by B. V. Larson
Fafna growled deep in her throat. She’d never liked being laughed at, and Trev cut off his rude chuckles.
“Sorry,” Trev said.
“I’m going to try,” said the dragon. “My father was said to have borne the Orange for a very long time. It made his flame all the hotter, you know. Really, the Kindred owe that Jewel to me. It is my inheritance.”
Trev was pretty sure the Kindred would argue the point, but he decided not to bring this up to the dragon. What would be the point of antagonizing her?
“Take it from him,” said the dragon, looming near.
Trev could feel the dragon’s hot breath. She was so close it was like being in front of an open furnace.
“Why me?”
“You said yourself you’re immune to the Jewel’s powers. You should be able to touch any of the Jewels without repercussions.”
“If you want to steal Vaul, you’ll have to do it yourself.”
The dragon snaked forward a black claw. With trepidation she touched the wizard’s shoulder carefully. Trev was amused to think the dragon was so cautious around Myrrdin, who seemed helpless.
With a sudden rolling motion, the dragon spun Myrrdin over onto his back.
Despite a bleeding hole where a claw had punctured his shoulder, the old Wizard did not awaken. Nor did he let go of his single possession of value. The Jewel was still in the grasping hands of the wheezing old man. His eyes didn’t open, but his bony wrists seemed to flex, tightening the grip he had upon Vaul.
Fafna reached out with a claw again and sought to pry the staff away from Myrrdin. Who made a mewling sound. His eyes fluttered, but did not open.
“You see that?” asked Trev. “You got a reaction.”
“And such a useful one, too. We’ll have this bag of bones up and running the length of the tree within the hour.”
“That will be too long.”
“Yes, and if you don’t help me take the Jewel, I’ll gut him with my claw by accident. I swear—it will be an accident.”
Trev twisted his lips in disgust. Sometimes, the dragon could be heartless. He knew he shouldn’t expect anything else, but somehow he did.
Reaching down and grabbing the staff, Trev tried to wrestle it from the old man’s fingers. He touched it delicately at first, but then after a minute or so, he grabbed it full on.
He’d expected a shock of connection, but there was only an odd tingle. He was certain then that the Jewel could not harm him, even if it wanted to. That was a nice detail: he could come in contact with the Jewels, maybe even carrying them all at once. But he could never wield them as others did.
Growing frustrated, Trev took out his knife and sawed away the shaft. The staff was now two separate things: a small head with Vaul mounted inside, and a long, skinny stick with no distinguishing features. He left the latter in Myrrdin’s white-knuckled hands while he lifted the former up with his hands upon it.
He showed it to the dragon, who seemed more fascinated than ever.
“It’s so lovely,” said the dragon. “I’ve never seen an object of such beauty before. This is my first.”
Trev watched him bemusedly. The Jewel was nothing special to Trev. He’d seen several others and even touched the Black briefly. That had been far more dangerous than this.
“Do you truly want it?” Trev asked the dragon.
“Yes.”
“How can we bring it into contact with your body? You can’t hold a staff, and the shaft has been cut away in any case.”
“It will grow back.”
“Not today, it won’t. We’ll have to do something else. Maybe we could hang it around your neck like an amulet.”
“That would do. Cut away one of those tubers attached to the wizard.”
“They feed him. I can’t do that.”
“Cut away a strip of his hide, then!” shouted Fafna. “I want no further delays. My scales ache to touch Vaul. It must happen.”
Trev looked at her warily. She was acting as if she were entranced by Vaul. Possibly, she was. But Trev hadn’t thought the minds of dragon kind could be manipulated so easily.
Trev opened his mouth to speak further, but a series of surprising occurrences made him forget whatever it was he’d been about to say.
First, the cave-like interior of the tree darkened, so much so that neither of them could see the exit that had been in plain sight a moment before. At the same time, Trev felt a tugging at his ankle.
He looked down in surprise to see Myrrdin’s hand clutching at his foot. The oldster’s lips were working too, mouthing words. No sound issued from the quivering tongue, however, nor the clacking teeth.
