by B. V. Larson
Books by B. V. Larson
HAVEN SERIES
Amber Magic
Sky Magic
Shadow Magic
Dragon Magic
Blood Magic
Death Magic
HYBOREAN DRAGONS SERIES
To Dream with the Dragons
The Dragon-Child
Of Shadows and Dragons
The Swords of Corium
The Sorcerer’s Bane
The Dragon Wicked
OTHER BOOKS
Swarm
Extinction
Mech
Mech 2
Shifting
Velocity
Visit BVLarson.com for more information.
AMBER MAGIC
(Haven Series #1)
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.
Chapter One
The Deepwood
Twrog was a Deepwood Giant of middling size. He had fingers as thick as tree branches, huge flapping ears and teeth like walnuts. Being no more than two centuries of age, he was young and inexperienced for a member of his lonely race. He had wandered the murky depths of the forest along the River Haven’s western border all his life. Normally, he kept away from the humans who lived in the Haven and the Fae who danced upon their mounds. Today however, two strangers had entered his territory.
The first creature claimed he had come to warn him about the second. This being was a member of the Wild Hunt, a dead-thing known as Voynod. Among the Wild Huntsmen, Voynod ranked high. He was often called the Dark Bard, which Twrog gathered was due to his playing of music and his odd costume of rancid, black cloth. Twrog cared little about rank and status, being a solitary creature. The Wild Huntsmen were dead-things, and Twrog knew better than to trust the Dead. They were tricky—even trickier than humans that still drew breath. Normally, Twrog would have doubted the Dark Bard’s word. No one trusted one of the Dead without good cause. But he had seen the human invader Voynod spoke of with his own eyes, wandering among the birch and ash trunks of the Deepwood as if he owned place.
“Imagine,” said the Bard, leaning forward in his saddle. Ancient leather creaked with the movement. “Imagine the unmitigated gall the man must have to come here into your lands.”
Twrog shied away from Voynod slightly. He did not like the smell of dead-things. This one was so ancient it no longer had an odor of decay, but the musty smells of the long-dead still disturbed the giant’s sensitive nose.
“Is not right,” said Twrog thickly. He was not good at speech. The bulging muscles that clung to his jawbone were meant for cracking bones and sucking out marrow, not forming fancy sounds.
“No!” agreed the Bard. “Not right at all!” Voynod’s horse, which was as dead as its rider, stepped closer as if knowing what its master wanted. Twrog’s eyes strayed to the horse, and his face twitched in disgust. Skin, flesh and hair covered most of it, but here and there the gray-white of a bone could be seen. The horse’s eyes were tiny lavender flames.
“This man ignores the Pact that keeps his own people safe,” continued the Bard. “Just the very fact the human breathes your forest air befouls it. His presence despoils this sanctuary of natural beauty.”
The Bard’s melodic words conjured an image in Twrog’s large, slow brain. To the Deepwood giant the River Folk intrusion seemed monumentally unfair. The puny humans insisted on maintaining their Pact with the Faerie, the Dead and other creatures like Twrog, forbidding all but humans entry into the Haven. At the same time however, they felt they could cross the borders into other folk’s territory at will. To add insult to injury, the human was a hunter seeking wild boars, which were a major part of Twrog’s diet this time of year. He could not spare a single pig.
The forest around the two beings was unusually hushed. A tall ash tree loomed over Twrog and Voynod, but the rest of the region was populated by lowland oaks. The giant was squatting, as was his nature, upon a boggy spot of ground. A single fungus thrust up in front of his feet, but he had been careful not to touch it. The mushroom was known to the River Folk as a maiden’s veil due to the fungus’ odd golden shroud which grew to encircle the central horn of white. Twrog’s name for the mushroom was stinkhorn, as the growths made an unpleasant smell when trod upon. Maiden’s veil or stinkhorn—whatever the name, this variety often sprouted half a foot in height in a single night.
“The River Folk have their river,” said Voynod intently. “They have their boats and their fields, but that isn’t enough for them, is it?”
Twrog blinked up at the dead-thing on its horse, uncertain as to the correct answer. He did not like the Bard, but he did not fear him, either. He had an attitude toward the Dead that was rather like a farmer’s attitude toward large spiders in the barn. They were disgusting and to be avoided whenever possible—but they were not to be feared.
Staring at the Bard, Twrog thought of the wonderful smells the river man was emitting from his rucksack. Far from ruining the forest, to the giant it was as if the hunter spread perfume with every step. Twrog’s mouth dripped with saliva. He eyed the Bard dully, forgetting he had been asked a question at all.
Voynod rolled his eyes quickly, then bent conspiratorially close. “What I want to know, noble giant, is this: what are you going to do about it?”
“Huh?”
“What are you going to do about this creature that parades itself in your woods?” Voynod demanded.
The giant had first scented the human the day before, but it was not the stink of the hunter’s small clay pipe or his flagon of ale that had caught Twrog’s attention. Rather, it was a new scent, a meaty scent that he could not quite place. Twrog knew every wild flavor of game in the forest and every fish in the river. He could identify every fowl as it was roasted, but this odor was slightly different. If he had to gamble, he’d say it was pig, but there were other smells as well, mixed in with the typical musky scent of a boar.
