Haven Magic (46 page)

“But that’s on the other side of the river,” objected Gudrin, “he ran off into the swamp on this side.”

“Never underestimate the trickery of the Wee Folk,” said Brand, “I’d bet he’s planning on doubling back on them like a fox and taking refuge in the castle.”

Gudrin frowned at being lectured to by a stripling, but she nodded in agreement.

Myrrdin beamed at him proudly. He slapped him on the back. “I never could have taught you so much in so few days. The world has done my work for me.”

“Anything that involves a rest sounds like an excellent plan,” said Corbin, “I, for one, could use a fully cooked meal.”

As they all tumbled back into Myrrdin’s magical craft to cross the river, Corbin approached Brand. “Tomkin? Castle Rabing? Clearly, we must have a talk, Brand.”

Brand grinned. “We have much to discuss,” he agreed.

End of
Sky Magic

Translated from the
Teret,
the compendium of Kindred wisdom:

I will begin by pointing out that magic, in all its forms, is the greatest mover of land and folk alike in our world. The history of magic in Cmyru, and in all of greater Albion, seems ever to twist and turn. But always it returns to the omnipresent themes of color and light. Digging deeper, the hooded scholarly Talespinners of Snowdon, Cardiff and Harlech come almost without fail to the bedrock legends of the Jewels of Power. Each of the Jewels harness a flavor of magic in a pure form, split apart from the others into the variety of hues that now exist.

Having established that most magic has at its source one or another of the colored Jewels, the next question is clear: From whence came the Jewels themselves? There are two legends that are most often quoted to answer this question. The version ascribed to by the Kindred, of course, involves the demise of the Sun Dragon. According to our legends, the Sun Dragon spawned nine lesser dragons which devoured their parent for the power the elder possessed. These young dragons fought for choice bits of the Sun Dragon, but each only managed to eat a portion, thus giving them specific powers. Over time, these foul dragons were each hunted down and slain by heroes of old. When their bodies rotted away, their bodies decomposed except for one jewel, the lens of each dragon’s left eye. These came to be known as the Nine Eyes, or Nine Jewels, and each possesses the power of the original dragon.

The other often quoted story involves a Fallen Sunstone and its fragmenting. The River Folk claim that Cewri, the ancient Troll King of Gynwedd, broke the Sunstone into shards. Supposedly, Cewri struck the Sunstone asunder with a great blow from his hammer, the haft of which was made of a single whole trunk of a mighty oak and the head of which was forged from a mountain’s heart. The place where this occurred, Cewri’s home valley, is now known as the Vale of Flowers. According to the legend, the sundering of the Sunstone released a rainbow of colors onto the land that resulted in the lush growths of beautiful flowers that grow there in such profusion to this day. Some of these flowers were so pure of aspect, that when picked, they formed the Jewels as we now know them.

These topics might seem to young, yawning minds as worthy only of theological or theoretical debate. Others of a more fanatical bent might believe that seeking out answers to these questions is akin to blasphemy, and will result in the ruination of the Kindred through the awakening of sleeping enemies. I assure readers that neither of these proposals are fact! The Jewels exist and are physically evident, as are their effects upon our world and daily lives. Understanding the truth of their origins can only serve to better our lives through our increased wisdom.

—
Jerd of the Talespinners, written circa the Third Era of the Earthlight

Chapter One

Twrog Returns

The giant known as Twrog had stolen four pigs on his first visit to the farm. But these had not sated him for long. He felt no more need for revenge, that particular thirst had been quenched by the blood of the farmer he had smashed flat with a single cast of his lucky club. All that drove him now was hunger. He had already devoured the last of the pigs days ago. He had skinned them, an extra effort he rarely bothered with, and roasted them to perfection on a spit over an open fire of elmwood. They had indeed filled his belly and provided excellent flavor. Rarely had he dined so well. He had finished off the last hogshead and forelegs for breakfast on the third morning.

