Haven 3 Shadow Magic (Haven Series 3) (14 page)

Brand took both the breastplate and the helmet with a nod. “Thanks,” he said, “those of the Haven say that there are no finer arms or armor than that made by the Kindred.”

Modi smiled briefly. “Then they are right. I chose this helm from the pile because it is indeed from the forges of the Kindred. The cursive mark of the forges beneath Snowdon decorates the spike.”

Brand nodded, examining it. Fortunately, Modi had left before Brand went to put the helm on his head experimentally. Inside the helm, the protective sheath of leather padding had that same disturbing softness to the touch that so much of the other gear from the redcap’s horde had. Brand rubbed his fingers together as if to rid himself of the feel of it. Was it merling, or human? He wondered what marshman had never returned to his humble hut after perhaps hunting for merlings in the far north….

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to place the helm upon his head. If one of his fellows had given his life to help arm the army of the Haven now, in its hour of need, he told himself he must accept the gift and hope the man’s spirit would be forgiving.

“Rhinogs!” came a shout from above. Others had taken over Telyn’s post among the leaves now, giving her a rest. A red-faced man with long, skinny limbs had clambered up the rope and now shouted the alarm to those below. Even as he cried his warning, the man fell from his perch. He crashed down onto the stone fountain that stood in the center of the gatehouse. A huge shaft, perhaps an inch thick, had pierced his skull. The black tail feathers of a raven fletched the heavy bolt. Blood filled the fountain where once sweet water had flowed.

Even as the warning shout came, Brand realized that he could hear something in the distance. It was the beat of the rhinog wardrums. This time, however, there wasn’t just a few of them, hammering out messages from scout band to scout band. This time, there were hundreds of drums – maybe thousands, all pounding at once, all in unison.

As the next few hours passed, the noise grew and grew. By nightfall, the sound was that of an army of ogres hammering on the door at midnight.

Chapter Thirteen

Hilltop Meeting

Brand and Corbin stood together on the top wall of the old keep, one of the few structures that remained relatively intact. The night had closed around them and everywhere was the noise of the rhinog army. Brand turned his eyes to the west, where three great catapults had been dragged through the muck and into a ragged line. Riding upon each of the catapults were five or six goblins, their eyes slitted and their thin long whips flicking out viciously. Scores of rhinogs strained in the mud to drag the catapults closer to the ruined castle. When they staggered or fell, the goblins whipped their offspring furiously.

“What do you think they’re loading into those catapults?” asked Brand, watching. “There is little stone over that way, they would have to drag each load up from the river.”

Corbin eyed him sidelong. “I can barely make out the silhouettes of the catapults themselves, much less what they are loading into them!”

Brand glanced at him, and then peered out into the darkness. He watched as a rhinog fled from his task, dropping the heavy rope and dashing toward the trees. A goblin sprang after him and ran him down quickly. The rhinog, although he was twice the size of his sire, fell to the ground in submission. The beating was lengthy and wickedly thorough. Brand watched the brute thrash in agony and felt some small remorse for the creature.

“What about those two?” he asked Corbin. “Surely, you can see that devil of a goblin beating his own offspring so viciously.”

“What are you talking about?” responded Corbin. “Brand, it’s dark out. Night fell an hour ago! These creatures need neither torches nor lanterns, it seems. I can’t see a thing out there.”

Brand felt a cold hand squeeze his insides as he realized the truth of Corbin’s words. It
was
dark out. The enemy only had a few fires going here and there. But somehow, he could still see them.

Corbin turned to him. Brand kept watching the goblin beat his offspring, refusing to look at Corbin. He could all but hear his cousin’s mind working.

“You can see in the dark, can’t you?” asked Corbin simply.

Brand nodded. He continued to watch the goblin. The creature’s thin arms lifted the whip again and again. The whip was slick with blood now. The rhinog only quivered as each blow fell upon it.

“You’re glad you can’t see it,” he said quietly.

