Haven Magic

by B. V. Larson

  Twrog shook his head bemusedly. He had never sat at camp with a goblin. Had he known…but he had not, and the invitation had been issued and accepted. There was nothing for it. By the rules of honor which almost all creatures in Cymru adhered to, he was bound to tolerate its presence.

  The goblin slunk forward, ears twitching. It nosed the air and flicked its eyes everywhere, suspecting duplicity. Twrog continued eating and chuckled to himself. He could not believe his foolishness at having invited a goblin to dine with him.

  “Name?” asked Twrog.

  The goblin hesitated. No doubt, it considered a dozen lies. “Frakir,” it said at last. The eyes flickered uncomfortably.

  “Twrog,” Twrog said.

  When the other came at last to rest on the opposite side of the fire, the giant handed a foreleg to his guest.

  “Here,” Twrog said. When Frakir did not reach for it quickly enough, Twrog grunted and shook it at him. Hot grease splattered his hand and the goblin’s face. Finally, the frightened, scowling goblin took the meat and sniffed it suspiciously as if he believed it might be laden with poison.

  Twrog snorted again. “Meat good! Not even have salt on it, fool goblin!”

  “I have your word it is good?” asked Frakir in a sibilant voice.

  “You speak to Twrog? Good. Boring guest is one that can’t make speech with me.”

  The goblin’s eyes narrowed. “The meat is good?” he asked again.

  “Yeah, yeah!” roared Twrog in sudden irritation. “No more ask that! I will eat it myself, if you don’t do!”

  Frakir’s ears folded down, but he took the offered foreleg in both hands and ripped into it with the sharp, rippled teeth of his kind. They were teeth clearly made to eat meat and nothing else.

  For a time, the two beings ate hot pig meat. Finally, however, after the second haunch, Twrog threw the bone down into the fire. Sparks loomed, coals and ash blew up as if thrown. The goblin hopped to its feet and crouched warily.

  “Not the same!” shouted the giant.

  Frakir cocked his head wonderingly.

  Twrog pointed to the half-eaten carcass that was now white with showers of ash. “Taste! Not the same taste! Is not fair. The River Folk tricked Twrog.”

  The goblin’s tongue snaked out and whipped back into his mouth. He eyed the rest of the pig.

  Twrog made a wild, sweeping gesture with both hands. “Eat more! Is garbage!” he roared. Then he stood up and walked away. Internally, he raged. The taste was good, but it was not the taste of a ham hock. Somehow, the humans had misled him. They were tricky, and they hid their best meats. They kept them from Twrog. He would make them pay for their cruel deceptions.

  The giant left the goblin, the pig and the fire behind and made his way into the forest. He was tired, it was late, and he really should find a spot to sleep. But he did not. He wanted to see the tree in the glade more than ever. He had gotten his lucky club there. It had grown upon the hugest oak he’d ever found. There, in the center of that strange glade, the lone tree was a huge oak and the club had been ripped free by Twrog after an hour’s work, sweating and heaving to pry it loose.

  The journey took nearly until dawn. He was tired and grumpy by the time he reached the spot, but also exultant. He knew the spot well, and always when he came here it filled him with memories of his youth. He’d played here by himself among these same silent trees two centuries ago. In particular, he’d played upon the great oak.

  At last he found it. The thicket surrounding it was, if anything, more profuse and tangled than he remembered. He circled around twice before finding the secret entrance: a tunnel in the greenery which allowed entry without a thousand spiny stings. He slipped through and after suffering no more than a dozen pokes and scratches, he reached the center of the glade.

  Inside the ring of thickets was an open area where a great tree grew. A massive oak tree loomed high overhead, the dark, dead branches clawing at the sky. So large was the oak that it dwarfed even Twrog. The tree itself had been broken, the top half having long ago been torn away. Like a broken black tower, the trunk stood alone in the glade. The giant rested his back comfortably against the trunk and settled amongst the black, snake-like roots.

  His earliest memories were of this place. He had been born here, as far as he could determine. For the giant, this secret retreat was home.

