Dark Magic (3 page)

When he was finally thrown from the bucking horse he came down under the plunging hooves. Jak jumped the fence and backed the horse away so Brand could get up, brushing slushy mud from his clothes. He sucked in deep breaths and tried not to think of killing anyone. He reminded himself that the roan was no trained warhorse, or well-broken saddle animal. He was all but wild.

He nodded finally, admitting defeat. “That’s one willful horse you have there.”

“Sure is,” said Slet, “don’t feel bad, very few can ride him. I’ll tell you this, you are the first to make a second try.”

“Lucky you didn’t break your neck,” said Jak, looking Brand over as if he would find some serious injury his brother was hiding.

Brand had himself calmed down again when he saw something. There was a dark stain trickling down the horse’s side.

“What’s this?” he asked, approaching the horse slowly. The roan shied and backed away, snorting and stamping. Brand twisted his neck one way and the other.

“It’s the horse that almost killed our champion,” laughed Slet.

Brand shook his head, there was something. “Is that sweat? It’s coming from under the saddle.”

Jak was at his side. “It’s running down his foreleg. It’s too dark to be sweat.”

“It’s blood,” said Brand.

“What?” demanded Slet. “Did you cut him, Brand? Can’t you keep that crazy axe of yours under control?”

The axe rolled on his back. Brand shook himself, pushing away murderous thoughts. Carefully, he and Jak caught the horse and soothed it. They eased off the buckle and the saddle.

There, underneath, they found a spur fastened to the underside of the saddle. It had dug into the horse’s back when weight was applied to the poor beast. Brand ripped it loose and carried the bloody spur over to Slet, who was no longer laughing.

“What’s this?” he asked, his eyes dangerous.

“I—I don’t know,” said Slet.

It was his slack mouth and stupid surprised eyes that saved him. Some sane part of Brand, still left inside his mind, told him that Slet was truly surprised. He just wasn’t that good of an actor.

But the axe had been frustrated for weeks. Nothing had bled more than sap for a very long time and here, right in front of its master was clearly an evil-doer. A prankster, a charlatan,
an enemy
.

Almost before he knew it, Ambros was out and in his hand. The axe flashed as it made an overhand stroke, coming down in a certain deathblow. Slet only had a moment, just long enough to realize he was a dead man.

But Brand averted the arc of the blade. Instead of cleaving Slet’s skull in half, and probably cutting him vertically all the way from the top of his head to his groin, the rails of the corral were cut instead. With five snapping sounds, every rail of the corral was shorn apart. The wood exploded and the fence had a new opening in a moment.

Whinnying in fright, the roan trotted out of the corral. Brand let it pass, his only interest was Slet, who seemed frozen in fear. He had never witnessed the axe in action. He had only heard tales from those who had been brave enough to go to battle behind it.

“Slet, who put that saddle on the roan?”

“You wrecked grandpa’s fence.”

“Forget that. Answer me before you die.”

Jak walked up quietly. “Um, Brand. You need to calm down.”

Slet blathered something about Old Tad leaving him here when he heard Brand was coming. The saddle had been fixed when he got here.

Eyes storming, Brand marched toward town. He still had the axe in his hand. Jak caught the horse.

“Where are you going?” asked Jak.

“I’ve got business with Old Tad. Bring the horse.”

Brand walked determinedly, not talking, not listening to his brother, who urged him to put away the axe. He didn’t even look around. It was a clear cold day with only enough wind to ruffle their hair. After a time, Jak just followed, walking the horse behind Brand.

When Brand reached the docks and Old Tad’s shack, he was still angry. The bright fury of a half hour ago had cooled, but he was by no means calm. His fist fell heavily upon the shack’s door, shaking it with each blow.

Each time he struck the door, he struck it harder, and he became more angry.

“What, what, what?” came an annoyed voice. Old Tad threw open the door and looked at Brand in surprise and irritation.

The old man’s eyes, widening too hugely, went from Brand’s raging face, to the glimmering axe in his hand, to the bloody roan out in the road. He slammed the door and threw down the bar.

“Sorry, no business today. No wards, no horses. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

The door went down in a crash. The Amber Jewel flashed, it was tired of cutting wood, but it was better than nothing.

Brand faced Old Tad again, and struggled to speak. “You put that under the saddle. Why?”

