Books by B. V. Larson

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Sky Magic

Shadow Magic

Dragon Magic

Blood Magic

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Deadly Weapon

Blood of Gold

Blood of Silver

Shifting

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DRAGON MAGIC

(Haven Series #4, 2nd ed.)

by

B. V. Larson

Copyright © 2010 by the author.

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

Translated from the Teret, the compendium of Kindred wisdom:

Some worry that we drill too deeply. Nay, say I! Ever has it been that our strongholds do not grow upward, nor outward, but always downward and deepward. The Kindred derive their strength from the rock itself, unlike the many other races that scurry bug-like upon the cooling crust of the world. They think of us as living in cramped holes. Nothing could be further from the truth! Our worlds are infinitely larger than the surface dwellers can conceive. They stand proudly before stone towers five stories high, while the Kindred scoff at such miniature achievements. We do not need to build a city, we simply dig it out! Our walls are thousands of feet thick, our towers are as tall as we wish them to be, and a good team of Kindred miners can dig a new stone keep in a month.

Certainly, it can be argued that the creatures encountered grow in strength and ferocity as we go deeper into the Everdark. But that is only to be expected! If we keep our lanterns bright, our axes and picks sharp, we shall overcome everything that bubbles up at us from below. Let no goblin, nor spine-fin, nor tentacled thing, trouble our thoughts. The Kindred shall defeat them all in time, as we always have.

Have a care with the great wurms, however. Should one be encountered, very rare though they may be, the tunnels had best be blown down. Cleanse the dreaming mind of fantasies! The wurm means only death, not riches and glory! Fill the hole with bedrock, iron pellets and lime, then melt it all with coal-fire to make the plug hard and seal off the entrance forever against the dragon’s fire. Too many of our brethren have been burned to ash by wurms, and ever afterward our folk have sworn to never forget the lesson.

—Ursula of the Talespinners, written circa the Fourth Era of the Earthlight

Chapter One

The Ruby Tunnel

Modi’s expedition was in its third week into the Everdark. Things had gone well at first. Few monsters had been encountered and those that did come at them were small of jaw and short of tooth. The blind, croaking things that had wandered into their camp seeking a meal had been easily dispatched with flashing picks and snapping crossbows.

Along with light resistance, Modi’s company boasted many excellent finds in the deep. Milky chambers of crystalline helicates of every hue, taller than pipe organs, drew gasps of appreciation from the adventurers, but were of little value. Rich tunnels, laden with gold-flecked ore, were of somewhat more direct interest, but too heavy to be easily transported out. The nuggets of purest gold had gone into Kindred pouches as souvenirs, of course. Gemstones were plentiful, but of the less valued sort: garnets, turquoise, onyx, fiery opals and chunks of green jade crunched under their heavy boots. These thin pickings had long since been gone over by a thousand dirty hands before them.

It was only upon the third week, after they had entered and passed the region known as the Magnesium Bowels, did they find jewels that brought real smiles. Emeralds came first, only in small nodules, but often gleaming and unscratched by any pick before. Deeper still they found a network of twisting tunnels clustered with rubies. It was there, as they excitedly picked at the walls and gathered a rich harvest, the first of them fell.

A spine terror, of the sort the Everdark was famous for, took the hindmost of them unawares. Githa, their youngest and least experienced miner, was too focused on her work as she struggled to loosen a ruby as big as her fist from the ceiling. Impaled upon a six foot spine, she bled and called for aid. The rest of them set upon the beast and killed it in the normal fashion, driving a dozen pitons into the stony body and pulling the terror apart with ropes and hooks. Mindful of the thrashing spines, none of the rest of the crew had been seriously injured. But their vengeful shouts were short-lived, because Githa soon lay dead and cold upon the gritty floor of the tunnel.

Over the following days, their progress slowed as they wrapped the body and carried it with them, as was their custom. Never was a Kindred left behind in the endless dark to be gnawed by blind things, not unless no other recourse was possible. Githa would be carried up to the Earthlight and given a proper cremation, or at worst, slid down an available hot volcanic shaft if her body became too great a burden. Such were the ways of the Kindred.

Saddened by the fall of their youngest, the team gathered around Modi. Delicately, they suggested to the touchy warrior that they should head back home. He had glowered at each of them in turn, until they dared not meet his burning eyes.

“We’ll head back up,” he said finally, when he had satisfied himself that they had all felt his disdain. “But only after we’ve come to the end of this fine tunnel. We’ll take back a king’s ransom in rubies, and each of us will give an extra tenth-share to the bereaved family.”

They had eyed one another over this idea, but quickly came around to it. Having a debt to repay made them all the more willing to stay longer and gather as much as their bulging leather sacks could carry. Feeling they were carrying on for a good cause, their spirits lifted and they sang a tune that rang from the tunnel walls, as the Kindred are apt to do in both the best and the worst situations.

Modi, for his part, did not want to return without the mission being a clear success. A death amongst the crew was not a devastating blow, such trips into the Everdark were always assumed hazardous. But his father had all but forbade him to go, and that gave him his true motivation. He wanted nothing more deeply than to prove his aged father wrong. His father was fully seven centuries old, while Modi had barely reached his second. Such an age difference between two Kindred made for a great divergence in their modes of thinking. The young were always impetuous and headstrong. And while the old were by no means weak, they were certainly more cautious.

It was Modi’s intent to demonstrate that a strong will and a mighty arm could conquer anything the Everdark had to throw at him. And so Githa’s death made him all the more driven to find something bigger. Something much more impressive than a sackful of gems. He sought a hoard that would make everyone forget Githa’s death. A hoard that would cause them to draw in their breaths and widen their eyes when they saw it.

They followed the tunnel for two days on a winding, drifting track. As they went, they soon filled every sack with red jewels of the finest quality. This didn’t stop them from mining more, however. As they went, they carefully dug through their sacks, appraising each stone with cold eyes. Anything found smaller, anything found with the slightest flaw, was discarded in favor of each newer, superior find. Most of the emeralds and even the best of the gold nuggets were dropped, replaced with blood-red rubies fit for crowns.

Modi led them down the tunnel, and he was the first to feel the all-too-familiar puff of heat in his face. It served to dry his sweat, but was otherwise an unwelcome sensation. He said nothing to his crew and pressed onward. But soon there were whispers behind him, and these whispers turned into mutterings. He fought against the urge to stop and demand them to speak plainly. Then he would thrash the first of his crew who dared open his mouth. They sensed his darkening mood. For a full day, they stayed relatively quiet.

But then the sounds began behind them. Chittering noises at first, the sounds that falling pebbles might make. Everyone was filled with disquiet. On the third day after Githa’s death, the facts couldn’t be ignored by anyone. They were heading into a hot zone, quite possibly a lava chamber, and they were being followed by... Something. Most likely, from the growing volume, a lot of somethings.

Whenever the tunnels forked, Modi took the cooler route, the direction that flowed less hot air into his face. But still, the heat grew with each passing hour. They began to sweat, and then as the heat grew greater still, the sweat was dried from their brows as quickly as it formed there.

In a relatively cool twist of the tunnels, they found the plug. It was the end of the third day. And no one was happy to see the plug, save for Modi. It was a large black thing, as burnt, beaten and melted as an old iron kettle. They stood around it gazing upon the rough surface, and none spoke.

Such plugs were not unknown. In fact, many were mapped by the Kindred, for they were the ones who created them. Always a plug of this type, formed of iron and melted slag, represented a sealed off region of the caverns. Below this plug in the floor, which was a good dozen feet in diameter, had once been discovered something that had given their ancestors great trouble. The fact that this plug was not on any known map, that they had no knowledge of what was beneath it, was the most disturbing thing about it.

The Kindred are not a cowardly folk. Anything but, most will tell you. But when faced with lava ahead, the unknown below, and the creeping sounds of creatures following behind, even their brave hearts will fail them eventually. And so it was that upon the end of the fourth night after Githa’s fall, the crew approached Modi and made their plea. They wanted to turn back and head up the way they had come. They wished to make all haste, casting aside all unnecessary gear and carrying nothing but weapons, climbing necessities, Githa’s body—and of course, their rubies.

Modi eyed each in turn with disgust curling his lip.

“One more day,” he asked them. “Follow me one more day. I have a feeling about this shaft ahead. I know it looks worrisome, but I ask you for patience. I have led you this far into the Everdark and I ask that you don’t abandon me now.”

They looked to one another, uncertain, but in the end none dared to face his will, nor his very possible wrath. They gave him one more day.

Before their delicate mechanical contrivances told them that one more day had passed, they reached the lava chambers. The tunnel did not pass through cleanly as all had hoped. Instead, it ended here, in a fiery pit of molten rocks and unstable ground. Chimneys rose up from the chambers to fresh tunnels above, but none of them could be certain what lay in that direction.

Modi faced defeat. He ordered that Githa’s body be cast into the fires they found there, which glowed a lurid red upon the walls. None of them argued. The heat had set the body to stinking and none of them wish to drag home her corpse to her family in such a state. When her body slipped into the liquid stone from whence it had originally come, there was a flash of yellow flame. He faced his crew again, and everyone was crestfallen.

“At least it was a proper burial. I did not wish to turn from our path, but the Shaper of the Earth has sought to change my mind. We will return up the passage the way we came.”

After this pronouncement, audible relief swept through his company. But it was to be short-lived.

“You, Gamal,” he said, pointing out a relatively skinny miner who had long been the quickest to complain. “You are light of foot and quick of mind. You have a special mission. You will shed everything but the equipment required to climb. Follow these chimneys up to find tunnels with sweeter air above.”

“Alone?” asked Gamal. Some thought to hear a tiny quaver in his voice, but they would not believe it afterward. None of the Kindred quailed from a dangerous task rightfully given.

Modi’s smile was grim. “I can only spare one. You will carry a message to my father. We don’t know what is following behind. We can’t all go up the chimneys, as we don’t know what lies that way, and we would have to abandon all our riches to do it.”

The others looked troubled, but had to agree with his logic. They liked the idea of aid coming down their way. Modi knew, of course, they would never agree to abandon all their rubies, not unless death faced them clearly. Even then, that was a command they might not have followed. Also, everyone but Gamal liked the idea that Gamal would be the one to undertake this very hazardous duty.

Gamal drew in a breath and arranged his bristling beard. He nodded, and it was agreed. They used ropes and tackle to hoist him up the first chimney, and he called back he had indeed found a tunnel that was passable. A ragged cheer went up from the crew. He waved at them from the top of the shaft and they waved back. Then he was gone.

Distributing the weight of Gamal’s rubies evenly, and relieved of the burden of Githa’s body, their spirits rose. They turned to face whatever it was that had followed them for nearly a week now.

Skittering sounds came from the dark tunnels ahead. Grimly determined, they followed Modi back into the tunnels from which they had come and left the lava chambers behind.

Chapter Two

Unrest in the Haven

The River Haven, generally called the Haven by residents, consisted of the lands stretched along both shores of the Berrywine river. The river itself was the biggest in Cymru, about three hundred yards wide in most places, and ran south to north. The forests to the east of the river were called the Haven woods, and were generally considered more wholesome, while the forests to the west were called the Deepwood, a place full of thorny thickets and wild things. The Haven was bordered in the north by the great marshlands and the town of North End. In that direction, past the great swamps, lay the sea. To the south, Frogmorton was the farthest settlement to be found, surrounded on all sides by forests and mountains. And in the center of the Haven, in the midst of the very river itself, stood Stone Island. The island boasted cliffs of granite guarding three sides, all sides save for the east. Riverton, the largest town and the capital of the Haven sat on the shores of the east side of the island. There on the island, a patch of land less than ten miles long, the River Folk gathered for every festival and felt safest.

Mari had grown up in the Haven, and lived on her family’s farm on the eastern shores of the Berrywine. The Haven woods had long been the border to her world, and she had spent her childhood playing in the shadows of the trees there. But now, she herself was with child.

She had lain with an elf named Puck after All Hallows Eve, and he had left her with a new worry. She knew she was pregnant by the time the second snows came, in mid-November. She should not have known so soon, she thought. She was a farm girl, and she had witnessed the process of mating and birth. It should have taken longer for her to notice the swelling, but there it was, plain to see.

She had met with Puck and lain with him on the final warm days of the year, after the first snows had melted. Barely two months had passed since then. The world had turned a wintery white and it would likely stay that way until spring.

She was swelling very fast. It was not possible, not so quickly, but it was happening. By the time the family prepared for the winter festivals, she had taken to wearing baggy clothing. She had told her mother she was cold and feared falling ill. Fussing, mother had dug into the wardrobes and given her a heavy flowing cloak that she now wore night and day. The cloak worked well to hide a bump, but the bump continued swelling with alarming speed.

Less than three months in, she could feel the child squirm and kick. Every time it did so, Mari’s heart pounded with fear. What had she done? What had she made?

One afternoon when she thought she could get away without notice, she made her way out to the wheat fields. She took with her the ash leaf ward and her great cloak. Crunching through snow that would not soon melt, she stood at the edge of the forest. She cried for Puck. She cried out his true name. But he didn’t come. No one did. When the land fell dark, she returned home with tears on her face.

Somehow, when she got back that night to the house, her mother knew. She looked at her and saw that tears had drawn streaks on her face. Her hair had not been done up in a ribbon for weeks. Her heavy cloak could barely conceal her swollen belly and breasts.

Mother, hands on her hips, stared at her. It was a hard, appraising stare. Mari met those accusing eyes briefly, but then cast hers downward. That was the moment. Mother knew now, and both of them understood this.

The men of the house, of course, were oblivious. Father wanted supper, and nothing else. Mari was the oldest daughter, and her brothers only had eyes for other girls. To them, she was a moody, fattening sister, and almost invisible.

After the plates had been cleared away and the dishes washed, her mother came to speak to her.

“You didn’t eat much, Mari.”

“I’m not very hungry tonight.”

“Strange. A girl in your condition normally has quite an appetite.”

Mari made no reply. Somehow, every moment of denial kept the truth away from her mind and kept her going. What had she been thinking? She had told Puck they would owe each other nothing after they had lain together. That was a fine arrangement for a male. But it had proven disastrous for her.

Still, her mother’s hands were on her hips. She stood closer now, looming over Mari. Mari said nothing. She fidgeted with the ties to her cloak.

Mother bade her to follow and led her outside into the cold, fresh night air. They went to get firewood together. It was there, in the woodshed, that Mari confessed she was indeed carrying a child. She did not say who the father was. Not yet.

Mother’s lips were compressed into two firm lines. The lecture was long and stern and Mari fully expected it would come to blows, but it didn’t.

Mother told her that they would not tell father, not yet. Maybe not ever. They would go visit an old woman in the forest. A woman who sold potions and poultices. She was a Fob woman, and she was wise in these matters. Mother said that they would talk to this old Fob woman in the forest, and they would see what could be done.

Mari blinked back her tears, wondering what she meant. What could be done, after all?

Mother left her there in the woodshed alone, before any more questions could be asked in private. Mari loaded up her arms with firewood and staggered back to the farmhouse.

She wondered where Puck was and what he was doing.

* * *

Piskin had been bitter and vengeful before. He had been robbed of his lady fair, the maid Lanet Drake, after only a few happy hours. He had been abused by Dando, and although Dando was dead, that abuse he still listed in Piskin’s private column of debts unpaid.

The abuses had not stopped there, however. Oh no, fate and every other actor on the stage had a ready foot to kick poor Piskin. After Dando’s friends had chased him from his fairly acquired crib, he had tried to seek reasonable compensation. When another of his kind named Tomkin had stolen the Blue Jewel, Piskin had sought to seize it. After all, it was only right that the property of the dead Dando become his. Dando had greatly wronged him and therefore first claim went to the wronged party. Any court would have stood with him, he felt sure. It was irrelevant that none of the Wee Folk had ever respected the rulings of any court in history. Fair was fair.

But, had Tomkin handed over the Jewel, that which was clearly Piskin’s due? Far from it, instead the vicious bastard had done him a grave injury. His hand was off, and wouldn’t likely regrow for decades, perhaps a century.

If one of his glass-like eyes could have cried, Piskin would have shed a tear for his severed hand. What good was a changeling with a missing hand? How would one carry off a babe with but a single hand? Worse, far, far, worse, was the second question: what mother would accept a semblance of her child when that child was suddenly missing a hand? She would at the very least consult a physician and demand an explanation. Piskin knew that physicians were charlatans, the same as he, but if there was one thing a sham-artist did well, it was spotting others of his own kind.

And so it was that Piskin had no chance of seeking solace in the arms of a fresh maid. That avenue of joy, which he had waited out the centuries of the Pact to experience again, was cut off from him, just as surely as his hand had been removed.

What he dwelt upon now, as he sat upon a tree stump in the gloom of the Deepwood, brooding, was something else entirely. He wanted revenge. He wanted blood and pain and most of all, he wanted his enemies to regret greatly what they had done to him. They would be sorrowful they had ever heard the name of Piskin.

Accordingly, he had investigated the players involved in his mistreatment. He had asked among the growing throng of fools and run-abouts that Tomkin had gathered to him. These dupes believed the black-hearted knave Tomkin to be some kind of lord, some kind of hero. They didn’t tell him much and he knew he was unwelcome, but he learned of Brand and the axe and the disposition of the other Jewels.

Each of the powers involved seemed well accounted for. Brand had the axe, Tomkin had Lavatis, Hob had the horn Osang. The possession of each item of power was known, save for one. That one was the bloodhound. What had happened to that creature? What was that creature?

Piskin intended to find out. He sought out the one person who possibly hated Dando, Tomkin and Brand as much as he did. The one person who had been wronged by these foul tricksters. Oberon.

Oberon, Lord of the Shining Folk and sire of many of them, had not been seen much of late. He no longer danced upon the mounds. At twilight, he did not accost maidens and play his pipes as had ever been his favorite pastime. Piskin imagined that somewhere, in the Twilight Lands, Oberon was sulking. Perhaps he was bitter, even as Piskin was. Perhaps his hate ran as deep, and the wrongs heaped upon him were as poison in his mind.

Piskin smiled at the thought. It would be good to have a fellow vengeful comrade. He set off around the nearest mound, starting at midnight. Nine times widdershins did he circle the mound, and with each circling he became less distinct to those in the mortal world.

After the ninth circuit, he vanished completely.

Chapter Three

Brand’s Horse

By the time of the Winter Festival, Brand was an unhappy man. He spent his days working on his family Isle, shoveling snow from the roof and heating water over a fire to keep the animals from freezing. It was a far cry from slaying rhinogs and undead kings. Soon his body had fully healed from his fight with the giant, Twrog, and he was itching for more adventure.

At one point during the mind-numbingly dull routines of farm life, he scared a large hare. The animal burst out of the snow-frosted brush and sprang down the hillside in a wild run for freedom.

Before he knew what was happening, Brand had pulled out the axe. It flashed more brightly than the sun and the stunned hare almost ran into a tree, such was its pathetic fright. Brand hissed at the overzealous axe, realizing it was only an animal and feeling the fool. Frustrated, he cut a wide swath with the axe, slashing down a sapling birch in a single stroke with the bone-white blade.

“Have a care, man!” shouted Jak, his voice full of surprise, but not anger.

Jak watched the hare run, and he laughed heartily. Brand heard a snort, buried in that long belly-laugh, and that was the part that didn’t sit right with him. He turned one glaring eye to his brother. His mouth was a grim line. He hadn’t been through so much this year to be mocked.

Jak’s hand came up and his laughter faltered, “Hold, brother! Don’t tell me the axe has such a grip on you in one second! Go chase the hare if you must. Sweat it out.”

Brand drew a deep breath and forced himself to smile.

Jak lowered his hand, and smiled back uncertainly.

Brand lowered the axe and put it away. “The hare gave me a start, that’s all.”

“Woe to me if I should surprise you in the tub.”

Brand forced a laugh and shook himself. “Somehow, the farm isn’t the same to me now. It’s still home, mind you, but I feel I’ve outgrown its simple charms.”

“I’ve got news then that may improve your mood.”

“Tell me.”

“Recall that horse you wanted? The one you swore to have when you saw him?”

“The roan? Down at the Riverton stables?”

“The same. He’s for sale. A fine stallion that people say few can ride. No one has completely broken that horse. Some suggest he should be put out to stud, while others walk away with strained backs and mutter about making sandwiches of him.”

Brand smiled, but shook his head. “He’s as bad as all that, is he? I’m not really much of a rider. Why have they not gelded the beast yet?”

Jak shrugged. “We could ask old man Silure. He’s selling the animal.”

“Old Tad?” asked Brand, incredulous. The only thing he’d ever heard of Old Tad Silure selling, besides false wards, was slander. “He’s raising horses now?”

“You and Telyn put him out of the ward business, remember?”

Brand rubbed at his chin. His fingers were stiff and red from the frost. “Okay,” he said at last, “let’s head up this week and see about it. At the very least I’ll get to visit Telyn again.”

They gave over chopping wood and shoveling frost for the day and chased the animals back into the barn for the night. On the way back to the house, Jak suggested they go to town in the morning.

Brand agreed. The more he thought about the trip, the better he felt. Somehow Rabing Isle, which he had grown upon, seemed more like a prison to him now, especially in the dead of winter. Since the Wee Folk had declared ownership of the Blue Jewel and Brand had so clearly and repeatedly demonstrated the control that humanity had over the Amber, few had dared molest the River Folk. The Haven was at peace again. This ought to have been a good thing, but somehow peace ate at Brand. Or rather, it ate at the axe, which craved excitement and danger. He wondered if the axe was simply bored.

The night was uneventful, as far too many nights had been lately. In the morning, with a fresh sun in the gray sky, they headed to Stone Island. The wind was cold, but brisk. The wind carried them down river swiftly, and they made good time in their skiff. Before the sun had set, they reached Riverton’s white-glazed docks.

“Have a care with your footing, brother!” called Jak as he stepped on the slippery dock. Brand nodded resignedly. Iced docks were treacherous, but he was no longer a child in his brother’s shadow. In fact, he towered over his older brother and was easily a head taller and a shoulder wider. His brother had probably given him such admonishments a thousand times. He hoped they both lived long enough that he would hear them a thousand more times—but he had heard Jak’s repetitive worries enough to last out this winter.

Jak watched him quietly as they tied off the skiff and secured the sails. Brand could tell he was thinking.

“When are you going to ask her?”

“Ask who what?” Brand replied. He knew, of course, that his brother was speaking of Telyn. But he honestly wasn’t certain what his brother was suggesting.

“About marriage, of course.”

“Me?” sputtered Brand, “I’m years younger. What of you?”

Jak smiled and coiled rope. “I’ve been thinking in that direction as well.”

Brand stood dumbfounded for a moment. Could his brother honestly be considering Telyn? He shook his head, he wasn’t thinking clearly. Telyn would not have him, even if he was the heir to Rabing Isle.

“Who?”

Jak tipped his head. “Lanet Drake.”

“Ah,” said Brand, understanding somewhat. Her husband hadn’t made it home after the battle of the Dead Kingdoms, as it had come to be known.

“We got to know each other while you were marching about up in the marshes and I was recovering from being elf-shot. I came to Riverton to check on Aunt Suzenna who was staying at Drake manor even then.”

Brand nodded.

“We became close when her husband—when he didn’t make it. She needs a man, and I need a woman. It’s a natural enough thing.”

Brand frowned, feeling a twinge of guilt. He had led the charge that had taken her husband’s life. He wondered what it would be like to sit across from Lanet on holidays, meeting her eye and knowing he had had a hand in her husband’s death.

Jak caught his expression and misinterpreted it. “We need some new faces around the Isle, you know. The clan will die out—in fact the whole Haven will depopulate if people don’t marry and raise a new generation. Or is it that you can’t believe such a beauty would have the likes of a river-boy? Or is it because she already has a son—”

Brand put up his hand. In the past, his brother had always been the hot-head, the one to jump off to unwarranted conclusions that bordered on fantasies. Only recently, with the introduction of the axe into their relationship had Brand become the one easily unhinged. It was almost good, in a way, to see his brother back in a fiery mood. He’d forgotten about the axe for once. Today, the Axeman was just Jak’s little brother again. That felt strangely good.

“Hold man!” he said, “I’m frowning for reasons of my own, and they don’t involve you at all. I will be very pleased to have a sister-in-law of such quality. She lights up every room she enters.”

Jak smiled and nodded. He took a deep breath. “All right then, sorry. So, why the worried look?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Don’t make me guess, I’m not Corbin.”

Brand snorted.

“Very well then,” said Jak, imitating Corbin’s voice and manner as they walked up the docks. “Let me think about it.”

Brand groaned and rolled his eyes.

“Why would Lanet trouble you? You have your own lady... Ah, perhaps that’s it. You managed to dodge my question about marriage, didn’t you? Second thoughts about Telyn?”

Brand shook his head. “Never.”

“You plan marriage? Eventually?”

“Yes, but—”

“I have it,” interrupted Jak. “You think you might run off and die with that axe any minute. You think you don’t own any land to put her on. Sure, you own a castle of rubble in the midst of a haunted swamp, but that is hardly a honeymoon spot, is it?”

“Look,” Brand said, stopping, “marry Lanet. Do it at the first hint of spring.”

“You should do the same. Telyn will say yes. You are the champion of the Haven. Any girl in town would marry you.”

“But I don’t have anything except a bad tempered axe and a job title that might result in death at any moment. What is that to offer a girl?”

“You forget who we are talking about here! Telyn is no shrinking violet. She craves adventure, I daresay, as much as that crazy axe of yours. At least think about it.”

Brand nodded and he did think about it as they headed to the Spotted Hog for some dinner and ale. He had been thinking about Telyn a lot lately.

* * *

In the morning they headed out to Old Tad Silure’s horse farm. It wasn’t much to look at. Tad had picked it up for a song from a widow after her husband had never returned from the marshes last fall. Brand was again grimly reminded of the toll of death he had so recently had a hand in. He was glad he didn’t have to face the widow. Bartering with her would have gone badly, and if he’d wanted the horse, he probably would have paid double its worth out of guilt.

But instead, the snaggle-mouthed Slet was there. Old Tad was nowhere in evidence, but had been there in the morning.

“He’s gone off to Riverton on business,” Slet explained.

Brand and Jak nodded. Brand knew they were both thinking the same thing: Tad must have run out of corn whiskey. Or perhaps, he had consumed too much in the night and was sleeping it off in his shack on the docks.

Brand eyed Slet and wondered if he had managed to join the Riverton army during the battle last year. He did not recall having seen him in the field. He might have shirked the muster and hidden here at home, but Brand said nothing about it. His own brother Jak had not gone, having been injured at the time. Slet was polite enough, in fact, he seemed cheerful.

“I hear talk you are looking for a horse,” Slet said.

Brand nodded and put his hands on the rails of the corral. He eyed the big roan that was still there. There were only five horses in evidence.

Slet came up beside him. It was hard not to bristle. He and Slet had not always gotten along well. In fact, they’d never gotten along at all. The axe sensed his mood and shifted uneasily on his back.

Slet pointed to the roan, “he’s all saddled up. You gonna try it?”

Brand looked at him and didn’t like the confident grin on his face. He didn’t think Brand could ride him.

“Sure,” said Brand, opening the gate and walking into the corral. He’d brought some carrots for this moment. The big roan nickered and threw his head a few times, but let him approach without shying away.

Slet draped himself over the fence next to Jak and grinned. “Tough horse to ride.”

“So I hear.”

He fed the horse a carrot. With the second one in hand, he got hold of the reins. The roan snorted, but went for the second carrot without backing off. So far, so good.

The horse’s coat was an even mix of white and red, with darker red at the head and feet. The tail was long and almost brushed the snow.  Brand smiled with a surge of confidence. He moved to the horse’s side and put one foot in the stirrup.

“Might want to bring him over here to the fence,” suggest Jak.

Brand rolled his eyes at him. When would he stop playing the older brother? Probably never, he thought.

Brand heaved and threw a leg up over the saddle. That was when everything went wrong.

The horse, who had a moment before been calmly eating his second carrot, reared and bolted. Brand had only one foot in a stirrup at that point and was nearly thrown. The horse charged straight ahead, then pulled up sharply, wheeling when he ran into the fence again.

This time, Brand lost his grip and fell off, flopping over the corral railing. He picked himself up. Jak was there with a quick hand on his elbow.

“You okay?” he asked.

Brand shook him off angrily. He could hear Slet laughing. Flushed red with anger, he headed back into the corral.

“Round two?” asked Slet, chuckling still. Brand didn’t answer, he was almost beyond speech.

Sensing his mood, the horse shied and circled the corral at a trot, snorting and tossing his head. Brand followed him around, hands up to grab the reins. He tried not to let his foul mood show, but it was difficult. He had not realized that the axe was going to make this entire experience harder. He considered setting it down outside the corral while he worked with the horse, but he was feeling stubborn about it. The way the horse had been so calm to start with, he felt he had almost had it, but had moved too quickly and upset the stallion.

He tried the carrots again. The roan wasn’t interested, but he sniffed for just a second and Brand managed to grab the reins again before he could shy away.

Brand took deep breaths, trying to calm both himself and the horse. He was partly successful. When he mounted again, the horse shuffled, but he managed to get into the saddle.

Once again, the roan took off, circling the corral and rearing. He considered lopping the fool thing’s head off, but told himself that was just the axe talking, and that the head that really needed removal was Slet’s. The Silure boy was laughing harder than before. Belly-laughing, with one hand over his stomach and leaning on the top rail of the corral for support.

When he was finally thrown from the bucking horse he came down under the plunging hooves. Jak jumped the fence and backed the horse away so Brand could get up, brushing slushy mud from his clothes. He sucked in deep breaths and tried not to think of killing anyone. He reminded himself that the roan was no trained warhorse, or well-broken saddle animal. He was all but wild.

He nodded finally, admitting defeat. “That’s one willful horse you have there.”

“Sure is,” said Slet, “don’t feel bad, very few can ride him. I’ll tell you this, you are the first to make a second try.”

“Lucky you didn’t break your neck,” said Jak, looking Brand over as if he would find some serious injury his brother was hiding.

Brand had himself calmed down again when he saw something. There was a dark stain trickling down the horse’s side.

“What’s this?” he asked, approaching the horse slowly. The roan shied and backed away, snorting and stamping. Brand twisted his neck one way and the other.

“It’s the horse that almost killed our champion,” laughed Slet.

Brand shook his head, there was something. “Is that sweat? It’s coming from under the saddle.”

Jak was at his side. “It’s running down his foreleg. It’s too dark to be sweat.”

“It’s blood,” said Brand.

“What?” demanded Slet. “Did you cut him, Brand? Can’t you keep that crazy axe of yours under control?”

The axe rolled on his back. Brand shook himself, pushing away murderous thoughts. Carefully, he and Jak caught the horse and soothed it. They eased off the buckle and the saddle.

There, underneath, they found a spur fastened to the underside of the saddle. It had dug into the horse’s back when weight was applied to the poor beast. Brand ripped it loose and carried the bloody spur over to Slet, who was no longer laughing.

“What’s this?” he asked, his eyes dangerous.

“I—I don’t know,” said Slet.

It was his slack mouth and stupid surprised eyes that saved him. Some sane part of Brand, still left inside his mind, told him that Slet was truly surprised. He just wasn’t that good of an actor.

But the axe had been frustrated for weeks. Nothing had bled more than sap for a very long time and here, right in front of its master was clearly an evil-doer. A prankster, a charlatan, an enemy.

Almost before he knew it, Ambros was out and in his hand. The axe flashed as it made an overhand stroke, coming down in a certain deathblow. Slet only had a moment, just long enough to realize he was a dead man.

But Brand averted the arc of the blade. Instead of cleaving Slet’s skull in half, and probably cutting him vertically all the way from the top of his head to his groin, the rails of the corral were cut instead. With five snapping sounds, every rail of the corral was shorn apart. The wood exploded and the fence had a new opening in a moment.

Whinnying in fright, the roan trotted out of the corral. Brand let it pass, his only interest was Slet, who seemed frozen in fear. He had never witnessed the axe in action. He had only heard tales from those who had been brave enough to go to battle behind it.

“Slet, who put that saddle on the roan?”

“You wrecked grandpa’s fence.”

“Forget that. Answer me before you die.”

Jak walked up quietly. “Um, Brand. You need to calm down.”

Slet blathered something about Old Tad leaving him here when he heard Brand was coming. The saddle had been fixed when he got here.

Eyes storming, Brand marched toward town. He still had the axe in his hand. Jak caught the horse.

“Where are you going?” asked Jak.

“I’ve got business with Old Tad. Bring the horse.”

Brand walked determinedly, not talking, not listening to his brother, who urged him to put away the axe. He didn’t even look around. It was a clear cold day with only enough wind to ruffle their hair. After a time, Jak just followed, walking the horse behind Brand.

When Brand reached the docks and Old Tad’s shack, he was still angry. The bright fury of a half hour ago had cooled, but he was by no means calm. His fist fell heavily upon the shack’s door, shaking it with each blow.

Each time he struck the door, he struck it harder, and he became more angry.

“What, what, what?” came an annoyed voice. Old Tad threw open the door and looked at Brand in surprise and irritation.

The old man’s eyes, widening too hugely, went from Brand’s raging face, to the glimmering axe in his hand, to the bloody roan out in the road. He slammed the door and threw down the bar.

“Sorry, no business today. No wards, no horses. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

The door went down in a crash. The Amber Jewel flashed, it was tired of cutting wood, but it was better than nothing.

Brand faced Old Tad again, and struggled to speak. “You put that under the saddle. Why?”

Old Tad’s eyes flicked everywhere. He knew he faced a mortal threat. There was corn whiskey on his breath, but he still had his wits about him. He threw up his hands in a gesture of easy dismissal. He attempted a smile.

“People pay for a challenge. A horse that no one can ride... a person could charge for an attempt. Could take wagers....”

Brand nodded slowly, understanding. Old Tad was a worm. He was the sort of worm that ate at a man’s corpse after he fell honorably in battle. He was nothing, and everything. He was not fit to live.

The axe slashed and flashed several times. It was a close thing, but Old Tad survived. The shack did not. The stilts that had held it aloft over the flood of the Berrywine were shorn through and the entire dwelling sagged down into the water. The shack fell apart and turned into just so much flotsam on the river.

Old Tad himself was dunked, but managed to cling to the pilings under the dock, sputtering and raving.

