Frenzied by the hob’s danger, I pushed the edges of the broken place inside my head where the mage’s spell was slowly unraveling.
Fennigyr waved his hand gently and the hob staggered back. The mage laughed and displayed the earring he held. “Yours, I believe?” He closed his hand on it. “It is enough to make you mine. I have just been forced to kill one of my children—was it you who set him free? But you will make an admirable replacement. Whatever you are, you have magic to feed me with.”
The hob was frozen where he stood. I could see the sweat gathering on his forehead as he fought the mage’s hold. But it was no use. If he could have forced the battle into a physical contest, Caefawn would have won, but magic for magic, the mage was an easy victor. I didn’t think the bloodmage could tamper with the ties binding the hob to the mountain because they were part of the hob, not an addition like the berserkers’ ties to Fennigyr. But I never doubted the bloodmage could kill Caefawn.
I was so tired, and my head hurt and itched in places I couldn’t scratch. I rubbed my temples, trying to get some relief.
I rubbed my temples.
I’d broken through the spell at last, at least part of it. I had a moment to savor it, then the spell unwound. The shock of it left me lying on the cobbles, but my body was my own again.
A groan from Caefawn caught my attention. Neither he nor Fennigyr appeared to have noticed my momentary fit. Caefawn’s face was drawn back in a grimace of pain and effort.
Neklavar, I thought, giving Caefawn the name he’d told me while I dreamed. True dreams they’d been, for my vision cleared and I could see far deeper into Caefawn’s spirit than I had before—as it had when I’d used Kith’s real name.
Thick cords of green and gold reached from his soul through his spirit into the ground, his ties to the mountain. With spiritsight, I could see the bindings that the bloodmage was trying to put on him. They looped the hob loosely, but slid off without attaching.
The bloodmage didn’t have the hob’s real name.
Fennigyr, my father had called him when the mage came to collect my brother’s body and raged over its uselessness. The lowland berserker had called him Fennigyr as well. But this spring, on the top of Hob’s Mountain, Kith had called him Nahag.
It might have been a nickname.
I focused on the bloodmage, whose face was smooth and blank, though his body shook with the effort of the magic he was using. I tried to say his name, but my throat wouldn’t work right—I just couldn’t form the word. So I thought it instead.
Nahag.
It wasn’t just a nickname.
I could see the reason bloodmages all went insane. Rather than looking like a brighter version of a ghost, Nahag’s spirit was like a beggar’s cloak, rags and tatters covered here and there by different colored fabrics, pieces of other people’s spirit. I thought of the little bits I’d taken from the noeglins and the bits of myself I’d had to give in return, and was sickened.
When I’d looked at Kith or Caefawn with his real name held tightly to me, I’d seen his soul, a rich, warm form enveloped in body and spirit. But the bloodmage’s soul was small and dark, turned upon itself as if it could not bear to touch his corrupted spirit.
One of the foreign bits belonged to Kith. I ripped it away: fury spurred my path without giving me a chance to wonder if I could do such a thing or how I could do it. As soon as it lost contact with Nahag, it disappeared from my sight.
The other ragged bits fluttered and whined, disturbed by something. It was probably my imagination, but I thought they were trying to attract my attention to their unnatural plight.
With no better plan, I decided to see what would happen if I took them away from Nahag, hoping the power he’d gained from the people he’d stolen from would abandon him.
Like plucking geese, it was a job that soon grew wearying. I stopped now and then to look, but the mage was concentrating on the hob. I couldn’t tell if I was doing any good or not.
My head ached with effort, and something else was wrong, too. I’d damaged myself breaking Nahag’s spell, but I didn’t have time to worry about it. As my father said, “You have to finish what you start, Aren. Or all your work’s for naught.”
I curled my hands around the cedar and fought off the vision so I could continue to work.
I had to rest, and took the moment to see how Caefawn was faring. His skin had lightened to a pale gray and sweat matted his hair, but otherwise he appeared unhurt.
