Haven Magic (34 page)

So saying, Tomkin scuttled off the roof and raced out into the reeds. He paused to listen, however, for the farmer’s shouts of dismay. They were not long in coming. Along with his brothers, Tomkin had spent the better part of an hour working the cows until they were full of nothing but thick cream near to butter.

When the farmer’s outrage met his ears, Tomkin hooted. He’d rarely felt so good. He charged off into the reeds and disappeared from North End.

He wandered for the rest of the day through his swamplands. He felt oddly deflated. He did not seek shelter and sleep, although he was tired. He did not take pleasure in the foodstuffs he found. Birds’ eggs, toasted lizards and the like seemed coarse fare after the delicacies he’d enjoyed the night before. His comrades had carried no less than three jugs of Fae wine with them. He had tried them all, the pomegranate, the persimmon and the gooseberry. In his opinion, the gooseberry had been the finest.

In time, he found himself returning to the isle where he’d found his Folk the night before. The place looked far less enchanting in the cold light of day. The pools were mud holes. The wisps had vanished and the three birches looked sickly with twisted branches and half-peeled trunks.

Tomkin walked half-way around the island before he realized there were eyes upon him. He froze and cast his gaze this way and that. Could one of his Folk have returned? Might there be another party this eve? The breaking of the Pact might cause a revival of sorts, he dared hope. Perhaps his people would return to the lands of the Haven in droves, anxious to make up for lost time.

The towering figure his eyes finally landed upon was a horseman—it most definitely was not one of his brothers. At first, Tomkin thought he might be gazing upon a man. But the absolute stillness of the stranger soon set that thought to rest. No man could sit upon a horse so motionlessly. No horse, for that matter, could stand like a statute for so long without so much as a sidestep or a whickering snort.

Tomkin did not flee, however. It was not his way to run immediately in the face of the unknown. He knew such instincts had served his people well for countless centuries, but it simply was not in his character. For one of the Wee Folk, he was remarkably brave.

After another minute, Tomkin began to wonder if he faced a statue or a scarecrow. Could his own wild Folk have left this manikin here, as a final jest to frighten him? Then, as he continued his scrutiny, he thought to hear soft music. He saw too, that the eyes did move. They were not natural eyes, being tiny dancing flames in the sockets. He knew then what it was he faced, and he would have rather faced the greatest knight of the River Folk—if they even had knights nowadays.

“So,” Tomkin said, addressing the thing that sat upon its horse with infinite patience. “What does one of the Dead do in my marsh?”

“It is not your marsh, brash creature,” answered the dead-thing.

“Thou art of the Wild Hunt, I take it?”

“Observant, but it is you who shall be answering the questions this day.”

“What is it thou seeks?”

“I seek one of the Fae, one of the River Folk, and one that is both together.”

Tomkin licked his lips. He seriously hoped he was not the person listed as
one of the Fae
which this creature claimed to seek. “I saw such a trio not an hour’s march north of this very spot!” he said with a mocking laugh.

The other was silent. It still did not move. Tomkin wondered if he had offended it.

“Well,” Tomkin said after an uncomfortable silence had passed, “I’ve got many appointments to keep this day. I bid thee farewell, and wish thee luck in thy quest.”

The music stopped. There was a rasping sound. Tomkin saw a long length of fine steel reflecting in the sun as it was drawn.

Tomkin turned and ran.

Hooves thundered behind him. So close! The dead-thing which had sat so still was incredibly fast. He should never have sought to yank its beard in the first place. A thousand self-recriminations ran through his head, even as his legs pumped and his feet made wild-flying leaps over flowered clumps of stichwort, muddy pools and occasional boulders. Quail burst out of hiding as he sailed over an insect-eating patch of sundew plants, then he darted under the stilted roots of a pond-ash tree.

He listened intently as the hooves thundered by and splashed away. Could he have lost the dead-thing? He dared not peep out. For all his bravado, Tomkin knew he was no bigger than a surly child to this horseman. Even the thought of sticking his blade into its desiccated flesh—or worse yet, biting into it—made him ill.

