounced. The axe on Brand’s back twitched as he approached, but Brand ignored its paranoid warnings. He smiled at the elf, who he counted as one of his few real friends among the Fae. Like Tomkin, this member of the Shining Folk had helped him materially. He had slain the vile Piskin, and for that Brand would always welcome him. That he had once preyed upon Haven women with his pipes was forgotten—at least as long as he stayed happily married to Mari.

“Puck!” Brand cried out. “What a pleasant surprise, man! Come here and clasp arms!”

Puck came forward and met Brand. A wintery smile played over his lips, but Brand was not offended. Puck was not like many Fae who danced and cavorted like drunken children. He was a more serious sort, and only the fairest maidens had ever seen him in a boisterous mood.

“Well met, Lord Rabing,” said the elf.

“Tell me, what happy circumstance brings you here? Do you perhaps want to watch the rebuilding of my folk’s glory days firsthand?”

Again, the wintry smile played. “You have certainly managed an amazing feat. I had forgotten how quickly the younger races can build things. The walls have sprouted from the ground, from my perspective.”

Brand nodded. “It has much to do with the energetic hands of the Kindred, of course. They have the craft we’ve lost. And they have hands eager for my gold!”

“A remarkable achievement. But I’m afraid my visit is not simply to marvel at your walls, milord.”

Brand sighed. “I’d feared not. What word to you have from your father, Oberon?”

“None. I come to you first, as this matter involves the Haven.”

“Speak then!”

Puck related his tale, including Trev’s meeting with the dead-thing in the Haven Woods. Brand became increasingly concerned as the story went on.

“Is your son all right?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Quick-witted for a lad so young.”

“As his father, I wanted to swell with pride,” Puck said. “But I think it was more luck than wit.”

Brand shook his head. “No, it was more than luck. You have a special boy there, Puck. I’ve been in his shoes when I was younger, meeting and facing down something from beyond my experience. Not every child can do it. I bet it has something to do with Kaavi’s tutoring.”

“I thank you for your kind words. Pardon me if I must ask: Kaavi has spoken to you of my son?”

Brand shot him a look. “She’s here now, in fact. In the camp, I mean. I thought you knew.”

Puck frowned. “I did not. I had quite forgotten about her, to tell you the truth. I was focused on my immediate family, and the urgent need to warn you.”

“Do you think it was truly Arawn—the King of the Dead?”

“The description matches what I know of that creature. The use of the Black Jewel cinches it. No other has ever wielded it, to the best knowledge of the elves.”

Brand paced the tent. He thought hard, and Puck quietly let him do so. He stopped pacing after a time and offered Puck a cup of wine to share with him. The other accepted and Brand gulped his, while Puck performed only careful sips.

“I suppose,” Brand said, looking at him carefully. “I suppose you want to head to the Twilight Lands and visit with your father. To tell him the news.”

“It is not urgent, as no threat seems to be headed that way. Eventually, that will be my next destination, however.”

“Your job is to keep an eye on us for your father, isn’t it?” Brand asked him suddenly.

Puck stared for a moment before answering. He finally shrugged, as if coming to a decision. “My loyalties are still with my own father and lord,” he murmured. “I offer no offense, however.”

Brand nodded. “Naturally not. If I send my son Cadmon to live among the elves someday, I shall expect reports from him as well.”

Both laughed quietly after that, and Brand poured them each a fresh cup of wine.

“Listen,” said Brand, gesturing with his cup, which sloshed purple droplets upon his papers. He paid no heed. “I think we understand one another. And I think we can make use of one another.”

“How so?”

“I propose you and I go down into the depths beneath this land and see what is what down there. There are reports of dead-things, and the Kindred plan to plug the exits soon. But if the Dead really are on the move, then I would bet there is clear evidence below our feet right now. Rather than vague rumors relayed from Trev, you might be able to take home some hard information.”

Puck smiled openly now for the first time since he’d arrived. “You seek to write my report for me?”

“At least I’ll give you something to put in it.”

“Why me?”

“First of all, you are a good man with a blade. I’ve seen the evidence of that. And you will not quiver in your boots when you meet unnatural things. I could take down a company of troops, and we might fare well, but I know labyrinths and often in such places an army is more of a hindrance than a help. One stout man with a blade who does not run is worth a thousand fleeing armsmen.”

“I thank you, and I accept your offer,” said Puck after a moment’s thought. “How could I refuse such an opportunity to gather information? I assume you wish to be in command.”

“Naturally.”

“I must ask again why you seek to help the elves.”

It was Brand’s turn to give the other a crafty smile. “Think hard, you will see my reasoning.”

Puck tilted his head. “Ah,” he said, nodding. “Of course. If things are going badly in your lands, you will have me go back to my sire and request aid. As an eye-witness of his own blood, my words will bear more weight than any emissary from the River Folk.”

Brand nodded. “Exactly.”

“You have truly changed, Brand,” Puck said. “You’ve become wise so quickly. It is not only a pretension of the beard, as I had thought at first.”

Brand laughed and gulped his wine. He did not pour a third glass.

“Is anyone else coming with us?” Puck asked.

“Yes. I plan to take Grasty, my Kindred Foreman. He knows the underworld better than most and can advise me as to the effects anything found might have on my construction plans.”

There was a choking sound from beyond the boundaries of the tent. Both Brand and Puck looked at the canvas walls with raised eyebrows.

“Thin walls,” Puck said.

“And large rats,” Brand said. He addressed the walls of the tent. “Grasty, you are relieved until morning.”

“Very good, sir,” came Grasty’s response.

Brand turned back to Puck, who seemed amused. “At any rate,” Brand said. “I might take few others, but the three of us will form the core of the exploratory party. We will not be gone long—less than a day, I should think.”

Puck nodded slowly. “Pack a week’s rations,” he said.

Brand rubbed his beard. “As long as that then? Hmm.”

After Puck had left his tent, Brand put out the lanterns and stowed his quills and papers. The hour was late and he was tired. He thought about his arrangements. A new trip into the depths of the earth? It had been years since he’d done such a thing. He was young still, but he did not relish the thought of meeting fresh horrors the sun had never touched upon.

He left alight only a single lantern to guide him back to his own tent, where Telyn no doubt lay sleeping with the children by now. He rose and threw back the canvas flaps of his tent to leave.

A surprise met him. It was his own beautiful wife. She stood staring up at him, with flat, angry eyes.

“Telyn?” he asked. “I would have thought—”

“That I was asleep while you planned your escape?” she asked quickly.

Brand looked around in irritation. “Was this Grasty’s work? Or that brigand Puck’s? They both work with uncanny speed when you don’t want them to.”

“Never mind that,” Telyn said, pressing at his chest.

He reluctantly retreated back into his tent, where they held a hushed conversation.

“I want to talk about Kaavi,” she said.

“Who? The elf girl?”

“That will not work, Brand. I know all about it. Half the camp does. She spent all day telling everyone you invited her on a trip. An exciting jaunt into the depths of the earth—just the two of you.”

“That’s not how it was, not at all!” Brand exclaimed. He scrambled for the wine and broke out a cup for Telyn, who ignored it. “She asked me to come along, and I told her I would think about it, that’s the truth.”

Telyn regarded him through slitted eyes. “I don’t know what you see in that girl—other than the obvious. Does she have you so charmed?”

“Telyn—”

“Oh yes, you are going to give me assurances. This was all a misunderstanding. Perhaps you are right, and it is all her doing. In which case I’m going out to find her tonight, and I will cut her until one of us stops breathing.”

Brand’s hands were up, and he made calming gestures with them. “How did you ever become so jealous?”

“I had children with you. They change everything.”

“Okay, let’s talk about this. I don’t think you know the full tale yet—because I haven’t had time to tell you.”

He told her then of the dead-things in the tunnels beneath them, of Puck’s visit and Trev’s meeting with the Dead King. When he was done, her face had shifted from outrage to concern and alarm.

“What are we going to do?”

“Now you know why I’ve begun to plan an exploratory trip into the depths.”

“Puck is going? And Kaavi?”

“Elves are useful when facing the Dead. River Folk are less so.”

Telyn thought for a few minutes. She took up the wine Brand had set before her earlier and drank it. “I’m going too,” she said.

Brand fought with the idea, but at last he gave in.

“Four of us then,” she said.

“Five,” he said. “I’m taking Grasty as well.”

A throat cleared outside, and there was a coughing fit. Brand grinned at the thin canvas walls.

“That’s right Grasty, first thing in the morning we’ll each fill a rucksack and loop ourselves with oiled ropes.”

“Yes, milord,” muttered Grasty. He sighed resignedly.

When he finally reached his bed, Brand found the stresses of the day had worn upon him. He wondered how he could be tired, as he’d done little physical work. How could arguing and worrying all day tire a man so? It was a mystery to him. He went to bed gratefully.

Telyn surprised him, however. She came close until her breath was hot in his face and kissed him passionately. They made love, and it was an urgent, angry affair. He wondered if she was trying to give him something to remember her by, in case he felt temptation. Afterward, he fell asleep, truly exhausted.

* * *

Brand dreamt strangely that night. In his dreams, he found himself walking along the streams the Kindred had diverted to drive fresh waters to the castle. No one else was with him—except one other.

She moved along the opposite bank of the stream. The grasses here were not green, but shades of gray in the light of the moon and the stars. The streaming water was inky, reflecting only ripples of silver light into his face and that of the other. He knew her face well; she’d haunted his dreams and his waking steps many times before.

The Shining Lady floated over the grasses on the opposite bank, while he stomped them flat with his boots on his side of the stream. He looked at her often, but only in glances lest her beauty bewitch him. He knew he should not look upon her at all—no man should. But he could not help his wandering eye. She was the loveliest female imaginable. Her face was chiseled like a marble sculpture, her body curved to perfection. She was clad only in swirls of spun gauze. Her silver-white skin shone, reflecting the light of the stars. Her feet were like the talons of an eagle, but they were hidden beneath her flowing white clothing, which was thickest around her legs.

He stopped walking and stared at her. His loins burned for her, and his heart pounded in his temples. He could hear each beat of it, like distant drums. She paused in her gliding advance and turned to face him. He met her gaze, and despite all his strength and knowledge of what was to come, he almost lost his will at that moment.

Her eyes were as bright as embers in a dying fire. Brand stared into them, and he knew he was trying to reject her, and the pain of that fact hurt her. It was unbearable to witness her disappointment. He should not give her such anguish—it simply wasn’t right. She was such a creature of pure beauty and enchantment. Her loving, cold embrace was something untold, something indescribable.

She came closer, gliding over the water. Neither her clawed feet nor her gauzy skirts touched the silver stream. She came half-way and reached out with her long white arms to greet him. He did not even know he was stepping forward until his boots splashed into the stream.

Brand stopped then, abruptly, standing in ankle-deep water. The stream trickled and laughed at his feet.

“Once again, you torment me, Shining Lady. I would know why?”

“You speak to me still, Brand?” she asked. “You sadden me.”

“Don’t—don’t be sad, fair one!” he shouted. His voice cracked, such was his emotion. Compared to this vision of ethereal femininity, Telyn was nothing—less than nothing. She was a memory he could not quite recall. Right then, if he’d been questioned closely, he could not have recalled the names of his wife, daughters or single son.

“You should not speak,” the Shining Lady said, reaching out with her arms.

“Do not reach for me, I beg of thee,” Brand said, feeling lost in his heart. “Let us talk of your husband.”

“Would you not rather embrace?” she asked. Her arms came closer. They seemed longer than before—impossibly long. It was as if she could slowly extend herself until he was enveloped.

Brand knew her touch could be fatal. A man so touched might sink into a coma, a fitful, feverish slumber from which he could never awaken. He wept, for he knew what he must do.

He reached over his shoulder and drew forth the axe. Its blades shown as if they were grinning white teeth. The Golden Eye of Ambros flashed, lighting up the stream and the milkweed and willows that grew all around. The axe flashed on its own, such was its delight at being drawn.

“No!” she cried, it was a soulful, whimpering sound. He heard in his mind the pleas of every young maid ever faced with death, on her knees in front of a grinning tyrant. He was that tyrant. He was a horror beyond description.

“Why do you tempt me thus?” Brand asked. “I know it is your nature, but I can’t allow you to possess me—if it were only for me, I might relish your embrace, but I will not forsake my folk for my own base pleasures.”

“Thus is the reason I’ve come,” said the Shining Lady. Her arms retreated. She still floated over the stream, but she no longer approached him.

Brand dared gaze at her directly. “Why then, have you come to torment me again?”

“For the same reason I’ve always come to you, Brand. You are strong. You attract me as much as I do you.”

He stared at her, trying to think. It was beyond difficult. He still dreamed he told himself—at least, he thought he did—and in dreams forcing one’s mind down logical paths was like trying to run in hip-deep water. Every step of sensible thought took a great effort. Every thought was resisted, and distractions abounded. The scene around him, he knew, might fade away and become someplace else, making it hard to keep his train of thought under control.

“I’m strong, so you want me…” he said. He almost lost the thread then. He gazed around at the skies and they seemed to shift to grow brighter. Could dawn be approaching? What was he doing here? He strove to complete his thoughts. The Shining Lady watched him and did not interfere in his internal struggles.

“I am the Champion of the Haven!” he said loudly. He urged Ambros to shine, and it did so. He held it aloft over his head like a brilliant second sun.

The Shining Lady did not retreat, but she did hold up her pale arms to shield her face. Her arms looked normal again. The light was intense enough to burn lesser beings, perhaps even to cause blindness. Here, in this dream world facing this powerful creature of the Dead, it only caused her discomfort.

“Yes, you are a Champion,” the Shining Lady said. “That is precisely why I’ve come. I want you to be my champion, Brand. I want you to wield an even greater Jewel. I wish to gift you the Black.”

Brand lowered Ambros and tried to speak sensibly. His tongue was thick in his mouth and his mind felt like cotton in his head. “I—I wield a Jewel now. I could not forsake it for another.”

“There would be no need,” she said soothingly. “You can keep your beloved axe, axeman. The Black Jewel will compliment it. Both will serve you. What better combination could there be? Think of the twisting magicks you could perform! The Black, blended with the Amber…Light and Dark working together. One bringing death to any who come near while the other commands the freshly hewn corpses to rise and serve their new master who has just slain them. It is a perfect combination.”

“What of your husband, fair lady?”

“Without the Black, he is only a tangle of old bones. I’ve grown tired of his gropings. I would know a new man, clothed in clean flesh. It will not be with us as it has been with a thousand others, Brand. Not with you! I will gift myself to thee, even as I gift you the powerful Black. You will know pleasure and power as no man of your folk ever has.”

Vaguely, Brand was able to grasp what she offered. Bliss and power undreamed of. He did not know if he could master these two Jewels. Briefly, he’d managed to hold onto the Blue and Amber, but he’d almost lost his mind in doing so. What would the Jewels of death and heroism do to his mind and soul if he attempted to wield them both?

Brand took a step forward, deeper into the stream. His boots sloshed with water as he took three more. There, in the midst of the flood, the Shining Lady awaited his embrace. All he had to do was take her in his arms and release his passions. Everything else would take care of itself after that.

He took another step, and now stood before her in the midst of the flowing water. He felt the coolness of it on his knees, which contrasted sharply with the fire in his loins. The Shining Lady looked inhumanly beautiful—and inhumanly pleased.

She lifted her arms slightly to receive him. He had only one more step to take to be hers.

“It pains me more than I can say, milady,” he groaned out the words. “To reject thee. You are damned and you would damn me to comfort you.”

Her face fell and filled quickly with great sorrow. She reached out to touch him, and he swept away both her hands with the blade of Ambros. As each pale wrist was severed effortlessly by the blades, the Amber Jewel flashed. Brand knew the spirit of the axe was delighted to cleave through flesh again—even that of the Dead.

She dropped to her knees before him, keening. Tears ran freely down his face. It was difficult to see her, as his own eyes now wept with her, profusely.

He knew with absolute clarity he was a vicious bastard. The lowest form of villain. A slayer of the weak, the beautiful and the virtuous. He knew all these things in his heart of hearts, but still he continued. He raised the axe high and tasted his tears as they ran down into his mouth.

“No Brand,” she said, pleading. “No, I will have you, or he will. Let me be the one! I will be infinitely more pleasant. I swear this! Know it to be true!”

Brand knew her promise was true, and that she had made just such a promise to King Arawn one distant day in the past when she had gifted him the Black Jewel. But it did not matter. He would not forsake Telyn, his children, his folk or his mind. He had taken an oath to protect and serve them all.

He was the axeman, and he did what must be done. He clove her diagonally, from her left collar down through to her right hip. She fell apart, but she did not die—as she was already of the Dead. She wept and howled with disappointment. Her severed hands grasped at him beseechingly from the sandy bottom of the stream, clutching at his boots. Her eyes looked up at him from where her upper portion had fallen into the flood. Wavery though the view of her was through the water, he could still see her lovely face. He had caused her such pain, such anguish. It was unimaginably cruel.

He backed away from the horrors he had created and sloshed to the banks of the stream. He sank down there upon the fresh earth and lay on his back, sobbing. He stared up at the stars which faded with the coming dawn. They seemed cold and merciless, unmoved by his suffering or that which he caused others. The stars had forsaken him, he felt, as had all others.

It seemed to him then that he fell asleep, while in reality, he awakened.

* * *

In the morning, when he stumbled blearily out of the tent, he still wondered about his nightmare. How much of it had actually happened? Was the offer a real one, and what did it mean that he had refused the Shining Lady?

Telyn followed him as he blinked in the sunlight, lost in thought. “What’s the matter, my love?” she asked.

“I had a dream. It was a bad one, and I’m not sure what it meant.”

“Everyone has evil dreams now and then,” she said, soothing his shoulders with her touch. “Do not dwell in that place husband, wherever you were! There are no answers there, only madness.”

Brand turned to her and hugged her until the breath was driven from her body. “You’re right,” he said.

Telyn looked at him strangely, seeing his emotions ran high. Her face was quizzical, and he feared she would ask him to tell her of the nightmare—but she stopped herself, and for that he was grateful. He had no desire to relive what had happened while he slept.

“Let’s go and gather our companions,” he said. “It is time we explored the roots of this land we plan to live upon.”

Brand led the way to his command tent, where he found Kaavi and Puck waiting. Staring at Kaavi, Telyn frowned immediately and crossed her arms in irritation. Brand glanced at her worriedly. Clearly, jealousy had caused his wife to change in demeanor.

His natural course of action would have been to leave Kaavi behind, but she had shown up with her brother Puck. How could he order her from the group? That would do nothing to endear Puck, who he needed on his side to entreat Oberon to help him, should things be even worse than they looked. He wondered how this trip into the earth was going to go, with both Telyn and Kaavi along and in close quarters.

Brand sighed and washed his face with cool water brought up from fresh streams. The Kindred had redirected the cleanest water sources so they flowed under his walls through a grate and helped cleanse the land of years of taint. Death, blood and a thousand crimes had haunted this place for nine hundred years. Perhaps when his history was written, trying to revive this dead place would be known to all as his greatest folly. But he was determined to make the attempt.

He got an idea, looking at the stream on its unnatural course of flow. Why not redirect it down into the underworld? It would not kill the Dead, but it would drown out other things that may exist in dark corners. He thought that if this trip went badly, he might take such a drastic action—or do worse. Oil could be dumped into the pits and set alight almost as easily as water could be sent down.

“All right, all right,” said Grasty, stumping up to greet them. “I’m here now, we can begin, milord!”

The two women came up and stood on either side of the foreman. Puck sat on a bench nearby, sucking on a clay pipe. Blue smoke wreathed his head. There was a half-smile on his face as he watched the two females, neither of whom looked pleased. They did not, in fact, make eye contact with one another. As far as Brand could tell, neither had even acknowledged the presence of the other. Brand didn’t know much about these matters, but he knew this was a bad sign.

“Anyone want to opt out of this trip?” Brand asked loudly. “Now would be the moment.”

“Not me,” Telyn said quickly, sharply.

“Nor I,” Kaavi snapped.

Telyn cast her an acid glance, but Kaavi pretended not to notice.

“I’d rather play my pipes than go down a dusty hole,” Puck said, “but I’m on official business.”

“Er,” said Grasty, raising a leathery hand. There was a hopeful glimmer in his one working eye.

“Forget it, Grasty,” Brand said. “You’re bones are mine to command. I’ve got the writ here from your Queen.”

“No need to rub it in, boy!” grumbled the foreman. He shouldered his pack and headed off toward the ruins of the Castle, muttering.

“Are we supposed to follow him?” Telyn asked, coming near.

“I believe so,” Brand said. Together they all marched after their reluctant guide.

“This place is dangerous,” Grasty said. “That goes without saying. But it is worse than just a mass of skulls and ghosts in a crypt. There are dark things down there, and cunning traps built to take a limb off a man. Legend has it King Arawn had kobolds build them for him. They lay the best underground traps.”

“King Arawn?” asked Telyn. “You mean when he was alive?”

“Yeah, of course when he was alive!” Grasty said, laughing. “Not even a kobold would work for the Dead. They’d likely piss themselves and try to run off if a dead-thing so much as offered them coins.”

“Where is the entrance?” asked Telyn, changing the topic.

“There are lots of them now. At first, the only reachable one was through the mouth of that statue head over there.” Grasty paused to point toward a swampy bit of land where a massive stone head sat rolled upon its ear. The mouth gaped open and a trickle of oily water escaped from it. “That thing was a fine sight in its day, you know.”

“Which entrance do you recommend then, if not this one?” asked Puck.

“Eh?” asked Grasty. “No, not this one. I said that already! Listen up, elf.”

Puck looked annoyed, but waited for his answer. Brand smiled, seeing Puck’s irritation. Grasty was often nearly deaf when you wanted him to hear something, but seemed equipped with a fox’s sharp ears when you did not. He could be quite annoying, but he was a good sort in the end.

“We’ll go down into the castle storerooms,” Grasty said. “Then down into the catacombs themselves, then lower still. That area has been covered up for years. Our new construction has stirred it all into a lather, however. Whole new warrens of masonry are down there, and caverns below that. I should think the galleries extend to the Everdark itself at some point. You might be able to walk all the way to Snowdon—if you could only stay alive long enough and find your way in the blackness. Neither of those are likely, though.”

“Most encouraging,” Brand said. “Lead on, foreman.”

They walked past ranks of Kindred workmen dressed in leathers. They sweated and toiled, uplifting blocks of fallen stone and shoveling loads of crumbling masonry into waiting wheelbarrows. They looked up with interest as the party passed them, but none spoke or offered a hearty greeting.

At last they came to a hole that drove down into the bricks. They could see a tangled mass of roots, loose soil, and a series of broad steps that led downward into darkness. Each of the steps was cracked, as if a giant had trod upon them and broken them with his vast weight.

“This is it,” Grasty said, pausing with all of them to circle the hole. “Not much to look at. Leastwise, we don’t have to swing from ropes to get down there.”

“Lead on,” Brand said. “I’ll go second. Puck, would you mind taking the rearguard?”

“Not at all.”

Grasty lit a lantern and held it high as he stumped downward into the hole. Brand followed him, having to duck as he went. He was a head taller than all the rest. Kaavi stepped forward to take the third spot, but Telyn pushed past her to stand directly behind Brand.

“No need to shove,” Kaavi complained.

“Sorry, it was an accident,” Telyn said sweetly.

Brand rolled his eyes and sighed.

Overhead, the darkness closed over them all as they followed the stairway downward. Brand was surprised how directly and deeply the stairs drove into the earth. He could not see far ahead due to the gloom, which Grasty’s flickering lantern did little to vanquish. If one of them fell, would they roll for miles? He was left wondering about it.

