Haven 5 Blood Magic BOOK

by Larson, B. V.

  And Brand was correct. The Kindred valued no trait greater than that of unfailing loyalty! Had not her own brethren proudly dropped dead not an hour earlier striving to repair the Great Vents? They had sacrificed themselves gladly, out of dedication to their people and to their queen. She did not take their deaths lightly. They would be feted with many silver hammers in the morning, and sent on their final journey into the cone of fire. Their dedication, their loyalty to their queen and comrades, these things defined the very essence of what it was to be one of the Kindred.

  She tried to dampen down her pride, to think more clearly. Pyros, like all the Jewels, tended to get one worked up, especially when it was recently wielded. To help settle her thoughts, she drew a second mug of ale and drank it much more slowly while she marched back toward the broken citadel.

  Behind her, a number of courtiers followed at a discreet distance, knowing that she was deep in thought. They desperately wanted to avoid interrupting her thoughts. The results of such interruptions, when the queen was thinking hard, were often painful.

  She soon left behind the bustling masses of workers who still worked hard, testing and lubricating the Great Vent with black, dribbling buckets of graphite. Her work was finished at the vents, so she left the clean up to the Mechnicians. She had matters of state to consider now.

  Enemies, Myrrdin had told Brand. Old ones.

  Enemies they had all but forgotten. Myrrdin meant creatures from the Everdark, she knew. Wurms, kobolds, elemental armies. They had never really declared peace with them, nor even a truce. They just existed and stayed down deep, far below the Kindred frontiers. Likewise, the Kindred had stayed near the surface and out of the depths, mining only in the highest galleries of thin ore and relative safety. Except for occasional raids by one side or the other, relative peace had reigned for centuries.

  Perhaps, she thought, Modi had not been all wrong. Perhaps it was time the Kindred once again turned their eyes deepward. If the things that dwelt below their ancient plugs were no longer content to stay alive… Well, perhaps it was high time they were slain.

  At the very least, if the enemy mobilized, the Kindred would have to match the effort. They would, in fact, have to grossly exceed it.

  She sighed, looking ahead at her citadel of crumpled black stone. Fafnir had done great damage. She had planned to rebuild first, and then extend their construction further. Possibly, she would have ordered a new colony built, a new mountain hollowed out.

  But now, their efforts would have to turn to the machines of war. With the aid of Pyros, she knew she could build things the world had not seen for millennia. Clicking clockwork crawlers would walk again. Golems would be animated and armed. Steam-driven ballistic weaponry, long foresworn by her people, would be rebuilt and perfected. Armor of hardened steel would cover every warrior, and axe-blades would be forged that could cut through anything.

  She finished off her second ale, smashed down the mug and clapped together her gloved hands. She called for the Clanmaster of the Mechnicians. There would be no resting, no lying about with feet lifted from the floor, not even after such an effort as the reforging of the Great Vent.

  There was much more work to be done.

  Chapter Six

  Jak’s Wedding

  By noon, the wedding party had assembled. Brand’s impatience grew with every minute that stretched into an hour. His plans of leaving by early afternoon were torturously shredded by effusive relatives and endless proceedings.

  Holding a surprise wedding on an island in the Haven prevented precise timing. They simply had to wait until all the principles were there, and then once they had finally arrived the ladies began an exorbitant period of primping.

  Brand, being a farmboy, had never envisioned these delays. He had been to a wedding or two, but never on the hosting end of things. As well, now that he had the vaunted title of Lord Rabing, people seemed to expect much more pomp and circumstance from him.

  He had to admit, the families had done an amazing job in such a short time. They had brought every festive item they had on their boats, festooning the trees with paper lanterns and rippling gossamer. At night, he knew, the tiny candles in the lanterns would be set alight and the entire garden area would resemble a faerie mound encircled by wisps. That very thought was worrisome in itself, as he now realized this party would indeed stretch on into the night. He was itching to be off and away.