I looked beyond him and saw a circle of villagers ringing the three of us. They’d come, drawn here by Duck’s riderless state, or perhaps by Kith’s abrupt leave-taking. But they stayed well away from the silent, motionless battle in the center of the street. There was grim fear on most of their faces. I wondered if they feared the hob or the bloodmage, and decided it was probably both. However, one person had joined the fight.
Rook approached the bloodmage cautiously. With a well-worn knife, he probed the magic that had kept the hob from hitting Nahag. Nahag made a brushing gesture and Rook was tossed to the cobbles. He lay there for a few counts, rolled to his feet, and tried again.
“Enough,” whispered Nahag to the determined raider.
“I won’t let you kill him,” said Rook. There was a fierce determination in his pose. I wondered if Caefawn had teased the bleakness from Rook’s soul as well as he’d done it for me.
“You can stop nothing.” Nahag’s voice was tight with impatience. He spoke a few words and gestured—I recognized it as the same spell he’d thrown at me, and waited for Rook to react. Nothing happened; there was too little magic behind the spell.
Rook looked almost as surprised as the mage. I’d given up hope, because my efforts hadn’t seemed to do anything; but hope flared back again.
Wary, but not yet overly alarmed, Nahag surveyed the villagers, dismissing them one by one and skipping over me to return to Caefawn.
“Is it you? What have you done?” Nahag jerked his sword out of Kith and began a strike toward Caefawn.
I grabbed as many of the captive spirits as I could and tore them free. The sword dropped to the ground, and the mage fell to his hands and knees with a guttural cry. Forcing my stubborn body to move, I walked forward. When I reached Nahag, I collapsed to the ground.
He was trying to hold together the gaps in his spirit with magic, but his power was a thin and pale thing now. He didn’t seem to know how to reach the magic of the land, the magic I used. I saw his gaze focus on the lowland berserker, and Nahag began to crawl toward him.
“Hungry,” gasped Nahag, his voice shaking. “I’m so alone.”
Rook stepped forward, but I raised my palm and shook my head. I wasn’t sure Nahag couldn’t use the raider for something—I knew I could have. Rook met my gaze for a long moment and stopped.
Nahag still held part of the berserker. I found it mainly because he was trying so hard to hide it. I don’t think he understood who was attacking him until I took it away.
He looked at me as if I’d betrayed him. Then he attacked with the remnants of his magic.
Damaged as he was, he was stronger than I, and better trained. And I was so tired. His probings hurt deep inside my head, and all I could do was keep plucking foreign essences off him like a demented cook. One at a time now, because the damage inside of me was growing.
“Finish the job, Aren,” insisted my father, his face stern as he stood above my six-year-old self crying over a half-plucked goose. “Everyone has something to do here.”
I’d dropped my staff somewhere. It was hard to fight off the visions.
I ripped and tore until the only thing left of Nahag’s spirit was a shredded, sorry thing—all Nahag without any extra fragments. He’d quit fighting me for the last few pieces; either he was too tired or he just didn’t care anymore.
I stopped because I didn’t know what else to do.
We stared at each other, Nahag and I.
I don’t know what he saw, but I saw what I’d nearly, very nea
rly, become. He’d been someone’s son once, who hadn’t had a friend to save him as Kith had saved my brother. He hadn’t had Caefawn to teach him.
His cringing soul expanded abruptly within the bonds of spirit. For a brief moment it hesitated, but the fragile spirit could not hold it and the soul drifted away. The spirit lingered an instant, then was gone.
The mage closed his eyes. I looked at Rook and nodded my head. Rook’s blade slid into the mage’s neck. I wouldn’t tell anyone the bloodmage had been dead before the knife slid home. The raiders needed all the credit they could get.
“People,” snapped Wandel. I turned and saw the harper holding his shirt over Kith’s abdomen. “If we don’t get him sewn up, he’s going to die.”
I felt a jolt of incredulous joy that cut through the numb exhaustion and wrongness. Kith was alive? I crawled toward them, then remembered Wandel was supposed to kill Kith. I stared stupidly at the harper, who met my gaze and frowned.