The smells were different down here. The ground exuded not just a dusty scent, but the scent of freshly overturned turf. He suspected as they went deeper, the odors would become unpleasant indeed.

The natural noises of the surface world faded behind them, swallowed by the stillness of the underworld. He felt as if someone had placed pillows around his ears, muffling everything. No more than twenty feet down, he was regretting his decision to go on this exploratory mission. It was too late to back out now, however.

He waved Grasty onward and hoped for the best.

Chapter Eleven

The Seedlings

Morcant Drake had spent years buried beneath a great slab of stone. Unfortunately for him, his clansmen had placed him in a sarcophagus built for someone of normal size. None had found the purse or the desire to build him a special resting place.

He did not need to breathe, so although his breath was driven from his lungs and dust had filled them in its place, he was not discomfited. Dimly aware of time passing, but unable to move with the fantastic weight of stone that crouched upon him, he thought little and dreamt less. His imprisonment would have driven anyone other than a dead-thing to madness. But as he was now truly one of the Dead, he did not feel the pain of hope, aspirations or regrets. He only waited, as he could do nothing else.

The Black Jewel had treated him specially so he would not rot, nor fall to dust. One night without warning the slab slid away from him. The first phase of King Arawn’s curse was done, and the second had begun. On the seventh day of the seventh month by the Haven Calendar, Morcant climbed out of the hole he’d been trapped within for four long years.

Morcant looked around with bleary, dim eyes. Everyplace in the world would appear the same to him now, regardless of the light that was present or was not. Everything seemed to him to be lit in a permanent half-light, whether he walked under the sun or upon the bottom of the ocean. It was as if he no longer truly saw the walls of the crypt, but rather sensed them. Such a power of sight, known to necromancers as the deathsight, was common to all the Dead.

He found himself in a crypt. It was, as it rightfully should have been, the Drake crypt. He did not have a prime place within its walls, he could tell that right away. He did not wonder that he had made it into the crypt at all—nor did he rage at the insult of having been placed in the least well-kept wing of the crypt at the lowest level, where roots were known to get in and rainwaters frequently soaked the corpses that lie quietly rotting here. He did not care about these things, although he was aware of them. He was beyond caring about much of anything.

Turning his head this way and that, hearing his bones and joints creak, he saw the lid of his tomb. The lid was the thing that had pressed down upon him for the last year. It lay slid aside and tipped down to touch the dusty floor beside him.

Several long minutes passed while he became more fully awake. Concentrating with single-minded effort, Morcant moved his heavy leg to one side and swung it out of his stone coffin. He placed the leg upon the dusty floor and then moved another beside it. Struggling with unsteady arms, he heaved himself erect.

He stood there, motionless, as if he slept upon his feet. He stood that way for an unknowable time. Perhaps it was hours. At last he righted his head, which had fallen to allow his thick jawbone to touch his chest. He took a step forward and then another.

For the first time in more than a century, a new member of the Dead had risen inside the borders of the Haven.

* * *

Trev didn’t rest well after his father left. He constantly searched the town’s streets from the second story window of the Spotted Hog, hoping to see him return.

“He won’t be back for a week at least,” his mother assured him. “Why, just getting to North End and up the river to Castle Rabing will take a day or two. Then he will have to talk things over with Brand and return.”

Trev nodded, but he still watched the streets. His mother watched him, and fretted about both the men in her life. Trev knew she was a worrier, and he didn’t want to cause her undue upset. But he couldn’t help it. He was watching for someone else—not just father. He was watching for the Dead King and his people.

The second day, mother took him to market, and it was a fun place. They didn’t have much money, but what they had she spent in a vain attempt to make him smile. She bought him a toy: a streamer of colored ribbons tied to a stick with tinkling bells.

“It looks like a rainbow, mother,” he’d said as he picked it out.

“Indeed it does!” she’d agreed enthusiastically, and she’d bought it for him.

He hadn’t the heart to tell her he didn’t want it—that he was a little afraid of rainbows, like any young child of the Haven. Strange beings came out when the rainbows shone in the sky, and the other children at school told him sometimes rainbows could pick themselves up and walk. Great giants they became, things that men could not hope to stand against, monsters hundreds of feet high. Trev wasn’t sure if he believed the other children, but he was still afraid of rainbows.

Now he had one, and he knew enough about parents to know that he had to be seen playing with it. Heading back to the Spotted Hog after a day of wandering the market, he held it up and let the streamers flow in the fresh winds coming off the river. The bells tinkled and the colored ribbons fluttered brightly. He tried not to look at them, as they made him want to shiver.

It was on the way up the High Street from the market, which was located close to the docks, that he saw something of interest. A great, wide, swath of land. It was green and broad. Having grown up in a forest with only small plots of land for gardens, the rolling hills and open land intrigued him.

“What’s that place, mother?”

She spoke conspiratorially into his ear. “That’s Riverton Common, you’re father and I were married there, years back.”

Riverton Common. He stopped in his tracks, his mouth slightly open. His eyes scanned the distance until he saw it. Yes, there it was: the largest mound in the River Haven. The only one on Stone Island. “Isn’t that the place? Isn’t that where the offering used to be made?”

Mari followed his finger and saw where he pointed. “Yes,” she said in a hushed voice. “That’s it.”

“Where’s the cemetery, mother?” Trev asked.

“Why would you want to know that?”

Trev shrugged. He thought up a quick half-truth. He never lied, but he did mislead people sometimes. “We’re studying maps in school now,” he said.

“Oh,” said his mother, sounding relieved. She showed him where the cemetery was, up near Drake Manor, the biggest clan house on the island.

“Do they still bury people there?”

Mari cocked her head and frowned at him. “I suppose. Well, yes. But only local people—people do grow old, you know.”

“I won’t,” he said. “Not for a very long time.”

Mari smiled at him then and laughed. “Yes, and I like it that way. I want you to be around Trev, long after everyone here has passed on.”

“I don’t want to be lonely.”

“Don’t worry about that! There will be new people by then, plenty of them.”

Trev nodded. He kept staring toward the common, trying to catch another glimpse of the Faerie mound there. When his mother wasn’t looking, he cast watchful eyes toward the cemetery hill as well.

Late that night Trev’s eyes snapped open. He hadn’t slept at all, not tonight. He found he wasn’t like most other people that way. He could stay awake for days if he wanted to, and would only feel slightly tired after he did so. In fact, he often felt more awake at night than he did in the day. He wondered if he might be part cat sometimes.

Mother had gone to sleep hours before, and now he estimated it must be after midnight. His mind was full of images of marching rainbow giants, dancing Faerie on the commons and shuffling Dead in the cemetery. He didn’t know if any of these things were really going on—the world outside their window sounded quiet enough. But he couldn’t stop wondering what was going on out there. Surely, something had to be happening in one of these exciting places.

He’d never put much thought into these matters before he’d met the Dead King. He knew father was an elf, of course, and that he came and went to the Twilight Lands frequently. That all seemed normal to Trev. He knew also that in the fullness of time Puck would take him to meet his grandfather Oberon, who was by all reports a frightening fellow.

After meeting the Dead King personally, however, he felt more directly involved in great matters. For a short moment he had been the center of something exciting, something historic, according to father. The Dead normally did not wander about in forgotten pet cemeteries in the Haven Wood.

Climbing out of his bedclothes and pulling on trousers of woven wool, Trev moved with fantastic stealth. This was another thing he was unusually good at: moving about quietly.

He’d planned, in his heart of hearts, to only go to the window and gaze outside. But something out there caught his eye. A tall man stood near a lamppost. The man reached up and put out the lantern that hung from the post with his bare finger. The man then stood there, motionless.

Trev got a chill, looking at the man. He was not one of the Shining Folk—that was for sure. If anything, he was dark and dingy. What was truly strange about him was his lack of movement. He made no sound and he did not look about…he did not even twitch.

Trev licked his lips and gazed back at his mother. She was sound asleep. Why wake her over something that was probably nothing at all? For all Trev knew, Riverton guardsmen stood this way nightly, motionless and alert until dawn.

As quietly as he could—which was very quietly indeed—Trev slipped out the window and onto the ledge outside. The window washers used this ledge to get around the large building and clean the windows. Today, however, it would be Trev’s walkway. A similar ledge had been built onto the original Spotted Hog, and had served Piskin as a walkway.

Trev had no fear of falling. Not even in the night, not even if it rained. He ran along the ledge without a care and jumped when it ended, landing with a soft thud on the roof of the stables. The horses inside whickered and shuffled about. Trev ran over the roof and paused there, in a spot that should afford him an excellent view of the dark lamppost and the motionless man who stood beneath it.

But the man was not there. Trev looked up and down the High Street, seeing no one. He crouched there, staring and listening. Nothing happened, and after a short time his excitement faded. He thought about going back to bed, but watched as a fat night watchman came walking down the street. Had the watchman seen the strange man? Should Trev call out and tell him about it? Trev did nothing except crouch down on the rooftop. He was too unsure of himself to take any action.

The watchman came up to the lamppost and put his hands on his hips. The lantern was supposed to be lit, and it was part of his job to keep it burning. Grumbling, the corpulent man pulled out a flint and tinderbox and struck sparks on the side until he had a taper burning, then he stretched and grunted to reach high enough to relight the lantern.

When he was finished and putting away his tinderbox, he spoke aloud: “What’s this then? By the River! Sir? Are you all right?”

The watchman knelt at the shrubs beneath the lamppost and dragged a figure out of an overgrown clump of boxwood. He knelt and examined the man.

Trev could stand it no longer. He hopped down from the roof and trotted across the cobbled street to stand beside the kneeling watchman.

“Is he all right?” the boy asked.

The watchman jumped and turned so suddenly, he lost his balance. He almost fell onto the cobbles. Wide, staring blue eyes stared at Trev. “Who are you then?”

“I’m Trev. Who are you?”

“Rude child! I’m Roland the watchman of High Street and the Manor. Now, tell me what you’re doing out of bed so late.”

“I saw this man,” Trev said. “I saw him put out the lamp. Then I thought he’d walked away, but he must have fallen. Is he all right?”

“No,” said Roland, turning back to examine the fallen figure. “He most certainly isn’t all right. He’s dead. By the look of it, he’s long dead.”

“But he was standing here. Right here just a few minutes ago.”

The watchman stared at him. “Are you having a joke, kid?” he asked.

“I never make jokes.”

“What are you doing out here so late? You should be in bed.”

“I saw him behaving oddly, and I came to see what he was doing.”

The watchman turned back toward the corpse. Trev could see now that the body had been dead awhile. It stank, and there was fresh mud on it here and there.

“Well I’ll be,” said the watchman, cursing silently under his breath.

“Do you believe me?” Trev asked.

“Yes, lad. I do.”

“Why?”

“Because I recognize him now. He’s Morcant Drake, or I’m a hedgehog. He disappeared some years back. Everyone said he ran off because of his debts and because of that elf girl he was carrying on with. They had both disappeared, but then we found Morcant’s body in the woods and buried him. But you don’t need to know anything about all that….”

“About what? Why would he run off with an elf girl?” Trev asked.

“Never mind! What I can’t puzzle out, is why he has any meat left on his bones. He should be a skeleton by now.”

“What does it mean?”

Roland turned to him and blew out his cheeks. He shook his head slowly. “It means someone has been mistreating our dead, that’s what it means. We’ll have to put a guard up at the cemetery.”

“What if they walk? What if they all come out and walk into Riverton?”

Roland laughed nervously. “Full of cheery questions, aren’t you boy? Don’t worry about that! These things happen—now and then. Plenty of Faeries about these days, and sometimes they play cruel tricks. I’ll send word to the council and Brand in the morning. They’ll know what to do. Now, about you being out here so late,” the watchman said, but he trailed off.

He turned around and looked up and down the street. Trev had vanished.

* * *

Gudrin had led her company of guardsmen upon a gruesome hunt. They’d spent a week testing and burning out graves in and around Gronig. She had become increasingly concerned as each day passed. Meeting in a private drinking room in the best tavern Gronig had to offer, she called upon Rorvik to go over their efforts with her.

“How many graves have we opened up so far, captain?” she asked, nursing her second mug of ale. She grimaced at the skunky flavor. The ale wasn’t the best, but it was all this faded town could offer.

“Sixty-one, by my count, milady.”

She nodded slowly. “And we’ve lost?”

“Twelve good men. But none in the last two days. We’re getting better at the work.”

They had indeed gotten better. The trick was to dig until they exposed the rotten pustule in the earth with spades—but not to dig so close that they ruptured it. When it was laid bare, almost down to the thin skin of it, Gudrin would come forward and throw in coal. She would fire the coal, using Pyros. The party would then retreat and let the thing cook for a time, sterilizing the ground. Sometimes it popped anyway, and the vile, deadly liquid bubbled up. Then Gudrin had to wade in and burn it out by hand.

“What do you think of our methods?” she asked.

Rorvik hesitated.

“Speak, man! What good is a bodyguard who won’t tell his mistress what’s on his mind?”

“Well, my Queen,” he began, leaning forward. “I think it is insanely dangerous.”

Gudrin snorted. “Not like one of my Kindred guards to worry so much about a bit of Kindred skin.”

Rorvik motioned her to lean closer. They were alone in the private room, but Gudrin leaned forward as he suggested to hear his whispers. She respected the need for quiet talk.

“That’s not what I was thinking, milady,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean the process is dangerous to you. Unacceptably so.”

“Well,” said Gudrin, rocking her head back with another slug of ale. She winced as it went down. It was rotgut, through and through. “I’m just another of the Kindred. We can all be replaced, you know. I’m not afraid to face an enemy and burn him down—not even an enemy so strange as this one.”

“That is the core of the problem,” Rorvik said. “You are not easy to replace. We could put a new monarch upon the throne in a day, I know. But you wield Pyros. No other Kindred had used one of the Jewels for so long and survived. I think you would be impossible to replace. What’s more, you are the only thing that allows us to destroy this menace with any speed and safety. If one of those things were to pop, just as you approached the open grave….”

Gudrin stared at him. There was wisdom in his words, although she didn’t want to hear it. “You have a point,” she admitted. “Always it was the way of such things. If one builds a perfect weapon, it became too precious to wield, and is thus worse than useless, for now you must care for it and protect it.”

“How can we best use such a unique power then?” Rorvik asked.

“By not wielding it, but instead threatening to wield it. By frightening our enemies into a peaceful mood.”

“But we can’t do that in this situation. These eggs of fluid growing in the earth—they can’t be frightened.”

“No,” Gudrin said wearily. “Sixty you say?”

“Sixty-one.”

“Do you know how many bodies were buried here in the last war? Including elves, gnomes, merlings, River Folk and Kindred?”

Rorvik shook his head.

“Ten thousand, easy. And we’ve no way of knowing where they are all buried. Or which of them have been infected.”

Rorvik whitened and drank his ale quietly. Gudrin joined him, and they had a another round before she spoke again.

“We’ll assemble a team of Workers and Mechnicians. I’ll have them bring down a few of the crawlers from their berths beneath Snowdon. They will have to catch new elementals to stoke their boilers.”

“What will they do, my Queen?”

“They will continue to open these wounds one at a time and cauterize them. In the meantime, I’m going to evacuate all the civilians of Gronig. All the other surface towns and trading posts are to be abandoned by good working Kindred as well. We’ll tell everyone it is temporary. A precautionary edict from the crown.”

Rorvik stared at her. “Are things as bad as that?”

She nodded slowly. “I fear so. I’ve been reading the accounts in the Teret of such strange events in the past. There has been a rash of strange happenings all around Cymru, you know. I fear the Dead are on the move again—as they have not been for many centuries.”

“What shall we do if they all rise?”

“Why, we shall do as our ancestors did!” she exclaimed. “We shall retreat within our mountain fortresses and ride out the storm. After all, why do you think our ancestors dug so deep?”

Chapter Twelve

The Dungeons Deep

Brand and his party followed Grasty deep into the earth. The stairway continued for a hundred paces or more, until it broadened out into a large chamber. The ceiling was held up here with squat stone pillars. The group of five spread out to explore the space, which was as wide as a keep’s great hall. Brand held his lantern high and looked about with unease. He’d not had positive experiences with underground warrens like these. There was an archway on the northern wall with stairs going downward, but the stairway had been collapsed. Piles of rubble filled the arch. He saw no obvious way of continuing their exploration.

Brand noticed Telyn was studying the stone floor. “Anything interesting?” he asked her.

She pointed here and there. “Droppings and marks in the dust that look like rat-prints, but nothing larger.”

Brand nodded reassured. “I don’t see a row of sarcophagi, at least,” he said to Grasty.

The Kindred foreman ignored him. He busied himself by running his rough fingers over a dusty wall. He muttered to himself, poking and tapping as he went. Brand walked to his side.

“What are you looking for?”

“Eh? Well, I’m not sure exactly. This place was once used as a giant cellar. A place to store foodstuffs and the like.”

Brand nodded. “Sensible enough. I’m surprised it’s not flooded.”

“Oh, there are flooded areas, but the drainage system works here, at least. If you were to crank those three big wheels over on the south wall it should allow the flood into the lower levels. In fact, if you just drove a tunnel from this chamber southward, within thirty yards you’d be swimming in mud.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Is this all there is to see?” asked Puck, the look on his face reminded Brand of a man smelling fresh manure. He ran his fingers over one of the three big wheels Grasty had indicated. He did not look impressed.

“No, this isn’t all, not by a long shot!” shouted Grasty, working on one of the pillars now, still tapping and scratching. “Before were done here, the prissiest elf in the castle will be impressed, mark my words. We’ll be moving on shortly.”

Brand put his hand to his mouth, covering a smirk. Puck and Kaavi were, of course, the only elves in the castle.

“Why didn’t you tell us this place led to a dead end?” asked Puck.

“Because, we want to go deeper.”

Puck shook his head in bewilderment. Brand shrugged. Grasty heard his own thoughts, not necessarily the questions of others.

“There is no exit downward,” Puck pointed out, speaking as if Grasty were a child.

Grasty chuckled and shook his head. “Not right now, there isn’t. And it might not lead directly down—not at first.”

He moved around to the southern wall, still tapping and muttering.

“You said there was mud in that direction,” Telyn said to him.

Grasty squinted up at her. “Good ears you’ve got,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. “The mud is there, but only if we go about a hundred feet or so in this direction. I don’t plan to go so far.”

“I’m sure Grasty is looking for a stairway or some—”

“Found it!” cried Kaavi from across the room. Everyone turned to look at her. She beamed at them. She had one hand on a protuberance that had once  been a torch-brace. She twisted it upside down and a small section of the floor at her feet fell open.

“Well done,” Brand said.

Telyn shot them both a glare, and Brand pretended not to notice. Grasty hurried to the spot, as did everyone else.

Brand noted that Telyn stood very close to him whenever he got near Kaavi. He felt a flash of amusement. Did she think he could not be trusted to stand alone with the elf girl? That Kaavi might grab him and make off with him at her whim? He struggled to keep these thoughts to himself and attempted an easy smile as he gazed down at Telyn.

“You’ve found something, sister,” said Puck. “The question is what? And do we wish to explore such a vile little hole? What is this, an oubliette? How many corpses were stuffed down there by your entertaining ancestors, I wonder, Brand?”

Brand knelt and held his lantern over the circular hole. The feeble glow did not seem to penetrate far. All he could see was the sides of the hole, which were at least formed of stone and mortar rather than crumbling dirt.

“I don’t see a ladder,” Grasty said, rubbing his beard. “I guess we’ll have to lower one of us down on a rope.”

“I’ll do it,” Telyn said. The other four glanced at her in surprise.

“I’m no matron, you know,” she said crossly. “You sent me down into a dragon’s lair last time we went into one of these places, Brand.”

Brand nodded, thinking about how to handle this. If he denied her, he certainly couldn’t send Kaavi. Telyn would take that as an insult. He decided to take a calculated risk.

“Well, whoever goes will have to go down on a rope,” Brand said. “I wouldn’t be light enough to pull back up quickly. I say you are a good choice, Telyn.”

Telyn was delighted. They rigged up a rope quickly and lowered her into the darkness with a lantern and two daggers at her side. She left her bow, saying that if she ran into trouble she’d only get it tangled up, and the best defense would be a quick ride back up on the rope.

She went down, and when only her face was visible, Grasty leaned close. “Now, make sure, milady,” he said. “If you seen any interesting formations—minerals, I mean—please take a sample and bring it back up.”

She nodded and they worked to pay out the rope evenly. Brand turned Grasty a sudden frown. Was that the true reason for this exploration? Did Grasty and the other Kindred hope to find something special down here? He’d not seen any hint of dead-things or much else, other than a few vermin. He began to wonder just what was on the foreman’s mind.

“Do you see anything?” Grasty called down to Telyn. “Anything shiny, I mean?”

“No, it’s some kind of lower cellar from the look of it. Looks a lot like the one you’re in, but smaller.”

“All righty,” said Grasty. “Who’s next down this hole then?”

“What’s the point?” asked Puck. “I mean, if it’s another dead end, we’ve gone as far as we can.”

Grasty chuckled. “No trust at all, is there? Not that I’d expect it from an elf following one of the Kindred underground. What do elves have to learn in the Everdark? Nothing at all! They’ve learned all there is to know about the depths of the earth—no doubt while sitting on treetops!”

“No need to be rude, fellow,” said Puck quietly.

“Quite right, there isn’t. Would I be taking us down here if there was nothing further to see? These warrens are endless and interconnected in a dozen unexpected ways. You didn’t think there was any way out of this room until your sister found one, did you?”

Puck had to concede the point. He went down next, and Kaavi after, as they were lighter than the rest.

Brand was anxious to go after Telyn, but he hesitated. The axe on his back was twitching. It sensed something, but that wasn’t unusual. If there were fish swimming under a riverboat the axe was suspicious. In this place, there were doubtless uncounted vermin and dangers to upset it. In fact, the axe’s agitation only made Brand want to move ahead faster. He didn’t want Telyn to spend any more time down there without him.

“Come on, milord, you’re next,” said Grasty. He ran the rope over his shoulders and paid it out with his leathery hands.

“Can you hold me?”

The old foreman chuckled and nodded his hoary head. “I could hold all four of you—could have held five, a century or so back.”

Brand nodded and took hold of the rope. The hole was a tight squeeze for his shoulders, but he made it through. About twenty feet down, he touched solid rock. He saw the others, who were all poking around the chamber. It was similar to the one above, another empty storeroom. The collapsed stairway stood to the north, clearly a continuation of the one above. Thick stone columns supported the ceiling, as they had in the chamber above. But the three great wheels were absent from the southern walls.

“Not too exciting,” Puck observed drily.

“No,” Brand agreed.

“Any sign of wealth?” asked Grasty from above.

Brand snorted. “Far from it, I’m afraid.”

Grasty sighed heavily. “Too bad.”

Brand looked up at him, frowning. He was about to call up and ask him what they should do next, when Kaavi tapped his shoulder.

“Shouldn’t we bring our packs down?”

Brand smiled. “I’ve got mine,” he said, meaning the axe. He caught Telyn staring at them then. He realized he was standing close to Kaavi and she to him, both of them were smiling and almost touching. Brand cleared his throat and stepped away to grab hold of the rope that dangled down from the chamber above.

“Grasty, send down our packs next man, if you think we can continue.”

“One moment, your lordship!”

Brand turned around to find Telyn staring at him. Her eyes were hooded and her arms were crossed. Could she really be angry about such a small interaction with the elf girl? Did he have to evade females at every moment?

Brand tugged on the rope, taking in a breath to shout up for the packs again. What happened next so surprised him his words died in his throat.

The rope came down when he tugged it. Coils of it fell into his face with a loud, slapping sound. He stared up, mouth open.

“What’s this then?” Puck demanded, stepping close.

“Grasty, you’ve dropped the rope!” shouted Brand.

