Haven Magic (57 page)

“Cowards!” he raged at them, seeing them flip and slither through the water upstream. He shook the axe at them, and the men who had gathered around him quailed at his fury.

“They are gone, Brand,” said a voice at his side, “but we have more enemies now.”

Brand whirled to see Corbin, who pointed back up the rise that led to the southern tower. There, gathering silently from the white mists, were the mounted coursers of the Wild Hunt. A dozen, then two dozen, then three dozen appeared. They seemed to take form out of the mist itself, as if mothered by it.

Chapter Eleven

Voynod’s Challenge

“Brand? Corbin, my son?” roared a familiar voice.

They turned to see Tylag, wading in from his raft, which had all but reached the shores by now. “Could it be that two Rabing boys have become knights of old?” he asked, incredulous.

Brand smiled to see his Uncle safe, and in that instant, he felt much of his sense return. He could think clearly again, even with the axe in his hand and blood coating his face. “We must get everyone into the ruins, Uncle,” he said, “we have a great store of arms in that tower, and a strongpoint built further back.”

“But we have defeated the merlings!” said Tylag, raising his hands high. “I had thought us betrayed by the Wee Folk when they attacked, but now I see that those we came to rescue turned and saved us first!”

Brand pointed up to the rise where the horsemen gathered. “Now we face the Wild Hunt.”

Tylag’s face darkened and fell from elation to dread. “The Wild Hunt,” he said in a haunted voice. “I had hoped they were only horsemen from the north. I had told myself and my men they were nothing more for days now. But how can I doubt you two, who wield such power? Truly, it is a dark day for the Haven when we must face fell legends that should have long since passed on.”

“We are beyond the borders of the Haven, father,” said Corbin. “And I doubt our borders would now provide any barrier to these foul things, in any case.”

Tylag nodded, gazing up the slope with haunted eyes. A subtle piping began then, slipping into their thoughts insidiously. Brand became aware of it and knew it to be the work of the dark bard. It was the song of the dead, the dead that still walked and acted as if they lived. He wondered how long it had been playing.

“You bear the standard of Riverton on your raft, father,” said Corbin. “Does this mean you are their leader?”

Tylag looked startled, as if he had been sleeping. “Yes, yes! I…I was once Chief of the Riverton Constabulary. No one else on the Council had the training to lead the army….I am the general of this army,” he finished vaguely, as if just realizing the truth of his words. He turned to his captains, who had come up around them. Everyone but them seemed to be gazing up the slope, as if sleeping on their feet.

“What are we doing standing in the bloody river!” roared Tylag in sudden rage and disbelief. He slapped the lieutenant nearest him and cuffed a soldier who had sat down in the shallow water and closed his eyes. “Up men! Secure the boats! Form up ranks on the shore!”

While Tylag and his lieutenants spread out, waking up their troops, Corbin and Brand made their way to shore.

“That was frightening,” said Corbin. “I had no idea that the enemy could stop an army with a song.”

“The Dark Bard is entrancing,” agreed Brand, although his voice sounded not in the least entranced. “There must be justice meted out here,” he said. “These cursed creatures used up their lives long ago, and if they won’t die of their own accord, I shall personally finish the lot of them.”

Corbin looked at him in surprise and uneasily eyed the axe that rode Brand’s shoulder. “We should break past them, Brand,” he urged. “We should break through their line and get the army into the protective region of the ruins. There, we can give them better arms and positions.”

Brand paid him no heed. Sloshing out of the river and onto the muddy shore, Brand raised his axe in challenge to the enemy. A scattering of those that sat their dead horses on the rise lifted their weapons in answer.

“We should kill them all now,” he said, “while we have the numbers. Soon the rhinogs that follow their goblin sires will tip the balance in their favor. That is why they wait to attack us! They fear us!”

“I don’t think so, Brand—” began Corbin.

Brand whirled on him and for a moment seemed about to raise the axe to him. He contained himself with visible effort. “They hope we will quail and become weak under the force of the bard’s music!”

