by B. V. Larson
He now knew with certainty what he must do. He would meet the beast in battle and chop away its countless slithering limbs until it was naught but a lump of shaven flesh. Then he would burn and slash further until even that mound of meat could not function. He took a step in that direction, then another.
In response, he could sense the beast’s excitement. Did it thrill to meet him in battle? Good! For it would get its fondest wish, and it would rue the day it had met the Axeman…
Something flickered to his left.
Brand did not want to look. He did not want to be distracted, but his focused mind was not so lost to battle as not to warn him. What if this was some new threat? What if he was being lured into a charge, and had been encircled by more monsters?
He turned to look at the flickering light to his left. A bluish, flashing radiance… What was that? It was odd to see such a thing here, a pure color that was not gray, white or black. Something that did not slither and stink like the mud of a bog.
Captivated, Brand turned toward it and began to walk. The beast became agitated, and sent out tendrils of flesh in pursuit. Perhaps it sensed its prey was escaping.
Off-handedly, Brand slashed away the snake-like limbs until they retreated rapidly away from him. After a dozen more steps, they no longer troubled him.
But the beast spoke to him one time more: “Master, do not leave us! It will be so long before we meet again. It will be unbearable here alone without you!”
Strangely, despite the Axe and the pleading of his enemy, which should have brought glee to his heart, Brand felt a chill. He shivered once, pausing in his steps. Could it be true? Would this beast await him here, slipping around in nothingness until he joined it at the end of his days?
He drove such thoughts from his mind with an effort. He did not know if the beast spoke truthfully, or with false guile, but he told himself sternly that it didn’t matter which it was. For the beast had confirmed to him with its plea that he was on the right path.
Brand took six steps more before he could see the path again, and he could now see Tomkin too, becoming more clear with every step. There was the little blighter, and the Wee One was clearly pleased with himself.
In Tomkin’s two tiny hands he held aloft the Blue Jewel, Lavatis. Its sapphire light had been great enough to provide a beacon for Brand, and to guide him out of the ether between worlds.
“You live, Axeman!” Tomkin cried. “All hail Lord Rabing, the one being in known history who managed to leave the path fully and yet return from the void. Not even Oberon of the Elves could boast of such a feat!”
Brand smiled with half his face. He heaved a great breath and then, almost absently, he put the Axe back into the pack upon his back. The moment its Eye dimmed and his hand left the grip he felt a great weight of weariness sweep over him.
He staggered a step, then caught himself. He put a hand to his face, but pulled it away in disgust. It was covered with a sticky black liquid which reminded him of cooling tar.
“I’m tired,” he said.
“None of that, now,” Tomkin said gently. “We can’t stop here. We must keep walking the path. Stopping is not so dangerous as walking off into the mists, but nor is it by any means safe. Come now, put one foot before the other. I’m too small to hold up an oaf such as yourself.”
Brand nodded, took another deep breath and followed Tomkin. The manling hopped backward along the path, guiding and calling to him, directing him around the mound.
Soon, the world brightened again into a soft, purple twilight. Brand knew he’d made it into the world of the Fae, a place that was never brightly lit or completely dark. A place where it was never cold, nor hot, but always as cool as a spring morning.
When at last he stood on solid ground, he looked around for the dragon and the boy Trev, who he’d followed for a week now. Neither was in sight. What he did see was incredibly tall trees. The trees were without number, and they blotted out the horizon in every direction.
Trev had escaped him again. Brand was too tired to care. Grateful for a respite, he walked to the crown of the hillock and lay down upon it. He did not care if the Fae came to dance around him like a thousand eldritch lights.
He had to sleep.
Chapter Eleven
Void Magic
Slet made his way across the river and into the Deepwood with the aid of his Dead companion Puck. It was strange, feeling the cold bony fingers of an elf wrapped around one’s wrist, while being dragged relentlessly across the turbulent bottom of the Berrywine.
