Haven Magic

by B. V. Larson

  Gudrin appeared and took charge of Jak. “Aye, he lives yet, but only just. We must remove the arrows and hope fortune is with him tonight.”

  Aunt Suzenna cried aloud at the sight of the black-feathered arrows that had pierced Jak. “If you have the craft to heal him,” she told Gudrin. “I will be your aide.”

  Gudrin nodded and prepared for the surgery. She shouted orders for all the lanterns, oil lamps and mirrors in the house to be gathered into the kitchen. They arranged the lights and the mirrors to concentrate the light upon the table. Finally, when all was ready she and Tylag bore Jak away to the kitchen table while Corbin saw to the horses.

  “I imagine you have quite a tale to tell yourself, boy,” said Modi, who had come and taken Brand’s elbow. It took Brand a moment to realize that the warrior was leading him toward a couch, not into the kitchen where Jak lay dying. He protested, but Modi’s grip was like that of a boulder shaped into a hand. “You need rest, boy. You listen to me—this time.”

  Brand met the warrior’s eyes, and they were stern, but not unkind. He let himself be led to the couch where he collapsed.

  * * *

  Well after daybreak, he slowly became aware of someone bathing his forehead with a cool damp cloth. His eyes fluttered open to find Telyn bent over him, her face pinched in worry. He thought he had never seen a lovelier sight, not even the Shining Lady could move him the way this tanner’s daughter could. “Telyn, does Jak live?”

  “Of course,” she answered, her face brightening. “He is feverish, but should recover. Gudrin is a miraculous healer. There are so many crafts I could learn from such as she.”

  “The shafts have been removed then?” he asked.

  Her face clouded. “Yes, but—”

  He gripped her arm. “But what?”

  She pressed him down again, and he let her do it, for in truth he felt as weak as a kitten. “You must rest, Brand. You are not well either. You strove mightily with the Faerie last night, and such things take a grim toll from mortals, to say nothing of dragging your brother through miles of forest.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Brand, remembering the long night. “I saw your beacon Telyn. It was my only hope when all else was lost. It was your sorcery that saved us.”

  Her hands plucked idly at the damp cloth she held. “No, it was all my fault that you got into this in the first place. Jak is almost dead because I wouldn’t listen to reason. It’s fine for me to endanger my own skin, but I can’t forgive myself for nearly killing us all with my rashness.”

  Brand sat up, although it was a mighty effort. He took her hand and squeezed it. “I’ll not have that! I was the one the shade began tracking in the first place. I could just as easily say that the breaking of the Pact was on my head!”

  “What utter foolishness,” said Telyn, but he could hear the gratitude in her voice.

  “Now, tell me the whole truth about Jak.”

  She cast him a concerned glance, then looked back to the cloth in her hands, which was now wound into a knot. “The shafts came out easily, Brand, but the heads did not.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Brand, feeling cold inside.

  “I mean that the arrow points are still in him, somewhere...Brand?”

  But she was talking to his back, for he had already started for the kitchen. There, in the brightly lit room in which he had supped so well so often, Jak lay. His flesh was bloodless and white, but his breathing appeared regular. Brand gripped the doorjamb for support. Gudrin held something pinched in a pair of tongs which she held aloft to the light. It was a tiny flint arrowhead. She rubbed her chin then dropped it into a pewter pitcher. The water in the pitcher bubbled and hissed briefly, then fell silent.

  “That’s one,” grunted the Talespinner. She eyed Brand sharply, but didn’t order him from the room.

  “Is that from his chest?” asked Brand.

  Gudrin nodded. “The other has gone deeper still. I only just decided he was mended enough to go for them, and it was critical that I did so now.”

  “Why?”

  Gudrin gestured to the pitcher. Brand stepped forward and peered into it. There was no sign of the arrowhead. “What happened to it?”

  “The arrowheads are enchanted. There is no question about it, your brother was elf-shot.”

  “Elf-shot?” Brand echoed. Stunned, he looked at his brother’s leg wound. “There is still one of them in him?”

  “Yes, worming its way to his vitals. Were you attacked by the elfkin?”

  “No, goblins only. At least, we saw no elfkin.”