Brand left behind a sack of silver coins on the docks where Tad’s shack no longer stood. He turned to the crowd of Hoots, Silures and Fobs who now stood gazing at him in slack-jawed amazement.

“That silver is for Tad. It’s payment for his home and his horse, which I’m keeping. Let no one put a hand on it.”

Then he turned and left, heading back into town with Jak still leading the horse.

The sack of silver coins sat on the dock, abandoned amidst the worst behaved folk in Riverton. No one dared touch it.

Chapter Four

The Crone

It was a blustery morning. Mari felt ill, as she had been feeling each morning for weeks now. She followed her mother through snow drifts on foot. Mother hadn’t asked to use the carriage, firstly because their destination was deep in the Haven wood where no good roads led. Secondly, so that father wouldn’t ask any questions. Mari fell further behind, she felt, with each slogging step. The snow was only a few inches deep, but it was slushy and muddy. It clung to her shoes and made them heavy.

She wasn’t cold. The heavy long cloak that mother had given her saw to that. Perhaps it had failed to hide the pregnancy for long, but it certainly did provide warmth. Woven of thick, layered wool and furred at the neck and hood with gray rabbit’s skin, she reflected that it was the only bright spot in her life today.

They reached the edge of the Haven wood at midday. Mother refused to walk more slowly. Instead, she would march ahead, then stop and wait with pursed lips for Mari to catch up. She didn’t want to talk, either. Mari was full of questions about this Fob woman in the forest, but none were answered.

The cold tree branches were bare of leaves now. They filtered the thin light of the winter sun, the individual black twigs laced together like thousands of long fingers. Without leaves, the twigs rattled together like bones. Mari reflected that she greatly preferred the warm months in the forest when the leaves rustled and turned the world green.

How had things come down to this? She lamented her decisions. All of them, which had brought her to this sorry point. Instead of calico dresses and braided hair, she was heavy with the child of an inhuman creature. He had been so full of energy and lovely to behold, but she would gladly erase him from her past to have her old life back.

She put her hand up to the leaf at her neck. For a panicky second, she thought she had lost it, but her fingers quickly found the withered crinkling ash leaf. She touched it delicately, not wanting to damage it. She knew that with each passing day, the leaf became more fragile. How long could a leaf be kept around one’s neck without destroying it? She had considered oiling it, but had not dared. She wasn’t sure if that would somehow corrupt its power to keep the faerie at bay.

She thought of Puck as they pushed their way through a stand of fir. The evergreens lashed at her face with sharp needles as her mother carelessly let fly each branch behind her. What if she were to call him now, in the forest? Would he come? What if the ward failed her? Would he make them dance, or would he take pity on she who bore his child? Would he want to lie with her again, or would he find her as disgusting and uninteresting as a milk cow? She did not know. The stories she had heard of these things failed to fill in such details.

“We’re here. Wake up, girl,” said her mother. There was no kindness in her voice. There had been none since the moment she had recognized her daughter’s condition. Mari could only imagine how displeased she might be if she knew the father was not even a boy, but a half-mad twilight creature of the forests.

She followed her mother to a ramshackle hut in a clearing. A tall grove of snow-laden beech stood around the hut like soldiers at attention. A large kettle steamed over a cookfire that pushed back a circle of melted snow. Something noisome and green floated in the kettle. Mari thought it might be a forest tuber of some variety. The smell it produced filled the clearing and immediately made her feel unwell.

Mother rapped her knuckles upon the leather-hinged door of rough-cut pinewood. The door shivered and rocked at even this small assault. No one stirred within.

Mother heaved a sigh and put her hands on her hips. “I suppose we shall have to wait. Perhaps the Fob woman is out gathering more wood for her fire.”

“Should we open the door and check for her?”

“Such rudeness,” her mother said, shaking her head, “I can’t believe you are the same daughter I raised.”

“I am the same,” said Mari in a small voice.

Mother did not reply. They seated themselves upon the logs that surrounded the kettle and the cookfire, pausing first to brush away the snow to make a clear spot to sit.

The wait stretched for minutes, then to perhaps a half hour. Mari battled with herself, refusing to cry. Mother’s thoughts were her own, but frequently, she glanced at her daughter and heaved a sigh.

“Mother. I’ve got something to tell you.”

Mother laughed harshly. “I know all that I wish to.”

Mari shook her head, but fell silent.

There was a sound from the edge of the clearing then. A crunching of snow. They turned to see a hunched figure at the edge of the open space, peeping at them from behind one of the large beech trees.

“Oh, hello,” said mother. “Please do come out. We mean no harm. Are you the owner of this place?”

“I want to hear,” said the stranger’s voice. She stepped out into the clearing and they saw it was indeed an old woman. She seemed exceedingly old to Mari, and exceedingly unpleasant to the eye. Her fingers were twists of flesh. Her face could not be seen clearly beneath her hood, but wisps of wiry white hair stuck out at odd angles. One clear eye, like a raindrop, shone beneath the hood.

“What? What do you want to hear?”

“I want to hear her tale,” said the old woman. She took another step forward, then another. Her crooked finger indicated Mari.

Mari shook her head. She had no intention of telling her story to a stranger. She had only just—in a moment of weakness—considered telling her own mother.

“Pity,” said the old woman, coming up to the kettle and stirring it. “A mug of hot broth? Just the thing for a cold day like this.”

Both Mari and her mother made uncertain sounds.

“Here you are!” said the crone, handing out two dripping mugs. “I insist! Try it, you may be surprised.”

And they were surprised as they sipped at the broth. Despite its smell when cooking, the flavor was quite good when sipped. It reminded Mari of beef stock and rhubarb.

The woman turned her one clear eye to Mari. “So, my dear, has the brew loosened your tongue yet?”

Mari shook her head emphatically. Mother made a sound of annoyance.

The crone turned her head a bit, perhaps to give that single shining eye a better look at the girl. Mari saw the eyes fall upon the ashleaf ward that still hung around her neck. The old woman nodded, then surprised the girl by reaching out her hand.

Mari pulled back and her hands went protectively to her ward. But the crone’s hand didn’t reach there. Instead, she touched her bulging stomach. The lumpy hand rode there for a moment, while the girl’s breathing increased in pace. After a less than a minute, the hand was withdrawn.

The old woman nodded again, as if to herself. She drew herself a mug of broth from the kettle and sat with them.

“I see the problem,” she said.

“It is fairly obvious,” said Mari’s mother, flashing her daughter an angry look.

“How long has it been, my dear?”

“Since All Hallow’s Eve, or right after,” answered Mari.

Both the older women stared at her.

“But that’s barely two months, girl,” said Mother. She paused eyeing her bewildered daughter. She looked as if she had figured it out and made a choking sound. “No, no, no! Fool of a girl! She doesn’t mean how long since you’ve lain with the boy. She’s asking how long since the first time. Or perhaps you don’t even recall the first time?”

Mari did not quite understand her mother’s anger. “There was only a single time.”

The old crone’s single raindrop eye was on her now, and it seemed to shine more brightly as Mari spoke. But the crone said nothing, preferring to sip her broth.

Mother stood up and addressed the old woman. “Well, what can you do? She’s clearly six months or more gone, whatever she says.”

The crone nodded and set aside her mug. “Too big for an easy solution.”

Mari frowned. Solution? She had no idea what they were talking about.

“Well?” demanded Mother, her hands on her hips again. “What do I do, take her to Riverton and demand that the father wed her? Perhaps I should take her door to door, knocking. It will be humiliating all around.”

The crone sniffed and shook her head. “No need. Leave her with me for a time. I can take care of the matter.”

“How long?”

“No more than a week or two, I should think. She can play my maid as payment.”

“No,” said Mother.

They looked at her.

“I’ll not be in your debt. She can play maid, but you must take my silver.”

The crone gave a raspy chuckle. She held out her hand and silver was placed in her palm.

Mari blinked, watching the entire exchange in confusion. She gathered she would be staying in this ratty hut with the horrible old woman, but to what end?

* * *

Gudrin was there in the chamber of the clanmasters when Modi’s messenger arrived. Gamal’s leathers no longer smoldered, but they still stank of the burning he had endured in the lava chambers. His gloves were charred and had burned through in spots. His exposed fingers showed dripping blisters.

The chamber of the clanmasters was a great hall of stone, carven from a massive block of unusually dense basalt. Even the furniture, such as it was, had been carven from this single source. Galleries circled the upper reaches of the chamber, open to any Kindred citizen who took an interest in the ruminations of their government. A great circular stone table sat in the center of the chamber, appearing to have grown out of the floor. Thirteen stone chairs sat around the table, one for each clanmaster. The stone chairs showed carven contours that looked inviting, but while they had been polished to a fine smoothness by centuries of use, they were as hard as the cliffs of Snowdon itself.

Modi’s father Hallr, the warrior clanmaster, sat in one of these stone chairs. Hallr, well into his seventh century, appeared as much a fixture of the chamber as the rest of the adornments. His white mane and frothing beard bristled with individual shoots of stiff hair.

Gamal approached Hallr. He had taken no time to cleanse or care for himself, such was his haste. He knelt and bowed his head before the clanmaster and began his tale. Hallr sat with a heavy fist buried in his white beard, as motionless as the stone walls around. While others gasped at the details of the story and a ripple of whispering traversed the chamber, Hallr simply stared at Gamal and listened.

When Gamal finished the story he lowered his eyes, finally remembering to remove his filthy cap with bloody fingers.

Hallr stirred at last. He sat up straight and slowly swept his eyes over the other clansmasters. Gudrin, as clanmaster of the talespinners, took her seat nearby at the great stone table. She feared for Modi. Their situation did indeed seem dire. She could not say that Modi was exactly a likeable companion, not even for one of the Kindred. But she did care for him and had grown to understand his stern manner. Certainly, when compared to his father, Modi was easy-going and forgiving.

The others present turned their attention to Hallr. He had yet to utter a word. When he did speak, all present knew that he would not repeat himself. It was not his way to do so.

“The Kindred have no King,” he said, in the ceremonial speech clanmasters used when making an official announcement. “So my words are not commands. I speak only for the clan of the warriors. None of my clan will go to the aid of Modi and his ill-fated expedition.”

There was a stunned silence. Even Gudrin had expected him to make an appeal, to ask the council to form a rescue company. She could tell that many of the younger Kindred, those up in the galleries, were ready to volunteer for the duty on the instant. They would have lain down their hammers and picks in a moment were the call but given.

“The Kindred have no King, so my words are not commands,” she said, speaking up in the shocked silence. Dozens of eyes swiveled to look at her. Every eye in the chamber rested upon her, save for that of Hallr himself, who remained with his fist in his beard, unmoved.

“I believe Modi’s company is in true danger,” she said, addressing Hallr. “I ask why no warriors will go to rescue your son’s expedition?”

Hallr sucked in a heavy breath. He was a huge specimen of the Kindred, broader of shoulder even than Modi himself. His great age had done nothing to diminish his presence. “Modi took it upon himself to go on this expedition deep into the Everdark. His choice went against my advice and my wishes. He has carven his own bed, and now he will lie in it, come what may. Read your own Teret, Gudrin. ‘A son who defies his father will learn great wisdom, one way or the other.’”

Gudrin touched her Teret at the mention of it. She knew the passage well. But she frowned and dared speak again. “There are others in that expedition besides Modi. Githa of the Miners has already given her life for this quest, ill-fated or not. Do they not deserve rescue?”

Hallr appeared annoyed. He was not accustomed to being questioned once, much less twice in a row. He shifted, resting his heavy head on this other fist. “They have sworn to follow Modi. They are his responsibility now. Their lives rest upon his head, not mine. I’ll not risk more lives for his greed and foolishness. It is up to him to prove me wrong. And I will welcome the day he returns triumphant.”

With that, and never a glance at Gudrin, he rose up and departed the chamber. When he had gone, everyone buzzed. Several other clanmasters made lengthy pronouncements, but Gudrin knew they would amount to nothing. None had the standing or the guts to confront Hallr. Nothing would be done.

She gathered her Teret and headed back to her chambers. There, she took up a lavender quill and dipped it into a cup of black ink. She penned a message in the spidery script for which her hand was well known. She wrote in the language of the River Folk, one of the dozen or so languages in which she was literate. When she had finished, she rolled the message up tightly, sealing it with the print of her ring in hot crimson wax.

Now, she thought, to find an appropriate messenger. She winced at the first name that came to her mind. But there was no choice. Speed was of the essence in this matter, she knew.

Chapter Five

The Messenger

Brand felt deflated and a bit embarrassed after the axe had been returned to his pack and they left Old Tad’s ruined shack behind. They walked up from the docks and through Riverton proper. As they went, people quieted and whispered at their approach. Had news of his outburst traveled so quickly?

They soon exited Riverton and left the awkward stares behind. They walked through a wooded patch on the way to the smithy. Brand planned to let his new horse feast on oats they sold there while he visited the apothecary who might help with some balm for the animal’s injured hide. If there were no more spurs stashed under the saddle, he might manage to ride the beast yet.

Jak whistled long and low when they were past prying eyes and whispering townsfolk. “That was quite a show, Brand,” he said, almost laughing but not quite managing it. “I thought the Silures were going to have to elect a new clanmaster tonight.”

“Yeah, things went further than I had intended.”

“Well, I think he got the message at least. So did everyone else.”

“What message is that?”

“Not to make fools of the Rabing boys, of course.”

Brand halted and looked at his brother. “Was that all it was about? Did I destroy a man’s home for making a fool of me?”

Jak shrugged. “He might have killed you if you’d landed badly.”

Brand waved away his words. “I don’t like that. I don’t like the idea that I can’t take a prank. Sure, it was a dirty trick, but men do such things. Old Tad had some reason to feel annoyed with us. I overreacted.”

“Well…” Jak said, but could not seem to find words to argue against the point.

Brand fished out the lock of silver hair he kept in his tunic still. It was from the head of Oberon’s daughter, who he had wrongly slain in another place. “I might have killed him, you know. Or Slet.”

“No, Brand, you wouldn’t have.”

“It’s happened before,” Brand told him. He showed him the silver lock of hair, and the way it shone in the sunlight, none could look upon it and not know that it came from a different place. No son or daughter of the River Folk had ever had such hair.

Jak looked at it with big eyes. “I didn’t know.”

“Her face haunts me still,” said Brand.

“Is that why you worry about Telyn?” asked Jak, catching up to him. “Is that why you have yet to speak to her?”

Suddenly, before Brand could answer, the snow-laden brush beside the roadway rustled. The thicket that lined the south side of the road moved as if a deer bounded through the center of it. Brand felt his axe stir on his back, but he ignored it. His hand twitched, but he resisted the urge to reach back for his weapon. They halted and watched the thicket. Everything fell quiet. The big roan threw his head and nickered.

Telyn stepped out into the road and smiled at them. “You were about to say something about me, Brand?” she prompted sweetly.

“What?” asked Brand, smiling for the first time in hours upon seeing her pretty face. “Oh, yes. Jak did ask me something about you, didn’t he?”

“Indeed he did. Something about speaking with me?”

“But we are speaking now, my sweet,” said Brand, smiling and stepping close to her.

Jak rolled his eyes as they all but kissed in front of him. He snorted. “How long have you been following us, girl? Did you witness Slet’s near death or Old Tad’s? Perhaps, you sat out both of them? What kind of a ‘second’ are you, girl?”

“I only just found you two, but I’ve heard the tales,” she said. Telyn chewed her lip and nodded, “it’s true, Brand. You do seem to get into trouble when I’m not around to calm you.”

Brand grinned. “You simply must follow me more closely then.”

Telyn laughed and they all began walking again toward the smithy.

“You are not going to tell me what you were talking about, are you?”

“No,” he said.

* * *

Tomkin took Gudrin’s message into his possession without enthusiasm. Was he nothing more to her than a servant? Was that all the importance the bearer of the Blue Jewel meant to her? Tomkin the messenger-boy, swift of foot, worthy of no better task than that of running hither and yon with love-letters and garden-party invitations. It was insulting.

She told him the message was urgent, of course. She reminded him of his sworn friendship to the Kindred and the River Folk. This only deepened his scowl. There was never a Wee One born that wanted to hear a lecture about his past promises.

She had moved on, as he had known she would, to threats. She wouldn’t be teaching him how to control Lavatis, if he failed to cooperate in this matter. He had hissed in frustration at this point, crossing his thin arms and thrusting out his pointed chin in disappointment. She had a lever upon him, and as sure as the sun rose each morning she was going to use it.

And so Tomkin took the letter and examined it, finding it sturdily sealed with shiny red wax as bright as fresh blood.

“The Haven is a full day’s run to the east. Have the Kindred no servants for such duties?”

“None as swift as your kind,” she answered. “It would take nearly a week for one of my folk to make the journey. Time is critical in this mission.”

“What would it be saying, then?” he questioned.

“None of your affair. Just get the letter to Brand’s hands, and I’m sure you will learn of its contents then.”

Tomkin rustled the parchment and weighed it in his hand. He eyed one end of the rolled paper and then the other. He could not make out a single word.

“Is this seal absolutely necessary?”

“The note is addressed to Brand, Champion of the River Folk. Make sure that it gets there unopened, please,” she said pointedly.

He took up an offended stance and frowned at Gudrin. “What are you suggesting? Naturally, it will reach the hand of the recipient unmolested. Have a care with your insults. Do you believe all Wee Folk to be nothing other than rogues and snoops?”

Gudrin gave him a look that indicated that was exactly her opinion, but her words were softer. “The letter is from the Kindred to the River Folk. It is none of your direct concern. Oh, and one last point.”

“Yes?”

“The seal is enchanted. It is a minor magic, but if the letter is opened by any other than the addressee, it will disintegrate.”

Tomkin growled in frustration.

* * *

The day had gone perfectly, to Brand’s way of thinking. He applied a balm to the horse and bandaged the cut in its hide. Telyn spent the most time with the animal. She soothed it and spoke quietly into the stallion’s ear. Brand smiled and watched her, wondering what she told the beast. Soon, the roan was wandering around them munching contentedly on the feedbag of oats Brand had provided.

Jak had left them alone with the horse, going back to Riverton supposedly to check on Uncle Tylag and Aunt Suzenna, who were still staying at the Drake mansion. Brand knew, of course, Jak wanted an excuse to visit Lanet Drake, but he didn’t mention it. He was more than glad to be left alone with Telyn.

“You’ve tamed him,” Brand said, eyeing the horse and shaking his head. No longer was the beast stamping and snorting. There was no fury or fear in his eyes, which didn’t roll in his head, but instead were calm and half-shut. “I’m impressed, I had been wondering if it could be done at all.”

“Your bag of oats has done as much in that direction as my soft words. But it is true, I’ve had an easier time with wild stallions than I have had with you,” she commented.

Brand snorted and grabbed her. She struggled, but giggled. He kissed her until she finally broke away. Brand didn’t chase her but instead sat down to eat from the basket of goods they purchased. Sometimes, with pretty girls, the best strategy was to not appear too eager.

They sat together on stumps and consumed Ginger beer, snapdragon eggs, preserved fluff-greens and a large jar of melon-jam with a loaf of fresh, thick-crusted bread. He felt glad Corbin wasn’t around to eat most of it.

“Now is the time,” she said when they had finished their lunch.

“To go home?”

“No,” she said, scowling. “Now is the time to tell me what you and Jak were talking about.”

“If you wanted to know that, why didn’t you just stay in the bushes and keep listening?”

She smiled and nibbled at some more of their lunch. “That would have been rude.”

He laughed. “That’s never stopped you!”

“Oh yes, it has.”

“I see,” he said, running out of banter. He was unsure how to proceed. How did he tell her he was thinking about asking her to marry him, but wasn’t sure that he should. How could this be welcome news? How could this information do anything but wreck their time together? He sighed and took another bite snapdragon egg.

“Not talking? Then it must be something important.”

Brand shook his head and chewed.

“It must be about me and something important. And don’t try to tell me you are thinking of my birthday, that’s six months away. Not about some winter festival gift either, because that’s just past.”

Brand could see she wasn’t going to give up on this one. Every distraction he tried only served to make her more interested. “Don’t try to reason it out,” he said.

She made a snorting sound. “That exactly what I’m trying to do! And telling me that is only going to make it worse!”

Brand gathered up their picnic and caught hold of the roan’s bridle. “You want to try to ride him? That cut was small and it’s all bandaged now. You don’t weigh much, and he likes you. I bet he’ll let you do it.”

“Another distraction?” she asked, but she looked interested. She approached the horse and talked to it soothingly. She fed it a treat and removed the feedbag.

The River Folk are not master horsemen. Almost any of them could ride, of course, but they spent so much of their time on boats or in forests that horses were mostly used to pull carts. Telyn, however, had always had a delicate touch that worked with beasts, horses in particular.

She checked the bandage and decided to remove the saddle entirely, against Brand’s better judgment. He could tell his admonishments were going to be completely ignored. She wasn’t getting information out of him, so he could forget about her listening to any of his cautions and worries. He tried to remind himself that the horse had been unfairly goaded when he tried to mount, but he still worried. They didn’t even have a corral to keep the beast from running off with her.

Telling himself that she was far from fragile, he put out his hand to boost her up onto the roan. She ignored his hand and vaulted up onto the surprised horse’s back unaided.

The roan threw his head and stamped, but did not bolt. She took care not to lay her leg across the bandage. There was plenty of hide on the animal’s wide back, she had no trouble avoiding the injured spot.

Brand let the horse have his head and it backed away, throwing its head from side to side. But it didn’t buck. Brand dared to relax fractionally. He put his hands on his hips and nodded with approval.

“See?” said Telyn, clearly proud of herself. She leaned forward to speak softly in the nearest flicking ear.

Then there was a sound, a loud clang from inside the dark regions of the smithy nearby. Perhaps the smith had dropped a hammer upon a sheet of metal.

The horse startled and bolted. Brand grasped for the reins, but the horse dodged him and he missed. Thundering down the road, the roan galloped with Telyn riding bareback, clinging to the flowing mane.

Brand ran after them, cursing. For a dark moment he wished he had removed the beast’s head in his previous moment of white hot fury. Perhaps he thought, if the horse hurt Telyn badly, he would do it yet.

The horse vanished with Telyn up the snowy, muddy road where it turned into the forest. He trotted after, huffing, but when he got to the bend they were gone. He considered for a moment drawing the axe for strength and speed, but he knew that would never be enough to catch a galloping horse. Maybe this entire idea was a foolish one. Perhaps he was meant to be a footman after all, he certainly had no eye or mind for judging horseflesh.

After a few long minutes while he stood in the road, calling out Telyn’s name, he thought to hear a crashing in the trees. He saw something coming his way, kicking up snow and black clumps of earth and snapping low-hanging branches.

It was Telyn and the stallion, pushing their way back to the road from the west. He must have taken her for a long detour.

She laughed when she saw his face. “Brand, you look so worried!”

“There’s blood on your face.”

“Only a few scratches. He took me for a merry ride in the woods, that’s for certain. But look at him now, he’s calm.”

Brand looked at the horse critically. It was lathered and stank of sweat. Its sides heaved with heavy puffs that blew twin fountains of steam out into the cold winter air. The roan looked back at him calmly and chewed at the bit in its teeth.

“I don’t think he likes the bit,” she said, stroking the animal’s neck. “You should ride without one.”

Brand shook his head. “He’s half-crazed as it is.”

“It hurts him, Brand,” she said, almost pleading.

Brand shrugged. “I suppose we can try it. How did you manage to stay on?”

“It wasn’t easy.”

They walked the horse back to retrieve the saddle and headed toward Riverton. It would be dark soon. Brand reflected that he had avoided telling Telyn what he and Jak were talking about. He knew that she still thought about it, but at least she had stopped questioning him.

Brand watched her pretty face and shapely legs as she sat up there, still riding the horse. He let her ride without comment. The only way to get the horse accustomed to riders was to keep riding it.

What could he tell her about his thoughts? Not much, he figured. He didn’t know much about women, but he knew that you didn’t bring up the topic of marriage with one of them unless you meant business.

* * *

They spent the night at Drake manor. Lanet had cooked a fine supper for them, with everyone helping, of course. She seemed nervous and anxious to impress Brand and Telyn. Brand knew that many women might scorn a young widow for entertaining a man so soon after her husband’s death. After all it had only been months, not years, since she had lost her man. But he also knew that after the battles against the rhinogs, many men had been killed. Competition was sharp amongst the ladies for the thinned ranks of prospective husbands. As well, many of the River Folk thought there was no time to lose in the matter of birthing new children. These were perilous times, and there never had been a large population of humans in the Haven. Compared to the Kindred or even the merlings, the humans were easily outnumbered by the rest.

So it was without prejudice of any sort that he had been impressed greatly by her cooking, her home and even her toddling son. He looked upon the child and smiled, wondering if he was soon to become the boy’s proud Uncle, and was glad he was there to see his first unsteady steps.

Lanet had gotten along very well with Telyn as well, further evidence that the group was compatible. A new startling thought hit Brand as he sat down to breakfast with Tylag’s family plus Jak, Lanet and Telyn. Was he looking at a new family, forming out the scraps of old ones? Were these the people that would be coming to Rabing Isle for holidays and summer feasts? It was a happy thought, and he hoped it would come true.

And so it was that when the manling hopped up to stand on the window sill nearest him, causing Lanet’s cat to hiss and back away, he didn’t feel excited to see him. Instead, he felt a twinge of regret. The arrival of Tomkin could only mean something was up, something adventurous and quite possibly dangerous. Life had certainly changed for him. He was not the simple river-boy he’d always planned to be.

Lanet was up in an instant. She grabbed up her boy and sheltered him in her encircling arms. Jak was up too, scrambling for his crossbow which was unloaded, but leaning against a wall close at hand.

“Tomkin,” Brand said, nodding to the tiny figure in the window. “A pleasure to see you.”

“And you, boy,” said Tomkin. He eyed the panicked Lanet. “I can see one of you has met a changeling at some point. Have no fear, woman! I’m no changeling. I’d be much more likely to bite than to steal something from your flesh.”

Brand waved to Jak and his brother escorted Lanet and her child from the dining room. She scowled at Tomkin, and Brand could hardly blame her. He doubted she would ever trust one of the Wee Folk for the rest of her life after Piskin had stolen her child with plans to drown it.

When everyone had left except for Brand and Telyn, Tomkin hopped onto the table between them and crouched there. He eyed them. He had something large that poked up out of his bag. It looked like a rolled up piece of parchment.

“I’ve chosen to bring you news. Bad news, I believe.”

“What news?”

Tomkin produced Gudrin’s message with a flourish. Brand took it and inspected it. He noted that the rolled up edges of the parchment were crinkled and worn, as if perhaps tiny fingers had been exercised upon them. He also noted the seal, which while not quite cracked, shows signs of an attempted, delicate lifting.

He smiled at the manling. “So, what does it say?”

“Just open it, river-boy!” said Tomkin, crossing his arms.

“Couldn’t get past the seal?”

Tomkin made a frustrated sound like an angry cat. Telyn laughed.

Brand broke the seal and drew out the note. He had learned his letters in school, but was hard put to make out Gudrin’s spidery script at first. Telyn helped him translate, leaning over his shoulder.

Then he felt a new weight upon his other shoulder. Tomkin stood there, crouched, moving his lips and squinting as he tried to make it out. The axe didn’t like the tiny man so close, and moved uneasily in his pack. Brand took the pack off and placed it at his knee. Tomkin, who had hopped off and commenced muttering as he removed the straps, immediately hopped back onto Brand’s shoulder again when the axe was gone.

Brand tolerated the manling’s tread with amusement. The Wee Folk were a strange lot.

They read the note together:

To Brand, Champion of the Haven, wielder of Ambrose the Golden:

The Kindred have no King, so this message is not the business of royalty. But I am Gudrin, clanmaster of the Talespinners. I send you a formal invitation from my folk to yours. Modi is lost in the Everdark, and has requested aid. Our clansmen have refused to render the aid so requested. I write this hoping that you might be fit to render such aid at your earliest convenience.

Your friend and ally,

-Gudrin

P.S. Tell Tomkin the seal was only normal wax. I knew he would run faster if he was curious about the contents.

When he read aloud this last, Tomkin was incensed. He hopped down on the table in front of them and lamented the tricksy ways of the Kindred. He carried on about Gudrin and her distrustful nature, insisting that his people were always the butt of every joke among the bigger folk.

Brand and Telyn ignored him. Instead, they frowned at the note.

“I’ll have to go,” said Brand. “I don’t see how I have any choice. I’ll leave today.”

Telyn looked at him. She put her hands on her hips. “Don’t even try to leave without me.”

“I plan to do exactly that,” he said, rolling the parchment back up.

Chapter Six

The Mushroom Circle

Brand went to tell Jak, Tylag and Thilfox Drake about the situation. They promised to bring it up for the next clan council.

Telyn had vanished by the time they all met. Brand had a feeling she was up to something.

Thilfox was the most disturbed. He rubbed at his neck and asked Brand repeatedly how necessary his personal involvement was. “Would it be possible to send another? We could send a contingent of the Riverton Constabulary, perhaps.”

Brand eyed him, knowing what he was thinking. “No,” he said. “Gudrin asked for me specifically, and I trust her judgment. All the Kindred trust her judgment.”

“Hardly,” said Thilfox, “they’ve denied Modi’s request for aid. If his own people think it is too dangerous to help him, then I think they might know the truth.”

“He’s got a point, lad,” said Tylag, “the Kindred don’t just give up on their own. I would not be surprised if you were being sent on a recovery mission... A recovery of remains, I mean.”

Brand tried not to glower at them. Ever it was with his own people that they tried to dissuade him from the bold course. They were cowardly. It was disgusting.

Telling himself these thoughts were probably coming from the axe, he sucked in a big breath. He tried to listen to their talk and think carefully over what they were saying. But the axe was excited. It was so bored with the Haven, he could tell. Not much had happened since he had slain Twrog the giant. The axe craved adventure.

They were still talking, so he fought to listen.

“...you are the only one we have, Brand,” said Tylag, finishing a point.
“We don’t want to risk it.”

He wanted to say ‘the only what?’ but held back, so they would not know he only half-heard them.

“Look, Brand,” said Thilfox earnestly. “You are you own man. But you take our monthly silver for your expenses. We are all now dependent upon you and your gifts for our security. If you leave and something should befall you, we would be at the mercy of others once again. We are in a state of peace, certainly. And we are rearming. The constabulary has seen a doubling of budget. Every man has a blade and there isn’t a spot of rust to be found on any of them.”

“Not to mention the redcap’s armory has greatly improved the quality of our gear,” threw in Tylag.

“Yes, exactly,” said Thilfox. “But without your leadership, we would still be lost. How could we face an invasion of the Faerie or Hob’s rhinogs if we didn’t have you?”

“You mean if you didn’t have the axe.”

“Yes, and your rare ability to wield it. We’ve watched others try to wield the Jewels and fail. You are as valuable to us as the axe itself.”

Brand struggled to understand their point of view. He took the pack with the axe in it and set it aside. This helped to clear his thoughts. He didn’t want to make a hasty judgment.

“What do you suggest? You want me to ignore this request from our allies? Are you honestly suggesting we send a few militia as a token of our aid? Who do we send? We have no veterans of adventure. Who could go that would not simply offend the Kindred and embarrass the Haven?”

They looked at him and one another. Tylag cleared his throat. Thilfox blinked, thinking hard.

“I will go,” he said at last. He looked at Tylag. “Both of us will do it. Tylag and Thilfox, clanmasters both. We will take a few men-at-arms, all of us clothed in the finest armor we have from the redcap’s armory. That will put on a suitable show.”

Brand nodded, somewhat impressed with the idea. It had merit. But he knew it would not work. He could not imagine these old men trudging down into the unknown by themselves with a few dressed-up river-boys at their sides. They would not impress the Kindred, and most of all they would not impress Gudrin.

“You are brave to offer this,” said Brand seriously. “I have this axe to terrify my enemies with. It gives me strength and bravery. But I know that true bravery is facing the unknown with nothing.”

The two old men looked proud.

“But I don’t think it will work. Gudrin has asked for me. When we last met, I agreed to come to her aid, even before this crisis arose. She confided to me that all was not well in the Earthlight. Now, she has called upon me. We can’t refuse her and still expect the Kindred to come to our aid when we next call upon them.”

The two clanmasters deflated. They knew the truth of his words. Thilfox put a hand atop Brand’s fist, which rested on the table.

“All right. Will you at least wait for the council’s blessing? They meet tomorrow night.”

“I will not delay and arrive to find Modi died the day before I got there. I will leave today,” Brand said.

With that, he left the room.

* * *

Corbin, Telyn and Tomkin caught up with him at the Drake stables, as he loaded provisions upon the back of his new skittish horse. He kept the reins wrapped up in his fist and tried to avoid touching the roan’s bandage.

“And where do you think you’re off to?” asked Corbin, smiling.

Brand smiled back. The situation seemed like a familiar one. Months ago, he had attempted to set off on just such a dangerous journey alone.

“I’m only surprised Jak isn’t here to see me off as well.”

“We’re not here to see you off,” said Telyn. “We’re here to accompany you. Or at least one of us. Do you even know the way to Snowdon?”

Brand looked at them. “I’ll take the small one,” he said, pointing at Tomkin. “He must know the way at least.”

“A wise choice boy,” said Tomkin.

Telyn pinched her lips into an annoyed line. “What would Gudrin say if you arrived bearing the axe without a second?”

Brand paused, knowing they were right on that point. He eyed each of them. “I’ll take Corbin too, then.”

Telyn stamped her foot. The horse, sensing tension, shied and sidestepped. Brand tugged at the reins, trying to be gentle.

“And who will take care of that horse then?” she demanded. “You can’t even sit upon him yet. If you dare try to leave me, I’ll come after you and hunt you down. You know I will. Every shadow in the Deepwood will resemble me.”

“Brand,” said Corbin, speaking up for the first time. “I can’t go with you in any case. Not this time.”

“Don’t tell me you are engaged to someone as well.”

“No,” said Corbin, smiling, “but I’ve taken a commission in the constabulary. We are, in fact, organizing into a permanent force. An army, if you will. I’ll be an officer and training with the rest of the newly volunteered troops.”

“Like your father before you,” said Brand, nodding with approval. “I understand. Tylag doesn’t want you to go.”

“If it makes you feel any better, he would rather I go, his own son, than to lose you under some distant mountain.”

Brand shook his head. “No, I don’t think that does make me feel any better. But I understand. These are hard times. We all have our duties.”

