Haven Magic (26 page)

“So my clan is being pursued for something heroic done by our forbearers? Something which we can’t even remember?”

Gudrin nodded. “Recall that for Herla, each year is as a day, until the bloodhound alights. The point is that Brand’s leaving will not return the River Haven to peace. It will only distract the Dark Ones that are charged with hunting him. The only thing that will bring peace will be the recovery of the Pact. Or the forging of a new one.”

“So we should all go, to help you, our friends among the Kindred, to find Myrrdin,” said Corbin. “Too bad Jak is injured. We could use his hand on the skiff’s tiller.”

“Someone must manage Rabing Isle,” said Brand. He stood and faced them all. For the first time he noticed that Modi was there too, off among the trees, listening to their talk. It seemed that everyone was in on this. “Okay, I know when I’m beaten. If I were to try to go alone, you would find some way to stow away or follow in another boat, I know you too well. But I say this! We must all have Tylag’s blessing, for he is the leader of clan Rabing and he may have need of us.”

They all agreed to this and went to consult with Tylag. Tylag was distraught by the loss of his home, but he listened to them seriously. Barlo snorted in disbelief once as they told their tale, but his father silenced him with a scowl.

“So you have decided to leave in search of Myrrdin. I see that I have lost a son, and now must risk another. Where will you go?” asked Tylag.

At this, they were at a loss. Gudrin stepped forward. “I think we will follow the river north into the Deepwood and on toward Snowdon. Last I heard he was in that region.”

“It seems an opportune moment to say that we, the Riverton Council, finally received word from Myrrdin last night,” said Tylag. “News of my son’s death has driven the thought from my head until now.”

“Myrrdin lives?” said Brand. “This is good news indeed.”

“Where is he?” demanded Gudrin.

“A messenger came from the village of North End. Myrrdin wandered out of the High Marshes two nights ago, on the eve of the Harvest Moon, in fact. He had been waylaid, lost his horse, and was on foot. He had not eaten or slept in weeks, but still attempted to gain passage to Riverton. He did intend to reach Stone Island and perform the ceremony, but he was too late. The village hetman convinced him that he would not arrive until the day after the ceremony. Once he realized the truth, the messenger says he collapsed in their arms and had to be borne away to rest.”

“Is he injured?” asked Brand.

Tylag shook his head. “We don’t know.”

“We must go and consult with him,” said Gudrin. “We must leave before dark tonight.”

“I give my blessing to your journey. The River Haven would be better served by learning all there is to be learned from Myrrdin than by a few extra bowmen in the militia,” said Tylag. “May the River guide your boat.”

Brand had one more person to consult: Jak. He went to the wagon, where Jak had been stretched out in the shade. He was still far too injured to help them.

“Hello, Jak,” said Brand, feeling like a runaway, a deserter. Jak needed him to keep up Rabing Isle, now more than ever.

Jak’s eyes opened. “Hello, brother. I feel useless today, of all days.”

Brand knew no easy way, so he simply blurted out his words. “I’m leaving with the Battleaxe Folk to find Myrrdin.”

Jak nodded. “Go then. I only wish I were well enough to go with you.”

“But the Isle, Jak—what will you do?” Brand asked.

“It doesn’t matter. You must try to heal the rift, to mend the Pact. There is no more worthy quest.”

Thus it was decided, and they worked the rest of the day to make their preparations. It seemed to Brand that all the world was soot and ashes and twists of blue smoke. He felt sad and guilty to be leaving his clansmen in such a time of dire need, but in his heart he knew he could better serve them on this mission. In the afternoon they set out on the road to Riverton. There were many hugs, handshakes and tears. Not an eye was dry, with the exception of Modi’s, who only appeared anxious to get moving.

Chapter Seven

Twrog’s Tree

After losing his club, Twrog was despondent. At the moment, it had seemed like a fine idea to throw it. He did not regret killing the farmer, nor the stinging arrows the River Folk had left in his hide—but he came to regret the loss of his lucky club.