“Yes, but look!” said Corbin, pointing. “They are gathering their strength even as we gather ours. More of them appear out of the mist with each passing minute! This must be the work of Herla wielding Osang.”

Brand looked and glowered to see that Corbin was right. He looked back at the army that surrounded him. Already, he had begun to think of it as
his
army. “They are gathering strength more quickly than we are. Our men are slowed by that irritating piping. I don’t even see Herla yet, nor the bard, but I shall put a stop to that damned piping!”

Brand slowly lifted the axe high into the air. A liquid amber light poured from it, not a single blinding flash as before, but a river of light that reached out to touch every soldier that struggled on the muddy shoreline. He began to march up the slope with long strides.

Corbin followed him, calling to Tylag, who quickly ordered his men to advance. Many of the Riverton troops, seeing the champion who had forced back the merlings advancing on this new threat, had already fallen in behind him. To everyone, especially Brand, this seemed the natural order of things.

“Voynod!” he bellowed, “cease your infernal piping, man! I would rather hear the sounds of a tavern hound sicking up the putrid contents of its stomach!”

At his words, as if a spell had been broken, the piping stopped. A familiar figure pressed its way through the coursers to the fore. It was Voynod upon his unbreathing horse.

“We meet again, river-boy,” said the bard. “This time, you are on the wrong side of these charmed walls. There is nothing to save you.”

Unbidden, the image of Oberon’s daughter came into Brand’s mind. Once again, he cradled her severed head in his arms. He could see the life drain from her whitening face. Rage filled him.

“You face the Axeman now, piper!” he roared. He began to trot forward, getting ahead of his men on the difficult slope. “Where is your master? I wish to slay all your company at once! I will slay each of you in turn!”

At this, Voynod lifted a black-gloved hand. The coursers, who had been readying to charge Brand and the men advancing behind him, halted.

“You seek to challenge me?” hissed Voynod.

“
I DO!
” Brand shouted back without hesitation. Still climbing the slope steadily, he paused only to sweep the popping sweat from his brow. “As a lord of Rabing Castle, I challenge thee!”

“I accept your challenge, child,” hissed Voynod.

“Brand, no!” cried Corbin from behind him. “Wait for us!”

“Stay back!” roared Brand over his shoulder. “All of you, stay back!”

Tylag had no need to repeat the order. All along the advancing line of men, they halted and watched quietly. None shouted encouragement, nor did any man make a wager. Not even the darkest heart among them could face the Dead with a smile or a thought for anything other than destroying these foul creatures.

Brand, however, was wreathed with smiles. He tossed aside his shield and took up Ambros with both hands as the bard began his charge. He set his feet flat upon the earth and crouched. He planned a low sweep to cut the horse’s legs from beneath it. All he had to do was bring the bard to the ground so that the good sweet earth might finish its long overdue work.

The bard thundered down the slope at a gallop, heedless of the rough terrain or the treacherously wet slope. His horse’s hooves pounded and tossed up great clots of black dirt behind it, but it didn’t snort, nor make any sound of fear or effort. Despite its charge, the horse’s great, dead lungs were as still as the grave.

Brand swung his blade in a low sweeping cut. The bard was right there, on top of him. He caught sight of malicious lavender eyes, like those he had seen within Herla’s stag head. Brand was shocked when the galloping stopped and became silent at the last instant. His axe cut through nothing. He could only think that the horse had taken flight. Then a great shock went through him, and he was knocked backward with terrific force. He rolled down the slope head over heels. He regained his feet, but slipped in the mud. He looked down to see a great dent struck in his breastplate. The blow would have cut him from belly to throat if he had been unarmored. Behind him, the line of men set up a ragged cheer to see their champion back on his feet.

The axe!
The thought was a scream in his mind. Without it he was just Brand, not the Axeman. Without it, everything hurt: his breastplate pressed against his sternum, his legs trembled with the strain of running in heavy armor. He saw Voynod wheel and come around for another charge. His horse tossed its head in a horrible parody of life. If anything, the dead animal was more horrifying than its rider.