“Yes, yes,” came a distant mutter. “Just a moment, this thing is stuck.”

They heard distant grunting sounds.

“What’s stuck?” demanded Brand.

They heard a sudden grating sound. “There we go!” Grasty said somewhere above. “I’ve got it moving now. Won’t be a moment.”

They saw, to their shock, the hole above them slowly closing. Like an eye into another world, the disk of stone that had covered it slid haltingly shut.

“He’s closing us in!” Kaavi exclaimed.

“What’s got hold of you, Grasty?” Brand shouted, coming to his senses. He reached back and grabbed the axe.

A surge of fury at this betrayal gripped him and it was all he could do not to slash down everyone near. Spittle flew from his lips.

“I’ll slay your kin, you devil!” he roared.

“My kin is it?” questioned Grasty. “Who’s the devil now, eh? Brand, forgotten lord of dirt and bones.”

“Cover yourselves!” Brand hissed.

“What?” asked Kaavi.

Telyn knew what was coming. She reached out a hand and slapped it hard over Kaavi’s eyes.

Brand let go with a brilliant yellow flash then. A stabbing ray of heat and light flashed up like a sunbeam shining through storm clouds. It shot through the opening in the ceiling, the last crescent of space that led from this tomb they were in to the world above.

There were shouts and cursing, and the disk of stone stopped moving. “Damn you, man,” shouted Grasty. “You know I’ve only got the one eye. I’ll be blinking for the rest of the day now.”

“Why man?” Brand roared. “At least answer me that, after you’ve shamed yourself, your Queen and all the Kindred!”

“I met the Shining Lady after you rejected her, axeman!” Grasty cackled. “You should have taken her deal. Instead, you offered her only insults!”

The Shining Lady. Brand thought of his dream, and understood in an instant what had happened. Spurned, she had sought another, a weaker mind to turn to her hand. He had chopped her body apart, but that had only been in a dream. She had gone on to another dreamer, and gotten a different answer.

“You serve the Dead?” roared Brand. “I’ll boil your head, traitor!”

Grasty cackled again. A moment later the disk slid into place and crunched down. They were sealed inside the storeroom below a storeroom—in an underground place of unknown nature.

Brand stood, breathing like a bull ready to charge. Quivering with emotion and pent up energy, he stared wide-eyed up at the distant ceiling. “His whole family!” he muttered.

A small hand dared to touch his elbow. He whirled and held the axe upraised. For a fleeting second, he saw Grasty’s face with those big, loose teeth grinning up at him.

“Brand,” the grinning Grasty said. “Put it away, Brand. It’s me, Telyn.”

Brand was confused. He wanted to strike. He could take that head off with a single sweep. He could see it happening. Blood would jet from the severed neck. The treacherous little fiend would be cut down. It would feel so good! He would be a man again. He, who had been made to look a fool in front of his wife and the girl he wanted to bed more than any other.

His wife. The thought came despite his best efforts to keep it away, and he found the thought painful in his mind. He did not want to think, to reason, but he did anyway, and he could see reality again after a moment. The Grasty who dared touch him was Telyn, of course. He could see her clearly now. Her worried, probing eyes, her downturned mouth. His wife.

Brand lowered the axe. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s been so long since I’ve drawn it in anger…and Grasty’s treachery surprised me.”

“I know,” said Telyn, leaning against him.

Kaavi turned away from the scene and began inspecting the room closely, as she had before.

“What’s that sound?” Puck asked.

“Sound?” asked Brand. “Good point. You should have been playing your pipes, man. Perhaps you could have charmed Grasty back to our aid.”

“What works on a wandering maiden will not sway an ancient, leather-faced foreman of the Kindred,” Puck said. He put up a hand and urged everyone to fall silent. Reluctantly, the others quieted. Now that he listened closely, Brand thought he did hear something. A faint scraping sound. Perhaps a grating sound would describe it better. Something squeaked and groaned as they listened.

“That’s metal moving against metal,” Brand said, listening. “It sounds to me like a ship’s moorings while it sways at dock.”

Puck shook his head and turned to look at Brand squarely. “Not quite,” he said. “I think Grasty is turning the great wheels. I believe he’s releasing water into the lower chambers.”

Brand eyed each of his companions in turn. Every face except Puck’s showed fear. Brand wondered just how old the elf was, and if he had been in worse spots than this in his long life.

“What should we do, Puck?” he asked.

The elf looked mildly surprised he had been asked. He tapped a finger upon his tapered chin for a moment. He shrugged. “I doubt Grasty would place us here if there were any way to go upward. The stairway, for example, has clearly been collapsed on purpose. We must look for another route. Probably, it will lead downward.”

“I don’t want to go deeper into this filthy dirt!” Kaavi complained.

Puck shrugged. “You stay here if you like, sister, when we find the path out.”

Telyn didn’t bother talking, she went to the walls and sought an exit. She examined the floors closely. Brand decided to have a closer look at the collapsed stairway and the exit in the roof.

“Possibly,” he said, “if the waters push in until we are floating, we will reach the roof and be able to push that door open.”

Puck looked up with him speculatively. “I don’t think we can. When we get that high, we will not have anything to push against, we will be treading water. Without a firm stance, I don’t see how we can push very hard.”

Brand frowned.

“Once, Brand struck through a similar stone portal in a floor of this same castle,” Telyn said over her shoulder. “Remember Brand? When you discovered the redcap and his armory?”

“Yes,” he said. “But that was striking downward, not upward while paddling in a flood. If it comes down to it, I’ll give it a try, of course.”

Brand found the stairway was well and truly collapsed. He wondered if Grasty had done this on purpose, or if it had happened before he’d turned to the Shining Lady’s service. He had no way of knowing the truth of the matter.

“Shhh!” Kaavi shushed them all. She stood at the south wall in the attitude of listening closely.

“Is someone coming?” Brand asked hopefully.

She waved his words away. All of them stood hopeful, quiet. They stared at her. At last, she turned to face them. “It’s the water. I can hear it flowing nearby.”

Brand held his axe high like a torch. It ran with yellow light. He began pulling bricks and broken masonry away from the fallen stairway.

“That’s no use, Brand,” Telyn said gently.

“Maybe not,” he said without turning. “But I’ll not stand here with my thumb in my arse waiting to drown.”

Puck soon joined him, and the two of them heaved and rolled stones away. They threw handfuls of dust behind them. They worked for nearly an hour, but there was little progress made.

Sweat stood out on Brand’s brow. He growled and was in a worse mood every minute. His mind drifted to thoughts of mayhem. He imagined Grasty’s head popping up on a fountain of blood. He would kick it higher still, and use it for practice with his axe, slicing away features until it was nothing but a red ruin.

Telyn came to him and touched his elbow. “Brand, you’re blinding us.”

Brand noticed that the others had retreated from him while he struggled with the mountain of dust and rubble. Ambros was shining brightly, intensely, making his companions shade their eyes from its glare. He turned toward them with a face stained with sweat and gray dirt. His eyes were glinting and wild.

He pushed Telyn away, but not so hard as to knock her flat. “Don’t soften me now, woman!” he shouted. “This is not the time!”

He continued to work alone at the rubble now, keeping the axe held high. He did more work with one hand than five men could do, but it was no use. With each scoop of rubble he removed, a dozen more sifted down to replace it. If anything, the ruined stair was more thoroughly choked with debris than it had been when he had started.

Finally, he stopped, his sides heaving. The first runnels of water were sweating from the walls now. Behind him, he could hear one of the women coughing. He didn’t know if it was Telyn or Kaavi, and he barely cared which it was.

Brand sat upon a broken, fallen column and let the sweat bathe him. He remained there, sullen and staring at nothing. His hands clutched the axe, which glimmered at his knees. He ignored the others who spoke to him for a time. There had to be a way out of this.

Sometime later they noticed visible sprays of water coming into the chamber from cracks in the masonry. The floor turned dark and glistened wetly as runnels of water flowed to join with one another. The dark fingers of water soon widened into pools. Still Brand sat and tried to force his mind to operate. It was not easy with the axe in his hand. He did not want to let go of it, however. He knew he might fall asleep if he did.

Kaavi came to him, and her soft voice cut into his thought with its sweetness. She said things to him, into his ear. The thoughts soothed him, even if he could not really hear her words. Finally, he felt her soft touch. She combed dust from his hair and untangled it with her fingers.

Suddenly, Kaavi’s head jerked back and out of his sight. She gave a shriek of alarm and tumbled backward.

Brand lunged to his feet without a thought. His face split into a grin. Ambros rode high, shining brightly. The axe was eager to finally be given an enemy to hew.

The axeman faltered when he saw what was amiss. Telyn had yanked Kaavi backward. She’d wound her hands into the elf girl’s hair and had pulled her almost off her feet. The two of them now rolled in the inch-deep water that filled the chamber, hissing and ripping at one another. They parted and drew knives.

“I’ll not die watching you paw my husband!” Telyn said.

“Crazy witch!” Kaavi hissed back, no less enraged.

Brand stepped up to them. They lunged and locked wrists, struggling. He thrust the head of his axe between their snarling faces and commanded it to give a muted flash.

The women howled and clawed at their eyes, cursing him. They staggered backward and called one another vile names.

“Telyn, what was that you said?” Brand asked.

“She’s a slattern dock-whore!”

“No, no, before that,” Brand said.

Telyn stared, still blinking with watering eyes. She shook her head.

“About the redcap…” he said. Suddenly, he had a clear thought. He lifted the axe and swung it down two-handed. He delivered a great blow upon the floor. The stone chamber rang with the booming sound of it. Water and stone chips flew, causing the others to step back in alarm. Brand lifted the axe and brought it down again and again, striking with all his might. The floor began to be cut away, as if a lumberjack chopped through a log.

“He’ll destroy the axe!” said Kaavi, aghast.

“No, probably not,” Puck said. “The Jewels are not easily destroyed, no matter what form in which they choose to clothe themselves.”

“I’ve seen him cut through stone before,” Telyn said. She wiped blood from her lower lip and shielded her eyes from flying stone chips and the yellow flashes of light that filled the chamber with every booming strike. “That’s what he meant about the redcap. He cut through stone then in this very castle.”

“And the gnomes,” Puck said. “He severed their bodies, which are little more than mobile stone.”

Brand found nothing but earth beneath the floor, so he gave up there and moved to the west wall. He chopped there with measured strokes. He thought it was rather like chopping at tree trunks. The consistency of stone, when struck by the axe, felt as dense as might hardwood when hewn by a sharp tool.

Behind the west wall he found a slurry of mud. It poured into the chamber and quickly formed a black mound like spoiled porridge. Unperturbed, he turned and walked to the east wall. He struck and struck and struck again. Each time stone flew like wood chips and orange sparks rained into the muddy water that lapped at his boots. After thirty or so hard blows, the stone gave way and crumbled downward in a slide of broken masonry. Brand paused, sides heaving and face slick with sweat. His eyes wide and staring, he leaned into the rough-hewn hole he had created to examine it.

Behind the east well he found, to his surprise, another wall of a different quality. These bricks had clearly been laid down here at a different time. He chopped a wider, deeper hole, and eventually broke through into a room beyond. He thrust the axehead inside when it would fit and they all peered inside.

A chamber of gray-white marble was revealed. The water on their side was now more than a foot deep.

“Should we go through?” Kaavi asked.

“What choice do we have?” Telyn demanded.

After Brand had cut away a space big enough for even his shoulders, they all squirmed through the hole into a place unknown to them.

They found themselves in a hallway that led parallel to the room they had left behind. One way led southward, and quickly turned. The other led north and seemed to stretch into the distance.

“I would suggest we head north—as the flood lies to the south,” said Puck reasonably.

They walked upon fine tiles of marble and their boots rang with every step. Brand wondered that anyone would build such an elegant hall so deep within the earth.

“Hold!” said Puck, putting his arms out to his sides to slow the others.

They all stood at his sides, staring, wanting to surge ahead.

“Something is not right,” he said, almost in a whisper.

“You are right,” Telyn said. She crept forward and knelt. “There,” she said.

Brand did not see it at first, but each of the others exclaimed and knelt. Finally, he held Ambros high and urged it to blaze like the exposed sun. They all blinked in the brightness, but they could see the glimmering thread that lay across the floor. It was about an inch above the tiles.

“Is that a spider’s silk?” Brand asked.

Puck shook his head. “No, it is a wire. This hall is trapped. Let’s proceed with great caution.”

They each stepped over the wire with great care. They did not dare to cut it or disturb it. There was no obvious result that might have come, but none wanted to learn the truth of the matter.

They kept going, and frequently they came upon new traps. The water came after them as well, running around their feet as if drawn past them. They could hear it ahead somewhere in the distance, falling and rushing somewhere. After another thirty paces, they found out where the water was going.

They stood upon a ledge overlooking an abyss. The water rushed out around their boots and fell tinkling and splashing down an unknowable distance into the darkness.

Each of them looked into the pit, which resembled an underground gorge. It extended off to their right and to their left a great distance. The marble tiles stopped here, and although there was no bridge across the yawning abyss, there were steps to the left. The steps were cut large and wide. Each one was like two steps for a normal man. Kaavi was left hopping from step to step as they walked downward a dozen steps to investigate. The water from above still flowed around their boots, making the path treacherous. The stairs had no railing, and Brand felt a fall upon them would likely be fatal.

“I’m sorry for yanking your hair, Kaavi,” Telyn said suddenly.

Kaavi eyed her. “I’m sorry for being thoughtless in your presence.”

Brand noted that Kaavi had not apologized for being aggressively flirty, just for doing it while his wife was watching. He shook his head. He supposed it was something. Perhaps his home life would be more peaceful now. He could always hope.

“There is only one path,” Kaavi said, with fear in her voice. “And ever does it lead us downward. Are we escaping, or are we being led—guided to a darker place?”

“I don’t know,” Brand answered. “But we have no choice, and I for one wish to meet our guide and see how they stand up to the twin blades of Ambros.”

Puck shook his head and huffed lightly. Brand didn’t care. Snarling slightly without meaning to, he stepped down ahead of them all. He hopped down each stone stair with a single stride, his foot splashing each time it landed. He would find out who was at the bottom of this place, and he would have hard words with them.

Chapter Thirteen

The Cemetery

Trev didn’t tell his mother about the tall Dead man named Morcant he’d found in the bushes the night before. When Trev had left the scene, Roland the watchman had been grunting, trying to drag Morcant onto a cart he’d brought up the High Street. The watchman had been muttering and cursing about how big Morcant was and saying that kids these days had no respect for the Dead. Trev felt this was unfair, because he was a kid and he had a very strong respect for the Dead. In fact, he feared them intensely.

Being Puck’s son, however, Trev did not let his fears get in the way of his curiosity. If there was a curse suffered by all who had elf-blood in their veins, it was their tendency to get into trouble. When the following afternoon began to fade outside, Trev professed a desire to be off on his own to play on the commons with the other children. Mari frowned, but could find no fault in her boy’s natural desires. She let him go with a litany of admonishments and watched out the window of the Spotted Hog as he lightly trotted up the High Street.

Trev felt her gaze on his back. He didn’t turn off the High Street until he was up the hill a ways toward Drake Manor and out of her sight. He continued up the cobbled lane until he reached the side path that led up another hill. A sign there said Cemetery Hill. Trev wasn’t much of a reader yet, but his mother had taught him the basics even before he’d gone to his first day of school. He read the sign slowly, and realized what it meant. He knew they kept the Dead people up there, up this road on the bald side of the wooded hill.

Walking up the hill into the quiet green gloom under the trees, Trev felt a shiver. The woods were quiet after the bustling streets of Riverton. He felt somehow that things were not right here. The birds did not sing, the insects did not buzz. It was as if the land knew something was amiss and held its breath, waiting.

When he reached the top of the hill, he found a cart there. He recognized it immediately as the same one that the watchman Roland had been struggling to load with Morcant’s body the night before. An old man walked around the cart and busied himself with a chisel and a rounded headstone. He was carving something into it.

“What are you doing?” asked Trev after watching the man work for a time.

The man startled and dropped his chisel. With a curse he turned around, eyes bulging. “Who are you then, child?” he demanded.

“I’m Trev.”

The man shook his head and blew out his cheeks. He laughed and picked up his chisel. “You gave me a start, you did. I didn’t hear you coming. I must be going deaf.”

“May I ask your name, sir?”

The man turned him a fresh frown. “I’m Daz, boy. The man who’s cursed to run this place until I drop. You’re too young to be up here on Cemetery Hill. This isn’t a place for play, you know.”

Trev stepped closer as the man turned back to his work upon the headstone. He tried to puzzle out the name the man was carving. “Does that say Morcant?” he asked.

Daz turned back to him, very slowly. He stared at him with intense eyes that were as blue as clear water. “What do you know about a man named Morcant?”

“Roland found him, sir,” Trev said. “Last night. He fell in the brush after putting out a lamp along the High Street.”

Daz suddenly turned angry. His lips curled from his teeth and he snarled at Trev. “That’s enough!” he shouted. He raised his chisel and took a step toward Trev, as if he’d like to cut him with it. “You’ve had your fun, and I’ll thank you to be gone from here now. No more talk of the Dead from you, no more pranks and lies!”

“I don’t understand,” said Trev, backing away. “I’m not lying. Ask Roland, he’ll tell you.”

Daz huffed and pointed with his chisel toward the headstone he was carving. “What name do you think I’m carving here, illiterate urchin! That says ‘Roland Drake’, and a good man he was! Better than Morcant, who died years back and lies under a slab within the Drake crypts even now.”

Open-mouthed, Trev backed away from the old man and his flashing chisel. He ran outside the shack and past the cart in the lane. He paused there, and soon heard Daz go back to his work. Tink-tink-tink went the chisel. Trev stood near the cart, and noticed the boots that stuck out from the back of it. He walked around to the rear, where he could see a still form lying in the cart. A coarse gray blanket covered the corpse. Trev nosed forward and took a peek beneath the blanket.

A fat watchman lay there, still and dead as a fallen leaf in autumn. Trev ran then, and kept running downhill. He ran away from the trees into an open area. He found himself, panting and standing in bright sunshine in the middle of the graveyard. Dozens of stones marked the resting spots of the Dead all around him. His eyes rolled this way and that, frightened. Last night, he’d seen the watchman struggling to put Morcant’s body on the cart, but now Roland was on the cart instead. Where had Morcant gone?

His eyes prowled the landscape, but everything was peaceful. He saw only round headstones with their carved names and the waving green grasses that surrounded each of them. Something larger caught his eye, however. It was a structure of carved stone blocks. It stood out among the small headstones as different from the rest. There was a hill behind the structure, and a gate in the front of it. The gate looked like a mouth to Trev, a mouth that led into the black depths of the rounded hill.

Trev eyed it for a time, but nothing came out or moved. He reasoned that this must be the crypt Daz had mentioned. Where else in this place might a person lie dead upon a slab? There was nothing else in sight that might fit the description.

Trev wanted to leave then. He wanted to go back to his mother and spend the evening staring out the window of the Spotted Hog. He’d eat dinner with mother, spending the coin father had left them. They had dined well these last few days on sausage, butter and thick slices of brown bread. Usually, back home they ate stew made from scraps of meat and vegetables from the garden. Trev told himself to go home to Riverton, eat two sausages and hear good-natured complaints from his mother suggesting he was either growing or working to become as fat as a hog.

But he couldn’t leave. It simply wasn’t in his nature to do so. He was drawn to the crypt entrance, as a moth was drawn to a flame at night. As all elves were drawn to the mysterious and the unanswered.

The crypt smelled of moldering earth and dust. He found the barred door hung open, unlocked. He pressed it aside, hearing the hinges groan and squeak in protest. A dozen steps led down to an underworld. He’d never been in such a place, and he ran his fingers over the bricks and the cold, moss-covered mortar between them.

Down he went, into the earth. Most human boys would have quailed at the entrance. The bravest of them would have required a cadre of onlookers, egging them forward. But Trev was not a normal boy. Half of him was Fae, and fear was different for one of his kind.

Beneath the earth he found rows of dead people. The walls were gray stone and the floor was marble. Most of the wrapped corpses were on shelves in the walls or drawers one could pull out from the walls. There were angled stairways downward to deeper places. Trev dug out a candle stump from his pocket and lit it with a match as he headed down a stairway. On the second level he found the floor was gray stone as well as the walls—the marble had vanished. He could see by the flickering flame there were less well-kept graves lower still. Upon the last level, where the floor was bare earth, he found the dead laying inside sarcophagi. He walked among them, trying to read each nameplate. He was not sure how to spell Morcant, but he knew it had to start with an ‘M’.

In time, he found it at the foot of an open sarcophagus. He recognized the corpse inside as the same one that had stood on the Riverton High Street the night before and doused a lamp. It was the same one he had seen Roland struggling with, trying to heave it up upon the cart.

Trev walked closer to the head of the dead-thing, but did not touch it. There was no sign of movement, no sign of danger, but still he felt fear to be close to the corpse. He examined the large boots next. There was fresh dirt there, upon the soles. He nodded to himself. Further evidence the dead-thing had walked. He had not imagined it all.

He turned to go, and found to his surprise he was not alone. Another stood at the exit, motionless upon the last stair. It was a figure wearing a cowl and ragged robe. A silver rod was gripped by a web-work of bones that served it as a hand.

“And they call me a ghost!” laughed the lich. “I am not the one doing the haunting this day, it is you who haunts me. The irony is not lost on my ancient mind, child. Do not think that I’m in my dotage, despite my great age.”

“I don’t sir,” said Trev seriously, although he didn’t know what dotage meant.

“What are you doing here? How came you to seek this spot?”

“I’ve seen Morcant walk the streets at night. I came to find out how the Dead came to Riverton.”

“How indeed?” said the lich. He shuffled forward toward Morcant’s body. He waved his rod over the creature, and the light of Trev’s tiny candle wavered in his hand. It was as if the Jewel in the rod released darkness as it moved. It was the opposite of a lamp.

The body on the slab twitched. One knee bent and then relaxed, slumping down.

“You see? I have awakened this thing that serves me. You say you saw it wandering about? I’m intrigued. That sort of initiative is rare among the Dead. I’ll have to consider giving Morcant a command of his own.”

“A command?”

“The rank of shepherd, perhaps,” said the lich, as if it spoke to itself.

Trev wanted to run. He wanted to race out of the crypt and down the hill, but he also wanted to know more of this enemy that befouled his world. Only he could learn its purpose and what threat it posed safely. There was also his curiosity. Knowing he was immune to the monster, he wanted to follow it, to learn from it and most of all—to harass it. His human half felt the strong desire to run screaming, but his elvish half wanted to delight in plaguing this dead-thing that was infinitely more powerful than he. It was a grand joke, an opportunity not to be squandered.

“What is that thing in your staff? Is it the Black Jewel?”

“What do you know about the Jewels of Power?”

“My mother has taught me all she knows of them. She’s held the Red in her hands.”

“Has she now?” said the lich. “Humph. The Red. Powerful, yes, but not as great as the Primal Three.”

“What are the Primal Three?” asked Trev.

The lich stared at him for a moment. “You are beginning to annoy me, child. I’m sorry I ever bargained with you.”

“Well,” said Trev, “if you don’t recall the details, I understand. My grandmother Bowen is very old like you, and sometimes she doesn’t know what day it is.”

“What?” cried the lich. “There it is again! Another insult from you, stripling. Another suggestion I don’t know what it is I’m about.”

“I meant no such—” Trev began, but the lich cut him off.

“I’ll tell you about the Jewels, child. The Dead are not all scatter-brained you know. We’ve been here longer than any of the rest, and I know more than all the rest of you blood-sacks combined!”

“Tell me then,” Trev said.

The lich sighed. “Very well. The Primal Three are the most powerful of the Nine Jewels. They are the White—also known as the Sunstone, the Black—which you see before you now, and the Quicksilver.”