“And yours are to do as you please?” asked Telyn, still annoyed. She stood with her arms crossed. Brand noticed for the first time she had her best hunting bow strapped upon her back and the knife she had gotten at the ruined Castle Rabing at her hip. She was serious about this. They all were. He wondered, just for a moment, how they had all grown up so fast. He supposed difficult times changed people quickly, and that it had always been so.

“All right,” he said at last, hugging everyone save Tomkin and the skittish horse. “I’ll take Telyn as my second and this little rascal as my guide.”

Tomkin hopped up onto the horse’s back. It was all Brand could do to hold the reins while Telyn worked to settle the horse down.

“Quite an animal you have here,” commented Tomkin. As agile as any of the Wee Folk and probably more than most, he stayed easily on the roan’s rolling back. “I’d wager we’ll eat him for rations before we reach home again. That will be a fine use for such a waste of horseflesh.”

And so they packed up the horse with provisions. Tomkin stood very high indeed atop the tallest package.

Jak and Lanet came to say goodbye, as did Tylag and Aunt Suzenna. Everyone acted as if they were burying them, but Brand was in great spirits. His axe rode high on his back, overjoyed to be doing something, going somewhere. Anything would be better than staying on this boring island another damnably quiet night.

After the lengthy goodbyes and well-wishes, they made their way to the ferry that ran from Stone Island to the western shore. The horse was too large for Jak’s skiff to handle easily, so the ferry was the best course. As they crossed the river with freezing spray wetting their faces, Brand remembered the last time he had done so. He looked around at the high cliffs, but saw no cowled riders. They were all dead and gone, and the Wild Hunt had never been back since.

They set their feet on the western shores of the Berrywine, half-dragging the roan off the ferry behind them. There were farms here, backed up against the Deepwood. The less fortunate clansmen lived in this region, mostly Hoots and Fobs, occasionally a family of the Sackens clan as well. As Brand recalled, the Fob pig farm where he had encountered Twrog was less than five miles to the south.

They paid the ferrymen, some of whom were relatives as the ferry trade was something Rabing clansmen commonly did. They entered the quiet town of Hamlet, and found it was anything but quiet.

There were dozens of men hammering and shouting. They were building a stockade around the town, facing outward toward the Deepwood. The wooden walls, partly formed, were really just logs stood up and roped together. Brand looked at them appraisingly and doubted they would stop a creature like Twrog. But combined with a score of bowmen and a few watchtowers and ramparts, they just might manage it. He nodded in approval. While he had been sitting on Rabing Isle stewing in boredom, here were people hard at work! He could see why Corbin had seen fit to join the constabulary, or the militia, as it was now known. Blue cloaks fluttered everywhere. There was excitement and bustling purpose filled the air.

He accosted a young woman who wore a new blue cloak and carried a bow, sure signs of a fresh recruit. He recalled her face vaguely from his school days. “Hello there, can you tell me how it goes here in Hamlet?”

The woman paused, squinting at them. She did a double-take when she saw the figure of the manling perched high atop their horse.

“Brand? I mean, Lord Rabing?” she asked. “I’m Freya, you remember me?”

Brand smiled, so did Telyn. Brand was glad the girl had given up her name, for he could not recall it.

“Yes, Freya, of course,” said Brand. “Tell me what’s going on here.”

Freya gestured toward the half-built wall of logs. “Strange things still come from the Deepwood. Not the Fae things,” here, she took a wide-eyed glance at Tomkin, who ignored her. “Mostly beasts and other stray creatures.”

“We are traveling into the Deepwood. What has troubled you most of late?”

“Wolves. Big ones with silver fur. They come at night and take sheep and even stray children. But there are other, much worse things deeper in the forest. What we fear most are things like that giant you slew, Brand. That’s why we are building this wall.”

Brand wished her well, he would have been off but Telyn questioned her further about these silver wolves. Brand had heard enough. He felt confident his axe could dispatch any wolf yet born. Soon, they were on their way again.

“Things certainly have changed,” said Telyn, in a voice that indicated she did not approve of the changes. “I remember coming here to buy hides with my father for tanning. Things were much more peaceful just last year.”

Brand had to agree. He tried to hide his pleasure. The axe made him want to grin in the face of danger. He thought then that if he ever had to stay somewhere boring for a long period he should perhaps put the axe up over the mantle, or perhaps in a secret compartment. The idea bothered him, however. It could not easily warn him of approaching dangers if he stowed it somewhere. It might even be stolen. The mere thought of that was enough to chill his thoughts. He knew that he couldn’t let it out of his sight or beyond the reach of his hand. Not willingly. The axe had too great a hold upon his mind for that. If he tried to stash it somewhere, it would drive him just as mad worrying about it.

After a hearty last meal at the best Inn in town, they marched out along the road that led toward the Deepwood, due west. The land soon became hilly and they passed a shepherd’s hut and a tiny vineyard on a hillside. People waved and called to him in recognition everywhere as he went. He was glad that news of his outburst yesterday seemed not to have reached Hamlet. People here were still glad to see him and there was no fear in their eyes when he met them.

That changed when he reached the last outpost, a simple rickety wooden watchtower that was really just a covered platform on stilts made of four pine logs. Up on top of the watchtower, the single guardsmen waved them to stop before following the road into the Deepwood.

The companions stopped, but Brand was annoyed.

“What’s the problem? Is this not a free road, or has some council seen fit to levy a tax on people exiting the Haven?”

“No sir,” the guardsman called down nervously. “I would only like you to wait to see what they want.”

They followed the pointing arm of the blue-cloaked guard. Behind them came a small patrol of four horsemen. They came at a gallop.

They waited, and Brand felt a mix of emotions. If they brought word that he was needed here at home, that would indeed form a conflict within him. But part of his mind hoped they would bring bad news. That part of him shifted excitedly on his back and stuck its handle out into the cold wintery air.

As they drew up kicking mud, he realized one of the blue cloaks was Freya. The horses snorted, stamped and blew out plumes of white steam.

“Well, what do you want?” demanded Tomkin from his high perch. Brand for the first time wondered why they had brought the manling along. All he had done thus far was weigh down their horse.

The commander of the patrol looked shocked and eyed Tomkin distrustfully. When he spoke, he made no mention of Tomkin, however. People must have learned by this time that Brand kept strange company.

“Ah, milord,” said the leader, who wore the insignia of a captain. “Sorry for the intrusion. I’m the local commander of the Hamlet garrison. Might I ask if your presence here indicates some kind of... problem?”

Brand shook his head. “No, I’m not here to slay some new giant, if that’s what you are worried about, captain. We are just passing through into the Deepwood. We are on our way into the west on a diplomatic mission.”

“The west? That must mean the Kindred, then. Few travelers dare the journey to the Black Mountains these days.”

“We’ll be fine,” said Brand with confident smile.

The captain chuckled. “I’m sure of that. But let me ask you something. If you happen to find evidence of a lost child, would you please check on it for us?”

“What child?” asked Telyn.

“A boy, less than ten years old. He’s been missing for three days. We have hope, but in our hearts we fear the worst.”

“Have you searched the forests for him?” asked Telyn.

The captain looked regretful. “We have, but few dare to go more than a mile into the Deepwood these days. For the most part, men have walked along the borders of the forest and shouted. In days past we would have mounted a company of searchers, but now even the bravest trappers run out of the trees when they see their own shadows.”

“I understand,” said Brand, nodding. “We’ll keep an eye out.”

“What’s the boy’s name?”

“Ari. He’s of the Sacken clan.”

They bade them farewell. Freya was the last to leave, giving them a final wave.

As they turned back to face the Deepwood, Brand’s face turned to a scowl. They had not yet managed to enter the shadowy gloom beneath the trees and already they’d heard tales of evil. Looking at the forest, he could feel the presence of the place. It was not like the Haven wood. Somehow, these trees were darker of aspect, taller, less clean. The wood itself did not seem rotted or diseased, far from it; the trees were bigger and thicker. But there was less birdsong and fewer fresh scents. What sounds there were seemed to be furtive ones, from creatures that rustled about, hidden in the lush undergrowth. The scents too, were of unwholesome dankness, as if the swollen trunks of the trees and the thickets that grew in profusion beneath their spreading branches were only the surface. As if things more noisome, moist and laden with fungus grew below, upon the black earth of the unseen forest floor.

And so they proceeded into the trees with a final wave from guardsman on his rickety perch. He held aloft both his bow and his curved horn in salute, wishing them well. Once in the trees themselves, however, they felt far from welcome. Only Tomkin seemed unperturbed.

“Finally, we passed up that lot. I thought they would talk on forever.”

“They only wanted us to find the child, Tomkin,” admonished Telyn. She had her bow out and at the ready as they walked. She had not yet notched an arrow, but there was one resting in her other hand. Her eyes swept the forest, and Brand thought she seemed determined.

Brand himself felt disquieted, but it was a mix of emotions. Partly, due to the influence of the axe upon his mind, he was overjoyed to be exiting the Haven, where interesting things rarely happened. But partly he worried about the lost child and the nature of this forest itself, which seemed if anything to be less pure than when he had tracked down the dying giant a few months ago. The Faerie could be involved here. Certainly, they had given up on directly attacking the Haven, but they were in evidence all along the borders and it would be just like their kind to lure away a young one into the dark forests.

They had entered the forest before noon, and by late afternoon they had completely buried themselves in it. Brand could not recall ever having been so far into the Deepwood before. It seemed to him that every step took them further from all sources of light and happiness. He was glad it would only be a two day walk to the lands of the Kindred. In fact, he was tempted to suggest they keep walking all night long and get out of this cursed forest the following day. But he knew that would be a foolish idea. Arriving in the Black Mountains exhausted and staggering on their feet would be worse than spending a single night in the forest. He’d never been there, but according to all accounts the mountains were, if anything, more hazardous than the Deepwood.

And so they traveled at a fast walk, only pausing occasionally while Telyn called for the lost boy, Ari. At these pauses Tomkin rolled his eyes and complained of wasted time. Finally, Telyn became annoyed with him.

“That’s enough complaining, Tomkin. If you want to move faster, then help with the task at hand rather than weighing upon our horse’s back.”

Tomkin made a dismissive gesture.

“I’ll make you a bargain, then,” she said, “you make yourself useful, scouting the woods around us for any sign of the boy, and I’ll stop taking breaks to call and listen for him.”

Tomkin threw up his hands in a gesture of exasperation. “The boy is dead and gone, missy!”

But Telyn was stubborn, and in the end, perhaps as much out of boredom as anything else, Tomkin did as she bid. In truth, Brand thought he looked happier out there bounding around them in widening circles, looking for any sign of the boy. At least he had something to do.

Even the road they followed began to blur. By nightfall, perhaps halfway through, it had transformed from a road to a trail. Each mile they tread into the forest the trail became harder to follow. Grasses and mushrooms grew up in profusion on their path. The horse’s heavy hooves crushed down these last, but Brand suspected that in a week or two all evidence of their passing would be erased. He wondered, with the thick, enchanted growth of the Deepwood working against them, how long would it be before the trail was erased permanently? If all trade were halted between the Haven and the Kindred, mostly from fear, he thought that within a season the road might not be possible to follow. It would have been swallowed up by the trees and most of all that strange undergrowth. He considered suggesting that the Haven send a patrol of militia, preferably on horseback and carrying sabers, through the wood once a week or so to drive back the forest. He wondered if they would do it, or if they would beg off, citing their lack of manpower for such duties.

Deciding to take care of matters himself, he took out the axe and slashed at the thickest growth and chopped away overhanging branches. The lush greenery curled away from the axe and bled sap. Soon he was grinning and had broken into chanting, repetitive song. Telyn walked the horse behind him, not arguing. He did not care what she thought. He did not give one whit for her concerns. He was having fun.

By the time night had fallen, they had made good progress. They would be out of the Deepwood before night fell again, Tomkin assured them. Only Telyn seemed unhappy. They had seen no sign of the boy, nor of anyone else for that matter. Brand reluctantly put away the axe, breathing hard, and felt a great tiredness fall over him the moment he did so. They set up camp in the middle of the trail itself, fearful that by morning they may not be able to identify it otherwise.

They ate a rough meal of beans, chicken, blister-root and broth. They dared not add any of the massive mushrooms that grew everywhere underfoot. None of them knew one from the other and none wanted to spend the night retching. Brand was left wishing Corbin had come along. Somehow, that man could always make a fine meal. He suspected he would find a way to eat well in a desert. Tomkin ran in with something live and wriggling he’d caught from the forest and tossed it into their stewpot before they could object. Wrinkling their noses, they waited until the splashing about had long since ceased, and then tasted their broth again. Brand had to admit, there was a certain flavorful tang to it now. He tried not to think about it as he had a second serving.

Tired from a long day’s travel and sore of arm from chopping away half the forest, Brand fell asleep beside the fire as soon as he laid down. Tomkin was in charge of the first watch, Telyn the second. Brand expected to be up before dawn for his shift.

* * *

When he awoke with a start some hours later, it was the middle of the night. Their fire had died down to embers crowned by a single tongue of yellow flame. He sat up, and felt for his axe first. It was there, shivering under his hand. What had awakened it?

He looked around, blinking back sleep and yawning. The roan slept standing nearby. Tomkin lay flat upon the horse’s back, gently snoring through his tiny nostrils. But of Telyn, there was no sign.

Brand roused himself and stood up, remembering the night of the Will O’ the Wisp, when he and Telyn had been led astray by old Hob’s lantern. Could someone or something have led her off again?

“Telyn?” he asked in a whisper.

No reply came. He thought about taking out his axe, but didn’t want to sound an alarm just yet. Possibly, she had just gone into the trees to relieve herself.

“Telyn?” he called again, louder this time.

The horse nickered softly. Tomkin snorted and rolled over in his sleep, and the horse’s back was wide enough for him to do so without falling off.

Brand threw more wood on the fire, becoming concerned. He thought about waking up Tomkin, but before he moved to do so, he thought he heard something. It sounded like crying. Could it be the child? That was his first thought.

He walked into the Deepwood proper, leaving the trail behind, several steps in the direction of the sound. He thought he saw a dark shape ahead. He knew the shape, even though it was nearly pitch black.

“Telyn?” he asked.

She gave a sudden, startled intake of breath. “Brand?”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve found him.”

“The boy?”

“Yes, come,” she said.

Brand went back to awaken Tomkin, but she reached an arm toward him. “Perhaps you should let him sleep.”

“Why?”

“So you do not slay him when you see what I’ve found.”

Brand was quiet for a few seconds, thinking about her words. A dark feeling crept over him. It was a cold feeling of dread. Also, growing beneath that, was the first inkling of anger. If ever he felt he should slay Tomkin, if the Wee One had been judged and found wanting, then that was how it should be. Tomkin would, at that very moment, be executed.

Deservedly so.

That was the voice of the axe, he told himself, startled. It had been a long while indeed since he had heard its thoughts directly. Could it be that in a place like this, its voice grew stronger?

He shook his head and became aware that Telyn was standing close to him, silently watching him. Had he muttered any of his thoughts aloud? He wasn’t sure.

“All right,” he said at last. “Show me what you have found.”

She produced in her hand a tiny light. It was not a candle, or a lantern, nor even an ember from the fire. Instead, it was a glowing thing that gave off a cold yellow-green light, like that of a firefly that never faded to dimness, but instead simply kept on glowing steadily. Brand did not ask her about this light. He knew that Myrrdin and Gudrin had taught her many small tricks of magic. It was best not to ask, because he knew the axe would not like the answer. If the axe imagined she posed some danger, it might become harder to think. He focused on following her and watching for any sign of something worse.

It was not a long trip. They came to a clearing. So far as Brand knew, this was only the second clearing he had ever seen in the Deepwood, the first having been the spot where he had found Twrog’s body.

He was surprised to see that the moon rode overhead. The forest had been so dense, so made up of thick bushy pines, that they had blocked out all sign of the sky. When on the trail, looking up you could see a thin river of stars, but even this vanished sometimes when the trees leaned forward, arching over the trail itself, greedy to close it off forever from the sky. In this clearing, however, it was as if a light shown upon the spot.

In the center of the clearing was a ring of mushrooms. Each mushroom had a stalk as thick as man’s arm and a cap as big as a buckler. They were as black as midnight, a black that swallowed light, and yet each one glowed, encircled with a radiating an eldritch nimbus. Brand had seen glowing growths before, usually in caves, but he had never seen such a powerful green-white luminescence as this. His axe moved at the very sight of the place, and squirmed upon his back. It had been agitated ever since they left the trail, begging to be freed of his pack. He controlled his thoughts and his desire to grasp the handle with an effort of will.

He took several steps further into the clearing. In a way, this spot of relatively open ground was a welcome one. At least there weren’t branches clawing at his clothing with every step and the smell of it was less close, dank and dark.

But then he noticed the body in the middle of the mushroom circle.

It was a child, he could see that right away. And it wasn’t one of the Wee Folk. The manlings were different in outline, thinner of limb and sharper of feature. This was clearly a boy and he was clearly dead.

He stepped closer and closer still. He paused at the edge of the ring of black mushrooms, each coming up to the height of his knee. In their strange, sickly radiance, he saw the boy’s face. The face was slack and the mouth hung open. The sad eyes stared up at the moon.

Brand noticed his breathing had taken on deeper puffs. In fact, he was almost gasping in air. He could hear something, and he realized it must be Telyn, but he could not form whatever she said into words in his mind. Resisting the axe, he lifted a single foot to step into the ring. He would take the boy’s body from this foul place and bury it properly.

“Ah-ah!” said a voice.

Brand put his foot down without crossing the ring.

“That would not be wise,” said the voice. He had the direction now. There was something, on the far side of the ring, something there that was squat and low and thickly built. Brand was reminded by its outline of one of the Kindred. But this thing, whatever it was, had spoken at the wrong moment. He meant to confront it.

Brand stepped around the ring at a confident, determined pace. The other didn’t retreat at his approach. He narrowed his eyes and peered down at it. In return, the thing regarded him.

The creature was vaguely man-shaped, but seemed to be constructed not of flesh, but rather of earth and stone. Brand knew what it was, or what its ilk were called. It was a coblynau, sometimes called a gnome. A creature that normally haunted mines and quarries and knocked upon the stone walls until it drove miners mad. There must be a source of stone nearby for such a creature to roam the surface, he thought.

“They make very large fools wherever you come from,” chuckled the gnome.

“I am Brand from the Haven, thing in my path. Did you slay this boy?”

“Never!” said the gnome, sounding amused. “The mushrooms did that. The ones you were about to step into. You owe me your life, foolish Brand of the Haven.”

Without his urging, Brand’s hand reached slowly up toward the haft of his axe. He noticed in time, and stopped his hand with an effort of will. If the creature spoke truly, whatever it was, he could not slay it for helping.

“Your tongue is sharp. Have a care.”

The creature cocked its stone-like head. “Here, in the dark, buried in the Deepwood, and you have no whisper of fear when you face me?”

“No.”

“Interesting!” said the other, sounding truly glad, “what kind of heart do you have? I’m very curious now. I must know. Would you take a mug of ale with me? My people are known for the best ale in the world.”

“I thought the Kindred made the best ale.”

“Bah! Swill made by hairy braggarts! I’ll show you, if you will but follow me a pace.”

Strangely, Brand felt like following him. Perhaps his ale was as good as he said. They had neglected to bring anything but water on this journey, being worried about weight, and a single flagon of brandy for cleansing wounds. This fellow looked like one of the Kindred, like a strange relative of theirs. His kind couldn’t be that much trouble.

A hand touched his elbow, and he shook himself awake. Something was touching, him, annoying him. His hand reflexively went up to touch the axe. He touched the haft of it, and a jolt of pain went through him, like a beam of blazing sunlight shot into a drunkard’s eye.

The glade lit up as he lifted his axe from his pack and held it aloft like a torch. He could see them now, dozens of them. They were creeping up from beneath the trees. They were the things he had scented and sensed moving in the earth. They were what lived beneath the trees, beneath the thorny thicket and beneath the layer of forest loam. They were a part of the forest floor itself and dwelt there in the rocks and filth.

He glanced to his side and saw it was Telyn behind him. She had touched him. She had awakened him. How long she had been there, tugging at his arm, he had no idea. He saw the terror in her eyes and a hot rage took him. He would not have his love frightened by a pack of dirt-men.

“Cover your eyes,” he told her, and she did as he bid.

In her hand she had up her fine dagger. Its blade glinted, reflecting the yellow light of Ambros’ eye as he held the axe even higher aloft.

“Know, foul creatures, that you have all been judged, and you have all been found wanting,” he said in a booming voice that was not entirely his own. The gnomes came forward now, heedless of his words. They held up their blunt rocky fists to shield their obsidian eyes from the Amber Jewel’s light. They made grinding sounds as they came, like boulders shifting about on a hillside. He wondered if they were even capable of speech or if somehow they had bewitched him into hearing their noises as words.

He did not care enough to learn the answer.

Judging the mushrooms to be the source of the greatest evil, he burned them first. Ambros shone like the sun, and its light caused the mushrooms to smolder for a brief second, then explode into flames. He swung a two-handed swath, as might a man with a reaping scythe. Mushroom caps, flaming, popped up in a shower.

The circle of gnomes stumbled back from the light and fire of Ambros momentarily, making sounds like showers of pebbles. But now, seeing their beloved ring broken and burning, they lost whatever minds they might have possessed. They rushed him blindly, stumbling into one another, falling and scratching their way over one another in their eagerness to get to him. He, the defiler, the meat-man who had dared to burn their holy place. They were desperate to reach him, to crush him with their fantastically heavy bodies.

And Brand, for his part, surged to meet them. He slew the nearest with a crashing blow of the axe. The smoky, earthen ruin of its body sagged down. Before it had ceased flopping about, Brand leapt up upon its back and lay about him with the axe. Stone limbs and blank obsidian eyes were chopped and hacked and burst asunder like boulders cracked by a sledge. Brand used both hands to wield the axe, the better to strike harder and with more fury.

With each alien life it took, the axe flashed. Rocky fists hammered his feet and his thighs but made it no further before they were struck off to lie thumping about on the dark ground. Spittle flew from Brand’s lips with the impact of cleaving thick stone, each shock running up his arms to jar his clenched teeth. His eyes started from his head as if they might pop out, and the axe kept flashing until there were no more charging rockmen, until no creature of stone that faced him was whole.

He sucked in great gasps of air. The glade slowly dimmed as the axe, sated for the first time in long months, rested. Parts of a dozen rockmen squirmed in a great circle around him and he stood upon their stacked bodies. His legs were bruised. His smashed toes bled inside his boots.

A thought struck him then. Where was Telyn?

“Telyn?” he asked the gnomes, but they did not reply. Only a few still writhed and had not yet passed on to whatever hell rightfully awaited them.

Brand, knew a moment of panic. He checked the blades of the axe for blood, but saw none. He did not think he had cut down his lady, but he could not be sure. He climbed down from the mound of stone corpses and shoved them aside, straining to look beneath. He commanded the axe to shine, and it did, but the glare did not help, only managing to deepen the pooling shadows beneath the gnomes.

Finally, he had an idea. He allowed Ambros to dim to nothing. Telyn had been carrying a light. If she were down there, he should be able to—

There! An unearthly gleam, somehow still pure in this place of foulness. He lifted a massive stone leg, roaring like a man possessed. Beneath it, he found Telyn. Her body bled in several spots, but she breathed yet. He draped himself over her, and gently cradled her, kissing her closed eyes gently.

To himself, with great relief, he chanted one thing over and over.

“I did not kill her.”

Chapter Seven

The Crone’s Chimney

Piskin finally found Oberon in the Great Erm, a tremendous forest which existed only in the twilight lands, and only for those who could survive long enough to find it. The Erm was quite literally the last place he had looked. Oberon had not been at any of his usual haunts. The mounds were empty, with no sign of the elf lord and his court of dancers. His palace in the cliff face, the entrance to which often vanished for days at a time, was deserted, devoid of feasting elves. A dozen other places he searched: the underwater grottos, the icy mountaintop plateaus and even the enchanted woods where every tree had a delightful wood nymph residing within.

As a last resort, Piskin had journeyed to the Great Erm. It was an imposing place, with trees as thick as barges and as high as small mountains. Everything there was out of scale, fantastically larger than it should be. An apple was the size of a boulder. A mouse was bigger than any horse that had ever lived. For a manling such as Piskin, the smallest of folk, it was the last place he wanted to go. But, trusting to his stealth and speed to keep him alive, he traveled there and he searched.

Finding a thread that led up a tree, he followed it, fully expecting a spider to be up in the green gloom above, tugging excitedly upon the far end. But there was no monster up there, waiting to make a meal of him. Instead, he found another, thicker cord. It was almost enough to be called a thin rope. He followed that, his curiosity growing. The cord led to a true rope woven of silver fibers that shone in his hands like strings of moonlight. Finally, when he was tired and his one good hand could hardly grasp firmly enough to keep himself from falling, Piskin reached the end of the rope.

He had found a pavilion, high up in the sky, sitting atop the tallest tree of the Great Erm. He stood gasping, looking down and all around. Most of the Wee Folk have lived long, and they have all seen wondrous things. They were not a people easily impressed. But this view, this panoramic beauty, was enough to take away even the jaded thoughts of one such as Piskin.

Oberon sat at the other end of the pavilion. He said nothing to his visitor at first.

Piskin, still admiring the view, took stock of the elf lord’s mood. It was not good. His face sat cradled in both his hands. His legs, crossed tightly, did not dance. His musical pipes were nowhere to be seen and were apparently forgotten.

Piskin cleared his throat. Oberon glanced at him disinterestedly. His eyes slid away again after the briefest of appraisals.

“Sirrah,” Piskin began, striking a formal pose. He put his severed hand behind his back and tipped his hat with his good one. “Might I inquire—”

“No,” said Oberon, “you may not. Now scuttle back down yon rope and bother me no further, broken changeling.”

Piskin ears burned to hear the elf’s scornful words. He clamped his teeth to prevent the exit of many insults. When he had controlled himself, he put on an easy smile. “Might I inquire as to the cause for your sulking? Why have you put away your pipes, lord? Why do you deny even the wood nymphs your attentions?”

Oberon snorted. “As if you don’t know.”

“Ah, because of the robbery, I suspect. And the treacheries, almost too numerous to count.”

“Treacheries?”

“Why yes. Let me detail your tale of woe. First, you make a fine gift of Sang the bloodhound, the very embodiment of the Red Jewel, to Herla the human king. Does he appreciate this gift? No, he does not!”

“It’s true, he did not appreciate the gift,” said Oberon with a smirk. He was clearly proud of his most famous trick, which he had played upon the greatest of human kings, turning him into an undead wraith nine centuries ago.

“You gave that lowly human the one thing his kind seek above all else,” said Piskin, his voice rising. “You gave that ungrateful spratling infinite existence, and he turned vengeful and defied your wishes, you who made him the creature he was.”

Oberon said nothing, but his eyes were fixed upon the manling now. Piskin swelled like a puffing rooster and began to strut upon the pavilion. He only had one hand, but he held it high aloft with a single finger upraised. “That would be the first treachery by my counting,” he said.

Oberon made an easy gesture of dismissal. “You speak of events in the distant past.”

“Oh, but this story of woe is far from finished, milord. Next, your son Myrrdin discovers the Green Jewel Vaul, and what does he do with it? Does he present it to his worthy lord as a gift? Does he demonstrate gratitude to his adopted sire, the one who raised him from a pup to a mumbling half-human oaf?”

A second thin, very long finger shot up into the air from Piskin’s hand.

“Oh no, he does not. Instead, he sides with the humans and forms some nonsense of a pact, threatening the very life of his beloved sire in the bargain. What next, you ask? Many more treacheries. They abound in your life, sirrah. You are to be pitied more than any earth-bound creature.”

Oberon snorted and crossed his arms. But he listened.

Piskin held up a third slim finger. “Herla’s story is not yet done. When he found Osang, the Lavender Jewel, did he gift that to the one who had gifted him the Red? Oh no. Instead, he used it to make his coursers fly. He assaulted your people and mine.”

A fourth finger sprouted.

“This last chapter, I’m sad to say, involved one of your subjects, one of my own people, I might shamefully add. Dando stole Lavatis from you. Two Jewels of the nine have been wrongfully removed from your possession, and two more not gifted when they were due, and my tale is not half done!”

Piskin’s thumb joined the rest of his fingers overhead, but Oberon raised his own hand to stop him.

“Enough,” he said, “I know why my heart is heavy. I know the wrongs done, and the rights forgotten. Tell me what your purpose is in coming here, tiny buffoon, or I shall toss you tumbling to the forest floor.”

Piskin nodded and let his hand drop. “Very well. I only wanted to point out that you and I, both and together, have been wronged. In many cases, the people who have mistreated you have also abused me.” He proceeded to list his own litany of complaints. He included the sly behavior of Dando that cost him his nursemaid and ended with the rebuffing by Brand, and finally Tomkin’s severing of his hand. He moved closer to Oberon as he talked, who watched him with pursed lips and slitted eyes.

“And what do you want to do about all these... injustices?” the elf lord asked.

“I want to strike a bargain, milord.”

“Explain yourself.”

Piskin sidled closer still.

“I see two of the Jewels as being the easiest to grasp. The low-hanging fruit, if you will. They are the Red, which has no master at the moment and is lost, and the Blue.”

“Tomkin of your own people wields the Blue.”

“That Jewel is properly yours, milord.”

“Since when are the Wee Folk interested in justice?”

Piskin laughed. “Never. But we are interested in vengeance.” He lifted his stump, bandaged crudely at the wrist. “Tomkin took this from me. I would have my revenge.”

“What of the Red then?”

“I want the Red. I wish to use it to repair my lost hand.”

Oberon smirked. “You could never control the Red.”

Piskin shrugged. “Perhaps. I was hoping you might tell me how I could coax it into my possession.”

Oberon frowned now. “The Red is lost.”

“Not to me. I know where it hides.”

For the first time, Oberon leaned forward in rapt interest. “Explain your deal clearly, and have a care, for you speak to a lord who is in a foul temper.”

“Of course, sirrah! Tell me how to coax the Red and help me attune it, so that I may be whole again. Then I will gain for you the Blue, and gift it to you.”

Oberon leaned back with a silver laugh. “That will not be easy, but I admire your spirit. To coax the Red you need blood.”

“I’ve tried that.”

“Not the blood of a bullfrog or a quail, manling. You must use human blood, or Fae. In fact, the very best is the mixed blood of both from a half-breed creature. That will make the perfect draught for the hound.”

Piskin tapped his four surviving fingers on his chin thoughtfully. It would not be easy. He nodded. “Do you know where such a source of fresh half-fae blood might be handy?”

“Perhaps. There is one of my children—he has displeased me with his careless ways.”

“Who?”

“Seek out Puck. Ask him what mistakes he may have made lately.”

Piskin nodded, he had heard of the elf named Puck. “And if I succeed in coaxing the Red, do we have a bargain?”

Oberon paused, and for perhaps the first time in the memory of even the very long-lived creatures that dwelt in this place, he looked troubled. Piskin knew that his words of treachery and injustice worked like venom in the elf lord’s mind. The very wise could rarely be moved with fine words. But foul words, words that rang true, but were one-sided and deceitful, such words were as magic even among the eldest and most jaded persons. Piskin had learned this many centuries ago. He waited patiently for his venom to run its course through Oberon’s thoughts.

Resolve formed upon Oberon’s face. Piskin wanted to smile, but he controlled the urge. Glee and gloating would have to wait for another, more private time.

“We have a bargain, changeling. Come back when you have finished your foul deeds.”

Piskin nodded. He sprang without a further moment wasted to slide down the very long rope of fine silver threads. He slid past leaves as broad as wheat fields and branches wider than highways. As he neared the ground, he allowed himself to grin.

His grin was very broad indeed.

* * *

Mari worked hard to clean the old woman’s shack, but the task seemed impossible. The floor was hard-frozen dirt. Her mother had taught her how to clean such a floor, even though her family was rich enough to own a wood-frame house with a thatch roof. Many poor homes were built of sod, or worse, were little more than dug-outs in the banks of the river. Mari had learned about dirt floors in the outbuildings such as their woodshed, smokehouse and the barn. When cleaning such a floor, it was best to scrape away the top layer, which was the worst of the oily dreck, then spread fresh soil on top.

Each morning the crone would wander off into the woods seeking roots and tubers for her potions and salves. Thinking to surprise and please the old bag of bones who was now her host, Mari tried to scrape away the top layer of the hut’s floor. It was frozen hard in places and the parts that weren’t frozen were worse still, a vile layer of the worst sort of filth. When she had scratched her way down to the colder, harder earth below, she gasped at what she found. A layer of bones, thick as a thatch roof, wove together to form the foundation of the place. They looked like bird-bones for the most part, but there were strange ones there, twisted bones that did not bear thinking about. It was as if she had tossed down every tiny ribcage and femur she’d ever gnawed upon for many long years, then simply trodden upon them all to form a dense mat of gray-white bone. Shuddering, Mari gave up on her task and simply sprinkled fresh earth over the worst parts and smoothed it all flat.

When she came back from her gathering mission, Mari met the crone with a forced smile. The crone eyed her warily in return.

“What do you want?” the old woman asked suspiciously.

“Oh, I was just hoping you were pleased.”

“Pleased about what, maid?”

Mari blinked at this, she had never been called a maid before. But she supposed the term fit, as he was no longer a maiden. “The floor, madam,” she said, gesturing.

“What of it?” asked the old woman, looking about as if she expected some kind of assault upon her feet. She sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

“Fresh earth, milady.”

“Humph. I thought I smelled something. Very well then, I see you have been busy. That’s good. Let me tell you now deary what your duties are here.”

Mari nodded.

“You must feed me and clean the house. Each Saturday, should you still be in my charge, you must bathe my feet. It’s very hard for me to reach them, you see, and they are always sore.”

Mari tried not to look horrified.

“One more thing. One thing you must remember.”

“What’s that?”

“Never, never, let the fire in the stove go out. And worse, upon peril of your life, never should you look up the chimney.”

Mari blinked at this, but nodded. The warning was a strange one, but she could see in the crone’s one, shining eye that she meant it. A chill ran through her.

And so days passed, and each day the old woman left her, and each day Mari looked at the tiny hearth, stove and chimney.