  He dozed until dawn, when one eye snapped awake. His ears twitched. Could it be? Did he hear a rustling nearby? He turned his head a fraction and stared into the thickets. A stealthy shape moved there. It was hard to tell one goblin from the next, but Twrog felt sure it was Frakir. Each step he took was performed with exaggerated care. Like a tiny, stalking predator, the goblin circled the glade at the edge of the thicket.

  Twrog let his head roll back. He appeared to be dozing, or uncaring. Every minute or so, he let an eye open to a slit to check on the goblin’s progress.

  When the goblin had made a half-circuit around the glade, and was thus was as far from the entrance as it was possible to be, Twrog jumped up and trotted to block the only exit. He looked back around, eyes wide, lips flaring.

  But the glade was empty. Could the creature have escaped him? He peered in the growing sunlight.

  “Come forth, Frakir,” he boomed.

  Nothing occurred for a full minute. A second minute passed, and then Twrog thought to see movement. There, behind the trunk of the huge oak. A single ear and a single matching slitted eye peeped around to look at him.

  “Come out,” the giant said.

  “I call upon your honor,” said the goblin. “I am your guest.”

  Twrog snorted. “You a spy!”

  “You have offered me sanctuary.”

  “Fire and pig. Nothing more.”

  “Do not dishonor yourself in this fashion, Twrog,” the goblin said. It tsked and tutted. “I grieve for your kind. I hope none of them ever learn of this travesty.”

  Twrog’s eyes drew to slits. He did not know what a travesty was, but he was sure he didn’t like the goblin’s tone. “No my dishonor. You dishonor.”

  Frakir revealed his full head now, but kept his body behind the tree trunk. “How so? You offered me friendship, Twrog. You brought me here to this strange spot. How can I be blamed for—”

  “QUIET!” roared Twrog. Such was the power and volume of his shout that a nearby flock of ravens took flight, squawking their way up into the sky. “Twrog called to fire. Not here. This my place.”

  Frakir had retreated fully behind the oak when the giant boomed. His voice came from the other side of the tree as he spoke now: “I apologize, dear Twrog. I was wrong to come here. I misunderstood the nature of your invitation. I hope you will accept my apologies.”

  Twrog nodded slowly after thinking it over. “Yes,” he said. He stepped away from the exit.

  Frakir peeped out again. Seeing Twrog no longer blocked his way, he came out from behind the tree and stepped forward. He walked confidently toward the hole in the vines where the thorns were thinnest. Twrog watched him and waited.

  When the goblin came near and tried to pass by, putting up his hand in an easy salute, Twrog’s big hand flashed out with surprising speed. Frakir was caught and squawked in surprise.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

  “It means you die,” said Twrog calmly.

  “Old Hob will hear of this! You will be named a goblin enemy for all time!”

  “No,” said Twrog, shaking his great head. “You came to spy on Twrog. Old Hob must never hear of this place. That is why you die.”

  Twrog felt Frakir’s stringy body struggle and writhe in his hand. The creature bit him. Bright blood flowed as those triangular sharks’ teeth made a rippled pattern in the giant’s leathery palm.

  “Rawrg!” roared Twrog, but he did not let go. Instead, he squeezed. The goblin’s ribs snapped, but he did not stop struggling. He did not stop biting, either. In the end, Twrog pulled Frakir’s head from his body. It popped loose and to
ok part of the spine with it. The strings, cords and gushing blood warmed the giant’s wounded hand.

  Twrog threw the head into the thicket, where it bounced and rolled a hundred paces or more. He threw the tiny green body after the head, then went to look for something to clean himself with.

  Chapter Eight

  Exorcism

  For Brand, the trip to Riverton was strange. People met them on the road, but shouted no greeting. Most of them hurried by, with many fearful glances. When Riverton was in sight, they met the elderly Fiona Thunderfoot, out from Hamlet. Most of the Thunderfoot clan had made their home in the Haven Wood on the east bank, but a goodly portion of them had settled in Hamlet on the west bank, her poor, missing son Arlon among them. Fiona had doubtless come to see the festival. She wore the dark cloak of mourning, her face hooded. She wore a mourning ring, a hoop of gold that expanded at the shoulders where there was a hinged bezel with the designs of her clan in black enamel. The hoop was inscribed: In memory of beloved Arlon. The bezel would contain, they knew, a picture of her son. Arlon had been presumed dead. Tylag, who had come with the party to see them off at the docks, attempted to express his sympathies. She would have none of him, turning away and then giving them all a venomous glare over her shoulder. She stood at the side of the road as they passed, her back to them, her body trembling as she wept in grief.

