“I know.”
They marched in silence. Three more times they saw the keep, the catapults and the burning camp.
“Is this how the night world looks to you now, Brand?” asked Corbin, his voice a wavering echo. “This silvery brightness that turns everything into colorless shadows…. Is this what you see without sun, moon nor torch?”
“Yes, it is like this—but not as intense.”
They fell silent until they had rounded the mound eight times. Corbin halted as they began the ninth. They could no longer see much of the world around the mound. Only the burning camp was recognizable, now a silent yellow shimmer on the horizon.
“I—I think maybe we should stop,” said Corbin.
Brand turned back and looked at him. “I don’t think we can. It would break the spell.”
“Can’t we just—” said Corbin. “Can’t we just step off and get back to the camp? They must need us there.”
“We’re entering Oberon’s realm now,” said Brand. “If we stop between realms, we may never find our way back.”
“I’m afraid, Brand.”
“I know.”
They completed the ninth circuit, and as they did so music came to their ears. It was sweet music, beautiful music. It wasn’t the same as the deep earth sounds that the dark bard had played, but rather the lively tunes of the elves.
Several figures stood at the top of the mound. Brand made them out, marching toward the top, although it seemed a long way. He passed the spot where he had slain Oberon’s innocent daughter the night before. The grass was withered and blighted where her blood had stained it.
Myrrdin was there, speaking with the others in low tones. Beside him stood Oberon. It was he who played sweet music. Towering over them all was the unmistakable figure of Old Hob. Wisps no longer circled the eldest goblin, but he had one in his lantern again. By her yellow glimmer, Brand knew it to be the wisp he had returned to her people days earlier. He recalled that the Wee Folk had told him of her recapture after she had spread the word that they needed aid around the Haven.
Corbin’s labored breathing behind him told him that his cousin still followed despite his fears. Brand wondered at his own lack of fear and could only attribute it to the events of the past several days. Had he become accustomed to contact with the Faerie? Or was the axe somehow filling him with courage and a level head? He didn’t know the answer.
The conversation was held in low tones, but it was clearly heated. Frequently, Myrrdin gesticulated with his arms and robes flaring, while Old Hob made violent gestures with equal emotion. Only Oberon seemed to be keeping out of it, content to play his pipes and listen.
“Hail!” called Brand to them, making his way to the top of the mound.
The three turned to face him, and only Oberon seemed unsurprised.
“What are you doing here, Brand?” demanded Myrrdin.
“Ho, Ho!” roared Old Hob. He took a step back and raised his lantern, peering with its shimmering light. “A Knight? What treachery is this, witch? You plan to slaughter us while we parlay, is that it?”
Brand wondered why Old Hob didn’t recognize him, but then realized that he must look quite a bit different in his armor and wearing his spiked helm. He drew himself up a few paces from the three and stood as tall as he could. If he was to be cursed with bearing the axe, then so be it. He would act as the Axeman.
“I am Brand, the Champion of the Haven, the wielder of Ambros the Golden,” he said.
“Ah!” said Old Hob in recognition. “The snot-nose that lost me my pets! And who is the ragamuffin that struggles up the slope behind you?”
Brand glanced back at Corbin, who returned Brand’s supportive smile with a wan one of his own. “He is my second.”
“You should not be here, Brand!” called Myrrdin.
“Ah, but he is here,” said Old Hob. He stepped forward, causing Oberon to hop nimbly from his path. The yellow circle of light cast by the last wisp in his lantern pooled about Brand’s feet. “You’ve changed, man-child.”
“You, on the other hand, have not,” replied Brand evenly. Just the presence of Old Hob, so near, set the axe on Brand’s back to quivering. It was all he could do to keep his lips from curling into a snarl. “Myrrdin,” he called. “What are you doing here? Are you parlaying with the Faerie?”
Myrrdin came close and hissed in his ear. “Yes! I work to arrange a new Pact, but it hinges upon us being victorious over Herla in the coming battle.”
“What is the nature of this new Pact?” asked Brand.
“There is no time to explain!” said Myrrdin. “You must return to the camp, where you are needed! Dawn is coming very soon!”