She thought of cleaning it—perhaps just putting the crone’s broom up there to sweep down the soot. That would certainly not require looking up the chimney. She resisted these ideas, however. She chided herself for such idle foolishness.

But what could possibly be up there that was so important, anyway? Anything living would have long since died. Every day, a tiny fire burned there and smoke rose. Nothing could survive—never mind the tiny sounds she'd heard. Whatever it was, it must be an object of some kind. Suddenly, she felt she had the answer. The more she thought about it, the more certain she became.

The old woman stashed her purse up there. All the silver she took from the people who wandered into her camp day and night buying her salves and cures. They gave her money and the old woman was anything but trusting. She didn’t know Mari as she knew herself. She was a good young lady, brought up honestly and properly, despite her current state of being. She was no thief.

Satisfied that she had answered the riddle, she stayed content for two full days. They were long days, full of sweeping and cooking. When people brought chickens as payment, she plucked and dressed the birds. When the old woman worked on a potion that took a particularly long time to brew, she was left to stir the pot for hours.

It was on the third day that she went to find the crone and saw her pulling upon a rope that ran up a tree. She paused, not calling out. The woman was a bit hard of hearing, and with only one dim eye would never notice that she was being watched. So, watch she did.

The woman pulled a leather sack down from the trees where it was cleverly hidden. She dropped silver into it, and then hauled upon the rope again, sending the sack back up to hide in the thick needles of a sugar pine tree. Mari stepped quickly around the hut out of sight as she finished the task. She did not want to be seen.

She chewed at her lip. Her hand went to her swelling belly and sat there. The baby kicked her hand, almost as if it knew precisely where its mother’s hand rested. Perhaps it did.

If the old woman kept her silver in a tree, what then, was up the chimney?

Mari waited until the morning of the third day to investigate. With habits now familiar, the crone climbed out of bed and awakened Mari with a hard buffet.

“Lazy girl,” she said, just as she did at dawn every morning. Then she sipped some broth and headed out into the forest to do her gathering of bark and mosses.

At first, Mari played at sweeping up. With each stroke, her feet and her broom led her ever nearer the chimney.

She became nervous and left the hut entirely. She did not feed the fire, however, and the old woman had left without stoking it either.

Mari worked outside for a time, before venturing back into the hut. The fire had burned down to embers. She felt a guilty squeeze of conscience. She had promised to keep up the flames, and up until this very moment, she always had. She eyed the dry stack of kindling near the stove. It would be the simplest thing to toss in a few sticks, and forget about it. The crone would return not long after and another day would be done.

She knelt before the stove and used a stick to open the hot iron door. Inside the embers glowed their deepest red. A color so deep, that was almost black.

She had the kindling in her hand, but she didn’t add it to the fire. Instead, she put her face close to the hot stove and craned her neck. She saw nothing up there but blackness at first, years of accumulated soot.

Then, she thought to make something out. Something that dangled down from the chimney. Something like a collection of thin sticks. The sticks were gray-white and between them were flakes of black soot. She knew what they were then, they were bones. What she was looking at, she realized all in a rush, was the dangling foot of a skeleton. A skeleton had been shoved up that chimney, or had fallen down it from above.

The worst realization was that the skeleton was very small. It had to be one of the Wee Folk, or a child’s foot. While she stared at it and the fire cooled underneath the foot, she saw the dangling foot bones waggle.

“I’ll give you credit girl, none have lasted three days ‘ere this,” said the crone from behind her.

Gasping, Mari scrambled to her feet and nearly toppled onto the stove, which was still boiling hot.

The crone gazed at her with one shining eye. “What? Surprised? Did you think I would not know what goes on in my own house?”

“But what is it? Whose bones are they?”

The crone stuffed the smallest, driest wood into the stove and slammed the door shut. Mari, despite her state, noticed that the woman used no gloves or implements, she laid her bare hands on the burning iron door. She must have palms like leather, Mari thought. The stove brightened and yellow flames flared up almost immediately, consuming the kindling.

“Fool of a girl. I give you one thing to do, and you see fit to ignore me. You deserve no answer.”

“No child’s burnt foot should awaken like that. Is it one of the Wee Folk?” asked Mari, her voice hushed. She looked at the stove in dread and watched the chimney for any tremor or cry. She heard nothing but crackling and a quiet hiss.

“Idiot!” shouted the crone and cuffed the back of Mari’s head, “it’s a troll, of course. Don’t any of the young know what creeps in their very backyards?”

“But, how did a troll come to be in your chimney?”

“Because it was trying to climb out of the stove and got stuck up there. Use your imagination, girl.”

“I thought trolls were larger.”

“Nay, not when they are just born.”

Mari turned horrified eyes upon the crone. “You mean you—?”

“Yes, naturally. And if that thing in your gut is a troll, as I suspect it might be, we’ll have to do the same with it.”

Mari was speechless. She put her hands upon her belly protectively.

“You have to have the flames very hot for trolls,” explained the crone matter-of-factly. She added more sticks to the stove as she spoke. “And you have to keep the fire burning. Or else their flesh will surely grow back, you see.”

Chapter Eight

Gronig

In the morning, they returned to the noisome grove and the circle of black mushrooms. The foul growths had been burned by Ambros’ wrath and hacked to poisonous slices. They produced a strange, burnt-meat smell which tickled the nostrils and irritated the eyes.

“This is a foul place,” said Tomkin, tutting at the pile of stone corpses and charred fleshy fungus. “What you have wrought here will not soon be forgotten by these creatures of the dark.”

“I hope not,” said Brand, “they had best never forget and accost good folk along this path again.”

“I hear they have excellent ale,” said Tomkin, “did you taste it?”

Brand shot him a dark look. Was the creature mocking him in such a grim place, in the very face of the destruction of which he was capable? He thought, looking at Tomkin smirk and glittering eyes, that the manling did mean his statement as a joke. The Wee Folk did not, he reminded himself, seem to be able to feel the pain of another. Only their own discomforts, which they tended to magnify and expound upon, concerned them.

Brand took a deep breath and snorted. “No, I did not. To have tasted it, I would have been lost, am I right?”

Tomkin nodded. “Most likely. Even you might not have been able to extricate yourself from them if had taken their ale. It truly is rumored to be the best, however. Even the Kindred grudgingly acknowledge its legendary qualities.”

Telyn came into the clearing behind them. She sat upon the roan horse which had refused all other riders, save for Tomkin’s tiny weight. Her knee was wrapped in linens and she sat on the horse’s neck, as most of the space on the horse’s back was occupied by their supplies.

“How is your leg?” Brand asked her.

“It will be fine in a day or two. What of the boy?” she asked. Her voice sounded haunted, and Brand found he didn’t like this new quality. He wished he had brought Corbin instead. Of course, he knew she wouldn’t have allowed him to leave her behind. She would have trailed them if nothing else, shadowing them in the woods like a ghost.

“We must bury him,” said Brand, “but not here in this foul spot. Let’s take him closer to the road and build a cairn. Let it mark forever this place as a warning to our kind and theirs.”

“What of the gnomes?” asked Tomkin.

Brand looked at him, and saw he was serious. He glanced back at their stone bodies, piled like so many broken statues. There were so many he could hardly consider burying them all, and besides it wasn’t like they would rot in the sun. Looking upon them, in fact, gave him a feeling of anger, which smoldered still. He had grown steadily more tired of various strange folk that thought they could do as they pleased with the River Folk.

“Excellent suggestion,” he told Tomkin, who looked baffled. Brand explained, and both Tomkin and Telyn were alarmed by his idea.

“This wasn’t what I meant at all!” said Tomkin.

But Brand wasn’t listening. While the others watched open-mouthed, he set about his work, grunting and straining. He dragged and rolled parts of the rocky bodies, mostly heads and arms and severed fists, toward the roadway. He buried the young boy there, on the side of the road. And then, he piled up the stone body parts of the gnomes atop the boy’s grave.

“A fine cairn in the middle of a forest. No scavengers will be getting at the boy easily now. Let the gnomes serve him in death as they failed him in life,” said Brand, smiling at his grim handiwork.

Suddenly, the whole thing struck Tomkin as funny. He laughed long and loud. “A heart of brass thou hast grown in thy chest, boy!”

Telyn, for her part, was not amused. She urged them to hurry from the place. They did as she asked and made good time along the path. As they walked, it seemed the path had widened. The trees no longer encroached as closely, and they soon traveled what any man would name a real road. Here and there, cobblestones could be seen, sprouting from the black earth like fresh molars under their feet.

Brand wondered if their slaying of the gnomes had frightened back the noisome Deepwood, or if the road was simply better kept up as they neared the lands of the Kindred. He could not be sure of the answer, but he was certain of the effect. Soon, even the branches above loosened their weave and plain sky could be seen overhead.

When they finally reached the foot of the Black Mountains, of which Snowdon was the tallest peak, they found a watchtower awaiting them. It was evening when they arrived and the watchtower was built of stone, not rickety stilts and lashed-together saplings.

Inside, several Kindred manned loopholes and pointed crossbows at them. They were ordered to stop and be identified as soon as they emerged from the depths of the forest.

Telyn clucked at the roan, which halted as if born with a saddle upon his back. Brand still felt amazed at how well the mean beast tolerated her. He did not stop, however, but took another ten paces forward before standing tall and facing the Kindred. He sensed their nervousness. The axe on his back twitched, but he ignored it. Something of its excitement showed in his face, however, and he greeted the Kindred with upraised arms and a shout.

“Kindred! I’m Brand, Champion of the River Folk. Know that we come to your lands to aid your people.”

The commander of the watch poked his head up fully over the highest square tooth-like merlon of the tower. He gazed down sternly at Brand.

“To aid us?” she harumphed, “what aid do the River Folk offer?”

“We come at the call of Gudrin of the Talespinners,” said Brand. He thought of explaining further, but decided against it. He did not know what kind of politics were in play here with these folk. If they were governed by a body that was anything like the Riverton council, not everyone was in agreement with any decision made. The less said, the better.

“Tell me more of your business.”

“Our business is our own. Do you refuse us entry?”

There was a half-minute of silence.

“No. We do not refuse entry. You are welcome here, Brand of the River Folk. You may pass.”

So they entered the land of the Kindred, and Brand’s heart was gladdened. He had never visited the lands of any other civilized folk. He had seen much of the wilderness, and of course he knew every corner of the Haven. But this was something different. As soon as they entered their land, even as he passed the border itself, everything felt different.

The buildings were more squat and thick in design. They were designed for a people of different dimensions than someone like Brand. The road was also narrower, but better kept. Each cobble had been fitted into place like a vast mosaic and none were cracked or missing.

Immediately beyond the watchtower stretched a few miles of snow-covered hills. Shepherds and sheep were plentiful here, along with fine fields that in summer would be bursting with crops of barley and hops. Breweries and mills dotted the landscape as well. Brand smiled at these all-too-common choices of Kindred cultivation. They were a popular combination that together provided their favorite meals of mutton and ale.

They came soon after to the frontier town known as Gronig, which stood at the very foot of the Black Mountains. Rising up right behind the town were the sharp stone walls of the mountains, into which numerous mines had been driven. Gronig was the equivalent of the town known as Hamlet at his people’s end of the road on the far eastern side of the Deepwood.

The town was small, but bustling. Everywhere was a sense of energy, of industry. The Kindred were anything but lazy. Those that were not chopping wood or hauling stone were marching off somewhere in long chanting lines. They pushed ore carts down directly from the mines in the Black Mountains that loomed over the town. The ore carts rode on tracks, an idea Brand had never witnessed before. One Kindred, having good leverage and arms like iron, could push a cart full of ore along these tracks alone. These tracks ended their runs at the smoke-belching smelting factories that encircled the settlement.

Indeed, Gronig was quite unlike Hamlet. The Kindred, he saw, did not just build structures out of stone. They built each building out of heavy slabs of granite. Every building in sight consisted primarily of these stone slabs, sometimes showing chunks of wood as a secondary material. This was the opposite of River Folk designs, which were generally built mainly of wood, sometimes using bricks or stone as a foundation.

And the stone used was itself not comparable. Instead of mortaring together stacks of sun-baked bricks, each not much larger than a man’s hand, the Kindred used slabs of stone. These slabs, tilted up to stand on end as walls, were single sheets of cut granite, five feet tall or more and as long at twenty feet. The stone was thick, always thick. Each slab stood independently, hooked together with mortar and spikes of iron as thick as his thumb. He suspected that even if the slabs had not been connected, they would have stood, free-standing. Just toppling a free-standing slab might have been beyond the strength of a normal man. Brand shook his head, taking it all in. They must use teams of Kindred and animals to drag these slabs down from the mountains and place them carefully. The few wooden parts consisted of oaken doors and window casements that sat in chiseled holes. The roofs as well, were usually thatch or shingles. But for the most part, the Kindred built things with thick stone.

They decided to stop at the only Inn Gronig boasted, called the Shepherd’s Rest. Night was soon to fall over the land, and they were all very glad to just to be out of the Deepwood before that happened. Heaving heavy sighs, they quartered the roan in the stables and rented a room. The first thing they did was head to a Kindred physician, who were known for their craft. Their bandages were rewrapped and fresh poultices of spice and mustard were applied. They headed back to the Inn with spirits lifted. After washing the dust from their faces and hair they headed down to the common room, hoping for some of the best beer they’d tasted in months.

They were not disappointed. Not even bothering to ask, the Kindred serving wench brought them each a tall wooden mug of brown ale. The mugs, being made of polished stone, were very heavy indeed. Tomkin wasn’t able to lift his at all, so stuck his face down into it. Unable to reach the bottom, he requested a bowl. This was also made of stone, but allowed him to finish his beverage in comfort. Drinking deeply, they all quickly cleared the dust from their throats.

While they drank ale, they noticed a large evergreen that stood in the midst of the common room. It was living and planted in a circular planter built apparently for the specific purpose.

“The Kindred always like to have a bit of greenery in the center of their homes and Inns,” explained Tomkin with a belch. “Cheers up their stony dwellings which rarely sport decorations, I suppose. Strange folk, but quick with good ale.”

By the time the glow of the ale had set in, a great platter of food had arrived. They had not been asked to make an order, as in Kindred lands apparently, choices and menus were unnecessary. Glistening mutton chops, steaming and stacked higher than was reasonable, topped a bed of brown rice and huge mushrooms. They dug in and soon their moods were uplifted.

Tomkin grew festive. He hopped from one stone table to the next, insisting upon singing songs to everyone present. The Kindred, when serenaded, at first looked stern and annoyed, but after hearing his limericks they set to chuckling. After a time, they were roaring in laughter. Brand looked on, smiling for the first time since he’d buried little Ari Sacken in the Deepwood.

There was an old Kindred of the isles

Who suffered deeply from piles

He couldn’t sit down

Without a deep frown

So he had to row standing for miles

Tomkin sang his limericks perfectly. While he did so, he performed a dance and walked on his hands. The Kindred loved him. They pounded the tables and let fly with gouts of beer from their beards.

When they had finally had enough carousing and retreated to their room, everyone was ready for sleep. Brand found his feet hung over the end of the bed, but such was his state of mind and body that he didn’t care. He slipped into a deep sleep almost immediately.

In the morning he found he had the axe, still in its pack, wrapped up in his arms like a babe. He roused himself and set it aside, eyeing it blearily. He could not recall having taken it to bed with him.

After they had bathed and dressed they headed down to the common room again in search of breakfast. Brand for one was glad not to see more mutton. They were served omelets stuffed with mushrooms and meat. Brand chewed and then smiled. He thought to taste a hint of goat.

For the first time in perhaps weeks, Brand sighed contently. He felt gratitude toward the Kindred. Here were a folk he felt comfortable with. They did not consider his manners gruff and rude. They were not concerned with his doings and moods. They were friendly, but not overly nosy. He felt they understood adventure and risk better than his own folk did, as his people had grown unaccustomed to such things and worried overly much.

Even as he was thinking these thoughts, he noted a figure, taller than all the rest in the room save for Brand himself. The man sat in the darkest corner of the common room. He had his arms crossed and his hood pulled low. Brand could not see it, but he suspected the man wore a heavy frown.

Telyn put her hand on his arm, and pointed to the staff that lay across the stranger’s knees. Brand knew the truth the moment he saw it.

“Myrrdin?” he asked aloud.

The man stood and approached at his call. The patrons fell quiet as he passed them. They did not look upon him fearfully, but rather warily, as a man might look upon a dog that did not bark or growl, but which did walk stiff-legged.

Brand saw that it was indeed Myrrdin, and he was not smiling.

“Take a seat, man!” Brand urged him, and the other did as he asked with uncharacteristic stiffness. Brand decided to ignore the wizard’s poor manners. He suspected that he might still be upset about Tomkin getting his tiny hands on Lavatis. He had, of course, wanted Brand to return the Blue Jewel to Oberon. But Brand had not felt that choice was in the best interests of the River Folk. More importantly, he had not felt Oberon’s people had done anything to deserve the loyalty and kindness of humans.

Myrrdin’s poor mood was not lost on Tomkin. He sniffed and stood up on his chair. “Perhaps I’ll be taking my leave, now, Brand.”

“Nay,” said Brand, “stay a moment, Tomkin. We are all friends here.”

“Well,” said Telyn, “I for one am glad to see you are well, Myrrdin.”

Still, the wizard said nothing. He placed his staff cross-wise on his lap and crossed his arms, leaning back against his chair.

Brand and the others exchanged glances. This wasn’t Myrrdin’s usual attitude. Brand felt, for the very first time, irritated with the behavior of this half-fae wizard whom he still considered to be a friend and an ally.

“Come now, tell us what’s bothering you,” said Brand, speaking openly what was on everyone’s mind.

“Yes, witch!” said Tomkin, hopping up on the table beside Brand. “Don’t fear another bite from me! I’ve had a fine breakfast, and I’m quite full.”

Brand waved at Tomkin to settle down, but instead the manling struck a pose that instantly and accurately aped Myrrdin’s. He leaned back in midair, resting his shoulders against nothing. He crossed his arms with precise mimicry and glowered back at the wizard.

Telyn, sensing a rising tension, squeezed Brand’s arm worriedly. For its own part, the axe tapped at his neck, urging him to reach back and draw it.

Brand put up his arms, trying to settle everyone down. “I don’t know why we are all tense! This should be a happy reunion. Now, Myrrdin, tell us what is bothering you man. Whatever it is, you owe us that.”

Myrrdin finally nodded, pursing his lips. He reached into his vest and pulled out a black stone. He tossed it down upon the table between them.

They all looked at it for a moment without recognition. It was a chunk of dark rock, with a smaller black stone set in its midst. The smaller stone seemed to be oval in shape, and Brand realized after a stunned moment that it was obsidian.

He recoiled slightly as the stone glittered for just a moment in a hideous parody of life. Brand knew in that instant, that it was in fact still alive, at least partly. For it was, of course, the black eye of one of the gnomes he had chopped to rubble in the Deepwood only yesterday.

“You forget your handiwork so soon, Brand?”

Brand drew a deep breath. “I understand your mood better.”

“Well, I don’t,” said Tomkin. “The beastly creatures earned their fate, witch.”

“Is this what I’ve created?” asked Myrrdin, his eyes storming. For the first time, looking into them, Brand could see those eyes were not fully human. He wondered why he had never seen that before.

“What do you mean?” asked Brand. He heard his own voice and he realized that it was no longer friendly in tone. His good spirits were gone. He had lost all the ease he had gained here in this place, with the Kindred. His axe tapped at him, but he ignored it.

“You slayed them. An entire tribe of them. This will not soon be forgotten. This act will be remembered long after you have passed from this world, Brand. Stones have very long memories.”

Tomkin whistled and looked at Brand expectantly. He seemed excited, and his black, doll’s eyes glittered in a manner similar to the eye of the gnome that lay on the table between them.

Brand drew himself up. His mouth drew into a line. “What do I care?”

This question seemed, for the very first time, to take Myrrdin by surprise. He sputtered. “You slay an entire tribe of folk without concern? You defile their shrine, and their bodies, and have not a care? Do you know where you are headed, boy? The Everdark is the world from which creatures like these spring. They rule there. You have dammed yourself and all your kind to their eternal wrath.”

Brand laughed in a mocking fashion, as if Myrrdin were the biggest fool to walk beneath the skies. This time, the wizard’s face registered shock. “What have you become?” he demanded.

“I’ve become the Champion of my people,” Brand said, “and they did lure one of our children to their dark fane and there do foul things to him. In so doing, they forfeited their lives. All of them. Had they run, I would have been obligated to chase them down and cut down every one I could catch.”

Brand’s voice grew louder as he spoke. By the end of his words, he was shouting.

Myrrdin was purple with rage. He had in his face the look every father has for his son who at long last defies him and stands proud. He jumped to his feet and Brand stood with him. Tomkin whooped excitedly and did a back flip away to land on another table. He crouched there and bared white sharp teeth so big it seemed they could not possibly have fit inside his mouth.

All around them, the Kindred, who had been watching these proceedings with growing alarm, backed away. Some few of them smiled in their beards. The Kindred liked to watch a good fight more than most. A few wagers were exchanged.

Myrrdin touched the evergreen tree that grew up in the center of the room with his staff. There was a thickening of the room’s light, and every lantern in the place shone with sudden stabbing beams of heavy green brilliance. The tree shivered like an awakening serpent, then started upward, flowing out of its pot, growing with impossible rapidity.

Brand and the others ducked as the sapling grew further every second and formed a whip-like spiraling creature over their heads.

The Kindred in the common room cried out in alarm and backed away further. Fists, flying spittle and drawn blades they had expected, but sorcery they had not.

Brand drew Ambros and it flashed yellow lightning in the enclosed space. Everyone there save for Brand blinked at the purple splotches that infected their vision.

Most of the Kindred now took cover, but few actually fled the room. They were concerned, but relished the tale of a fight too good to be passed up.

Then Tomkin bared Lavatis, which as Brand had long suspected resided under his cap. The Blue flashed as well, not so brightly as Ambros, but with an intensity that dazed the mind rather than the eye.

That did it for most of the Kindred. Only the bravest did not scramble away from the room in the face of three Jewels of power. Legends had invaded their taproom, and no mortal was likely to survive it.

“This is my fight, Tomkin,” said Brand. He slashed down a vine that reached for him. The plant, now a thing living and feeling, reacted in pain. Myrddin was buried behind it somewhere.

“I’ll not have it said the Wee Folk abandoned their only allies—” but he got no further as a vine managed to grasp him, having snuck up from behind. He dropped the Blue and another vine snatched at it. Telyn slashed at the green fingers and seven of them, formed of tightly rolled leaves, fluttered to the stone tables.

Brand suspected suddenly that this might be Myrrdin’s plan all along. Perhaps this entire thing was a ruse to get Tomkin’s Jewel. The manling talked a good game, but Brand knew he was no master of Lavatis yet. He would be weak at this point, what better moment to take the Jewel?

This thought, finally, made him give himself over to his anger. He went wild with the axe, letting it have its head, so to speak. Grunting with effort he slashed his way into the darkening room, blasting apart writhing vines and wooden limbs. At times he struck stone chairs and tables, and those he cleaved through as well.

Finally, he struck something that his axe stuck into, and the monster shivered. He had severed its trunk. He pulled back his axe with a fantastic effort and struck again at the same spot. The monster toppled, taking much of the room and the roof with it.

When he climbed upward atop the thrashing foliage, he saw the open sky of morning. The plant had lifted the wooden roof from the Inn and left it out in the yard in its wild death throes.

“Myrrdin!” roared Brand, “Don’t make me slay you!”

“Would you, Brand?” asked a voice to his side.

Brand twisted and faced Myrrdin, who extricated himself from the ruins of the Inn and the massive plant. He stood with his staff raised in a defensive posture. He still glared at Brand.

“Know this, he who all River Folk have called a friend,” said Brand, “The old days are gone. Creatures like the gnomes must understand that we are no longer their playthings. It is they who must accommodate us. It is they who must learn fear and humility and proper manners. No longer shall any being lure a human child into a forest and perform foul deeds upon it without knowing a quaver of fear.”

“What of the gnomes? What of their bodies you used to build a tomb?”

“They had best hope that my vengeance is done. For I’m going now into their dark lands, and their best hopes lie in vanishing into the farthest reaches of that place.”

Myrrdin looked shocked at his words. Brand knew that he had shaken the very foundations of the worlds where long-lived creatures dwelt. Like elderly people they had a hard time learning new ways. But he would teach them.

“Now, return Lavatis,” said Brand. At this, Tomkin appeared, hissing. He was beyond words. His Jewel had been taken by the plant beast and he scrambled about in the death growth still, seeking it.

“I do not have it,” said Myrrdin.

Brand struck. The axe flashed and Myrrdin’s upraised staff was cut in twain. There was a burst of energy as the two Jewels touched. Both Brand and the wizard were blown backward, staggering.

“You would slay me?” asked Myrrdin.

“If I had meant to, you would be dead,” growled Brand. Both got to their feet. “But if I had the proper cause, never doubt that I would slay anyone.”

“I told you, I do not have the Blue. Do doubt my word?” asked Myrrdin, “for I do not doubt yours. Decide if you have proper cause to slay me, and decide now,” so saying, he got to his feet and stood before Brand proudly. A breeze blew up and tousled his hair. He stood imperiously.

Brand’s axe urged him to strike. This was an unbelievable opportunity. Finally, in a single clean stroke, he would rid the world of this meddlesome wizard and his commanding ways. No longer would the River Folk—

—bend a knee to his kind.

Brand shook himself. He put away the axe.

Myrrdin nodded to him, then took up the two broken halves of his staff. He touched them together and they grew into one whole piece again on the instant.

With no further words, he departed toward the Deepwood, his swift stride taking him quickly away.

“I found it!” shouted Telyn suddenly.

Brand had been watching Myrrdin’s retreat. He whirled around to look at her. She stooped and reached down into the ruins of the plant.

“No!” shouted Brand, but it was too late.

Telyn had touched the Blue Jewel.

Chapter Nine

Snowdon

Modi and his company retreated from the lava chambers and headed back up the ruby tunnels. After a few days of travel, they had reached the location of the ancient plug in the tunnel floor. None of the Kindred dared so much as tread upon the burned metallic surface of the plug, save for Modi himself, who stood upon it while he addressed his fellows. As he spoke, each of them flicked their eyes down to the circular expanse of molten rock and iron. The miners circled him, but none stood so closely as to set foot upon the blackened area. Beneath that ancient plug they knew some forgotten evil lurked.

“We’ve come this far, and I want to thank you all for a successful trip,” said Modi holding up a brass lantern bigger than the skull of a Kindred. It cast yellow squares of light over all their faces and made their eyes gleam as they looked at him.

“I’m sure Gamal has made it back home by now, and my father has sent a patrol to meet us. We will not keep them waiting for long.”

At his talk of patrols, many of the miners relaxed. Their spirits had steadily dropped since Githa’s death. They had their loot and they wanted out of the Everdark now.

Modi indicated the ancient scorched area he stood upon. “We will mark this spot on our private maps for future exploration. I would like to come back here, after consulting the ancient texts. I hope to learn what might have once dwelled beneath this very spot.”

None of the miners could help but glance down at his feet where the unknown slept. Their eyes showed concern, rather than a lust for exploration. Only Modi seemed interested in this plug. His eyes did shine and he smiled, a very rare thing for the huge warrior. All there knew that dreams of glory drove him more than riches, an unusual twist of mind for one of the Kindred.

“Yes, right here. Something must be below us. We will come back here, and we will know the truth of it. And if you all are too cowardly, if you all wish to embarrass our ancestors with your love of your filthy skins and shiny stones, I’ll do it alone!”

None dared meet his eye now. Some glanced furtively over their shoulders into the dark tunnels, dreaming no doubt of being at the far end of them and back in the Earthlight far above. Others watched the blackened plug Modi stood upon with big eyes, as if whatever slithered below might be offended by Modi’s words and swallow him up.

Modi gave them a dismissive snort. “You all fear this thing, don’t you? Most likely, whatever it was is long dead, if its type can die. Here, I’ll show you.”

He took his heavy pick from his belt and raised it. A few gasped in horror, realizing his intent, and reached out to stop his arm. They did not stop him of course, partly because doing so would have required treading upon the plug, and partly because none of them had the strength to stop that great arm from descending anyway.

Modi slammed the pick downward with a grunt of effort. The tunnels rang with the sound of the blow. Black chips sprayed.

Breathing hard, all the Kindred backed away from him. Everyone stared. But a minute passed and nothing happened.

“Ha!” snorted Modi, returning his pick to his belt. “See? Long dead. Long turned to dust. If anything is down there, it is probably nothing but spines and bones. But maybe, just maybe, there is a rich hoard lying in that puddle of dust.”

He had their attention again with this last thought. They blinked at him. He had wanted to leave them with dreams of unknown riches. Some of them, he knew, would follow him back here, should they make it to the surface after this successful trip. Someday, he would plunder this ancient blocked hole of both its secrets and its treasures.

“We set camp right here,” he told them, stabbing downward with a thick finger. “I will sleep upon this plug. I find the texture of it inviting for my bedroll.”

And he did so, and none there dared argue with him.

* * *

Telyn did not collapse when she touched Lavatis. Instead, she stood stock-still. The Blue Jewel shimmered in her hand. She stared at nothing at all, or at something no one else could see, transfixed. Brand took two strides across the rubble of the Inn toward her, but Tomkin was faster. He leapt at her, hissing. Brand’s hand strayed to his axe, but it was all over before he reached them.

Tomkin had the Jewel again in a second and stuffed it under his cap. Blood dribbled from his teeth. Brand’s eyes went to Telyn’s fingers. There was blood there too, but he did a quick count and saw that she still had all ten. He released his grasp upon the axe and forced himself to calm down. He had already fought with one Jewel today, he did not need to face Tomkin and the Rainbow in a second squabble.

He wrapped his arms around Telyn to comfort her, but she took no notice of him. She stood there, blinking. Her hands still held the pose of one grasping an object. Blood dribbled from her fingertips.

“It was like...” she finally began, when she could speak. She sounded as one might when awakening from a dream. “I was there. I was in the clouds. I was one with the sky.”

“Are you able to walk?” asked Brand. He put a hand upon her shoulder.

She touched his hand with bleeding fingers and looked at him. “How do you stand it, Brand? How do you keep from going mad when you have such power in your hands?”

Brand didn’t answer. Instead, he turned an angry eye to Tomkin, who stood above on the teetering peak of the ruin that had once been the Inn. “Did you have to bite her?”

Tomkin shrugged. “She is practically unharmed. Let’s see what you do when I grab hold of that axe of yours in the middle of the night.”

Brand wasn’t happy, but he had to concede the manling’s point. The Jewels, when you possessed them, possessed the bearer at least as tightly. Like jealous lovers, any wielder of a Jewel of Power would fight to keep hold of it. No one could resist the pull they had over the mind. Brand, right then, was more impressed with Gudrin than he ever had been. She had freely given him the axe, even after she had borne it and wielded it in battle. He understood only now what an effort of will that must have been for her.

Once he was certain that neither Telyn’s body or mind was broken, he looked around the destroyed Inn and felt ashamed. One of the four great slabs of granite had popped loose and fallen into the cobbled street. The roof was gone, having been removed by Myrrdin’s writhing creation. Roots had dug up the floorboards as well, exposing the cellar. Kindred were returning to the scene, hands on hips or planted in beards. They clucked their tongues and shook their heads at the destruction.

Brand gave a single gold coin to the Innkeep. It was not enough to repair all the damage, but it was all he could spare. The Innkeep took the payment with what grace she could muster. Brand suspected if he had not scared them all with the display of unleashed sorcery in the middle of town, things might have gone differently. He also felt grateful for the purse of money he carried. The Riverton council, natural misers all, had seen fit to reward him with a stipend fitting a lord with the title of the Champion of the Haven. They had probably never suspected he would be doling out their money to repair wrecked Kindred inns, however.

They gathered up the roan and what belongings they could locate within the rubble and beat a hasty exit out of Gronig. The road they took followed a winding path up the nearest mountainside. They passed dozens of mines that opened like mouths in the cliffs.

Telyn’s leg was better, and after a time she took to walking again. Her limp was only a slight one, and Brand didn’t want her leg to stiffen before they had to go down into a tunnel where they would not be able to take the horse, so he didn’t argue. As soon as she climbed down from the horse Tomkin took her place. Soon, in the manner of folk that march up a steep mountain, they saved their breath for marching and spoke little. Except for Tomkin, however, who spoke a hundred words for every one of theirs whether he stood on the horse or trotted along beside them.

He told them funny stories about what the Kindred would do upon the site of the “Great Battle of Gronig”, as he had taken to calling today’s events. He suggested they may build a monument, or a shrine, or a place for festivals to be held. He described plays with mock battles fought upon a stone stage with Kindred gathered around raptly watching the re-enactment.

“Battle? It was really more of an argument,” said Telyn.

“What?” squawked Tomkin. “Never! Three Jewels of Power raised in anger in one stone hovel? The Kindred are lucky they yet breathe, one and all of them.”

They smiled at him while he went on in great detail, excitedly over-inflating his role in the events of the day. They did not bother to point out he had never actually used Lavatis to do anything. They knew it was a point that would not be appreciated.

Along the way they passed carts pulled by teams of large goats. The mountain goats and the wheels of their carts passed alarmingly close to the cliff that had grown to their right as they proceeded northward to Snowdon. Brand imagined that if just one of the goats slipped, the entire cart, driver and load might go over the side. They were large white mountain goats, however, and the sure-footed creatures seemed very confident. Their drivers dozed under floppy leather hats as they sat on their buckboards, knowing their goats knew the way.

When these carts came down toward them, both sides had to work to find a turnout spot so they could both pass safely. Fortunately, turnouts were placed frequently along the road, at measured distances. The Kindred were always organized, at least in their construction efforts.

They walked all day. The road usually climbed, but leveled off in places and finally reaching its highest point by early afternoon. The road, once up at the top, widened somewhat and more traffic was in evidence. Brand marveled at the number and variety of carts and travelers. Goat carts were in profusion, transporting all manner of goods. There were patrols of Kindred who were clearly of the warrior clan, marching in formation with red cloaks flapping. Each trooper carried a crossbow which rested on their shoulders. Their polished scalemail shimmered brightly in the sun and an axe rode on every belt.

They had one of the very few horses in evidence. Brand wasn’t surprised, as horses required a lot of flat grassland to support and there was precious little of that in this place. Kindred lands consisted almost entirely of mountains with dense forests huddling against stone cliffs. The Kindred would have little use for horses or cavalry of any kind.