Old Tad’s eyes flicked everywhere. He knew he faced a mortal threat. There was corn whiskey on his breath, but he still had his wits about him. He threw up his hands in a gesture of easy dismissal. He attempted a smile.

“People pay for a challenge. A horse that no one can ride... a person could charge for an attempt. Could take wagers....”

Brand nodded slowly, understanding. Old Tad was a worm. He was the sort of worm that ate at a man’s corpse after he fell honorably in battle. He was nothing, and everything. He was not fit to live.

The axe slashed and flashed several times. It was a close thing, but Old Tad survived. The shack did not. The stilts that had held it aloft over the flood of the Berrywine were shorn through and the entire dwelling sagged down into the water. The shack fell apart and turned into just so much flotsam on the river.

Old Tad himself was dunked, but managed to cling to the pilings under the dock, sputtering and raving.

Brand left behind a sack of silver coins on the docks where Tad’s shack no longer stood. He turned to the crowd of Hoots, Silures and Fobs who now stood gazing at him in slack-jawed amazement.

“That silver is for Tad. It’s payment for his home and his horse, which I’m keeping. Let no one put a hand on it.”

Then he turned and left, heading back into town with Jak still leading the horse.

The sack of silver coins sat on the dock, abandoned amidst the worst behaved folk in Riverton. No one dared touch it.

Chapter Four

The Crone

It was a blustery morning. Mari felt ill, as she had been feeling each morning for weeks now. She followed her mother through snow drifts on foot. Mother hadn’t asked to use the carriage, firstly because their destination was deep in the Haven wood where no good roads led. Secondly, so that father wouldn’t ask any questions. Mari fell further behind, she felt, with each slogging step. The snow was only a few inches deep, but it was slushy and muddy. It clung to her shoes and made them heavy.

She wasn’t cold. The heavy long cloak that mother had given her saw to that. Perhaps it had failed to hide the pregnancy for long, but it certainly did provide warmth. Woven of thick, layered wool and furred at the neck and hood with gray rabbit’s skin, she reflected that it was the only bright spot in her life today.

They reached the edge of the Haven wood at midday. Mother refused to walk more slowly. Instead, she would march ahead, then stop and wait with pursed lips for Mari to catch up. She didn’t want to talk, either. Mari was full of questions about this Fob woman in the forest, but none were answered.

The cold tree branches were bare of leaves now. They filtered the thin light of the winter sun, the individual black twigs laced together like thousands of long fingers. Without leaves, the twigs rattled together like bones. Mari reflected that she greatly preferred the warm months in the forest when the leaves rustled and turned the world green.

How had things come down to this? She lamented her decisions. All of them, which had brought her to this sorry point. Instead of calico dresses and braided hair, she was heavy with the child of an inhuman creature. He had been so full of energy and lovely to behold, but she would gladly erase him from her past to have her old life back.

She put her hand up to the leaf at her neck. For a panicky second, she thought she had lost it, but her fingers quickly found the withered crinkling ash leaf. She touched it delicately, not wanting to damage it. She knew that with each passing day, the leaf became more fragile. How long could a leaf be kept around one’s neck without destroying it? She had considered oiling it, but had not dared. She wasn’t sure if that would somehow corrupt its power to keep the faerie at bay.

She thought of Puck as they pushed their way through a stand of fir. The evergreens lashed at her face with sharp needles as her mother carelessly let fly each branch behind her. What if she were to call him now, in the forest? Would he come? What if the ward failed her? Would he make them dance, or would he take pity on she who bore his child? Would he want to lie with her again, or would he find her as disgusting and uninteresting as a milk cow? She did not know. The stories she had heard of these things failed to fill in such details.

“We’re here. Wake up, girl,” said her mother. There was no kindness in her voice. There had been none since the moment she had recognized her daughter’s condition. Mari could only imagine how displeased she might be if she knew the father was not even a boy, but a half-mad twilight creature of the forests.

She followed her mother to a ramshackle hut in a clearing. A tall grove of snow-laden beech stood around the hut like soldiers at attention. A large kettle steamed over a cookfire that pushed back a circle of melted snow. Something noisome and green floated in the kettle. Mari thought it might be a forest tuber of some variety. The smell it produced filled the clearing and immediately made her feel unwell.

