Haven Magic

by B. V. Larson

  They entered the apartment and let the door click shut behind them. Brand eyed Thilfox worriedly. Would he really be able to thrust that dagger into something that so resembled his own beloved grandson? He hoped that he would never be faced with such a task.

  Thilfox slid the window shut, then stood over the crib with his hands on hips. He frowned down into the crib.

  The baby inside was the twin of the other. Brand shook his head. The only difference he could detect was the eyes. Their nature was too knowing, too wise for an infant. But the changeling did put on a great show, kicking its feet and cooing at the old man.

  “You’ll not find our folk so easy to fool as all that, manling,” said Thilfox in a quiet, threatening voice.

  The changeling eyed him and the dagger which had now appeared in his hand. In an instant, it’s manner changed drastically. It sucked in a great gout of air and bellowed with wild cries and screams. Outside on the landing, they heard running footsteps. Lanet was at the door. She rattled the knob, but of course Thilfox had locked it.

  “Please father, don’t hurt him.”

  “Go downstairs, daughter,” he said in a commanding voice.

  Brand heard Telyn talking to Lanet, but she wouldn’t be consoled. She pounded on the door again.

  “You must be skilled, to so convince my daughter so quickly,” said Thilfox.

  “Sir,” said Brand at his shoulder. “Should we prep an egg? don’t we need to perform an exorcism?”

  Thilfox smiled grimly and shook his head. He slapped his dagger into his palm. “There is no need. We have the child back.”

  At this news, the changeling waited no longer. It sprang out of the cradle and raced around the room. Thilfox slashed the air behind the creature. Still in the guise of his grandson, as it flew about the place in great leaps and hops.

  Brand made a grab for it, but it ducked and slipped under him. In a moment, it had found the second window, which they had not thought to secure. It flew out into the courtyard. They leaned out after it, and watched it bound by the befuddled guardsman. He’d never seen a naked baby, performing ten foot leaps as it cleared the outer wall and disappeared into the forest.

  “We lost it,” said Brand, “I’m sorry about that, sir.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry about. I dithered, rather than striking at once. I suppose, I just wanted to be sure. I am in your debt, Brand Rabing.”

  Brand nodded, not knowing what else to say.

  At the door, Lanet finally made her way in. She held her real child, but still felt the hurt of losing the other. Tears ran down her face.

  “You were bewitched, my daughter,” said Thilfox gently, “but we’ve chased the faker out. We must be more careful.”

  “But I had wards,” said Lanet. Telyn inspected her wards. There was indeed a flat river rock on a fresh thong in the child’s cradle. She looked at it closely.

  “This hole,” she said, “it’s been drilled. Where did you get it?”

  “I don’t know…my husband bought it for me before he went away.”

  Telyn and Brand exchanged glances. Both knew there was only one man who sold wards in Riverton.

  Chapter Nine

  The Riot

  They spent a relatively peaceful night at Drake Manor. The beds were warm and the sheets fresh. There seemed to be no end to the fresh food. In the morning, however, they heard that many bad events had occurred over the evening across the Haven.

  A giant had killed a farmer, young people had been led astray, changelings were discovered. Every mother in the Haven eyed her own infant with suspicion and sick worry.

  Before midday, Tylag struck out with Brand and his companions to the docks. They would set off from the harbor to search for Myrddin immediately. There were no surprises on the trip to the docks until they passed into the winding section of road where the rickety houses of the Hoots and the Silures were perched. There they met a great party of folk dressed in the simple dirty garments of dockworkers and miners. They had gathered around Old Tad Silure’s shack, and they were in an ugly mood.

  As they rolled their cart down the road past Old Tad’s place, the oldster himself pointed them out to the crowd. “There they are! They provided me with the wards! Seek your refunds from them!”

  The crowd surged forward to surround them.

  “What do you want?” demanded Brand, speaking in a commanding voice as he thought his brother Jak might have.

  One among them was Slet, the skinny unkempt dock worker that had gotten into an argument with Jak back at the Spotted Hog a few days ago. Brand could tell that it was partly due to his humiliation on that day that he headed up this mob now. “We are arresting you! That Fob girl is a cheat and a witch!” he said, pointing to Telyn.