  The loveliness of the garden, however, arrested those thoughts in his mind. Jak had done an amazing job. He had been working on the garden since the snows melted away, a few weeks back. Fresh, tiny shoots of grass grew everywhere, thrusting up from the black earth, eager for the sunshine of spring after a hard winter. The trees themselves still had no leaves, but bore thousands of light green buds which would soon explode into full life.

  The family had brought the chairs and the wicker archway. He thought perhaps that had come from Gram Rabing’s barn. After all the cobwebs had been whisked away and the whole thing was braided with vines, it looked quite entrancing. Under that arch, Jak and Lanet were married. The ceremony was performed by none other than Old Man Thilfox himself, both giving away his daughter and taking her vows at the same time.

  Another surprising thing was the new people. New faces among the crowd, those who looked a bit wide-eyed, wild-haired and generally unkempt. Thilfox had made an effort to bring them, these outsiders who had recently migrated to Riverton. He had invited the head of every family he could find to his daughter’s wedding. He felt that they must be brought into the fold, invited to weddings and such. They must be made to feel at home. There were many of them this spring, many more than there had ever been. Brand eyed them, and occasionally their gazes strayed to meet his, but then quickly flashed away.

  Brand himself, and his axe, was the reason many of them had come. They had trekked in from wild settlements in areas beyond the borders of the Haven. Things had grown worse for them since the breaking of the Pact. The faerie were on the prowl, and since they dared not enter the Haven under threat of Brand’s axe, they had sought out humans beyond the borders he maintained.

  These people, simple and uneducated, weren’t barbarians, but rather lost peasants from tiny villages in the wild areas. He felt for them, and hoped they could be made to feel comfortable. He knew that Thilfox and the others regarded their migration as critical, and welcomed everyone, even the haunted women, the ones that had been used to sire rhinogs or worse things. He welcomed them, and found them lodging, and considered even adding new clans from this clanless group to the council. He felt that since they may be soon drafted into the militia to guard the borders, they should have some form of family representation in decisions. That option had not yet made it past the council, however, as none of them relished a watering down of their voting power.

  Brand turned his attention back to the wedding itself. He smiled as he watched the proceedings, his brother Jak was so happy. He was sure that over the months to come he would grow even more joyous, as he had never shared his life with woman. Brand smiled, but he did not weep. He wondered, looking around the garden, if he had the only dry eye in the vicinity, save for the clanless ones. Then he spotted Tomkin, swinging his legs as he watched from an almond tree that had just blossomed. That one, he was certain, had dry eyes like black stones. He doubted the Wee Folk were capable of tears—except possibly when lamenting their own losses.

  Brand watched Tomkin, and the manling’s eyes slid to return the gaze. Tomkin tipped his hat, showing he was naturally aware of the scrutiny. Brand nodded to his strange little friend, thinking that the manling had the instincts of feral cat in a field.

  And that’s where Brand wanted to be. Off, in a field somewhere, marching and adventuring. He sighed and shifted his weight from one foot to another. His axe, heavy on his back, shifted its weight in an echo of his movement. Taking a seat with the others was unthinkable. He had a hard enough time bearing the long ceremony, even though he knew the River Folk were enjoying it
thoroughly.

  He bore it all with good grace, of course. He hid his agitation as best he could. He truly was happy for his brother Jak, and he already loved Lanet, her boy and the Thilfox family. He could not help but think, however, that with each passing moment Piskin was escaping his grasp. Escaping justice, the justice his axe desired so strongly to mete out.

  His state of mind had largely to do with the axe, he knew. Ambros was bored, which it almost always was when it wasn’t cutting flashing arcs through the air and preferably removing heads with every stroke. It urged him to speed, at this very delicate time, when things could least be politely hurried.

  Gifts and flowers and windblown dresses. Lanet was enchantingly beautiful, her hair floating around her like a gauzy cloud. She beamed at Jak, and just seeing this helped soften Brand’s heart. He could not bear to interrupt this procession, this outpouring of hope for the future.

