Haven Magic (2 page)

And so three days later, he found himself wandering the unfamiliar trails of the Deepwood, where the young boars were thick this year by all reports. He wasn’t happy with his mission by this time, and each step farther into the gloomy trees left him wishing he’d been tasked with slaying a merling along the wilder parts of the Berrywine River instead.

He’d taken his rowboat, loaded it with arms and provisions, then paddled to a spot along the shore where game was known to be plentiful in years past. He’d tied the boat on the shore and pressed ahead into the green quiet of the Deepwood. A feeling of unease had grown upon him, hour by hour, as he walked the forest trails. Each mile he traveled away from the protected borders of the Haven weighed upon his mind. He expected the cat-like leer of a goblin behind the next trunk—or worse, the pipes of an elf playing in solitude atop a tree. None of the River Folk ever felt completely safe in the Deepwood. Everyone knew that its apparent tranquility was deceptive. The quiet trees masked a hundred unknowable sins.

There had been nothing substantial to spook him, however. It was only a feeling of foreboding. He constantly discounted the sensation, telling himself it was the natural fear all his people felt when they found themselves far from the roaring Berrywine for long. His bigger worry was the growing cold, especially at night. It was unseasonably bitter in the evenings now for autumn. Three nights he’d spent in the Deepwood, and each night had been colder than the last. He thought it might snow soon if matters didn’t improve.

Following the trails fruitlessly until late afternoon, Arlon found a glade at long last and crept up to the limits of the tree cover. There, in a sun-drenched open area of the forest was a welcome sight. It was a salt-lick, a naturally occurring spot in the land where animals gathered to consume revealed minerals. Harsh weather had probably opened up this glade—perhaps lightning had struck here, knocking down the trees. Whatever the cause, this spot had exposed stones which were rich in calcium and salts. The animals needed these minerals and they would come here often to find them.

No less than three pigs were in sight at the salt-lick. Two were sows, their big ears twitching and their bellies distended by months of eating tubers and grubs. The last of them was a young boar. His hair was so short Arlon could see through it to the brown skin underneath. The thin coat and small size indicated youth. Arlon could not believe his good fortune. He smiled hugely, and lifted his crossbow.

With sudden dismay, he realized it was not loaded. He shook his head at himself. Here it was, the moment of truth, and he was not thinking! It was quite normal to carry the crossbow unloaded. It would weaken the iron prod to keep it loaded all day. But he should have been loading it the moment he saw the salt-lick, before he had even spotted the first pig. Surely, he had only a minute or two before the pigs picked up his scent and fled.

Slowly, quietly, Arlon put the crossbow down nose-first into the brush at his feet. He put his foot into the stirrup and drew back on the string. He struggled to bend the prod and latch the string in the trigger mechanism. Doing it quietly made the process all the harder.

He thought later it was the tiny
click
of the trigger mechanism that gave him away. Whatever the case, he heard the animals shuffle, then rustle among the bushes circling the open glade. With a hissing curse, he rammed a bolt into the slot, brought the crossbow to his shoulder and pulled the trigger.

A bolt went streaking through the air. It should have struck nothing. It should have missed and vanished into the forest, forcing him to purchase a new bolt from the grinning fletchers back in Hamlet. But the bolt flew true. It struck the young boar in the shoulder and the shock knocked the animal down momentarily. The pig scrambled back up and fled, but it was grievously injured.

Arlon, disbelieving of his good fortune, whooped and charged out of his hiding place. He ran after the pig as it limped for the trees. With a bloodtrail to follow and an injury that would slow it further with every step, the young boar was as good as his.

Arlon could already see himself, in his mind’s eye, giving the pig to Molly. She would be impressed! What woman could not be? She had set a task and this man who everyone called washed-up—a Thunderfoot clansman people whispered had turned into a worthless drunk—this man had met her challenge.

As Arlon chased down the pig, he thought this might well be the best day of his life. It was certainly the first truly good day since Dera had up and died on him.