Then, Trev caught sight of his uncle’s staring eyes. They were filled with madness.
“Here Uncle,” he said. “I have what you long for. All you have to do is sit up and drive this tree one more time and then you can sleep for a dozen years if you want to.”
Myrrdin smiled up at him. But Trev thought to see something predatory in that smile. He looked behind him, but it was almost too late.
The clasping hand on his ankle tightened like a manacle. A branch had been summoned from outside the hollow area. Called to reach inside and pluck Trev from his feet. It almost managed to complete its quest.
“Here Uncle!” Trev shouted, tossing Vaul down at him. “Take it, and wield it! All humanity needs your help now. All of us will be forever in your debt.”
Myrrdin’s fingers snatched Vaul from the air as it dropped. He brought it to his lips and kissed it. Then he began to slowly, painfully, sit up.
“I told you we should have burned him,” complained the dragon.
Tubers began to move now, all around them. And the leafy vines from the outside crept closer every second.
“It’s time we leave now,” Trev whispered. To his Uncle, he shouted as if the man was deaf. “March the tree, Uncle! Destroy those who would kill your comrades. We need your aid. Honor your bargain, so no one can call you a cheat.”
Myrrdin seemed not to be listening. He was communing with Vaul, cradling the Jewel like an infant.
Inside the tree, things became stranger every moment. Branches were reaching inward, clawing and scraping over the floors, wood against wood. They reached inside so deeply that their countless finger-twigs snapped with each inch they traveled.
Trev vaulted up upon Fafna’s back, making the dragon grunt in irritation.
“Fly, my friend,” Trev said.
Needing no further encouragement, the dragon scuttled to the vanishing tunnels that led to the outside world and launched into the clean, fresh air outside.
Trev was more than glad to have escaped Myrrdin again. Either the old buzzard was going to march to battle, or he wasn’t. Either way, Trev felt he’d done his best to rouse him.
* * *
On the inner walls, the battle was not going well. The elves were outside still, but Rainbow was beating on the gates and they shuddered and groaned with each hammer-blow.
The problem was Brand was almost out of troops. His garrison had fought well, holding the outer wall until forced to retreat. He had no doubt that the last of them would stand with him when the gates fell, and that they would sell their lives well, singing to the end as Ambros inflamed their hearts with songs of war.
But it would not be enough to prevail. Already, the goblins had managed to take sections of the wall, and they held two of the towers without opposition. They were cowardly, but their strike had devastated Brand’s thin line of troops.
Outside, the elves had only to wait. They took potshots at his men when they could, but mostly they amused themselves with the villagers, burning huts and forcing maidens to dance with them even while their families died in the mud at their prancing feet.
Brand was sickened and enraged at the abuse, but he could do little about it. He had to hold the keep at all costs. If only the Rainbow could be destroyed…
“Brand,” Telyn said, appearing at his side.
He looked at her wi
th unfocussed eyes. She’d been in their apartments all this time, guarding their children. He knew she would fight to the death for them in the end, if it came to that. He was surprised to see her here.
She wore a chain shirt and carried twin daggers. He knew her battledress well but had not seen her wear it for many long years.
“Have you come out to join me at the finish, my love?” he asked.
“Their finish, not ours,” she said. “You know what must be done now, don’t you? Look at our Dead. They outnumber us.”
Brand turned his gaze along the walls, and he counted the fallen men by tens. There were hundreds. Telyn was right, more lay on their faces than stood upright and fought.
“What can be done?” he asked.
“You must go into the catacombs and summon Slet. He must march in our streets.”
He looked at her, and gnashed his teeth at the thought. But at the same time he knew she was right. Without another word he raced for the grates over the crypt entrance. He’d had them chained when he’d sent Slet down here. It had been an exile as much as anything else. But now, he had need of the necromancer.