Although he could not identify the scent that so flavored the air, it was definitely mouthwatering. He decided to track the hunter, even as the man tracked wild boars along the gloomy forest trails.
“What are you going to do?” pressed the Bard.
“I’m going to eat it,” Twrog said, thinking about whatever the human was carrying. He desperately wanted to know what made such wonderful flavors in the air.
The Dark Bard cocked his head, and then nodded slowly in approval. “I suppose that will do,” he said.
* * *
Today Arlon of the Thunderfoot clan wore his hunting outfit: a homespun tunic of wool, poorly-dyed and stained to a splotchy brown. He liked the tunic, believing it made it harder for animals to see him. He gripped a crossbow in both hands, the iron prod of which had been carefully scraped and oiled until it was free of rust.
When he had first entered the Deepwood three days earlier, the banks of the Berrywine River had been overgrown with a profusion of marsh violets and bog asphodel. As he’d tied his boat to a tree and headed inland, he’d spotted a variety of birds, including three buzzards and a rare red kit flying overhead. All that changed as he delved more deeply into the forest. The birds had quieted, and those that still sang were distant and forlorn. The canopy of leaves overhead thickened until only snatches of blue-white sky could be seen.
Arlon was not afraid—not exactly
. He’d been in the Deepwood before on dares as a teen and on occasional expeditions since then to chop down a hardwood tree or to hunt for birds’ eggs. Like most River Folk he didn’t fear the Deepwood, but he was wary of it. Strange events occurred out here beyond the borders of the Haven. Odd beings lived and danced beneath these trees at will. There was no rule of law with them—the peace treaty known as the Pact did not extend to this quiet sea of green leaves.
He had to question the wisdom of coming to this place alone. Arlon was no foolish youngster. At forty-two, he was an experienced woodsman from the west shore town of Hamlet. Arlon had rarely ventured into the Deepwood along the western bank of the Berrywine, even though it was close to his home. He’d spent many nights of his life in the forests of the east bank, in the region known as the Haven Wood, which was inside the borders of the Haven and quite safe for River Folk. The Deepwood that bordered the fields outside Hamlet was a different matter entirely.
Arlon knew the venture was something for a younger man to undertake, but hadn’t been able to refuse Molly’s offer back home in Hamlet. She’d told him she would marry the man who first brought her fresh boar meat for her birthday dinner—and he’d taken the invitation seriously. His own wife Dera had passed on some winters back leaving him with no children. He didn’t think he would get too many more invitations to share a bed with someone like Molly. She was ten years younger than he and strong, with three daughters of her own in need of feeding. Her husband had been lost to merlings last spring, and like all couples who meet one another after having lost their mates, the two had felt an instant kinship.
“Is this an open invitation, then?” he’d asked her in a voice that was regrettably gruff. He could not help but wonder how many other suitors had been told to prove themselves in this fashion.
“Absolutely,” she’d said, throwing her nose high in the air. “Anyone who brings me a fresh boar steak for my birthday dinner—hunted down by his own mettle, mind you—will be given my hand.”
Arlon had made a sour face. He’d been on the verge of making a nasty comment when Molly had touched his arm gently and smiled. “The trouble for all the rest,” she said quietly, “is that you are the only one that I’ve told about the contest.”
Arlon had blinked, and his frown had melted and transformed into a smile. A contest with only himself as a contestant? He ought to be able to win that.
Molly had provided him with a cured ham for his journey. He had looked at the ham in surprise. If she already had a ham hock, why did he have to bring her a wild pig for her birthday? He did not question her, however. Perhaps this bit of irony was part of the test. He gazed into her eyes, ignoring the fine lines of care and age that circled them. He saw in her face the beauty she once was. He wanted her, and so he took the ham and the sack and set off to prove himself to her. He was no drunken lout, no matter what had been whispered around the taverns since Dera’s death. He would win this new woman—by bringing her six boars, if that’s what she wanted. His only hope was that he could find a small, young pig. Boars were dense of meat and thick of bone. They were notoriously difficult to carry out of the forest. Perhaps, he thought, this was part of the test. Did he have enough strength and manhood left to provide what his woman needed? He vowed to prove to her that he did.
With less than a week to go before Molly’s birthday, Arlon had decided to hunt in the Deepwood rather than the relatively tame Haven Wood. He knew the boars weren’t due to be in rut until the winter and now they would be fat and plentiful after a long summer of feasting on truffles in the forest loam. The piglets would be the easiest to find and shoot with his crossbow. They would be the lightest and easiest to dress and carry out of the forest, too. Boars were rare in the Haven Wood in this season, usually hunted out by the end of summer. But in the Deepwood, where few hunters dared to travel, he hoped to easily find wild pigs. His plan was simple: he would bring one down and take it back to his boat which waited on the shoreline several miles to the east.
And so three days later, he found himself wandering the unfamiliar trails of the Deepwood, where the young boars were thick this year by all reports. He wasn’t happy with his mission by this time, and each step farther into the gloomy trees left him wishing he’d been tasked with slaying a merling along the wilder parts of the Berrywine River instead.