  Brand took a step toward him. He controlled himself with great difficulty.

  “You others are guilty of witchery, too. By your foul craft you have ended the Pact, which is treason against the River Haven,” finished Slet. He looked a bit nervous, but there was rage in his voice and his courage was bolstered by the support of the mob around him. There were snarls and catcalls from the crowd.

  Tylag, who had been walking behind the others, leading Tator with their supplies, stepped forward. “Where is your writ? I am of the council, and no one has come to me with such a request.”

  Old Man Tad Silure stepped further out of the shadows of his dilapidated old shack. “I have scribed such a writ!” he cried loudly. “They are in league with the Faerie, I tell you!”

  “You forget that I was once Chief of the Constabulary. It takes three signatures from the council even for the writ to be legal. Who has signed it besides the Hoots and the Silures?”

  “Bah!” roared Old Tad. “You are no longer a Constable, Tylag. Take them, boys!” In response to his command, many of the younger men surged forward. They slowed however, as Tylag’s clear, calm voice rose above the clamor.

  “Without the third signature even the arrest is illegal, and all of you are guilty, not us. Where are the Riverton Constabulary among you to perform the arrest?” demanded Tylag.

  “The writ is legal, there will be no weaseling out of this, Rabing,” shouted Old Tad. “What’s more, Rabing Isle will be forfeited as payment for damages, after these witches are cast into prison! Forward! Take them lads!”

  The front of the crowd surged hesitantly. Brand tensed for a fight. They were only rabble from the shacks along the docks, made up mostly of Silures and Hoots, but there were a lot of them. Then Modi raised his battleaxe and gave them pause. Gudrin waded forward, holding aloft her Teret, her book of the Kindred.

  “I am Gudrin of the Talespinners. Among the Kindred, the Talespinners hold the books of law. It rests with us to judge the guilt or innocence of our kinsfolk. I have sat in judgment over many of my folk. I can say from centuries of experience that you people want nothing of justice. What you want is a scapegoat.” She gazed out upon the mob. Somehow, she seemed taller than a man then, and she burned the minds of those that met her eyes.

  “You are of the Battleaxe Folk!” shouted Old Tad, shaking with rage. “Your words bear no weight here, story-teller!”

  Gudrin affixed him with her gaze, and Old Tad all but swallowed his tongue. “You are the guilty one here!” accused Gudrin, leveling her finger upon Old Tad. “Speak if you dare to deny that you have misled these fine honest folk with your dark-loving words of fear. Speak if you did not drill these false wards yourself!” Gudrin demanded. While she spoke, she held his gaze, burning into Old Tad’s head. Old Tad’s eyes appeared to be starting from his head and his lips worked, but no sound issued forth. Gudrin too, fell silent, while she and Old Tad strove against one another’s wills.

  Tylag took this moment to speak further. “I am loathe to say it, but Old Tad seeks only his own personal gain in this, good folk. He divides us against ourselves, and in the very face of the true enemy, which are the Dark Ones among the Faerie. Last night my home at Froghollow was razed and burnt to the grou
nd. My eldest and strongest son Sam was killed. What horrors will this night bring to your homes while we stand here deciding who is to blame? On behalf of the Clan Council, I ask you all to pull together, set aside your recriminations, and answer the muster of the River Haven. Only united can we hope to stand against those that will come against us in the night. Behold! Twilight is almost upon us! Tonight the War Beacons will be lit, for the first time in a century! Have you all readied your wards? Are your homes bolted and stocked with weapons and supplies? Go now, and see to your families!”

  There was a stirring at the back of the crowd, and even before he had finished it was clear that many had quietly deserted Old Tad. They fell back, muttering among themselves, some arguing that it was indeed almost twilight, others claiming that they were being bluffed and that trickery was afoot. Old Tad, who had been unable to speak, regained his voice and screamed that he had been enchanted, that Gudrin was a witch and a Faerie to boot.