The silence went on, but the natural sounds of the bog did not return. The insects did not chirrup. The birds did not cry for mates nor warn one another away from their territory. The marsh was abnormally quiescent.

After another full minute, Tomkin poked his long nose out from under the tree roots. Immediately, a length of blade, silver-white and made of fine steel, appeared at his chest. The length of blade led up to a hand encased in a crumbling glove. Tomkin retreated from the tip of the sword, but the tip followed him.

“All right,” he said, crossing his arms and walking out into the open. The sword tip followed him closely. “I would know thy name.”

“Voynod.”

Tomkin blinked, what could the Dark Bard want of him? “What is it thou desires, dead man?”

“As I’ve said,” replied Voynod, “I seek three beings: one of the Fae, one of the River Folk, and one that is both together.”

Tomkin eyed the dead-thing with vast distrust. Could this creature be thinking of Brand and his friends? What did they have that would so interest the Wild Hunt? He could give them up, of course. It was well within his rights. They were clearly of interest: a half-breed traveling with a group of River Folk. Not exactly as the Huntsman described, but close enough. But Tomkin did not like this creature’s manner. He did not like to be bullied by anyone. Although he had no love of Myrrdin, he would sooner trust the sneaky wizard than a pack of dead-things. He decided to avoid giving information. This was a natural attitude for him and took no special effort.

“Do they travel together?” Tomkin asked.

“Possibly.”

“I have not seen such a trio. On this I swear.”

The sword tip pressed closer to his chest. Tomkin stood firmly, angrily. The dead-thing suggested by its probing it did not believe him. Tomkin took this as an insult. He had seen no such party, and his word was his bond.

At last, after a tiny spot of blood showed on Tomkin’s tunic, the sword was withdrawn.

“Interesting,” Voynod said, studying Tomkin. “I have more questions.”

“And I have prices,” Tomkin said quickly.

“Why did you come here? What brought you to this place?”

Tomkin hesitated. It was a mistake, and he knew it, but he wanted to tell this creature about his gathering folk even less than he wanted to tell it about Brand and his crew.

“What do you hide from me?” asked the Bard, leaning down from his creaking saddle.

“It is the month of the
Ngetal
—the month of the reed. At times, my people gather here during such evenings.”

Voynod inclined his head and withdrew his person, sitting high upon his saddle again. “I found evidence of a celebration. Tiny, broken mugs and the like. You have spoken truth to me.”

Tomkin shrugged. “Of course I have.”

“Would your Folk be gathering here again tonight?”

Tomkin eyed him and shook his head. “I doubt it. It is not our way to be predictable.”

Voynod murmured in agreement. He reached to his belt and tossed down a flashing, gold disk. Tomkin caught it and frowned at the object. He saw it was an old coin. Minted a millennium ago, the Faerie gold showed the head of a long dead king on its face.

“There is more gold to be had if you should help me,” Voynod said.

“What would I do with this?” asked Tomkin. He did not like the weight of the coin. It would slow him. If he buried it, as his people often did, he would have to worry about its location and safety.

“Buy whatever pleases one of your kind,” said Voynod, sounding surprised. “Buy yourself a top hat, at the very least. You resemble a beggar.”

Tomkin hurled the coin back up at Voynod, who caught it effortlessly. “I have no need for thy trinkets! I don’t like being in the employ or debt of another—and I
hate
top hats.”

“Interesting,” said Voynod. He turned his horse without another word then and glided off across the swamp.

Tomkin watched him leave. His horse galloped, but did not quite touch the earth with its hooves.
That
was how the Bard had managed to double-back and approach in silence. Tomkin nodded and wondered about the coin. Should he have kept it? Perhaps he had no use for it, but another of his kind—perhaps one of the ladies of his Folk—might have.

He shrugged. What was done was done. He headed on his way, choosing to journey in the opposite direction Voynod had taken. He wanted nothing more to do with the dead-thing.

