Haven Magic (11 page)

“That’s Arlon Thunderfoot’s rig, the hunter from Hamlet,” exclaimed Brand. “What’s he doing here?”

“Careful boy, it may be cursed,” said Gudrin, holding back his arm. They all watched as Modi moved forward to peer into the boat. He signaled for them to approach.

Inside the boat they found only one oar. There was frozen blood on it.

“Where’s Arlon?” asked Brand, already guessing the grim truth.

“He’s merling food, by the look of it,” grunted Modi. He turned to Gudrin. “We must sink what we don’t take.”

Gudrin nodded. She turned back to the empty rowboat and the stunned River Folk that had gathered around it. “I grieve with you all.” She raised up her package above her head in both hands.

“The River gives, and the River takes. In the end, the River knows us all,”
she said. Brand was honored she had quoted a proverb of the River Folk. It was only right, as this was a benediction over one of his people.

Gudrin then gestured to Modi, who quickly struck a hole in the bottom of the boat and pushed it out into the flood. The warrior moved to the leather boat that the two of them had come in and scuttled it as well.

“We will all take the skiff,” said Gudrin. “Come.”

Numbly, the four River Folk climbed aboard after Gudrin and Modi and they cast off. Even though he had not known Arlon all that well, it was difficult to accept that he was dead. Brand couldn’t remember having ever heard of an actual murder before—but the Battleaxe Folk seemed so sure they’d just discovered one. Certainly, there were accidents along the river now and then, but never an
intentional
killing. Except for merling attacks, the people of the Haven rarely died violently. He took in a deep breath and nodded to himself. It had been the merlings, of course. He felt sure the merlings were guilty, just as they had slain his own kin.

For several minutes they traveled in silence, letting the current sweep them away from Rabing Isle. Brand looked back at it. With the recent events and the new mantle of white snow, it didn’t look friendly. It hardly looked like home at all.

For sometime Gudrin sat on the centerboards, hardly moving.

“Gudrin of the Talespinners?” said Telyn in a soft voice.

Gudrin stirred and looked up at her.

“What is it that you carry on your back?” she asked in a hushed voice.

For a few moments, the river made the only sounds that any of them could hear. The water gurgled as it rushed over rocks near the shore. A bird called in the Deepwood and was answered by another back on Rabing Isle. Brand thought the call was a strange one, perhaps a type of bird that he had never heard before.

Gudrin finally spoke. “It is my burden,” she told Telyn, as if this answered everything.

The River Folk were subdued on the voyage back to Riverton. The sky was gray and the water was the color of shadowed steel; even the skiff seemed less full of life and only drifted south with luffing sails and bobbing prow. Telyn now had eyes and ears only for Gudrin, urging her to tell them a tale of ancient times. Brand smiled, missing her attentions, but knowing that when her curiosity was piqued she could not be distracted. Gudrin at first seemed reluctant, but finally let herself be persuaded with Telyn pleading so emphatically.

Gudrin opened her package and removed a large book. The book was bound in ancient, scaly leather and had clasps of bright brass or perhaps even gold. She clicked open the clasps and opened the book with slow reverence. Brand could see only that the pages were filled with the odd blocky script of the Kindred. Gudrin flipped through a page or two, muttering to herself. At length she looked up at them, nodding absently.

“So, you wish to know of the Dark Bard, my curious young lady? Not an unreasonable request. However, any tale of the Dark Ones must necessarily begin with the tale of...” glancing about and leaning forward, she all but whispered the name,
“Herla.”

Brand noticed Telyn’s eyes, which were serious and eager. Gudrin sat back against the boat’s rail and made herself comfortable. The River Folk moved about the skiff, settling themselves without thought or urging from Jak in places that would both balance the skiff and allow them to hear the tale over the sounds of wind and water. Modi alone rode in the bow, where he listened without appearing to.

As the tale began, Brand felt a chill wind come up the river against the current. It made the sails luff and flag. He and Corbin moved to lower them and drift with the current.

