Brand and Corbin manned the poles in the prow and were soon sweating profusely despite the cool mists. In the stern, Gudrin and Myrrdin debated the relative natures of the Wee Folk, comparing one variety to another. Brand decided it was a good moment to talk to his cousin about recent events. “I can tell that you hate all the Wee Folk, now,” he said.
Corbin glanced at him, his face grim. He made no reply.
“Dando didn’t kill Sam.”
“No, Dando didn’t kill Sam,” said Corbin. “But he did mock my brother in death. He toyed with his corpse. He played an evil prank.”
Brand nodded. For all Corbin’s usually easy-going nature, he wasn’t one to forgive a real hurt. “I’m sure that if the little monster had danced upon Jak’s head, I would feel the same. But I do hope that your spirit and nature aren’t changed forever by this. I would miss the old jolly Corbin.”
They poled on in silence for a time, and it seemed to Brand that the marsh was becoming increasingly still and cold. He shivered as the cool mists of the swamp stole into his cloak and chilled the sweat on his skin.
“It’s just that—” broke in Corbin, suddenly. “—it’s just that everything seems so wrong, now.” He heaved a great sigh. “I don’t know. My home was burned and my brother killed. It’s difficult to accept that the stories of olden times have come to be realities again. It seems unfair, somehow, that a week ago the world was perfect.”
“Ah, but it wasn’t,” said Brand. “Recall the Dark Rider and the strange winter full of rainbows and all the rumors from the borders of the Haven. Myrrdin was late, everything felt wrong. All the evidence was there, but we refused to see it. We knew what was coming, we could feel it.”
Corbin nodded. “Yes, I admit that I saw and felt strange things. Then, of course, they seemed minor and inconsequential. I only wonder what we could have done differently.”
“Nothing,” Brand said flatly. He could see the ugly head of self-recrimination rearing up, and he wanted to kill it right away before Corbin found a way to blame himself for Sam’s death.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. Because we can’t go back and change it. Things were as they were then, and therefore they had to happen the way that they did. All we can do is learn from it and thus alter the future.”
“Hmm,” said Corbin. “I thought I was the thinker in this group…”
Brand laughed aloud, an alien sound in the silent cold mists, but he was glad to do it. Corbin had not made a joke of any kind for days.
Corbin glanced back at Myrrdin and Gudrin. Brand followed his gaze and they both eyed Gudrin’s backpack with curiosity. “So, you are to bear one of the Color Jewels,” whispered Corbin. “You’ll have more magic on you than most of the Faerie!”
“Jealous?” asked Brand with a smile, not wanting his cousin’s improved mood to falter.
“Me? Ha!” said Corbin. Then he lowered his voice to a bare hiss that Brand could hardly catch. “I’m not the jealous one.”
Brand glanced back toward Modi, who was busy sharpening his weapon with a wetstone and cloth. He nodded, as if to himself, but he knew that Corbin caught the gesture. They had known one another too long, and been involved in so many youthful secrets, that their communication went far beyond words. Often when hunting or working the River or hiding something from Corbin’s parents, they could move together with just a nod, working as a team with a single purpose in mind.
Brand wondered at their connection. He had always been more in tune with Corbin than anyone, even more than Jak, his own brother. Perhaps the fact that Jak was older and had far greater responsibilities made the difference.
Brand was jolted out of his reveries when the skiff bumped into something. He stumbled forward, but was too much of a boatsman to be thrown overboard, even when surprised.
“What is it?”
“Some kind of rope,” muttered Corbin.
“Rope?” shouted Myrrdin from the stern. He sprang up and ran lightly forward. Leaning between the two heavier river-boys, he thrust his staff down into the muck and heaved up. With an expression of disgust, Brand reached into the green slimy water and helped him. Soon a rope, encrusted with gray-green growths, rose above the waters. It dripped and steamed and felt like a giant worm.
“Not just a rope!” said Myrrdin, pointing out the twisted lines of cord that hung down from the rope at even intervals. “It is a net!”
Brand released the thing and it slapped back down in the stinking waters. “We can go over it. But why is it here?”