By nightfall, they had finally reached the ramp that led up to the great Gate of Snowdon. The gates were fashioned entirely out of stone and metal. The doors themselves, which were swung wide during the day and shut tightly at night, were the now familiar slabs of granite. The great hinges and the locking mechanism, each of which was larger than Brand was tall, were made of black iron.

Snow coated the entire body of Snowdon, and Brand understood it’s name better when he saw it. He had never walked upon a true mountain before, and he was awed by the beauty of it. The most amazing thing was the view down around them, which reached all the way in the west to the sea.

Telyn stared that way. The noted a strange scent in the air, a not unpleasant tang. Tomkin rolled his eyes at them and explained the unique scent of the seas. The two River Folk marched northward, entranced. To their left, far down the rocky slopes, was a wild looking region of forests and open white snowfields that ran down to an endless gray-blue body of water such as few of their folk had seen for generations. Brand thrilled inside to know that he gazed upon the open sea. Few folk from the Haven had ever seen it. To the right and east, the Deepwood bordered the mountains and led eventually, beyond the range of their vision, to the distant Berrywine along which they had spent their lives.

Soon, they came to the great gates and were there eyed coldly by the guards. They were allowed to pass within without harassment. Tomkin bowed to them mockingly. Brand was under the instant impression they recognized the manling. It had to irk them, having one of the Wee Folk freely allowed to travel by their post at will. They had, only months ago, been at war with his kind.

Brand was surprised by the gust of heat that came up to into their faces as they entered the mountain. It was as if a giant, huge beyond all imagining, blew hot breath into their faces. The passage into the mountain sang with the passage of this unnatural wind, exchanging hot air for cold.

Once inside, the two river folk halted and stared.

“What? What?” complained Tomkin. “Don’t tell me you two are mooning again?”

They made no response, as they were shocked. The place was so alien, it was so beyond their experience, that they did not know what to think. They barely knew what they were seeing.

The Earthlight, which is what the Kindred called the interior of Snowdon, was a strange place. Some would say it was among the strangest places inhabited upon this world, at least by civilized folk. Much of the interior of Snowdon was hollowed out, but although the mountain served as a rocky shell, the shell was by no means a thin one. The solid stone walls were at least two hundred paces thick at the thinnest spots. The entire cavern, if such a large enclosed space could even be called a cavern, was lit by a deep orange-red glow. This was the source of heat that came up into their faces and blew back their hair as they entered the gates.

From the Great Gates a winding path led downward, interrupted along the way by several strongholds. These were castles or towers, carved from the rock of the mountain itself. The Kindred rarely built structures. They preferred to sculpt them with their picks out of the living stone of the mountain. These towers and castles, all seven of them, were placed mostly along the path down to the floor of the great cavern. There, at the distant bottom, they could see a far larger structure had been carven from the very heart of the mountain. It was the eighth and final defensive structure, and they knew it must be the Citadel of the Earthlight. The sculpted citadel served the Kindred as their capital.

Brand and Telyn managed to get their feet moving again. They had to tug at their roan’s reins, as he didn’t like this alien place and tried hard to bolt. After they had fed him carrots and put blinders on him, they managed to lead him down the broad road toward the distant floor, following the road around the curving walls of the mountain.

In the distance on the western side, they could see the great vents, all three of which stood wide. From these all the light and heat of the place came, as they opened upon the furnace that existed many thousands of feet below. Magma chambers belched fire, but for the most part the light and heat was even and steady. Brand wondered what might happen if the magma ever bubbled up in a torrent from the depths of the Earth, as he understood it sometimes did. He shuddered to think of all the Kindred in their vast habitat being burned away to nothing in a wave of molten rock. He could see, however, that many canals had been built to channel away such eruptions to safer areas. Many of the eight strongholds in sight used these deep channels as encircling moats, in fact. Most were full of water, but in he could see how they might be filled with hot lava should the ocean of it ever overflow into the cavern.

“Stop dawdling,” complained Tomkin as they made their way slowly down the path, pointing and gawking like farm boys at a fair. “The vents will close in a few hours, and it’s hard to tell your hand from your tooth down here without it. We’ll be forced to camp upon the road itself.”

Not liking the sound of that, as they were still thousands of feet from the floor of the cavern, they picked up the pace.

As they passed the first of the great towers that stood along the way, Brand better understood their defensive nature. In order to invade the Earthlight from the surface, even if you did manage to blast your way past the fantastic gates, you had to literally press through every one of the towers and castles. They all blocked the only path of entry, squatting directly upon the road itself and there was no way around. Each one had two portcullises that must be passed through to continue on down the road.

It took the rest of the “day” to reach the bottom of the spiraling roadway and to pass all seven of the towers along the way. At the bottom, they were tired, but jubilant to have reached their goal. In the west, the three great vents had closed half-way, dimming the light to a deep red. This was the nightfall for the Kindred. Each day was exactly the same length in the Earthlight, with the opening of the vents and their closing each taking an hour to complete. These hours served as both dawn and dusk. In the day, it was always warmer, and the in the night, when the great vents were shut down to glimmering red slits, it grew cool.

Brand sought an Inn to stay at, but Tomkin persuaded him to seek out Gudrin immediately. Brand agreed the matter was urgent and sent Tomkin ahead to the citadel to tell the clanmaster they had arrived.

Brand watched Tomkin bound off on the task, thinking him perhaps too eager for a mundane duty. He wondered what Gudrin had promised him for this mission’s completion. Probably, more wisdom in the matter of wielding Lavatis. If that was the case, she was indeed worried for Modi’s life. He knew well that she did not approve of Tomkin possessing the Blue Jewel. For her to aid him, she must have been hard pressed.

* * *

Eyes.

At first, they had thought they were the glittering reflections of the rubies they had yet to pluck from the tunnel walls. But when the eyes stared, then blinked, they knew the truth. These were the eyes of living beings that shone like red fireflies in the darkness.

The eyes retreated as they approached. So smoothly and silently did they retreat, that the Kindred company thought these enemies too cowardly to face an armed foe. The miners laughed at them, snapped crossbow bolts into the dark and sent them scurrying away.

Then the first trap was sprung and they realized that the enemy had a plan. Their foe had been working hard toward their demise all along. The enemy was not so much cowardly, but cunning.

The unlucky miner Dugald was struck by a falling block. The stone, carefully placed and propped in a shaft overhead, dropped when his boot touched a tripwire. The blow did not strike his head, but rather crushed down his right shoulder. The clavicle snapped and the right side of his body was not shorn away, but instead folded down, so that his right arm hung six inches lower than his left. A human so stricken would have passed from consciousness, but Kindred bodies were not built the same way. Being a hardy soul, Dugald did not die immediately. He raved, and when death finally took him it was unclean.

They gathered around Dugald and did what they could for him. All of them were angry, sad and fearful, except for Modi, who was only angry. They fired their crossbows into the dark at the glittering eyes, but struck nothing. Occasionally, heavy obsidian-tipped darts were thrown back at them.

“Kobolds,” said Modi, in the manner of one spitting out a curse. No one argued with him. The evidence was clear. Kobolds rarely dared come near the lands of the Kindred, but here in the Everdark, the hated race plagued them. They must have run into a tribe of them.

“Every step of the way from here to the Earthlight will be full of traps,” said Modi, voicing the fears of them all. He stood with his heavy hands on his hips, frowning into the tunnels. He thought hard before he spoke and every one of his crew hung on his words.

“We can’t continue right into the teeth of them. They will kill one of us each day, always retreating. Therefore, we will camp and conserve our supplies. We will hope for one of three things.”

He put up a thick finger, black with cave dust. “A rescue might come from behind them. They will then be caught between our two forces and we shall paint the walls of this tunnel with their blood.”

The Kindred hooted at this prospect. Revenge for the cooling corpse of Dugald was second in their thoughts now, second only to survival.

Modi continued with his next scenario. “Kobolds are easily bored. They might just wander off on their own, leaving us for their traps. That would give us time to disarm them at our leisure.”

“What is the last possibility, milord?” asked one named Njal, who although lean, carried the biggest pack among them.

“They will grow bored and attack, thinking us weak.”

“And what if they choose that option?”

Modi shrugged his great shoulder unconcernedly. “Then we will slay them all, of course.”

Chapter Ten

The Earthlight

Brand and Telyn stabled their roan in a stone stable that barely cleared his head. Telyn worried that if the roan threw his head in the night, he might be injured. Brand thought a good conk on the skull may do the horse some good.

After all her riding of him, Telyn had clearly developed a closeness with the horse that none other had ever possessed. Brand had to admit that much. She could coax him now into taking a carrot from her mouth and allowed her to scratch his ears at will. Mounting him was no problem for her now; the roan would stand and barely shuffled about when she threw her leg over his back. She had removed the bit from his mouth as well, and Brand had not argued. If she could control the beast, she could ride bareback and he wouldn’t care. The animal needed to be tamed, and he didn’t have the time nor the temperament for the task.

When Tomkin returned, he led two of the Kindred who were clearly citadel guards. Their red cloaks flapped behind them and they huffed as they ran after the bounding little fellow who left them in his wake so easily. Righting their helmets and arranging their jangling chainmail, they snapped salutes to Brand in greeting.

“Please come with us, milord,” they said. Brand and Telyn followed them, carrying their gear. The soldiers insisted on relieving them of their burdens, and after a short time of wrangling, Brand allowed them to do so. He felt silly marching behind the red cloaks, who were armed and armored and still stacked three feet high with baggage. But the Kindred bore these burdens without strain or complaint, so Brand finally sighed and stopped worrying about it. They were like oxen, these people, he thought to himself, shaking his head. Whatever they lacked in speed, they made up triply for it in sturdiness and stamina.

Entering the Citadel of Snowdon was, if anything, more impressive and awe-inspiring than had been their passage through the Great Gates. The structure was both indescribably beautiful and stark at the same time. Carven with lofty towers, all made from a single massive block of black basalt, it reminded Brand of an ice sculpture he had seen once at a Drake clan wedding, but formed all of stone. Banners and tapestries adorned the place. Iron fittings held every doorway, but wood was rarely used except for the six-inch thick doors themselves, which were fashioned of ancient oak.

Following the Kindred through a labyrinth of passages, they finally found their way to Gudrin’s apartments which sat high in a northern tower. Brand and Telyn were glad to meet her and everyone touched hands and shoulders. Brand thought about hugging Gudrin, but stopped himself, knowing that the Kindred were not used to such familiarities. Telyn, however, was not able to contain herself and embraced her. Gudrin tolerated the contact, blinking and standing stock-still.

Tomkin, for his part, stood atop a pile of scrolls on Gudrin’s great desk. He struck a pose that reminded Brand of a cat who had dined well upon wildlife. He seemed pleased with himself.

“What did I say? Can I not deliver that which is promised?” he asked of no one in particular.

Gudrin extricated herself from Telyn and retreated behind her massive stone desk. She shooed Tomkin off her papers and smiled at them.

“I’m very glad you came. I realize you must have used all haste to arrive so quickly. Tomkin, you did very well, and I’m most pleased with all of you.”

The River Folk smiled and Tomkin stood upon another book, but this time further away and out of her easy reach.

“I’m sure Tomkin has told you why I’ve asked for you,” said Gudrin, turning serious. “Modi is missing, he’s a week overdue and one of his company returned injured and bearing grim news. They had, at that time, suffered a single death and requested aid. Modi’s father, Hallr, saw fit to deny the request.”

“Why?” asked Brand. “Is he not interested in the survival of his own son?”

Gudrin studied her blocky hands. “Modi, as you know, is a headstrong individual, even for one of the Kindred.”

Brand had to concede that point. They all nodded.

“Hallr is just like him, only older and possibly more stubborn. To understand, one only has to think how Modi would treat his own son, should that son flagrantly disregard his wishes.”

Brand inhaled, understanding better. His own father had been dead for many years, but he had watched other men battle with their sons. Two strong-willed individuals didn’t always make for the most harmonious family life.

“Yes, but to deny aid... To let him die?”

Gudrin turned up her palms. “These are two extreme individuals. I should tell you that if Modi does survive this, his father will be secretly pleased. Perhaps it is something of a test, something to demonstrate to all watching that Modi might be worthy as a successor to Hallr.”

“Such a succession is not automatically inherited, then?”

“No! Never!” said Gudrin as if scandalized. “The Kindred have no King. We have no lords, at least not in the traditional sense of them. We are not lords, we are clanmasters. That is not the same thing. It is an elected post, selected and elected by elders.”

“But I’ve noticed the red cloaks still refer to clanmasters as lords. And the process is still political in any event.”

Gudrin conceded this point.

“Very well, where is the entrance to the Everdark, and how do I get there?”

She smiled and nodded. “I’m gladdened to hear you speak like that, Brand. It makes me certain I called for the right aid. Perhaps you should freshen yourselves with a single night here first, however?”

“That depends. How long do you think it will take to get down to where Modi was lost? And will I have a guide?”

“I can’t send any of the red cloaks with you. It has been forbidden,” she answered, “But Gamal can guide you. He is of the clan of miners. He is the one who brought us Modi’s message from the deeps in the first place. It is my impression that it will take days to reach Modi, if not weeks.”

“Weeks?” asked Brand, shocked. Just how big of a place was the Everdark? It had only taken them three days to travel here from the Haven.

Gudrin read his mind. “It is indeed a very large place. But that is not what takes so long. Traveling vertically through shafts is nothing like following roads. Think of the effort it would have taken for you to scale those cliffs outside on Snowdon’s shoulders, rather than to have followed a nicely carved road.”

Brand understood and rubbed his face. He had not really thought about what this journey would be like. He had never spent any time below ground in his life. The furthest he had gone underground was probably Gram Rabing’s root cellar, which had two levels to it.

“In the morning then,” he said. “When the Great Vents open.”

And so it was agreed.

* * *

Dawn in the Earthlight. It was a different sort of dawn, with the light that streamed in the window being a deep red at first which built slowly to a brighter yellow-orange. Normally, dawn in the world of wind and sun started off with a bluish color. Brand blinked awake on a stiff mattress and felt a soreness in his shoulders. He reflected that the Kindred liked their beds almost as hard as the stone the bed sat upon. What’s more, his feet hung over the end of the bed, his ankles having floated in free space all night long.

He joined Telyn, who was already up and looking out the window. The window was strange as well. Not only was it a carven circular hole cut through the stone slab of the wall, but it had no glass. None of the windows Brand had seen down in the Earthlight seemed to have glass, it was not needed as there was little in the way of wind and nothing like a rainstorm. They were, after all, deep inside a mountain.

They had spent the night in the inn at the bottom of the great spiraling road that led up to the Gates of Snowdon. The inn they found unremarkable, except for being built of stone slabs, full of grit underfoot and Kindred everywhere else. The beer, of course, was excellent. It served very well to wash the gray dust from their throats.

After a fine breakfast of salamander steaks, toasted mushrooms and “breakfast beer” which seemed to consist of beer flavored with citrus, they were ready to move again.

A miner of the Kindred came up to their table. He was lean of build and his muscles showed in stark relief upon his arms, rippling beneath the skin when he lifted them in greeting.

“I’m Gamal,” he told them simply, “I’m honored to meet friends of Modi.”

Brand and Telyn greeted him warmly. They invited him to breakfast. He hesitated, fumbling with his cap, but then sat and quickly ate his fill.

“We must go immediately,” he said. There was a haunted look in his eyes.

“Do you think they still live?” Brand asked.

Gamal pressed his lips into a line and nodded. “Modi will not die easily. As to the others, I’m not sure.”

Knowing Modi, Brand had to agree. “There’s been no further word?”

“Nothing.”

“We should leave in all haste then. What is the fastest route?”

Gamal shifted uneasily. “There are two paths. One is the route we took to reach the spot. That is safe, but long. We would take at least a week. Maybe ten days.”

“Too long,” said Brand, “what is the second route?”

Gamal licked his lips. “We could head down the shafts near the Earthlight. They are very close to the magma chambers...”

“How long?”

“A day, maybe two. But, milord, it will be hazardous. Possibly deadly,” said Gamal. He lifted his hands and tugged, wincing as he removed his blackened gloves. He revealed his burned fingers. They could see his hands were still oozing blood and charred in spots. Blisters were in evidence up to the wrist. One of the fingers was missing at the mid-point, terminating in a dirty bandage.

Telyn touched his hand and offered to rewrap the wounds. Gratefully, he let her do so.

“I’m surprised that the clan of physicians have done so poor a job,” said Brand, looking on in concern.

Gamal snorted and leaned closer over the table. “I’ve not shown them the wounds. Nothing about this mission is acceptable to some.”

Brand lowered his voice so their conversation was more private. “What do you mean?”

“The warrior clan has spat upon Modi’s quest. The physicians follow their lead, and it is as if we never existed.”

“They shun you? Is this a command of some kind?”

“The Kindred have no King,” quoted Gamal, “but clanmaster Hallr is the closest thing to a King that we do have.”

Brand nodded. In situations without clear leadership, he had learned, the fellows with the weapons tended to run things.

Tomkin declined to go with them, saying that his kind were creatures of the open forest not dank caves. He was obviously anxious to work with Gudrin, who had promised him help with mastering the Blue Jewel. Brand didn’t object to him staying behind. Even if he had been able to really wield Lavatis, what good was sky magic miles beneath the surface? He would not be able to summon the Rainbow down here. It would be best, as an ally of the Haven, that Tomkin learned to properly control the Blue Jewel.

For similar reasons, he didn’t ask that Gudrin travel with them. Her wisdom would be appreciated, but she was old and relatively slow. This was supposed to be a rescue mission and speed was of the essence in such affairs.

Lastly, they left behind the roan in the stables. The horse didn’t even like the Earthlight, and there was no point in trying to take it into the Everdark. So it was that only Telyn, Brand and Gamal who loaded themselves up with all the supplies they could and hiked toward the Great Vents.

As they approached, the ground grew more unstable. There were cracks everywhere, some of which gusted up hot air into their faces as they passed. The further they went, and hotter it became. Soon, they tread in the hot ash near the Great Vents. These incredible constructs, which had seemed huge at a distance, came to tower over them.

It was only as they came close that Brand realized just how massive the three louvers that made up the Great Vents were. Each mechanism was taller than a tower, perhaps a hundred feet high. They were far longer than tall, perhaps a half a mile wide. He had always been impressed by Kindred engineering, but he was now beyond impressed. He was stunned. In Riverton, a three-story building was a big achievement and rarely seen. He felt his people were simple and backward in comparison.

As they drew closer, they met up with the workers who manned the vents. They were an unforgiving group. The clan of mechnicians were not know as social butterflies.

“What business have you here?” demanded the first that they met. She was dressed all in black leather—black because it had been scorched, not dyed. She carried a huge wrench over her shoulder, a bar of greased dirty iron that must have weighed a hundred pounds.

“Excuse me,” said Gamal of the miners. Brand noted that all the Kindred, no matter how high their clan, tended to show respect for others if they were clearly treading upon their territory. Even a warrior, for example, would show deference to a farmer if he was tromping across a patch of cultivated mushrooms.

“I have with me two visitors who’ve come from far lands to admire the Earthlight in all its glory.”

This softened the attitude of the mechnician. She raised her thickly gloved hand to them. “They are not properly attired,” she said. “They sweat already, and we are not yet to the green zone. If you take them to the purple, they will swoon and die in minutes.”

Gamal agreed, nodding his head. Brand raised his eyebrows, this was news to him.

“I was wondering if perchance any of your people had a spare heatsuit... Or two, as the case may be.”

She looked at him harshly. “We are not accustomed to tourists here.”

“Of course not.”

Brand became irritated with the mechnician’s manner and opened his mouth to speak. Telyn put a warning hand on his arm. He looked at her, and she shook her head. Brand wiped sweat from his brow and kept his silence, letting their guide do his job.

“But this is a lord of the River Folk, and he wishes to learn of our people and our ways. What could be more critical to such an education than learning of the Earthlight, the very core of our achievements?”

“Well,” said the mechnician, puffing up a bit with pride. Brand thought that she had probably heard precious few compliments in her life. “I suppose we might have some to spare. On the basis of a loan, of course.”

“Of course,” said Gamal, smiling.

They followed her back to a stone hut that served as a rest station for the workers. There was a conduit of cooled water available in the hut. Brand and Telyn drank their fill while the mechnician threw them glances that were somewhat disdainful. Clearly, she was not of the opinion that the heat was oppressive.

The largest suit fit Telyn, but with far too much space in the shoulders, of course. For Brand, however, there was nothing that worked well. They finally had to wrap his exposed midsection in three fat belts of protective leather. This, on top of the heavy pack of supplies, became quite a burden. Brand suspected that if things went badly down there, he would have to dump his bags and draw the axe quickly for strength.

When they had managed to equip themselves and were back out into the face of the vents, Brand spoke to Gamal. “You didn’t tell her our real mission.”

“Naturally not,” said Gamal. He stopped and frowned, “are you saying I lied?”

“I didn’t mean that—”

“Very well then. There it is. Admire it so that my words might be turned to truth!”

Brand stopped and gazed at the Earthlight, smiling. Telyn came up beside him and touched his face with a black-gloved hand. The glove burned his cheek, but he didn’t shy away.

“Gamal,” he said, but the other was stumping away in annoyance. Brand hurried to catch up. “I just meant that I’m surprised. Why does no one want to help Modi?”

Gamal slowed and they trudged together up to a great fissure. It was too wide to jump over safely, being at least seven feet wide. The bottom was obscured by swirling gasses that rippled in the vision due to tremendous heat. They followed the fissure along to the right, toward the southern end of the Great Vents.

“Like I said, Hallr has decided to forget his son. Modi’s mission was never approved by his father. Quite the opposite. You see, for centuries we have not gone on deep missions into the Everdark. There are things there... Things that are best left sleeping.”

“So Modi was forbidden to go down there? He disobeyed his father?” asked Telyn.

Gamal nodded. “There was a policy. It was not law. We have no new laws, as the Kindred—”

“Have no King, yes I got that part,” said Brand irritably. Perhaps it was the heat, but he had begun to find the Kindred to be irksome.

Gamal frowned at him. “We repeat that phrase often, ‘tis true. But it is very important to us. We had Kings once, and those were very different times. You see, when the Kindred have a King, that makes us into a very different people. Instead of doing the same thing every day, we do what the King wants. If we are lucky enough to have a good King, then we do good things. But if the King is not the most excellent....”

“You mean you will not build new buildings without a King?”

Gamal shrugged. “We might, but even that would be frowned upon. We would certainly not hollow out a new mountain, or declare war on an old enemy.”

Brand looked at him, nodding. If the Kindred had no King, they kept to their old ways, dormant in a sense. Nothing new was done. So, by Modi’s decision to travel deeply into the Everdark, he was breaking with tradition. This was why no one was helping them. Modi had done something new without authority.

“How would the Kindred gain a new King, were that ever to happen?” he asked.

Gamal slid his eyes to look at him for a moment, then he looked away. He thought before answering. “All the clanmasters would have to agree that such a bold move were necessary. All the clanmasters would have to agree on who the new King would be as well. Such an agreement, shared among the most conservative of all our folk, is difficult to imagine. The need must be so dire that nothing else will suffice.”

“Something like a war? Like if some enemy breached the Gates of Snowdon?”

Gamal nodded, not liking the thought. “Something like that, yes.”

“So your people only have a King in times of crisis?” asked Telyn. “How long has it been since the last one?”

“Five centuries and eight decades.”

Brand whistled. A very long time indeed.

“And when you do select a King, how long does his rule last?”

“Until he dies, of course.”

While they had been chatting they had been making good time across the crusty surface. The cracks were many now, but narrower. In truth, they hopped now from one island of stone to another, separated like huge tiles by foot-wide fissures. They had almost reached the mechanism that controlled the Great Vents.

A massive machine of brass gears reached hundreds of feet up the stone cliffs before them. Great pipes led to the spot where the gears were based. At the bottom of them squatted an alien contrivance. Gamal told them it was a boiler and the heat from it drove great pistons that turned the gears. It seemed very vast and complex to the River Folk. The heat, they understood, came from the magma itself. Steam was used to create pressure in great tanks, which in turn powered the gears to open and close the Great Vents. Brand was impressed with this engineering marvel. As long as there was a supply of water to the spot, the machine never needed fuel. The heat of the Earth itself had been harnessed to operate the vents and to provide the cavern with heat and light as well.

The Kindred were the greatest engineers in the world.

Chapter Eleven

A Wurm Disturbed

The kobolds continued the siege. There had been flare-ups, certainly. Occasionally, the Kindred had made forays down the tunnel, firing crossbow bolts into the black unknown at any eye they saw or thought they saw. The kobolds, for their part, pulled back, tossing darts and hiding in side-tunnels. Their tactics were simple but effective, lure the miners into traps and come out of the side-tunnels from behind.

Modi and his team were very aware of their enemy, however. They were veterans of the Everdark, and had already seen two of their members die on this trip. They sent forward a squad of four with crossbows, but then kept back the majority a dozen paces behind, without lanterns. When the hiding Kobolds sprang out from side-tunnels to backstab the four crossbowmen with stone daggers, Modi and his team fell upon them from behind in turn.

A vicious fight had ensued. One of the brave crossbowmen had taken seven stab wounds and bled out. There were a dozen kobolds left on the tunnel floor, which was slick with mixed bloods.

After the battle, Modi called his team back to build up barricades of rock, more than half-blocking the tunnel. There they waited, and the siege continued.

Sieges tend to work upon the minds of men and of Kindred alike. Many grow complacent, taking the situation as a new condition of life. They adjust to it, and philosophically wait it out. Others are not so lucky. For some, a siege is the height of frustration. They know they can’t end the tension, but they want to and each passing day makes the situation swell in their minds. They grow restive and desperate.

Modi was one of the latter types. He understood a siege, the tactics and the appropriate response. In fact, it was by his order they had halted and allowed it to begin. But he had seen no sign of aid arriving. Each day ate at him, and he suspected he had made a mistake. He suspected his mission was dissolving into a colossal failure. The same failure this father had so glumly predicted when Modi had first brought the idea to him.

Where in the nine hells was Gamal? He had sent the fool up into the chimneys a week ago. Had he died up there? Had he found a wife and started a new family farm?

Modi could have led another advance. Perhaps, if they killed another dozen of the Kobolds they would lose heart. But he might well lose another miner, and there were precious few of them left. The Kindred were much better fighters, but there were always more of the enemy. For the same reason, he didn’t want to send another man up to the surface. If Gamal had failed, what chance did the second man have? Besides, sending another man up meant one less down here to protect their hoard of rubies.

And so, Modi needed another outlet for his energies.

The great plug, as black as iron, made lumpy and burnt centuries ago, squatted at his feet. It was a puzzle, a mystery, and it was at hand. Did another exit exist right beneath their feet? Often, when traveling in caves, one had to go down to reach a point at which an upward opening could be found. They were far enough from the magma chambers here, they shouldn’t find a roasting pit down below. Almost certainly, whatever had been sealed was long since dead. There were few beasts that could live isolated for centuries in a hole.

Modi pulled his pick from his belt. A few eyes slid to watch him. The miners, who had been talking in low voices, quieted.

Modi drew a great breath.

“We must do something,” he told his company, “we can’t just sit here forever. We will run low on supplies soon, and be forced to abandon all the loot we’ve gotten.”

The company shifted uncomfortably at the thought. They had all, of course, had the same thought run through their minds. At some point, they would have to decide to leave their rubies or die here. This was a hard thought for any Kindred to entertain, as once a gem has fallen into one of their dusty pouches, it was a very difficult thing indeed to remove it.

“We have one last option, and it is better than doing nothing. We can dig through this plug. Beyond it may be nothing. But perhaps, we will find another route upward. And, with great luck, there might be something worth taking home with us.”

So saying, and before any there could call a halt to his hand, Modi raised the pick and struck downward with all the force of his heavy arms. The tunnel rang with the sound of the strike. Black chips of stone sprayed everyone.

He struck again, and again.

* * *

The offspring of dragons take a great deal of time to hatch. They must lie dormant for many centuries undisturbed before they will quicken with life and erupt from their leathery eggs. Because they need so very long to incubate, their parents sometimes place them in a permanently warm spot, such as near a lava flow. This strategy has its obvious dangers. Locations such as volcanoes provide permanent geothermal heat, but are often unstable. There are likely to be earthquakes or eruptions of lava in such spots. Another strategy often taken by the mother is to hibernate with the eggs, thus guarding them and warming them with her natural body heat through the many long years. If any behavior can be called common when dragons are concerned, this would be one. Most female dragons opt for this strategy to ensure their young eventually hatch. Fewer eggs are produced, but the young are much more likely to hatch and survive to maturity with the mother there to protect them.

These habits, not well understood by other beings, have spawned many of the legendary stories of encountering dragons sleeping in lairs. Why are dragons so often found sleeping deep within the earth? To guard their eggs, naturally. Why have great treasures been found with such sleeping dragons? Because of all the other adventurers who discovered the dragon centuries earlier, and died there, leaving behind their wealth. Why do stories of dragon raids commonly end with the dragon leaving, or vanishing deep within the earth? Because they have lain down with their eggs, and have slept so long they have become only hazy legends to the short-lived folk who wisely fear them.

And so it was with Sigrid, the deep blue dragon who slumbered far beneath the peak of Snowdon and far beneath the caverns that the Kindred had hollowed from that mountain. Sigrid slept in that zone of the underworld known to the Kindred as the Everdark. She slept in a place that was very deep, but not so deep as to become hot and unbearable. The rock here was solid and cool to the touch.

This region of the Everdark was a mile-thick layer of rock, rivers and sunless cavern vistas which was primarily inhabited by creatures without eyes and often without minds as well. The lowest creatures and growths here derived sustenance from the internal heat of world rather than the external heat of the sun. Pools of solvents and oils filled vast chambers, sometimes forming seas of black liquid. It was a harsh world, and the larger more complex creatures of Everdark were alien and vicious. Among them, only a dragon could slumber without fear.

But one hour among millions was different. During that one hour, something disturbed Sigrid’s slumber.

At first, only the great scaled ears twitched, each as big as a knight’s shield. The movement would hardly have been noticeable to a witness, had there been one.

Slowly, minutes later, a single great eye cracked open. She waited, breathing perhaps once a minute. She sensed nothing and let her great eye close again.

Tap-tap-tap.

Both eyes snapped open.

There it was. The sound.  She knew what it was, in a single moment. She knew that infernal tapping. Possibly, she had been hearing it for hours, or even days. It had invaded her slow, endless dreams. It had disturbed her.

She checked her three eggs. Each was oblong and ridged with a rough leathery exterior. They were close to hatching, she could tell. She had hoped that the disturbance had been her quickening young, ripping their way from their eggs, but the time had not yet come.

Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.

She knew what the tapping meant. The Kindred were coming back.

* * *

The trip down the chimneys was worse than Brand had imagined it would be. His skin was scorched and red in a dozen spots before the first hour had ended. He hoped this was the worst hour as they were heading away from the Earthlight itself, that vast chamber of magma that bubbled a thousand feet below the Great Vents themselves.

Gamal, to their great horror, did not lead them down some neat flight of steps. Nor was there a ladder, nor even a rope to guide them. Instead, they followed a slanted shaft that seemed to lead down into Hell itself. Their hands dragged down the crumbling sides of the shaft, which went downward at sharp angles that twisted without warning, occasionally opening upon unknown black voids of darkness. Brand was immediately impressed by Gamal, as he must have traveled up this very shaft, which the River Folk found almost impossible to traverse even when sliding down it.

They had a light length of chain connecting their bodies. Each had clipped this chain to their mechnician’s belt, where loops of metal were attached for just this purpose. If one of them slipped badly or fell into a side tunnel, the others were supposed to clutch at the walls and hold the weight of the third. Chain was used, instead of rope, as rope was too easily burned through. This last bit of information Gamal had delivered unemotionally, but it left Brand with his eyes wide at the implications.

They made rapid progress at first, but soon reached their first difficulty. The shaft ended. But it did not end gracefully, dropping them onto a dusty floor. Instead, it ended in a huge cavern that swallowed all the pitiful light their miner’s lanterns could toss down into it.

“What’s down there?” asked Telyn, gazing over Gamal’s shoulder as he worked with pitons and ropes.

“Something bad,” he said simply.

“How do you know?”

“I left a rope here days ago,” he said. He lifted a short stub of rope to show them. The end of it was frayed and most of it was missing. “Something ate it.”

Brand noted that Telyn was having no difficulty with the unknown depths yawning beneath them. He recalled how she had always been the best climber of his friends. The mere sight of the chasm made Brand’s feet and hands tingle, as if they wanted to grab onto anything they could.

When Gamal had the rope out and let it fall, Telyn unsnapped herself from the chain that connected them all together. She swung out upon the rope and hung, dangling in space. Brand’s heart leapt into his mouth to see his love so endangered. He reached out and grabbed her arm. She looked up at him in surprise.

“I’m okay Brand,” she said, turning her pretty, if soot-streaked face up to him. “I’ll be fine. I’ll go slowly. Just don’t let anything eat the rope again.”

Brand let her go. Internally, he called himself six kinds of a fool for bringing her on this trip. How many times now had she faced death on this journey? This had to be the third, and that wasn’t even counting sliding down the chute they had just come to the end of.

“Just hold on to the rope, milord,” said Gamal, “I can tell she knows how to handle herself on a line.”

Brand wrapped his gloved fists in the rope and braced his feet.

Swinging a bit and shining that odd light of hers, Telyn went hand over hand down perhaps twenty feet before halting.

“Oh,” she said.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I found what ate the rope. They are working on the stray end right now.”

She shone her light downward and they saw that she was about half-way to the bottom of the chamber. The floor of it was full of beetles. Normally, that would not have been worthy of note, but these beetles were as large as sheep. Their black iridescent shells reflected back gleaming shafts of light. They were indeed chewing on the bottom of the rope, which had coiled up on the chamber floor.

“Come back up,” said Brand, sweating again. “I’ll slide down on the rope and put the axe to them.”

Telyn swayed slightly, such was the ferocity with which the beetles tore at the rope. Brand breathed hard, thinking about Telyn falling amongst them.