As he spoke, the corpse upon the slab twitched again. Its arms writhed and the fists balled up. Trev took a step back from it, but still listened to the lich’s words.

“The next three are sometimes called the Core Jewels, they are the Red, the Blue and the Amber. The lowest tier is comprised of mongrels. The Green, the Orange and the Lavender.”

“I see,” Trev said. “If you hold the Black, you have the most powerful of the Jewels I know of. Where are the Sunstone and the Quicksilver, and what do they do?”

“Ha!” shouted the lich. “You think if I knew I would be standing here, talking to the likes of you? I would be seeking them my every moment. But anyway, you’ve interrupted me again…where was I?”

“You were telling me of the Primal Jewels,” Trev said.

Morcant had lain still for the last minute, but now he moved with unexpected purpose. He did more than twitch this time, he sat up and opened his dried eyes. The eyes rolled in their sockets and the neck creaked as it turned. Trev stepped back further, just out of the monster’s reach.

“Yes, of course,” said King Arawn. “The Quicksilver is interesting, some say it is the most powerful of Jewels, but I myself account it as inexplicably weak. It has the power to resist all other magicks, to reflect them back upon the wielder, or at least to turn them away.”

“Like a knight’s armor?”

“I suppose. Something like that. The Sunstone is supposed to be the only pure chunk left of the original. The core of it all. Some say it has the power of all the rest combined, but with lesser intensity than the pure colors.”

Trev thought about it. He liked the sound of the Quicksilver. In a way, it would be like the situation he experienced right now. He was immune to the Dead King, and so he could stand here talking to him, standing in a spot safely where perhaps no other mortal could. The Jewel could make one invisible, in a way. Untouchable. Trev smiled.

“Ah,” the lich said, gazing at him with a canted skull. “I see the light of avarice in your expression! Rare is it to see the glow of greed in one so young. It warms my bones.”

Trev didn’t know what the lich was talking about, so he decided to continue with his questions. “Where was the Quicksilver last known to be?” he asked.

“A group of ambitious wizards used it. An order of fools, they were, but they once held the Primal Jewels. They used the Sunstone as a group and thus could cast any spell. They used the Quicksilver as their defense.”

“And the Black?”

“One among them took the Black and turned its power upon the rest. That was their downfall.”

Trev nodded, understanding immediately. “You took it. You destroyed your friends.”

“Weak fools, not friends! I used the Black to scatter the rest of them and hunt them down. They managed to hide the other Jewels from me, however. They squandered them and lost them. Humanity is so weak. We once held all the Jewels, you know. That’s why there are nine ruined castles in the Dead Kingdoms.”

Morcant was up now, striding about the room. It was almost as if he stretched—like a man who has finished a long sleep and needs to limber his body for work. Morcant marched up the stairs and King Arawn shuffled after him. Trev trailed them both.

Trev frowned, thinking hard. “Isn’t it true only one Jewel can be wielded by one person at a time? How did these wizards manage to control the three greatest and do so together?”

“All things are possible, just difficult. The powers can be combined, braided together to form something new. Every Jewel is unique. Each is potentially a great power—it all depends on what one makes of it. Imagination—that is the key!”

They were climbing the final stair now, the one that led up into the sunlit surface world. Trev blinked at the brightness that streamed down from the crypt entrance. He saw a reddish tinge to the light. It must be nearly sunset. He thought of his mother, waiting for him to return from the commons where he had supposedly been playing with other children all this time. He hoped she wasn’t too worried.

He heard a voice then, a gruff voice that called out to him. “I know you’re in there, kid. Come out and take what’s coming to you!”

“Daz?” Trev asked.

The lich leered and came close. Trev felt the cold bones near his face. It felt as if someone held a chunk of snow near his cheek.

“A friend of yours?” the lich asked.

Trev shrugged. “He runs this place. He’s done me no harm nor good.”

“You are a strange one. You think like a teen, but have the fearlessness of extreme youth…” said the lich. “I think you are not of the River Folk. I think you are another.”

“My father is Puck,” Trev said.

“A mongrel! I knew it!”

“Who’s down there?” called Daz. “All of you, come up here this instant. There will be a good thrashing today, I’m afraid.”

“Why don’t you come down here and thrash us in the dark?” asked the lich.

“It will go the worse for you if I do!” shouted back Daz angrily.

The lich leaned back toward Trev. “One of your blood should appreciate the fine prank that’s about to be played.”

Trev frowned. He didn’t like the cemetery caretaker much, but he didn’t wish the man harm. He cupped his hands over his mouth. “Run Daz! Run for your life! The Dead walk down here!”

The lich lifted the silver rod and made as if to smite Trev with it. The boy cowered, but the blow did not come.

“No!” the lich shouted at the boy. “You are clever! I’ll give you that. You tempt me mightily, but I will not break my vow so easily, mongrel.”

The lich tapped Morcant’s broad back with the Jewel. The corpse stiffened as if burned. “Now, race forward my pet! Take this man Daz and ride him to the ground! Do not slay him yet!”

Morcant charged out of the crypt into the light of the dying sun. Excitedly, the lich shuffled after him.

Trev came last, horrified at the scene he found. The sun was like blood in the sky. The trees cast long shadows that would soon grow into purple pools of darkness. Morcant had caught Daz, who lay on his stomach with the huge dead-thing sitting on his back. The man was keening and clawing up clumps of grasses with his hands, desperate to escape.

King Arawn moved to stand in front of Daz and to gaze into his face closely. Daz blubbered and squirmed. Trev trailed after and stood at the Dead King’s side.

“Mercy, death-father!” Daz begged.

“I know what you’ve done in years past! I’ve got ice for eyes in my orbits, but I still see!”

“I’m an innocent!” cried Daz. “I’ve cared for your kind for all my life. I am a servant of the Dead already!”

King Arawn dipped his silver rod low. The Black Jewel sucked the light from Daz’s face and made him hard to see. The Jewel did not touch the man, however. “Let us speak of the truth, caretaker. You have not always been true to the Dead.”

“I have, lord!” screeched Daz in mortal terror. “I’ve always done right by your kind!”

“Lies will always be found out, caretaker,” said the lich.

“Boy!” cried Daz. “Save me if you can!”

King Arawn turned his head toward Trev. “Yes! Let us ask the boy,” he said. “Now and then, when a girl came up yonder lane freshly-dead, Daz here looked at them with pleasure. He did not wear gloves as is required by custom when he prepared their bodies. He felt their cold skin against his fingertips as he put them into their fine dresses for burial.”

“An accident, milord!” said Daz. “I’ve done no such thing for decades!”

King Arawn’s gaze stayed fixedly upon Trev. “It is said elves are born wise. I’ll let you pass judgment—you, a living ghost with silver hair. I’ll let you decide what shall be done with him.”

Trev stammered, uncertain as to what to do.

“Remember lad,” said Daz, his voice hoarse, “if you decide unjustly, you will be his as well. You will gift yourself into the lich’s hands.”

Trev stared, unable to speak for a long moment. At last, he thought of what his father might say. “I cannot judge. I did not see these crimes. I don’t know the truth of the matter.”

King Arawn released a long hiss of frustration. He urged Morcant to action with a pointed finger, which was only a white stick of bone. He leaned close to the pitiful Daz. “Slay him. He will join the ranks of my legion at the lowest rank.”

Morcant grabbed Daz’s throat and throttled him. The process took long minutes. Daz thrust with his chisel, which was sharp and flashed in his hands. He stuck it into Morcant’s dead arms and thighs, but the other did not do so much as grunt. Morcant’s thick gray fingers closed inexorably, crushing Daz’s windpipe.

Trev wanted to help, but he knew he could not do much. If he even tried to stop Morcant, he knew he would have broken his pact with the Dead King and thus his life would be forfeit as well. Before Daz stopped moving, Trev finally broke and ran. Tears streamed down his face. He raced over the carven headstones toward the inviting embrace of the trees.

“I’ll have you in less than a year, mongrel!” the lich called after him. “A year is like a day to a creature such as myself, who has existed for so long. I’ll wager the time will pass quickly for you as well!”

* * *

Brand’s party marched down the seemingly endless stairway. For hours, they traveled and the water traveled with them, slicking each step beneath their feet. But when they reached a breach in the stairway that had to be crossed with ropes and swinging leaps, the water fell into the depths and they were left dry upon reaching the far side of the breach. Every half-mile or so, the stairs switched back upon themselves. When they reached the fifth such landing, Telyn asked for a rest. Brand turned to her with wide, staring eyes. For a moment, everyone stared at him, not certain he had heard her words.

But then finally, Brand nodded. He leaned back against the coarse stone walls and let the axe lie across his legs. The moment he took his hand away from the haft, his chin dipped forward and rested upon his chest. He knew no more for hours.

Brand dreamt of things unseen. To his sleeping eye, they were not in an empty place, but rather one that teemed with restless spirits. Each drifted in a ghostly fashion, touching and tickling the mortals in their midst with feathery fingers. Occasionally, those who were touched shivered and twitched as if a fly had alighted upon their skins.

When he finally awoke, he sat up and rubbed his stiff joints. Stones never made good pillows. The yellow glimmer of Ambros and a single guttering taper lit the scene around him. Brand gazed at Telyn and Kaavi, who both lay nearby, sleeping. So lovely were they both, in their own ways. They lay upon the flat stones, their bodies dry now and their hair drifting in the breezes that puffed up from the deeps. He felt sorry, knowing he was responsible for bringing them to such a place. They should never have known this sort of horror. He recalled he had vowed years ago not to bring Telyn into places like this, back when they’d met the Wurm in the Everdark. Somehow, he had forgotten that pledge and buried them all alive. What would their three children, Cadmon, Taffy and Dee do, if their parents never returned?

Brand heard light steps coming up from below. He craned his neck, and saw Puck’s face. He beckoned for the elf to come near, which the other did.

“Puck,” he said softly, lest he awaken the women. “Where have I led us this time? What folly has this been? Have I slain us all deep within the earth?”

Puck smiled. “At least we will not soon drown, axeman.”

“No. I suppose we’ll starve instead.”

Puck held up something in his hand. It was a carcass with clawed feet, a black-furred body and yellow fangs.

“What’s that?” Brand asked in a whisper.

“Dinner,” Puck said.

Brand sighed, supposing they must make the best of it.

* * *

Gudrin nearly met her end when they found the central nexus of the infection that bubbled beneath Gronig. Something lay rotten there, something that had lain in wait since it had fallen years earlier. It was one of the big abominations, she felt certain of that. Not even a company of merlings nor a squad of the Kindred could create so large a grave. A mass of the soupy black-blooded liquid was found simmering under the spot where the old ore refinery had once stood. The smelters had been destroyed in the struggles over Gronig, and her bombards had reduced the area to rubble. They had, in fact, blasted a deep crater into the ground which had served the Kindred well as a mass burial ground for the most disgusting corpses they had to bury. As time had passed, the spot had not been rebuilt upon, but had formed a sort of town square, as nothing would grow upon this dusty spot.

It was the newly driven well that went bad first—and the Kindred who drank from it second. Those who drank from the well with wooden buckets and iron ladles complained of a foul taste. Madness overcame these same Kindred a few days later. They awoke in the depths of the night, burning in their beds and feeling their faces ooze as if hot grease had been applied to their cheeks in the night. Padding to a mirror and lighting lamps, their howls of horror awoke their households.

In each case, the infection was the same. Painless sores dripped redness so thick it was black, a substance reminiscent of blood-pudding. Their eyes were the worst, unable to shut soon after the affliction took hold. The eyes ran with the vile stuff, the wide whites of their lidless orbs stained pink and permanently staring.

Wild with fear, some took up tools and gouged away the sores and eyes. Others lifted weapons over their families, not knowing what they did in their pain of spirit and mind. Eventually they were slain or wrestled down by the rest of the Kindred in their household. Gudrin was summoned, and before dawn came she’d passed judgment upon them all. Each tainted Kindred was burned away to ash by Pyros. She wept while she did the deeds, but none saw her tears because the heat evaporated them from her cheeks before they could glisten. She burned the contents of the houses as well, until there was nothing but four standing walls of granite and blackened iron staples.

In the morning, four houses were smoldering ruins. A few dozen of the Kindred guarded the square and the tainted well, which had been filled with rubble. Surveying the scene, Gudrin called upon Rorvik, and had a private talk with her captain.

“You did not evacuate soon enough,” she said.

“I did not know the danger was so near. We were preparing. I’ve summoned a hundred carts from Snowdon, each drawn by rams. We’ll—”

“They won’t be here in a day or two,” Gudrin said. “Too long. Too late. We are leaving this town today. By tonight, no one shall be allowed to dwell here.”

“But, milady…” Rorvik sputtered.

“This is an infection!” she roared at him. “It will worsen and become ever more vile. I can’t cleanse the entire world with the Orange Jewel’s flame.”

“We can’t get them all out of here today,” Rorvik said. “The old, the injured—some are sure to be left behind.”

“Your Queen has spoken,” Gudrin said, baring her teeth. “I’m not a heartless Wurm, man! I’ll not stay and be forced to burn out another hundred of my people in the morning!”

Rorvik stared, and at last he nodded. “My Queen has spoken. It will be as she commands.”

He left her then, and Gudrin drank ale and sobbed quietly while she did so. She would have to alert Brand. She would have to send him a note.

She soon put her quill to work on a pile of scrolls. She penned a writ which was to be copied and spread throughout Cymru, to wherever Kindred might be. The writ ordered her people to return to Snowdon or one of the other mountain fortresses. Very soon, she would have to close the doors and allow none to enter the safety of the deeps. It was time for all the Kindred to retreat within the safety of stone, as they always did when the greatest of storms threatened. Her people would survive, she knew. Others, such as her River Folk allies…it did not bear thinking about.

Chapter Fourteen

Grasty

Grasty was the only member of the Kindred whose heart flared with joy when the writ came from that crazy old witch Gudrin. She had called them all back to Snowdon, had she? Well, it could not have come at a more perfect time.

Grasty had planned well and deeply. He fully believed Brand and his crew to be floating in flooded chambers by now. He’d explained to the rest he’d been ordered back to the camp while the arrogant upstart river-boy investigated the ruins on his own. The Kindred and River Folk had turned him narrow-eyed glances, but they’d not said anything. He’d played the fool to the hilt of course, tottering around and muttering incoherently. They’d all figured Brand had gotten tired of the crusty old fool and sent him back to camp.

They would get suspicious as more time passed, however. He knew that very well. Now, he had come to the tricky part of his plans. He had a cart all packed with six barrels labeled as rare earths. One was marked with the Kindred symbol for cadium, another boron, a third cerium and so on. Every element listed was low in value, naturally. His subterfuge gave him the chuckles every time he looked upon the barrels, as they did indeed carry rare earths. But they were of a very different kind than were indicated by the false labels. Each of the six was filled with glinting gemstones. Topaz, emeralds, diamonds, rubies, opals and his personal favorite: sapphires.

The Shining Lady had been true to her word and he’d never been happier with a bit of graft than with this haul. After filling the barrels with rare gemstones, Grasty had packed the barrels carefully with fine soft grit so that they would not clatter and rattle when transported. This made them heavier, of course, and carrying them up from the mines at night on his back, one barrel at a time, had been quite a chore. His spine was permanently bent now, he could swear, and he knew he’d be sore for days. But now first half of his escape plan had been completed.

The second part of his exit, however, had always been less clear in his mind. He cursed himself for not thinking further when he’d made his bargain with the White Witch. She made it so damnably difficult to think. At least he’d been smart enough to keep away from her embraces. His kind weren’t as vulnerable to lusting for her as were humans, but even an old Kindred foreman had certain weaknesses in that regard. Fortunately, as she had wanted his services, not his soul, she had not enticed him in that manner. The entire deal had been strictly business. He was to lead Brand into a trap and he would find his shovel-loads of gems waiting. Enough for a long-overdue retirement in luxury.

But the part about his exit strategy had been fuzzy from the start. Now that he had the gems in their falsely labeled barrels…he had no idea how to spirit them out of the camp. Worse, by the second day after his treacherous deed had been done, he had to dodge more questions than he expected. That devilish cousin of Brand’s named Corbin, in particular, had been probing and was not easily put off. Suspicious, hulking piece of river-trash! Grasty already wished he had somehow gotten Corbin to crawl down that hole with the rest.

By the second night, when the writ came, Grasty was growing more and more nervous. He could tell that neither the River Folk nor his own Kindred were going to allow this to pass unquestioned. They kept talking about Lord Rabing. The arrogance! The cheek of it! He could scarcely imagine where that stripling boy with a fancy axe had come by the gall it took to call himself a lord.

When Gudrin’s order came, it was like a blessing from the Rainbow itself. He could barely breathe while it was read aloud. Most of the Kindred groaned in disappointment. These crazy River Folk paid well and Grasty had always been an easy-going, slipshod foreman. But, there was nothing for it. They were loyal folk, and when their Queen called, there was no question in their minds. They dropped their tools, packed up their belongings and formed a long train to retreat.

Corbin entreated with Grasty on the subject. This tickled Grasty, as the fat lout had no clue how pleased the Kindred foreman was to quit the work.

“Surely, there’s something that can be done!” Corbin said, hands on his hips. “No one knows where Brand is, and we need your help digging him out.”

“Eh?” Grasty asked. “Digging who out?”

“Brand, you clout-eared oldster,” Corbin shouted.

“Brand?” Grasty asked, waving his leathery hands in the air. “Never mind him, he’ll be fine. If I were you, I’d pack up as well. This place is likely to be teeming with Dead soon.”

“How can you say Brand is fine?” Corbin growled. “You are the one who left him down there. It is your responsibility to get him back out. I’ve already sent a Wee Folk messenger to Snowdon asking Gudrin to give special orders to that effect.”

Suddenly, Corbin had Grasty’s attention. “What’s this then?” Grasty snarled. “You dare meddle in the affairs of another folk? Who made you royalty?”

The other Kindred present shuffled and eyed one another uncomfortably. Corbin seemed taken aback.

“We are your allies,” Corbin said. “At least, I thought we were.”

“Of course,” Grasty said, throwing up his hands again. He realized he’d gone a too far snapping at the suspicious lout. “My apologies. We’re all just edgy, you see. Many of us have relatives in Gronig and things have reportedly gone bad there.”

Corbin seemed mollified and stopped arguing at that point. Grasty went back to his preparations thankfully. All the while Grasty prepared the wagon train to exit this forsaken swamp, he felt Corbin’s eyes on his back, however.

His six, precious barrels were carefully loaded upon a two-goat cart which Grasty cunningly located at the rear of the procession. When the first night fell, he wandered off into the swamp on a side path and purposefully let the column to Snowdon proceed ahead without him. He knew they would not come looking for him as they were under direct orders from the crown to return to the Black Mountains.

Let them wonder what had happened to old Grasty! Let them wonder forever while he spent his gems, certain he was immune to the hunger of the Dead everyone else feared. He laughed long and loud upon the driver’s board of his cart. He doused his lamp and rolled on through the night at a leisurely pace, consuming ale and singing so loudly the bog-yelpers fell quiet around him.

After a time, however, he came to notice a light off to the north. He knew it could not be a human habitation, as he was far past the Haven borders. He was even beyond the points where the most intrepid of marshmen dared to venture.

The single cold light in the distance beckoned to him, although he tried to ignore it. What kind of creature might be out in this forsaken mire? He thought of goblins and wisps and the like. Each theory proved false however, as he studied it further. It was a clear, cold light. A goblin lamp would never have been so clean and stationary. The wisps were always colored—and this light was not. It seemed to him as he passed westward, that the light to his north was gently moving south as he passed it. This meant it could not be too far off.

Grasty tried his best to put it out of his mind, naturally enough. To be comfortable, he dug out an old crossbow from the back of the cart and examined it. The string was still fresh enough, so he loaded a bolt and laid the weapon across his knees. No band of villains would have his gems without a fight!

No threats materialized, however, and he had almost slid past the light so he had to crane his neck around to see it when he came to a fork in the path. One route led straight on, while a second led off to the north…toward the light in the trees.

Grasty fretted. It could very well be either a place of safety or danger. The trouble was he could not know which from the board of his wagon. He sat grumbling for a time, but at last turned north and found a goodly spot to hide his cart. Once done, he stumped along the path on foot, his crossbow cradled in his arms.

No more than a hundred paces into the twisted trees that grew on this blighted land he saw the source of the light. It was a lamp, sitting in the single window of a low hut. Grasty eyed the thing suspiciously. At least, he thought, whoever they were they didn’t look too dangerous.

With a loud sniff of disinterest, he turned and headed back toward his cart.

“Kind sir?” called a soft voice behind him.

Grasty whirled with a snarl. His crossbow was up in his hands and he almost loosed the bolt on the spot.

“So sorry to have startled you,” said the voice.

He could place it now, a hooded figure—quite small—stood in the lane. It was female. She appeared harmless and shapely. He took aim, thinking to put her down in the dirt now so he would have no trouble. He didn’t want anyone so much as thinking about his gemstones.

“Perhaps you could help me, kind sir?” she asked. “I’m all alone in these woods and I don’t get many visitors.”

Grasty still had not said a word. His lone, squinting eye remained fixed upon her, and his bolt was ready to fly and plant itself in her fair breast. She pushed down her cowl as he watched. Her face shone in the starlight, and her features were exquisite—not like the Shining Lady, mind you, but lovely all the same. She was as full of life as the Shining Lady was of death. Her beauty was as warm as the other’s was cold. Her face caused Grasty’s wind to catch in his throat. He thought of shooting her anyway, but he could not quite bring himself to do it.

“What do you want from the likes of me?” he grunted out at last.

“It is you who have come down my lane, good sir,” she said.

“You’re an elf, is that it?”

“You’ve guessed it plainly.”

“Humph,” Grasty said, lowering his crossbow slowly and reluctantly. “Have you got any food? I’ll trade with you. No tricks, mind! Grasty is not the old fool he appears to be.”

“My name is Tegan,” said the elf. “I have some food. No payment is necessary for a guest. I meet so few travelers out here. I’m sure you can pay with tales of the road and cheerful talk.”

Grasty snorted at that. But when the lovely elf-girl beckoned, he followed her crooked finger like a fish on a hook.

Tegan led him into her hut, and he saw that it was a pitiful affair indeed. He swept his single eye over the place speculatively. It was little more than mud and sticks. There were twisty roots poking up in the middle of the floor. Times were indeed hard for this lovely female if she had ended up here.

Grasty began to entertain certain ideas. Perhaps, with his new-found wealth, he could afford to lavish a bit of it upon a woman such as this. Kindred and elves very rarely mixed—due to the snootiness of the elves in practically every case—but these were special circumstances. This lady was in a dire way and had been rejected by both humans and elves, it was plain to see. With six barrels of gemstones outside, he could buy her a castle of her own, if that was her wont. Maybe, under such special circumstances, she could be made to overlook his uncomely face. So far, she had been quite friendly….

“Who lives here?” he asked. “Aside from yourself.”

“Only my son.”

“Son? How old would he be then?”

“He’s just turned four now. How the years fly!”

“Well, if your son is only four years old…” Grasty said, trailing off thoughtfully. A child so young could hardly get in his way. He might well bed a woman nightly if her brat were quiet enough. A few good beatings early on would teach the lad what was what from the start.

“He is big for his age though,” Tegan continued with a hint of pride in her voice. “His father was such a grand size of a man.”

“His father? Who would that be?”

“His father has passed on, I’m afraid. His name in life was Morcant Drake.”

“Drake?” Grasty asked, standing up suddenly. “Are you telling me your son’s father was one of the River Folk?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. And I’m no happier about that than you seem to be. They didn’t treat me well there after my child was born. They cast me out of the manor. That’s why I ended up settling here.”