“First tell me of this new Pact. Dawn is many hours off.”
“No, it’s not,” replied Myrrdin. “Day-break is almost upon us. Time works in tricksy ways when one walks in Faerie light. Do you remember tales of people being lost for a year and a day, but not having aged but a few hours?”
Brand nodded, but he grabbed Myrrdin’s arm as the other turned to walk away. Myrrdin gave him a dark look. Brand removed his gauntleted hand.
“Have a care,” said Myrrdin.
“Tell me what you have wrought here in this devilish place.”
“I seek to rebuild the Pact, to restore what was.”
Brand turned hard eyes upon Myrrdin. “You would have us tithe again? You would have the Haven give tribute to the Faerie in turn for their protection?”
“What other arrangement could there be?” interrupted Old Hob, looming near. Brand looked up into the hideous face of the eldest goblin. He backed away and reached back for Ambros. Old Hob lifted his lantern high overhead and cackled. Brand grasped the haft of Ambros and stood his ground.
“You! Are you a traitor to everyone?” demanded Brand, pointing the head of the axe at Old Hob’s chest. “You plot peace with us even while your goblins fight the Haven!”
Old Hob hissed at Brand, causing a fog of cold breath to descend and cling to his face. “Right now my goblins will not follow me, their own sire. I plot for the future, manling.”
“Brand!” pleaded Myrrdin. “There is no time! Whatever the future, in the present the Haven needs you! Dawn approaches!”
“Then I will go,” said Brand. “But know this, Myrrdin: Things have forever changed. The River Folk will not bow down to the Faerie again. We will not give tribute, nor restrict ourselves to our native lands. We will live again within the walls of Castle Rabing!”
“Impudent spratling!” shouted Old Hob.
Brand ignored him. “Oberon!” he called, looking past Old Hob’s leering bulk. “I must go, but when we meet again, we will wager once more!”
Oberon merely nodded to him.
Brand retreated down the slope. Behind him, he could hear Old Hob’s continuous, bitter complaints.
* * *
After Brand left them, Myrrdin could barely meet the eyes of Oberon or Old Hob. He’d promised the boy would be reasonable, but he’d changed. Perhaps it was the influence of that accursed axe. Whatever the cause, it was unforeseen and unfortunate.
“You’d better get the leash back on that barking dog of yours, Myrrdin,” said Old Hob.
Myrrdin glared at him, but did not respond.
“Stuff and nonsense!” Old Hob proclaimed. He shuffled away, still shouting to the others over his shoulder. “I’ve better things to do than whisper on this mound. One way or another, things are in flux. Mark my words! Goblins will have their due yet!”
Myrrdin watched the misshapen figure retreat downslope. Oberon, Myrrdin’s sire, sat upon the grasses at the very crest of the enchanted hill and took out his pipes. He did not play them, however.
Myrrdin wondered what his father was thinking. He thought perhaps he knew. “You believe this to be a grand error in judgment? Is that it?”
Oberon smiled and shrugged. “What is done is done. The question is: can matters be repaired?”
“That’s what I want!” Myrrdin ex
claimed. “We’ve had two centuries of easy times since we’ve last faced one another in battle. What good can come of returning to armed conflict now? Have we not learned the benefits of peace?”
“The goblins certainly have not,” Oberon laughed.
His father’s laugh did not fool Myrrdin. He was not piping or dancing. He was displeased, despite his easy manner.
“This all started with the Wee Folk, of all creatures to launch a war!” Myrrdin said in frustration. “They have played their grandest trick of all this time! They broken the world around them wide open, and now the blood will be flowing on all sides.”
“Don’t forget the Kindred,” said Oberon. “They were not innocent. They recklessly released the axe into the hands of the River Folk. They have irresponsibly unbalanced the natural order of both worlds.”
“But it all goes back to the Wee Folk stealing Lavatis,” said Myrrdin. “The Kindred knew the Pact would fail when you had no power to control the Fae. They moved to aid the River Folk and forge a new alliance. The Wild Hunt saw their chance and moved in to scoop up more Jewels. It’s a disaster all the way around.”