“Herla was one of the first human kings of Cymru, which is the ancient name for this land,” said Gudrin.

“So he was once human?” asked Jak in surprise. Gudrin halted and glared at the interruption.

“Human indeed and a great man as well. The Teret tells of his fall. Once, many years ago, King Herla met another king who was a pigmy, no bigger than a child. This small creature, so the story goes, was mounted on a large goat. He was gaily attired in a cloak and pants made of the dappled hide of fawns. He wore no shirt however, and his chest was bare and milk-white.”

“Oberon,” whispered Telyn. Gudrin paused and glanced at her. Telyn blinked. “Sorry.”

“Indeed, Oberon it was, but then he was a young lord. He was more wild and playful in that millennium than he is in this. He introduced himself to Herla as follows: ‘I am lord of many kings and princes, an unnumbered and innumerable people, and have been sent, a willing envoy, by them to you…. Let us agree, therefore, that I shall attend your wedding, and that you shall attend mine a year later.’

“Sure enough, the elfkin king appeared at Herla’s wedding with a huge train of followers, bringing wonderful food and drink for the feast. And a year later, just as he had promised, Herla went to attend the elfkin king’s wedding, which was held in a magnificent palace in the depths of a mountain. The only entrance to the palace was by the way of a cave in a high cliff. When the time came to leave, the little king loaded Herla and his companions with gifts. Many delightful and intricate mechanical toys and finely wrought clothing and jewelry did he give the king. Lastly, he gave the king a small bloodhound to carry, strictly instructing him that on no account should any of his company dismount till the dog had leapt from the arms of its bearer.

“When Herla came out of the mountain palace and into the sunlight of his own kingdom his joy was short-lived. He asked news from a shepherd, and he learned that not one year, but many hundreds of years had passed since he had last been there, and he himself was only remembered as a king of ancient times who had vanished into a cliff and had never been seen again.

“The king, who thought he had only stayed for three days, could scarcely sit upon his horse for amazement. Some of his company, forgetting the elfkin king’s orders, dismounted before the dog alighted and instantly fell to dust. Realizing why they had dissolved, the king warned the rest under pain of like death not to touch the earth till the hound had leapt.”

Gudrin paused here to light her pipe. To the others, listening closely to her tale, it seemed an infinitely slow and tedious process. At last she had the bowl glowing redly and blew several gusts of blue smoke into the open air. “Alas, from that day to this, the hound has never leapt.”

“Never?” asked Brand in surprise.

“Never,” repeated Gudrin. “And so through all the long centuries, the king and his mad coursers have wandered on horseback ever since, never alighting, never touching the earth, nor bed, nor even feeling the warmth of a campfire. And—although the curse has held them ageless for centuries, they still need to fill their bellies.”

“But what kind of men could stay on horseback for centuries, even if ageless?” asked Jak incredulously.

Gudrin shook her head. “They were men no longer, but cursed, undying creatures. They were ageless, but they weren’t changeless. They became darker of spirit and came to prefer the night over the day. As hunters they were soon unequaled. Instead of his crown, Herla came to wear the great antlered stag’s head that is now familiar to us.”

“But the worst change was due to the curse. For soon, the huntsmen learned why the bloodhound was so named. At first, it would eat nothing, though they offered it every kind of meat that they could kill from the backs of their cursed steeds. The small hound thinned and sickened, and Herla despaired. He cursed Oberon, and wanted nothing more than to avenge himself upon the trickster. Many times, he pondered alighting upon the earth and ending his torment, but stubbornly he refused. Only the hope of vengeance kept him going.

“So it was very important to him that the hound didn’t die. He ordered his coursers to bring him every variety of food imaginable, and it was quite by accident that they first learned the dog would lap at the blood of a stag, served to it in a wooden bowl.

“The hound would drink the blood, but it did not return to health. They fed it stag’s blood, but still it sickened, although its decline was much slowed. After a time, Herla came to know the truth in his heart.