Mother rapped her knuckles upon the leather-hinged door of rough-cut pinewood. The door shivered and rocked at even this small assault. No one stirred within.

Mother heaved a sigh and put her hands on her hips. “I suppose we shall have to wait. Perhaps the Fob woman is out gathering more wood for her fire.”

“Should we open the door and check for her?”

“Such rudeness,” her mother said, shaking her head, “I can’t believe you are the same daughter I raised.”

“I am the same,” said Mari in a small voice.

Mother did not reply. They seated themselves upon the logs that surrounded the kettle and the cookfire, pausing first to brush away the snow to make a clear spot to sit.

The wait stretched for minutes, then to perhaps a half hour. Mari battled with herself, refusing to cry. Mother’s thoughts were her own, but frequently, she glanced at her daughter and heaved a sigh.

“Mother. I’ve got something to tell you.”

Mother laughed harshly. “I know all that I wish to.”

Mari shook her head, but fell silent.

There was a sound from the edge of the clearing then. A crunching of snow. They turned to see a hunched figure at the edge of the open space, peeping at them from behind one of the large beech trees.

“Oh, hello,” said mother. “Please do come out. We mean no harm. Are you the owner of this place?”

“I want to hear,” said the stranger’s voice. She stepped out into the clearing and they saw it was indeed an old woman. She seemed exceedingly old to Mari, and exceedingly unpleasant to the eye. Her fingers were twists of flesh. Her face could not be seen clearly beneath her hood, but wisps of wiry white hair stuck out at odd angles. One clear eye, like a raindrop, shone beneath the hood.

“What? What do you want to hear?”

“I want to hear her tale,” said the old woman. She took another step forward, then another. Her crooked finger indicated Mari.

Mari shook her head. She had no intention of telling her story to a stranger. She had only just—in a moment of weakness—considered telling her own mother.

“Pity,” said the old woman, coming up to the kettle and stirring it. “A mug of hot broth? Just the thing for a cold day like this.”

Both Mari and her mother made uncertain sounds.

“Here you are!” said the crone, handing out two dripping mugs. “I insist! Try it, you may be surprised.”

And they were surprised as they sipped at the broth. Despite its smell when cooking, the flavor was quite good when sipped. It reminded Mari of beef stock and rhubarb.

The woman turned her one clear eye to Mari. “So, my dear, has the brew loosened your tongue yet?”

Mari shook her head emphatically. Mother made a sound of annoyance.

The crone turned her head a bit, perhaps to give that single shining eye a better look at the girl. Mari saw the eyes fall upon the ashleaf ward that still hung around her neck. The old woman nodded, then surprised the girl by reaching out her hand.

Mari pulled back and her hands went protectively to her ward. But the crone’s hand didn’t reach there. Instead, she touched her bulging stomach. The lumpy hand rode there for a moment, while the girl’s breathing increased in pace. After a less than a minute, the hand was withdrawn.

The old woman nodded again, as if to herself. She drew herself a mug of broth from the kettle and sat with them.

“I see the problem,” she said.

“It is fairly obvious,” said Mari’s mother, flashing her daughter an angry look.

“How long has it been, my dear?”

“Since All Hallow’s Eve, or right after,” answered Mari.

Both the older women stared at her.

“But that’s barely two months, girl,” said Mother. She paused eyeing her bewildered daughter. She looked as if she had figured it out and made a choking sound. “No, no, no! Fool of a girl! She doesn’t mean how long since you’ve lain with the boy. She’s asking how long since the first time. Or perhaps you don’t even recall the first time?”

Mari did not quite understand her mother’s anger. “There was only a single time.”

The old crone’s single raindrop eye was on her now, and it seemed to shine more brightly as Mari spoke. But the crone said nothing, preferring to sip her broth.

Mother stood up and addressed the old woman. “Well, what can you do? She’s clearly six months or more gone, whatever she says.”

The crone nodded and set aside her mug. “Too big for an easy solution.”

Mari frowned.
Solution?
She had no idea what they were talking about.

“Well?” demanded Mother, her hands on her hips again. “What do I do, take her to Riverton and demand that the father wed her? Perhaps I should take her door to door, knocking. It will be humiliating all around.”

The crone sniffed and shook her head. “No need. Leave her with me for a time. I can take care of the matter.”

“How long?”