  He and his axe represented the grim side of their world, the part that was full of death, fright and violence. Could he not give the other side its due? He chided himself. The wedding was a celebration of life and happiness. A commitment to new families and smiling children. He would do well to study and enjoy the proceedings, to use them to draw upon for strength and resolve in his next dark hour, which would surely come soon.

  And so he did his best to relax, to enjoy the festivities which most there seemed to delight in. He rolled his shoulders when the axe poked up its haft and tremored upon his back, as one might do when trying to avoid a buzzing insect.

  The fact that he bore the weapon, even during a wedding, had uplifted many eyebrows. But he never considered leaving it in the house or some other safe spot. He knew that he would never stop thinking about it if he did, and would thus even more thoroughly ruin his experience on this fine day.

  Besides… One never knew when its services might be needed. When better for an enemy to strike than in the midst of a celebration?

  The vows were sweet, but long. The humming, rising up into full song, that followed from the congregation was the best part for Brand. He joined them all, singing loud and long. A few eyes widened and gave him frequent glances, but he barely noticed. The axe, he knew, was very fond of song. It knew it uplifted men’s hearts to acts of courage and renown. This was no battle song of old, of course, only a greeting for spring, but he sang hard and loud nonetheless, enjoying every pulsing second of the experience.

  Gram Rabing came up to him after the ceremony and the final song had been sung. She eyed him curiously. Her corncob pipe poked out of her mouth at an odd angle.

  He waited for her to speak, not knowing what was on her mind.

  She pulled her pipe out of her mouth and pointed at his burnt side with the stem of it.

  “That’s quite a shiner you got there. A dragon did that, they say. A real dragon?”

  Brand nodded, unsurprised at her directness. She had always been one to speak her mind—even to the point of rudeness. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “A real dragon.”

  Gram Rabing took a half-step closer. She peered over his shoulder next, eyeing the axe handle that protruded into the air. The axe twitched under her gaze. He resisted the urge to slap at it.

  “That thing drives you dammed near crazy, doesn’t it, boy?”

  He snorted lightly. “I suppose, Gram. Sometimes it does.”

  “Lord Rabing. That’s what they call you now? Huh.”

  “Yes ma’am,” he said, feeling slightly hot now, despite the fresh springtime breezes in off the river. He decided to attempt to steer the conversation to lighter topics. “Lovely wedding, wasn’t it?”

  “You ever kill anyone with that thing, and regret it later?” she asked suddenly.

  He stared at the old woman. He’d known her as a tot, of course. She had changed his pants and spanked him plenty of times. Somehow, he found her direct approach disarming, not angering. In another person, he might have taken insult. But from Old Gram Rabing, he felt it was her due. She had somehow earned the right to be rude.

  “Yes, Gram,” he said quietly, seriously. “I have done so.”

  Unbidden, the lovely image of Oberon’s daughter came into his mind. Her silver lock of hair he no longer carried with him. He suspected it had somehow been burned away, perhaps in his battles with the dragons beneath Snowdon.

  She nodded, as if he were only confirming her suspicions. She leaned closer still to him. “Well, you sure do sing better than you used to as a kid. That’s part of it, isn’t it? Drives you to sing like a drunken docksman. That’s at least a bonus, isn’t it?”

  He laughed then, the tension sliding away from him. He looked around the crowd, as if seeing them all for the first time. They all eyed him from time to time, apprehensively. He must have seemed like a brooding lout, standing off from the ceremony. He wondered if he had been scowling. He couldn’t recall.

  He should have been enjoying this day more deeply. He hoped that when his own wedding came he would be able to do so.

  Gram Rabing put her pipe back into her mouth and nodded to herself, as if confirming her own thoughts or listening to a conversation only she could hear. “You’re doing a good job, boy. Best any of us could do. Just try to keep your wits about you.”

  “Thanks, Gram.”

  “You’ve got somewhere you need to be, don’t you?” she asked him then. Again, the question was sudden, direct and piercing.