“Bastards!” Grasty fumed. “I’ve always said the River Folk are nothing but a pack of ingrates and ruffians.”

Tegan shrugged. “They aren’t all bad, but I’ve had a hard time of it out here by myself.”

“I can imagine. But you needn’t worry about the River Folk girly. They’ll be getting their come-uppance very soon now, I should think!”

Tegan tilted her head, and Grasty thought she looked lovelier than ever that way.

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked.

“Upstarts! All stealing Jewels from the elder, better races. They have not the wisdom, nor the right! Brand’s the worst, that popinjay with a bit of an axe. He never passed by an opportunity to remind me that I served him. Imagine! One of the Kindred forced to kowtow to a wet-pants river-boy!”

“No,” Tegan said, “I meant to ask about this—come-uppance? What would that entail?”

Grasty squinted at her. He fell silent for a moment. He considered telling her of the Dead and their plans, but then thought the better of it. “Nothing you need concern your pretty little head with, missy,” he said at last. “What color is your hair, exactly? It’s all sort of—purply like.”

“The shade is usually called magenta here. In the Twilight Lands, the elves refer to it as flame-headed.”

“Ah,” Grasty said, feeling an odd sensation sweep over him. He found it bothersome. He’d rarely had much interaction with females for the last century or so. A man forgot how to go about these things. He did remember one critical element, however. Women liked pretty gifts. He fished an emerald out of his belt-pouch and flipped it onto the table between them. It was rough-cut of course, but still caught the light and Tegan’s eye nicely enough.

“What’s this?” Tegan asked, acting surprised for the first time since he’d met her.

“Payment, for your fine company.”

“Oh, I can’t—” she began.

“No, never you mind now! You said you were having a tough time of it.”

“Well,” she said, and she took the gemstone from the table. “This would go far in feeding my Ivor.”

“Feeding who?”

“My son.”

“Oh yes,” Grasty said. “Where is the lad?”

“He’s sleeping—downstairs.”

Grasty’s single eye rolled around the one room hut. He didn’t see any stairs. Could she mean she kept the child in a root cellar below this hovel? What kind of a place would a cellar be in a marshland like this? The floor must be soup. But he didn’t say anything about that, as he knew well enough not to spoil a good thing. He tried to come up with something pleasant to say.

“So, does your boy like it here?”

“Definitely,” she said. “He loves the trees and the wild lands. You know how young boys like to roam. And the climate here—I think it’s good for his skin.”

Grasty tried not to stare. He cleared his throat. “I see,” he said. He sat with her in an uncomfortable silence for a moment or two. He did not quite know how to proceed. Finally, he lost patience with himself and decided just to bull his way through.

“See here, now,” he began, coughing and clearing his throat again. “I can see you are having a hard time out here, and I’m a man of some means. Perhaps we can come to some kind of—arrangement.”

Tegan looked at him and tilted her head to one side again. By the gods, he liked when she did that! For a moment however, he thought she was going to burst out laughing at him. Imagine, a lout like him having the gall to suggest she would subject herself to his leather-handed gropings. His brow knit together and his lips quivered, wanting to show his teeth. He hated being spurned by women. He’d given them up for decades because of moments like this. They’d always gone badly for him.

But Tegan didn’t laugh. “Grasty, I think that’s a wonderful idea,” she said. “We can come to an arrangement. I could use a man like you. So thick of arm and barrel-chested. You’ll do perfectly.”

Grasty grinned so widely the snaggled teeth he rarely revealed were displayed prominently. He figured he would bed her, here and now. Afterward, if she pleased him enough, he’d leave her an extra emerald. Otherwise, if she curled her lips in disgust at his ministrations, he would slap her mouth bloody and take back the gem he’d given her.

He stood up and reached for her without further preamble. She hopped to her feet and danced away.

“One thing,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I really think you should meet my son first.”

“Well, call him up here then!”

“Maybe we could go down and see if he’s asleep still. We’ve made quite a bit of noise. If you could at least see him as he sleeps, I’d be satisfied.”

Grasty narrowed his good eye and rubbed his nose. “All right, all right. Let’s be about it, then.”

The two of them walked out of the cottage and around to the back of it, where a hole opened in the ground. It indeed appeared to lead under the hut. Grasty leaned forward, sniffing. It smelled a bit foul down there, but it was probably just the swampy earth.

Sighing heavily, he lifted a lantern high as he walked down steps cut into the dirt. They weren’t even stone, just rough planks laid upon bare earth. Once down the steps, he looked around and saw nothing. The floor, as he had suspicioned, was packed with squelching mud. He decided the boy had run off or something. He figured he would tell her he was the best-looking child in Cymru and sound asleep. He’d bed her before she was the wiser.

He turned to mount the steps again, when he sensed movement. He turned back, frowning.

“I’ve got a special visitor for you, Ivor!” Tegan called down from above. “Be careful with him, the Kindred have a lot of meat, but it sticks to the bone.”

Grasty whirled, his one eye wide. An ogre loomed over him, dripping with mud and foulness. It was a baby, just as Tegan had said, but still must have weighed a ton or more. The monster was man-shaped, but broader than any man ever born. The skin was green and lightly stippled with carbuncles. A dozen gray teeth showed in its circular maw.

Grasty realized in shock he’d played the fool. Every Kindred child was told that elves and humans, when mixed willingly, produced offspring that were sometimes unsavory. The elf girl’s beauty and the child’s young age had caused him to overlook the possibility. Her lovely elfin form seemed incapable of producing anything unpleasant. He’d forgotten the teachings of his distant youth. And he’d forgotten how quickly ogres grew to a dangerous size.

Deciding he could never outrun the beast to the stairs, Grasty faced matters squarely. “I’m your new step-daddy, Ivor,” he shouted, “and it’s high time for your first thrashing!”

The fight went on for several minutes, and Grasty left scars upon the ogre’s young hide that would never fully heal. Eventually, however, he could no longer continue the struggle. Coughing and heaving, he was still conscious as the ogre began to chew. He raved at the bitch of an elf who stood at the top of the stairs. He felt every tooth as the beast devoured him, one limb at a time.

“You’ll all join me soon enough!” he raved as he died. “You, elf-bitch, and your monster! The Dead will walk everywhere, and they’ll find you, even out in this mud pit!”

Blood-laced slime flew all around the root cellar, splashing the walls with foulness. None of the Kindred die easily, and old Grasty was tougher than most, but soon he had no more blood in his veins to give.

Chapter Fifteen

A Challenge to the Dead

For two days they’d traveled upon the stair. Now, instead of growing cooler with every step they took downward, the air grew warmer. The water that had been dripping from them dried, then was replaced by sweat. Soon, the sweat evaporated and their faces became a feverish red. At last, they reached the final landing.

“I could have run down here in a few hours, if I hadn’t been burdened by your lumbering feet,” Puck complained.

Brand shot him a look of irritation. “Nothing was stopping you, elf. You could have trotted ahead with your skinny blade and skinny shanks at any time.”

“We’re finally here,” Telyn said. “Let’s save whatever fight we have left for the enemy.”

Brand grunted and turned his gaze upward. The abyss above was at least as daunting as it had been when he’d look down into it. He no longer had to fear falling, but now he realized with fresh unease that it would take an inhuman toll to climb those endless steps back to the surface.

He took a deep breath, turned and faced the rocky floor of the great trench. Open veins of wealth lay here, gold dust littered the floor and gems encrusted nodules thrust up from the substratum. He didn’t give any of it a second glance. Material wealth this far down was hardly worth the trouble of hauling back to the surface.

His eyes soon picked out the darkest spot along the rocky walls. An area of stygian darkness that stood out even here. He pointed toward it with the head of his axe. “That must be it.”

The others looked on without enthusiasm. “Perhaps we should rest before—” began Puck.

“Ha!” shouted Brand. “After all that about my delays and slow-moving legs? Now you wish to dither in the very face of our goal?”

Brand sneered at Puck. He knew, in some small part of his brain, that using the axe for so long without blooding it was affecting his mind. But he just couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d had enough of Puck and his foppish ways. Worse, when he looked at the elf, he had a hard time not seeing him as he must have been when he danced and cavorted in his failed attempts to seduce Telyn.

Puck shrugged. He drew his light length of fine steel. He flexed it in the air, cutting experimentally. “I’m ready,” he said.

Brand turned and stalked toward the blackest spot along the walls. It was a crack, really. An opening that must lead somewhere. Brand entered without a care and his brashness nearly cost him his life.

What saved him was the axe. He held it up in front of him like a torch and followed its flickering amber light. The trap was sprung as he moved deeper into the crevice, he was never sure how he had triggered it. Three triangular blades came at him from either side of the tunnel to cut him into quarters. The higher blade struck the axe’s head, the middle struck the shaft just above his gloved fist and the last one gouged into his shin, but got no further. The three blades must have been connected upon a single axle and when one stopped they were all halted. The axe proved harder than steel and the whirring blades chipped and were stopped dead, as a carpenter’s saw is halted by a nail.

Behind Brand, the others gasped in dismay. He did not apologize, nor cry out in fear. Brand felt a wave of fury instead. He could not free the axe from the two blades that held it pinched against the walls of the tunnel. He tugged and roared.

He heard shouts behind him. Glancing back, he saw the others were in battle. A dozen shambling figures had risen up from the gold-glittering sandy bottom of the abyss. They shuffled forward, intent on doing harm. Was this entire abyss a trap then? Had they climbed down a league or more into the earth to find nothing more than a swarm of wild dead-things?

Telyn drew her blades while Kaavi stepped back near Brand, taking her bow from her back. Puck moved forward to meet the monsters. More and more of them rose up from the floor of the abyss. Many of the Dead could not move quickly, as their bodies were broken. Few had legs that functioned properly. Most of their limbs hung at odd angles. One crawled upon the ground, using a pick to thunk into the sands and drag itself forward. Brand stared at the pick and knew in an instant of clarity that these creatures had once been like his own party. They were adventurers who had made it down to the bottom of this strange pit only to be slain and turned into beasts to feed upon those that followed. By the broken state of their bodies, Brand figured many of them must of fallen to their deaths on the treacherous stairs.

Brand turned back to his axe, which was still stuck fast. He tugged and wrenched at it, but could not free it. Neither could he let it go and turn to help his friends. His love for the axe and its hold over him in this moment of battle was too great. He raged and ripped at it to no avail. He put his boots upon the walls, but could not get a good purchase.

He glanced over his shoulder toward the others again. Puck had one monster diced upon the floor of the cavern. Bits of it flopped about, grasping at his boots. The next two of the Dead lunged for him, but he danced between them, slicing away dry fingers. Puffs of dust fired up from them as his flickering blade struck and their bodies disintegrated under the assault. Kaavi fired arrow after arrow into those that followed. Each one sunk into a skull or a chest. They were thrown back and often spun to the ground, but they usually got back up and kept coming.

Telyn held Puck’s flank. Her twin daggers flashed. She’d practiced often over the years, after their hard trip into the Everdark. Brand knew she thought someday she might need her skills again. He was vaguely proud and yet felt panicked all at the same time as he saw his wife slash apart a thick-shouldered creature. Its belly opened and gray dust that had been guts centuries earlier poured out in a choking cloud.

The next two caught her, however. She was lifted up as one had her by the hair and the arms, the other clutched a foot. She slashed away an arm, but they kept grasping. Kaavi threw down her bow and charged in to help, taking the head off the one that had Telyn’s foot and had been drawing it slowly toward bony jaws.

Brand turned back to his axe. He howled and raved. Bunching his shoulders, he heaved, then shoved, then heaved again. It was the second shove that did it. By pushing the axe forward, rather than attempting to pull it back against the gears of whatever devilish trap had been built here for this very purpose, he managed to free his weapon.

He whirled, and held the axe high. He called upon it for strength, for fury, and for sweet revenge.

Ambros flashed more brightly than the sun, and afterward everyone in the party save Brand himself had a sunburn to nurse. Fortunately, all of them had their backs to him at the moment, or they might have been blinded.

Brand charged to Telyn first, and hacked down each of the monsters that had dared touch her with a single stroke. Kaavi helped Telyn to her feet while Brand charged into the mass of those that surged closer. He burnt them and hacked at them with spittle flying from his lips and eyes rolling in his head. Soon, a hundred desiccated corpses lay quivering in smoking ruin on the floor of the cavern.

He walked back wearily to the others, who had withdrawn into the mouth of the tunnel he’d been caught in. They huddled inside, more fearful of his rage and the axe’s blazing rays of brilliance than they were of further traps.

Brand slumped down against the stone walls and let go of the axe. His fingers felt like rubber. His face was sticky with sweat which evaporated as soon as it formed upon his brow.

Puck clapped slowly, mockingly. “Well done, axeman,” he said in a droll voice. “I thought you’d found something bigger to concern yourself with in this side-passage.”

Brand grunted. “I faced my worst fears in here.”

Telyn came and sat beside him. She narrowed her eyes and she ran her hands over him, looking for injuries. She found nothing serious and bound up the minor ones. Of the whole group, only Telyn herself had been injured by the things that had held her. She could still walk, but with a slight limp.

“Brand,” she said while tending to him. “You’re worst fears? You mean when you saw those things had me?”

He looked at her and nodded. “That,” he said, “and the fact I could not release the axe to come save you.”

She kissed him. “It’s all right. You saved us all in the end.”

“But I tried,” he said. “I tried to let it go. I couldn’t do it. Not to save your life or mine. When there is a fight near at hand, it lusts for battle. Its hold upon my mind is never stronger than in such a moment.”

“I understand, Brand,” Telyn said. “It’s not so terrible, I had Kaavi here. She came to my rescue when you could not.”

Brand ran his eyes to Kaavi, and then back to Telyn. They smiled at him and at one another. At least their struggle was settled, he thought to himself.

He closed his eyes then, and he slumbered.

* * *

When Brand dreamt of the Shining Lady, he was hardly surprised. He was not sure if his calm demeanor was a result of the odd mood of dreams, his exhaustion, or a new found confidence in her presence.

He first recognized the cold glow of her as it impinged upon his dreaming eyes. Next came the scent of lilacs and daffodils filling his head with fine fragrances. He turned to where he knew she must be: in the crack where he had almost met his doom.

The blades that had caught his axe were gone, and being a dreamer, he did not think this was odd. He stepped forward rashly, letting his axe droop from his fingertips. She reached out to him, and he felt a familiar burn of desire, but this time it was different. This time he was in control of himself. He did not weep with lust and wanting. He smiled instead, and stepped forward closer still. His free hand reached out toward her, even as she reached for him. Behind him, the axe still trailed as if forgotten. He dragged it with his right hand and reached with his left.

She beamed at him, confident he had finally come to his senses. He thought that in a way, she was right.

“Finally you come to me, Brand,” she said. “I can be complete at last.”

He stepped closer, and his grin broadened. It became predatory.

She did not seem to notice, and it was not until their final step that brought them into one another’s grasp that she understood something was amiss. His gloved hand did not reach to caress her locks or cup her breast. Instead, his fingers curved like the talons that served her as feet and locked upon her white throat.

Brand raised the axe then, from its forgotten place dragging behind him. He lifted it high.

“I’ve had enough of your games, fair lady,” he said to her. “Each time we meet, I shall cleave you apart, in hopes you will come to understand the new nature of our relationship.”

The Shining Lady’s eyes widened in sadness, fear and hopelessness. He knew in his heart he was a beast, an evil thing, a slayer of the helpless. He felt the burn of tears beginning to sprout from his eyes but he tried to maintain his resolve. She was manipulating him, he knew this. He squeezed harder and raised the axe higher, threatening her.

Her face melted and changed into a new form. He blinked as he recognized her. She was Telyn now.

“Stop,” he said. He did not loosen his grasp, although it hurt his mind to hurt her, she who looked like the twin of his beloved wife.

She changed a second time. Now her face was that of another he had not seen for so long. She was Oberon’s daughter who he had slain. A tiny elf maiden with silver hair, a lock of which he’d carried for years.

“I shall strike!” he shouted at her. “Let us talk as equals. No more tricks.”

She changed again, and for a moment, he saw a hag of a woman, a thing of surpassing ugliness. He was so surprised, he almost let her go.

“We are not equals!” she screeched at him.

He did let her go then, and pushed her back. “Oh, but we are. If you cannot manipulate my mind and I can’t slay you with my axe, we are only capable of irritating one another. Now, kindly state your purpose.”

She was the Shining Lady again, and for once, Brand was glad of the change. “I’ve already asked you once. I would have you be my champion. I would have you take up the Black and the Amber. They are a perfect combination.”

Brand snorted. “For whom? I should have no will left at all with such powers running through my mind. I would be like a man riding two galloping horses at once, with a foot upon the back of each.”

She came a half-step closer. “Be my consort, Brand. I’m not a jealous woman. You may keep your wife and your elf-mistress both.”

“Kaavi’s not my…never mind,” Brand protested. “Why would I want a hag as my mistress at any rate?”

The Shining Lady, at his words, glared at him with such hate he felt repelled by her. He had finally struck a sore point.

“You dare?” she breathed.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “You are quite lovely to my eyes at the moment. I’m sure the axe has affected my sight.”

Her hateful stare subsided somewhat. “I find it hard to believe any woman desires one such as you,” she said. “You are heartless, cruel. A killer who leers joyfully as he strikes.”

Brand shrugged. “You’ve been eager enough for my embrace.”

She hissed at him, then walked back into the crack until she was only a glimmer. She vanished and after a time, he awoke.

* * *

Brand sat, thinking hard. The others chewed upon dry rations and drank their final drops from their canteens.

“Glad to see you’ve rested, axeman,” Puck said, coming near.

Brand barely acknowledged his existence.

“We’re running out of water, you know,” Puck said, trying to speak to him again.

Brand glanced up, and saw in the other’s eyes a certain wariness, as if he doubted Brand had yet come to his senses. Brand snatched up his axe and jumped to his feet. Everyone else startled and stared at him quietly.

He waved the axe at them all as he spoke. “I’ve had enough of this nonsense. We’ve been led from the start on a pointless quest down here. I suspect a grand trick—and we are the fools at the butt of it.”

“What evidence do you have?” asked Puck.

Brand turned toward the crack nearby. He strode inside. “Be wary for further traps, if you would. I tend to walk directly into them.”

“In that case, let me go first, and let me take my time,” said Puck.

Brand assented and they all crept into the crack. Soon, once they had ducked under the blades in the walls, they found the tunnel led to nothing but a blank wall.

“You see?” asked Brand. “A trap within a trap. There is nothing here, nothing at all.”

“But my father has been in these chambers. There is a hall of bones somewhere.”

“Well, it’s not here. I’m beginning to think we’ve been shunted aside, led here and left to flounder about. Someone planned this.”

“For what purpose?”

“To take us from the real threats back home. And with luck, we might have died.”

Puck and the others pondered his words.

“Grasty was the start of it,” Telyn said. “He brought us here under false premises.”

“Yes,” said Brand. “He was the start and the Shining Lady was the end.”

“You’ve met her again?”

“As I slept just now.”

“You do not seem perturbed,” Kaavi said. “She seems to have no hold over you.”

“Well, she’s gotten me to wander around down here for days.”

“What shall we do?” asked Telyn.

Brand looked at her and thought of that witch changing herself to resemble his love. It made him angry.  He sucked in a great lungful of air, closed his eyes tightly and roared at the walls, which rang with his berserk cry. “Shining Lady! Come to me! I demand it!”

There was no response. Everyone fell silent. The others exchanged glances. Telyn dug into her tunic, seeking her ward. She pulled it out and wore it openly upon her chest.

“I would have words with whoever is mistress or master of this place!” shouted Brand. “Have you no interest?”

“Brand?” said Telyn behind him.

Brand turned, and he saw where his wife pointed. A glimmering figure had appeared at the back of the crack they had so recently explored and found empty.

“Come out, ghost,” he said. “It is time we talked plainly.”

“You called to me. What is your wish?”

Brand forced himself to gaze upon her openly, even though her aura was even more powerful and causing of lust when she walked in the real world. In his dreams, he had been able to scoff and strive with her. He doubted he could do so while awake. But he knew he must keep up a strong front.

At his side Puck stepped forward and stared. Even the elf was affected, Brand could see it plainly. The charms of this Dead woman could not be underestimated.

“You want me to become your champion. You want me to wield the Black. Before I agree, I must know why.”

“Because it is time,” she said. “King Arawn plants seedlings in every graveyard. The Dead are ripe for harvest. It has been too long.”

Brand nodded, thinking this thing might be avoidable. “If I slay the King and take his Jewel for my own, will the Dead return to their graves?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “Should you command it.”

Brand drew himself up. “Very well, witch. I know what you are and you know me as well. We can thus strike a bargain. I will not become your consort. I will, however, slay King Arawn and take the Black from his dry fingers. I will swear this, if you will in turn swear to help me.”

The Shining Lady hung back in her tunnel. Brand could not recall ever having seen her appear indecisive before.

“What is it you wish me to do?” she asked at last.

“Careful Brand,” Telyn said to him. “Everything this creature says or does is a trick of some kind.”

“I’m aware of her nature,” Brand said. He turned back to the lovely form that shimmered in the darkness. He wondered briefly if he went in there to slay her, if she would vanish. And if she did not, could she be slain? She was not like any of the Dead he’d ever encountered.

“Lady,” he said. “You must provide us transport out of this place to our own lands. You must devise no further plans against us. Lastly, you must stay out of my dreams for the rest of my days.” As Brand spoke this last requirement, Telyn looked at him in surprise.

“Done, done and done!” said the Shining Lady. “The way out is less than a mile southward. There is a Fae mound there, which your own father, elf-child, used recently to exit this place.”

“For this I will bring down the Dead King before his armies can march upon the world,” Brand said.

“Too late for that, fool!” shouted the Shining Lady. Her voice broke into a cackle that was almost hysterical with glee. “You have released him!”

“What do you mean?” Brand demanded. His brow was stormy and he strode into the tunnel. His axe ran with yellow light and the Jewel winked. Nothing angered it more than duplicity.

“He has planted seedlings for decades. His army can only rise and march in its entirety when he has a challenger. Why do you think I’ve stalked the biggest imbecile among those who wield power? Not even Tomkin was fool enough to take up my challenge!”

Brand strode toward her, recalling that he had not promised to leave her alone in the bargain. He commanded the axe to burn her, and it did shoot forth a ray which caused rock and cold flesh to turn to vapor. Still laughing, however, the ghostly creature faded from view and was gone before he could reach her.

When at last he had finished tearing at the walls of the tunnel, he left with the rest and headed southward. If the armies of the Dead had been unleashed, there was no time to lose.

Chapter Sixteen

Morcant’s Army

Mari’s mother had often said she didn’t like fools and she didn’t plan to raise any of them. She’d often said this directly before she drew her belt from her dress or took up a wooden spoon to give the children one of their regular thrashings.

Mari herself had never beaten Trev, although he occasionally gave her good cause. She thought about her mother’s words as she spoke with the boy. She wondered who her mother would have called the fool: six-year-old Trev, or Mari herself for listening to him.

“You’ve been going out at night again, Trev,” she said.

“Not always.”

“Once is too many times. You’ve been forbidden.”

“Dad’s out there somewhere. And there are other things, too.”

Mari licked her lips. It was true, Puck was overdue. But she didn’t think Trev had much of a chance of finding him by lurking in the Riverton streets at night. Her real worry she didn’t want to tell him openly: she feared he would be kidnapped or beaten by strangers who didn’t like his silver hair, big eyes and quiet, quick ways. Too many children had been disappearing lately. It was all in the gossip. Some said it was Wee Folk, but most said it was the half-breeds that had been springing up around town lately. Mongrels, that’s what people called children like Trev. The mongrels had been shameful family secrets at first, but such secrets can’t be kept forever.

