Haven Magic

by B. V. Larson

  “What do you think they’re loading into those catapults?” asked Brand, watching. “There is little stone over that way, they would have to drag each load up from the river.”

  Corbin eyed him sidelong. “I can barely make out the silhouettes of the catapults themselves, much less what they are loading into them!”

  Brand glanced at him, and then peered out into the darkness. He watched as a rhinog fled from his task, dropping the heavy rope and dashing toward the trees. A goblin sprang after him and ran him down quickly. The rhinog, although he was twice the size of his sire, fell to the ground in submission. The beating was lengthy and wickedly thorough. Brand watched the brute thrash in agony and felt some small remorse for the creature.

  “What about those two?” he asked Corbin. “Surely, you can see that devil of a goblin beating his own offspring so viciously.”

  “What are you talking about?” responded Corbin. “Brand, it’s dark out. Night fell an hour ago! These creatures need neither torches nor lanterns, it seems. I can’t see a thing out there.”

  Brand felt a cold hand squeeze his insides as he realized the truth of Corbin’s words. It was dark out. The enemy only had a few fires going here and there. But somehow, he could still see them.

  Corbin turned to him. Brand kept watching the goblin beat his offspring, refusing to look at Corbin. He could all but hear his cousin’s mind working.

  “You can see in the dark, can’t you?” asked Corbin simply.

  Brand nodded. He continued to watch the goblin. The creature’s thin arms lifted the whip again and again. The whip was slick with blood now. The rhinog only quivered as each blow fell upon it.

  “You’re glad you can’t see it,” he said quietly.

  Corbin continued to stare at him. “It’s the axe. Ambros has worked a change upon you,” he said.

  Brand breathed deeply, but said nothing. The goblin halted its punishment and now kicked the rhinog repeatedly until it heaved itself up and staggered back to the rope it had dropped.

  “What if you become something…else?” asked Corbin. “Maybe you should put aside the axe while you can, Brand.”

  “You know I can’t,” answered Brand. “The Haven needs me as a champion. I’ve borne the axe for days now. I can bear it one more day. I only pray to the River that I never become something wicked.”

  “I think we should talk to Myrrdin about this,” suggested Corbin. “I don’t recall him mentioning any such changes coming over the bearer of Ambros.”

  Then Brand told him of what Myrrdin had said, about finding Vaul in the center of a great oak tree that had encased within it the bones of its previous owner.

  Corbin’s eyes were haunted as he envisioned it. “It consumed its master,” he said. “Just as Lavatis went feral and consumed Dando. Just as perhaps Osang has taken the human heart from Herla and turned him into a wraith of the night.”

  Brand nodded. “I wonder how Myrrdin has managed to keep Vaul at bay, supposedly for centuries.”

  Together, they returned to the gatehouse of rustling greenery and sought out Myrrdin. They learned from the others there that Myrrdin had left, heading out on an unexplained errand to the east.

  Brand and Corbin looked at one another. “That’s where the Faerie mound is,” said Brand. Concerned, the two headed out with more urgency into the night again. As they trekked toward the mound, they heard an odd sound. A tremendous cracking sound rang out across the ruins. Then a brilliant ball of flame arced through the night sky. It made an eerie, whooshing sound like the flaring of a smithy’s forge when it is being stoked when it passed overhead.

  “Burning pitch!” cried Brand, halting. “They are going to fire our camp!”

  “Should we turn back?” asked Corbin.

  Brand looked at him for a second, then snapped his head back up to the sky as another great crack was heard and the catapults launched another crackling fireball at the army of the Haven. He realized that the decision was his, as the Champion of the Haven. He had become a leader and even Corbin reflexively turned to him for guidance. He didn’t like it, but there it was. He had to decide.

  “No. We’ll find Myrrdin. He said they would harass us all night until just before daybreak when the real attack would come.”

  “Let’s pray that he’s right,” said Corbin, following his lead. Soon they reached the Faerie mound, and Brand could tell in an instant that something was happening. The mound seemed brighter than it should be, as if the moon shined down upon it, although there was no moon overhead. The silvery light that he had seen while summoning Oberon was growing upon the mound.

  “There he is!” shouted Brand pointing toward the ghostly image of Myrrdin, who was just rounding the mound. “He’s walking the mound!”

  “What? I don’t see him,” replied Corbin, peering into the darkness. He took a step in the direction that Brand had indicated.

  As Brand watched, he saw Myrrdin fade in and out of his vision. A shiver ran through him. It was as if he saw a ghost walking the circle of fallen grass around the mound. “No, we must follow his path. Widdershins, we must walk, nine times around the mound.”

  He set off, and after a moment’s hesitation, Corbin followed him. As they marched around the mound, it seemed that the fireballs quieted and dimmed as they burned wide swathes across the sky. The flaming explosions they made as they struck the gatehouse and the encampment around it seemed dream-like and distant.

  “How many times have we walked the circle, Brand?” asked Corbin behind him. His voice seemed a trifle faint.

  “Three times,” he said.

  “The mound seems brighter each time we circle it.”

  “Yes,” said Brand.

  “But,” said Corbin, “there is no moon tonight, Brand.”

  “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 attrib
ute 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 exclaimed. “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.”