* * *

Twrog was a masterful hunter. He knew men were difficult to hunt—they were tricky and smart. They must be handled differently than the usual beasts that lived among the trees. Men who heard a giant crashing after them would run into a thicket or fight with sharp weapons. Twrog had no more desire to be cut than anyone else did. So he hunted the man who had dared invade his forest with great care.

The giant had not simply followed at a safe distance. He knew every trail in the forest, and had blazed many of them himself. Instead of following the trail, he proceeded through the trees a hundred paces off, following the course of the trail as if it were a wary beast itself. He did not travel too fast, nor to slow, but he came to the glade and the salt-lick just before Arlon did. He knew the spot well. Often, he lured game here and bashed them with his lucky club.

From a hidden shadowy region under a group of three large rowan trees, Twrog watched the salt-lick. He hunkered down and waited downwind of the pigs. The human stupidly followed the game trail directly to the salt lick. Twrog could tell from this fact alone that he was inexperienced. One had to pay great attention to the winds when hunting—as much attention to it as the animals did. If they scented you, man or giant, you would go hungry that night. And Twrog hated trying to fall asleep on an empty, growling stomach.

Twrog watched the man reach the far side of the glade and pause there, finally noticing the pigs that milled in the open. Stupid
and
blind, this one was. He grinned, but managed to stifle the rumbling laugh that wanted to exit his flaring lips.

Then he watched as Arlon shouldered his crossbow as if to shoot. Twrog tensed. The pigs had not yet scented the hunter. Was he perhaps not as foolish as he seemed? But then he did not shoot, and Twrog knew the truth. He had forgotten to load his cumbersome weapon. Twrog sniffed quietly. Men always built things that were overly complex and took time to make ready. Twrog’s club never needed to be loaded.

The pigs became restless. Twrog’s grin returned. He considered a booming shout that would send them all running. That would be quite a surprise for the invader! But he held back. The man had his crossbow loaded now, and Twrog had no desire to feel its sting. Let the man fire at the pigs. Let the river man do the shooting—Twrog would do the eating, later.

Twrog rose from his squatting position into a ready crouch. He carefully shouldered his stout oak club, the thickness and weight of which was greater than the fattest man in the Haven. It was a good club, and had always brought him luck. Privately he thought it was magical. Flittering Faerie might scoff and twitter at the idea, but Twrog was convinced. Today, he suspected he would prove once again his club was special. Today, he would crush a man down with it until his blood and bones were driven into the black earth of the Deepwood.

The man fired his crossbow too late. The pigs were already running. But, to Twrog’s surprise, he saw one of the pigs stumble and go down. The young boar had been struck in the shoulder. The man whooped and raced forward to follow the wounded animal.

Twrog’s flapping lips flared wide. His gnarled, stinking teeth were yellow and riddled with decay. He could not believe this insult. This human was not to be tolerated, killing Twrog’s game in his part of the forest. If this intrusion went unchecked, there might be a dozen of them next year with a dozen yapping dogs leading the way.

Twrog burst out of cover and rushed after the man and the wounded boar. His club rode his shoulder, his fingers wrapped tightly around it. So intent was the human on chasing down his wounded boar that he didn’t seem to notice the giant that trailed him. Twrog controlled his pace. Rather than crashing through the brush, he moved as quietly as he was able, keeping up with the man’s rush without having to break into a thundering trot. He moved with care, ducking under branches rather than smashing them aside and paying attention to where his broad, hairy feet came down. It would not do to alert the human now. The joke would be all the sweeter if the river man’s fate arrived as an utter surprise.

* * *

When Arlon caught up with the small, young boar a feeling of triumph surged through him. He had done it! He had brought down a wild boar in the forests—in the Deepwood no less—and he would take the carcass back to Hamlet. He would present it to Molly with a ribbon as red as the blood that flowed from its shoulder. A ribbon which he would wrap all the way around the beast. She would be pleased and surprised. He had no doubt she would cook it for him. He imagined himself pridefully cutting into the prize in front of her three daughters. Before the first bite was served and swallowed, he would propose. How could a good widow do anything but accept his offer? For the first time since Dera had passed on, he felt truly whole inside.