The lovely elf brides the river-boys had brought home with them from the Twilight Lands had often birthed lovely children—like Trev. But almost as often, things went badly. When the elf mother and the child survived a bad birth, they were shunned. They were kept in basements and barns. Some were sent packing back home to the Twilight Lands with their freak offspring humping alongside. Others went to live in the Deepwood or even the marshes. Sometimes their men went with them, sometimes not. But no one was in a trusting mood toward a half-breed like Trev, who could never seem to keep his silver hair stuffed up into his cap no matter how hard Mari tried to hide it there.

“Trev, honey,” she said, kneeling in front of her son. “I want you to promise me you won’t go outside at night.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“What if there is a fire?” he asked. “This place burnt down before, you know.”

Mari winced. She knew all too well. The fire had started when her Wee roommate had lit it.

“Okay, unless there is a serious danger, I want you to promise me you’ll stay in this room after dark.”

Trev looked at her and sighed. She felt something relax inside her. Here it was, he was about to promise. She knew he would twist facts, but he had enough of his father in him to stick to a bargain—to honor a promise made.

“I’m sorry mother,” he said.

“Sorry?” she asked, blinking at him.

“I can’t tell you that. I don’t want to break a promise.”

Mari’s lips compressed into a line. Her mother would have backhanded the boy. She knew that, and honestly, she felt the urge upon her. She had to protect him. Puck was gone, and Kaavi had left as well. She had no idea what they were doing, but she had felt wrong about events lately. She had learned since Piskin to trust her instincts in these situations.

“Trev,” she said, “listen to me. It’s getting dangerous out there. I can feel it. Can’t you?”

“Oh yes,” he said.

“Then why won’t you obey me?”

Trev shuffled and fidgeted. “Because, the Dead won’t hurt me, mother. They can’t. Not for about a year. I made a bargain with their King. Everyone in this town is in danger except for me. Can’t you see?”

Mari stared at her son and in that moment she did see. She saw her future. He was not like the other children. His mind didn’t work like theirs. He was just like Puck, his father. He was a wanderer, and as he grew older, things would only worsen. She knew right then with heartsick certainty that he would forever be taking off for days, weeks or even years at a time, only to reappear later with a cheery wave. She was to spend countless days and nights worrying about him and wondering if he was alive or dead—exactly as she did now for his father.

The elves were so odd. They grew up faster than humans, but part of them was still child-like ten centuries later. It was as if they matured faster, but never quite matured all the way. Now, she was faced with a son whose mind worked like a child twice his age. But he was still so young and inexperienced. She didn’t know what to do and desperately wished Puck would come home to her. She began to weep.

“Don’t do that, mother,” Trev said.

“I think I’m going to call your father again,” she said.

“But he’s on an important mission. I’m not lost or anything. Shouldn’t you wait until there is a real problem?”

There it was again, judgment beyond his years. It made her both sick and delighted to hear it.

“Where is it you want to go so badly, Trev?” she asked him. “When you sneak out, where do you go?”

Trev worked his lips. “I—I go up the hill.”

Mari walked to the window. The nearest hill was at the far end of town, the furthest spot in Riverton from the docks. Drake Manor stood there. She could see it through trees when she leaned her head out the window.

“You go up to the Manor?” she asked hopefully. “Do you meet friends of yours up there?”

“No mother. The other hill.”

Mari’s eyes roved the landscape. Her face and mind froze. He had to be talking about the cemetery.

“Why there Trev?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“That’s where the dead-things are,” he said brightly. “But don’t worry. Like I said, they can’t hurt me. Not for another year.”

Mari stared at him, and she made herself a promise. If the boy slipped away again, she would follow.

* * *

Among all the countless Dead of the River Haven, Morcant Drake had been one of the first to rise. Today as evening came, he heard the call he’d been waiting for and became active again. He sat up in the wooded area at the bottom of the hilltop cemetery. This was the very spot he’d taken Tegan for their numerous trysts years ago. He did not remember the spot fondly, the way he had when he was alive, but he did tend to drift here when he wished to stop moving for long periods of time. To say he liked the spot would have added concepts that were beyond one of the Dead that functioned at his level. He simply tended to come here often, as he had in the past.

His kind were known as shepherds. He was the only one of the Dead left here in Riverton as a shepherd, charged with aiding the rest and guiding them toward their goals when the time came. Today, as twilight fell over the land, the call had finally come. Morcant knew what to do: he was to gather the Dead in his vicinity and herd them toward the Living. He had no further function, unless given a direct order by their King—which was unlikely.

Next to the spot where he became aware was a shovel. He’d placed it here when he’d last ceased functioning, but he had no memory of that. For his kind, memories were limited to the here and now. He picked up the shovel with stiff limbs and headed toward the open field of green grass and tombstones that made up the cemetery proper. He stopped at the first grave he came to and began to dig. At the bottom of each grave was a corpse that had heard the same call he had and now scratched to be let out. It was his job to free them all.

The first body he exhumed came out flipping dirt everywhere with long, yellow-gray hair. It was Gram Rabing, although it would have been hard for any of her Clan to recognize her now. Her face was a greenish-brown, having lain in the earth for nearly a year. Her hair was longer than it had been when she had been laid down, having continued to leech upon her flesh and grow. Her skeleton showed through in places.

Gram Rabing grabbed for Morcant’s huge black boots when she came out of the dirt. She snarled and clacked the few ancient teeth she had left. He ignored her, ripping his boot from her grasp and stepping to the next grave where he began digging anew. Soon Gram Rabing understood he was a dead-thing as well, and she wandered aimlessly over the hillside, looking for Life.

Morcant dug up more bodies. Each time they came crawling up out of the earth, he moved on to the next. Morcant didn’t have ambition. He had not achieved the rank of shepherd through special effort, nor did he dislike the appointment. It simply was. His only thought—if it could be called that—was to obey his master as best he could. His only desire was to perform his appointed task as a shepherd of the Dead. When he dug each man, woman, child and beast from their tombs and sent them tottering on their way down the hill, he did not find it ironic that he had spent his last days burying these same individuals. The entire concept of irony was truly lost upon him now.

The day died and became night. The moon rose and stars swam overhead. Dozens of the Dead now shuffled and roamed about the hillside. They bumped into trees and tripped over headstones.

At the appointed hour, when the night was half gone, Morcant walked to the shack where he’d kept a group of living children captive for days. He opened the door, which creaked loudly. He pulled the first child out by the hair. It was a dirty-faced, wide-eyed Timmy Hoot. The boy had been locked up inside the root cellar—which had no roots in it at all.  Instead, it harbored a hundred strange, stinking liquids in glass jars which Daz the caretaker had used to anoint the bodies he prepared. Morcant slammed the door closed behind him and locked it again.

Morcant then shuffled past the terrified child and lifted the bar on the outside door. He stood aside to give the boy room. Timid at first, the Living boy soon took his opportunity and bolted. This was exactly as was planned, and Morcant made no attempt to stop him.

Timmy Hoot ran screaming down the hill, following the lane toward Riverton. No other course of action was expected. His noisy passage alerted the throng of Dead stumbling about on the cemetery hillside. Every one of them froze and fixated upon the boy, as might a hundred hounds when seeing a fox run near. Then, as one, they hobbled forward excitedly, giving chase. The pack moved together in a mass downhill toward Riverton where they would find lights, movement—Life.

After the throng had passed down the lane, Morcant went back to digging up fresh graves. There were hundreds more still to be opened. When he had opened enough, he would release another child. The throng would chase after the child, sending a new wave of death scuttling down the hillside into Riverton.

* * *

Trev had agreed in the end not to go up to the graveyard. He had also agreed not to leave the room at all today. But as midnight passed, Trev knew it was now a different day. One of the first things they’d taught him in his brief stay at school was about clocks and hours. He knew exactly when one day ended and another began. Many people thought a day lasted until the sun came up to light the sky the next morning, but that wasn’t true. Days started and ended at midnight.

When midnight came and passed, Trev climbed out of bed and slipped away. He was as quiet as a cat wearing slippers, at least, that’s what his grandfather often said about him.

Minutes later, Trev stood upon the High Street cobbles in a shadowy spot. He gazed uphill toward the woods at the bottom of the cemetery. He wanted to walk up there and investigate, but he held back. The trouble was, he had promised not to go up to the graveyard alone. Not just today, not ever. That was a problem for him. He tried to make the best of the situation, telling himself that officially he was able to travel anywhere else he felt like—just not the cemetery.

He left the High Street and walked down quieter lanes. His path took him closer to the cemetery, but not actually onto the grounds. At the bottom of the hill a circle of houses ringed the wooded land. There were a few tinkering shops here, all dark and quiet. Most of the houses were small and tired-looking. They were the homes of laborers: bricklayers, carpenters, seamstresses and the like. They were not so poor as the people who lived on stilted shacks along the docks, but neither were they rich enough to live on the good side of town.

Trev moved like a shadow among a thousand other shadows. He felt at home in the dark, but he soon realized he was not alone here in this neighborhood. Something was moving in the alleyway nearby. He heard a trash-barrel creak and rattle. Probably a stray cat looking for a meal, he thought. Just to be sure, he hunkered down in a deep pool of shadow beside a smith’s anvil and watched the alleyway. The sounds continued. If it was a cat, the animal was having a hard time of it. Had it somehow fallen inside a barrel and gotten trapped in there?

He became aware of another, softer sound nearby. After a moment, frowning and listening, he became certain of it: someone was coming down the street behind him. This someone was trying to be quiet, but wasn’t quite managing it. Their shoes slapped the cobbles now and then. Trev shook his head. He never wore shoes when he wanted to be quiet. His bare feet were much softer and almost never made a sound when he walked.

Hunkering down even lower behind the anvil, Trev watched with growing excitement. There was something inexplicably fun about hiding and watching others when they didn’t know they were being observed. He did not even consider the possibility he was being stalked by someone dangerous.

The person coming down the street paused, then moved toward the alley, where the steady sounds were coming from. Those sounds had escalated to a rhythmic banging by now.

Trev frowned. What kind of cat would make such a ruckus for so long? Unable to contain his curiosity, he slid around the anvil and looked to see what was what.

His surprise was complete when he saw the person stalking toward the alleyway was a woman, and one that he recognized.

“Mother?” he said aloud.

The woman whirled, and it was indeed his mother Mari, her wide eyes sought him in the darkness. Sighing, he rose from his hiding spot and walked forward.

“What are you doing out here?” he whispered.

“Keeping an eye on you, boy,” she said.

“It is tomorrow now, you know. I didn’t break my promise.”

“I know.”

The banging in the alleyway stopped with a crash. Mari and Trev both looked toward it. They heard shuffling footsteps.

“Who’s in my yard making a fuss?” another voice called.

A man had come out of his door. He was from the house with the anvil, so Trev figured he must be a smith.

“I’m Trev,” said Trev. “My mother and I heard something strange in the alley.”

Mari nodded. “It’s true,” she said.

The blacksmith fumbled with a small oil lamp and finally got it lit. “Someone needs a thumping, that’s for certain,” he muttered. He walked toward the alleyway.

“You there,” he called out. “People are trying to sleep, do you mind? Go down to the docks if you want to dig—”

The blacksmith made a funny noise then. Trev wasn’t sure why, but it seemed that someone else had grabbed hold of his face. Trev trotted closer to see what was happening.

“Trev!” shouted Mari, “Let’s get out of here.”

She took him by the hand and dragged him away. Trev kept looking back all the while. The fight was interesting. The blacksmith was strong, and he took out a long knife. He stabbed at the man who held him—but that had no effect. Then he slashed away the hands that held onto his face and throat. His attacker staggered away, wrist stumps flailing. The blacksmith fell onto his back in the street. There were still a hand on the smith’s throat, and it was still squeezing.

Mari dragged Trev another block, but after that she let him go and knelt to have a whispered talk with him.

“That was a dead-thing, Mother!” he said. “Back there in the alley.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “It was probably some drunk or a burglar trying to sneak into a house.”

“If you would just let me show you,” he said.

“Show me what?” she hissed.

“Up there, on the hill,” he said, pointing.

Mari followed his pointing finger and she shuddered. “We are not going up there at night. No sir!”

“Can we go up in the morning?” Trev asked.

Mari sighed. “All right, if you’ll come back to the Spotted Hog with me.”

“I will. I promise.”

Mari nodded. “Okay then, we have a deal.”

No sooner had she said these words than Trev bolted. He ran for the wooded area at the bottom of the cemetery hill.

“Where are you going?” cried Mari.

“It’s morning now, remember? It’s after midnight!”

“But you said you would come back to our room!”

“I will, mother! After I show you. Come on!”

Mari ran after the boy. She loudly cursed the day she’d become pregnant, and cursed every elf in the wood. She cursed Puck in particular for providing her with his tricky seed.

Trev knew she could never catch him. He led her on a merry chase, but didn’t run so fast as to make her lose her way.  He really did want her to see what was up there. The grown-ups ought to know about it.

He led her the long way around, so they would come up behind the caretaker’s shack instead of into the open where the graveyard was. When they were at the rear of the shack, he waited, panting with his back against the rough plank walls.

Mari came trotting and puffing up, holding her skirts up by plucking at them. She crouched by Trev. He could barely see her in the moonlight that filtered down through the trees.

“You’ll not get away from me again, boy,” she puffed when she was able. “Now I’ve come up here and I’m ready to leave again. Honor your bargain and come back to bed.”

Trev cocked his head. “Do you hear something?” he whispered.

She listened for a moment. They both heard it then. It sounded like a sob coming from inside the shack.

“The Dead don’t cry,” he said.

“We have to get out of here,” Mari whispered.

“Don’t you want to know who is crying?”

“I want to get you out of here safely. I don’t know why I bother sometimes, Trev, honestly.”

“Neither do I,” he said.

His mother made a sound of quiet frustration in the darkness. She stood up and took his hand. “We’ll look inside. If we find anything awful, we’re going to run for it.”

“All right,” he said.

Together, they entered the shack. It took them a minute or so to open the cellar door on its creaking hinges. Inside, a group of children huddled in the dark, too scared to speak.

“Let’s get you out of here,” Mari said, reaching to take the nearest little girl by the hand.

The child snatched her hand away and pointed past Mari and Trev. They turned to see Morcant’s huge form standing in the doorway. He had a shovel in his hand that dripped with fresh earth.

* * *

The first wave of the Dead that swept into Riverton found people asleep in their beds. The pickings were easy. River Folk were dragged out into the dark streets and set upon by their own aunts, uncles and grandparents. Tattered flesh and brittle bones grasped and tore. Teeth snapped and chewed. Screams were heard from the side of town nearest the wooded hill. Men rushed out of their homes, shrugging on their tunics and holding bared blades and lanterns. They expected to meet goblin raiders or perhaps a creature of the Deepwood let loose. They faced instead the horrors of the shambling Dead.

The Dead, as individuals, were simple of mind and weak of body. They did not regret their losses however, and never fell reeling from pain. They were beaten down after they’d slain a dozen families, but then the second wave came. These did not shuffle down from the cemetery woods, but instead were made up of those the Dead had freshly killed. Only minutes after their eyes glazed over in death, their faces left frozen in expressions of horror and their throats ripped out, the Dead rose to assail the living.

This second wave was worse than the first, as they were stronger and the flesh upon their bodies still operated as it should. Horrified to be facing a gargling throng of their Dead neighbors, the people fell back toward the High Street. There, they met the Riverton Militia, which had been called out and had formed barricades in the streets.

The fighting went on for nearly two hours before the Dead were defeated. Much of the northern end of the town was burnt or ruined. Corpses, hewn and smoldering, lay everywhere. The first wave and its follow-up had been taken down, but at a tremendous cost among the Living. A ragged cheer went up from the survivors when the fighting stopped and no more whole Dead could be found.

One question was on everyone’s lips, however: What was coming next?

Chapter Seventeen

The Storm of the Dead

“It wasn’t your fault, Brand,” said Telyn.

“You are too kind, my good wife,” Brand said. “But your words do not change the grim facts. I was sought out as the worst fool in Cymru. Worse, I proved myself to be just as great a fool as the Dead expected.”

“They tricked us, that’s all.”

“Yes, they did. Such circumstances are always the lot of the River Folk. Our short lives provide us innocence and ignorance both—mixed blessings indeed.”

Telyn stopped asking about it, seeing he was in a foul mood. Brand was glad for her silence. He didn’t want to dwell upon how the Shining Lady had gotten the better of him. By promising to try to take the Black Jewel from her King, he had laid down a challenge and played directly into her hands. Now, if he won the contest he would have to control the Jewel or fall prey to it, most likely becoming her new consort. If he failed…things would be worse yet. The River Folk would be overwhelmed by the Dead.

Puck helped them find the Faerie mound at the bottom of the abyss. It was a strange affair, having no earth or grass growing upon it. The mound was a cairn with grave-moss creeping over the tumbled black stones.

They began circling the mound, and as they did so Puck walked with Brand and talked to him. “As I listened to your meeting with the Shining Lady,” Puck said. “I felt I had stepped into the middle of a conversation that was ongoing.”

“Yes. In a way, you did just that. I’d dreamt of her, moments before. We’d fought in the dream. I wished to finish the conflict, to bring it to a conclusion.”

Puck nodded. “The axe drove you to rashness.”

“It did not!” shouted Brand, turning on the elf.

The other raised one eyebrow at him. A tiny smirk played over the elf’s mouth. Brand struggled to ignore the other’s haughty air. Right then, he hated all elves, and would have been glad to sever all their necks with one mighty….

Brand shook his head. “Sorry,” he said. “When I wield it often, it grips my mind as firmly as I grip its handle.”

“What information was revealed to you in this dream you shared with the Dead?”

“Any student of history knows the Dead rise across the world at random times. Now I believe the root cause to be the random whims of that witch.”

“Interesting,” said Puck. “As another immortal I can vaguely understand her plight. You see, over time we all have a tendency to grow bored with our existences.”

“But she tempts new males often enough and takes many lovers into her deathly embrace.”

“Yes, but even that can grow repetitive…and I speak from experience.”

Brand cast him a dark look, thinking again of what Telyn had said of once being stalked by this soft-spoken scoundrel.

“Occasionally, however,” Puck went on, “as the centuries pass, she must yearn for more than a chance meeting. She seeks to take a new mate.”

“Rather like you with that girl Mari, right?” Brand asked.

Puck appeared annoyed. “I do not take my vows to my wife so lightly.”

“Good,” Brand said, deciding to drop the topic. “In the case of the Shining Lady, she sought the greatest fool in the land. She found me, and tempted me into challenging the old King.”

“Lucky you,” Puck said, chuckling.

“Not so lucky for the rest of the world, if I should fail.”

Puck pointed then, and Brand followed his direction. Together, they walked out upon a large mound. Brand knew it well. He recognized the freshly stacked brick walls that stood nearby. They were back at Castle Rabing.

The sun had set and the skies were purple. Brand found to his surprise the mound was covered in fresh-dug holes and crawled with dead-things. More thronged the swamp nearby. More still scrabbled at his walls, seeking a way past them.

“They walk already,” Brand said, drawing the axe from his back. The evening air hummed with the power of it. “There must be hundreds of them.”

Puck drew his weapon as well, and as Telyn and Kaavi came into this world a pace or two after them they startled and pulled out their knives.

“We must win through, but to where?” asked Puck.

Brand looked toward Castle Rabing. Years of work and most of his fortune was tied up in that place of cold stone. “Follow me,” he said, and he set off toward the small gatehouse he’d come to call the Fae Gate.

The Dead fell before him as wheat falls before the reaper. He cut a broad swath through them, but did not take the time to stop and chop them to bits nor to light them on fire.

The job was only half-done, and the next wave of shambling dead picked up the squirming chunks of their comrades and carried them. Brand saw severed limbs with fingers that still grasped and skulls with champing teeth. If they caught up with them all at once, they could bear him down to the ground by sheer weight.

“Even the strongest man can’t stand in the midst of the River’s flood undaunted,” Brand said. “We must run for the walls!”

The party followed him closely, working their blades with efficiency. Every lip was curled save for Brand’s. He was delighted to reave through a massed enemy with his axe. It had been a long time since he’d faced so many. His voice soon rent the air with a fine, booming battle song. It was so loud it was as if a giant sang, and he himself recognized few of the foreign words that tumbled from his grinning mouth.

The Dead came, and they fell. He advanced and the others, increasingly fearful as they came to understand the sheer numbers that sought to bring them down, hugged as close behind him as they dared. They feared to come too close. As it was, upon his backswing they were often forced to duck or dodge the flashing blades of the axe. Heedless of them, himself or the hungers of the Dead, Brand waded through the enemy at a steady pace. Within minutes, they’d reached the gatehouse.

Unsurprisingly, the grate was done and the oaken double doors were spiked shut. His men had wisely sealed this entrance. It would be a pity to destroy their efforts, but he had no choice.

He struck with the axe and it bit through iron braces, wood and nails. The doors shivered, and took two more blows before they burst apart to show the white wood inside. Brand kicked the rest of the doors down—but found a portcullis behind the doors.

He gave an inarticulate cry of rage. “Raise this grate before I have to tear it down!” he roared.

There was no response. No one manned the top of his wall. Brand turned toward the following horde. They gathered numbers now, those he had chopped down having communicated like a swarm of ants somehow with the others. They all came at once, sensing fresh Life.

“Cover your eyes!” he shouted, and after a momentary pause he beamed into the mass of enemy with his axe. A bright ray of sunlight shone, burning away flesh and bone. The enemy hissed and writhed. The mass of them, like a cresting wave, fell over the reeling front ranks. For a few seconds, they were slowed and staggered.

Brand turned to the portcullis. It was not bolted down, but merely dropped there. Perhaps it had been beyond the simple minds of the Dead to grab it in unison and lift it up. Brand did so now, with a single arm. He roared and heaved. Puck came forward to help, but thought the better of it. Brand’s face rippled with red rage. His jowls ran with strings of saliva and blood. His arm strained and his back was bent unnaturally.

The portcullis rolled upward. The others rushed past him, flinching from the axe which lusted for their flesh and blood. When the last of them had slipped under the iron grate, Brand propped it up with the axe, then slipped through and yanked it free again. The heavy weight crushed down, snapping spines and pinning skeletal limbs.

Brand watched the Dead writhe and hiss with idiot malice. He laughed at them. It was a full sound, a belly-laugh of disdain.

They had won through to the castle.

* * *

Morcant was not surprised when his King came to speak with him. The event was almost unprecedented, but he was not capable of an emotion such as surprise. Whatever happened to him simply was.

King Arawn of the Dead cursed and mumbled as he pressed his way through a throng of the rambling Dead. These were the lowest form of his subjects, and he detested them for their witless behavior. He finally found Morcant, working his spade on his hands and knees. The shovel had broken at the handle, and the sharp hardwood shaft tore at the meat of his dead hands. His hands had worn down to bone now, with only scraps of flesh clinging to the palms and fingers. Morcant kept working to dig the next grave, but his efforts had been slowed by the broken shovel.

“Here, oaf!” the Dead King said, thrusting a fresh shovel into the remains of Morcant’s hands. “Find a fresh tool when your old one breaks!”

Morcant took the shovel without comment. He stood up on creaking knees and went back to digging.

Arawn eyed him with more affection. “Big, strong, and hard-working. Not one of those yappy, half-aware dead-things, either. You’re a dumb beast, but a faithful one.”

Morcant didn’t even look up. He hadn’t been told to.

“Morcant, there is going to be a slight change of plan. The first wave did well, parts of Riverton are already alight. But I want you to hold back the next wave. Don’t release the next herd until dawn. At that point, I want you to send them all at once. I’ll coordinate with the other shepherds. We’ll overrun the Living here, at their stronghold.”