That, however, was not the truly strange experience. What happened next occurred without his conceiving of it. As he was dragged to the bottom of the river, he simply stopped breathing. The sensation was not as unpleasant as one might imagine. He did not feel panic, there was no burning in his chest, and he didn’t even feel the urge to draw breath.
In his hand he held the Scepter, and at its tip the Black Eye of Necron flared—but not with brightness. Instead, it absorbed light. It did not glow, but somehow emanated a deeper darkness.
Slet tried to draw upon the Black for strength as he’d seen Brand do, but he found none there. Necron was not like the Amber Jewel. It swallowed life and strength rather than providing it. The Black was a master of coldness, shunning warmth. There was no comfort there.
Void magic, he thought to himself. He’d learned of the concept as a child in school. He did not need to breathe because he held the Black in his hand. While doing so, he took on certain aspects of the Dead.
But his unnatural calmness toward the prospect of drowning in rushing water didn’t last long. The tiny troll child that clung to his side began to panic. Unlike him, it required breath.
He knew instant heartache. He was not a great swimmer, and what’s more Puck was relentlessly dragging him along the bottom. He didn’t think he could save the child by lifting it up to get a breath—the surface must be ten feet or more overhead.
Getting an idea as the tiny curved talons sunk painfully into his flesh, he reached into his tunic and touched the Scepter to his child. Perhaps Necron could still both their lungs.
And it was done in an instant. The troll relaxed, as did he. The pain had stopped for them both. But although the troll’s claws had stopped their digging and clawing, Slet felt uncertain. He felt both relief and a fresh agony. Had the infant faded away again? Or had its urge to breathe been relieved? He could not know the truth in the cold darkness of the river bottom.
When at long last he staggered out of the water on the far side, still being dragged by the dripping form of Puck, his first thought was of the child in his shirt. He dug the furry infant out and shook it until water dribbled from its mouth. Puck stood by, his glimmering blade in his hand, watching for pursuit.
After a minute or so of pressing on the troll’s sides, the child coughed at last. Slet laughed and hugged it. The little thing squirmed and cut at him with its talons, but he barely cared. He took a deep breath and sat back, letting the troll sit by itself for a moment on the shore.
For a few seconds, the fur-ball looked as if it might bolt. Slet watched tensely, not sure what he should do. Did his child no longer trust him? It would be a sad thing to lose him in the Deepwood now, after having brought him so far.
“I’m sorry, little one,” Slet said. “I did what I had to. See there, on the far bank behind us? See the men with horses and torches? They would have slain us all if we’d lingered. Now, we’re alive and out of their reach.”
The troll seemed to comprehend some of what was being said. It gazed in the direction Slet indicated. After several long moments, it came to him again and hugged his knee.
“Can you walk?” Slet asked gently. “Or do you want to ride?”
To Slet’s surprise, the troll didn’t walk, nor did it come to him for a ride. Instead, it clambered up onto Puck’s back and rode with its claws around the Dead elf’s neck.
“Humph,” Slet said. “Is that the thanks I get? Not trusting your old Dad
any longer, is that it?”
Chuckling, Slet walked wearily into the Deepwood. Puck, bearing the troll, followed him without a word.
* * *
Myrrdin had labored hard for days—perhaps weeks. Time in Twilight was difficult to measure and in the Great Erm it was even more nebulous. What did an hour mean in a place with no sunrise nor dusk? Like all creatures in this world, he slept when he was tired and worked when he felt good again.
A dozen such cycles had passed since he’d found the great stump in the center of the Erm. His plans had not progressed as quickly as he’d hoped they would, but they were beginning to bear fruit at last—literally.
The great stump had green sprigs all around its crown now, up where the broken bark shot up jagged spikes of deadwood. These leafy spots were green and vibrant. In the last few days they had begun to bear vermillion fruits that tasted of sap and sweetness. Already, Myrrdin had changed his diet from crawling insects and edible leaves to these large, soft fruits. They were tangy in flavor, reminding him of a peach crossed with a lemon.