“No more than a week or two, I should think. She can play my maid as payment.”

“No,” said Mother.

They looked at her.

“I’ll not be in your debt. She can play maid, but you must take my silver.”

The crone gave a raspy chuckle. She held out her hand and silver was placed in her palm.

Mari blinked, watching the entire exchange in confusion. She gathered she would be staying in this ratty hut with the horrible old woman, but to what end?

* * *

Gudrin was there in the chamber of the clanmasters when Modi’s messenger arrived. Gamal’s leathers no longer smoldered, but they still stank of the burning he had endured in the lava chambers. His gloves were charred and had burned through in spots. His exposed fingers showed dripping blisters.

The chamber of the clanmasters was a great hall of stone, carven from a massive block of unusually dense basalt. Even the furniture, such as it was, had been carven from this single source. Galleries circled the upper reaches of the chamber, open to any Kindred citizen who took an interest in the ruminations of their government. A great circular stone table sat in the center of the chamber, appearing to have grown out of the floor. Thirteen stone chairs sat around the table, one for each clanmaster. The stone chairs showed carven contours that looked inviting, but while they had been polished to a fine smoothness by centuries of use, they were as hard as the cliffs of Snowdon itself.

Modi’s father Hallr, the warrior clanmaster, sat in one of these stone chairs. Hallr, well into his seventh century, appeared as much a fixture of the chamber as the rest of the adornments. His white mane and frothing beard bristled with individual shoots of stiff hair.

Gamal approached Hallr. He had taken no time to cleanse or care for himself, such was his haste. He knelt and bowed his head before the clanmaster and began his tale. Hallr sat with a heavy fist buried in his white beard, as motionless as the stone walls around. While others gasped at the details of the story and a ripple of whispering traversed the chamber, Hallr simply stared at Gamal and listened.

When Gamal finished the story he lowered his eyes, finally remembering to remove his filthy cap with bloody fingers.

Hallr stirred at last. He sat up straight and slowly swept his eyes over the other clansmasters. Gudrin, as clanmaster of the talespinners, took her seat nearby at the great stone table. She feared for Modi. Their situation did indeed seem dire. She could not say that Modi was exactly a likeable companion, not even for one of the Kindred. But she did care for him and had grown to understand his stern manner. Certainly, when compared to his father, Modi was easy-going and forgiving.

The others present turned their attention to Hallr. He had yet to utter a word. When he did speak, all present knew that he would not repeat himself. It was not his way to do so.

“The Kindred have no King,” he said, in the ceremonial speech clanmasters used when making an official announcement. “So my words are not commands. I speak only for the clan of the warriors. None of my clan will go to the aid of Modi and his ill-fated expedition.”

There was a stunned silence. Even Gudrin had expected him to make an appeal, to ask the council to form a rescue company. She could tell that many of the younger Kindred, those up in the galleries, were ready to volunteer for the duty on the instant. They would have lain down their hammers and picks in a moment were the call but given.

“The Kindred have no King, so my words are not commands,” she said, speaking up in the shocked silence. Dozens of eyes swiveled to look at her. Every eye in the chamber rested upon her, save for that of Hallr himself, who remained with his fist in his beard, unmoved.

“I believe Modi’s company is in true danger,” she said, addressing Hallr. “I ask why no warriors will go to rescue your son’s expedition?”

Hallr sucked in a heavy breath. He was a huge specimen of the Kindred, broader of shoulder even than Modi himself. His great age had done nothing to diminish his presence. “Modi took it upon himself to go on this expedition deep into the Everdark. His choice went against my advice and my wishes. He has carven his own bed, and now he will lie in it, come what may. Read your own Teret, Gudrin. ‘A son who defies his father will learn great wisdom, one way or the other.’”

Gudrin touched her Teret at the mention of it. She knew the passage well. But she frowned and dared speak again. “There are others in that expedition besides Modi. Githa of the Miners has already given her life for this quest, ill-fated or not. Do they not deserve rescue?”

Hallr appeared annoyed. He was not accustomed to being questioned once, much less twice in a row. He shifted, resting his heavy head on this other fist. “They have sworn to follow Modi. They are his responsibility now. Their lives rest upon his head, not mine. I’ll not risk more lives for his greed and foolishness. It is up to him to prove me wrong. And I will welcome the day he returns triumphant.”