Dream Magic (28 page)

“I’m not stepping into any stinking hole!”

“Oh, but you are. One way or another.”

“What’s this about a hole?” demanded Morgana.

Oberon turned to her. “It is the best way. He may yet prove useful to us, if we can convince him to work for us. If we let him go, he’d be a menace.”

“Grandfather, I beseech thee,” Trev said formally, going down to one knee. “I came to thee seeking knowledge, and you have imparted it. Morgana sought this knowledge, and now she has it as well. I would suggest that doing anything other than le
tting me go free would be a breach of etiquette. A dishonor upon your house.”

“Nonsense!” Morgana began, but Oberon silenced her with a raised hand.

His stance and demeanor changed as he addressed Trev with sudden formality. This is what Trev had hoped for. Elves took their honor very seriously indeed.

“Let me explain, child:
you are a spy for an enemy. Coming here as a spy is not honorable. We are well within our rights to imprison you.”

“A spy? I came seeking
the knowledge which this woman demanded!”

“That is true, but tell me the rest. Did Myrrdin not charge you with returning to him with a report?”

Trev looked down. This he could not deny.

“Exactly,” continued Oberon. “You see, child, t
he unknowing spy is the
best
of spies. Who would suspect a creature that does not have the wit to know it is a tool? Now comes the detail of what is to be done with you. Can I release a spy? No. It weighs upon my heart, but I can’t allow you to leave here. You’re unknown and thus dangerous to my plans.”

“
Your
plans?” scoffed Trev, choosing a new tact. He pointed to Morgana, who watched the conversation with quiet interest. “That is the spider who wove your plans for you, grandfather. Can you not see this?”

“Absurd,” Oberon said. “You think a human woman with a few tricks of the craft can manipulate the oldest elf in the known worlds? It
could not happen. We work together because I wish it.”

“But you
laid with her as I did!” shouted Trev, putting his hand on the hilt of his dagger. “You’re not immune as I am, therefore you are in her power. You took her as an ally, did you not? Why? Did you do that of your own free will? Why not capture her? Why not put her to the sword or put
her
in a hole?”

Oberon laughed, but there was an edge
to the sound. “Why not, child? Because I’m your elder, and my will must be obeyed.”

Trev frowned. “That’s no answer. You
are in her power. It is clear to me now. Try to see it, grandfather. You have been bested, but you can make this right. Take my hand, and I will shield you. Free yourself.”

“Foolishness. I will hear no more. Now, hop down into your new home. Let’s not have any unpleasantness.”

It was Trev’s turn to laugh.

“I’m of your
own blood. Do you know a reflection of yourself so little as that? You’ll have to take me, and with no magic to aid you, oldster. I’m immune to your tricks as well as hers.”

Oberon’s eyes darkened until they stormed. “
As you wish,” he said.

He drew his sword, and tossed it aside.

“What are you doing?” questioned the Witch of the Wood. These were the first words she’d spoken since the conflict had grown heated.

“There is honor
involved, which must be served,” Oberon explained. “The child has a short blade, and he is alone. He is of my blood, and therefore he shall be met with matching circumstances.”

“That is not honor, that is
madness
,” complained the Witch.

“That’s it!” Trev
shouted suddenly. Everyone looked at him in surprise.

“Madness,” he explained. “
Morgana, you visited Myrrdin, didn’t you? And you failed to control his twisting mind. You can’t control those that are irrational. Brand will be hard to face when he wields the Axe. Perhaps that’s why you saved him for last.”

Morgana made no move to answer.

“An interesting theory, grandson,” Oberon said. “But one that is critically flawed, as I am
not
in her power. Nor am I mad.”

Hearing the elf’s words, Morgana gave Trev a slight, smug smile.

“But you have honor,” Trev said to Oberon, ignoring the gloating witch, “which as the hag said, makes you behave in a manner not entirely to your benefit upon occasion. It is that mad steel within you that she cannot bend.”

Oberon drew his own dagger then. I
t was a rare thing of beauty, an object wrought of silver which shone as if it was forged of captured moonlight. Even Trev, seeing it, was entranced by its craftsmanship. He had to admit that dying to such a weapon would not be an entirely wasted life.

“And now,” Oberon said, “it is time to put some of my steel, which you so eloquently described, into you, Trev.”

Trev felt a bolt of fear as his elder approach him. As smooth as Trev’s movements were, Oberon’s were noticeably smoother. At that moment he hated his human half, which seemed weak in comparison. Not only was it clumsy and slow, but it felt fear for its miserable life as well.

He
assumed a fighting stance, doing his best. He told himself he had to focus on his strengths and bury his weaknesses. He was half-man, which made him taller and thicker of limb than his grandsire. He was also very fast, he knew, possibly as fast as any elf.

But the wicked immortal that paced him now didn’t know that. He’d never seen Trev in action. Trev therefore moved slowly, but smoothly. He didn’t leap and flourish—not yet. He wanted to deceive his opponent in any way possible. Brand, Corbin, Puck—all
those who’d taught him what they knew of fighting had made a point of telling him this.

As the two circled one another,
Trev knew he was being studied. His stance was being evaluated by a master, and he was helpless to evade that keen eye which judged things he could barely fathom.

Instead of competing on such a level, he
desperately sought any other advantage he could come up with. His eyes searched the environment for a moment, seeing the tall trees, the circle of smiling elves.

At last his gaze
came to rest upon Morgana herself. She appeared to be aloof and above the fray. If anything, he got the impression the combat annoyed her, because it was not her desire that the duel should be so evenly fought. This gave Trev an idea.