  “Strange,” said Gudrin. She shook her head and prepared to dig into Jak’s flesh to remove the other arrowhead. She stepped to the sideboard for a moment, where her book lay open, and read a page or two before returning to her work. Brand noted that her rucksack was stowed carefully beside her book. “That’s what the others said. But it is for certain that these arrows are elf-work. Goblins have not the craft. Either there are elves in league with our Enemy, which is fell news indeed, or these arrows were stolen. We have no way of knowing which.”

  Gudrin began her digging and cutting then, bidding Brand to hold his brother still. Even in his unconscious state, Jak moaned and writhed in pain.

  “Make sure he doesn’t reopen his chest wound!” ordered Gudrin. The work was bloody and it was all Brand could do to keep from retching. Modi and Tylag were finally called in to help, while Aunt Suzenna did what she could to make her nephew comfortable. Brand wondered if he could ever enjoy a meal at this table again.

  Forcing himself to watch, he looked into the splayed flesh of his brother’s thigh. There was a black shape, buried down near the bone. Gudrin reached for it, but it wriggled and half vanished into red bloody flesh again.

  “The River save us!” breathed Brand.

  Finally, Gudrin got a grip upon it, and lifted it up. “There’s the little cursed thing.”

  Aunt Suzenna, who was the best and fastest with needle and thread, set to sealing the wound. Jak’s agonized moans subsided. Gudrin and Brand stepped aside and examined the arrowhead.

  Gudrin reached out and touched the river stone around Brand’s neck. “A River ward, after the fashion of your folk. Hmmpf. Well-made, too. Your work?” she asked Telyn, who nodded. “You have an eye for the craft. If it was not for these wards, or if the goblins had used normal weapons, you would have all been killed. Notice, the arrows struck only Jak, who wore no such ward.”

  At this point she yelled aloud and swore in the tongue of the Kindred. She dropped the tongs she had been holding aloft and clutched at the hand that had held them.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Brand, but Telyn had already snatched up the tongs and grabbed Gudrin’s hand. The palm was pooling with blood. Only a stub of the arrowhead was still visible as it burrowed into the talespinner’s flesh.

  “It got away from me! I’m a fool! An old fool! Can you get it, girl?”

  Telyn made no answer, but instead thrust the tongs into the open wound. Red blood spilled and splattered the floorboards. Gudrin grit her teeth and hissed through them, but did not pull away. Brand suddenly became aware of Modi, who was standing very close, watching everyone intensely. His knuckles stood out white upon the haft of his axe.

  “Got it!” shouted Telyn, pulling the tongs free. With two quick strides she took the arrowhead to the pitcher and dropped it in. The water bubbled and hissed and soon the cursed thing was no more.

  Gudrin swore again, wrapping her hand. “I should have done that in the first place. Thank you, girl.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Warriors All

  “How can we stand against weapons such as these?” demanded Brand aloud.

  “Your wards protected you, as I said,” Gudrin told him. While she talked she set a prepared poultice of healing herbs on Jak’s wounds. “And we may not be completely without our own special armaments. What puzzles me is why they would use such weapons on young harmless folk such as yourselves. It is a mystery coupled with
Voynod’s stalking of you. It is clear that the Enemy regards you as some kind of threat. I must have a smoke and a think upon it,” she said. She donned her hat, slung her rucksack, clasped her book and slid it back under her arm.

  After checking on his brother, who was now less deathly pale, Brand followed Gudrin out onto the porch. Corbin came after him and pressed a sandwich and a mug of milk into his hands, for which he was grateful. All three of them sat on low-slung porch chairs. Gudrin smoked a delicately carved pipe, the bowl of which was shaped like a bear’s head. Blue smoke rose from the bear’s gaping jaws.

  Outside the day was a fine one, the snow having melted, but there was a chill wind up, and winter could not be far off. Brand enjoyed the feel of the sunshine and waited while Gudrin had her think. Then, however, he recalled his meeting with Oberon. He found it strange that he had forgotten about it until now. Even now, he wondered somewhat if it could have all been a waking dream. He told Gudrin about it, filling in every detail he could recall.