His ogre companion, however, was not pleased with the fare. His gut required meat to operate properly. He churned and groaned when he ate the fruits and begged to be allowed to hunt for real food. At last, Myrrdin gave him his leave to do so.
“Go out into the forest proper and slay something that eats my beloved leaves and bark. Perhaps you’ll be of use at last.”
Ivor rushed to do his bidding with Myrrdin looking after him in disgust. He’d begun to regret his decision to bring the ogre along. When he’d done so initially, he’d envisioned an army of similar simple beings: idiots with armor and sword beguiled into doing his bidding. But now he envisioned an army of a much different nature: an army of one.
It was less than a day later when Ivor brought home to their camp what he’d been seeking. Dragging a massive mammal by the hind leg, the ogre presented the beast to his master as if he were a cat that had finally caught a sparrow.
“Uncle!” he cried excitedly. “Looky what I have.”
“What is it?” asked Myrrdin turning his tree body slowly and peering at the ghastly thing. “It smells.”
Ivor sniffed the fur of the dead beast until it fanned with his snuffling.
“Yes,” said the ogre, strings of saliva running from the corners of his overly-wide jaws. “It will be delicious. I’m starting a fire. You may have as much as you like, of course.”
Myrrdin made a choking sound. “A fire? Use nothing but the deadest wood, and keep the breeze at your back. I don’t want a single tendril of smoke around me or my work.”
Ivor looked around doubtfully. “But…uncle, I can’t control the breezes. Can you?”
“No,” said Myrrdin disgustedly. “Not until I relieve a certain member of the Wee Folk of his Jewel.”
He made shooing motions with his branches, and Ivor shuffled away, dragging his prize. That was when Myrrdin realized what the huge beast was. It had a long, hairless pinkish-gray tail. It had to be a rat—no, maybe only a mouse. He shuddered slightly at the thought of eating rodent meat. It was impure to his mind now. He lived on a diet of vegetation, and he avoided food that might kill the plant that bore it. Fruit, plucked leaves, even twigs that were fresh and crisp would serve. Sometimes he used his claw-like branches to dig tubers from the ground, but he didn’t like to do that, because it was often fatal to the plant involved. When he needed more solid fare, he caught and crushed insects which feasted on the helpless plants in the region.
But never a mammal. Never a true abomination, a blight upon the world. He wished they’d never been spawned. One mammal could eat a thousand plants and in turn be eaten by higher mammals. It was such a horrific waste.
Once Ivor had reached a distance of several hundred yards, Myrrdin saw him light a fire and begin to roast his meat. Just as he suspected, the stink went everywhere. He cursed the day his sister had whelped this idiotic monster.
Turning his back on the gleaming fire which was visible from afar in the endless forest and endless twilight, he went back to servicing his massive tree.
On the farthest side he found a new growth, one that encouraged him greatly. It wasn’t just a green shoot, and it was better than a branch full of fruit.
He’d found a tuberous root growing from the gnarled deadwood. A single root that sprouted from the great stump and had burrowed its way into the soil.
“Ah!” he said, crouching carefully near it, “that’s it! This is what I’ve been looking for. Fresh life that seeks nourishment on its own. Drink, my lovely. Drink deep!”
He spent the rest of his hours wetting the ground carefully where the root had taken hold, and in due course, he found three more similar roots. To each one he applied the power of Vaul, causing them to thicken, to swell with sap and growing life.
In his excitement, he forgot about Ivor, his stinking rat carcass and the twinkling fire in the forest.
* * *
“There!” shouted Trev against the cold winds. “There, down below, do you see it?”
“Of course. Calm yourself.”
The dragon banked and came around slowly. They both examined the light flickering below the trees. They’d seen nothing that looked so inviting for many leagues.
Still, Fafna did not charge down out of the skies to greet whatever creature squatted there on the forest floor, warming itself around its tiny fire. Instead she circled warily, once, twice, thrice.
“Let’s land,” Trev said impatiently.