Myrrdin shrugged. “It’s a barrier, I have no doubt.”
“Not much of a barrier against a flat-bottomed craft,” remarked Corbin.
Myrrdin waved his staff in the air. The river-boys ducked a spray of muddy splatter. “No, no! Not to stop boats. Since when do merlings use boats?”
“You mean the net is to stop merlings?” asked Brand. He cast his eyes about the marsh with greater concern.
“Certainly. The tribes aren’t all friendly to one another, you know. It’s a good thing for you River Folk that they aren’t, too. They’d give you much more trouble if they were organized into a single kingdom.”
“Do you think they know that we’re here?” asked Brand.
“Of course! They’ve known since the moment we turned into their part of the marsh, I suspect. I’m certain they have their eyes on us right now.”
In response, Brand and Corbin both hunkered down in the skiff. They gripped their poles like weapons.
“Why have they not attacked?” boomed Modi. Brand looked over his shoulder to see the hulking Kindred sitting at the center of the skiff, his battleaxe across his thick knees. He scanned the shifting mists around them for signs of any threat.
Again, Myrrdin shrugged. “Perhaps they are curious, or they respect the parlay symbol,” he said. “Or perhaps they simply aren’t ready yet.”
As no bulging pair of submerged eyes showed themselves, they soon relaxed and worked the skiff over the barrier. They proceeded deeper into the marsh with more caution. Brand spoke less and shivered more. Often he wished he had Jak with his crossbow at his side. After a long day of work and tension, the sunlight began to falter. They found a relatively dry, sandy island, and decided to camp for the night.
* * *
Tomkin had enjoyed the experience of working with his fellows on a common goal. He had rarely known companionship of any kind. After a night of pranks and snickers, he felt something had changed within his heart. They had played every trick they’d known and many they’d only heard about upon the hapless marshmen while they slept in their moist beds. By dawn there was hardly an edible substance in the entire village the Wee Folk had not sampled and then spoiled. They had considered firing the town, but decided against it. Sorrow and grief were not as amusing as surprise and helpless rage. They wanted to impress the River Folk, to plague and harass them—not kill them. Where would be fun in that? Who would rebuild and be waiting to be tricked again the next time the Folk wanted a party?
The throng of them left just as dawn pinked the skies, as was the way of their people. Everyone went their separate ways, with nothing left behind other than a wavering reed in the marshland to attest to their passing. Tomkin was left wondering the next day about Dando and the others. The Folk had feted Dando, and seemed to hold him in the highest regard. How was it that Dando seemed to warrant a vaunted spot among his kind, while Tomkin was unworthy of their spittle?
After rubbing his chin thoughtfully, standing all the while on a farmer’s barn roof, he heard a voice shout up at him. The gazed down into the yard to see the white-haired farmer walking up from the house with two pails. No doubt, he planned to do some milking. Tomkin grinned at him.
“Hey there, get off my roof, you!” shouted the farmer.
Tomkin bowed, an unfamiliar affectation he’d learned from his Folk the night before. He did it with exaggerated movements, making the gesture mocking and insincere. “Be my guest, sirrah!” he shouted down fr
om the roof. “Milk them well, with my blessing!”
So saying, Tomkin scuttled off the roof and raced out into the reeds. He paused to listen, however, for the farmer’s shouts of dismay. They were not long in coming. Along with his brothers, Tomkin had spent the better part of an hour working the cows until they were full of nothing but thick cream near to butter.
When the farmer’s outrage met his ears, Tomkin hooted. He’d rarely felt so good. He charged off into the reeds and disappeared from North End.
He wandered for the rest of the day through his swamplands. He felt oddly deflated. He did not seek shelter and sleep, although he was tired. He did not take pleasure in the foodstuffs he found. Birds’ eggs, toasted lizards and the like seemed coarse fare after the delicacies he’d enjoyed the night before. His comrades had carried no less than three jugs of Fae wine with them. He had tried them all, the pomegranate, the persimmon and the gooseberry. In his opinion, the gooseberry had been the finest.