Corbin continued to stare at him. “It’s the axe. Ambros has worked a change upon you,” he said.

Brand breathed deeply, but said nothing. The goblin halted its punishment and now kicked the rhinog repeatedly until it heaved itself up and staggered back to the rope it had dropped.

“What if you become something…else?” asked Corbin. “Maybe you should put aside the axe while you can, Brand.”

“You know I can’t,” answered Brand. “The Haven needs me as a champion. I’ve borne the axe for days now. I can bear it one more day. I only pray to the River that I never become something wicked.”

“I think we should talk to Myrrdin about this,” suggested Corbin. “I don’t recall him mentioning any such changes coming over the bearer of Ambros.”

Then Brand told him of what Myrrdin had said, about finding Vaul in the center of a great oak tree that had encased within it the bones of its previous owner.

Corbin’s eyes were haunted as he envisioned it. “It consumed its master,” he said. “Just as Lavatis went feral and consumed Dando. Just as perhaps Osang has taken the human heart from Herla and turned him into a wraith of the night.”

Brand nodded. “I wonder how Myrrdin has managed to keep Vaul at bay, supposedly for centuries.”

Together, they returned to the gatehouse of rustling greenery and sought out Myrrdin. They learned from the others there that Myrrdin had left, heading out on an unexplained errand to the east.

Brand and Corbin looked at one another. “That’s where the Faerie mound is,” said Brand. Concerned, the two headed out with more urgency into the night again. As they trekked toward the mound, they heard an odd sound. A tremendous cracking sound rang out across the ruins. Then a brilliant ball of flame arced through the night sky. It made an eerie, whooshing sound like the flaring of a smithy’s forge when it is being stoked when it passed overhead.

“Burning pitch!” cried Brand, halting. “They are going to fire our camp!”

“Should we turn back?” asked Corbin.

Brand looked at him for a second, then snapped his head back up to the sky as another great crack was heard and the catapults launched another crackling fireball at the army of the Haven. He realized that the decision was his, as the Champion of the Haven. He had become a leader and even Corbin reflexively turned to him for guidance. He didn’t like it, but there it was. He had to decide.

“No. We’ll find Myrrdin. He said they would harass us all night until just before daybreak when the real attack would come.”

“Let’s pray that he’s right,” said Corbin, following his lead. Soon they reached the Faerie mound, and Brand could tell in an instant that something was happening. The mound seemed brighter than it should be, as if the moon shined down upon it, although there was no moon overhead. The silvery light that he had seen while summoning Oberon was growing upon the mound.

“There he is!” shouted Brand pointing toward the ghostly image of Myrrdin, who was just rounding the mound. “He’s walking the mound!”

“What? I don’t see him,” replied Corbin, peering into the darkness. He took a step in the direction that Brand had indicated.

As Brand watched, he saw Myrrdin fade in and out of his vision. A shiver ran through him. It was as if he saw a ghost walking the circle of fallen grass around the mound. “No, we must follow his path. Widdershins, we must walk, nine times around the mound.”

He set off, and after a moment’s hesitation, Corbin followed him. As they marched around the mound, it seemed that the fireballs quieted and dimmed as they burned wide swathes across the sky. The flaming explosions they made as they struck the gatehouse and the encampment around it seemed dream-like and distant.

“How many times have we walked the circle, Brand?” asked Corbin behind him. His voice seemed a trifle faint.

“Three times,” he said.

“The mound seems brighter each time we circle it.”

“Yes,” said Brand.

“But,” said Corbin, “there is no moon tonight, Brand.”

“I know.”

They marched in silence. Three more times they saw the keep, the catapults and the burning camp.

“Is this how the night world looks to you now, Brand?” asked Corbin, his voice a wavering echo. “This silvery brightness that turns everything into colorless shadows…. Is this what you see without sun, moon nor torch?”

“Yes, it is like this—but not as intense.”

They fell silent until they had rounded the mound eight times. Corbin halted as they began the ninth. They could no longer see much of the world around the mound. Only the burning camp was recognizable, now a silent yellow shimmer on the horizon.