Before he could act upon his idea, however, Oberon moved. He had taken this
last lingering split-second, where Trev had dared let his eye drift from his opponent, to step close and attack.

Oberon ceased circling and sprang forward.
Trev reflexively lifted his own blade, parrying and twisting his body to one side to avoid the thrust. But Oberon was not finished. He followed through, reversed himself and came in again, slashing with his fantastic weapon. The knife blade cut a glittering high arc in the air that seemed to blur with speed.

Trev was off-balance and unable to parry again. The move had been so sudden, and had placed Oberon in the perfect pose for a second strike, while Trev’s own posture was hopelessly poor.

Rather than attempting another parry, Trev bounded straight up into the air. He revealed all his strength and speed at that moment, hoping to take the other by surprise.

H
is gambit worked. Oberon was left staring up at him as he flew away to land atop the smooth surface of a mushroom hut.

“The stars be praised!” Oberon said, laughing. “I’ve grandsired a bounding hare!”

“Finish this nonsense!” shouted Morgana.

Oberon, shaking his head, leapt upward to join Trev atop the hut—but Trev leapt down the other side. He sprinted then, as fast as his legs would carry him. He did not run from the fight. He did not seek escape.

Instead, he ran toward Morgana. He held his blade before him, and he charged with a roar that no pure elven throat could ever produce. It was the human part of him, coming out to the fore. It was a battle cry of rage, fury and desperation.

Reaching the witch in three tremendous
leaps, he thrust the dagger into her. She only managed to throw up her arms to cover her throat at the last moment before the point bit into her body. Trev felt the blade pierce her ribs and sink into the vitals behind them.

“You shall plague my family no more, witch!” he said.

The next moment, however, Trev found himself taken from behind. Oberon and a dozen other elves laid hands upon him. His dagger fell away, and they shook him roughly. Oberon himself laid his blade upon Trev’s throat and a red line of blood appeared there.

“Slay that mad dog,” choked Morgana. “Then have the hound lap up his blood and use it to heal me.”

Oberon’s eyes slid to her, then back to Trev. He cocked his head curiously as he looked down upon this helpless grandson.

“A bold move,” he said in a conversational tone. “But dishonorable. There can be no prison for you. It saddens me, as I took such great pains to create the circumstances of your birth. You have wasted your life, and thusly decades of my time.”

“No dishonor,” Trev gasped, struggling against the dozen hands that held him in order to speak. They held him so tightly, he could hardly draw breath.

“Kill him now!” hissed the witch. “Tend me!”

Oberon again slid his eyes to her, then back to Trev. He made a tiny motion, and the others loosened their grip so that Trev could speak.

“Do you know so little of our ways?” Oberon asked. “Is that your excuse, ignorance of
the simple codes of honor? It will not save you, true or not.”

“No,” said Trev. “I know what I’m saying. She rules you. Your actions were not your own. This duel, therefore, was between me and her, not you and I, grandsire.”

“Ah!” said Oberon, removing his blade from Trev’s neck and tapping its red tip upon his tongue. “I see your point. You believe—incorrectly of course—that you’re fighting Morgana, not me. Absurd—but seemingly a real belief on your part. And the way you moved! I would have to say you have more elf in you than human, despite that crude barking noise you made at the end. Therefore, honor
could
be in your make up. And, even more surprisingly, your actions could be construed as honorable, given your delusions. Hmm.”

Morgana coughed, and redness spilled down over her white gown.
She was beyond demanding aid now. Gasping, she collapsed to the forest floor and struggled to breathe. Trev dared to hope she would expire before he did. It was his fondest wish at the moment.

Oberon signaled his elves, and they grabbed Trev again, holding him fast.

Methodically, the elf lord grabbed one of Trev’s extended legs. He set something upon the ground then, something at Trev’s feet.

Try as he might, Trev could not turn his eyes downward far enough so that he could see the thing, but he suspected it was a small, evil-eyed hound.

Something fantastically sharp bit into his thigh. Warmth ran down his leg, and there was a tickling sensation at the ankle. Trev struggled, but he was held fast.

“Hold the wound open,” Oberon told his guardsmen. “I daresay I’ll need half his blood before I’m through here.”

For a time, Trev bled while the hound lapped. Oberon performed his foul magicks with the blood released and consumed. Morgana’s breathing became less ragged even as Trev saw his vision dimming. He despaired, as his final wish was not to be fulfilled.

When he lost his way in this world and stepped into the oblivion of unconsciousness, he thought he heard his grandfather humming a lively tune as he worked.

* * *

When Brand awakened on the hillock, he found Tomkin standing on his chest with his tiny hands resting on his hips.

“Tell me your dreams,” said the manling.

“Dreams?” asked Brand groggily. “I dreamt of things in the fog. Dark things, with arms like snakes and wet, hard shells over their bodies.”

“Tell me more. Did these creatures grip you?”

Brand came more awake, and frowned.

“Get off!” he huffed at the creature that stood upon him. He struggled to sit up, and found himself stiff and sore.

Tomkin bounded away from the hand that came up to swat him.

“How long was I sleeping?” Brand mumbled. His eyes were so bleary he could hardly see. The purple landscape of the Twilight Lands didn’t make it any easier to make out his surroundings.

Tomkin shrugged. “A day—
or maybe three of them, I would say. We don’t really have ‘days’ here, you know.”

Brand stopped rubbing his eyes and looked at the little manling in surprise. “Three
days
?”

Tomkin sniffed. “What
did you expect? You battled beasts few have ever seen, then thought to rest upon a mound with buried dead under your head for a pillow. It was all I could do to keep the sprites and wisps from tickling your nose.”