Dream Magic

by B. V. Larson

  “Who?”

  “Brand. He’s the only man I know who has mastered his Jewel and not the other way around. Talk to him before you go. And listen to what he says. Will you do that for me?”

  Trev thought about it.

  “Yes,” he said at last. “And now I must leave to seek my fortune, dear mother.”

  They embraced, and Trev left soon after. Mari gazed after him, and he could feel her eyes on his back and he knew that hot tears ran down her face.

  Before he’d gone a hundred steps, he felt like going back to her. He felt homesick already. This was different from wandering alone in the woods and on the mounds at twilight. This was so much more serious.

  But he kept his resolve firm. He waved once over his shoulder as he reached a copse of rowan trees before vanishing beneath them. Then his childhood home was lost to view, and he began to run lightly down the trail toward the Berrywine River.

  Feeling happy, he whistled a lively tune. Birds squawked down at him, voicing their irritation.

  Chapter Two

  Old Hob’s Warning

  Brand came down the steps of his castle, his slippers slapping on each flat plane of stone. The place was newly built but seemed a thousand years old already. The Kindred builders had used the old scattered stones from centuries past, but it wasn’t just that. He guessed that one could not erase ages of history, all those ghostly memories, with a decade of rebuilding.

  Rabing Castle had finally become what he’d dreamed it could be all along. Since he’d first laid eyes on the ruins in the swampy lands North of North End, he’d wanted to restore the glory of the castle. Now that he’d managed it, on most days he felt content.

  He’d drained the swamp by diverting the river to a new course around his lands. It ran clear and clean, and no longer flooded the flatlands in spring. Thousands of acres of fertile fields had been left behind. Irrigation was a simple matter, and ditches ran in networks everywhere.

  Soon, the very necessary next element to his plan had gathered almost by magic: the people. Seeing that he offered protection and land to any capable farmer, taking only a lord’s payment each season and a vow to man the walls when trouble came, the people migrated to his banner steadily.

  They’d come in a trickle at first. Men up from Riverton seeking work; women seeking husbands and a fresh start. Most of them were Haven people—good workers, clear-eyed and honest.

  But soon others had gathered around his settlement, and he hadn’t the heart to turn them away. These were wilder folk, people of the woods and even some who’d wandered in the eastern plains living a nomadic life in wagons. These nomads had suffered much in recent years as the powerful battled around them, and they had spent their lives fleeing one safe spot for another. They’d come to Brand’s castle with hope in their dark, gaunt eyes.

  He gave them that hope freely, offering them land and help in trade for fealty and hard work. Sometimes, they’d bitten the hand that fed them. Not all could be broken so easily of their old ways. After all, many were nothing more than wandering bandits. But with a stern and fair constabulary and an iron jail, he’d soon taught the worst of them the error of their ways. After serving out their punishment, he tried to offer them jobs as hunters, miners or quarrymen. The few that could not be tamed he sent back to the wilds with the sure knowledge that returning would mean death to them.

  Fortunately, these irredeemable bandits were few in number. The majority became passable citizens in time.

  Brand left his keep and walked the walls, welcoming the dawn. He wore a robe of fine-woven red cloth and slippers of silk on his feet. Both these had been fashioned by the tiny hands of Wee Folk, and the weave was so tight and the cloth so smooth no human hand could duplicate it. When he wasn’t doing anything official, he liked to wander his echoing castle in these soft clothes. He felt he deserved the break.

  When the sun rose higher over the battlements outside, he watched it with squinting eyes and a faint smile. The swamp was gone from the region, and the land smelled fresh and rich.

  There were lingering reminders of the past, however. There was almost always a morning mist hanging around the place, and today was no exception. Seen through the haze, the sun was a gray white disk and provided only wan light until later in the day, when it burned through the clouds and made everything warm again.

  It was there, standing alone on his walls, that Brand saw a strange ripple in the air. He frowned up at it in instant concern. The Axe on his back knew the truth as well—it shivered in his pack, wanting to be freed. It had sensed something unnatural, and was instantly suspicious.