He lifted Ambros high and the Axe slashed down, severing the chains. With his free arm he wrenched the screeching metal doors open. An unwholesome smell rose up to greet him as he did this, and even in the grip of the Axe, his nose wrinkled in disgust.
Telyn followed him as he ran down the steps. She was good at this, playing his second. She was a quiet shadow, always there in case he needed to be guided slightly, but never intruding, never annoying the Axeman without good cause. Doing so had gotten many people killed in the past.
They ran from gallery to gallery, calling Slet’s name. At last, a shadow moved away from the rest, stepping out of an alcove behind them. Brand and Telyn turned and faced the necromancer.
“Slet, we have need of you!” Brand shouted. “Follow me, man, and bring as many of your bony puppets as you can command!”
Slet did not move. Instead, the room around him seemed to shift instead. Slowly, a thousand bones coalesced into a dozen skeletons. They stood at odd angles, and their fleshless bodies crackled when they moved.
“Oh, you need me now, do you?” Slet asked. “I’m always at the beck and call of Lord Rabing, I’m sure.”
“Slet, it’s not like that,” Telyn said, “the castle is about to fall.”
“Hmm,” Slet said, putting a thin finger to his chin. “You know, living down here for a while has taught me much. I understand now how it must have gone for every necromancer in the past. First, they’re shocked by their predicament. They wish to rectify it, to satisfy the living that they are not one of the Dead, not a monster—but in time, they give up. They’re burned, beaten, imprisoned. Possibly, my kind are as much victims as they are villains.”
Brand was sneering, barely containing himself. He stepped in front of Telyn and lifted the Axe higher. “If you wish to stay here and play with your bones in the dark, I have no need of you. Follow me, the lord of this castle, and you will be rewarded. Defy me, and you will die where you stand.”
Slet laughed. “You are in my domain now. I rule beneath the earth, in the ground with the Dead. Not you.”
“You can’t be serious?” Brand asked. “You must know you can’t defeat me. To even suggest the challenge is absurd. I’m the Axeman, and you are an untrained necromancer. You barely know which end of that Scepter is which.”
“You’re right, I probably can’t beat you. But I don’t need to. You’ve brought your weakness along with you. I’ll simply order all my minions to tear your wife apart. You’ll destroy many of us, perhaps all, but Telyn will not be in one piece at the end, I assure you.”
Brand almost attacked him then. In his mind, he could see himself lifting the Axe and commanding it to burn this monster. His eyes would boil from the sockets, and he’d be as much a skeleton as the rest when Ambros was finished.
Telyn laid a hand on his arm. The touch was so delicate, so slight, he almost didn’t notice it at first. But then he realized she was speaking to him—to both of them. With an effort of will, he forced himself to listen.
“You don’t have to do this,” Telyn told them. “The Jewels are close to one another, and driving you both mad. Let your anger fade. Of all the Jewel bearers, you’re the only two from the Haven. We can’t stand if brothers war upon each other. We’ll all die. We need you both, our champions.”
Slet and Brand regarded one another for a long moment. Brand spoke first.
“I apologize for our persecution of you from the start. You must understand—the Storm of the Dead did not leave the people of the Haven in a generous mood when it comes to necromancers, new or old.”
“Apology accepted,” Slet said seriously.
“I must now ask you for your aid,” Brand said, emphasizing the word ask where before he’d spoken only in the most commanding of tones. “It is as Telyn says. Our people will all die if we do not cooperate now. There are many Dead above us, I need you to make them rise and fight again.”
“I accept your invitation,” Slet said, “lead me to your Dead.”
Brand, Telyn and Slet raced up the steps. They left the catacombs and came out into the glaring daylight. Two dozen skeletons followed, each clad in scraps of armor and armed with discarded old weapons. Many of their swords were rusted or broken, but they held them as if they knew them well.
“Telyn, take him to the walls!” Brand shouted, pointing up the steps to the battlements. “I must meet the enemy at the gates. They’re almost through.”