“I’ll take care of them,” she said confidently. She drew out her bow then, which she had looped over her back. She wrapped her legs up in the rope and hung there, her body tipping out horizontally to the ground. It made Brand’s heart pound seeing her so precariously perched. He tried to remember the many times he’d seen her do acrobatic tricks such as this without difficulty in the past.

Her bow snapped and a beetle flipped over, legs flipping and quivering. An arrow sprouted from its back.

Then another suffered the same fate, and a third, fourth and fifth.

Brand released a breath he had been holding. She was doing well.

“I think she’s going to be fine, Brand,” said Gamal, “I can see now why you brought her. Besides the obvious, of course.”

Brand frowned and was about to ask him just what ‘the obvious’ was, when a strange sound intruded on his thoughts. It was a buzzing sound. He looked down and shouted, reaching for the rope.

The beetles were flying. They had transparent wings the color of smoke under their black shells. They were all over the rope now, eating it.

“Telyn!” Brand shouted, but she was too busy to call back to him. She dropped her bow, and it clattered to the floor of the cavern. She had out her knife, and it gleamed in her hand as she slashed at the nearest of the insects that fluttered closer.

“Hold onto the rope,” Brand told Gamal.

The miner eyed him then nodded and wrapped his burnt hands up in it, grimacing.

Brand unsnapped the chain at his waist. He grabbed the rope, which a moment before he had quailed at the very sight of, and half-fell out into the chamber. He swung on the rope for a few seconds, slipping and thanking the Kindred for insisting he wear gloves. He got a firm grip with his left and drew the axe with his right. A dozen paces below, Telyn leaned out and scored a slashing hit upon a buzzing wing. Damaged, the beetle fell and landed with a crunching sound. Its companions immediately set upon it and tore it apart, as he realized they were doing with corpses of those Telyn had managed to shoot earlier.

Brand commanded Ambros to flash, and it did so, lighting up the nightmarish scene fully.

They were in chamber full of hundreds, perhaps thousands of the insects. In the middle of the chamber rested a vast corpse, reduced now to little more than bones and scraps. He had no idea what the creature had once been, as it was too alien in aspect to compare to any surface-dwelling creature. He’d seen pictures of whales in books, and perhaps that most closely described it. If one could imagine a fanged whale that lived in caverns a mile beneath the surface of the Earth and which dragged itself through tunnels on its flippers.

Surprised by the light, some of the beetles crashed into walls and fell down into the main mass of them. At least he knew then they had eyes.

Part way down now, he was uncertain how he might help Telyn. He was above her, and could not pass her without knocking her from the rope. Worse, beetles worked on the rope now at both ends, ravenously devouring it as he suspected they would devour any organic material that didn’t fight back.

“Telyn, we have to drop down into the chamber.”

She looked up at him, still slashing with her blade. She looked down then and saw the seething mass of beetles down there.

“You first,” she said, grinning. But he could tell there was fear in her. How could there not be?

“Okay, slide down, we will get close to the bottom then both jump.”

Telyn sucked in a great breath and slid down until she was no more than ten feet from the ground. Brand followed.

“The rope’s giving way!” called Gamal from above them.

Brand looked up to see several of the beetles working on it. Then he jumped, pushing away from the rope so that he wouldn’t land on Telyn’s head on the way down.

He landed on several beetles, popping them like gourds. It was disgusting, but it broke his fall. He was up and hacking at them before they could mass and pull him down. The axe flashed and they snapped and chewed at his boots. A dozen fell and his boots were scarred when the rope gave way.

Telyn gave a surprised whooping sound as she landed behind him. She found her bow again, but discovered the beetles had devoured her string. Down to her knife, she stood behind Brand, mostly ducking his backswing.

The fight lasted several more minutes, when suddenly, the beetles retreated. Brand had no idea why. Perhaps they had some kind of commander, or maybe just an instinct that triggered to cause them to flee when enough of their kind stank up the air with their crushed bodies.

In any case, the chamber soon emptied and they were left alone.

Gamal applauded them, his popping gloved hands sounding loud and echoing in the chamber. “Well done!”

They looked up at him askance. “What of the rope?”

“That one is wrecked. You carried the spare, Telyn.”

They checked and found much of her pack was torn apart. She had dropped it from her back in order to fight the insects.

“It’s too far down to jump,” said Gamal, “you will have to proceed on your own. I’ll take word back up to Gudrin.”

Gamal told them to find another shaft down, a very hot one, that would lead to a magma chamber. From there, they must find a tunnel where rubies could be found gleaming in the walls. Following that for some miles should lead them to the spot he had last known Modi to be.

Licking their lips and trying not to feel fear, the two River Folk gathered their packs, or what was left of them. They made ready to travel more deeply into the Everdark, and Brand thought to himself he had never been more afraid of a place.

Chapter Twelve

The Hag’s Long Leather Bag

Mari decided to run away the very next morning. The entire night, she could hardly sleep. She listened to the crone’s sighs, snores and grunts with trepidation. What would she do when she found Mari gone? Would she send for Mother? Would she cast a spell? Would she let that burning troll down out of the chimney, and send it running through the forest after her?

She shuddered on her dirty mat. She would not let such a thing happen to her baby, even if it were a troll. If she birthed something with hair and claws, she would cry and she would scream and perhaps die. But no one was going to burn it alive in a stove.

That night, the snow blew in under the cracks in the hut, which were numerous. The snow swirled and drifted about Mari’s mat, which lay upon the floor a few feet from the stove. Before, she had huddled even closer to the stove to keep warm, but tonight she couldn’t. The thought of that skeletal foot, ever growing new flesh and ever having it burnt away again made her skin crawl. She had wanted to run, screaming, when she had first found it. But she had controlled herself. In order to escape the crone cleanly, she needed to vanish and get several hours head start before any kind of pursuit could follow. She could have run in the night, while the crone slept, but she was afraid. She didn’t want to freeze in the dark forest. The Haven wood was not as dense and dangerous as the Deepwood, which stood on the other side of the Berrywine, but it was still a forest. She would have to wait and run in the morning.

Somehow, she managed to fall asleep before dawn, only to be awakened with a rough kick to the head, as had become the daily custom. The crone almost toppled to do it. Lifting one foot from the ground for any purpose other than taking a step was difficult for the ancient woman, but kick her she did. Mari wondered that the woman always awakened before her, just as the sun tinged the skies. She was part rooster, that old crone.

A dark thought struck her then. She thought of something, as her head throbbed and she struggled to get her swollen belly off the dirty mat. It was something she shouldn’t have thought of at all. She was a good girl, not an evil one. But she had the thought, just the same.

She thought of the bag of silver in the tree. The old woman’s hoard.

When she ran, she could hardly go back to Mother. Her mother had abandoned her here, in this horrible place, fully knowing some horrible fate awaited her. Mother had left her, rejected her. Mari knew she was on her own now.

Being on her own, traveling anywhere, getting lodging and food, would take money and she had none. But up in that leather bag, the crone had the money Mother had given her. Mari would take it, and run.

She did her morning chores. It was Saturday, and soon Mari noticed that the crone heated water upon the stove. At first, she thought she planned to brew tea as she often did, but long before the water boiled, the crone took the pot to the floor and sat in the only rickety chair the hut had.

“It’s time, dearie,” she said, gesturing toward the pot.

Mari took a step forward, uncertain as to the old woman’s meaning. “Time for what?”

The crone cackled. “How soon you forget you promises, maid of mine! It’s time for you to wash my feet. It is Saturday, you know.”

And so Mari knelt. She struggled to keep from retching as she washed the woman’s crusty, dirt-black feet. There was something different about these feet, and it was not just her annoyance with them for kicking her awake each morn. It was more than that. She knew they were not normal, human feet, not entirely. They were more like the feet of a raven, or some other creature with thick skin and nails like clicking claws. The crone never wore shoes, not even when she spent hours in the snow. Never. Mari knew something of feet in the snow. No normal feet could take that much cold. But the crone did it, every day.

Finally, at long last, the old woman left on her mysterious rounds, collecting bark and insect husks and squirming things that hibernated in holes. All the stuffs she stirred into pots to make her disgusting potions. Mari waited only long enough for the old woman to vanish into the trees.

Gathering her pitiful collection of belongings, she headed out into the open. She paused, staring up at the tree where the crone kept her stash. She chewed her lip for a full minute, then dashed to it, stumbling in the snows which were a foot deep today.

She produced a knife and stood at the foot of the tree. She hesitated, but thought of the thing that burned in the stove. She could not let her child, whatever it might be, suffer such a fate. She slashed the line. The long leather bag fell with a tinkling crash into the snow. Mari dug her hand into the bag and pulled out a surprisingly large number of coins. Mari wondered that the crone lived the way she did. Some of the richest folk in Riverton could not have owned such a fortune.

She did not take them all, just a handful. It would be more than enough.

She almost left then, but thought the better of it. She hauled the long leather bag up into the tree again and tied it off. With luck, the hag wouldn’t notice the theft for a long time, if ever.

As she made ready to leave for good, Mari had a chilling thought. She recalled the day she had looked into the chimney. The crone had known. She had known, and she had been there in an instant, gazing over her shoulder. She understood as she thought about that moment the old Fob woman was much more than a strange old woman in the forest, she was a witch. Only a witch would do these things. Only a true witch would live as a beggared hermit while a fortune sat up in her bag in the treetops.

Witches had ways of finding things, of finding people. The crone would hunt her down, and finish her and her child in the forest, or she would send something to do it for her. She would never give up, not after she realized she had been robbed.

Mari looked about the place, wondering what she could do to give herself more time. She could fire the hut, but that would just signal the witch to return sooner.

Then she thought of the thing in the chimney, and she shuddered anew. She had a new, dark thought. It was a much darker idea, one that was the worst idea she’d ever had in her life.

She decided to do it. There was no other way to be sure the crone was delayed.

She took the pot of water she’d used to wash the crone’s feet and dashed it into the stove, extinguishing the fire that had burned there for so many years.

Then she ran into the woods.

Behind her in the hut, inside the belly of the cooling, ticking stove, a skeletal foot waggled.

* * *

Piskin had had words with Puck. He had talked to him of injustice, of unfairness and greed. Puck had lamented with him, because he was upset and had been cast out of Oberon’s presence. He had been mistreated, and ever it was with such folk in such a state of mind, that creatures like Piskin found them weak and easy to move.

And so Puck had told Piskin of the maiden he met in the Haven wood, and how he had turned her from a maiden into a maid one autumn afternoon. He explained how the girl had tempted him, had teased him, had driven him wild with lust. Was this not a normal reaction for any male, especially an elven male? Had not Oberon himself reportedly done the same a millennium before, producing as a result that character known as Myrrdin? Who was Oberon, lord of the elves, but a sod who had managed to lose the Blue Jewel twice to a pack of Wee Folk? Who was such a lord to cast out Puck for a single minor trespass?

Piskin lamented long and loud with his new friend. Oberon had indeed wronged him most harshly. Ever it was that the low were trodden upon for their mistakes, while the lords did the same in even grander fashion and never felt the burden of it. Nothing could be more unfair!

And what was the name of that maid again?

Why? Just to know, as she might be about to birth a new lord among the River Folk. A new famous personage. Oh yes, Piskin really thought such a thing was more than possible. It was likely.

Mari of the Bowen clan, Puck had told him. Piskin had tsked and tutted and provided his very best sympathies. As soon as possible, he had bounded away, explaining he had an urgent mission. That much, of all he had said that day to Puck, was the only thing that bore truth.

And so Piskin headed to the River Haven, to the eastern banks of the Berrywine and the edge of the Havenwood. He found Mari’s home, but she was not there. Of course, he could not question the River Folk directly. This would only raise suspicion. Among their kind, at least, they knew enough to be distrustful of any and all of his sort. Elves, in their arrogance, disregarded the Wee Folk as fools. Runabouts and charlatans, petty thieves at best, the lot of them. That disregard was Piskin’s cover amongst the Shining Folk. But with humans, he had to proceed more delicately.

He haunted every window at the Bowen house, that night, listening closely. As a changeling, he had a great deal of experience with this sort of thing, of course. He had been a whisper beneath a thousand such windows in his life, biding his time and listening for his opportunity to snatch a new child.

It had only taken a single night to get the story. The daughter had been taken away, the mother at first would not tell the husband where, or why, but it all came out in time. River Folk could not really help themselves. They needed to talk about things, especially big things. An argument had erupted, naturally. The father was angry with the mother for taking away his daughter without even telling him about her state or letting him have a say in the matter.

There were tears, and shouts. Shames and lamentations. Piskin sighed and rolled his eyes up at the frosty moon. When were they going to get to the point of exactly where the girl had been taken? It was a long while, but the facts finally came out. Piskin had a road to follow. And he had to hurry, as the father, that very next dawn, planned to set out to retrieve his daughter. Not much time remained before this venture became more complicated.

And so it was that Piskin’s quick feet carried him to the crone’s hut faster than Mari’s father could ever hope to travel there. When he arrived, it was late morning.

He halted at the edge of the clearing to listen. It was snowing hard by that time, which dampened down all sound. The place was deathly quiet, but he could hear something, something furtive, moving in the hut. The pointed ears of the Wee Folk, when properly employed, were as sensitive as those of a fox.

Piskin narrowed his eyes. The sounds were not those of a River girl. Nor were they the shufflings and grunts of an old woman.

He dared to creep into the open, advancing upon the hut from an angle which bore no windows. This was not difficult, as the hut only had one crudely cut door and one crudely cut window on the opposite side from the door. As he drew closer, and the sounds grew more audible, he was alarmed. Something was in the hut. Something bad.

Daring wait no longer, he bounded up into the window of the hut and gazed inside. There upon the floor lay what had to be the fallen figure of the crone. The corpse was already laid over with snow. There was blood, plenty of it, but it had frozen hard and dark in a pool.

Atop the body sat a troll. A small, young one, by the looks of it. Piskin winced to see it as it turned a wicked yellow eye to him. It was black-furred and had long white claws. The tip of every claw and fang was red with the crone’s blood.

Piskin looked around the place but saw no sign of the maid Mari. He hissed through clenched teeth. The snow was falling hard and had filled in any tracks she might have left behind.

“Where is the maid?”

The troll chuckled. “I use her as a seat,” said the foul thing.

“Nay, not that one,” said Piskin in disgust. “I mean the younger one.”

“She who released me? What business is that of yours?” asked the troll. His yellow eyes drew to slits. “You are a changeling. You wish to steal the child she bears.”

Piskin leaned on his one hand. “That’s none of your affair. Tell me of the girl, help me find her and I will give you a great boon.”

The troll snorted. “A boon? A trickster with one hand can’t be very good at his job.”

Piskin eyed him closely. He glanced at the stove which had iced over now with the water Mari had tossed over it. “I notice you have been mistreated. You have been harshly burned, haven’t you?”

The troll shifted around, crouching in a new spot upon the crone’s stiffening belly.

“What of it?”

Piskin clucked his tongue in sympathy. “I’ve seen it before in your kind. Your hair is toasted black. You’ll never grow to full size now. You’ve been damaged.”

The troll looked uncomfortable. It shrugged. “What can be done? I’ve had my vengeance.”

“Yes,” said Piskin, “yes, sirrah, but let me tell you of something better. Something sweeter. Would you not like to be whole again? Would you not like to be healed?”

He had the troll’s attention. Piskin explained that he was upon a quest. That he had his own injury to repair, and that he knew how it could be done. He needed to find the maid, however.

The troll stared at him. “I can follow her scent.”

Piskin nodded and smiled very broadly indeed. “I know you can.”

And it was not long after that the two headed off into the Haven wood together in pursuit of the maid Mari. Piskin followed the troll, who gamboled through the snow with a rolling gait. He was nowhere near as fast-moving a creature as Piskin, but he was unerring. He tracked Mari’s scent even through the deep snows.

And Piskin followed him as any hunter follows his hound.

Chapter Thirteen

Breakthrough

When Brand and Telyn finally reached the ruby tunnel, they were tired, dirty, slightly burnt and wary of every shadow. They traveled along the tunnel, hoping it was the right one. Occasionally, they took a wrong turn and came to a dead end. Each time the tunnel forked, they left a black lava rock they had gathered from the magma chambers on the floor to mark the spot. Brand still feared they would become hopelessly lost.

After what seemed like hours of travel, they halted. Up ahead lights flickered upon the upon tunnel walls far ahead. They extinguished their own lanterns and crept forward not knowing what new kind of horror they might have stumbled upon.

“It might be them,” whispered Telyn in his ear. Normally, Brand would have tried to kiss her when she got so close. But today—or was it tonight? Time meant little down in the Everdark. Today, he only watched the flickering lights and their corresponding shadows playing on the walls of the tunnel with unblinking intensity.

Could it be the Kindred? Possibly, but just as likely it was any number of worse things, some of which had mastered fire and aped human tribesmen. Brand recalled the gnomes as well. Somewhere down in this sunless hell they made their ale and grew their black glowing mushrooms. He was sure they would have heard about the fate of their cousins back in the Deepwood. Ever it was with such folk that news traveled fast.

They crept closer still, on their bellies now, and listened. They thought to hear the hushed voices of the Kindred, and over that sound, a clinking sound. It was a sound that could only be the beat of a miner’s pick. Could the Kindred still be digging out gemstones?

Brand and Telyn had seen many rubies on their trip through the tunnel. They had picked up a handful of the gleaming red stones. Brand figured he could buy himself a new house on Rabing Isle when he was home again, should he have the desire.

“That sound,” whispered Telyn, “it must be the miners.”

Brand reached over to her and pushed her head down. Likewise, he ducked his own head. Something whistled over them and cracked against the stone walls.

“Hold!” cried Brand, “Modi, we are sent by Gudrin!”

There was silence for a minute or two. Even the tapping pick stopped.

“Who goes?” came a gruff voice that Brand knew all too well.

“Brand, Champion of the Haven.”

“Brand? Truly? If this be some goblin voice-trick, know I’m in a foul mood.”

Eventually, Brand and Telyn managed to talk their way into the distrustful camp of the Kindred. Everyone gathered around and greeted them, but as a group they were tense. Brand’s eye ran over the crew. Each miner looked more tired and haunted than the next. Every bleary eye was surrounded by a dark circle. Thick fingers rubbed at the handles of their mining picks, never putting them aside, as if they expected to be attacked at any moment.

“What’s your situation?”

“Perfect, now that you’re here,” said Modi. Brand wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.

“We’ve got Kobolds in front, fire behind and devils below,” said one gaunt miner. Modi shot her a dark glance but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Brand,” said Modi, “explain yourself. Where is the company of Kindred I expected? Do they come from the slower route? Yes, that’s it isn’t it? I should have expected it. You couldn’t wait and came down the shafts directly.”

Brand shrugged. “Gamal made it up with your request for aid.”

“Obviously,” grunted Modi.

“So, Gudrin thought we could do the best for you, and called upon us to come down and help. I heeded her call, and took the fastest route down I could find.”

“You came down the shafts from the Earthlight? Alone?”

“No, we had Gamal with us. We were separated, he had to go back up.”

“Just Gamal?”

Brand shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, but have no concerns, no Kobold was ever born that could live through a single stroke of my axe.”

There were some scattered cheers among them at his brave words. Modi, however, frowned.  Brand tried to change the subject to the supplies they had brought, not wanting to discuss Hallr’s decision to ignore Modi’s call for help. Things were bad enough down here without the group’s leader flying into a rage.

Telyn busied herself distributing the supplies that had survived the beetles. There were some smiles at the sight of hard tack bread and salted pork. Water was plentiful in these caverns, there were many spots you could set down a canteen beneath a dripping stone and have it full an hour later. But food had become scarce.

Modi put a hand on Brand’s shoulder. The axe twitched on his back, but Brand ignored it. He looked at Modi who gestured for him to follow.

Brand reluctantly followed Modi to a great pit in the floor. The stone there had a different texture and tone to it. The pit looked burnt and glinted metallically in spots.

He put his hands on his hips. “This must be the spot you’ve been digging. We could hear it out in the tunnel.”

“Do you know what this is?” Modi asked him, tapping the pick on the blackened spot.

Brand looked at it speculatively. “Some kind of ore?”

“It’s a plug. Meant to keep a section of the Everdark forever sealed off.”

“What’s beneath it?”

Modi smiled, and it was not a healthy smile. “It’s a secret. We don’t know what it is. Mysteries like this, that’s why I’m down here, Brand. This is exactly the kind of spot I came into the Everdark to find.”

Brand looked baffled.

“We, the Kindred, have lost our way. We’ve lost our will to go out and conquer and explore.”

“Is that because you have no King?”

Modi shot him a look, and slowly nodded. “Yes. I think so. You see, I’m hoping to discover something wonderful. Something fantastic. The Kindred need something to fire their imaginations. To get them moving again.”

“A fine goal. But how do we get out of here, Modi?”

“I’ll tell you. But first, tell me something: where are the Kindred my father sent?”

Brand looked uncomfortable. He sighed, seeing no way out of telling him. “There are none. Gudrin sent for us, because Hallr refused to send anyone.”

Modi nodded, his lips a tight line. “I see. I should have expected nothing else. Now that you have been honest with me, I’ll be honest with you. We have three routes. We could fight through the Kobolds, and have half of us die in their traps, for your axe can slay any foe, but these creatures will not stand and die. They will retreat forever before us, killing one of us whenever they can.

“Or, we could climb out of the magma chambers. Most would make it, but we would have to leave behind our riches, and Kindred minds have been broken over smaller things. They will not do it, preferring to die.”

“What have we left then?” asked Brand in alarm. “We can’t go forward or back? Have I come for nothing?”

“Not at all,” said Modi, hefting his pick. That unhealthy smile was back on his face and bigger than ever. “We will chop our way through this plug, and we will find another exit unknown to us there.”

“But what if none exists?”

“Then we die trying.”

As he spoke these last words, he slammed the pick down into the plug with great force. Brand felt the sting of hard stone chips pelting his cheek.

* * *

Sigrid chided herself for staying here so long with her brood. It had been a gambit from the start, and she had almost succeeded in hatching them, but not quite. Just a year or two longer and they would have awakened her by hatching and crawling over her with hungry cries. Soon, they would have eaten everything that lived in this part of the Everdark.

Alas, that happy day might never come. She should have dug a tunnel out of this small warren of tunnels, but had decided that an exit served enemies as an entrance. By sealing in her brood, the Kindred had done her a service. She could slumber in this lair, forgotten, while her eggs matured.

That plan had failed. Now, since she had not dug an exit, there was none. She was trapped and she could not move her brood to safety. She would have to fight to the death, and for that she needed her flaming breath. Unfortunately, centuries of sleep had affected Sigrid’s internal fire. Like an ember that burnt down to gray ash over a winter’s night, her body had not been able to keep a flame going for so very long.

In order to breathe fire again, she would have normally consumed ash, saltpeter, copper salts and magnesium for brilliance. She quickly decided to forget about the copper salts, as they were only needed to produce her trademark blue-green color. In a time of danger, this wasn’t required.

She had carefully judged the tapping on the great plug, and it had been slow. Nervously, she left her brood of three leathery eggs to rekindle her flame. Without that, she would have nothing but claws and fangs to face the Kindred. She figured that if they were brave enough to come back here, even after their previous defeats, it must be in such strength of numbers that they had little fear of her.

She hurried off into the side tunnels to find the ingredients she needed to burn them all down to dust and bone.

* * *

Modi stood inside his pit. His head was about even with the top of the pit and Brand stood above him, shining down a lantern and watching. Brand looked around the other miners who watched the proceedings with worry. They sharpened their picks and restrung their crossbows stoically, speaking little. Telyn worked on her bow, repairing it and counting her arrows.

Brand squatted upon the edge of the growing pit. “So, the Kindred plug these things up to keep things sealed off from the rest of the Everdark?”

“Bah!” complained Modi. “I’ve snapped another handle. By the nine hells the ancients did their work well on this plug.” He worked to replace the handle with a fresh one from his pack.

“If they didn’t want us down there...” Brand trailed off suggestively.

“No, they didn’t,” said Modi, turning up eyes that shone white in their soot-darkened sockets. “But that was so long ago that none of the maps even show this place. It is unknown, perhaps from the first original construction of the Earthlight and the first exploration of the Everdark.”

Modi worked his pick harder now, swinging with angry abandon. Brand thought about leaving him to it, but he didn’t. He sat there, thinking about how to properly handle this stubborn friend he had come so far to save. At this point, Modi had yet to even say thanks to him. The thought probably hadn’t even occurred to the warrior.

Brand worked himself up to making a new argument for stopping, when Modi shouted. Every Kindred in hearing jumped and stepped forward to see what had happened.

“A breakthrough!” shouted Modi, “I’ve found something!”

A foul smell rose up from the pit, and seemed to swirl around them, throwing up a choking vapor. Everyone took a step backward away from the vapor, save for Modi himself. The warrior pounded away with his pick, faster than ever. He worked with his teeth clenched and his lips curled back from them. The whites of his eyes and his teeth were all that showed upon his face, which was otherwise covered with black soot. Even the very hair of his beard was coated black.

“Modi, what is that smell?”

Modi gave a hoot of laughter and triumph. The relentless clanging of his pick finally stopped. Brand felt that his head still rang with the sound after it had ended.

Brand stepped up to the edge of the pit and Telyn stepped next to him, shining her bright magical light down into it. Modi’s great back bunched muscles and strained. With a roaring grunt, he pulled up a chunk of the black material, as big as his own head. He hurled it carelessly out of the pit and it thunked and rolled, causing miners to dodge and watch their toes.

Then Modi paused, his sides heaving. He stared down into the hole he had carved into the ancient plug. More of the Kindred gathered around then. Everyone wanted to see what was beyond. They murmured among themselves.

Suddenly, Modi held his arms high waving his hands for silence. Everyone fell quiet.

“Something’s down there,” he said in a harsh whisper. “Something still lives beneath us. I detect its stink.”

Brand knelt at the edge of the pit. The edge crumbled and he almost slipped and slid down onto Modi’s back. Telyn put a steadying hand on him and he nodded to her in thanks.

“Should we seal it back up?” asked Brand.

Modi looked at him, sides still heaving from his efforts. “Brand, I’ll not go crawling back to my sire, marked now as a coward. I’ll not dump a fortune in rubies, run from the unknown, nor lose half my company in kobold traps.”

Brand nodded, sighing. He could see the hole now. It was about as big as a Kindred’s head, which was to say large, but not big enough for them to slip through.

“If we keep digging, it will be alerted,” he said.

There was a murmur of agreement.

“What else can we do?” hissed back Modi.

“I can get through,” said Telyn. They all looked at her, then each other. It was true, she was the only one slender enough to wriggle through.

Brand argued in whispers with her. He had no intention of allowing his lady to slip down an ancient hole to face an ancient evil alone.

In time, he lost the argument. She was the best of them for the task. There would not have to be any more digging. What was more, she was the quietest among them, certainly more agile than any of the stomping Kindred.

He made her promise him she would spring back out of there if there was any hint of danger. She answered with a kiss, then slid down the rope the Kindred miners had slipped down into the small black hole at the bottom of a crumbling pit.

Brand watched her vanish into it, and his heart squeezed painfully in his chest.

* * *

Telyn inched into the hole, moving delicately and quietly. She tried to let as little of the sharp-edged black crumbling material fall down into the hole as possible. She thought about going headfirst, but decided to go down feet-first instead. As soon as the opening widened out and she could maneuver in the tunnel on the other side of the plug, she reversed herself to look around.

She had put a brave face on it with Brand and the miners, but of course she was terrified. She had no idea what might be down here, waiting with open jaws to snap her up after a thousand years of hunger. Finding nothing but a tunnel that turned from vertical to horizontal and widened out did help her nerves, but only slightly.

She let go of the rope, which she left behind in a shaft of light from those who anxiously watched from above. The blackness was utter as she stole quietly down the tunnel. There was only one way to go. With each step her heart pounded, seemingly so loud in her chest that any survivors in this dank hole must hear it.

It wasn’t until she rounded a turn that she decided she had to have more light. She was down on her hands and knees now, feeling her way. At any moment she thought she might over-balance at the edge of some unseen cliff or crack away a thin shell of stone that sent her dropping into an abyss. She willed her lightstone to life, allowing it only to glimmer dimly and underneath her leathers. She still wore the charred heat-resistant gear that the Kindred had given her in above in the Earthlight, and now it served to warm her in this dark place, even as it had served to cool her when the lava had been close.

She came to a spot where the tunnel forked in three directions: right, left, and downward. The greatest stink came from the downward tunnel, so she crept that way. She extinguished her gleaming light as she went, willing the lightstone to dim and fade to nothing.

Every time her foot dislodged a stone, she froze, listening until the rattling fall of it stopped. Such sounds were not uncommon here, but she didn’t want to cause a noise repetitively, marking her as what she was: a thief skulking into someone’s home.

She came to a chamber that was wider than the rest. Much wider. In fact, the cavern was huge, an open area that glowed with a red warmth. She felt as much as saw the space of it. Big enough to have echoes, dark pools and breezes of its own, the cavern stretched an unknowable distance away and upward. Her first thought was that perhaps Modi was right. Perhaps this place did allow an exit to the upper chambers by which they could escape.

She peered into the darkness at length trying to calculate what was the source of the dark red glow. The glow wasn’t from the cavern in general, but from the region closest to her, within a hundred paces. Squinting, she managed to identify three large formations. These stood on end like columns of rounded stone and were the source of the dark red glow. These columns generated their own internal heat. She wondered what they could be. Was there lava inside them? Were they attached beneath to some bubbling mass of magma that might erupt and launch fire into the room like the magma chamber she had seen before?

Concerned, she attached the facemask and tucked away her hair beneath the heat suit. It might not help if these columns were to spew fire, but it could not hurt.

She crept only another pace into the chamber before her hands found something. Something that was not rock or sand or ash. She released a single finger from her gloves and ran it over the surface in front of her, as it was far too dark to see what it was.

It was smooth, metallic—flat. Something artificially built. Nothing naturally formed like that down here, she was sure of that. It was something built by people, and she was sure if she brought it back to the Kindred they might know something of what they faced.

Her heart was full of dread now, and somehow she felt that she had pushed her luck too far in this place. But she had wanted to impress the Kindred, and most of all Brand. She had not wanted anyone to say she lacked for bravery or skill as a scout.

She thought of using her light, but dared not. She did not want whatever was in this place to be alerted to her presence. So, delicately, she attempted to lift the object from the floor of the cavern without knowing what it was. When it finally did move, it rasped. It was a tiny sound, but it made her freeze and breathe several long, deep breaths, listening. Her hands ached as she held the thing, partly lifted from the floor. When nothing seemed amiss, she pulled the object closer.

Something tugged back. She almost screamed and dropped it, but she contained herself. It wasn’t the feeling of a living thing tugging in the darkness at the far end of her find, she assured her racing mind. That wasn’t how it felt. Instead, it seemed as if the object was attached to a tether of some kind and she had reached its limit.

She considered letting the object go and replacing it. But she did not. She knew that going back and reporting what she had seen and heard was reasonable. But she wanted more than that now, she wanted to impress them all. She wanted to bring back an artifact. Hard evidence of her adventure.

Slowly, gently as possible, she tugged harder. The tether held firm. She ran her hand around the edge of it, trying to find what had hung it up. She found something. Something like a collection of sticks that clung to the object, which she now suspected was a metal shield.

She gave a final firm tug and whatever it was that held the other end gave way with an audible click.

She grabbed it up and held it to her chest, feeling now that she was right about it, the thing was a metal kite-shaped shield. She slipped away back up the passage toward the entrance. The shield had a strap and she slid it onto her back.

Up ahead, she saw a flickering light. It was the light of a lantern. She paused, her heart in her mouth.

“Telyn?” came a harsh whisper.

Brand. The big fool had come down after her.

And then another sound came up from behind her. A sucking, drawing sound like a bellows in a great furnace that drew air for a powerful blast. Her first instinct was to look back, but she followed her second thought instead and scrambled through the tunnel, seeking the first bend in it.

Flame gushed out and chased her. The flame followed the tunnel walls, and in the sudden burst of light she could see the walls were well-burnt and charred. Earth and stone had formed slag like dirty glass on the roof of it.

The dragonfire licked over her legs, then circled the shield on her back.

She ran as fast and as hard as she ever had in her life. She felt pain and searing heat. Her leather smoked and all the things that could melt, melted.

Chapter Fourteen

Dragonfire

“TELYN!” cried Brand, rushing forward. He slammed his forehead into a projection of rock, spun around but did not fall. He kept staggering forward, bent over. All he saw was a great gush of light. A whooshing sound came with the flames and he rounded a bend and saw Telyn racing toward him, outlined as a thin black figure wreathed in fire.

To him, what was happening was clear. Some kind of lava chamber had been reached and a gush of fire had ignited in the tunnel. There were gases down here. No doubt the very source of the odd stink they’d smelled. Once afire, those gases could kill in a rush.

He hoped she would not be too badly burned. Behind him in the tunnel came a group of the Kindred, Modi in the lead.

“The time to drive close is now,” Modi was saying, “before it can draw in another breath. They can’t spit fire with every exhalation. They must build up to it.”

Brand was so concerned about Telyn that the warrior’s words meant nothing to him. His head bled down into his left eye and he blinked at the stinging sensation.

The flame retreated, and he could see that Telyn still ran, meaning she had not been overwhelmed. But he knew that badly burnt people still continued on at times, staggering away with the last of their strength.

She fell into his arms and he burned his fingers and cheek on her smoking leathers, but did not care.

“Wrap yourself,” she hissed out, coughing between the words. “Wrap yourself, Brand before it breathes again. It’s following, I’m certain.”

Brand did not immediately gather her meaning. “Breathes? Does something follow you?”

Modi grabbed his arm with a rock-like fist. He dug into his arm and shook him, like a sergeant shaking awake a recruit. His eyes were huge and wet. They reflected the lantern-light like gemstones.

“Are you daft, Brand? It’s a dragon. A great wurm of the Everdark. Get out your axe and prepare to die well.”

Die well? thought Brand. Could they not simply turn back and run?

But then he did as Modi asked and he touched the haft of his axe. And his mind turned as hot as the flames that had so nearly consumed his love. His right hand gripped the axe, which flared with amber light, and his left gripped Telyn’s smoking leathers with fingers that made her gasp.

She was busy, he realized, fastening his facemask and stuffing his hair back into the thick hood which she had drawn over his head and cinched tightly. She pressed something large into his hand, it was a shield of silvery metal. Fine gold leaf had been hammered around the edges. A griffon of gold relief gleamed on the front curve of it, blackened with soot though it was.