Oberon looked at Myrrdin’s staff speculatively. “Where shall thy Jewel stand on the fateful day?”
Myrrdin sputtered. “With the River Folk, as I have pledged,” he cried, scandalized at what his father subtly suggested.
“Even if the River Folk become the central cause of this bloodshed?”
“It is a maelstrom. No one party is to blame. I can’t say Brand is wrong to demand new terms for peace—no more than I can blame you for letting the Blue slip from your fingers.”
Oberon gave him a dark look. He stood and put away his pipes. He touched his forehead with a single long finger of salute. He did not embrace his son before he vanished from the hilltop. Myrrdin did not expect it. They had been no more than civil to each other for years.
Chapter Fourteen
The Keep
Telyn had never been one to sit still for long. The siege of the crumbling castle wore on her nerves. In the night, as the enemy arranged their catapults and formed ranks, she slipped between walls of the stronghold and glided away into the darkness.
She’d seen something out in the fields southward. Something that reflected moonlight. It was small, but did not resemble a goblin. When the small figure took a great leap from a tumbled pile of boulders and sailed over a briar patch, she knew what it must be.
Telyn was fast, but few were as fast as one of the Wee Folk. She was forced to call out to the other to hold and let her catch up. The figure vanished when she called to it. She knew it had gone to ground. She accounted this as a good thing. If the manling had sprung away and run off at full speed, she would never have caught up.
She trotted forward to where she’d seen the other disappear. She crouched in the grasses, breathing hard. “Tomkin?” she hissed.
Unexpectedly, another of the Wee Folk popped up to greet her. “Madam,” he said with a sweeping bow. He removed his hat as he bowed and then returned it with a flourish, tossing it into the air so that it landed at a perfect cant upon his pate. He smiled at her, and his teeth seemed overlong.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“The name’s Piskin, pretty maid!” he said. He ran his eyes over her in a somewhat predatory fashion. “Might you not have strapping a baby at home? You do appear to be of age….”
“Ah, no,” said Telyn, taken aback by the odd question. “I am not married.”
“A pity. Well, soon enough that will change, I’m sure. Don’t say no when your young man comes knocking, now! We would not want your best breeding years to pass you by, would we?”
Telyn blinked at him. She was on the verge of becoming angry, but decided to mark down the matter as one more odd interaction with the Fae. “On another matter, Piskin: have you seen Tomkin?”
Piskin cleared his throat. “Indeed,” he said. “He’s not the most gentile of my folk is he?”
“I suppose not,” she said. “Would you happen to know where he is?”
“Chasing a rabbit down its hole I suppose, to eat its kits raw.”
“Oh, I should hope not. That sounds vile.”
Piskin hopped two steps closer to her, and leered upward into her face. She recoiled from him slightly. She hoped her reaction was not obvious and rude. Piskin seemed to take no notice of her retreat.
“I will confide in you, and you alone, milady,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “He is a vile one, that Tomkin. Bumpkin, that should be his name, I say!”
Telyn blinked at him and laughed. “I have to admit, he is ill-mannered at times. But his heart is in the right place.”
Piskin harrumphed and tsked. “As to that, I cannot say. He is not here, however, and I would urge you to avoid him. But something else comes to mind: I had thought he would be hiding with soiled trousers behind your ramshackle walls. Your inquiry, however, indicates he has been absent for quite some time, am I correct?”
Telyn blinked in annoyance. Moment by moment, she continually found herself liking Piskin less. “Yes,” she said, wondering if she should offer this ill-mannered manling any information at all. “I don’t know where he is, but he’s not behind our walls.”
Nodding, Piskin tipped his hat to her. “Good luck with your hunt then, milady. I must be off. Remember what I said when this is all over: don’t let yourself become barren and old! It would be a grand injustice for all!”
“Um, right,” she said, and watched him bounce away. She frowned after him, marveling at his rudeness and single-mindedness. What business was it of his when she wedded and had children?
She returned to the stronghold certain of only one new thing: she did not like Piskin.