  “Isn’t that poor Arlon’s mother?” asked Telyn as they passed out of her hearing. “It seems that she blames us for her son’s disappearance.”

  “She is distraught over her loss,” said Tylag.

  “Everyone seems to be blaming us for everything,” observed Corbin in a grim voice.

  “It will pass,” said Tylag, although Brand thought he heard worry in his voice.

  In Riverton they drove down the cobbled main street and passed by Drake Manor. Brand was stunned to see that the hinges of the old iron gate had been oiled and worked so that they now were closed and locked. This was the first time in any of their memories that such a thing had been done. Further, two guards had been posted, wearing the powder blue cloaks of the Riverton Constabulary. They came to attention as Tylag stopped in front of the gates, and he acknowledged this with a nod.

  Tylag, Brand and Telyn took the baby up to Drake Manor. Telyn insisted on carrying the baby herself. She pointedly stated that she didn’t trust Brand to carry the boy, and wanted Corbin nowhere near him. She still seemed ruffled about the stick-prodding, even though the men took pains to point out that they had never actually poked the child.

  Tylag knocked once, and reached to knock again, but found the door had popped open. Thilfox Drake poked out his head with eyebrows riding high. He ran his eyes over Brand and Telyn, standing together with a baby in the girl’s arms. His eyebrows, although Brand might have sworn it was not possible raised even higher. He cleared his throat and looked at Tylag.

  “My good sir,” he said. “I’ve heard the news. Let me offer my condolences to you and Suzenna.”

  “Yes, we sent our son Sam out into the flood this afternoon.”

  “A terrible thing. And the news about Froghollow is almost as horrible. I’m wondering if you would be needing lodging?”

  “Ah,” said Tylag, “we planned to stay at the Inn for a bit, or with our cousins out south of the commons. We can’t really rebuild until the winter has passed.”

  Thilfox shook his head, he would hear nothing of it. “Nonsense, you’ll stay with us. Half of this place is empty, you know,” he said, waving at the rambling manor. Four stories of it stretched behind him, enough room for twenty families. Brand knew that he spoke the truth, only half the apartments were filled.

  “That’s very generous of you,” said Tylag, having some difficulty accepting charity, even when he needed it. Brand knew it must sting his pride.

  “Again, nonsense. We’ve got work to do, desperate work. Defense of the River Haven, nightly meetings on the topic, that’s what I’m planning. We’ll not be sitting about sipping sherry and smoking pipeweed all winter, I’m afraid.”

  Tylag nodded. “I suppose we need a headquarters, and your place is the obvious choice since we lack a keep.”

  “A keep,” said Thilfox wistfully. “I never thought I’d see the day when we wished we had one. Come inside, there’s a chill wind blowing upriver.”

  They followed him into one of the private parlors on the second floor. A cherrywood fire burned merrily on the hearth, and Brand felt the welcome warmth of it sinking into his bones immediately.

  Thilfox bent toward them after he’d slid the door shut and spoke in a hushed voice. “I see that you have another problem at hand,” he said, flicking his eyes to Brand, Telyn and the baby. He smiled a flickering, knowing smile.

  Tylag frowned. “Um, yes and no. We do have a delicate matter to discuss.”

  “Indeed!” laughed Thilfox.

  Tylag looked annoyed, and Brand realized that he might well get insulted and angry at any moment. Thilfox was suggesting the child was an illegitimate surprise to the Rabing family. He didn’t want his uncle to throw a fit and get himself kicked out of the manor with winter about to set in, so he jumped into the conversation.

  “Uncle,” said Brand, “don’t you think you should check on Aunt Suzenna? She probably should be told the welcome news.”

  “What news?” barked Tylag. Thilfox frowned at him, not quite understanding his mood.

