Dream Magic

by B. V. Larson

  Brand frowned. “I’m not entirely sure. But I know that Old Hob is doing everything he can to stop him in his quest. That alone was enough to make me want to get involved. Now that I am involved, I mean to figure out what’s going on.”

  “Fair enough. Trev told me about Old Hob’s attempts to stop him. Were you aware Trev was attacked by an assassin?”

  “What?”

  At length, Gudrin related Trev’s tale of a simulacrum stalking him on the Starbreak Fells. Brand was discomfited by this. Old Hob was up to his worst tricks in this game, it seemed.

  “But I find this puzzling,” Brand said. “Why would Hob banter with the boy, fly him almost up to Snowdon itself, and then put an assassin on his tail a few hours later?”

  Gudrin gulped her tea loudly. The steam rising up from her face made Brand wince. He reminded himself the woman could not be burned—it was a side effect of bearing Pyros.

  She raised a stubby finger and waggled it in the air.

  “That’s precisely what I’ve been pondering. I think the answer is clear enough: events didn’t go as Hob had planned. He first went to you, hoping you would waylay the boy and convince him to change his course. When that failed, he talked to Trev directly. When the boy wagered with him and won, Hob was forced to transport him closer to his goal rather than farther from it. After that, I imagine Hob lost patience and put an assassin on his trail.”

  “Hmm,” said Brand, nodding. “A logical series of steps when viewed that way. He clearly wanted to deflect Trev from his course at all costs, but tried to do it as subtly as possible at first. When that failed, he’s moved on to more and more direct methods.”

  “Exactly. The follow-up question, however, is the one I’m puzzling over now.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why does he care so much in the first place? To build a simulacrum of another being is no small task, Brand. It takes a long period of preparation and effort. Hob is very determined, of that we can be certain.”

  “It falls to us then to decide if we’re on the side of Trev and his witch, or Hob. An unpleasant choice. I’ve come out here to get to the bottom of the whole thing.”

  “Fair enough, and well-timed. You’ll be glad to hear I’ve summoned another to aid you on this quest.”

  Brand looked around at her in surprise. “Another? Who?”

  A high-pitched voice sounded from the single window. Through that aperture bounded a familiar manling. It was Tomkin, and he stood on the table between the two larger folk a moment later, after taking two more bounds.

  “Tomkin!” Brand cried in a moment of joy. “It’s been too long, friend.”

  “Agreed,” Tomkin said, eyes twinkling in the gleaming red light like two chips of black glass. “I’m happy to see you’ve joined the party, river-boy. Gudrin assured me that you would.”

  Brand looked from one of them to the other. “The party? Where are we going and what is our quest?”

  “Why, that should be obvious, even to a lumbering lout from Rabing Isle! Firstly, we must find Trev and learn what this is about. Along the way, we may be required to stop Hob from killing the boy. Lastly, we must find this witch of the woods and learn what she is up to.”

  Brand nodded. He felt better now that he was amongst powerful friends. Between the three of them, there were few things they could not accomplish. Tomkin was the leader of the Wee Folk, a silly but numerous people. Brand possessed a small army and a castle. Gudrin was a Queen in her own right, and ruled all the Earthlight.

  More important than any of these accolades, however, was the simple fact that they all possessed one of the Jewels of Power. Few beings in the history of Cymru could withstand the combined onslaught of the Blue, the Orange and the Amber.

  Brand smiled. “Let’s do it. Now tell me, what has become of Trev? How stands his mysterious quest?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” Gudrin said.

  Brand’s smile faded and he blinked in surprise. “I’m in your realm, am I not?”

  “You are. But Trev is no longer here. It was partly my fault, I think. I didn’t take the matter seriously enough. I told the watch to follow him and keep records of his activities. There was barely time to write a few lines in that log before he was taken into the confidence of a Kindred Warrior who left his post at the Gates to travel to Darrowton. After meeting up with Trev, the two vanished the yesterday morning.”