In time, he found himself returning to the isle where he’d found his Folk the night before. The place looked far less enchanting in the cold light of day. The pools were mud holes. The wisps had vanished and the three birches looked sickly with twisted branches and half-peeled trunks.
Tomkin walked half-way around the island before he realized there were eyes upon him. He froze and cast his gaze this way and that. Could one of his Folk have returned? Might there be another party this eve? The breaking of the Pact might cause a revival of sorts, he dared hope. Perhaps his people would return to the lands of the Haven in droves, anxious to make up for lost time.
The towering figure his eyes finally landed upon was a horseman—it most definitely was not one of his brothers. At first, Tomkin thought he might be gazing upon a man. But the absolute stillness of the stranger soon set that thought to rest. No man could sit upon a horse so motionlessly. No horse, for that matter, could stand like a statute for so long without so much as a sidestep or a whickering snort.
Tomkin did not flee, however. It was not his way to run immediately in the face of the unknown. He knew such instincts had served his people well for countless centuries, but it simply was not in his character. For one of the Wee Folk, he was remarkably brave.
After another minute, Tomkin began to wonder if he faced a statue or a scarecrow. Could his own wild Folk have left this manikin here, as a final jest to frighten him? Then, as he continued his scrutiny, he thought to hear soft music. He saw too, that the eyes did move. They were not natural eyes, being tiny dancing flames in the sockets. He knew then what it was he faced, and he would have rather faced the greatest knight of the River Folk—if they even had knights nowadays.
“So,” Tomkin said, addressing the thing that sat upon its horse with infinite patience. “What does one of the Dead do in my marsh?”
“It is not your marsh, brash creature,” answered the dead-thing.
“Thou art of the Wild Hunt, I take it?”
“Observant, but it is you who shall be answering the questions this day.”
“What is it thou seeks?”
“I seek one of the Fae, one of the River Folk, and one that is both together.”
Tomkin licked his lips. He seriously hoped he was not the person listed as one of the Fae which this creature claimed to seek. “I saw such a trio not an hour’s march north of this very spot!” he said with a mocking laugh.
The other was silent. It still did not move. Tomkin wondered if he had offended it.
“Well,” Tomkin said after an uncomfortable silence had passed, “I’ve got many appointments to keep this day. I bid thee farewell, and wish thee luck in thy quest.”
The music stopped. There was a rasping sound. Tomkin saw a long length of fine steel reflecting in the sun as it was drawn.
Tomkin turned and ran.
Hooves thundered behind him. So close! The dead-thing which had sat so still was incredibly fast. He should never have sought to yank its beard in the first place. A thousand self-recriminations ran through his head, even as his legs pumped and his feet made wild-flying leaps over flowered clumps of stichwort, muddy pools and occasional boulders. Quail burst out of hiding as he sailed over an insect-eating patch of sundew plants, then he darted under the stilted roots of a pond-ash tree.
He listened intently as the hooves thundered by and splashed away. Could he have lost the dead-thing? He dared not peep out. For all his bravado, Tomkin knew he was no bigger than a surly child to this horseman. Even the thought of sticking his blade into its desiccated flesh—or worse yet, biting into it—made him ill.
The silence went on, but the natural sounds of the bog did not return. The insects did not chirrup. The birds did not cry for mates nor warn one another away from their territory. The marsh was abnormally quiescent.
After another full minute, Tomkin poked his long nose out from under the tree roots. Immediately, a length of blade, silver-white and made of fine steel, appeared at his chest. The length of blade led up to a hand encased in a crumbling glove. Tomkin retreated from the tip of the sword, but the tip followed him.
“All right,” he said, crossing his arms and walking out into the open. The sword tip followed him closely. “I would know thy name.”
“Voynod.”
Tomkin blinked, what could the Dark Bard want of him? “What is it thou desires, dead man?”
“As I’ve said,” replied Voynod, “I seek three beings: one of the Fae, one of the River Folk, and one that is both together.”