Even as Voynod raised his silvery sword and charged again, Brand spotted the axe. It was nearby, lying beside the blackened corpse of a tree that long since given up the struggle to survive in the swamp’s evil soil. Brand scrambled toward it, and a polyp exploded under his feet. He grimaced as a thick acidic liquid sprayed him. His eyes blinked and teared.

His breath came in hoarse gasps as he reached the axe. Behind him the thunder of hooves grew. He turned and raised Ambros even as Voynod’s blade swung for his head. He blocked the cut with the axe and it flashed when the two weapons met. Voynod hissed and the foul smelling vapor that issued from his lungs was like a cold wind in Brand’s face. Walking his horse around Brand in a circle, Voynod rained blows down upon him. Brand managed to block them, staggering under the assault. Each blow caused the axe to flash. Overhead the thunderclouds boiled and rumbled. To the men at the foot of the slope it was as if a dozen strokes of lightning struck the combatants in quick succession.

“Know, river-boy, that I myself slew your cousin Sam,” Voynod told him mockingly.

“Ambros!” cried Brand, blocking another blow. “Know, piper, that I wield Ambros the Golden!”

“When Herla learns of your death, I will be granted a boon,” hissed back the other. “As my boon, I will ask for a steaming draught of your lifeblood, river-boy!”

Brand caught another blow with the axe and this time he slid the edge of it down to the base of the other’s sword. He managed to slip the blade over the sword’s hilt. Three black-gloved fingers fell into the muck and squirmed there for a moment before falling to dust.

Losing only a moment’s focus, Voynod switched the sword to his left hand and wheeled the horse so that he could still strike down at Brand. Brand jumped back and hacked at the horse’s legs. Hamstrung, the dead thing staggered, but didn’t fall. Urging his crippled horse to retreat, Voynod headed back up the slope.

Brand gave chase, crying out as he leapt after the rider and wrestled him from his failing mount. In a last vile act, the bard sank his teeth into Brand’s gauntleted hand. Brand yelled in pain, so great was the power of the bite that it crushed his finger right through the steel mesh. Then the flesh fell away to dust and only a skull still remained, its teeth clamped upon his hand. He tore it away and tossed the crumbling skull from him. The horse, riderless, soon staggered and fell apart.

“Victory!” shouted Brand, holding Ambros high. The golden eye winked, and the army of the Haven came upslope, cheering. Brand noticed that only the dark bard’s sword and pipes remained behind to show that he had ever existed.

“Let no man touch these accursed things!” he commanded them as they swarmed around him. “We’ll carry them with sticks and bury them in the deepest sinkhole of the marsh.” There was no argument from the troops.

Brand led them in the final charge upslope, but the coursers just sat upon their horses, waiting. As the men came close, the white mists that had birthed them closed around them and the Wild Hunt vanished from view. Reaching the spot where they had stood, Brand would have believed them all to have been ghosts except for the hoofprints that marked every inch of the muddy ground.

“Where have they gone?” he snarled.

“Herla has pulled them back,” replied Corbin, gasping as he topped the slope. “Perhaps he awaits the rhinogs—or the darkness.”

Brand nodded. “He won’t wait long. But it matters nothing! We shall be victorious in every instance!”

Corbin nodded and slapped his back. “You fought well, cousin. I did fear for your life.”

Brand tolerated his touch with difficulty. “I fought poorly, but I will do better next time.”

Corbin handed him his shield. “Here. You forgot this.”

Brand took the shield and thanked him. “It seems so much less important than the axe, but thank you.”

“Perhaps it could have taken that blow that so mars the beauty of your breastplate, Brand!” said Tylag, finally huffing up to the top of the slope.

To Brand, his Uncle’s words burned like base insults. He glared at him, and the bloodlust that still gripped his mind caused him to see a mocking smile on Tylag’s face.

“Shut up, fool!” Brand muttered. It was hard for him not to shout at his Uncle. He even thought of shoving the old man back down the slope to see how far he would roll….
That would be good sport!