  “About your plans to stay here at the manor for the winter. She’s probably at the Inn with Corbin arranging long-term lodging now.”

  Tylag’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. “Good thinking, Brand,” he said. He summoned up what graciousness he had left and thanked Thilfox. He leaned close to Brand, saying, “you can give him the good news yourself then.”

  Brand nodded and Tylag let himself out.

  “Is the good news what I assume it to be?” asked Thilfox, looking bemused. He pointed with his chin to the child in Telyn’s arms.

  “Um, in a manner of speaking, yes, but it’s not what you might imagine,” said Telyn.

  Thilfox threw up his hands. “Nonsense girl, I’ve had a number of children myself, you know! I’m no stranger to the process. And there is no need for any shamed faces here. Not in my house, and especially not on this year. What we need now are more young, strong mouths to feed.”

  They tried to break in, but he wasn’t listening. Telyn turned bright red. Brand felt his own face heat up as well. He stole a glance at Telyn and hoped she wouldn’t blow up at Thilfox, after all, he meant well.

  “Now, let me think, you two will of course be needing your own apartments,” said Thilfox, rubbing his chin in thought. “It will have to be the fourth floor, I’m afraid.”

  “Clanmaster Drake,” said Brand, trying to interrupt.

  “Now, you two are married, right?” he asked, he knew the answer from their shocked, embarrassed faces. “I see. Not even a moonlight ceremony out on the mound? Well, that won’t do. I’ll perform the ceremony myself tonight. We must at least keep that level of decorum, don’t you think?”

  “Clanmaster Drake, please listen,” demanded Telyn. She held the child out to him. “This child isn’t ours. It’s yours. It’s your grandson.”

  Thilfox’s face registered shock. He blinked at the child, then squinted. “I do believe you’re right. That’s Lanet’s boy. However—”

  “He was stolen, we found him in the woods,” explained Brand, thinking it best to leave Dando out of it for now. “There is a changeling in his place.”

  Sick understanding and shock came over Thilfox’s face. “I see it all now. I’ve been the fool. The delicate situation was our situation.”

  “Lanet must be told.”

  “Of course. We can’t let that thing spin enchantments for one more second. I really hadn’t thought they would come so quickly. I should have more wards out.”

  As they followed him up the stairs, they saw Thilfox Drake strap a dagger onto his belt and loosen it in its sheath. Brand and Telyn exchan
ged worried glances.

  By the time Thilfox arrived outside Lanet’s apartment, he looked resolute. He was scowling. They could hear Lanet inside, singing softly to what she no doubt believed was her beloved baby.

  “How do we handle this?” Telyn wondered aloud in the hallway.

  Thilfox glowered and shrugged. “She’ll be so heart-broken. She’ll be under the thing’s spell. But what must be done, shall be done.”

  He rapped smartly on the door. After a moment, Lanet answered. They were all relieved to see she didn’t carry the changeling in her arms.

  “Lanet, could you come out into the hallway for a moment?” asked Thilfox calmly.

  “What is it? I don’t like to leave—”

  “Of course not, we’ll only be a moment.”

  Brand glanced into the apartment. Near the window, he saw what must be the cradle. As the door swung shut, he thought to see a tiny face, looking at them with one eye overtop the blankets.

  “Telyn, if you please,” said Thilfox, gesturing.

  Telyn held out the child for his mother to see.

  “Who?” asked Lanet, pausing with her hands up before her, “what is that?”

  “I want you to look at this child closely. Who is it, my dear?”

  “Grandfather,” she said, almost as if in a dream. “It’s a baby.”

  “Who’s baby?”

  She peered at the child, coming close. She blinked and after a moment her face broke into a smile. “Why, he’s my baby.”

  “That’s right,” said Thilfox, he nodded to Telyn, who handed the baby over to its mother.

  “He’s hungry,” said Telyn, “let’s take him downstairs for a moment.”

  She led Lanet down the stairs with her child. She walked slowly still, as if she had just awakened.

  Thilfox turned to Brand, and his face was grim. “Quickly now, let’s do what must be done before she gets wise.”