As always when he felt poorly, his thoughts turned to a special, secret spot in the Deepwood only he knew about. This spot was open to the sky, yet surrounded by overgrown thickets of thorny plants. Not even deer liked to enter the region for fear of being pierced by the stabbing needles that every twisted vine seemed to produce. It was a private place for Twrog, a spot where he could gather his thoughts and think at his own pace. Barely thinking about it, he set out for the secret glade. He had not been there in many seasons.

As Twrog strode through the woods, he thought to hear the subtle sounds of pursuit. He glanced back over his shoulder. Something or someone followed him. Probably, the smell of pig’s blood had attracted a scavenger. He still carried three of the pigs he had stolen from the farmer’s pens. He increased his pace through the trees, no longer ambling, but now striding with purpose. His pursuer kept up with him.

Twrog was not frightened. Rather, he was cunning. He wanted to know the nature of the thing that dared shadow him. By speeding up and discovering the pursuit continued, he knew the other was at the very least persistent.

After night had fallen, Twrog found a spot strewn with stones and a fallen tree. He halted his march and decided to cook one of the pigs. The odor of seared pig often drove animals mad. With luck, if it was a bear or a dire wolf, the creature would attack and that would be the end of it.

He labored for minutes with flint and tinder, finally managing to spark a cookfire. This being a large pig, he required a spit of hardwood. He chopped loose a branch of beech with a knife the size of a short sword and whittled the point until it was as sharp as a lance. Poking the pig through end-to-end, he hung it over the fire and turned it now and then. He built the fire up higher, then went to gather wood from the region. Frequently, he flicked his eyes back to the sizzling pig. The smoke and fine smells filled the forest with aromatic clouds. The unguarded pig still remained upon its spit however, unmolested.

Twrog returned to his camp with an armload of wood and stoked the fire into a fine blaze. He nodded and muttered to himself. Whatever his stalker was—it was a patient creature. Most likely, it was not a beast. Few could have suffered this long in the presence of fresh meat without having revealed themselves.

After an hour or so of cooking, Twrog ripped loose a meaty haunch. Juices flowed from the rest of the beast into the fire. The fat made the flames sizzle, flare and pop. He opened his mouth, but paused, not placing the meat within. Instead, he turned his head this way and that, and held the haunch high overhead.

“I call to thee,” he said carefully, “I give thee leave to share my fire, whatever yea may be.”

Nothing happened. He set about eating the haunch noisily. He did not know if his invitation had been heard and understood, but he listened closely while not seeming to. At last, as he finished the first haunch and reached for the second, a stealthy rustling met his ears.

Twrog shifted his flapping ears toward the trees behind him. He glanced back to see what it was that approached. There was a faint glimmer. Could it be then one of the Fae? He knew a short moment of concern. If he had invited and elf or one of the shining Dead….

But no. The shine of it, reflecting the unseen moonlight that shone down upon the leaves overhead, proved it was one of the Fae. Seeing the rest of the creature made Twrog snort in amusement. It was no great lord that had stalked him. There was nothing to fear from this one. The creature that emerged was small, with cat-like features and smooth, green skin. It was a lone goblin.

Twrog shook his head bemusedly. He had never sat at camp with a goblin. Had he known…but he had not, and the invitation had been issued and accepted. There was nothing for it. By the rules of honor which almost all creatures in Cymru adhered to, he was bound to tolerate its presence.

The goblin slunk forward, ears twitching. It nosed the air and flicked its eyes everywhere, suspecting duplicity. Twrog continued eating and chuckled to himself. He could not believe his foolishness at having invited a goblin to dine with him.

“Name?” asked Twrog.

The goblin hesitated. No doubt, it considered a dozen lies. “Frakir,” it said at last. The eyes flickered uncomfortably.

“Twrog,” Twrog said.

When the other came at last to rest on the opposite side of the fire, the giant handed a foreleg to his guest.

“Here,” Twrog said. When Frakir did not reach for it quickly enough, Twrog grunted and shook it at him. Hot grease splattered his hand and the goblin’s face. Finally, the frightened, scowling goblin took the meat and sniffed it suspiciously as if he believed it might be laden with poison.