  Gudrin leaned forward, puffing on her pipe. She asked several details of Oberon’s appearance, and then at last leaned back, satisfied. “It was Oberon, that’s for certain. It’s a wonder you can recall him so well, however. Perhaps your ward is working better than even it should.”

  “Why should I forget seeing him?”

  “That is one of the powers of the lord Oberon. He can make folk forget seeing him, speaking with him. It is useful in his manipulation of events,” she said, then fell silent for a time, puffing on her pipe. “But why is even Oberon so convinced of your importance?”

  “I find it hard to believe that it’s just me. Perhaps we are confusing something. I’m only a river-boy from a small isle on the Berrywine. I know nothing more than how to travel water, chop wood and gather berries.”

  Gudrin swept away his arguments with a wave of her bandaged hand. “Nonsense. All of you River Haven folk sell yourselves short. The blood of many champions runs in your veins. You must recall that you are the survivors, the descendants of the best of your race. Originally, you were warriors all, and a quarrelsome lot, if the stories are to be believed.”

  “River Folk? Warriors all? That is hard to swallow.”

  “Believe it. It is written in the Teret,” said Gudrin, striking her book soundly. She took her pipe from her mouth and tapped out the smoldering ashes, then refilled it with fresh stock.

  Soon Modi came outside. He stood on the porch near them for a moment, the boards sagging beneath his weight, before moving out into the yard.

  “He guards you closely,” said Brand.

  Gudrin shrugged. “He is of the Warriors. His father is a great clanmaster among the Kindred. All of his clan are warriors.”

  “If they are as big as he is, I can see why,” mused Brand. He watched as Modi set up a row of pumpkins on the fenceposts near the road. He readied his axe and began to exercise with it, chopping the pumpkins like the heads of enemies. Each of them fell neatly in half, then in quarters. His swings were precise and powerful. “He cuts only pumpkins, but still I am impressed.”

  “Modi’s clan is an old one. Many of his folk were those that survived Myrrdin’s campaign and faced the Faerie when the Pact was forged. It is ironic that he should be here to witness its breaking.”

  “What are we to do, Gudrin?”

  Gudrin compressed her lips, sucking on her pipe for a time before answering. A cherry-red glow brightened in the bear’s mouth. “I must march in search of Myrrdin,” she said with a sigh. “Only he might know how to reforge the Pact, or perhaps some other way to save the Haven. Besides, my business is with him in any case.”

  “So you will leave us soon?”

  “Yes, as soon as I am sure that your brother will live. Most likely, we will leave at dawn tomorrow. It seems that Myrrdin is delayed elsewhere, although I can think of little save death that would keep him from renewing the Pact. I fear the worst, but still I must find him. I only wish I weren’t so weary of travel.”

  Gudrin’s rucksack was at her side. This and her Teret, the book of the Kindred, were never far from her hand. Brand eyed the rucksack and wondered what was the nature of the burden within that it could slow someone as tenacious as Gudrin. He watched it, wondering if it would move, but it did not.

  “My burden sleeps,” said Gudrin. Brand gave a guilty start. Gudrin turned to look at him with a twinkle in her water-blue eyes. “You interest me, boy. You alone of your clan can meet my eyes now almost without flinching. That is a rare thing, and I’m not simply boasting. The Talespinners of the Kindred have a power in their eyes, and I’m the leader of my clan.”

  “It would seem that clans work differently with the Battleaxe Folk,” said Brand.

  “Indeed. Let me explain. Among the Kindred, craftsmanship is valued above blood lineage. Each clan has a craft, or a set of crafts, to which its clansmen are born. Therefore, our clan names are representations of our craft, rather than our lineage, although they are generally one and the same.”

  “But what if one is born a natural warrior into the clan of Talespinners?”

  “This is rare, but upon such occasions, a clanmaster or the King can grant a kinsman release from his clan. He is then free to join another, if they will have him.”

  “Then as a clanmaster and a clanmaster’s son, you and Modi are akin to lords. Why do you trouble yourself to travel alone like this? What could be your mission in the peaceful River Haven?”