  He blinked, and then nodded.

  “You’d best be about it then, boy. Don’t let us stop you. Politeness and all be dammed. Go tell your brother goodbye and be gone. He’ll be glad to hear you won’t be hanging around the house tonight, mark me.”

  She said this last with a twinkle in her eyes that Brand found slightly disturbing. His old Gram, making jokes about wedding nights! Somehow, it was disconcerting. But with Gram Rabing, nothing was sacred.

  He laughed and nodded. He hugged her and she patted his back sharply in return.

  And then she left him.

  He only paused for a few minutes before heading for the docks, following her advice. On the way, Jak caught up with him, demanding to know his plans.

  “I thought I would slip away, now that the ceremony is done,” confessed Brand.

  Jak stared at him for a moment, but then nodded, understanding. He said his good-byes and lamented he could not go with him. He had a family to tend to now. Brand urged him to go do so, and then he began the arduous process of loading his roan stallion onto his boat. Just getting the horse across the river to the far banks was a tricky affair every time he did it. He thought that in time he would build a bridge or at least set up a ferry to do the job more easily. He was wealthy now, and needed to think of bigger things to do with his money.

  It was Telyn who caught him last. She had Corbin in tow. They both looked at him seriously.

  “Who’s going to bring that boat back, once you’ve taken your horse to the shoreline?” Corbin wanted to know.

  “That’s not what you are really asking,” said Brand. “And in answer to your real question, I thought I would chase Piskin down alone. I know you two think I need a second to visit the outhouse, but this is only a one-handed Wee One. I’ve bested him before, and I’ll do it again.”

  “Not without me, you won’t,” said a voice from inside the boat. A loose sail in the bottom of the boat shifted, and Tomkin poked his nose out.

  Brand sighed. “Do you really want to come along, Tomkin? You already took Piskin’s hand, you know. I would have thought your scales were balanced by now.”

  Tomkin shook his head. “Piskin is a traitor to my people. He hasn’t given up yet. He still plans to own this Jewel of mine. I’ll have his other hand first.”

  Tomkin waggled the amulet with Lavatis in it, and it sparkled, sending blue gleaming shafts of light into the afternoon sky.

  “What about you, Telyn? Don’t you have our own wedding to plan? How about I leave you a dozen gold marks to work with?”

  She shook her head. “I’d rather keep my fut
ure husband in sight.”

  “All right,” said Brand. He heaved a breath. “Everyone into the boat. Mind you don’t step on Tomkin.”

  He unloaded his roan, not having room for it and everyone else aboard. With a large group and only one horse among them, the boat would carry them faster in any case. He slapped the roan’s rump when he had it back ashore, knowing the stallion would happily trot home for a mouthful of fresh oats in the stable.

  * * *

  Floating on the Berrywine River, the banks of which had always served as her home, Mari wondered how her life had taken such strange turns. They were heading upriver to Frogmorton, according to Piskin. She had never been there, but heard they were a friendly sort down on the southern border of the Haven. Beyond Frogmorton was nothing but wilderness: Dark brooding mountains, silent forests and still lakes full of merlings.

  If Puck were truly down past the southern edge of her known world, what could he be doing? Why hadn’t he come to visit, if he wanted her still? Was he afraid of the Haven now?

  Piskin hinted that he was. He suggested that Puck was afraid of “that madman with the axe”, the man she knew to be Brand, the Champion of the River Haven. She had only seen Brand once in Riverton. He indeed did look to be a knight out of legend. He wore a breastplate, the first man she’d ever seen to do so. He looked dashing and serious. And he was armed, too, just as they said he always was. The handle of his frightening axe, a white haft like an animal’s femur bone, stuck up out of the pack. She shuddered to think the axe was alive and could move somewhat on its own. Just looking at it gave her a chill.

  But she had found Brand himself entrancing. She, and no doubt every young girl in the Haven, wondered why he had not chosen her as his consort.