  “Vanished?” Tomkin asked. “Did they pass out through the Gates again?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that can only mean one thing…”

  “Yes, naturally. They have gone not up to the surface, but down into the caverns beneath this one. I’m afraid, Brand, there can be no other answer. Trev has been guided down into the Everdark itself.”

  “But…whatever for?”

  Gudrin squirmed a bit on her stone chair. “I might have had something to do with that. I suggested certain individuals that might have the knowledge Trev seeks with such zeal.”

  “Creatures? In the Everdark?” Brand thought hard and fast. He did not like where his thoughts led him. “There are only three types of beings I can think of who might know much of anything about the Jewels and who dwell down there. The kobolds, the gnomes and the dragons.”

  “Agreed,” interjected Tomkin, “and I think we can safely cross off the kobolds. The gnomes don’t get out much. They don’t possess ancient wisdom concerning anything other than their own odd city.”

  Brand’s frown deepened. “Did you suggest the boy should find and speak with a dragon, Gudrin?” he demanded.

  “A Wurm, Brand,” the Queen corrected him. “The elder Kindred such as myself call them Wurms.”

  Brand grunted unhappily. He exchanged glances with Tomkin, who did not look happy either. The last time they’d met up with a dragon in the Everdark—things had gone rather badly.

  * * *

  Trev couldn’t have been happier. Now this was an adventure to brag about! It had been one thing to meet up with a strange woman in a forest at the foot of a rainbow, but it couldn’t compare with marching into the Everdark behind a Kindred warrior in his red cloak of glory.

  Even more impressive was Harrdin’s capacity for grueling marches. The warrior was an outstanding example of his clan. He was not particularly swift, but he was incredibly sure-footed. He led Trev over narrow ledges, down plunging chimneys and across stepping stones surrounded by bubbling magma without hesitation. Trev marveled at his tenacity and single-mindedness.

  The two barely spoke after their first ten hours in the Everdark. Trev had done most of the talking up until that point anyway—in fact, as he considered it, he realized he’d done practically all the talking. Harrdin had occasionally grunted, guffawed or spat in reaction to Trev’s prattling speeches, depending on his opinion of it. But he’d rarely added anything material to the conversation. Questions had been routinely ignored, until Trev had given up asking them and simply begun talking about his own life and times in the Haven.

  If Harrdin found the half-elf tiresome, he didn’t indicate it. His only concern seemed to be progressing deeper into the narrow tunnels of the Everdark as quickly as possible.

  The twentieth hour passed, and after that Trev stopped talking altogether. He needed to save his breath for marching. It became something of a contest between them—at least in Trev’s mind it was—as to who was going to suggest taking a break first.

  And so the march continued. Harrdin ate hardtack and swallowed swigs of wine from a flagon along the way, his short legs never ceasing to take him downward. Trev did the same, not wanting to ask for a respite and shame himself in the eyes of this stalwart warrior. They even relieved themselves as they walked, barely pausing to wet down a region of ash with their waters.

  When the thirtieth hour arrived, Trev felt as if he dreamed. He was getting tired, he realized. That wasn’t a sensation he was accustomed to. Examining Harrdin, he thought the other was flagging as well. The warrior’s gait had become u
neven—not quite a stagger, but neither was it the swift, sure stride of a man fresh into the caverns.

  Still unwilling to request a break, Trev decided to bring the matter up in an oblique way.

  “Isn’t this area known as the Magnesium Bowels?” he asked.

  Harrdin rewarded him with a rare glance and a raised eyebrow. “Surprised one of your blood would know it from a coal mine.”

  “It’s very distinctive. These gray powders, the wide open cavern floors. There are things down here if I recall the tales correctly—unpleasant things.”

  “Right you are about that, boy,” Harrdin muttered.

  “Spine-terrors? Kobolds? Which would be the more common at this depth?”

  Another glance from Harrdin. This time, it was accompanied with a frown.

  “Kobolds,” he said. “Definitely kobolds.”

  “Ah…famous trappers, aren’t they?”

  “What do you know of such things?”