“Take this shield. If the dragon breathes, cover your face, love,” said Telyn.

“Are you all right?”

“I’ve got a few burns, and my hair will take a year to grow back,” she said. “But I’ll live.”

Brand noticed as he tried to put his arms through the straps that the previous owner’s burnt finger bones still gripped the shield. They were the very things Telyn had felt tugging at the shield when she had first tried to remove it. He ripped the network of bones loose and tossed them down to rattle on the floor of the tunnel.

“Look at that shield! By a King’s beard, that’s a treasure by itself!” shouted Modi, rallying his miners. Fully half of them stood around them, staring in every direction with crossbows ready. Brand wondered what crossbows, picks, or even his axe could do against a real fire-breathing dragon.

But then the axe took further hold of him, erasing all fear and worry. His lady lived and he would make sure she stayed alive and unburnt. He began marching down the tunnel, not even kissing Telyn good-bye, nor calling the Kindred to follow.

“A dragon’s hoard awaits us, Kindred!” shouted Modi, urging them to follow, “forward, we march to fame and glory.”

Brand did not look to see if they followed him. He merely willed the axe to shine and bathe the tunnel with the light of courage. Kindred hearts flared when they saw it. Even easier to urge into a frenzied charge than humans, they not only followed, they rushed forward. They pushed and jostled to run down the tunnel after Brand, who was now sprinting.

A huge grin split Brand’s face underneath the heavy leather mask and he sang out words he did not know. They were rough words that caused his throat pain at their passage. He suspected they were words of Dragonspeech, words that troubled men when they heard them and gave even other wurms pause. He wondered, with some deep part of his mind that remained fully sane, if the axe was calling out through his voice to the other dragon, issuing an ancient challenge. Did it perhaps feel joy to meet another of its own kind in battle? He suspected it, as the axe seemed to surge in his hands. He had never felt it quiver so much with anticipation, not even when he’d faced the giant Twrog.

Brand ran in the lead, with Modi and the rest of the Kindred trotting behind.

He reached the three-way fork, where one path led left, one right, and one went down into the cavern full of wurm-stench. A light flared down in the center tunnel. It was the light of the dragon’s mouth, Brand knew in a second. He could see the outline of it, that long mouth full of white teeth that formed a cone of ridged blue leather. The eyes too, shone above the mouth. Each orb was impossibly huge and glowed green like the eyes of a cat caught in lantern light in a pitch-black barn.

Brand’s axe bade him to do something it never had before. He listened, almost without thought, and dodged down the right side tunnel. Modi, closest behind him and charging with equal abandon, listened to whatever sense his veteran’s mind still had and dodged into the left tunnel.

But the vanguard of eager Kindred miners, with their picks flashing reflections of Brand’s flaring axe and the looming puffs of dragonflame, were caught by surprise. Up from the central tunnel, the one full of the stench of dragon and brimstone, came a gush of fire. Orange with a central cone of hottest blue, the flames consumed them. They barely were able to cry out, such was the suddenness with which they were overcome. The flame shot into their faces and crisped away their beards in a single moment. It licked down into their very lungs as they sucked it in, surprised and shocked.

Blinded, dead on their feet, but still having the last vitality of the Kindred in their flesh and ensorcelled with the will of Brand and his axe, the miners waded into the flames. Their bodies melted to slag as they staggered forward, picks rising and falling.

Some few blows were struck, punching a hole in the Sigrid’s great snout and leaving a bloody hole in her shoulder. Then they fell, one by one, dying without screams as their throats and lungs were already charred to black ash.

The moment the gushing flame ceased fountaining and burning down the last of the miners, Brand and Modi came out of their twin refuges and charged, bent upon nothing other than vengeance. Some part of Brand repeated Modi’s words about wurms not being able to breathe continuous fire. This was the moment. This was the time to strike before the wurm could stoke up another deadly blast. He would not have hesitated in any case, such was his lust for battle at that point.

He lay into Sigrid, cutting great swaths through the air. He held his new shield high, over his face and head, while he cut horizontally below, aiming at the legs, thick as tree trunks. Modi was at his side, no less eager, his pick flashing out to meet the dragon’s flesh with more power behind each stroke than any of the miners could ever have hoped to muster.

The dragon, Brand was glad to see, backed up before their assault. In his heart he exulted. Before it could breathe again, they would be upon it, slashing away its wings and shearing its legs from beneath it.

But the great leathery wings had started to pump. Air blasted into his face and still the thing backed up. He stumbled over what he vaguely saw were the charred bodies of the Kindred he’d led down here to their deaths.

Brand commanded the axe to blink, and Ambros flashed its golden eye, filling the vast chamber with light as if lightning somehow had been released a mile beneath the skies. The dragon’s great mouth, dripping with liquid flame but not yet ready to gush it, snapped down upon his shield. He was struck off his feet. Blood and fire ran hotly over his cheek and he might have been screaming, but he could not be sure. He struggled to his feet, keeping his shield aimed at the wurm.

Modi took that moment to strike. He had gotten in close to Sigrid’s flank. His pick rose and fell with a great chunking sound, punching through the armored hide and between two of the foot-wide ribs. The head of the pick all but vanished in the meat of the dragon’s flank and stuck there.

Sigrid whirled with a roaring cry of hurt and hate. She snapped her jaws down. Modi had no shield, so he shoved an elbow into the flame-dripping jaws. His great arm was fully in the thing’s mouth, a hundred teeth like long curved daggers punctured every inch of his flesh.

Modi howled, but had out his dagger. He stabbed at the eyes, but they were too distant. Brand had his feet again and charged, but it was too late.

The great wings, which had been pumping all the while, now lifted the beast, Modi still in its jaws, into the upward shaft of the cavern.

“NO!” shouted Brand, and he willed the axe to flash. A great beam of heat and light struck the dragon’s hindquarters, but did little, as dragons do not fear any heat save that of the Sun or the Earth’s core.

Brand gave chase, stumbling over the floor of the cavern, but knew not what to do. The dragon took Modi higher still, a hundred paces or more. Brand could see the warrior, who still shouted and stabbed with his blade, sinking it into the beast’s snout in a dozen places.

Telyn was standing near now, firing arrows one after another up at the dragon. Most bounced harmlessly from its hide. A few found a spot soft enough to penetrate.

Then Sigrid simply opened her great jaws and dropped Modi.

The warrior crashed down between the two River Folk, who bent and saw immediately his wounds were fatal. He was broken, as surely as might be a clay pot dashed upon a stone floor.

Still, he lived and he raved. His dagger, still in his hand, he brandished with his one arm which functioned.

“Brand!” he roared. His face was all blood and curled black whiskers that clung to seared cheeks. Brand saw that he was blind, but still lived, as was the fate of Kindred in bad moments such as this.

“Brand!”

“I’m here.”

“Slay its children. Do not let it escape. Take the head and make a gift of it to my father.”

“Its children?” asked Brand aloud. He looked and saw no other dragons. “What children, Modi?”

But Modi lay dead.

He looked up and saw the dragon was high above them now. No doubt, it worked up a great blaze in its mouth to finish them with. He looked at Telyn.

“Do you know where its children are?”

Telyn’s face was streaked with tears. She was beyond speech, such was her sorrow at seeing so many dead. But her eyes slid to the three columns of stone that stood around them, encircling them.

Brand’s eyes fell upon them, and he knew. They were not stones.

“Dragon!” he roared up at the circling beast, “you have slain ours and now I slay yours in return!”

So saying, he lay into the nearest of the eggs and cut it open. Inside, a fledgling reptile squirmed and cried and he slew it with a single stroke.

The dragon, far above, gave a great cry of pain as if she herself had been struck.

“No, Brand, stop!” cried Telyn, “it’s not right.”

But Brand was in the grip of the axe and his fury was not to be quenched. He strode to the second egg and slashed it open.

“Brand!” screamed Telyn, and vaguely he was aware of her fleeing.

A great sound filled his senses as the dragon stooped and dropped like a falcon falling upon a rabbit. The screeching roar filled the cavern with a palpable rage that struck through Brand’s red haze.

At the last moment he fell and rolled away, keeping close to the last whole egg. The dragon’s strike failed to crush the life out of him. It jaws dripped flame, and it turned to burn him.

He charged toward the dripping jaws and cut high with the axe. The head was severed in a single tremendous stroke.

Sigrid was dead.

Brand still raved over Modi’s corpse, and would have destroyed the last of her eggs, but Telyn laid a gentle hand upon him and he held himself back.

The battle was over.

* * *

Many leagues away to the south, a distance measured in rock, magma, seas of oil and pools of black brine, Fafnir’s head lifted. His head was massive, twice again the size of Sigrid’s. His green scales were black in that distant chamber, as there was no light in that place other than the umber radiance that emanated from the superheated rocks nearby.

Fafnir was far to the south of the battle between Sigrid and Brand, far southward and deepward. Still, he heard his mate’s deathcry in his mind, although he’d not met her for a dozen centuries. He knew Sigrid gave her final curse, something she would only have done for one reason. Their young were threatened. He knew in his massive, twelve-chambered heart that her death had been foully worked upon her.

Turning northward, he drew a great breath and approached the roots of a mountain, a sheer face of shale mixed with granite boulders as big as oxcarts. He gushed flame so hot it was vaporous and lavender in color. The stone it touched melted to slag, and then flowed like wax. He stepped inside the tunnel his breath created and more flame gushed. The molten rock lapped his scaly feet, but did no harm. No heat could harm him, not even that of the flaming elemental lords who often bubbled up in hatred from the Earth’s core to accost him. Lakes of magma were as warm baths to him. Yellow licking flames were as cool breezes.

Soon, only his fantastically long tail could be seen, and then that too vanished and he was gone, digging through the rock by melting everything before him. Nothing could withstand the heat of his flame.

Fafnir did not go to rescue his mate. He knew it was too late for that. But there was time left yet for vengeance, before the world ended.

Of that he was certain.

Chapter Fifteen

Gnomes of the Deep

Of the fallen Kindred, only Modi had left behind remains enough to carry back to the Earthlight. They buried the rest of the charred bodies in shallow, rocky graves.

Not all the miners were dead, those Modi had left behind on guard in the ruby tunnel still lived. But all told, of the entire company, less than a dozen stood and drew breath.

There wasn’t much in the way of treasure in the chamber. A few adventuring lords must have perished here in the past, causing Kindred with wiser heads to seal the area with a plug. The lack of treasure was disappointing, but they were disappointed even more by the fact there was no easy exit upward from the dragon’s lair to the Earthlight. Perhaps, if they had leathery wings and could have flapped up a thousand feet to the distant ceiling, they could have found an exit, but there was none for ground-crawling creatures. They would have to leave by fighting their way past the kobolds.

Brand was the only true warrior among them now that they had lost Modi. Leadership had automatically fallen to him, even though he was not one of the Kindred. He was not completely comfortable with their trust and the position of command, but he understood it. Their leader had died and he had the title of dragon-slayer to add to his accomplishments. He was a lord of the River Folk who wielded great magic. If not him, who else could lead them out of the Everdark?

At the urging of the Kindred, Brand donned the chainmail that went with the shield he bore. He prepared for battle as best he could, shrugging his way into the long-dead Kindred knight’s heavy shirt of chain, which was too broad of shoulder and which barely reached down to his knees. He circled the biggest belt he could find around his waist and still wore the leather leggings of the mechnicians that Gamal had provided. The leggings weren’t as good as real armor, but they would have to do.

Telyn’s soot-blackened face was tight and strained as she cinched up every part of his armor personally. She had insisted on it. Their encounter with the dragon had taken all the smiles out of her. She took her job as his second more seriously than ever before. He could tell that she did not want to lose him, but at the same time she understood completely that she had to risk his life to have a chance to see the distant Sun again. With Modi and half the miners dead, their odds against the kobolds were worse than ever.

The Kindred debated, and at last decided to take the last of the Sigrid’s eggs with them, dragging it behind on ropes, as it was too big to carry. It would slow them down, but they felt it would be an even better gift for Hallr than the head of the dragon that had killed Modi.

The group took time for a final meal and a benediction for the dead.

It was then, as they sat upon their packs in the ruby tunnel with their heads bowed in contemplation of the passing of so many fine comrades, that the kobolds came.

Kobolds are not just cave-dwelling goblins, as is commonly believed. They are a different people entirely. They are perhaps more like merlings than goblins. Goblins, though cowardly, are more of a thinking race of creatures. Kobolds in contrast are more primitive and tribal. They are also quite different physically. Unlike goblins, who tend to grow to the size of a skinny nine-year-old boy and stay that big for life, kobolds never stop growing. They grow quite slowly after they reach maturity, but if left in a deep place—a place exactly like the Everdark—ancients had been known to reach nine-feet or more. Rankings among their kind are thus easily decided, as the matter is based entirely upon physical size. Size not only indicates strength of arm, but also age and therefore wisdom. Since they live in a very difficult world and most die young, those few who reached five or six feet in height are called elders. They function in war parties as captains. Those few that grow even taller, indicating many long decades of life, are called ancients and become chieftains.

When the kobolds came, it was not with their usual furtive slinking and dart-throwing. There was none of the fanfare of trickery, nor even the tossing of pyrotechnic pots of burning magnesium. Instead, they simply charged, surprising Brand and the Kindred gathered around him.

The only warning was the slapping of feet and a sudden screech of inhuman distress. Brand, very glad he had just donned his armor, pulled out the axe. He commanded it to light the tunnel with a steady brightness, thus aiding the eyes of the Kindred and dazzling the more light-sensitive orbs of the kobolds at the same time.

The screeching came from one of the first kobolds to run at them. In his haste, the creature had fallen prey to one of the traps. His foot had been caught and clasped in between two rolling stones. Ankle snapped, keening, the thin warrior struggled but was quickly crushed down by the running feet of a pack of his comrades.

They came in waves, some not even brandishing weapons. Brand cut them down as they ran into him. Within less than a minute a dozen lay fallen around him.

Brand faltered as a huge ancient with a stalactite club loomed out of the dark. He tugged at his axe. It was stuck in the spine of the last he had slain, but he pulled it free too late to raise it for a stroke. He lifted his shield instead, hoping to deflect some of the blow that must surely come.

A blow did come, but instead of the crushing, bone-breaking stroke he expected from the stone club, he was instead buffeted away, pushed down and climbed over. It was then, lying on the cave floor that he understood the situation.

“Let them pass!” he screamed to the Kindred. “They are fleeing. Get down into the side tunnels and let them by. They will not fight us.”

And so the Kindred managed to withdraw to the lesser tunnels and into the very black pit of the dragon itself. Hundreds of skinny naked kobold warriors slapped by, led occasionally by a man-sized elder with a skull headdress. Two more of the great ancients passed as well, their massive bodies permanently bent by long years of crouching in the too-small tunnels.

Brand and the rest kept up their guard, but let the kobolds pass by. As the stampede dwindled, everyone could only think a single thought: What were they fleeing so desperately?

They did not have long to wait for their answer. Behind the kobolds, snapping up the last of them in great hands of mobile black stone, were the gnomes. Brand saw them and he stood up, knowing these last would not simply rush by without harm. These were the gnomes of the deep. Brand thought to himself, they have finally found me.

These gnomes were bigger than those he had slain at their mushroom shrine in the Deepwood. To Brand, this only made sense. These were the creatures of the true Everdark, not some outcast lesser folk found in a quarry or limestone cave. As elders and ancients were to the kobolds that had just run through them, these elemental folk of living rock had grown old. Elementals grew strong and thick of limb with the passage of an infinite time in the underworld.

He recalled his boast to Myrrdin and stood tall. He held the axe and shield up and ready. Behind him, the Kindred hushed their catcalls and hoots at the fleeing kobolds. They held their collective breath at the sight of this new foe, so much more formidable than the last. Still, Brand had to give them their due. They did not flee, even though their eyes all but started from their heads. They gripped their picks and stared in grim determination. Brand knew that they would stand with him to the end, should it come to that. They would sink their picks into those huge black arms of stone even as death took them all. It was the way of the Kindred. They did not flee while a champion stood to face an enemy.

Expecting a simple charge that might bowl him over with the sheer weight of it, Brand was surprised when the gnomes stopped and regarded him. The last living kobold in sight was underfoot of the biggest of the stone monsters. The kobold was the very one that Brand had seen first, the one who’s foot had been caught in a trap of his own folk’s cunning creation. Crippled, but still clinging to life, the kobold writhed on the cavern floor.

The huge gnome looked down with obsidian eyes. There was no pity in that inhuman gaze. Almost as an afterthought, a huge hand reached downward and plucked limbs from the kobold, as a man might idly strip twigs from a branch. When its last limb was removed, the kobold fell silent and the gnome dropped it, finished with his sport.

The obsidian eyes fell upon Brand next.

“I would know those who we are about to destroy,” said the gnome, his voice so deeply bass that it seemed to shake the very stones they stood upon.

“I am the Champion of the River Folk. I bear the Golden Eye of Ambros, and I will slay all your people should that be necessary.”

The other laughed. It was a grinding sound like that of a dozen boulders rolled together into a pit.

“I am Groth. Know that I am a King here, Brand of the River Folk. What is a lord of the River Folk doing in the Everdark?”

“I came to aid the Kindred. We wish only to return to the Earthlight, having slain the dragon that dwelled here.”

Groth reacted to his words, standing taller, as fully erect as the tunnel allowed. “You? You slayed Sigrid?”

“I did,” said Brand evenly.

Groth regarded him for a moment longer. “You have also slain our people. I’ve heard of a madman, a murderer with an axe in the Deepwood. Do you deny that was your doing?”

“I do not deny it.”

“You slew Sigrid and a pack of gnomes in a single week? Never have I met a creature who could make such dire enemies so very quickly!” rumbled Groth. He made the sound of falling boulders again, laughing.

“Is there a point to this talk?”

“There is indeed. I require only one thing to allow your free passage.”

“Speak.”

“I must have your arm, the one that Ambros best likes to be wielded by.”

“My arm?” asked Brand, for the first time surprised.

“Yes. It has slain many of my youngest people, of our children. I do not ask for you to give us the axe, as I know it would break the mind of any axeman to give it. I also don’t want such as accursed thing to destroy my people as it will most surely destroy yours.”

“Your young slayed one of ours. I killed them only in defense as they attacked me.”

“Had you taken but one life, I would have understood. But you took more than a score. Many caverns are dark tonight with no ale, with no clicking of fast, youthful feet. Our people are remorseful and vengeful. I must return to them with the arm-of-flesh that caused them so much grief.”

Brand considered the offer.

Telyn came up to him and worriedly touched him. She knew him well enough to realize he might seriously allow such a thing, if he thought it was the only way to save her and everyone else. She did not want this, but she did not tell him to refuse it. Brand knew she wasn’t sure what was for the best. All she could offer was her supportive touch.

“I can’t give you my arm,” he said at last, “it is not entirely mine to give, you see. I am sworn to protect my people, as their champion. I can’t do that effectively without an arm with which to wield the Amber Jewel.”

Groth nodded, understanding this logic. “We are at an impasse. The scales must be balanced. May those who are about to cease life do so gracefully. May you become one with the Everdark, and know its everlasting peace.”

“Hold,” said Brand. He felt Telyn’s hand on his back again, and he knew that she feared whatever words he might next speak. “The Kindred that stand with me have nothing to do with this—this balancing of the scales. I ask that you and I meet in battle, and we agree to end this feud before it expands to include others, no matter what the outcome.”

“You wish to duel me to regain your honor?”

“Exactly.”

Groth was quiet for a long moment. He was as motionless as a statue while he thought about it. Finally, he raised his great stone hand in salute.

“I accept your terms.”

Brand did not know how to fight such a creature. It rumbled forward and reached out with its great stone fists, each so large it was as big as the shield he carried. One brush with those flashing fists and he knew his bones would break. So he retreated, and all the Kindred behind him scrambled to escape the oncoming monster.

When the fists struck the tunnel floor, rock splintered and leapt up as if alive. Sprays of stone shot out like bullets, and he was forced to put up his shield to keep from being blinded.

He continued retreating until a side tunnel offered itself to his left. He stepped into it, still backing away.

“Do not embarrass your people, Brand of the River Folk,” said Groth, laughing again. “This was to be a duel, not a chase.”

“Then catch me,” he said, backing further into the side tunnel.

Sensing his mockery, Groth growled, a sound like that of shoveled gravel. The side tunnel was too small to allow him to enter, so he grabbed the side of it with one huge fist and shot his other into the tunnel after Brand, reaching to his fullest extension. He resembled a man groping into a hole to grab the ears of a hiding rabbit.

Brand dropped his shield, took up his axe in both hands and struck at the wrist. He willed Ambros then to provide him with all the strength it could. He screamed to feel the power of it, his nerves exploding as they convulsed. A silent flash and a tremendous clang sounded as the gnome’s fist was severed.

There was no blood, for stones do not bleed. The gnome withdrew his arm with great speed, however. Groth howled and raged. His remaining fist slammed into the walls of the tunnel. Exploding rock flew everywhere. Brand threw up his arm to cover his eyes and felt the sting of the debris even through his armor.

“That was basely done!” cried Groth. He began tearing at the walls of the tunnel then, widening it, like a terrier digging out a rat.

Brand darted forward and slashed at the other’s remaining wrist. He drew a long white scratch that filled with dust upon the back of Groth’s hand.

Groth flinched back, thought to grab for the axeman, but then drew back warily, not wanting to be tricked again.

“Hold Groth, King of the Gnomes.”

Still gargling gravel in his rage, Groth backed away from the tunnel and fumed. “You wish to yield?”

“I wish to end this, yes,” said Brand, stepping into sight but not into reach. “I wish to spare the River Folk a champion and the Gnomes their King.”

“You claim you can defeat me?”

“I have your hand. Soon, I will have the other. Then I will take your head, as you will be defenseless,” said Brand, shrugging easily as if he had not a care. As if the conclusion were foregone.

“Such confidence. Only due to trickery have you gained an edge.”

“You are correct, but we stated no rules for the duel.”

“You think like one of the Fae.”

“My apologies, but I have had many dealings with those folk.”

Groth nodded, considering him anew. There was respect in his manner. “I can see the River Folk chose their champion well. I can see also, how so many of your battles have you won. Our people will not underestimate yours again.”

“That is exactly what I wish for,” said Brand seriously. “We require respect. We will no longer stand still while we are idly abused by anyone.”

“How do we end this feud? It will not be said I yielded to Brand.”

“No,” said Brand, thinking. “Let us say we fought, and wounds were taken, and we ended the duel by mutual consent, thinking it better to fight our real enemies than to damage one another further.”

Groth froze again, and Brand now knew that this meant he was thinking deeply.

“There is wisdom in your words. But call us not your allies, for we are not.”

“I ask for a truce only. We will slay no more gnomes. You will lure and slay no more children. Nothing else is promised.”

“Agreed.”

Brand gathered up the huge fist, almost too much to lift even with the strength the axe lent him. He rolled it out to Groth who picked it up with his good hand.

“Can it be repaired?” he asked the King.

Groth nodded. “It can be cemented and fired with fresh magma.”

“Good. We will depart then, with your leave.”

“Brand.”

“Yes?”

“Someday, we might take ale together. Or we might die in each other’s embrace. Truly, I have not yet decided which.”

“Neither have I,” said Brand.

Chapter Sixteen

The Funeral

Their journey up to the Earthlight was taxing, but not deadly. The kobold traps had all been sprung, either by the fleeing kobolds themselves, or by the thundering gnomes that had followed them. Once out of the ruby tunnel their biggest problem became the weight of their burdens. The Kindred insisted on carrying Modi’s body, their own stuffed packs and still they dragged behind them the huge leathery egg. Everyone had a hand wrapped around the chain that led back to the egg, which sledded along through the dusty passages with a rasping sound. Going uphill and often hauling the thing vertically, Brand marveled at the stamina and tenacity of the Kindred. No similar group of humans, he thought, could have managed it.

They came out at long last near the Great Vents. The egg, they knew, must be kept warm to survive. Brand met with Gamal there, who had waited for them at the exit from the Everdark for nearly a week. He rejoiced to see them, but his welcoming smile faded quickly as he counted their number. The wrapped corpse of Modi, riding the shoulders of six Kindred, captured his eye. He barely noticed the leathery egg they dragged until Brand put a hand upon his shoulder.

“Gamal?”

“Modi is dead. None other could fill that shroud. It would take two of us together.”

“Yes,” said Brand. He was tired all the way down into his bones. It was not just the trip that had fatigued him. The dead weight of a friend, as anyone who has felt it can tell you, is a heavier burden than most.

Gamal’s eyes finally fell upon the monstrous egg.

“What is that you have brought with you?” he asked.

Brand wiped away a sheen of sweat. As they had come up the tunnels to the Earthlight, getting closer all the while to the Great Vents, the heat had become oppressive. His boots stood inches deep in drifting gray ash.

“That is a gift for Hallr. Modi was slain by a dragon. I slew her in return. This is the last of her eggs.”

Gamal’s eyes were wide and haunted. He gazed upon Brand as if he were some form of abomination, birthed from a Fae mound. Most likely, Brand reflected, he had never set eyes upon a true dragon-slayer before.

“A gift?” he said.

“I’m leaving it here with the mechnicians.”

“And what are we to do with it?” asked a gruff voice. A mechnician trod up to them, stamping in the ash so that a cloud followed him. Brand could not tell if his beard was gray or simply full of clinging particles.

“Keep it, if you will. The egg needs great heat to survive. Not flame, mind you, but the nearness of flame.”

“Dragon expert, are you now?” asked the mechnician. “Humph.”

But the mechnicians did as they were asked. They lashed the egg with spiraling loops of heavy chain and placed it at the base of the great brass boilers, where overwhelming heat never ceased. If the egg awakened and the youngling dragon within tore its way out, the chains should hold it. They promised to maintain a vigil as well.

Thus relieved of their heaviest burden and traveling on level ground, the tired company now turned and trudged toward the citadel. Few spoke, keeping their thoughts private. For Brand’s part, he worried over what he would say to Gudrin, and to Hallr, Modi’s father. He had yet to meet the legendarily stern clanmaster, and was sick to know their first words upon meeting would be laden with grief.

Gamal had joined them, and he took up one of Modi’s great legs upon his shoulder, allowing two others to rest their bent backs. Brand thought to see a wetness about his eyes, but surely that was only sweat from nearness of the Earthlight.

When they came within a mile of the citadel, a cry went up and there was a blasting of horns. The horns made a wailing sound, long and low, not unlike the howling of wolves on distant hills. A party of red cloaks hurried out to meet them.

“What ill tidings do you bring us, Brand of the River Folk?” asked the squad leader. She gripped a poleaxe in one fist, the head of which reached twice her height.

Brand gestured over his shoulder to the wrapped body of Modi. “Many of the Kindred have fallen on Modi’s expedition. Including Modi himself. Great treasures did they find, great beasts did they slay. But the price was steep.”

The squad leader nodded once, curtly. “Modi has fallen. This is a cursed day for the Kindred.”

The squad of red cloaks did not offer to take Modi’s body from them. To have done so would have been an insult, unless the comrades who bore his great weight were exhausted and dropping in their tracks. The right of a Kindred trooper to bear a commander’s body was a great honor that was never ignored.

Instead, the squad leader sent one of her warriors ahead to the citadel. Then she and the rest of her squad marched with them in silence.

They followed a road now, built of crushed gravel and shored up on both sides by cut blocks of granite. They passed lichen farms and smoking factories. When they mounted a bridge, it was to pass over a crevasse in the stone floor of the cavern or a thick brass pipe. There were no liquid rivers of water in the Earthlight. The Kindred pumped their water from deep reservoirs beneath the cavern floor.

As they neared the portal at the base of the citadel, they saw the black stone doors had swung wide. In the opening stood a huge figure with a snow-white beard. Brand knew in an instant, by his stance and his shape, that he looked upon Hallr. He set his mouth in a line. It was in that moment that he realized Modi was a prince among the Kindred. They had no King, but the closest thing they did have was their warrior clanmaster. Now, he bore the body of Hallr’s son to him, he who was among the most heroic of the Kindred.

He blinked and hardened his heart. He would not have it said that he met this lord of the Kindred with a tear in his eye.

As they drew up to the drawbridge that crossed a deep, waterless moat full of iron spikes, the Kindred behind him halted. Brand took the hint and halted as well. Brand glanced over his shoulder. All of the Kindred stood with their eyes downcast.

Brand took a deep breath and stood tall. There was a breeze moving through the caverns, Brand knew that far above them the Great Gates of Snowdon were open and allowing in fresh air. He longed to see the sky and feel snowflakes stinging his cheeks again.

Hallr spoke first. “Who brings me my son?”

“I do, clanmaster,” Brand answered.

“Who are you to bear me such dark tidings?”

“I am Brand, Champion of the River Folk. I slew Modi’s slayer. I was also his friend.”

Hallr was silent for a time. Brand could see in his face that he struggled for control. Perhaps, Brand thought, he wanted to throttle Brand, or to scream and tear at his beard in his grief. But he did none of these things.

Finally, Hallr nodded. “At the striking of the twelfth hammer, we shall bear Modi back to the fires from whence we all come.”

* * *

The funeral proceeded in an orderly manner. It was slow and sad. There was a measured, thumping form of music that followed their dragging steps up the side of a great cone of stone. The cone stood apart, in the midst of the cavern. None of the Kindred towers guarded this spot, as it was used only for ceremonies such as this one.

A broad stone stairway wound up the cone to the mouth of it. Vapor rose from the top, and Brand sensed a great heat being released there. The first to mount the stairs was Hallr himself, followed by the various clanmasters, Gudrin among them. Brand lamented that he had not yet had a chance to talk to Gudrin. They had arrived, been sent away to clean the filth of the Everdark from their bodies, and then been summoned to join the funeral procession. No doubt the Kindred wished to move things along quickly, as Modi had died days earlier.

Next after the clanmasters came the body itself, borne by Gamal and the other miners. Brand followed close behind them, as was his due. After that came a great crowd of white cowled priests with swinging silver hammers, incense-burning devices and ticking mechanical drums. These last contrivances beat a steady, thumping note. The mechanical drums reminded Brand of a dozen heartbeats and the relentless sound of them set his teeth on edge. He made no complaint, however.

The priests of the Kindred were a strange lot, Brand reflected. Each wore a white flowing robe that they somehow kept clean despite the blowing ash that was everywhere. Unlike any others of the Kindred he had ever seen, they wore no armor, no heavy boots. They wore only their long pure white robes, sandals on their feet, and a single silver hammer. They had white cowls that draped over their faces and the sleeves of their robes hung long and low, covering their hands which they kept clasped in front of them. In fact, all one could see of them besides flowing robes was the occasional sandaled foot or a hooked nose protruding from under those hanging cowls.

After the priesthood came a seemingly endless stream of well-wishers and mourners. Brand had learned that Modi was Hallr’s only surviving child and he had lost his wife a century before as well. These facts did nothing to gladden his heart. He was left wondering if he could have done something differently back in the dragon’s cave. Could he have saved Modi? Could he have traded his life for the warrior’s?

When at last they reached the wide platform at the top of the cone, Brand noted with mild alarm there was no railing. The drop was sheer on every side. One had a choice of falling off the outside of the rocky cone, surely dying a quick death smashed upon the jagged, waiting stones, or falling into the mouth of it to burn. Falling inside the cone, he judged, would be the more horrible fate for the careless. Sheer, glass-like surfaces allowed a blindingly-fast sliding death into the smoky unknown. You could not see what awaited in that direction, but the tremendous waves of heat and vapor hinted at a painful fate.

The benediction was long and windy. Periodically the priests clanged upon a huge gong built for this sole purpose with their silver hammers. They completely circled the thing, and Gudrin sidled close to Brand to comment.

“Seventeen hammers,” she breathed, “I doubt they would honor me with so many. Only a King could warrant more.”

Brand nodded politely. In truth, the ringing sound of the hammers upon the huge gong, which seemed to soften every Kindred face, made his ears and head ache.

At long last, after many rumbling words were spoken, Modi was committed to the fiery depths. A gush of heat flared up some seconds after the body was slipped into oblivion, and Brand had to smile grimly. He hoped the Earth itself had a hard time swallowing his friend.

The procession then broke away from the strict protocol it had been following up to that point. People were allowed to speak and move as they willed. Brand relaxed a fraction. He tried not to, but he cast frequent glances at Hallr. He hoped the other wouldn’t come to have private words with him. He knew not what to say.

His fears quickly materialized. Hallr’s eyes sought him out from the crowd. It was not a difficult task, as he was easily the tallest person on the platform, with Hallr being second.

Brand braced himself, unsure of what kind of assault awaited him.

“That’s right,” said Gudrin, whispering advice at his side, “stiff spine. No smile. Do not shake hands, hug or bow. None of these things please any of the Kindred.”

Brand glanced at her, remembering the many times they had foisted just such behavior upon Gudrin. He wondered that she had never objected. He thought to himself that they had been in the lands of the River Folk then, and had followed the customs of his people. Now, he was in the lands of the Kindred—the very heart of those lands—and it would do him credit to follow their ways.

Telyn tapped at him, and he almost brushed her away, his eyes set only upon the approaching Hallr.

“Brand, look,” she said, not dissuaded by his waving hand.

He looked and Gudrin did too. They gazed at the Earthlight itself. The three Great Vents stood fully open. Something was amiss, however. On the right end of the vents a puff of flame and smoke appeared in the distance. The flame was a brighter, yellow-white brilliance, not the deep ember-red that the Earthlight usually emanated. Brand blinked at the sight, not sure what he was witnessing. Perhaps occasional flare-ups were normal.

“Brand,” said Hallr, suddenly close.

“Clanmaster Hallr,” said Brand, facing him. He almost smiled and leaned forward in a bow, but stopped himself. Unfortunately, his hand came up to clasp with Hallr’s. The response was automatic for him.

Hallr stared at the hand like it was viper. Possibly a venomous one. Brand managed to reach up with the hand and adjust the pack on his back. This distraction only earned him a frown.

“I understand that you slew a dragon. The very one that killed Modi as you battled it together.”

Brand nodded.

Hallr sucked in a deep breath. “So you were there at Modi’s final moments. Tell me truthfully, for few can lie to Hallr without my knowing it. Did my son die well?”