“‘Find the shepherd with whom we first spoke,’ he ordered his coursers. ‘Find him and slay him. Bring back his body into the forest that we might empty his blood into this wooden bowl.’ Grimly, his coursers did as they were told. When served this bowl the hound relished it and soon grew strong again.

“In this way Herla and his followers learned to feed the hound, and in time it robbed them of the last of their humanity. For men can’t take and drink the lives of other men in a perpetual hunt without changing. They became cursed horrors of the night. Worse than the Faerie themselves—than those who had created them.

“Oberon came to regret his trick and his curse. Many times have the paths of Herla and Oberon crossed, and always it has been a grim meeting.”

“And now these horrors have taken an interest in us?” asked Brand in dismay. “Why? Why is the Dark Bard here?”

“That I do not know,” replied Gudrin.

“So the bard is one of Herla’s coursers, Talespinner?” asked Corbin thoughtfully, “and if any of the Wild Hunt step down from their mounts they will fall to dust. Perhaps all we need to do is coax them to alight.”

“Ah, a fair assessment, Corbin. But few have managed to get any of the Wild Hunt to leave the backs of their horses. The bard in particular is tenacious. He too was cursed by the Faerie to live in death, to walk the Earth undying. He too, was once mortal, and lives on through the strength of his vengeful will. He is unusual in that he can be apart from Herla and his hound and still exist.”

“Are there other agents like him?” asked Corbin.

“Aye, several, but it would not be good to speak more of them now.”

With a ritual of movements, Gudrin quietly closed her book, fastening the clasp and testing it. She then rewrapped the book in the waxed package and slid it comfortably under her arm.

The River Folk were quiet, each thinking his or her own thoughts for a time. Telyn was the first to speak. “Herla and his coursers are nightmares. But the Faerie, they seem at once wonderful and terrible.”

“They are,” said Gudrin, speaking as one would from experience. “They are both joyful and sad, young and ancient. It is beyond mortals to truly understand them.”

“It would seem,” said Corbin thoughtfully. “That our judgment of their actions should be based upon whether or not they benefit us.”

“This is one way to view them,” Gudrin admitted with a shrug.

“What about the Dark Bard? How did Herla meet him and enlist his aid?” asked Telyn.

“I want to know more of the merlings,” Jak interrupted, sounding disturbed. “How do they live? Where did they come from?”

“What interests me is the nature of these shades that were once human and seem to have taken an interest in us River Folk. You must tell us more about them,” said Brand.

Gudrin held up her hand. “Those are all other stories, which I will tell you some other time. Now we grow close to Stone Island, if I’m not mistaken.”

To the surprise of the River Folk, she was right. They rounded a bend in the great Berrywine River and the granite walls of Stone Island hove into view. Soon they busied themselves with the approach to the harbor.

This time, with the feast of the Harvest Moon this very night, there was no space at the public docks. They were forced to beach the skiff, drag it ashore and tie it to a gnarled old pine tree so that it wouldn’t drift away. All of them came splashing ashore, carrying their packs and the weapons they had brought with them. Brand felt rather silly carrying his woodaxe. He exchanged glances with Corbin and could tell that he felt the same.

“Perhaps we should leave these in the boat,” suggested Brand, lifting the axe to Jak. Before his brother could reply, however, Modi stepped close to Brand and laid one of his broad hands on Brand’s arm.

“Keep it with you,” Modi said.

Brand looked at the warrior’s huge face. He could find no mockery there, nor any humor of any kind. All he could do was nod.

They all toiled up the lane to Riverton under the watchful eyes of those Hoots and Silures that were not away working. For the most part, they were elderly men rocking in their rocking chairs and sucking on cheap clay pipes and old women, beating half-heartedly at filthy rugs. Their stares were more than unfriendly, they were shocked and downright distrustful. Brand could all but hear their thoughts:
Now those Rabing boys are consorting with Fobs and Outsiders! Even
Battleaxe Folk, no less! They should change their names from Rabing to Rabble! Huh!