They had been fine-flavored, but not
quite
as good as the ham hock he had tasted once, the taste he had slavered over all these long years. That flavor still evaded him, still haunted him. He dreamed of it, even as he gorged himself upon the fresh pigs. What was it that made the ham different? He could not say. But it was beyond his primitive cooking skills, which amounted to little more than searing flesh, to achieve. And so it was that when the last of the fresh pork was gone, his mind went back to the farm. Could there be, somewhere on that farm, a better flavor still?

Soon after having this thought he found himself under his favorite Rowan tree, eyeing the farm once more. His belly rumbled. Somehow, the game he trapped did not compare to the sweet meats that came from the farm. Those tame, farm fed pigs made his normal diet seem rough and dull. Worse still was the tormenting memory of those ham hocks. Another detail had brought him back as well: the loss of his lucky club seemed to be hampering his hunting. He had not found it so easy to feed himself. The game seemed more scarce, agile and wary.

The truly galling thing was the sight of his lucky club, sitting right there where it had come to rest in the middle of an open field. The club lay in the midst of a large area of disturbed earth. He wondered, vaguely, if his club could have possibly turned up so much dirt, or if perhaps the strange River Folk had buried the farmer right there. In any case, the fact that it lay in plain sight was goading him. If only he could retrieve it, he felt sure, his luck would return and his larder would be full again.

Still, he hesitated. He was not a genius, not even for one of his kind. But one thing he did know was that robbing the same folk many times was asking for trouble. They soon grew wise and tricksy.

Before midday, he had given up on subtleties and postponement. His stomach noise, once a gurgle, had become a full-throated growl. He marched downslope to the farm, determined to regain his club at the very least. And if one of those excellently flavored pigs happened by…well, a giant could not control his appetite forever.

The first minute or so of the raid went very well indeed. No one was in evidence, in fact, the farm looked deserted. Only a few pigs milled about in the damaged pens. Of the River Folk and their accursed crossbows he saw nothing.

Greed split his huge shaggy face with a grin. He had worried for nothing. He would get his club and have the run of the place. Clearly, the humans had been so terrorized by his first visit they had quit the farm and left it all to him!

He took another step, reaching his club. His hand never made it to his lucky weapon, however, because as soon as he stepped into the area of black disturbed earth, he fell. At first, he had no idea how this thing was possible. Had the land itself opened up some magical doorway to devour poor Twrog?

Then a stake shoved its way through his foot, and he unleashed a grating sound, a roar of pain. They had laid a trap for him! As if
he
were the game and
they
were the hunters! The wrongness of this crashed through to Twrog, who barely managed to keep from falling face-first into the trap. Had he done so, he realized, he might have been killed, for there were dozens of thick stakes planted down there.

Fortunately, the trap was only waist-deep. Possibly, they had not had time to finish it, or they had underestimated his size. In either case, his shock and hurt quickly turned to rage. He retrieved his club and heaved himself painfully out of the hole.

He pulled the stake out of his foot with another roar of pain. He threw it at the farmhouse, but it fell far short of the mark. Hefting his lucky club, he began to limp back toward the Deepwood.

Twrog stood, rubbing at his bloody foot. His brow furrowed. He couldn’t simply slink away from these vicious farmers. He knew they might have other surprises awaiting him, oh yes, Twrog knew that very well. But he was hungry, and angry. This is not a safe combination when giants are involved.

So he limped not to the safety of the forest, but rather toward the pigpens and the farmhouse. First, he crashed in the roof of the pigpen just for spite. But he didn’t tarry there, having other things in mind. He headed with a humping gait for the farmhouse. Sure enough, just as he suspected, several River Folk came out and pelted him with arrows. He grunted at their sting, but knowing he could not easily catch his tormentors when he had a bad foot, he focused on the house itself.