  Brand peered at the sky. What had it been? It was as if a shadow had crossed the face of the sun—which was only a white disk now, seen hanging in the mist. Something was moving up there, he supposed. Possibly, an unusually large, low-flying bird had passed between him and the sun. It must have been inside the fog that shrouded the land. He decided the effect was odd, but nothing to sound the alarm about.

  He turned his attention back to the growing town within his castle walls. The area enclosed was so great that he was sure he could house everyone in Riverton should they ever come here seeking safety. That had always been part of his secret plan: to build a fortress to protect his people in time of need. He did not want to impose his rule upon them, but if they needed him, the only lord of the River Folk, he’d be here, waiting.

  What was that? The Axe was quivering again, and he knew it was in a high state of agitation. The handle had broken free of his pack and the blades were rasping on the leather walls of its prison. Soon, it might even have the ill-mannered impudence to thump him on the back of the head.

  And for once, he could not blame the Axe, because he’d also sensed something very strange.

  The clouds out to the east where the river ran by had finally broken. A shadow had flown there—right through the yawning hole in the fog. He’d seen it, but the figure was a colorless blur. It looked as might a bucket of thrown water, or a sheet of flying glass. The thing, whatever it was, had been transparent, he was sure of that. And it had come through that growing hole in the cloud cover.

  It had flown from above to below, from outside, to inside. He could still see the edges of the hole in the cloud vapor moving, as if disturbed by something that had passed near.

  But what was it? And what was it doing out there over his fresh-hewn stone walls?

  Brand took a deep breath and came to a harsh decision. This might all be harmless—one of the Fae having a bit of fun. Or it might be something deadly, like the tail of an invisible dragon, caught sneaking into his castle unseen.

  Whatever it was, he was not content to allow it to make itself at home here unannounced. He grabbed the haft of Ambros the Golden and lifted the weapon high. A moment later he caused the Eye of the Amber Dragon to wink.

  All over the courtyard and the town beyond, people winced and ducked. To them, it appeared as if the sun had burned through the morning mists all at once and shone down upon their faces with blinding intensity. Everyone was provided with an instant headache and blinking, squinching eyes. They shielded themselves with upraised arms and cried aloud in surprise and fright.

  There stood a figure upon the battlements of the castle, looking down upon them all and every one of those who saw him knew who this man must be, and what he must be holding aloft in his hands.

  The Axe had been drawn, and at such moments, bloodshed was very likely to soon follow. The streets emptied as people first gawked, then ran for cover. Women shrieked for their children and men shouted for their sons to bring them arms.

  Brand was aware of all this, but only barely. He was a new man. He had not drawn the Axe in anger for more than two long years. For this very reason, it was more powerful than usual, more like a tiger unchained at long last. Brand himself was comparatively weak against its will. The longer he went without drawing it, the greater its urgency became and the less disciplined he was when the time came to control it.


  As always, drawing the Axe initiated a struggle within Brand’s mind. Today it was an uneven contest. He’d had no time to practice with the Jewel and steel himself. He had pulled the Axe from its worn pack and lifted it high, and now that it was free, it was the will of Ambros that drove his actions.

  When Brand tried, and failed, to control the Axe, it blazed again with a second tremendous flash of light. One of the powers of the Amber Jewel was to fire rays so bright they could burn the eyes from a man’s blackened sockets at close range. It could also be used to produce less focused light which illuminated the region around it. When used this way, the light was brighter than the sun, but not so bright as to burn whatever it touched.

  Today, the Axe released a flash like lightning that illuminated the castle all the way to the surrounding walls. Brand ignored the cries of fear from below him. His people were scuttling insects, beneath concern. His eyes stared toward the limits of his territory.

  There! A shadow hovered over the northeast tower. Something hung there—something that flew and wished to remain unseen.

  “Foul phantom!” roared Brand, his lips writhing of their own accord. They soon spread away from his teeth in a grimace of sudden intensity. His mind was not his own, and neither were his words. “I will see what dares to slink so close to me this morn!”