“Do you know who sits at that fire?”
“No,” Trev said. “But it’s the first sign of civilization we’ve seen.”
The dragon snorted. “You hold a low bar for civilization. What I see is a hunter’s camp, nothing more.”
“I’m not looking for a city,” Trev argued. “And you shouldn’t be either. I doubt there is a single true city on this world! Take me down to talk to them.”
Grumbling, the dragon banked hard on its next circling pass. Suddenly, she dropped out of the sky like a stone, folding her wings close to her body. Trev yelped in surprise and panic, but after a moment managed to regain his composure.
The wind whistled by with the force of a winter gale. It was all Trev could do to hang on, tucking his boots under the pack he’d strapped onto the dragon’s back and winding his hands with the rope. The makeshift saddle was taut upon the ridged spines and scaly flanks.
They plunged downward and exploded through a canopy of leaves each of which was as big as a rowboat. Trev rode the dragon to the ground, where it landed with a thunderous crash. A shower of broken twigs the size of a man’s arm fluttered down around them like banners dropped by knights.
Trev could see the campfire when he lifted his head from the dragon’s back. He saw instantly it was not a campfire but rather a cooking fire. The smell of burnt hair and greasy meat tickled his nostrils. There was no sign of the chef, but there was a monstrous animal on a spit to tease the eye.
“What’s that thing on the spit?” Trev demanded. “Is it…? Oh my, that is disgusting.”
“Meat is meat,” said the dragon, stalking forward.
The long, sinuous neck dipped forward and a haunch of the animal was ripped from the hindquarters by powerful jaws. As burnt as the rat was, it sizzled even more hotly in the dragon’s mouth.
“That’s why you wanted to come down here, isn’t it?” Trev demanded. “You smelled the cooking meat.”
The dragon made no response because her mouth was too full. The head darted forward again, and juices splattered. A section of the ribcage was swiftly chewed away.
At last, the rightful owner of the feast could stand no more. From behind a treetrunk as thick as a house, an ogre charged them. It held a hammer and a shield, and the light in its eyes was fuelled by yellow murder.
Before Trev could say anything, the dragon backed up and reared. It was all the young half-elf could do to hang on as the great neck bucked beneath him. He considered vaulting off the dragon’s back
and running off into the trees, but hung on instead. He didn’t know where he was, and the dragon could travel a day’s walk in three minutes. He didn’t want to be stranded here.
Roaring, the ogre was cunning for one of its kind. He saw the danger immediately. The dragon had only to strike with her head as might a serpent, or to breathe flame into his face. Either approach was likely to be fatal, and an upraised wooden shield would do little to deter it.
Instead of closing and striking with his hammer or hiding behind his shield, the ogre dropped both and charged in closer. He lunged at the last second, jumping from the ground onto the dragon’s back where Trev rode.
This alarmed Trev more than any other possible development might have—until he recognized the ogre.
“Ivor?” he asked.
Ivor blinked in surprise. “Cousin?”
At that moment, the dragon had managed to twist her neck around to direct her head down toward her back, where Trev and Ivor faced one another.
“A family reunion, is that it? A charming moment, I’m sure. But I’m going to have to burn you both off my back if you don’t get down now.”
“You friends with a dragon?” Ivor asked in astonishment.
“I’m equally amazed that you’re related to an ogre,” the dragon said peevishly.
She gave her back and wings a shake, causing Trev and Ivor to tumble off onto the ground. The dragon loomed close, eyeing them both malevolently.
“I didn’t know this was your pet, Trev,” said Ivor. “Sorry.”
“Not a problem, cousin.”
“And not a pet, either,” said the dragon. “We’re temporary accomplices.”
The ogre blinked at the big words in confusion.
“Sorry,” he said at last, bewildered. He walked over to his shield and maul, picking them up and stowing them. “Mama always says to never leave these lying about.”
“Right, good thinking,” said Trev. “What are you doing out here, Ivor? I thought you lived in an elf village.”