He smashed in the roof with a tremendous roaring swing. The chimney crumbled, and somewhere inside a high-pitched keening began. This brought a fresh grin of satisfaction to his face. He hoped he’d crushed another of the farmer’s family members inside. People, including little ones, came running out the windows and doors. He raised his club to smash down a child as it wriggled out of a second story window, but a scent he caught then made him freeze.

Was it? Could it be? Yes! He smelled that which he had thought lost for all these long years. It could only be one thing,
ham hocks
. He paused, sniffing, idly swishing his club at men who got to close and thought to frighten him with pitchforks and torches.

His nose led him to limp over to the far side of the house. There, he found a small outbuilding with smoke trailing out of the roof. With a quick swipe, he removed the roof from the place. A smell of smoking wood and succulent pork met him. He reached inside and found the place full of hams.

Twrog had found his first smokehouse. He filled his game sack with all it would carry, while the River Folk tried to put out the fire that had erupted in the house and worked to save the children crawling out the windows.

Dragging the game sack behind him, he soon vanished into the cool gloom of the Deepwood. His club rode his shoulder again. His foot hurt badly, but he would wrap it in a poultice and eat well. Overall, he accounted the raid a grand success.

Chapter Two

Little Timmy Hoot

After Thilfox Drake had chased him from his freshly gained cradle, the changeling named Piskin fell into despondency. He had managed no better than a few hours with his pretty maid, and had gotten no more than a single meal at her breast before disaster had struck. How had the River Folk gotten wise to him so quickly?

There was only one likely reason, Piskin’s eyes narrowed to slits as he whispered the name to himself as a witch might whisper a curse:
Dando
.

Bitter, bitter Piskin! Oh, how the fates had shifted against him! Oh, how he hated that little monster Dando. He still was not sure whether Dando had failed in his task of disposing of the babe, or if he had committed a base act of treachery. Was he a simpleton or a conniving devil? The results were the same in either case; the River Folk were wise to him now. His own folk, he reflected, made the very worst of friends and the most vicious of enemies.

He tried to sneak his way into more windows, of course. But every human in Riverton now scrambled to lock their doors and ward chimneys. He searched, but all the easy spots had been taken. Ever it was that when he finally found a tiny bed with a cooing infant ensconced, that prospective babe turned a leering eye and thumbed its nose at him when the mother’s back was turned. Every cradle in town was strictly guarded, or had already been claimed by another changeling.

He was driven from the best houses down to the worst. Skinny brats with boils and bruises, their sort he found plentiful in stilted shacks that huddled around the fish-smelling docks. Their mothers were frazzle-haired and twisted of lip. Kind words were few, and buffets many. Still, he had to take what there was. Even a cold crib and a sneering mother was better than life in the woods.

And so it was that he managed to pluck a year-old child from a sour-smelling cradle. The mother’s name was Beatrice Hoot, and she had a pack of seven older children to worry about. Stealing the babe, little Timmy Hoot, was likely the easiest job Piskin had ever bothered with. Wanting to make it quick—and since he was only half-hearted in the task at best—he simply launched the child out the nearest window. It fell like a stone into the Berrywine that flowed under the shack and floated away with all the other refuse.

Sighing with resignation, Piskin transformed into a vague semblance of the child he’d disposed of and winced in distaste as he pulled the stained bedclothes up to his neck.

Soon after, Beatrice Hoot slapped open the door and marched up, staring down at Piskin. So sour was her expression, Piskin felt sure at first that she had witnessed his abduction.

“Quiet today, ain’t you Timmy?” she asked.

She dug at the foot of the bed and lifted aloft a stone ward. Piskin sucked in his breath at the sight of it, but realized almost instantly that the ward was a false one. It had been drilled through, and had no power. He almost snorted, but managed to hold back the un-babe like sound. Not all the River Folk were so wise yet!

Seeing that the ward was still there, Beatrice’s face softened and she tucked it back into place. She gathered up Piskin to her breast. “There now, little Timmy, time for some lunch.”