“This village needs him.” He sounded defensive.
I smiled at him with sudden euphoria. Wandel wasn’t going to kill Kith. Not ever. He knew it, too; I could tell by the self-disgust in his voice. Neither Caefawn nor Kith was dead. At least not yet. There was an awful lot of blood on Wandel’s shirt.
Caefawn staggered to Kith, favoring his injured knee. He sat beside the Wandel and touched Kith briefly. Without taking his eyes off Kith, he held a hand back to me. “Aren, I need your help.”
I reached out and took his hand. He stiffened, as he had under the bloodmage’s spell.
“Aren?” With the explosive swiftness I’d seen in him before, he turned toward me. The horror on his face made me want to cower away from him, but my body chose that moment to quit obeying me again.
Could he see how close I’d been to becoming something he hated? Could he see the taint left on me? I tried to pull back, but my body moved toward his gentle tug.
He took my face in his hands, and I could feel the touch of his claws resting against my skin. He’d taken his earring back from the bloodmage and rewoven it through his ear.
“What did he do to you?” There was fear in his voice, and something in me relaxed when I saw I didn’t disgust him. The familiar grip of his tail reassured me.
My hand reached out and touched his jaw. His skin was smooth against my fingertips. He moved one of his hands from my face to catch my hand and flatten it against his cheek.
Wandel said something I didn’t catch.
“I can heal his wound, but I need Aren to mend his spirit. Keep the pressure on here, while I try to undo whatever the bloodmage did to her.” But I could see that it wasn’t worry for Kith that drove Caefawn.
I’d always thought his flirtation was an attempt to obey the wishes of the mountain. The mountain who wanted him to mate so his race would continue and she wouldn’t be alone. Motives I understood, both the mountain’s and Caefawn’s. I understood about loneliness.
I stood by the too-shallow grave as the men piled half-frozen dirt on Quilliar’s body. He’d always wanted to be buried in the winter because winter graves were heaped high with rocks and stones rather than the sunken places where those buried when the earth was soft rested.
Warm lips touched my mouth gently. “No, Aren, don’t go away.” I was wrapped in Caefawn’s arms, cuddled against his warmth. His skin felt soft against my hands. The warmth of his tail, still curled about my ankle, made me want to smile.
I opened my eyes and saw stark dread in his. He loves me, I thought.
And I was dying.
In my haste to regain control of my body, I’d ripped the ties between my spirit and my body. Nahag had already broken the bindings holding my soul. With Caefawn and Kith safe, I lacked the strength to hold myself together anymore. And, like Nahag, soon I would just drift apart.
“If you go,” Caefawn said, “Kith won’t live. He needs you to mend his spirit.” His hands moved subtly on my back and neck, giving pleasure. He was doing it deliberately.
“Not just any emotions,” he said with a speculative look, as if he could read what I’d thought about him. “Only things that make your spirit want to stay with your body.”
The soft, fluffy end of his tail caressed my cheek playfully. Faran take it, he knew I’d used the half-frightening desire I felt for him. It hadn’t worked as well against the fetch as it had against the ghost. But it left me feeling things that were frightening, embarrassing, and…wondrous.
“Aren.” He crooned my name in a husky voice that spoke of dark nights and shared passion, calling me back. But his eyes were desolate. He believed I was going to die, too.
“What’s wrong?” asked Merewich’s voice.
I knew I was dying. And I was.
But…what if it was like with the fetch? What happened if I didn’t believe it? What if—I thought, settling peacefully into Caefawn’s lap—what if I was too stubborn?
Caefawn tucked my head under his chin, presumably because his tears weren’t something he thought would hold me, body, spirit, and soul. Listening to his shuddering breath, I decided he was wrong. I would not die and leave the hob alone. Slowly, because it was all I could manage, I pulled a bit of magic from the land and began repairing the damage the bloodmage and I had done. It surprised me how little time it took.
“So,” I said diffidently and a bit hoarsely, “How can I help you with Kith?”