  So saying, he fired an intense, focused beam toward the shadow over the north tower. Screams erupted from the network of roadways below the keep, those who had not yet found shelter were burned by the heat of the ray. It was not so powerful as to injure them seriously, but it stung, and filled them with terror. Horses reared and galloped, carrying away riders and carts. People were bowled over and rammed face down upon the cobbles. Doors and shutters slammed in every crooked street. Mothers grabbed up their babes and stumbled for their huts, arms thrown over their faces. Soon, the streets emptied and were lined with silent houses and shops.

  Brand gave all this no heed. His staring eyes were locked upon the region of space directly above the tower. He knew it had to be there, the intruder he’d detected. He knew something was there—and he wanted nothing less than to burn it from the skies and slash it to pieces when he found its smoldering, flopping corpse.

  The very idea of this caused a most hideous grin to stretch his lips wide.

  Seeing nothing fall after his ray scorched the sky, he caused the Axe to fire more rays. Beam after beam lanced toward the tower. The watchmen inside and atop the tower fumbled with their bows, then seeing the attack was coming from the direction of the keep itself and that it must be their lord launching it, they huddled inside their loopholes and shivered, praying for salvation.

  While he cast burning rays toward the sky, Brand simultaneously began running along the walls. A bridge of sorts connected the inner keep to the outer walls with a gatehouse placed upon the top to prevent attackers from easily gaining entrance to the center of the fortress. The bridge itself had a series of arches underneath through which traffic could pass from one section of the surrounding town to the other. It was over this bridge that he did charge.

  When the gatekeepers fumbled with the chains of the portcullis, Brand decided their response to his roared commands to open it were taking entirely too long. He lifted the Axe and slashed with it repeatedly. The iron slats of the portcullis were cloven like so many sticks. He quickly destroyed the iron grate, heedless of the fact he’d personally had it installed only two months earlier. The twisted wreckage fell in a ruin and he charged through, passing his own startled, wide-eyed guardsmen.

  His fine slippers slapped rhythmically on the flagstones as he ran at full tilt to the outer wall and then along the crenulated battlements toward the northeastern tower. There, he felt certain, he would find the intruder at last.

  When he reached the tower his pikemen and archers fled in alarm. The word was out: Lord Rabing had finally gone mad and was killing anyone who got in his way with spittle flying and robes flapping. And so they ran from the charging madman, even as he raged at them and shot beams of brilliant heat into the sky beyond the castle’s northeast corner.

  It wasn’t until he smelled a foul, burnt smell that he turned to look behind him.

  He lifted the Axe and aimed it.

  “Hold, Axeman!” came a shout from the thin air over the ramparts. “Control yourself, Lord Rabing! I’ve come for a peaceful visit. I’ve come to warn you of dangers unknown and unknowable.”

  Brand’s sides heaved with exertion. Sweat ran from his pores, and had turned his fine red robes sodden and lank. The stink of something burnt increased, and he realized with pleasure that whoever it was that addressed him must have been touched with the flashing beams of his Axe.

  His eyes did not blink as they intensely searched the air before him for the source of the voice. He still held Ambros in his hand, and he wanted to urge the Axe to burn that foul-smelling, speaking patch of air before him. The thought gripped his mind and tore at him.

  Burn it! Kill the voice! Kill the invader that flies!

  At last, after a long moment, he finally blinked. Some part of his rationality returned. He was surprised by the voice in his head. The Axe rarely spoke to his mind directly. It was a bad sign, he knew, for he had experienced episodes of madness when it did so.

  He tried to think. He opened his mouth and a croaking sound issued.

  Something laughed. This made Brand burn with a fresh rage. But he willed himself to calm down. He had to think.

  What was it that flew in the air before him? Who might it be? Someone who liked to talk and flit about unseen? Who did he know who would dare to tease the Axeman, imperiling his own life by doing so?

  “Hob,” Brand choked out at last. He lowered the Axe slowly, but did not let it drop completely to the flagstones at his feet.

  “Old Hob…why have you come?”