Morcant never looked up. He still hadn’t been told to.

“Yes,” Arawn laughed. “That’s right, keep digging. There’s a good, stout soldier!”

The King watched him, but after a short time he became displeased. “You can’t possibly open all these graves by sun-up. Hmm.”

Morcant was aware, even though he did not turn his head, of a new sensation of power. This power drew his attention, however. With slow fascination he finally stopped digging and looked up.

The King of the Dead stood with his silver rod in the midst of the graveyard. He held the Black Jewel overhead and from it darkness emanated. It was similar to light, in that it affected the vision of all who saw it, but it was an unlight. Rather than emitting radiance, it devoured it.

The Dead that milled about on the graveyard grasses shuffled forward, hearing their King’s call. They stood raptly, and then moved off toward the caretaker’s shack. There, they grabbed up every tool old Daz had collected over his long years. Some were broken, some were rakes or scythes. Once they had an implement in hand, they shuffled to find an undisturbed grave and began to dig. There weren’t enough tools to go around, and those of the Dead who had nothing but empty hands formed claws with their finger bones and tore into the earth on their knees alongside the rest. A score of graves grew dark as soil flew.

King Arawn turned back to Morcant. “There you are!” he said. “You’ll have your army soon enough now, my shepherd.”

The Black Jewel was lowered and stopped influencing the Dead it mastered, like a full moon setting over the sea.

Morcant took up his spade again and began to dig.

* * *

Brand was fuming in the cool night air. He couldn’t believe it. The Kindred workmen had abandoned their tasks days ago and taken their wagon-train homeward toward the Black Mountains.

“Cowards!” he shouted.

The surviving River Folk in the encampment cast fearful glances toward him and wore haunted faces. They’d already been under assault by the Dead. They yearned to do nothing other than leave themselves.

Brand and the rest stood in his headquarters tent, the very spot he’d left just days ago to go on a fool’s errand. Right here, Grasty had pretended not to want to go. Brand had to wonder just how long the foreman had been in the employ of the enemy. He soon had another thought: what if all the Kindred were allies of the Dead? What if they’d bought their skins with promises of treachery? What if they planned foul deeds in the night against the River Folk whose gold they’d taken?

He read Gudrin’s note aloud with gritted teeth:

To Brand, Lord of Castle Rabing and Champion of the Haven:

I write to you as the monarch of the Kindred. We are of a single mind, and all that is written here is thus written from the hearts of all the Kindred. Firstly, we apologize to the River Folk. We will not be there in the coming dark times to stand at your side. I have decreed that all Kindred withdraw, including those who serve you as workers, Brand. We regret this, but we must follow the wisdom of our ancestors and retreat into our mountains. When the Storm of Dead passes, we will return and help you rebuild.

There is a sickness in my lands, which you may or may not encounter in yours. The Dead that rise not from clean corpses, but from things such as the abominations created by Oberon’s Blood Magic during the war, are foul indeed. Hopefully, you will not encounter such terrors.

Know that the Storm will pass, as it always does. Some of the Living will survive to begin again. Our folk are not like yours, we procreate far more slowly. Take heart! Your losses will be great, but in a century or so the River Folk will be as numerous as you are now!

Your friend and ally,

-Gudrin

P.S. Look for the Dead Shepherds. Without them, the Dead will not know their purpose.

The axe quivered in Brand’s hand as he finished reading the letter. He raised it suddenly and brought it down with a resounding crack and flash. To the others, it was as if a lightning bolt had struck inside the tent. The heavy oak table split and the axehead stuck in the massive block of wood. Brand cursed and tugged at it.

Telyn put a hand on his elbow. “Brand, perhaps you’d best leave it there for a moment. None can pull it from the table save for you. It is safe there.”

Brand stopped and looked at her. His mouth hung open and his eyes were wide and blazing. Slowly, he nodded. He pried his fingers from the haft and staggered, free of its influence.

Corbin pressed a chair at the back of his legs and Brand sank gratefully into it.

“I need a drink,” Brand croaked. They brought him both ale and tea, not knowing which he wanted. But by the time they pressed the mugs into his fingers, he had already fallen into a deep slumber.

* * *

Brand awakened with a start. He thought he might have met the Dead again in his dreams…no, he could not remember. Like dewdrops under a blazing sun, the memory of his dreams faded away. He looked first for the axe and saw it, still thrusting up from the center of the table where he’d buried the head. Others lay about the place here and there, sleeping.

He stood up and grabbed the mugs of tea and ale they’d brought him over an hour ago. He drained both, gulping, then went outside to relieve himself. He heard sweet music outside, and went to find the source. He found Puck, gently piping alongside the stream.

“Don’t think you’ll pipe your way into my head, elf,” he said.

“Where is your axe, axeman?”

“Buried in the table. I will have to take it up and draw upon its power to free it. Once I do so, I’m liable to perform…rashly.”

Puck chuckled. He nodded. “Best to make your plans before you grasp that haft again.”

“Exactly. What are you doing out here if not coaxing maidens?”

“I’m soothing another creature.”

“What creature?” Brand asked curiously. He gazed this way and that, but saw nothing other than the stream, the thick reeds and a grove of willow trees.

“Shhh!” whispered Puck. “Take care not to wake him. He is my nephew.”

Brand still saw nothing. “Your nephew? Is Kaavi then….”

“No,” Puck said, “it is not her child. Let me introduce you.”

Puck made a flourish with his hands and long fingers. He pointed toward the willows, where a small glimmering figure now walked toward them. Brand turned his head to gaze at her. She was indeed an elf maid. A small one. He thought perhaps he had seen her before…then he knew.

“Tegan?” he asked. “I’d thought you’d left the Haven.”

“I was expelled, axeman,” she said.

“By whom?”

“Thilfox Drake.”

“Thilfox? He is a just man. What was your crime?”

“I had a child that was not to his liking.”

“What kind of a crime is that—” Brand began, then he halted as understanding dawned. “Oh, you bore a—a monster?”

“So rude,” Tegan said, looking annoyed. “I’d not thought you of all your folk would be—”

“I’m sorry,” Brand said.

Tegan flipped her head and her locks flew. “I’d thank you to keep a civil tongue.”

“His bigotry is normal for his kind,” Puck said.

Brand glanced at him in irritation. “I will do better,” he said.

“My boy is—different,” Tegan said.

“What can I do to help you?” Brand asked, hoping she would not request him to speak on her behalf. He trusted Thilfox Drake’s judgment more than most men. If he had cast out Tegan’s child, he’d done so with good reason.

“I came to help you, not to ask for help,” Tegan said. She then told him of Grasty, and how he had come to her and told her the River Folk were to be attacked.

“Thanks for the warning,” Brand said. “But I think we all know now the nature of the threat.”

“But it is more than that,” she said. “Grasty said Riverton would fall.”

Brand took three steps forward. He stared at her. “Riverton?”

“Yes,” Puck said. “You didn’t think the Dead would walk only here, did you?”

Brand’s eyes swept to the south. It would take days of marching and boating to get there. “We must leave at dawn,” he said. “I must get back to the Haven, to protect Riverton.”

“We can go back directly at dawn,” Puck said, as if he had anticipated Brand’s thoughts. “I can guide you there if we walk the mound again.”

“We’ll have a lot of Dead to remove from the landscape first. We’d best be about it. Do you think your father will lend us a hand, Puck?”

“There is not much time to go ask him,” Puck said doubtfully. “I’ve got family in Riverton too, remember. I will go back for them even if you don’t.”

“I see.”

“I can offer some small help,” Tegan said.

Brand turned back to Tegan. He looked at her, and did not consider her much of a fighter. Telyn must have outweighed her by half. “I am grateful for the warning you gave us, Tegan,” he said. “Especially in light of how you’ve been treated. What became of Grasty, by the way? I would like to have words with him.”

Tegan laughed. “You are too late for that, I’m afraid. My Ivor has already had words with him.”

Brand blinked. “How old is your son?”

“Four years now. My, how time flies!”

“And he bested Grasty?”

“Maybe it’s time you met my son, Brand,” Tegan said. “He might be of use to you in the coming dark days.”

“He’s as dangerous as that?”

“Only when he’s hungry. He’s been well-fed lately, and shouldn’t be a problem. I must caution you, however: Don’t raise your voice to me or move suddenly in my direction!”

Brand hesitated, staring at her, but he finally followed her toward the willows. Puck walked behind them, playing lightly on his pipes.

Beneath the gently swaying willows Brand met his first ogre. He tried not to gag at the stench when he came near it. He was particularly glad he did not have his axe upon his back in that first moment of disgust. He might not have been able to control himself.

“Ivor,” Tegan said, reaching high to rub the monster beneath his chin. “This is Brand. He’s a lord here. He is our friend. He and his men are not food.”

Ivor stared at Brand with black, triangular eyes. Brand thought he detected an expression of vague disappointment in the slack face. Perhaps the young ogre was becoming hungry again.

“Now,” Tegan said gently. “I want you to wave to Brand.”

Ivor lifted both hands and worked his fingers in the air. Brand felt himself soften, the gesture reminded him of a normal toddler.

“Can you speak, Ivor?” Brand asked.

The mouth worked. The lips fluttered and spittle ran down in strings. “E-vor,” the ogre said at last.

Brand nodded and managed a smile. “That’s very good,” he said.

“He’s very young,” Tegan said. “You see, ogres mature physically much more quickly than they do mentally.”

“I see,” Brand said, and he thought about the ogre’s size. He realized that a creature such as this, with some weaponry, could be a formidable ally indeed. “Do you mind if I arm him? Or is he too young to fight?”

Tegan looked worried. She shook her head. “I hate the idea of putting my baby into battle, but it is his calling. Will good service buy good will?”

Brand thought about it. “Anyone who marches with me will be taken into these walls and have a home. As long as you are civil enough to live with, you can both stay here. We have a wooded corner…and a large wetland to the west.”

“Put the freak off in a corner, is that it?” Tegan snapped.

“I’m sorry—” Brand said.

“Never mind,” Tegan interrupted, putting up a hand to stop his apologies. “It is I who have to accept certain realities. He’d probably like it better in an isolated area anyway, and it would be safer for everyone.”

Brand walked back to camp with Puck. They awakened the men of the camp, and told them they were marching back to Riverton at dawn.

Brand found Corbin in the underground armory once cared for by the redcap of the castle. Corbin watched as Brand picked out a heavy maul with a ten-pound head and a massive shield of oak and iron.

“Have you grown an extra arm, cousin?” Corbin asked.

Brand frowned. “What?”

“The axe…plus a maul and shield?”

“Oh no, that’s not it. This is for a new—recruit,” Brand said, grinning at him.

“I don’t like the expression you’re wearing.”

“Just wait until you meet the recruit! Get all the men out of bed, Corbin. We’re marching to Cairn Browyyd now.”

Corbin looked startled. “The Faerie mound? But…that’s where all the Dead are.”

“Exactly. It’s also the fastest way to get to Riverton, with Puck’s guidance.”

“You trust him?”

“Well enough. His wife and child are in Riverton, remember.”

Corbin nodded. “I understand your thinking. I’ll have fifty men ready to march in half an hour.”

“Fifty? I left at least a hundred blue cloaks here.”

“There were losses when the Dead surprised us. And others deserted into the marshes in terror. They’ve been trickling back.”

Brand looked stern. “Deserters? How many did you hang?”

“None sir,” Corbin said. “I found it hard to fault a man chased by snapping skulls. They hit us in the night and it was a grim scene before we managed to get that portcullis down.”

Brand nodded, thinking Corbin had perhaps been too lenient. Men would always run when facing a foe so horrific as the Dead. He hoped privately that these men would stand when the time came. Perhaps their experiences had hardened their wills.

Chapter Eighteen

The Cellar

Puck, Kaavi, Tegan and Corbin walked behind Brand. The axeman himself walked behind another: an ogre named Ivor. The beast had taken up the heavy shield and maul as if they were toys. Truly, they were not big enough for him, but these weapons would have to do. Brand had given the drooling monster a brief lesson in arms, showing him how to block with a shield and strike overhead with the maul. For groups of smaller foes, Brand suggested sweeping blows done with a side-to-side motion to strike many at once. These three moves, blocking, striking and sweeping were all he dared to teach the ogre. It had the mind of a slow child and nothing more could be expected of it.

Behind Brand and his group came Corbin’s militia. There were less than fifty of them, but many were veterans of the war with the elves and had fought on the shoulders of Snowdon. They were grim-faced, but stolid. They marched with their blue cloaks fluttering behind them. Each man carried a round shield, a spear and a short sword on his belt. They wore fine chainmail shirts from the armory beneath Castle Rabing. The moonlight played over the heads of their weapons and reflected from their chain shirts. Brand felt proud to lead them.

They soon reached the walls around the Fae gate. If they had had more time, Brand would have ordered the men to arm themselves with bows and man the walls. They could have peppered the raging Dead outside with flaming arrows and stones, thus breaking their bodies safely. But he did not have time for such niceties.

Outside the walls, the Dead sensed the growing presence of massed Life. They moved with frustrated hunger, clawing futilely at the stone bricks and searching some way past the wall. A dozen shook the portcullis, but they had no guidance and did not seek to lift it up. Brand reflected, looking upon their vast numbers, that he was fortunate they did not have a greater intellect to guide them.

He ordered six men to each side of the portcullis. They would haul upon the ropes, which had been cut free of the counterweights by panicked guards when the Dead had first attacked. The iron cage-like bars of the portcullis were very heavy, but he felt certain two squads of men could lift it.

“Now, when we raise the bars, they will rush in. I want you to count fifty of the Dead, Corbin, then have your men drop the portcullis again. We will overwhelm them and cut them all down.

Corbin nodded. “I would rather bring up oil and fire to spill over the ramparts.”

“Of course, Captain,” Brand said, “but we simply don’t have the time to drag them out here and set them up.”

“Agreed,” said Corbin. He signaled to his men, who grunted and roared as they drew back upon the ropes.

Brand lifted the axe high and caused it to ripple with light. The men around him were cheered. Ivor turned slowly to gaze into the shining Eye of Ambros the Golden. Brand watched, curious to see how he would react. The response was quick and encouraging. Ivor lit up with a child-like grin. He lifted his maul and shield, and gave a strange, croaking cry.

As soon as the portcullis was a foot from the ground the Dead got to their bellies and crawled under.

“Ivor!” Brand cried, pointing toward the scrambling Dead. “Break them!”

Ivor rushed forward excitedly and dropped his hammer and shield. He began stomping on heads. Brand cursed and stepped up behind the monster. He wanted to get his attention, but he wasn’t certain it was a wise thing to do.

“Let him go, Brand!” cried Tegan behind him.

Brand felt the urging of the axe. The ogre has gone mad, it must be put down! Strike from behind, and quickly, it said, speaking into his mind.

Brand struggled, but contained himself. “Corbin, lower the portcullis!”

“But we’ve scarcely let in a dozen—”

“Do as I say, man!”

The portcullis fell again, crushing several of the squirming Dead. It occurred to Brand that simply raising and lowering the portcullis upon the Dead would eventually destroy them all, but it would take all night long. He had no idea what was happening back in Riverton, and he wanted to get through these enemies quickly.

The ogre, in the meantime, got down on his hands and knees and shook the bars, eager for more Dead to come through to fight. He slavered and raged. The Dead, for their part, gnawed and tore at his thick knuckles as they clung to the bars.

Brand sighed. “This isn’t going to work. Ivor loses his training the moment he faces an enemy. I can’t risk your son if he won’t even hold up a shield. It would not be right, Tegan.”

“Let me speak to him,” Tegan said quietly.

Brand stood aside while the tiny elf female walked past. He could not believe in his heart that she had given birth to such a thing. But she soon had Ivor soothed and listening to whispered words. She pointed to the dropped maul and shield, and appeared to be scolding her son lightly.

Shame-faced, the ogre took up his tools of war again. Tegan retreated. Brand, with a shrug, signaled Corbin to raise the portcullis again.

This time, the ogre roared at his enemies, but when they came to meet him, he struck each skull, popping it with the maul.

“There, he’s got it now!” shouted Puck proudly.

Brand glanced at the elf, and saw the beaming look on his face. What must it be like to know you are the uncle of a monster? It did not seem to disturb Puck in the slightest. Brand turned back to the battle and waved to Corbin.

“Raise it all the way and keep counting!”

More Dead rushed in, eagerly reaching with their grasping bones. They fell as fast as they came.

“Sweep Ivor, back and forth, like I showed you!” Brand shouted.

Ivor did as he was asked. The effects were impressive. Instead of breaking the bodies of a single enemy with each blow, he took down three, sometimes four of them. He advanced toward the portcullis.

“Fifty!” shouted Corbin. “Let it down, boys!”

The straining men gratefully shuffled forward, letting the portcullis down.

Ivor, however, had not had enough destruction yet. To the surprise of everyone, he dropped his shield then reached out and shoved the portcullis upward, holding it high. The twelve men lifting it stumbled. Some fell to their knees.

Ivor roared again and stepped through the opening, sweeping his maul and shattering the dozens of hands that reached for him.

Brand stared at Ivor for a moment. He turned to glance over his shoulder toward the broken keep of Castle Rabing. He could not march out of his own gates properly. He wondered if he was watching his dreams of rebuilding the place die before him. Had it all been a fantastic waste?

“Don’t let my boy die out there alone, Lord Rabing!” Tegan screeched. She began to cry.

Brand shook himself. “All right, full attack! Keep that gate open. I’m going through.”

Puck and others appeared at his side. They gave him room to swing his axe, but stayed as close as they dared. Brand charged through into the clutching, boiling Dead. He commanded the axe to flash, burning them as they came for him. He hacked and he chopped.

Behind him, his troops propped up the portcullis and marched through.

* * *

Trev and Mari had spent many long hours huddled in the root cellar with three Haven children. Everyone was dirty and hungry. They tried to dig out and wriggle out, but could not find a hole large enough. They tried to break the lock on the door, but none were strong enough and there were no tools in the cellar. Mari whispered they might be able to burn their way out with the stinking liquid in the jars, but none had matches and they were afraid they would simply be left to burn to death in any case.

When dawn pinked the cracks between the loose-fitting floorboards over their heads, they didn’t know if they should be joyous or fearful. They listened closely, hoping the Dead would lie down or begin to smolder in the unfamiliar light of the sun. None of these things happened, however. They could still hear the scraping of earth and the shuffling of footsteps. Calling out to the things that walked about did no good at all.

Finally, all at once, the shuffling and the digging stopped. Trev and the others held their breath.

“He’ll come now,” Yana Thunderfoot whispered. “The big Dead man will come, and he’ll open the door to let one of us out.”

“Why would he do that?” Mari asked.

“I don’t know. Whoever they take out runs screaming. I don’t know what happens to them. Maybe they let them go.”

“Or maybe they eat them,” Trev said.

Mari shushed them both. Within a minute, however, just as little Yana had predicted, heavy footsteps thumped above. The lock rattled. Yana screamed, and Mari grabbed her mouth.

Trev climbed up the dirt steps on his hands and knees toward the doorway. His mother’s hand lashed out like a claw, hooked him by the back of his trousers and pulled him back down.

“What are you doing?” she hissed in a panic.

“If they take me, they can’t hurt me. King Arawn promised. Besides, I’m the fastest runner here.”

Mari’s eyes were wide. Her breath came in gasps. She shook her head. “I won’t let you go! I’ll go with you!”

“I can’t protect you, mother. You’re too slow. You must stay and care for Yana and the others. I’ll try to get help.”

Mari closed her eyes and nodded. Tears ran down her cheeks. Trev felt a surge of protectiveness. He moved up the steps and when the door opened, he dashed by the big man, who let him pass then closed the door behind him. He hugged a far wall of the shack until the thumping monster opened the outer door and stood aside.

Trev looked at him closely. It was indeed the same big man he’d seen before, down at the lamppost. The one who had killed the watchman, and probably the caretaker too.

“I’ll destroy you, Morcant!” he said to the dead-thing.

Morcant only watched him and waited. Trev finally bolted outside and looked around. The skies were pink with the coming dawn. There were dead-things everywhere, hundreds of them. When they sensed him, they all froze with the attitude of foxes listening to mice that scurry beneath the ground.

Trev had to wonder, looking at them, if they would know he was not to be harmed. Did his bargain with King Arawn extend to these creatures? Suddenly, he realized there was no reason it should. If the King was there perhaps, herding them about, he would call them off like guard dogs. But he wasn’t in sight, and these things didn’t seem to have the intelligence to figure out who he was on their own.

A crooked hand reached for him. It snagged his shirt and pulled. Trev was almost lifted from his feet. Toothless jaws bent close. The thing smelt horribly. It had no eyes, but still seemed to know where he was.

Trev wriggled out of his shirt and ran. Then they all surged toward him. It was as if they had been waiting for this moment—the moment when he bolted like a terrified rabbit from hounds. All of them came on at once, with a horrible excitement in their gait. They ran into one another, jostling and pushing each other aside. They heedlessly tread upon those that fell, the cracking the old, dry ribs of their fellows to get at him.

Trev ran as fast as he could. He ran toward the nearest opening in their closing ring of dead flesh. The dead-things moved to intercept him, and more he hadn’t noticed before appeared under the trees. They all shambled closer. He dodged and ran downhill.

He headed straight for Riverton. Behind him, he could hear the excited mass of them, tripping and bumping into one another as they rushed after him.

Finally, at long last, Trev began to scream. Soon, his throat was raw from his terrified cries.

* * *

Brand had taken hours to march to Riverton and by the time they reached the outskirts it was nearly dawn. Almost all of his men had made it through with him, thanks to the axe and his new ogre friend. Ivor still hadn’t mastered the concept of his shield, he grew too excited in combat and tended to drop it, but he had become very effective with the maul Brand had given him.

Brand had to wonder vaguely if arming the half-breed and teaching him to fight was the smartest decision in the long run. Only time would tell. This monster, he knew, would be a formidable opponent even for the axeman when he reached adulthood. Although not as large as a giant, Ivor was much faster and nearly as strong. For the time being, Brand decided he would not worry about it. Tomorrow could take care of itself, as the elves were fond of saying.

When they arrived at Riverton proper, they were challenged by a sentinel who stood behind an overturned horse cart. Brand introduced himself, but still the man trembled and aimed his crossbow toward the ogre, who snarled as the men shouted words back and forth. Brand worried that Ivor would charge the roadblock and possibly kill the militia guards. He sent Corbin forward to talk to them and got Tegan to calm her feral son.

Once inside the town, they marched to the High Street and walked uphill toward Drake Manor. Brand knew the Militia would use the Manor as their headquarters for any defensive effort. He wanted to talk to Thilfox and learn the way of things here.

Brand was glad as he walked to see the town still stood, and the majority of its residents, although frightened, still drew breath. When his company reached the gates of the Manor, Puck cried out. Brand whirled and reached for his axe, expecting an avalanche of enemies. What he saw instead was one small, silver-haired boy.

Puck grabbed up Trev in his arms and hugged him. The other elf women pressed forward to greet him as well.

At first, Brand thought he was witnessing a happy reunion. Things quickly soured as the boy told his tale. They approached Brand as a group then, Puck, Kaavi and Tegan.

“Brand,” Puck said, “they have my wife imprisoned up at the cemetery. I’m going to go get her.”

“What’s that thing?” Trev asked, pointing at the ogre.

“That’s your cousin, dear,” Tegan said. “His name is Ivor.”

Trev stared at her.

“Go Puck,” Brand said. “I understand.”

“But you can’t,” Trev told them.

“Why not, boy?”

“Because there are hundreds of dead-things coming this way. They were chasing me.”