Brand thought for a moment of Modi’s brave final moments, fighting with cunning and fantastic strength of arm. He answered without hesitation.

“Absolutely. Without him, I doubt I could have defeated the beast. I was down at one point, and Modi drew it off me by attacking her flank.”

“Her?”

“Sigrid was her name, according to the gnome king.”

Hallr blinked at him. “The gnome king... We will have to talk after this business is concluded.”

Brand fought not to smile. “Agreed,” he said, attempting to be as stern as possible.

A collective gasp went up from the crowd then. Brand turned to follow their gaze.

“Oh no,” he heard Telyn whisper. Then he saw it.

It was the Earthlight. Something was definitely wrong, terribly wrong. The topmost of the three Great Vents had come unhinged. It fell as they watched, and such was its fantastic size and distance that it fell for a several seconds, sagging down to the floor of the cavern.

No one on the platform knew what to do. They simply shuffled about, stared and murmured. Gasps and cries of beseeching words rose from their mouths. None of the Kindred could believe what they were seeing. But there it was, plain for every eye to see: the Great Vents of the Earthlight had broken.

The right end of the massive length of metal slammed down into the works and the boilers Brand knew to be there. A flare of white radiation ballooned. And then a few seconds later a most tremendous sound, a fantastic CLANG swept over them. The sound was unlike anything Brand had ever heard. It struck with a physical force, rocking everyone on their feet.

One unlucky priest, having pushed back his white cowl and leaned out from the platform to stare at the unmaking of history before his very eyes, lost his footing. He toppled and fell without a word into the cone, and was gone in an instant from sight.

Then a new sound swept over the crowd, it was not one of panic, an emotion never exhibited by the Kindred, but instead of horror.

Brand felt too, deep in his soul, the wrenching grip of horror. He knew what he had just left there, at the bottom of those vents, on the very side where the topmost had come unhinged. He had left the leathery egg there.

“Brand, could it be the egg?” asked Telyn. He noticed for the first time that she gripped his chest.

“How could it be? How could such a small thing cause such damage?”

“What egg?” demanded Gudrin, at his other side and tugging at his arm.

He looked down into her face, and her eyes searched his in desperation.

“I brought back the dragon’s last egg. Sigrid’s egg. We thought it would be a great trophy for Hallr.”

Gudrin’s mouth sagged open. “You brought a wurm’s egg here?”

“Whelp!” roared Hallr, who had been listening, “you have not the craft to hunt dragons! You have brought doom to us this day!” He struck Brand a great blow to the mouth, which staggered him. Brand felt the axe stir excitedly, but he ignored it. He felt in his heart, that if it were true, that if somehow he had caused this tragedy, he should allow himself to be cast into the cone of vapors as well.

Gudrin grabbed Hallr’s arm before he could do more. He shoved her away, snarling, but left Brand alone.

The clanmaster cried for his personal guard and rushed down the steps, pushing down anyone who didn’t get out of the way quickly enough. Red cloaks flapping, Hallr’s guardsmen raced after him.

All around the great cavern alarms were now sounding. Hammers struck gongs with rhythmic blows. Horns rose and were winded, their long, low mournful notes calling the Kindred to arms. Atop the seven towers and the great citadel itself, Kindred weaponeers, ant-like in the distance, gathered and began working their machines.

Brand touched Gudrin, gaining her attention.

“How is it that a single egg could cause all this?” he asked her, his eyes haunted.

“Even a dragon child has two parents, Brand,” she told him, as if he were the simplest of peasants.

Brand let his hand slip away, understanding now. He saw another white-hot flare as the raging dragon blew its flame again, so far away its huge body was still invisible in the distance.

Chapter Seventeen

Fafnir’s Vengeance

Brand snapped into action finally, after his initial shock faded. Perhaps, he could help deal with this disaster, which he apparently had caused. He ran down the endless steps that wound around the cone, taking two or three at a time. Telyn was right behind him, her light, agile steps keeping up easily.

They passed dozens of hurrying Kindred and Brand headed directly for the stables. There, waiting for them, was the roan. As far as Brand had seen, he was the only full-sized horse beneath Snowdon or on it.

Corralled with a dozen large mountain rams, picking him out was easy, but getting the saddle strapped on wasn’t. He was still skittish, and all the excitement going on and Brand’s hurried demeanor made things worse.

“Let me do it,” said Telyn, laying a gentle hand on Brand.

He nodded, and she had the horse bridled and saddled in less than two minutes. He marveled at her rapport with the creature.

“I was going to leave you here and chase the monster myself,” said Brand, “but I can see that you are my indispensible pilot for this animal. Fortunately, you don’t weigh much, either.”

“You wouldn’t have gotten rid of me so easily in any case,” she told him.

They mounted up and rode off, Telyn bending down over the horse’s neck, gripping his mane and whispering in his ear. The horse tossed his head and pranced, but did not balk and try to throw them. Soon, they were cantering down the same road they had just followed out from the Earthlight that very morning.

Ahead of them, Brand wondered if he would see lava pour forth into the cavern, but things were not that bad. Not yet, at least. The magma itself seemed not to have been disturbed, only the vents and the mechanisms that moved them were damaged.

It took them long minutes to reach the ash fields. Open fire met their eyes now. The fat brass boilers had exploded. Twisted feeding pipes stuck up at odd angles. Out of the great broken pipes flowed gouts of steam, smoke and lavender flame.

They passed chunks of metal. Broken loose sprockets, twice the height of a man, spun slowly on creaking axles. Blasted chunks of stone, blackened springs and burning oil slicks were everywhere. They passed Kindred among the wreckage as well. Some worked to contain the fires, some staggered aimlessly, some lay broken.

“Should we stop and help them?” asked Telyn.

“We’ll help them more by killing the dragon.”

So they rode on until they reached a great flaring crack in the floor of the cavern and could not continue. The bridge had collapsed and the flames at the bottom gushed fire, where they had only smoldered when they had last passed over.

Brand saw a figure waving to them on the far side. It was one of the Kindred mechnicians, and he was waving his wrench at them. Flames bubbled upon an expanding slick of burning liquids behind him.

“We can’t get to him,” said Brand. He paced the length of the crack, not seeing any easy spot to cross. They had jumped these spots on foot days ago, but now they were wider and full of flame.

“Get off,” Telyn told him.

“No,” he told her, instantly divining her plan.

“I’ve watched you risk yourself a dozen times. It’s my turn.”

He hesitated, but finally did as she asked. As soon as his feet sunk into the ash, she swung the horse around smartly and found a narrow spot. Brand gritted his teeth and squinched his eyes tightly, wanting to turn away and wanting to watch at the same time.

As she leapt the horse over the flaming crack, his heart leapt in his chest with her. He stood, feeling useless in the blowing ash and smoke. He marveled that she could get that roan to cooperate on such a venture. He wasn’t sure he could get it to Riverton market without being thrown.

She made the leap. He let out his breath in a gasping sigh. She gathered up the Kindred, who still held his wrench in a white knuckled grip. The horse was heavier now, and this time they turned more slowly.

The ground shook beneath Brand’s tread as he ran to the edge. Perhaps, there would be something he could do. There was too much noise and not enough time to speak and consider their options. The flaming liquid crept up behind them steadily and evilly. The roan knew that death was near and his eyes rolled in his head with flashing whites. Flecks of foam filled his working mouth. He might throw them and bolt at any moment, Brand knew.

Brand wished she had let the mechnician burn. He wished, worse, that she tossed him from the saddle and escaped alone. If she did so, he promised to never mention it to her. To never speak of it, until death and long after.

They galloped and at the last moment he could tell they weren’t going to make it and so could Telyn. She slipped off the horse and slapped it on the rump. The roan flew, but landed badly, back legs kicking in the pit. Panicking, the horse screamed and almost rolled off the cliff. Brand grabbed the reins and drew his axe in his other hand. He willed strength from it, and his body became as strong as steel, but the horse was slipping. The mechnicians eyes were as wide as the horse’s.

Finally, the horse was up but the Kindred, unused to riding a horse under the best of circumstances, had slipped from the saddle. He fell, and Brand’s hand moved at a speed impossible without the aid of the axe. He grabbed and clutched at the wrench, which the Kindred still clung to as if it were a tree branch in a flood.

He lifted the shocked mechnician out of the flaming pit and stood him up on ledge beside him.

“Thanks,” said the mechnician, staring at him and his flashing axe.

Brand ignored him, having eyes only for his lady. Telyn now stood on the far side. The river of burning oils was less than a hundred paces behind her. Soon the smoke and heat would overwhelm her and her clothes would catch fire.

“There is a way,” said the Kindred, waving for him to follow.

Brand gestured to Telyn, and she followed them on the far side of the crevasse. The Kindred reached the spot where the bridge had fallen. He employed his wrench, explaining as he worked.

“The bridges fall now and then. We have an emergency system. A rail will extend.”

He worked steadily, turning a great screw. A rail did indeed extend, it was perhaps two inches wide but it looked to be solid iron.

“We build the new bridges over this, then retract it again. I would have escaped that way, but the one on the far side was damaged.”

“Give it to me,” said Brand. It was a command, not a request.

The mechnician looked as if he might object, but Brand still held the axe aloft and there was a madness in his eyes. The Kindred handed over the wrench and Brand worked with one-handed ferocity. The metal squeaked and groaned, but the rail extended much more quickly than before.

Soon, Telyn was able to hop to it, not waiting for it to fully extend. She bounced there on the flexing rod of metal.

“She’s got good balance,” commented the mechnician.

Brand allowed himself his first smile of the day as she sprinted across the beam effortlessly. “Yes, that she does.”

When they were reunited and had pressed their bodies together in a lengthy embrace of welcome, the mechnician broke out a skin of water. He passed it around and they all drank greedily, despite the fact the water tasted oily and was more than blood-warm.

“Tell us of the dragon, and the egg,” Brand asked him.

“Are you the one who left it with us?”

Brand nodded, trying not to look ashamed.

The mechnician took a deep breath. “We should have known. But it has been so long. We haven’t had a serious dragon attack in six centuries at least. Only the oldsters among us remember the last time. We thought we could handle it. Don’t blame yourself, you’ve had no experience at all with wurms. We, who live on top of them, should know better.”

“I wish we’d rolled it into the Earthlight.”

“I don’t know if that would have helped,” said the Kindred. “I think the one you slew, the female, called her mate when she died. He was going to come in any case. But the egg being here, that did seem to attract him to this spot. He must have known, somehow. Dragons are mysterious beasts, not like Kindred, man nor even the Fae.”

“Tell me what happened to the egg. Was it destroyed when the vent fell?”

“I didn’t see everything. But no, the dragon took the egg with him, I believe. He was a big green. Biggest even that the oldsters could recall hearing of.”

“Well,” said Telyn, joining the conversation, “he’s gone with his egg now, and he did a great deal of damage. Hopefully, he’s satisfied and will not return.”

The mechnician shrugged. “As to the motivation of wurms, I can’t say. But one thing I know, no dragonfire should have been able to burn down the hinge of a vent like that. They are built to withstand the heat of magma.”

At a loss to explain it, they separated to see what they could do to help the Kindred survivors who wandered here and there on the landscape. Telyn caught the roan and whispered to it, stroking his shivering neck and calming him enough for them to mount.

Brand and Telyn had barely gotten onto the horse’s back again when they heard the mechnician calling them again. They looked, and saw him pointing up into the sky toward the vents.

Something huge and poisonously green flew through the open top vent into the cavern overhead. Incredibly, it had flown out of the lurid red glow of the Earthlight itself. Its wings smoked with fantastic heat, but did not burn. The beast flapped those tremendous wings that were each larger than the sail of any ship Brand had ever laid eyes upon. They heard the wings snap against the air like thunderclaps.

“He’s coming down!” shouted Brand, and they kicked the horse into a gallop. The monster had already passed over them, so great was its speed. It descended like a stooping hawk and pulled up at the last moment so it would not strike the ground. As it did so, it released a great gout of flame that was so bright they had to shield their eyes. A Kindred farmhouse, built of sturdy stone, was struck. They were much too far to hear screams, but they felt sure someone had died there.

Kindred homes, Brand had learned, were built of stone for more than the convenient availability of the material. Nor was it their natural love of stone, polished, rough or fresh hewn that drove them to use it so exclusively. As in all things, their use of stone had a practical purpose. It could not be burned.

And so it was that as they galloped nearer the farmhouse, their surprise grew. For the stone slabs of the house were indeed burning. The roof was gone and the walls melted as they burned, as if they were made of nothing more than hardened gray wax. Nothing could have survived that white-hot fire. It was unnatural, Brand was sure of it. Sigrid’s flame had been hot, but she could not have melted granite, of that he was sure.

The dragon flapped for altitude and looked this way and that for another target. Brand saw its great head swivel in their direction, and thought about sending it a challenging wink with the axe. But he had no plan for defeating it, not yet, and did not want to be caught out in the open with Telyn in any case. There would be no second chances with this dragon, no tunnels to duck down into out here in the open cavern.

So he let the dragon flap on toward the citadel and they galloped after. The roan was foaming now, the stresses of the day combining with the great heat to lather it up. He hoped the horse didn’t collapse, but he couldn’t let it rest now. They had to get to where the dragon would alight.

Brand suspected that spot would be the citadel itself. He prayed he could join the battle before it was all over.

Chapter Eighteen

Pyros the Orange

Hallr stood atop the bastion of the great gate of the citadel. He wore full battledress now. A flowing single shirt of shining scales reached to his ankles. A full suit of prized dragonhide rubbed and chaffed his skin beneath the scales. On his head he wore a spiked pot helm which was polished to mirror-like surface.

Three red-cloaked captains stood behind him. At his side was Gudrin. Together, they grimly watched the dragon’s progress toward them. Six farms and factories lay in burning ruin, their very stone walls melted and left burning as if they were made of nothing but pine.

“The beast burns us out, carefully staying out of ballista range all the while. This is not some idiot wurm of the depths. It possesses wisdom.”

None present argued the point. There was no need.

“Are the weaponeers at the ready?” Hallr demanded suddenly of his captains. They assured him, for the tenth time, that they were. “Our best chance will be to catch the beast with ballista fire. They are to aim for the wings, we must cripple it, bring it down, and beat it on the ground.”

They murmured agreement. Events would proceed as he described.

He watched as the dragon melted a brewery next. A dozen Kindred, the size of ants when seen from their perch, rushed out into the open and were burnt. Hallr slammed a mailed fist onto the nearest of the black stone merlons, which stuck up like square teeth all around the bastion.

“Gudrin, there is no doubt of it? The dragon wields the Orange Jewel?”

“No doubt, clanmaster,” she said, “the dragon is the same who ate King Pyros, and thus the Jewel that goes by the same name. Only the Orange, and nothing else known, could make his fire so hot.”

“What’s the wurm’s name, then?”

“It is Fafnir. He is clearly named in the Teret.”

“Hmm. We have two legends as guests today then. I only hope the fire of Pyros is enough to destroy itself and Ambros. May these two find one another and both die entwined. I would have us free of their taint forever.”

Gudrin looked as if she were about to say more, but held her tongue.

“Here he comes. He’s diving upon the northern battlements.”

Kindred ballistae, devices like giant crossbows mounted upon a rotating base, swiveled and when the dragon came in range they snapped. One of the barbed javelins struck the left wing, punching a hole through it. Fafnir swerved, but was not dissuaded from his dive. The second missed entirely. They worked furiously to reload, aided by the mechanisms the Kindred had cunningly designed for just this purpose. It was all to no avail. Such was the speed of the dragon’s attack that there was no time for a second shot. But it was to the credit of the ballista teams that not a single weaponeer left their post. They worked their winches and aimed their weapons until the flames spouted and slammed over them, destroying the Kindred, their ballistae and even the tower itself. The stone crenulated top of the tower slagged and slid off into the great dry moat of spikes that surrounded the citadel.

The dragon flapped away again, screaming victory. His shadow darkened Hallr and the rest of his officers as it passed overhead, jaws dripping liquid flame as hot at molten iron. Only Hallr didn’t duck as the monster sailed close overhead.

More ballistae snapped and they ducked low as the javelins flew overhead. Only Hallr stood, seemingly oblivious to the danger.

“There, look!” he shouted eagerly, shaking his fist after Fafnir. One of the trailing javelins had stuck in the beast’s tail.

“Two hits, tail and wing!” he cried. “Nothing critical, but it will slow him. He can’t turn so fast nor pull out of a dive as cleanly now.”

Fafnir seemed to divine the same thing. There had been fourteen ballistae, and twelve were still operating. One direct hit in the lung or in the bone of a wing would cripple him.

He wheeled, a great distance out, and swung around again to come from the same direction, the north. That tower was already burnt and useless, making the citadel weaker from that flank. He flew low, so low his belly and dangling claws scraped roof tops in the town outside the citadel. Screaming Kindred fled, but the dragon did not burn them. He held his fire for the citadel.

“Vile wurm!” roared Hallr, beating his fists upon the merlons with abandon. His beard was sprayed with froth. “Everyone but for the weaponeers are to head below, call out the guardsmen, form ranks at the north wall!”

The rest of them hastened to obey, none sure what the wurm or Hallr intended.

Fafnir soon enlightened them. As he wove his way through a storm of ballista fire that pelted the town more than it did him, he did not sail over the citadel and bomb it from above. Instead, he alighted at the base of the northern tower he had previously burned. There, he did blow his superheated flame, melting his way into the citadel, tunneling right into the stone of the tower itself.

The basalt stone, inured to heat and formed from the very belching lava of the earth, held only for moments before giving way like butter tossed into flame. It sizzled and sagged, then ran and bubbled. Fafnir stepped into the insane heat of it, uncaring.

Hallr and a company of poleaxe-armed guardsmen formed ranks in the hallways inside. The walls glowed a dark red, like aged wine, and showed clearly to all where the dragon stalked.

They had no heavy weapons like the ballistae on the inside of the citadel, which was the beauty of Fafnir’s plan. Why fight against siege weaponry, when all that was needed was to melt the foundations of the very towers the ballistae were mounted upon? Hallr had realized this the moment he saw the angle and direction of the dragon’s second pass.

The clanmaster was no fool, and neither were his guardsmen. They had little chance to defeat the monster they faced. Hallr didn’t bother to lie to them. They needed a plan by which to die well, not a pretty speech to cheer them up.

“Warriors,” he began, “we die this day. Be sure of that, in your very hearts. But we can possibly cripple this monster so as to allow our Kindred to slay it, or at least drive it away. We shall strike not for the breast, as the scales are too hard and thick. Likewise, the head is almost hopelessly armored. If you get a shot at the eyes, take it. The main target, however, will be the wings. We must make sure Fafnir can’t fly from here. If he is left crawling, he will not be able to take any of our other towers without being slain by ballistae. He will be hunted down by those that survive us, or at least be forced to retreat. Your orders, for all of you, is to fight until your limbs no longer function. I will lead you with honor. And with honor will we die together in this place.”

A roaring shout went up from the assembled Kindred. They gripped their weapons with fanatical, gleaming eyes. When the internal walls gave way and slid down, they charged into the flame, not bothering to wait for the dragon to step further inside. That would only give the beast more time to draw its next killing breath.

The battle was brief, wild and sad.

A hundred screaming Kindred fought as their feet melted away beneath them, then their legs. The single surviving witness, who lived by happenstance, later described the scene. Hallr and his warriors had swarmed the thrashing Fafnir as ants might swarm a normal worm of the earth, hacking blindly at the wings and face. When the struggled ended, and the last of the Kindred was melted to slag and smoldering boots, the dragon had been grimly wounded. His left wing hung useless and broken, while his right had been hacked cleanly off at the bone. Both eyes still worked, but they were slitted and bleeding.

Angry now beyond sensation, the dragon worked his flame to burn down the citadel entirely. No chamber was spared, no gallery was left whole. The walls and towers slipped as their bases turned molten and crashed down.

* * *

Brand ran the horse until it came up lame a half-mile from the citadel. Uncaring, he leapt from the saddle and drew the axe. He began to run. Telyn tied the horse to a post, hoping it would survive the day if any of them did and loped behind him.

The north tower collapsed before he could reach the drawbridge that he had crossed only hours before. He should have felt fantastic grief and shame that he had helped bring this disaster to the Kindred. He had borne Modi’s body home and brought with it a disaster a thousand times worse.

But the effects of Ambros helped greatly to relieve this feeling, or any feelings at all, save for those of eagerness. He ran to the battle and smiled widely as he did so. The grip the axe had was greater now, as always seemed to happen when he faced a wielder of another of the Jewels. There was nothing Ambros loved more than to fight a desperate battle with one of its siblings. The Amber Jewel wanted nothing more than to struggle with the others at every opportunity.

And so it was that he charged across the drawbridge with great zeal. Not even the Kindred themselves, who had so recently given up their lives to wreak what wounds they could upon the beast, had been more eager.

He met Fafnir in the council chambers themselves. The northern wall grew red hot, then went to a shade of white and fell away. Fafnir stepped inside, wary of another Kindred charge. He dragged his useless wings behind him, feeling more hurt than he’d ever felt in his long life.

Brand did not hesitate, but charged underneath the dragon. Fafnir tried to back away and rear up, but his head hit upon the ceiling. Brand stood upon the one of the great carven chairs of polished stone and slashed at the scaled belly thrice. Few weapons can cut dragon scales, but Ambros is among them. The creature’s belly opened and its vitals spilled out.

The dragon shuddered in shock, but managed to loose a sputtering breath at him, Brand raised the shield he’d found deep in the Everdark. The flame curled around the shield and struck his armor. His mail heated up to a burning network of smoldering ringlets. He still wore beneath it the heat-resistant mechnician’s leathers, which kept him from being burnt alive.

His face, however, was another matter. He had neglected to fasten his mask in his charge to challenge the dragon. A searing pain overwhelmed him, and unlike the Kindred, he was able to lose consciousness.

Fafnir, belly gouting blood, slumped down over him, his great green eyes dimming.

Chapter Nineteen

The Kindred Have No King

When Brand awakened, it was to the worried ministrations of Gudrin and Telyn. They fussed over him and bathed his face. Even the touch of water and damp bandages were as dragonfire all over again to him. He saw their rags came at him clean and white and lifted away from his face soaked with blood and what looked like burnt skin.

His first thought, of course, was of the axe. His eyes hunted for it, casting right and left for any sign of it.

“Don’t worry, it is back in your pack which is at your side,” said Telyn, gently patting his hand.

He looked at her and saw tears in her eyes.

“Is Fafnir dead?” he managed to ask, although his jaws seemed to barely work.

“Yes Brand, you slayed the beast. We took you from that place, however, and you are now in the Inn at the base of the road.”

“How did I live?”

“I puzzled about that for some time,” said Gudrin, “until I found Pyros, the Orange Jewel, on the floor of the council chambers. You must have cut it out of the beast’s belly. When it breathed its last, you were struck by normal dragonfire, and survived.”

Brand nodded, and the movement caused him to wince in pain.

“Brand,” said Telyn suddenly, there were tears in her eyes.

Gudrin touched her hand in a gesture of warning, but Brand saw the movement and it was too late. He knew something was wrong.

“What? What is it, just tell me. Who else has died?”

“No one in particular. But your face, Brand.”

Brand reached up a hand to his face and touched the bandages they had stacked there. He noticed there were quite a lot of them.

“Just tell me,” he repeated.

“The dragonfire. You didn’t have your mask on.”

Then Brand understood.

“The pain will fade in time,” said Gudrin, trying to be comforting, “most of it, anyway. And you will be able to eat without aid. Both eyes and ears still operate,” she said, shrugging. “Overall I would count you as lucky. A veteran has to expect some kind of scarring, after all. How many dragons did you expect you could slay without being burnt?”

Brand nodded slightly and tried to smile, but the pain was too great.

* * *

After the great battle of the wurm, Fafnir, it was decided that the Kindred required focus and purpose again. In short, they needed a new monarch. They would have to repair the Great Vents so they might know day and night again in their cavern. The sweltering heat of it now was almost intolerable, with none of the vents capable of moving. Almost as bad was the destruction of their ancestral seat of government, the citadel. A new one must be carven, and the head of Fafnir would be stuffed and placed to loom over future clanmasters and remind them of this event and the proper handling of wurms.

Part of the need for a new monarch would be an expansion of their greatest document, the Teret. Only when a monarch lived could new passages be added to the Teret, as at that time their culture was no longer stagnant.

The only surprise was the choice of the clanmaster who would ascend to the throne. They chose Gudrin of the Talespinners. She alone among them was able to garner enough respect and support to win the vote. Hallr would have been chosen, of course, had he survived the battle. Partly, it was his death that had shocked the Kindred into calling for a monarch.

So it was, in the second week of the second month of the year, the Kindred crowned Gudrin their queen. Brand and Telyn were there for the ceremony, as was Tomkin, who had been noticeably absent during the dragon attack, but who was very clearly in evidence now.

As her first act, Queen Gudrin of the Kindred took possession of the Orange Jewel Pyros, for her own and for her people. Brand thought it a good choice, as manipulation of flame would be a great benefit for a people who lived so close to it.

After the coronation, Brand and Telyn decided to leave the Earthlight. But before they did, Brand had one of the rubies he’d brought back from the Everdark, the largest and most deeply blood-red, set into a ring. The ring was of solid gold and more finely wrought than any a man could find in Riverton.

He made a gift of it to Telyn, and asked for her hand. She gave him her hand and her heart, tearful for a new and happy reason.

“I thought you would never ask,” she said.

“I had to have the ring first.”

“That’s not the reason!”

“No,” he said.

They were both quiet and happy for a moment. She put his head upon his chest.

“The Kindred really are the best at fashioning jewelry, aren’t they?” she asked, admiring the stone on her finger.

“Every knave in Riverton will wish to slip it off your finger.”

“They will have nine of their own left with which to reconsider afterward,” she laughed, brandishing her knife.

Brand smiled at her, ignoring the pain it caused him.

“Let’s go back to the Haven,” he told her.

“Yes, please,” she said. “I’ve got a wedding plan.”

Epilogue

It was a cold day when the troll and the changeling caught up with Mari. She had taken a room at the Inn in Riverton and bought herself some fine clothes. She finally had that beautiful calico dress she’d wanted for so long. But at night, alone in her room, she cried when she ran her hands over it, remembering her old life.

Piskin introduced himself by hopping into the windowsill and leaning against it with his one good hand.

“Good evening, madam,” he said.

She sucked in her breath and startled badly, dropping her fine dress.

“Oh now, don’t be fearing the likes of Piskin. Don’t you know our folk and yours are allies now?”

“Yes,” she said, picking up her dress from the floor. She had never dealt with one of his kind before, but she knew them to be tricksy and dangerous. What did this manling want? “You just startled me, appearing in my window like that.”

She walked over to her dresser and opened it, making as if to fold and put her dress away.

Piskin watched as if bemused. “What are you about, missy?”

She pulled out her ash leaf ward, triumphantly. She put the thong around her neck.

“You’ll not harm me now.”

“I’ll not harm you in any case, rest assured.” As he spoke, he came to stand on her bed. He eyed her ward closely.

“I think you had better leave now,” she told him.

“I don’t think so.”

“Get out or I’ll scream.”

“If you do, I’ll tell them what you did to that poor old gram in the Haven woods.”

At this, her mouth hung open. She was dumbfounded.

“Did the crone send you?”

He laughed. “Hardly, she’s stone dead.”

“How?”

“You should know. You released the thing in the chimney. You did the very thing she begged you not to do.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you the thing from the chimney?”

He laughed again. “No! Don’t they teach Haven children how to tell a troll from a gentleman of the Wee Folk?”

“They will take my word over yours. You have to get out.”

Piskin sniffed. “What about your recent, ah, good fortune? Where did all that money come from?”

“None of your business.”

“Quite right. It is the business of the Riverton Constabulary. They will get to the bottom of all this. Let me see, what clues do we have? A mysterious, violent death of a rich, elderly woman… followed closely by the disappearance of her maid. And lastly, the reappearance of said maid on a buying spree in Riverton….”

Mari sat down heavily upon the bed. “What do you want?” she asked.

“Why, to be your friend, of course!” he said.

Mari nodded, finally understanding. “You want part of the money.”

Piskin shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Never! What I want is your welfare, miss. Let me just plainly tell you, as I see you have not guessed yet.”

“What?” asked Mari, perplexed.

“Puck sent me,” he whispered, “to look after you.”

“Puck?” she asked, and her heart swelled. She almost burst into tears at the mere mention of his name. She had heard nothing from the elf for so long. “But why did he not come himself? What is he doing?”

She had a thousand questions which Piskin waved away.

“My dear, you must understand. What he did was forbidden, even to a lord of the elves.”

“Puck is a lord?”

“Why yes, didn’t you know? I had thought that’s why you consented to…. Well, never mind. What’s done is done. But I’m here to help guide you and look after you.”

And so Mari confided in Piskin, and told him everything she knew.

* * *

Later that night, after the maid had gone to sleep, a heated conversation took place out upon the window ledge.

The troll reached for Piskin, who naturally danced away. “I’ll not have you lay a hand upon her, she who released me from years of torment in the hag’s chimney.”

Piskin sputtered in exasperation. “Why else did you help me hunt her down?”

The troll shrugged. “For this very purpose. You sought her, and I sought to prevent you from harming her with that single, pale hand of yours.”

Piskin grew thoughtful. “I don’t truly wish any harm to your maid.”

Dark eyes drew into distrustful slits. “Why else would you hunt her with such single-minded zeal?”

“Would it ease your mind if I only wanted what the maid carries in her belly? Not even all of that, mind you. Just a drop or two of its blood.”

“She and her child are all of one piece. How could you bleed one and not harm the other?”

“I am a patient person.”

The troll snorted. “Then you would be the first of your kind to boast such a virtue.”

Piskin appeared to ignore the insult, although it did sting. He made a promise to himself that this tricksy troll would be the first to dissolve into a puddle of squirming flesh once he had full control over the Red Jewel.

On the surface, he donned a smile for the troll’s eyes to gaze upon. “I can wait. It will not be long before the child departs from her.”

The troll thought about it. “I owe her child nothing. You may do as you will with her spratling. Just do not harm the maid.”

Piskin smiled until his teeth were slowly revealed. “We are in agreement then.”

A curl of sharp white claw touched his arm. Piskin did not jump away as was his instinct. To do so would have made him appear guilty of secret thoughts.

“But have a care that you don’t forget your promise, charlatan.”

“Oh, have no fear. Every detail of our conversation has been recorded in my mind.”

The troll nodded and withdrew the offending claw. He seemed satisfied, having totally misunderstood Piskin’s meaning.

* * *

Cunningly hidden in the Everdark was a quiet alcove that few creatures knew of. The niche had been recently carven by rock-melting flame. It was close enough to the lava beds to be permanently hot, but not so close as to burn its sole occupant. Inside the alcove, a long time after the rest of the world had stopped worrying about it, a huge, leathery egg stirred.

The small, raspy-voiced dragon tore its way to freedom and cried, but no one came to aid it. In time, the creature realized it was alone, and left the alcove in search of its first meal.

The Everdark was now home to a new female dragon with shining scales of blue and eyes of startling green.

End of Dragon Magic

BONUS Excerpt:

BLOOD MAGIC

(Haven Series #5)

by

B. V. Larson

Translated from the Teret, the compendium of Kindred wisdom:

This is my first entry into the sacred Teret. Herein, I will attempt to inscribe what wisdom has come to me during my centuries. As both clanmaster of the Talespinners, and Queen of the Kindred, I’m a unique case in our histories. No Talespinner has ever been selected as monarch. This puts me in the delicate position of both creating history and recording it at the same time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter One

A Single Candle

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

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

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

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

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

Piskin had serious obstacles. Two of them, to be exact. To coax the bloodhound, he needed to fill a bowl with the blood of Mari’s half-fae child. Said child was yet unborn, but this was easily solved with a bit of knife-work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me of the Orange Jewel’s fate.”

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

“Who bears the Jewel for the Kindred?”

“Gudrin of the Talespinners.”

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

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

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

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

“There is something else, milord.”

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

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

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

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

“It’s time then that I stopped sulking atop this tree. In truth, I’ve grown tired of it. We must move before matters grow worse. Tell me if there are any levers I might press against with whatever weight I have left. What further tidings have you?”

“There is one other thing,” said Myrrdin thoughtfully. Oberon thought he was perhaps reluctant to pass on this last tidbit. Again, he checked his son’s loyalty and found it wanting.

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

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

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

Chapter Two

The Great Fire

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s the tanners,” Mari told him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He might survive then—”

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

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

Piskin worked hard to guide the boat onto a southerly course. He cast many frequent glances over his shoulder and fought with the luffing sails. He worried that the true owner might catch them if the man were a strong enough rower.

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What maid? What enemy?”

“Mari of the Bowen clan. He has her.”

“Who does?”

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

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

“Can we help you?”

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

“Catch him, and save the maid.”

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

“What of yourself? Can anything be done?”

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Three

The Gnome King

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was at one of these lost locations, in a dank, dripping vault beneath an underground sea of inky-black brine, that Oberon stepped into existence. The Everdark clung oppressively all around, and although his vision, like that of the dead themselves, did not require light to see, he noticed shadows residing here that even his eyes could not penetrate. He felt a chill, as spirits so old they had forgotten their own names and purposes regarded him in dull surprise. Before they could gather their lost wits enough to take action, he trotted swiftly out of the vault, using the only exit available, and slid down a chute into a pool of liquid as still as glass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lord Oberon,” said Groth at last. He sounded like a being roused from sleep. Perhaps, thought Oberon, that was exactly what he was.

“King Groth.”

“You surprise me. You insult me.”

“I meant no insult.”

“You embarrass me, then.”

Oberon said nothing to that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I meant no insult.”

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

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

“Speak plainly, elf!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Groth halted again. This time, the moment stretched longer than before.

“They will march. They have met us in battle before, and neither has bested the other. But now they wield a Jewel and are led by a monarch. The Kindred will go mad.”

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

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

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

And so he spoke of length of the rediscovery of the Red Jewel. He did not explain that his plans were balanced upon the miniscule skull of one Piskin of the Wee Folk. In his tale, the Red was well in hand and nearly attuned. Victory could be achieved, if only the proper allies could be mustered and called upon in need.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

END Excerpt

Be sure to read the rest of the Haven Series by B. V. Larson!

HAVEN SERIES

Amber Magic

Sky Magic

Shadow Magic

Dragon Magic

Blood Magic

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