AUTUMN
HARVEST
FINIS
At Merewich’s insistence, Fallbrook held a festival to celebrate the peace between the raiders and the villagers. It was outside the town near an old snag the children decorated with brightly colored scarves.
Tolleck the priest opened the celebration by hailing the rich bounty the land had brought to us and our ancestors. The people caroused, danced, and sang to convince themselves that they’d survived. Wandel sang a lot of old songs praising the earth. The innkeeper played a fine fiddle, and the smith drummed. Poul danced with me.
I COULD STILL HEAR THE MUSIC, THOUGH THE FESTIVITIES were hidden by a rise in the land. After happening upon Kith and Danci holding their own celebration, I avoided the private places and walked in the open with a silly smile on my face.
Kith, it turned out, had known from the first that Nahag had not been killed with Moresh because of the connection binding him to the bloodmage. When he’d kissed me in the stables, he’d meant it for good-bye because he knew Nahag was coming. With Nahag dead, Kith’s body and spirit mended quickly. He’d been loosening up quite a bit, though I hadn’t known how well Danci had been doing with him—hence my silly smile. The hug Poul had given me when we finished the dance added to my light mood. There were still a lot of people looking askance at me, but the death of the bloodmage had done much to raise my status—and that of the raiders. Besides, I had Caefawn.
“’Tisn’t exactly what I had in mind,” commented the earth guardian, striding beside me as if he’d been there all along.
“Come, now,” I scolded him lightly. “I just passed two people celebrating earthy things in the most traditional manner, and I’d be surprised if they were the only ones.”
The Green Man laughed—a good thing. I didn’t think he was the kind of person—well, elemental, then—to laugh if he were still planning to destroy all the crops in the valley. Caefawn told me he thought the earth spirit might overlook the irregularities in the festival because I had proven the village’s good faith by killing the bloodmage.
“We’ll do a proper ceremony after harvest,” I promised. “Tolleck is already paving the way for it. If you have any suggestions, I’ll be glad to take them to him.”
“Nay, nay,” he said, slowing his stride when he saw me skip to keep up. “I’d rather be surprised.” He slipped me a sly grin. “But I think your fisherfolk better be careful or the river will be jealous.”
I looked at him to see if he was joking, but I couldn’t tell. We climbed to the top of a knob of land that jutted above the field of rye and the decorated snag. I found a se
at on the ground.
“Are you going to mate with the mountain’s servant?”
He didn’t look at me when he spoke, his attention on the festivities below.
“If we survive until next summer, I suppose I will.”
I didn’t hear him approach, but I was relaxed enough that I didn’t jump when Caefawn’s hands touched my shoulders.
“Such enthusiasm from a bride-to-be,” he commented dryly.
I widened my smile and leaned back against him. His feathered cloak dropped about me, bringing warmth against the slight chill of the night wind. He crouched behind me, his knees resting lightly against my arms.
“With hobs,” observed the Green Man, “you seldom get exactly what you bargained for.”
“I suppose I’ll find out next summer,” I answered cheerfully.
“If you survive ’til then,” added the hob as his tail twined itself about my waist. He didn’t sound worried.
I looked across the night at the fires below where the raiders drank cautiously with the villagers. If I let my eyes unfocus just a bit, I could see a few wildlings scurrying about.
“In the meantime,” said the earth spirit, “there’s a fetch to send on its way and a troll on Wedding Pass.”
Caefawn sighed in contentment, and his arms slid over my shoulders until they were crossed in front of me and his chin rested on the top of my head. “That sounds like fun,” he said.
About the Author
Until she learned to read, Patty Briggs lived a mundane’s life in Butte, Montana. Shortly after her sixth birthday, she discovered there were dwarfs living in the mines and elves in the forests. The hob in the garage really startled her the first time she met him, but they’ve become great friends since. Sometime before her thirtieth birthday, the urge to share her discoveries with the rest of the world led her to writing. She currently resides with her husband and children in the Pacific Northwest. The Hob’s Bargain is her fourth novel for Ace.
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