He’d taken his rowboat, loaded it with arms and provisions, then paddled to a spot along the shore where game was known to be plentiful in years past. He’d tied the boat on the shore and pressed ahead into the green quiet of the Deepwood. A feeling of unease had grown upon him, hour by hour, as he walked the forest trails. Each mile he traveled away from the protected borders of the Haven weighed upon his mind. He expected the cat-like leer of a goblin behind the next trunk—or worse, the pipes of an elf playing in solitude atop a tree. None of the River Folk ever felt completely safe in the Deepwood. Everyone knew that its apparent tranquility was deceptive. The quiet trees masked a hundred unknowable sins.
There had been nothing substantial to spook him, however. It was only a feeling of foreboding. He constantly discounted the sensation, telling himself it was the natural fear all his people felt when they found themselves far from the roaring Berrywine for long. His bigger worry was the growing cold, especially at night. It was unseasonably bitter in the evenings now for autumn. Three nights he’d spent in the Deepwood, and each night had been colder than the last. He thought it might snow soon if matters didn’t improve.
Following the trails fruitlessly until late afternoon, Arlon found a glade at long last and crept up to the limits of the tree cover. There, in a sun-drenched open area of the forest was a welcome sight. It was a salt-lick, a naturally occurring spot in the land where animals gathered to consume revealed minerals. Harsh weather had probably opened up this glade—perhaps lightning had struck here, knocking down the trees. Whatever the cause, this spot had exposed stones which were rich in calcium and salts. The animals needed these minerals and they would come here often to find them.
No less than three pigs were in sight at the salt-lick. Two were sows, their big ears twitching and their bellies distended by months of eating tubers and grubs. The last of them was a young boar. His hair was so short Arlon could see through it to the brown skin underneath. The thin coat and small size indicated youth. Arlon could not believe his good fortune. He smiled hugely, and lifted his crossbow.
With sudden dismay, he realized it was not loaded. He shook his head at himself. Here it was, the moment of truth, and he was not thinking! It was quite normal to carry the crossbow unloaded. It would weaken the iron prod to keep it loaded all day. But he should have been loading it the moment he saw the salt-lick, before he had even spotted the first pig. Surely, he had only a minute or two before the pigs picked up his scent and fled.
Slowly, quietly, Arlon put the crossbow down nose-first into the brush at his feet. He put his foot into the stirrup and drew back on the string. He struggled to bend the prod and latch the string in the trigger mechanism. Doing it quietly made the process all the harder.
He thought later it was the tiny click of the trigger mechanism that gave him away. Whatever the case, he heard the animals shuffle, then rustle among the bushes circling the open glade. With a hissing curse, he rammed a bolt into the slot, brought the crossbow to his shoulder and pulled the trigger.
A bolt went streaking through the air. It should have struck nothing. It should have missed and vanished into the forest, forcing him to purchase a new bolt from the grinning fletchers back in Hamlet. But the bolt flew true. It struck the young boar in the shoulder and the shock knocked the animal down momentarily. The pig scrambled back up and fled, but it was grievously injured.
Arlon, disbelieving of his good fortune, whooped and charged out of his hiding place. He ran after the pig as it limped for the trees. With a bloodtrail to follow and an injury that would slow it further with every step, the young boar was as good as his.
Arlon could already see himself, in hi
s mind’s eye, giving the pig to Molly. She would be impressed! What woman could not be? She had set a task and this man who everyone called washed-up—a Thunderfoot clansman people whispered had turned into a worthless drunk—this man had met her challenge.
As Arlon chased down the pig, he thought this might well be the best day of his life. It was certainly the first truly good day since Dera had up and died on him.
* * *
Twrog was a masterful hunter. He knew men were difficult to hunt—they were tricky and smart. They must be handled differently than the usual beasts that lived among the trees. Men who heard a giant crashing after them would run into a thicket or fight with sharp weapons. Twrog had no more desire to be cut than anyone else did. So he hunted the man who had dared invade his forest with great care.
The giant had not simply followed at a safe distance. He knew every trail in the forest, and had blazed many of them himself. Instead of following the trail, he proceeded through the trees a hundred paces off, following the course of the trail as if it were a wary beast itself. He did not travel too fast, nor to slow, but he came to the glade and the salt-lick just before Arlon did. He knew the spot well. Often, he lured game here and bashed them with his lucky club.
From a hidden shadowy region under a group of three large rowan trees, Twrog watched the salt-lick. He hunkered down and waited downwind of the pigs. The human stupidly followed the game trail directly to the salt lick. Twrog could tell from this fact alone that he was inexperienced. One had to pay great attention to the winds when hunting—as much attention to it as the animals did. If they scented you, man or giant, you would go hungry that night. And Twrog hated trying to fall asleep on an empty, growling stomach.
Twrog watched the man reach the far side of the glade and pause there, finally noticing the pigs that milled in the open. Stupid and blind, this one was. He grinned, but managed to stifle the rumbling laugh that wanted to exit his flaring lips.