Arlon’s pleasant moment was short-lived, however. He stooped over the fallen boar, examining it as it twitched in a pile of dead leaves, when something caused the back of his neck to tingle. He had a sensation of foreboding. He turned and felt the hot wash of a vast creature’s breath full upon his face. The giant must have been standing there, holding its breath, waiting for him to notice it.

It was huge. Standing as tall as a farmhouse chimney, it must have weighed as much as any three horses in the Haven put together. On its shoulder rode a surprisingly thick club, a branch that was as big around as a tree trunk. The bark of the tree the club had been torn from still clung to it—rough oak bark it was, black and gnarled.

Arlon did not scream, nor did he stammer and plead. He simply turned and ran for the thickest copse of trees in sight. With a great, warbling cry, the giant gave chase. The ground shook now with crashing footsteps. Arlon could not imagine how this creature could have snuck up on him. It must have followed while he was hot on the trail of the boar, laughing all the while.

Arlon was no soldier and he did not carry a sword. He did have a long knife, however, with which he’d planned to use to dress the boar. He pulled the blade from its sheath on his belt as he ran.

He never made it to the safety of the thick grove of trees. He heard a thrumming sound behind him as if something huge moved through the air. The club swept him up from behind, like a matron’s broom catching up with a fleeing cat. Unlike a broom, however, the club crushed his legs, breaking them both in several places. Arlon was uplifted and thrown, tumbling head over heels into the trunk of an ash tree. He sagged down at on the thick roots and leaves at the bottom of the trunk, a broken tangle of limbs. He lay stunned as the giant approached.

The giant wore a broad, imbecilic grin on its face. He made a great honking sound, a heavy laugh that would haunt Arlon’s dying thoughts.

“Is not right!” said Twrog, shaking his club at Arlon.

Arlon stared back in shock and incomprehension. He felt the giant’s thick fingers, probing into his rucksack. The monster removed the ham hock Molly had given him and gnawed at the meat with obvious relish.

What was not right?
Arlon thought. He pondered the giant’s words vaguely as he lost consciousness.

* * *

Arlon awakened once more before he died. A strange figure stood upon a horse and bent low over him. The creature was dressed in rancid black cloth and none of its features could be seen. In the night, the outline of the figure glowed slightly. Arlon knew the being must be one of the Fae, or some other creature of darkness.

“Help me,” Arlon said in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

The figure made a soft sound of dismissal. It ignored Arlon and continued dipping something down toward him. Arlon tried to move, but was unable to operate his broken body.

“Will you not aid a fallen man?” Arlon asked.

The unseen figure chuckled. It was an evil sound, and upon hearing it Arlon abandoned all hope of rescue.

“It is
thee
, who shall be helping
me,
this eve!” said the figure. It leaned down from its saddle and commenced working again.

Arlon, his mind fuzzy with the nearness of death, tried to puzzle out what the creature was doing. As far as he could tell, it used a goblet to gather the blood that ran from his wounded body. The goblet was small, silver and ornately decorated. The silver shone in the moonlight, although moonlight shouldn’t have been able to penetrate the thick canopy of the forest above.

Thinking of Molly, Arlon smiled weakly. She would have been so pleased to have tasted the boar. The creature, never leaving its horse’s back, bent far down to scoop with the goblet. The edge of the goblet thumped against each of Arlon’s stacked ribs as it was dragged over them. The being whistled a soft piper’s tune as it worked. Arlon thought it was a wonderful sound. The creature was musical and mysterious.

But why does it fill a silver goblet with my blood
? Arlon died while wondering about the Dark Bard’s true purpose.

Chapter Two

The Berrywine River