While Slet hurried after Telyn, he bent as he reached each fallen man who’d tumbled back from the top of the wall to crash upon the cobbles. He touched their brows, and their eyes snapped open. Unblinking, these men heaved themselves up and staggered after him. They walked on broken limbs without feeling. Their staring eyes never blinked. Bones shot through their skin and crunched as they walked, but the Dead men never winced in pain.
Brand shuddered slightly, then turned away from the disgusting display. He had no time to mourn his men or what had been done to them.
It was as he reached the gates that a tremendous crashing sound rang out over the entire castle. Even those locked in mortal combat had to turn and crane their necks. They all cringed when they saw what they saw.
The Great Tree was moving. It had taken down the wall in front of it, walking right through as a man might press his way through a hedge. A great section of stone bricks had been kicked flat, making the tremendous sound they’d all heard.
Now, swaying slightly as it advanced, the monstrous tree shambled toward the keep where the battle raged.
* * *
Oberon was stunned. He’d seen victory within his grasp, but now, from several directions, his plans were under assault. The walls were slow to go down, both outer and inner, but they were finally being overcome. The human troops had been devastated by Old Hob’s timely attack, and as the Rainbow hammered blows upon the gates it appeared the end was near for the garrison inside.
But then a series of calamities had struck his side. First, the enemy had raised their Dead, manning their walls anew with men they’d already taken great pains to dispatch. Worse, these new troops felt no pain, no fear and could not be controlled by Morgana’s Sunstone.
Then the Great Tree had joined the battle. Had it all been a trick? A ruse to feign weakness, to force them to play every card they had, then reverse it all upon them? If so, the humans of the Haven had learned too well from the Faerie. In a way, even in his despair, Oberon felt impressed and amused by the antics of the enemy. It was a grand joke, even if the elves were to be the butt of it.
He had a card left yet to play. Although he was with his men and not standing at the side of his mistress, he knew what she would want: to win at all costs. He summoned his elves together and ordered them to drop their idle pursuits. The ravaging of maidens would have to wait for a better day.
Glassy-eyed and feral-minded, his troops were not the
ir usual selves. They were all infected with bloodlust, something he owed to Morgana’s power. But they were obedient enough when their lord called, and they came to stand in clumps of five, nine, and thirteen.
The groups that stood in fives he approached first. He apologized in their tongue first, as was only polite, then he fused them.
The Red was in his arms, a bloodhound of fur and flesh—but nothing else about it was normal. It had evil eyes and never barked. Instead, it only lapped at spilled blood and stared at its victims without remorse or compunction.
The elves Oberon urged into tight huddles felt themselves thick about the middle at first. Stepping closer and closer to one another, they cried out in alarm, but could not stop the transformation once it had begun. They linked arms, and their distending bellies touched. Once their guts broke free of their tunics and pressed flesh to flesh, the fusing began in earnest and the process sped up.
Screaming, the elves wriggled and their tangled legs staggered in a dozen directions at once. But although they tottered, they could not escape, they could not be free of the others. For they were in the grips of Blood Magic at its most powerful and they could not resist it.
Soon, they formed abominations with numerous heads, limbs, weapons and a dozen or two legs each. Oberon walked from one group to the next, touching spots here and there that had not quite subsumed with the rest. Occasionally, he spied a gap in his monstrosities, so he grabbed up a human body, living or dead, and tossed it into the mix. Like throwing a new stick on a raging fire, the new fuel was soon consumed and became part of the swelling whole.
The smallest abominations he armed with fallen weapons. They were plentiful, having dropped from the men who’d been individuals moments earlier. He armed each grasping hand with a sword, each pair with a bow.
Then he turned to the larger groupings. The nine-elf monsters formed larger abominations. These stood with a second layer above the first. Like a snowman with two spheres of frozen matter, the bottom layer served only to support the upper. These took more work to perfect. Into the hands at the top, he fitted lances, as swords would not be long enough to reach the enemy. He also paired and fused together the dangling legs at the bottom, so they would not buckle under the terrific weight.