Twrog snorted again. “Meat good! Not even have salt on it, fool goblin!”

“I have your word it is good?” asked Frakir in a sibilant voice.

“You speak to Twrog? Good. Boring guest is one that can’t make speech with me.”

The goblin’s eyes narrowed. “The meat is good?” he asked again.

“Yeah, yeah!” roared Twrog in sudden irritation. “No more ask that! I will eat it myself, if you don’t do!”

Frakir’s ears folded down, but he took the offered foreleg in both hands and ripped into it with the sharp, rippled teeth of his kind. They were teeth clearly made to eat meat and nothing else.

For a time, the two beings ate hot pig meat. Finally, however, after the second haunch, Twrog threw the bone down into the fire. Sparks loomed, coals and ash blew up as if thrown. The goblin hopped to its feet and crouched warily.

“Not the same!” shouted the giant.

Frakir cocked his head wonderingly.

Twrog pointed to the half-eaten carcass that was now white with showers of ash. “Taste! Not the same taste! Is not fair. The River Folk tricked Twrog.”

The goblin’s tongue snaked out and whipped back into his mouth. He eyed the rest of the pig.

Twrog made a wild, sweeping gesture with both hands. “Eat more! Is garbage!” he roared. Then he stood up and walked away. Internally, he raged. The taste was good, but it was
not
the taste of a ham hock. Somehow, the humans had misled him. They were tricky, and they hid their best meats. They kept them from Twrog. He would make them pay for their cruel deceptions.

The giant left the goblin, the pig and the fire behind and made his way into the forest. He was tired, it was late, and he really should find a spot to sleep. But he did not. He wanted to see the tree in the glade more than ever. He had gotten his lucky club there. It had grown upon the hugest oak he’d ever found. There, in the center of that strange glade, the lone tree was a huge oak and the club had been ripped free by Twrog after an hour’s work, sweating and heaving to pry it loose.

The journey took nearly until dawn. He was tired and grumpy by the time he reached the spot, but also exultant. He knew the spot well, and always when he came here it filled him with memories of his youth. He’d played here by himself among these same silent trees two centuries ago. In particular, he’d played upon the great oak.

At last he found it. The thicket surrounding it was, if anything, more profuse and tangled than he remembered. He circled around twice before finding the secret entrance: a tunnel in the greenery which allowed entry without a thousand spiny stings. He slipped through and after suffering no more than a dozen pokes and scratches, he reached the center of the glade.

Inside the ring of thickets was an open area where a great tree grew. A massive oak tree loomed high overhead, the dark, dead branches clawing at the sky. So large was the oak that it dwarfed even Twrog. The tree itself had been broken, the top half having long ago been torn away. Like a broken black tower, the trunk stood alone in the glade. The giant rested his back comfortably against the trunk and settled amongst the black, snake-like roots.

His earliest memories were of this place. He had been born here, as far as he could determine. For the giant, this secret retreat was home.

He dozed until dawn, when one eye snapped awake. His ears twitched. Could it be? Did he hear a rustling nearby? He turned his head a fraction and stared into the thickets. A stealthy shape moved there. It was hard to tell one goblin from the next, but Twrog felt sure it was Frakir. Each step he took was performed with exaggerated care. Like a tiny, stalking predator, the goblin circled the glade at the edge of the thicket.

Twrog let his head roll back. He appeared to be dozing, or uncaring. Every minute or so, he let an eye open to a slit to check on the goblin’s progress.

When the goblin had made a half-circuit around the glade, and was thus was as far from the entrance as it was possible to be, Twrog jumped up and trotted to block the only exit. He looked back around, eyes wide, lips flaring.

But the glade was empty. Could the creature have escaped him? He peered in the growing sunlight.

“Come forth, Frakir,” he boomed.

Nothing occurred for a full minute. A second minute passed, and then Twrog thought to see movement. There, behind the trunk of the huge oak. A single ear and a single matching slitted eye peeped around to look at him.