“I—I think maybe we should stop,” said Corbin.

Brand turned back and looked at him. “I don’t think we can. It would break the spell.”

“Can’t we just—” said Corbin. “Can’t we just step off and get back to the camp? They must need us there.”

“We’re entering Oberon’s realm now,” said Brand. “If we stop between realms, we may never find our way back.”

“I’m afraid, Brand.”

“I know.”

They completed the ninth circuit, and as they did so music came to their ears. It was sweet music, beautiful music. It wasn’t the same as the deep earth sounds that the dark bard had played, but rather the lively tunes of the elves.

Several figures stood at the top of the mound. Brand made them out, marching toward the top, although it seemed a long way. He passed the spot where he had slain Oberon’s innocent daughter the night before. The grass was withered and blighted where her blood had stained it.

Myrrdin was there, speaking with the others in low tones. Beside him stood Oberon. It was he who played sweet music. Towering over them all was the unmistakable figure of Old Hob. Wisps no longer circled the eldest goblin, but he had one in his lantern again. By her yellow glimmer, Brand knew it to be the wisp he had returned to her people days earlier. He recalled that the Wee Folk had told him of her recapture after she had spread the word that they needed aid around the Haven.

Corbin’s labored breathing behind him told him that his cousin still followed despite his fears. Brand wondered at his own lack of fear and could only attribute it to the events of the past several days. Had he become accustomed to contact with the Faerie? Or was the axe somehow filling him with courage and a level head? He didn’t know the answer.

The conversation was held in low tones, but it was clearly heated. Frequently, Myrrdin gesticulated with his arms and robes flaring, while Old Hob made violent gestures with equal emotion. Only Oberon seemed to be keeping out of it, content to play his pipes and listen.

“Hail!” called Brand to them, making his way to the top of the mound.

The three turned to face him, and only Oberon seemed unsurprised.

“What are you doing here, Brand?” demanded Myrrdin.

“Ho, Ho!” roared Old Hob. He took a step back and raised his lantern, peering with its shimmering light. “A Knight? What treachery is this, witch? You plan to slaughter us while we parlay, is that it?”

Brand wondered why Old Hob didn’t recognize him, but then realized that he must look quite a bit different in his armor and wearing his spiked helm. He drew himself up a few paces from the three and stood as tall as he could. If he was to be cursed with bearing the axe, then so be it. He would act as the Axeman.

“I am Brand, the Champion of the Haven, the wielder of Ambros the Golden,” he said.

“Ah!” said Old Hob in recognition. “The snot-nose that lost me my pets! And who is the ragamuffin that struggles up the slope behind you?”

Brand glanced back at Corbin, who returned Brand’s supportive smile with a wan one of his own. “He is my second.”

“You should not be here, Brand!” called Myrrdin.

“Ah, but he
is
here,” said Old Hob. He stepped forward, causing Oberon to hop nimbly from his path. The yellow circle of light cast by the last wisp in his lantern pooled about Brand’s feet. “You’ve changed, man-child.”

“You, on the other hand, have not,” replied Brand evenly. Just the presence of Old Hob, so near, set the axe on Brand’s back to quivering. It was all he could do to keep his lips from curling into a snarl. “Myrrdin,” he called. “What are you doing here? Are you parlaying with the Faerie?”

Myrrdin came close and hissed in his ear. “Yes! I work to arrange a new Pact, but it hinges upon us being victorious over Herla in the coming battle.”

“What is the nature of this new Pact?” asked Brand.

“There is no time to explain!” said Myrrdin. “You must return to the camp, where you are needed! Dawn is coming very soon!”

“First tell me of this new Pact. Dawn is many hours off.”

“No, it’s not,” replied Myrrdin. “Day-break is almost upon us. Time works in tricksy ways when one walks in Faerie light. Do you remember tales of people being lost for a year and a day, but not having aged but a few hours?”