  “I’ve never been down here, of course. But I know about kobolds. They love to lay a trap in space like this one—see that formation of rock buried in deep gray powder? Looks like an ocean beach coated in dust. That might be an excellent spot for a kobold to lay a trap for the unwary.”

  Harrdin slowed his pace when he came to the rim of the region Trev had pointed out, and then he stopped. He put his hands on his hips and dug his thumbs under his belt. His dark eyes glared at the dust, sweeping his vision back and forth.

  “Must be foot a deep here,” he mumbled.

  “At least. Well, I suppose there is nothing for it—we must press on.”

  Harrdin looked at Trev, then back at the bowl of dust. He didn’t appear eager to march into it.

  “Are you trying to get us to divert our path?” Harrdin demanded suddenly. “There are other tunnels, but they wind and could hide their own demons, you know.”

  “Change paths? I’ve suggested nothing of the sort!” Trev exclaimed. “I’m eager to press on. But you are the guide, as you know this place better than any of my kind. What do you suggest?”

  Harrdin rubbed his hoary face uncertainly.

  “Let’s camp a bit. I want to think on it. A full stomach and a clear mind are required when planning any route through the Everdark.”

  “As you say,” Trev said, sinking onto his rump immediately. Never had a rock felt so good. As far as he was concerned, the flat stone he’d found was as good as a padded throne.

  Harrdin built a tiny fire of chemical heat and little flame. It was a trick that the Miners of his folk were familiar with. There was little wood to burn down here, so they used sludgy oils and fine powders. The tongues of the fire were white, and they wavered slowly rather than danced. There was little wind down here to cause any kind of flame to flicker.

  Trev chewed some rations, sipped from his water supply and stretched out full length on a flat area of limestone. He was asleep almost the moment his cheek touched the gritty floor.

  After what seemed like a few moments rest, he was awakened by a hard shake. He startled and reached for his dagger, but found Harrdin’s bristling face glaring down at him.

  The white fire had died down to a yellowy glow, but it was still enough to see by. Trev sat up.

  “What is it, comrade?”

  “It’s your turn at watch, that’s what it is. I gave you four hours, and I’m wanting the same. That’s all I need.”

  Trev nodded and straightened up. Without asking, Harrdin took over Trev’s spot on the flat rock and made good use of it, laying on his back and using his pack as a pillow. He was snoring softly less than a minute later.

  Left to his own devices, Trev soon became bored. He’d recovered a great deal during the brief nap, even though he knew he could have used another half-dozen hours of rest. With a shrug, he hopped to his feet and searched the area they were in for anything of interest.

  He was not long in finding it. A set of tracks led across the powdery dust not a hundred feet from where Harrdin lay snoring. Trev knelt there and examined the shape of the tracks.

  They were triangular and variable in size. Some looked as if they’d been made by a creature the size of a child, while others appeared to be flapping great monsters—feet that could support a tree.

  “Kobolds,” Trev whispered to himself.

  It was almost certainly kobolds who’d made these strange tracks. Their kind never stopped growing for the duration of their lives. The smallest were numerous and stupid. They usually died young. If they did keep living and growing for long years, they eventually became chieftains.

  The question in Trev’s mind as he eyed the prints in the dust at his feet was obvious: how long had these tracks been here?

  Deep underground, there was little to erase a footprint once it was made. There was usually little or no wind. No rains fell, and few natural animals wandered here to erase tracks with ones of their own. That meant that the tracks could be a few minutes old or a few decades old, and there was no easy way to tell the difference.

  Frowning, Trev widened his search of the area. He hoped to find a clue that would indicate more about the situation.

  It wasn’t long before he found what he wanted. There was an opening in the cave floor, surrounded by loose dust. The tracks led here, but didn’t lead away from the spot.

  None of these details captured his interest as much as next detail he noticed did: All around the hole was an area of pushed-back dust. To make it stay, the dust had been wetted down, causing it to harden like a pile of dry sand that’s been struck by a passing wave. The dust was darker, and still wet.

  Trev straightened, and gazed down into the dark hole. It must have been made within the hour! Otherwise, the dust mounded up around the hole would have dried and become loose again.