  “It doesn’t seem all that peaceful to me,” Gudrin chuckled. “But we travel alone because a large group would only attract more notice. We wished to go unrecognized. That, of course, was undone by last night. As to the rest, well, we are searching for someone, and we need Myrrdin to find this someone,” she said with finality.

  “What should we do to prepare for tonight?” asked Brand. “It seems like the Faerie might put in another appearance now that the Pact is broken.”

  Gudrin shrugged.

  “There is little to be done. I would suggest that you gather all the animals into the barn and ready up a large pile of firewood.”

  Firewood. Brand groaned inside. He didn’t want to show it, but he was very spent from the previous night still. Splitting wood right now sounded like punishment.

  “Let Corbin do it, boy,” said Gudrin, reading his thoughts.

  Brand nodded, but stood up. “I’ll help a bit.” Brand did feel much better than the half-dead state he had arrived in last night, but he groaned aloud when he took up the axe. Corbin told him to just take it easy, and the two of them soon made chips fly.

  After perhaps a hundred strokes from Corbin and ten or so from Brand, they were both sweating. Modi came up to them to watch.

  “What are you doing?”

  Corbin glanced at Brand with a twinkle in his eye, but Brand gave his cousin an imperceptible shake of his head. He didn’t think it a good idea to jest with the warrior, which he could tell from long experience was what Corbin had in mind. Corbin scowled a bit, and simply continued chopping. Brand turned to Modi, his hands resting on his axe. “We are splitting firewood.”

  Modi nodded, as if this were a weighty statement. He examined Corbin’s strokes for a few moments. Corbin ignored him. Brand was a bit taken aback by Corbin’s manner, as it was not normal for him.

  “Corbin has a better build for the axe,” said Modi at last. “But you Brand, despite your fatigue, are more skilled with it.”

  Corbin halted, his sides heaving slightly. Sweat stood out on his brow despite the cold. “Perhaps you would like to demonstrate for us.”

  Modi eyed him for a moment, then nodded. Corbin handed over his woodaxe and backed away. Brand glanced over toward the porch, where he saw that Gudrin still sat and puffed her pipe, watching them.

  With deliberate movements, Modi selected a large piece of oak. “There are two difficult points,” he said, touching two knotholes with the heavy axe, which he held in one hand and moved about as if it were a delicate wand. With two smooth motions, he clove aw
ay the knotholes with a minimum of wasted wood. Then with four more powerful blows, he divided the wood into even pieces.

  Brand was impressed. Corbin, however, seemed a bit out of sorts. He pointed to a heavy stump that lay on its side like a rotted tooth. “Can you cleave that in two with a single blow?” he demanded. Brand shot him a quizzical glance.

  Modi took the question in with all seriousness. He eyed the stump and then the woodaxe in his hand. “Not with this,” he said finally. “The head is too small, and the haft would break.”

  “Thank you, Modi,” Brand said politely, turning back to the job at hand. He wondered if Modi was serious. Could the warrior have done it? There was no question that the haft of the little wood axe would break with the force of such a blow. But if the weapon were larger and more sturdy....

  Could Modi really be that strong?

  Modi crunched snow back to the front yard, where he began to practice with his battleaxe again. More pumpkin heads were halved and quartered. When he was out of hearing, Brand asked Corbin what had gotten into him.

  “I’m sorry, but Modi has started to grate on me. He is so arrogant, so obviously disdainful of us. There is something about him that I don’t completely trust.”

  “I’m shocked to hear this from one who’s self-control is legendary,” said Brand. He explained to Corbin who Modi and Gudrin were among the Kindred. Corbin’s eyes grew wide to hear that Gudrin was the clanmaster of the Talespinners.

  When the two of them had split enough wood to last for several days and had hauled it into the shed that adjoined the kitchen, they stopped to watch Modi’s exercises. After a time they asked him to give them a lesson in using their woodaxes for war. Modi was happy to oblige and for the first time to their knowledge he seemed about to smile. Modi taught them how to close with an enemy, how to hook his weapon with their own, where to strike for a kill. By the end of it, they both felt that they had learned something. The trio exercised and sweated for two hours until lunch was announced. All the while Gudrin watched them quietly from the porch.