* * *
As Brand and Corbin rounded the mound for the last time and returned to their version of the world, they realized that much time had indeed passed. The sky was not yet pink, but neither was it black. The bluish twilight heralded the coming of dawn. They walked away from the mound and toward the camp, which was nothing but smoldering embers now.
“There!” hissed Brand, grabbing Corbin’s arm and pointing with the axe into a nearby thicket. “Rhinogs are inside the perimeter and inching closer to the camp.”
“I don’t see them, but I no longer doubt your night vision,” replied Corbin in his ear. “They must not be affected by the charmed walls.”
“Either that, or the charm has lost its potency. Myrrdin said it was only a matter of time.”
The two hurried toward the camp. Brand found there was no point in trying to be discreet while wearing metal armor. He strode proudly, almost wanting the rhinogs to attack. It would feel good to cut some of them down. Very good. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew that what he felt was the bloodlust of the axe, but that didn’t seem to matter. He saw no way to avoid killing this day.
As they neared the burnt camp, he saw that it had been all but abandoned. Burnt corpses marked where some of the Haven troops had met with grim ends, immolated by burning tar.
“Here, look!” said Brand. A sick feeling ran through him. “This is the body of Pompolo! The hetman of North End! There will be no more good ale left in his town after this.”
“Pompolo? No! Could it be someone else?” Corbin asked as he came to gaze upon the corpse for a moment. A dozen days ago they had supped at Pompolo’s table. His hook, which he had ever claimed helped him take up even more empty ale jacks, made his corpse unmistakable.
“It seems worse somehow,” said Brand, “to look upon the body of a friend. It makes me think that everyone of these dead men had loved ones, people who would be shattered and weeping to see this.”
“So many of us have been killed already,” agreed Corbin. “But I fear that many more will fall before the battle is done.”
“This body has been beheaded!” said Brand moving on across the battlefield. “Could we be too late? Has the battle already been waged and lost?”
“No, I don’t think so,” s
aid Corbin, eyeing the corpse he indicated. “The head is nowhere near. The bodies are all soaked in the muck of the swamp as well, as if dragged through it.”
“But no fire has touched it,” protested Brand. “If the rhinogs haven’t yet attacked, how did it get hacked apart?”
“Over there is another, and it is more completely dismembered,” said Corbin. “I see no signs of rhinog dead, however. I must admit I’m at a loss.”
“Let’s move on to the dome,” said Brand. “I’m wondering how it has fared through this fiery night.”
As they approached the entrance, they were halted and challenged. Brand lifted the axe and let it wink its golden eye once, to identify himself. A ragged cheer went up from the men in the gatehouse when they entered.
“Where is Tylag?” demanded Brand.
The men at the gate ushered him through and into the gatehouse. There he met Modi.
“Tylag has left me in command here. He has taken most of the militia to the keep. They have concealed themselves in the crumbling walls and the thick brush there. The rhinogs have been dropping flaming pitch on the camp all night, although we left it hours ago.”
“Is Telyn still here?”
“The girl? No.”
“Have the rhinogs attacked yet?” asked Corbin anxiously.
“No,” replied Modi. “Not in strength. Just fireballs and raven-fletched crossbow bolts. They will attack soon though, just as Myrrdin said. They have waited the night to harass us and keep us from sleeping. At our lowest ebb, they will attack. Their ways redefine cowardice.”
“But what of the bodies outside?” asked Brand. He explained about the dismembered corpses that littered the area.
“They are from the river, from the battle with the merlings. Every tenth volley or so from the catapults launch bodies, rather than fireballs,” said Modi. “The fighting has slowed of late. I think they prepare for a new stage of battle.”
Brand eyed the smoldering keep grimly. He felt the axe urging him to charge, to take matters to the enemy, but he fought to think clearly. Perhaps his companions were right. Brand looked down at the axe. The haft of it was still in his grasp, despite the fact that the last attack had long since been beaten off. With a concentrated effort he placed the axe back in his backpack. A wave of fatigue swept over him and threatened to turn the world black.
Haven 3 Shadow Magic (Haven Series 3) Page 11