Brand frowned. He opened his mouth to ask what the boy was talking about, when the first of the third wave of Dead poked through the trees and rushed out onto the lane. Moments later, the High Street overflowed with shambling dead. They saw the Living, and came on with great enthusiasm. Troops were pulled down even as they drew their weapons. In moments a wild melee began, and shouts could be heard distantly down in the rest of the town as the wave hit them.

“It’s the third wave!” shouted a militia officer. “Everyone to the High Street!”

Ivor roared and waded forward, thumping dead-things and militia as well, if they got in the way. Smaller beings collapsed before his advance.

Brand looked around and quickly saw that Puck was gone. He grabbed Trev. “Did your father go to the graveyard?” he asked.

“Yes, I think so.”

“What else is up there, boy?”

“Sometimes the King is up there.”

“The King?”

“Yes. Arawn, the King of the Dead.”

Brand nodded and straightened. He gazed at the chaos around him. He could see they should win, after losing a portion of the men. But if these waves were to keep coming, they could never hold out forever. They lost men every time, while the enemy were essentially endless, and each man they lost turned into an enemy recruit.

He grabbed Corbin by the shoulder. His cousin whirled around, his eyes wide.

“You take over here,” Brand told him.

Corbin nodded. “Where are you going?”

Brand gestured toward the trees. “To cut the head from the snake,” he said.

Corbin nodded again, but without understanding.

Brand walked into the trees and drew his axe. When one of the Dead shuffled close, he cut it down. A small figure appeared at his side. Brand raised his axe, but did not strike. It was Trev.

“I’ll show you the way,” Trev said, and sprinted up the hill.

Brand followed, and he was surprised that even with the strength provided to him by the axe, he could barely keep up with the child. It was like chasing after one of the Wee Folk.

Chapter Nineteen

The Drake Crypt

Brand marched through trees and thickets with ground-eating strides. He was soon at the edge of the tree cover, and could see the graveyard ahead in the early morning light. Hundreds of graves had been dug open. Dirt stood in mounds everywhere, and there was a matching dark hole for each pile. He saw Puck then, moving toward the caretaker’s shack, which stood in a wooded area at the crest of the hill. The rest of the field was quiet.

Trev appeared at his side. “There’s the crypt, over there,” he said, pointing to a stone archway that led into the hillside.

Brand looked at the boy. He was impressed. This kid didn’t seem afraid. He could not be ten years old yet, but he had a very grown-up attitude. He thought perhaps war did that to children. The young of the Haven had become a harder lot in recent years. They hadn’t grown up innocent and care-free as Brand had, with nothing more frightening than a hungry merling to worry about.

He headed for the crypt. He’d never been inside it, not even on a dare as a child. Trev marched beside him. “I’m going to help my father,” Trev told him. “But you should know there are three levels to the crypt. Each one is dirtier and darker as you go down. I’ve met the King on the bottom level.”

“Good luck, Trev,” Brand said. He picked his way through the graves glancing after Trev now and then. He wondered if he should go after the boy and his father, and help them with Mari. He knew if they came to bad end, he would feel guilty because of it. But for him, the stakes were much higher. He had all the living River Folk to think of, not just one family. The sooner he finished matters here, the better.

When he reached the crypt entrance, he noticed it had been forced open. The grate stood swinging on one hinge. He hesitated only a moment before heading down into the cold earth.

When he reached the third level down, he felt a new coldness, one that exceeded the natural cool interior of any cave. A rambling figure in an ancient, tattered robe turned to greet him. Brand met his icy eyes and recognized them.

“Ah, you’ve come at last, axeman,” King Arawn said. “We’ve met before you know.”

“Yes,” Brand said. “On the shoulders of Snowdon. I asked you then not to disturb my Dead—the Dead of the Haven.”

“The Dead were never yours. They were always mine, Lord Rabing.”

“Nevertheless, you have broken your pledge. You are here, disturbing my Dead and my living folk as well. You were once one of us. Why do you not plague the elves, or the Kindred instead?”

King Arawn laughed at that. “Who is to say I don’t?” he asked.

“You have broken your pledge here!”

“Impudence!” said the lich, coming closer. “You dare? My flesh might be dust, but it is still deserving of respect! You are not yet even a King. Your castle lies abandoned and half-built.”

“You are a King of the past, and your Castle Anwyn lies in ruin.”

Brand felt the cold hostility of the other’s gaze. “Do you not know the Black is greater than the Amber?” Arawn said. “Why do you dare challenge me, and thus force me to destroy a kinsman? It was for lust, was it not? For my Queen, my own bride? Tell me about your trespasses, axeman.”

Brand blinked and felt uncomfortable.

“You lecture me about honor,” continued the Dead King, “but you are here to kill me and bed my wife. Such high-mindedness!”

“Why does your Queen do this? Why does she seek challengers to take your Jewel and your crown?”

The lich chuckled. “You are a cagey one. Perhaps you are not completely within her spell. I’m impressed. Most who come after me, once every century or two, do so with crazed eyes. As for my slattern Queen—that is her way. She is a spider who consumes her mates. I have little to do with her now. She was only a trophy to be won and kept, which I have managed to do for centuries now.”

“You were said to be a powerful sorcerer in your day, Arawn. As were all that held the castles of men. You were charged with guarding the Black, not wielding it. What happened?”

Arawn shuffled around Brand, who turned slowly to keep facing the lich.

“We were finely-fleshed in those days!” Arawn said. “I can still taste wine and feel a woman’s flesh with my fingertips—all in my memories now, of course. Each of the Kings in the Dead Kingdoms held a Jewel. We were all wizards, after a fashion. I was given the Black, one of the greatest. I swore upon my sacred honor never to wield the Jewel to raise an army—except to defend myself….”

“Ah,” said Brand, beginning to understand the tale. “So when they came to take it from you…you defended yourself.”

“Yes, even as I do now—from you, upstart.”

“And you send out your unearthly Queen to cause others to challenge you.”

Arawn shrugged. “That is not the way of it. She gets bored with her existence at times. Sometimes it goes further and she wishes to be free of me. She has goaded powerful fools like you into making the attempt in the past.”

Brand considered thoughtfully, “She has been plaguing me for years, really.”

The lich laughed. “She fancies you!”

“My good fortune overwhelms me.”

Brand heard something then. A voice called down from the world of light above. It was a small voice, a child’s voice.

“Brand!” shouted Trev. “My father has been slain!”

“Puck is dead?” Brand asked. He turned around, toward the exit, but it was too late. Morcant stood there, and his shovel was already descending. He struck Brand squarely in the face. Brand sank down, but did not lose consciousness. The axe gripped his mind too strongly for that. He could not see, but he still held onto the haft.

“Kick it away,” Arawn said, coming near.

Brand felt an explosion of pain as a massive boot crunched into his ribs.

“No, no. Kick the axe, fool! Get it away from him.”

Brand felt a tugging. His mind had almost left him, he was barely conscious. But his fingers closed as tightly around the haft of Ambros as he could. He thought there was something else he should do. Then he had it.

He commanded the axe to flare.

The crypt resounded with hissing curses. Still, something tried to pull the axe from his fingers. The smells of acrid smoke filled his nostrils. He thought he heard small footsteps.

“Brand!” cried Trev, “What should I do? I have the rod!”

Brand fought to work his lips. Some of his vision had returned.

“Command them to rest,” he said. “All of them.”

Trev did so, and the two dead-things sank down, as did all the others, all over Cymru. In the Haven and beyond, the Dead fell and stayed low as they should have done from the moment they had died.

* * *

When Brand was able to sit up again, he found the coolness of the crypt refreshing. The chamber was dark, save for the rippling light of his axe which flashed quietly at him, as if in greeting. Brand asked the axe for strength, and it gave it. With a tremendous groan he tried to stand up, but could not. He sat up instead, propping himself against a hard wall of ancient brick. His face was sticky with dried blood and dirt.

Brand heard sobbing somewhere. “Trev?” he asked.

“That half-breed child has defiled my people, axeman,” said a soft voice.

He knew immediately who had spoken. He’d heard her voice in a dozen dreams and evening encounters. It was the Shining Lady.

“What have you done with the boy?” Brand asked.

“What have you done with my husband?” she asked in return.

Brand peered and he saw her then, a ghostly shade in one corner of the crypt. He felt her deathly cold even from here. He realized the sobs he’d heard were from her. She was grieving her fallen husband Arawn. He wondered that one ghost could grieve for the passing of another.

“I did only what you asked me to do,” he said.

“Not yet,” she said, drifting nearer. “You still must take up the Black and master it.”

“I said I would not wield them both. I will not twist their magicks. Only madness awaits me if I try.”

“Then shed the Amber and choose the Black,” she said. “You will find it infinitely more powerful to have an army that cannot disobey you at your back. Imagine! They do not eat, require payment, nor run from battle. You could rebuild your precious Castle Rabing with a workforce that would require nothing and would work tirelessly. You are not limited as Arawn was. He could only use the Jewel fully in defense, as he had sworn.”

Brand thought about it for the briefest of moments. Then he shook his head. “I will not become more of a monster than I already am. I would ask you a question, however. Why is it you never took the Black Jewel for yourself?”

She hesitated. “I do not have the strength to wield it,” she said.

“Oh, but you could,” he said. “I think you are stronger than was that pompous Arawn.”

“Look what it did to its last wielder,” she said.

Brand gazed down at the heap of bones and crusty finery that had once been Arawn, but then he saw Trev curled up and lying in the dust. He fell to his knees beside the boy.

“Trev?” he asked. He touched the other and felt the coldness of his flesh. “I’m so sorry boy. I told you to command it, but I did not tell you to take it. What will I tell Mari? Have I lost her whole family today?”

Trev’s body lay cold and motionless upon the crypt floor. The silver rod still lay in his open hand. Brand reached out with the axe to tap it away from him.

The Shining Lady cackled. Brand wanted to snarl at her, but then the axe and the rod touched, and he felt as if lightning coursed through him. The rod rolled away, making a ringing sound on the brick floor. He almost dropped the axe. He felt to his knees and vomited, such was the agony released from causing two of the sibling Jewels to touch one another.

The shock affected Trev too. The boy convulsed slightly. Brand was glad to see it, for he had thought the child was dead.

The Shining Lady laughed openly now. “You have amused me, axeman. For this, I will let you live to amuse me again.”

“I know why you don’t take the Black,” Brand said. “You fear it. You fear what it might do to you.”

“Yes, I do,” she said.

“Well then, do you have the will to turn it away when it is offered? What if I were to give it to you?”

“You must not, axeman.”

“Always you tempt me and others with their deepest, darkest desires. I would do the same to you now!”

But he realized then that she was not there. She had fled the crypt.

Brand picked up poor Trev and lifted him to his chest. He found the boy was as light as a wisp. He left the Black Jewel where it lay in the gray dust on the lowest floor of the crypt.

Brand carried Trev back up into the daylight. From that day onward, the boy had a haunted look in his eye. He would never speak of what he had seen when he had picked up the Black Jewel and wielded it briefly, before it overwhelmed him.

Chapter Twenty

A Curse Lifted

The next day, Brand called for the crypt to be sealed. A large structure of cut blocks were piled high over the area, forming a pyramid of mortar and stone. If the Black Jewel were left to sleep within, the Dead could not march again. No one argued with his logic. Even though the townsfolk had mourning families of their own to care for, they came with shovels and picks to aid in the construction.

This, he thought as he stood upon the rising pile of stone, could also be called Brand’s Folly someday. But he did not know what else to do. To whom could he safely give the Black Jewel? He dared not wield it himself. He dared not give it to another who might become like Arawn in the end. He did not know what to do with it, and he did not know whose counsel to seek, so he buried it where it lay. He hoped it would lie dormant, and would not fester.

Brand sealed the crypt the morning after they finished the great stack of blocks. He collapsed the stairs, removed the entrance, and set guards upon the hill. No one, Dead or Living, was to be allowed entry.

Riverton was in shambles. A quarter of the population had perished, fighting in the streets against their own rambling Dead. Burying them all became a great hardship, but Brand knew it must be done before they rotted in the sun. They thought of burning the bodies, but such treatment was considered disgraceful to River Folk. Brand dared suggest it anyway, for safety’s sake. The Riverton Council however, ruled that the townsfolk had suffered too greatly in recent months. To disgrace the corpses further would not serve to regain their honorable status as fondly remembered relations.

Puck was buried by Mari and Trev, along with many others of the River Folk. It was a mass funeral, and a very sad affair. They were laid to rest in a new place, out upon the most distant region of the Riverton Common. This place was quietly ringed with a stout fence. The fence was fashioned with iron bars and stone pillars. At the tip of every iron bar was a spear point. No one discussed the matter, but everyone knew the bars, the stones and the spear points around this graveyard were meant to keep the Dead inside.

Two notable persons attended Puck's funeral: Oberon and Gudrin. Brand winced to see them, and did not hasten to greet either. Oberon, as far as Brand was concerned, might well have had something to do with the devastation. Gudrin had inarguably abandoned the River Folk in their hour of need.

Oberon approached him first, with a jaunty smile on his lips. Brand scowled at the elf. He understood by now that elves didn’t grieve as humans did, but the elf lord’s flippant attitude still rankled.

“I’ve come for the festivities!” Oberon said, beaming. “I’ve brought my pipes and my lute in Puck’s honor.”

Brand snorted and looked at him with hooded eyes. “You’ll find no celebration here tonight,” he said. “The River Folk are not happy when our kinsmen die horribly at our feet.”

Oberon cocked his head. He had been about to put a set of newly carven pipes made of hickory branches to his lips. “I did not say I was happy they’ve died. Quite the opposite. My son’s loss is painful to me. But when one is feeling pain, isn’t it best to relieve it with wine? When faced with an abrupt endpoint to life, is it not better to uplift a clear voice in song?”

Brand shook his head. “It is not our way. You are welcome here to mourn your son, but do not dance and cavort in the presence of my people. And do not attempt to spirit away the Black, either.”

Oberon, scandalized at being treated with such disrespect, marched haughtily away. A smile still played over his thin lips, however. Brand looked after the elf, unable to marshal his own thoughts. Who was the fool? Oberon? Or the recalcitrant River Boy who sought to thwart him?

Gudrin approached him later in an entirely different manner. Where Oberon had been light-footed and wreathed in smiles, Gudrin resembled a guilty hound who’d been caught with a chicken in her mouth. Such was her abject expression of sorrow Brand took some measure of pity on her. He spoke first as the grand old lady came near.

“Good of you to come for the ceremony, Queen Gudrin,” he said, trying not to sound too stiff. He wanted to mention something about rodents daring to come out of their holes into the sunlight after a storm, but wisely held his tongue. The axe, as always, affected his mind and made it hard to see people in a diplomatic light. He did his best in these matters by speaking a minimum of polite words. Then people would often pronounce him gruff, but not discourteous.

“Such a sorry state of affairs, Brand,” she said. “The Kindred heart dreams of stone—but is not made of stone, as the saying goes.”

Brand had heard it differently, but he again curbed his desire to make a comment. He thought of mentioning their alliance and pointing out she had abandoned it…but again, he held his tongue.

“I thank you for coming. We are all honored.”

“There’s one thing more,” she said. “I’ve sent back all the workmen. They will work for a month with their wages paid from my coffers. Castle Rabing shall stand tall again.”

Brand, despite the objections of the axe, smiled and nodded. He thanked her, then went to join the throng around the countless black graves. They looked like innumerable wounds to Brand.

The ceremony was quite long, since so many had to be laid to rest. Everyone wept, save for Brand and Oberon. Brand found the axe did not let him weep, for Ambros channeled all emotions into suspicion and rage. Being an elf lord, Oberon rarely wept under circumstances that were comprehensible to humans. He was as likely to shed a tear over a fallen leaf as an army lost.

The Kindred were quite apart from elves in their mourning behavior. Gudrin grieved with more vigor than even the River Folk themselves, despite the fact not a single one of the Battleaxe Folk were being planted in a fresh-dug hole today. Brand thought her tears were like those of a wolf with gore-stained teeth.

He shook himself, trying to dislodge such grim thoughts. He knew the Kindred had suffered from a strange plague in Gronig, and even if she’d marched all her people here, they might not have saved many human lives.

The day waxed then waned, and still the burials and benedictions went on. Several had to be interred in shared graves, often without families to mourn them or even proper identification. Finally came the moment Brand had not been looking forward to, the moment when he was called upon by the rest to speak. As the sole lord of the River Folk and their Champion, it was expected.

He stepped to a high patch of grass that was not blackened by overturned soil and raised his arms to the heavens.

“People of Riverton,” he called loudly.

They fell silent and listened intently.

“I grieve as all of you do. Countless friends have fallen, including Puck, who we’ve come to think of as a great a son of the River Haven as he was of the Twilight Lands. My only words of comfort might sound hollow at this time, but at least we’ve brought down an ancient scourge and entombed the Jewel that empowered the lich.”

“But for how long?” called Oberon from the back of the crowd.

Everyone turned with startled expressions. It was not customary to interrupt graveyard services among the River Folk. Oberon stood with a smirk, as if he mocked them all.

Brand glowered. He wanted nothing more to do with elves. In fact, he would have enjoyed taking an axe to this fop who dared to…he shook his head, gathering his wits. He applied self-control, something he’d done so many times over the years. He could not listen to the axe, even if provoked. Perhaps the old elf didn’t know how insulting he was.

“For as long as I wield this axe,” Brand said, reaching back—but halting his hand in time. It was not time to draw a weapon! How had that idea gotten into his mind? Looking now, he saw the townsfolk nearby had widened their eyes and taken a cautionary step back.

He lowered his hand again and cleared his throat. He had to wrap this up quickly. “I would urge you all to look to the future. Take an orphaned child into your home. Every family should consider having another child of their own, as well. We will recover. We will rebuild. Our people have always done so.”

Brand no sooner stepped from the mound that had been his stage than a fair, light-fingered hand fell upon his wrist. It was Oberon again. At least this time he wasn’t interrupting.

“About these children…” Oberon began.

There was a light in the elf’s eye. To Brand, it was a yellow light, a light of greed and scheming.

“What?” Brand snapped, unable to help himself. “What of our children?”

“I’d like to offer our aid. Many children of my daughters live among you now, and I thought I might return the favor. I will take as many as you have no homes for—”

Brand could tolerate no more. He snatched his hand from the elf’s grip, and showed his teeth. “And what?” he demanded. “Would you spirit them away from their homes for a century or two? Would you raise them to lie with your people and produce a fresh crop of abominations?”

Oberon was surprised at his sharp words. The people around Brand, Gudrin included, looked shocked. Everyone stopped moving and talking. They all knew by now of the axeman’s famous temper. They knew too that they stood in the presence of three of the Jewels of Power, while a fourth lie less than three miles off under a mound of freshly mortared bricks. Should these powers move to open conflict, all of their frail lives might well be forfeit.

Another light hand touched Brand’s elbow.

“My Champion?” asked a soft voice.

Brand knew it was Telyn, but he tried not to look at her, to be weakened by her. Finally, however, his head was forced to rotate and his eyes focused on his wife. He breathed more easily.

“Sorry,” he muttered. He turned and walked down the hill rapidly.

“But what of the children?” Oberon called after him.

Brand stopped and whirled. “Haven’t I made it clear?” he roared. “You can’t have them! We need them all!”

Brand turned back and marched away. Telyn hurried after him. The townsfolk dispersed, melting into the landscape. The funeral was over.

Chapter Twenty-One

To Rise from the Earth

When Myrrdin’s mind operated as it should, he worked for weeks—possibly months—to become one with the roots that grew down into his prison.

In the end, it was worthwhile. He had new purpose. He was reborn. The tiny root that had threaded its way down into his prison had been only a bud a first, but it grew rapidly. Hair-like roots swelled to the thickness of fingers. The central core of the root had reached down like an elephant’s truck and encircled his body. He could no longer move his body, but he no longer needed to. With careful coaxing, he’d gotten the root to grow extensions to his feeding and waste tubes. With only a twist of his hoary head, he could reach sustenance. He could suckle from his position, hanging from the roof of his dank cell wound up in a mass of growths. He survived and grew, supping as did any plant upon the nourishment provided by the dark earth around him.

His nakedness and emaciation had turned out to be a benefit. Probing growths could find their destinations with ease. He let the roots entangle him, and nuzzle him. They wound up his body like a kitten caught in a ball of yarn. In the blackness, as his hold grew over the living thing that was now connected to him via long strands of plant-flesh, he called to the unseen tree above.

The tree, with Vaul pulsing Green in its heart, answered his calls—his prayers. He worshiped it, and gave it grim promises of bounties it hadn’t experienced in countless years. Vaul beat with excitement to hear its master’s thoughts. Times would be different indeed! No longer would the plant-flesh be carven away from the surface of the Green. The master would now revel in the power of the Green, rather than resist it. He would bring life and motion to the forest as well. All the creatures that had forever gnawed thoughtlessly upon wood and leaf would have their turns at being tasted.

Myrrdin dreamed in his prison. Often, he would believe he had awakened elsewhere. At these times he felt truly awake, and believed that his reality in the dark pit was the falsehood, the recurrent nightmare which haunted him. Myrrdin himself had changed after years in the dark, after experiencing the grimmest of treacheries from his own sire. He’d awakened from his raving state, but some would still think him insane if they were to look upon his squirming mind.

To himself, it was as if he could finally see the world clearly for what it was. He had been made to understand what it meant to be one of the Faerie. He had rejected his human side utterly. He was no longer a creature of pacifist love and stale dealings, he had transformed into a creature of blood, growth, chaos of life!

Eventually Myrrdin became strong enough and in tune enough with the living embodiment of Vaul to call up through the roots to the great oak tree in which Vaul had encased itself. Communing with the Green Jewel brought both their spirits no end of hope and joy.

Vaul’s grown form finally became large enough to answer Myrrdin’s deepest prayers, and the tree ripped up its roots. Myrrdin was dragged through a hundred yards of dripping black earth. Much of his skin was abraded away, but he knew his flesh would be replaced by fresh-grown bark in time. When he finally broke free to be blinded by the faint light of the stars overhead, he knew joy in his heart and forgot his hundred small hurts.

What he didn’t forget were his enemies. The elves lived in a thousand mushrooms all around the tree. They were trod upon as they slept and driven face-down into the earth. Their writhing bodies were stamped out like insects. Crushed so thoroughly by the great weight of the massive walking oak, each victim was unrecognizable when the thirteen-legged monster tottered after the next fleeing form.

Inside the bole of the monster, Myrrdin crouched. Blood and sweat ran into his eyes. They stung, but he did not close them. His staring orbs bulged from his face and leered with wild joy. His skinny fingers squeezed in excitement until they bled, leaving stains upon the rough bark of his perch.

He laughed and howled as he ran down his seventieth elf. He had been counting the kills carefully, with new joy blossoming in his heart as he crushed each one down. Alas, he soon could not find any more, the rest having fled into the glooming Great Erm and hidden themselves.

Myrrdin turned Vaul away from the elf town and tottered into the trees that stood as big as mountains all around. He had plans. He had a very long list of people that needed visiting. But first, he would have to consolidate his power. The forest itself would serve as his army, with trees following him in their thousands. He would make them all walk, and he would give them the vengeance they’d waited an eternity to experience.

End of Death Magic

From Author: Thanks Reader! You have finished the Haven Series as it stands. If you enjoyed the books and possibly want to see more, please write a review of your favorite.

-BVL

Books by B. V. Larson

HAVEN SERIES

Amber Magic

Sky Magic

Shadow Magic

Dragon Magic

Blood Magic

Death Magic

HYBOREAN DRAGONS SERIES

To Dream with the Dragons

The Dragon-Child

Of Shadows and Dragons

The Swords of Corium

The Sorcerer’s Bane

The Dragon Wicked

OTHER BOOKS

Swarm

Extinction

Mech

Mech 2

Shifting

Velocity

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