  Things might still have gone poorly, had not a knot of folk including a squadron of the Riverton Constabulary appeared in the road. They were marching down from Riverton, and were being led by several of the Fobs, Telyn’s relatives.

  Tylag lay his hand on Brand and Corbin’s shoulders and spoke with urgency. “Go now, my lads, while you have the chance. Farewell and good luck to thee,” he said, squeezing them with almost painful force. Brand thought to see his eyes mist over with tears, but he didn’t weep. Then they had broken through the evaporating mob and were headed to the docks. Modi, Gudrin and Telyn walked with them, their steps hurried.

  Quietly, they boarded their skiff. They swiftly unloaded their packs from Tator and turned him loose. “Go home, that’s a good boy!” said Corbin, slapping his rump. The horse trotted upslope a ways, then turned as if to see them off, tossing his head.

  And so, with few words spoken between them, the four young River Folk and the two Kindred slipped into the waters of the harbor and out into the open river, turning north. The winds were up and their sails billowed full, catching the early evening breeze. To the west the sun was setting, and its dying light turned the waters to jet-black, shot through with dancing threads of silver and gold. The western sky was orange and lavender, while in the east it turned to blue then finally black as night stole forth.

  Thus they left Stone Island to the unknown fate of nightfall, and their hearts were heavy.

  * * *

  That night they made it to the big fork in the river, one leg of which led up to Rabing Isle, the other of which led to North End. They swung northeast and headed for North End. Brand stared long and hard to the northwest where his home lay just a few miles off.

  “It’s time we found a place to camp,” said Gudrin after a time.

  “Yes, it’s dangerous to sail the river at night, even for those of us who know it so well,” agreed Brand. “But where can we stop and camp that would be sheltered from the Faerie?”

  Telyn spoke first. “Skydrop Falls! They are quite near—we will be hearing them soon. They are surrounded by the Haven Woods, where there are no fairy mounds.”

  “Still, I would not like to sleep exposed beneath the stars if we can help it. If a pack of rhinogs came upon us we would be lost,” said Corbin.

  “We can sleep under the falls,” said Telyn. “Remember, when we were kids, we would go on hiking trips through the Haven Woods? There is a big cave behind the falls. We can camp there, where the Faerie may hesitate to enter.”

  The idea met with approval, and Corbin, who sat at the tiller, set course for the falls. In time the roar filled their ears. When they could feel the water move faster and cold mist touched their faces, they poled swiftly for the shore. Brand leapt to the land and made the skiff fast with heavy ropes. They all climbed out and walked beneath the dark canopy of the Haven Wood.

  Burning lanterns and walking carefully, the group slipped behind the falls and entered a wide, flat cave. The walls were wet with mist, but the sandy bottom was dry enough for comfort. They lit a small fire and Corbin cooked a fine dinner of leeks and toasted shellfish with a dessert of dried peaches prepared during the summer.

  “I’ll say this,” Modi chuckled, slipping a notch on his belt. “You River Folk certainly know how to feed yourselves.”

  “At least Corbin does,” added Brand, to which they all laughed and saluted Corbin’s excellent cooking and preparation.

  Corbin accepted the compliments with a smile and a nod. His mouth was too full of dried peaches to allow anything else.

  Modi took the first watch. They bedded down and the night passed swiftly with only one interruption. Brand awoke to find Modi standing at the cave entrance, looking out into the night. He came and stood at the warrior’s side. Noticing him, Modi pointed out the cave mouth into the woods. There, beneath the dark canopy of the trees, tiny lights circled and darted.

  “The Faerie…” breathed Brand. “Here in the Haven Wood!”

  Modi nodded, gesturing for him to be silent. Brand watched them for a time, then returned to his bed. They appeared to be of the harmless sort, and soon enough it would be his turn at watch. It was when he was coming back to bed that he saw the little man stealing their food.

  He grabbed up a stick from the woodpile and charged after the manling, who turned and fled with great bounds that carried him over the sleeping figures of Telyn and Gudrin. He wore a waistcoat of bright blue and carried an armful of dried peaches from their supplies. One or two of them fell upon the sleeping figures.