As he trotted through his marsh, he noted the natural sounds of things returned. Bird sang and whistled. Insects buzzed. Badgers and voles scrabbled in the underbrush. He was glad to hear it all, as it meant to him the dead-thing was far away.

He wondered about Voynod’s quest. It seemed clear the Bard sought Dando, Myrrdin and the River Folk. Tomkin thought it might be worth finding Dando first. He should at least give his brethren warning—if he did, he might be invited to future gatherings and pranks.

Also, he could not help but wonder: what was so interesting about those three?

Chapter Thirteen

The Axe

For Brand and his companions, the journey into the marsh went without incident for some days. It was slow-going, with many wrong-turns and wide boggy areas where the river seemed to disappear into marshy ground for miles. Often, they were forced to get out of the skiff and drag it behind them, slogging through endless sucking mud.

Several nights later, Brand awoke with a start. He immediately felt uneasy. Something was wrong…. He rose in his bedroll, which was shivery-cold in the dank night air. Leaning on one elbow, he peered about himself. The dying embers of the fire glowed and crackled nearby.

The fire! It was supposed to be kept going all night. Perhaps the cold had awakened him.

“Who’s on watch?” he asked quietly. No one replied. The swamp was silent, save for the scrabbling crickets and the hoarse cries of the frogs. His breathing increased as he felt for the woodaxe that had been at his side. It was gone.

His first thought was to shout for the others, but he dared not, as he wasn’t sure what was happening. If they were under attack, perhaps it was better if the merlings did not yet know he was awake. Trying to be silent, he slipped out of his bedroll and pulled on his river boots. With an odd twinge of homesickness, he noted that they were still new and stiff. A few days ago he had not wanted to soil them, now such thoughts seemed trivial. He reached over to shake Corbin awake, and his mind froze over. Corbin was missing. There was nothing on his bedroll but a cold patch of slimy mud.

“Corbin? Gudrin? Telyn?” he hissed into the blackness around him. The mists swallowed the sound of his voice.

He rose into a crouch, realizing now that he might be alone. Over the sounds of his breathing and his pounding heart, he made out the slapping of flat feet on mud. A stealthy gurgling sound came from the opposite direction.

“Merlings!” shouted Brand. He broke and ran for the boat. Something on the dark ground moved and tripped him. He went down sprawling. His hands reached out and found it wasn’t a merling, nor one of his companions. It was a leather knapsack. He grabbed at it reflexively, and ran with it in his hands. Something inside it shifted, and he almost dropped it in surprise. It felt as if a small, trapped animal were inside, struggling to get out. He remembered the axe; it must be Gudrin’s knapsack. He thought that it might be of use so he kept his grip on it and moved in the direction that he hoped the boat might be found.

At the shoreline, he found no boat, but he could see the dim outline of it, a few feet from shore. His first thought was that it had been cut adrift. He charged out into the marsh after it. Behind him, flat feet splashed and something hissed in excitement. The hairs on the back of his neck rose up as he feared that he might be cut down from behind.

He slogged forward, wading after the skiff. Unseen things clutched at his feet and the mud threatened to suck his boots away. Suddenly, he remembered the axe that he carried in his arms. It seemed heavier now, more deadly. He had an almost overwhelming urge to turn and face his pursuers and wield the axe. In his mind he could see their bulging eyes popping with terror, their alien skins and bones spilled open and their broken bodies floating in the stinking waters, righteously hewn down.

Then his train of thought was broken as his free hand reached the skiff. He hauled himself over the side. He scrambled up and was surprised to see a figure at the tiller. It was Telyn.

“Telyn!” he gasped. She made no reply, and her eyes stared fixedly ahead. He blinked back the red haze of the axe and forgot about slaughter and mayhem. Slipping twice on his muddy boots, he clambered to her side. He panted there, listening for the splashing of a merling arm as it came over the side of the boat, but he heard only a distant, rhythmic rippling sound. It seemed that they were content to swim after the skiff, perhaps not yet ready to board her. Merlings were always weaker and slower on boats and land than humans. They preferred to tackle only sleeping or unwary men in the darkness and close to water into which they could be easily dragged.