  Gazing down into the hole he saw something bright, as if a coin were down there reflecting back the light of his lantern. Then he realized there were two coins—and they were blinking at him.

  * * *

  Trev barely had his dagger tugged loose when the kobold attacked. Fortunately, it was a small one of its kind—unfortunately, the creature was not alone.

  Kobolds were strange, bestial beings. About as bright as Rhinogs, but much less organized, most lived their lives without ever seeing the sun. They had pale skins that were primarily stone-gray, but with taints of pink, blue or green depending on their breeding. Their eyes reflected light when they encountered it, like a cat’s eyes caught by a lantern at night.

  Starting off as skinny, hairless whelps, they eventually grew to great stature. Like trees, they kept growing and growing, becoming more wise and feral with the passing of every year. Fortunately for more civilized folk, they usually died young in their nasty tunnels. But chieftains sometimes lasted a century or more, their backs scarred white by the claws of dying rivals and the serrated roof of their caverns.

  What Trev had encountered today was a small hunting pack of yearlings. During their initial, harshest years, kobold young were cast out the moment they were weaned. They had to forage for food, fighting amongst one another and every other beast in the Everdark for scraps.

  The first kobold that came at him didn’t even have a weapon. It came out of the hole snarling, with glistening fangs exposed. Skinny arms extended and clawed fingers reached for his throat.

  Trev had no choice and little time to react. He drew his steel and planted it in the throat of the on-rusher.

  Dead on its feet and gargling in surprise, the kobold came on and slammed into him, bowling Trev backward. It slumped on the ground, twitching. Trev gathered his feet and bounced up again—but two more were already on him.

  As he stood they rained blows upon him with their fists. Trev managed to hold onto his dagger. He slashed upward, and a tiny hand came free, spraying him with dark blood. Bruised, Trev gathered his feet while the kobolds howled and snarled, backing away from him.

  Then the fourth showed up. Trev knew in an instant this one was the pack leader. Unlike the others, he cam
e up out of the hole standing on his hind feet. In his hands was a club of hard stone. He stood a foot taller than the rest, and Trev guessed he was significantly older.

  The leader cuffed away the howling pair Trev had bested and strode forward with purpose. He eyed the half-elf’s dagger respectfully and circled looking for an opening. Trev was forced to turn his body, to face this new foe. But as he did so, the other two came closer warily, making snatching motions at his legs. They were surrounding him, and he could not watch them all at once. He was in a bad spot, and he knew it.

  It was then that Harrdin made his appearance. He stood up behind the pack leader and worked a hand-catapult. Launching a dart with a snapping sound, he transfixed the biggest of the three kobolds.

  Shocked, the kobold leader looked down at the bolt that had sprouted from his breastbone. He touched it, and as if that act was a trigger, gore flowed down over his bulging gut. Then the stone club slipped away from rubbery fingers, and he slumped down dead.

  The rest of the pack melted away, whimpering and growling. Trev took a deep breath, cleaned his blade and turned to Harrdin.

  “Thanks, friend,” he said.

  “I’m no friend to a fool,” the Warrior said gruffly. “Don’t walk off into the Everdark again. You’re no good to me dead.”

  Grumbling, Harrdin returned to their camp. Trev followed him, chastened. He cast frequent glances over his shoulder, wondering if a hundred more kobolds were out there, just out of sight.

  As they were breaking camp, Trev attempted to talk to Harrdin. He’d gotten a different feeling from the Warrior since they’d entered the Everdark. Back in the Earthlight, at the tavern, they’d had a rousing good time drinking and plotting. But since he’d come down here, the Warrior had turned distinctly unfriendly.

  At first, Trev had put this down to the naturally gruff attitude of most Kindred, especially those of the Warrior clan. But now, he wasn’t so sure.

  When he caught up with Harrdin, he intended to question him about his mood. But the other surprised him before he could speak.

  “Trev! Over here, boy. You can quit playing with kobolds. I’ve found the tunnel we want. But I’ll need your help to remove the debris.”