Tomkin eyed the dead-thing with vast distrust. Could this creature be thinking of Brand and his friends? What did they have that would so interest the Wild Hunt? He could give them up, of course. It was well within his rights. They were clearly of interest: a half-breed traveling with a group of River Folk. Not exactly as the Huntsman described, but close enough. But Tomkin did not like this creature’s manner. He did not like to be bullied by anyone. Although he had no love of Myrrdin, he would sooner trust the sneaky wizard than a pack of dead-things. He decided to avoid giving information. This was a natural attitude for him and took no special effort.
“Do they travel together?” Tomkin asked.
“Possibly.”
“I have not seen such a trio. On this I swear.”
The sword tip pressed closer to his chest. Tomkin stood firmly, angrily. The dead-thing suggested by its probing it did not believe him. Tomkin took this as an insult. He had seen no such party, and his word was his bond.
At last, after a tiny spot of blood showed on Tomkin’s tunic, the sword was withdrawn.
“Interesting,” Voynod said, studying Tomkin. “I have more questions.”
“And I have prices,” Tomkin said quickly.
“Why did you come here? What brought you to this place?”
Tomkin hesitated. It was a mistake, and he knew it, but he wanted to tell this creature about his gathering folk even less than he wanted to tell it about Brand and his crew.
“What do you hide from me?” asked the Bard, leaning down from his creaking saddle.
“It is the month of the Ngetal—the month of the reed. At times, my people gather here during such evenings.”
Voynod inclined his head and withdrew his person, sitting high upon his saddle again. “I found evidence of a celebration. Tiny, broken mugs and the like. You have spoken truth to me.”
Tomkin shrugged. “Of course I have.”
“Would your Folk be gathering here again tonight?”
Tomkin eyed him and shook his head. “I doubt it. It is not our way to be predictable.”
Voynod murmured in agreement. He reached to his belt and tossed down a flashing, gold disk. Tomkin caught it and frowned at the object. He saw it was an old coin. Minted a millennium ago, the Faerie gold showed the head of a long dead king on its face.
“There is more gold to be had if you should help me,” Voynod said.
“What would I do with this?” asked Tomkin. He did not like the weight of the coin. It would slow him. If he buried
it, as his people often did, he would have to worry about its location and safety.
“Buy whatever pleases one of your kind,” said Voynod, sounding surprised. “Buy yourself a top hat, at the very least. You resemble a beggar.”
Tomkin hurled the coin back up at Voynod, who caught it effortlessly. “I have no need for thy trinkets! I don’t like being in the employ or debt of another—and I hate top hats.”
“Interesting,” said Voynod. He turned his horse without another word then and glided off across the swamp.
Tomkin watched him leave. His horse galloped, but did not quite touch the earth with its hooves. That was how the Bard had managed to double-back and approach in silence. Tomkin nodded and wondered about the coin. Should he have kept it? Perhaps he had no use for it, but another of his kind—perhaps one of the ladies of his Folk—might have.
He shrugged. What was done was done. He headed on his way, choosing to journey in the opposite direction Voynod had taken. He wanted nothing more to do with the dead-thing.
As he trotted through his marsh, he noted the natural sounds of things returned. Bird sang and whistled. Insects buzzed. Badgers and voles scrabbled in the underbrush. He was glad to hear it all, as it meant to him the dead-thing was far away.
He wondered about Voynod’s quest. It seemed clear the Bard sought Dando, Myrrdin and the River Folk. Tomkin thought it might be worth finding Dando first. He should at least give his brethren warning—if he did, he might be invited to future gatherings and pranks.
Also, he could not help but wonder: what was so interesting about those three?
Chapter Thirteen
The Axe
For Brand and his companions, the journey into the marsh went without incident for some days. It was slow-going, with many wrong-turns and wide boggy areas where the river seemed to disappear into marshy ground for miles. Often, they were forced to get out of the skiff and drag it behind them, slogging through endless sucking mud.
Several nights later, Brand awoke with a start. He immediately felt uneasy. Something was wrong…. He rose in his bedroll, which was shivery-cold in the dank night air. Leaning on one elbow, he peered about himself. The dying embers of the fire glowed and crackled nearby.
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