  Brand gave chase, but it was hopeless, the Wee Folk were far too swift for a man to catch on foot. With a final act of frustration mixed with amusement, he hurled the stick after the creature, which thumbed its nose at him as it disappeared into a hole that doubtlessly led to the surface. Shaking his head, Brand returned to his bed and after a time slept again.

  * * *

  In the morning they found that their boat had been ransacked. The sails were gone as were the poles. The plugs at the bottom of the vessel had been pulled and it had half-sunk, scudding along the bottom in the current.

  “Merlings!” cried Brand. “First the Fae, and now the Merlings plague us as well!”

  “It would only make sense,” Gudrin told him. “For the creatures you call ‘Merlings’ have never been happy with your dominance of the River Haven. They see it as their home, and now that the Faerie plague you, they will crawl forth from their dens and stake their claims upon your lands as well.”

  “But we are familiar with Merlings,” complained Corbin. “Why have they always beleaguered us even when the Pact was in force?”

  “Because the Pact only provides protection against the Faerie and various monsters they consort with,” explained Gudrin. “The merlings are a simple mortal race, and not bound to Oberon.”

  Brand sourly inspected the damage. Only the thick ropes, which had apparently defied the attempts of the web-handed Merlings to untie them, had kept the skiff from drifting over the falls as they slept.

  “Damned nuisance!” complained Brand as they hauled back in their damaged boat and began to bail. It took hours to repair it and cut new poles. It was half way to noon by the time they set out, all poling hard to keep from being sucked over the roaring falls. Brand looked out upon the beautiful Haven Wood, so friendly during his childhood. Now what was to become of it?

  The group worked the poles and sweated. It would take them another day or two yet to reach North End without sails. Brand hoped that Myrrdin had some answers. He wished to return his home to the way it had been.

  Chapter Ten

  Myrrdin

  North End was a small village bordered by Old Hob’s Marsh to the west and the Faerie Wood to the east. Further north were the Dead Kingdoms, a vast region once thickly inhabited by humans. The Dead Kingdoms were outside the protected boundaries of the River Haven. Now none lived there but ghosts, ghouls and darker things. Even the Faerie and the Wandering Folk avoided the area as it was as full of ancient evils as ancient glories.

 
; North End was primarily a fishing settlement, and a fleet of sailing sloops loaded with fine-woven nets thronged the docks. The tallest building in the town was an Inn called the Blue Lantern, which stood three stories high. Thrusting up from the sole muddy street, it was built of orange bricks that were weathered and pock-marked. Swinging and creaking in the ever-present wind, the Blue Lantern’s namesake glowed above the entrance and guided travelers into its common room.

  Brand and the others came up from the docks and followed the blue glow of the huge lantern that gave the Inn its name. They entered and were quickly ushered to a table by the rotund innkeeper, Pompolo. He, like most of the folk in North End, was of the Sonner clan. Pompolo had only one hand, the other having been lost long ago in a boating accident that had ended his career as a fisherman and brought him into a new career: inn-keeping. Always good-natured, he claimed that the hook the physician had attached to his severed wrist worked better than his old hand as he could gather the handles of more empty ale tankards with it.

  “Pompolo! My good man! Never has a sight been more welcome to my eyes than your round face!” said Brand as he took his place.

  “Ah! Master Brand and Master Corbin! Excellent to see you lads! It has been months since you came to taste my beer!” said Pompolo, placing great frothing mugs of his home brew in front of them without even asking. His eyes passed over Telyn and the two Battleaxe Folk, and his smile faded, then came back on, full force. “But you must tell me, where is your brother Jak? And what’s this news I hear that something has gone amiss with the Pact?”

  Brand and the others exchanged glances. He cleared his throat. He briefly explained the events of the past nights, leaving out the details of the fighting at Froghollow and the suspicions of many that the Rabing and Fob clans had caused it all. That news would come to North End soon enough.

  “Oh! Such grim tidings! Whatever will we do with the Wee Folk running amok in our village! My beer will sour and the fish will slip our nets as if oiled!” cried Pompolo, slapping his hand to his forehead.