  A slow, rhythmic thumping began. A figure formed out of nothingness right in front of Brand. It started as an umber shadow, then grew into a stain upon the bright stones of the ramparts. A second later, the stain transformed into a cowled figure, and a few moments after that the full body of Old Hob stood before him, leering with yellow teeth and even yellower eyes.

  The rhythmic thumping sound, Brand saw now, was coming from Old Hob. His big, misshapen hands were slapping into one another, making a popping series of reports that instantly grated upon Brand’s irritable mind. He was clapping, slowly and mockingly.

  “Very good, Axeman,” Old Hob said. “You spotted me quickly. I’m not accustomed to being seen at all.”

  Old Hob possessed the Lavender Jewel, which chose as its form a hunting horn. It provided the bearer with power over flight, sight and sound. It could make one as invisible and silent as a wisp of drifting smoke. Brand could see the horn now, where Hob wore it slung around his neck.

  “Do not mock me here upon my own walls, goblin,” Brand said dangerously. “I’ve split creatures in twain for less.”

  Hob stopped clapping. He straightened and made a gargling sound, clearing his raspy throat.

  “I meant no offense. You should better contain yourself. You’re barely in control of that Axe. Make sure you’re the rider, boy, not the horse. Put it away, and show me who is in charge!”

  Brand did not put the Axe away. Instead, he lifted it and aimed it at Old Hob, who shifted uncomfortably.

  “Again you insult me. I’m the Axe’s master, but it knows an enemy when it sees one. I dare you to insult me again, here in Castle Rabing. Come, try it! I wish to see your rags alight.”

  “No need, no need,” said Hob, lifting his hands in a supplicating gesture. “We are two creatures of power, two lords among our countless, helpless servants. There is no call for threats or insults between us. I’ve come with a gift, in any case.”

  “What kind of gift?” Brand asked suspiciously.

  He let the Axe drop to his side again, but still did not put it away. It squirmed in his hand, and provided images to his mind. He saw himself slashing away Old Hob’s outs
tretched olive-green arms and splitting open his deformed skull. Droplets of foul blood and even fouler glistening teeth would splatter the stones here, and he doubted the stain would ever wash away.

  “I bear the gift of knowledge—of forewarning!” Hob said grandly. He seemed to be unaware of Brand’s mood, but he was watching closely.

  “Speak to me, and know that at this distance you could never escape me. You are being judged today, king of the swamps. You must not be found guilty of deception, or your life will be forfeit, for I am the lord of this castle and these lands, and I will not tolerate deceit.”

  Hob shrugged and dared to roll his eyes. “Really, Brand, it would be better if you put that thing away. It makes you—” Hob paused, seeing Brand’s face darken. “Never mind,” he said quickly. “I’ve come to warn you about a being known to you, a trusted comrade from the past. When he arrives, you will greet him with happiness, but he will bring you only sorrow. He knows not what he seeks, nor how to find it, nor what it will do when he does find it. But rest assured, neither of you will be happy when that day comes.”

  Brand stared and frowned. Old Hob, like so many of his kind, never liked to state his meaning clearly. The Fae preferred to talk in riddles and half-truths. Brand, with the Axe gripping his mind, found this infuriating. He lifted Ambros with sudden purpose. He poised the twin blades under Old Hob’s Adam’s apple, which was huge and wattled.

  “Speak plainly,” Brand said quietly. “For the words may be your last.”

  Old Hob froze. He didn’t dare step away. His eyes bulged and his throat rose and fell as he swallowed. The baggy skin of his neck touched the twin shining blades of the Axe and a few drops of blood ran down the curved edges.

  “Trev will come to you,” he said. “Do not help him! He is a stripling that plays with fire. He will burn down his house and yours as well. Let what sleeps slumber on. I beseech thee for both our sakes.”

  Brand withdrew the Axe from Hob’s neck and frowned. He could think more clearly now. The Axe had tasted blood, and even though it was only a trickle, Ambros’ fever was less urgent in his mind. He had no doubt the Axe was savoring the flavor of Hob’s flesh and would want more. Soon, it would demand that he lop off Hob’s disgusting head from his neck so it could drink deeply.