Haven Magic

by B. V. Larson

The redcap hissed and made ready to meet him. There was a brief passage of arms. Brand was surprised when the redcap caught his axe upon his shield and turned it. He was even more surprised to find the other’s sword poised at his throat.

  For some reason, however, the creature paused in slaying him. Its yellow gaze met Brand’s, and Brand knew he faced death a thousand times over in those ancient eyes.

  Then he willed the axe to flash, and it did as he bid, filling the chamber with blinding Amber light. The redcap screeched and Brand beat its sword away from his throat. He struck again and again, knocking aside his foe’s guard. When its breast lay open to a killing stroke, he raise the axe again.

  Panting hard, he felt the exultation of victory. To slay his enemies and drink their small lives, that was his purpose now, it was clear in his mind.

  Yet, something tugged at him, gnawed at his guts. It was the black diamond on the shield. The creature at his feet, he knew, was the last defender of Castle Rabing. It was related to him, somehow. It seemed wrong that its passing should be so ignoble.

  “Know, last defender of Castle Rabing, that your task is at an end,” he told it. “I, a Rabing by birth, am now the lord of this place. I release you from your duties.”

  For a frozen moment, the two regarded one another. Brand wondered if the thing could even understand his speech. Then it made an effort, although not a violent one, to rise. Moving with the painful efforts of an old man, the creature knelt before him, exposing its neck.

  Brand knew immediately what it wanted, but despite the axe’s urging, he resisted. “No,” he said. “Perhaps you have had a hard path, but it is at an end. You are free to go.”

  The redcap said nothing. It removed its stained cap, clutching it to its breast. Brand wondered how many victims had been drained of their blood to feed this thing and soak its vile cap. His lip curled of its own accord.

  Brand turned as if to go. The redcap’s hand shot out and it grasped his ankle with steel fingers. “Release me, lord,” it croaked.

  Brand knew pity and disgust. He gave in to the urgings of the axe. With a single stroke, he chopped off its head.

  The head rolled to a stop at his feet. The dead mouth smiled at him.

  Brand grabbed up the shield and climbed his way back into the tower and the misty night outside. The Faerie were gone. There was no sign of them. Brand realized numbly that he had won the wager. His head was his to keep—for now. He felt alone and cold. He shivered in the darkness.

  He walked back toward the tiny flame of what he suspected must be another of Telyn’s beacons. Singular point of light burned steadily in the distance. Nothing else of the gatehouse could be seen in the darkness. Brand indeed felt drawn to that steady pinpoint of brightness. He wondered distantly if he could have seen it from leagues away. Had the axe changed him in some way, so as to make the beacon shine more clearly to him? Had he become a creature of the twilight? He was only a river-boy of the Haven, yet lately he had walked and dealt with the greatest of the Faerie. Could a man do such a thing without permanently changing his spirit?

  As he walked onward over the dark landscape, thinking such weighty thoughts, he absently put the axe back into his knapsack.

  It went without complaint. He stared down at the ice-white blades. His hand was free of it, without a struggle. It was as Oberon had said: he truly was its master.

  * * *

  “Brand!” cried Corbin. “Brand has returned!”

  Brand made no response, but instead trudged up to the gatehouse’s entrance with his head hung low.

  “You’ve been gone for days, man!” said Corbin. “We worried you would never return!” He scrambled down from his watchman’s post on the walls and strained at a lever. The grille shifted just enough to allow Brand to enter the gatehouse.

  “Days?” asked Brand vaguely. “I recall only one night.”

  “Often,” said Myrrdin, “people who walk with the Faerie find that time moves at a different pace with them.”

  Corbin came close to him now, and Brand heard him suck in his breath. “Are you hurt, cousin?” asked Corbin in concern. He took Brand’s arm. “You’re wet and sticky—” Corbin drew in his breath sharply. “Is that blood? Are you wounded?”

  Brand shook his head. “It’s not my blood,” he said in a hollow voice.

  Brand felt the other’s hands lessen their grip then, as if they wanted to pull away from him. He felt a pang at this. He was a murderer, and none would want to stain themselves with the blood of his victims. He thought of Oberon’s daughter and her silver locks. He recalled her name, Llewella, and felt a wave of sickness come over him. Would all others revile him from this day forward?

  Corbin helped him to the fire, then drew away and tried to inconspicuously cleanse his hands. Brand felt tainted. He thought of the redcap, who also wore garments soaked in the blood of its victims. He crouched before the fire and stared into the dancing yellow tongues, oblivious to those around him.

  Myrrdin approached him. He sighed as he seated himself on a fallen log they had pulled near the firepit to serve as a bench.

  “A new dawn is only hours off and Herla has yet to break through the charm that protects this place,” said Myrrdin. “Even the dark bard has given over his endless music as futile. It appears that we will pass another night safely.”

  Brand stuck out his hands to warm them. Then he saw they were stained and splotched with blood and drew them back into his cloak. In his pockets his hand felt the feathery touch of the elfkin-maiden’s silvery hair. He rubbed it briefly between his bloodstained fingers. His eyes stung and he blinked back tears.

  “I’ve looked often to the Faerie mound where I sent you,” said Myrrdin gently. “Each night there have been dancing colored lights and signs of great activity. What has occurred, Brand?”

  “I’ve slain innocence and evil both,” said Brand. He stuck out his hands again and looked at them. He wondered at the price upon his soul that mastering the axe had taken. “I’ve slain them in the world and in myself, both together.”

  Myrrdin looked troubled, but he nodded. “Was there a wager to be reckoned?”

  “Yes,” said Brand.

  “Have we lost—anything?”

  “Oberon wanted Lavatis, but I wagered my head instead,” said Brand in a dead voice.

  Telyn sucked in her breath sharply in alarm. Modi gave a heavy grunt of approval. Brand realized for the first time the others were all listening intently.

  “It seems to me that you must have won the wager, given the stakes,” said Myrrdin.

  Brand nodded.

  “Who then was slain?” Myrrdin asked.

  Brand eyed the blood on his hands and flexed them experimentally. For the first time, he considered washing them, but doubted he could ever fully remove the stain. “A daughter of Oberon. I cradled her severed head in my hands.”

  “Ah,” said Myrrdin. He nodded in understanding. “It is a wicked feeling, is it not?”

  “Yes, wicked,” said Brand. He eyed Myrrdin, and the other looked to him like an ancient man, crooked and bent with years and hard times. Brand knew he thought of the farmer’s daughter he had danced to death, or perhaps of worse things that he had known over his long life. “I also slew the redcap that guards this place,” Brand added.

  Myrrdin bounded up from the bench. He stood over Brand. “You have slain the redcap of Rabing Castle?” he demanded.

  “Yes,” said Brand, not looking up from his hands.

  Myrrdin set to pacing then. He tugged at his beard ferociously as he circled the fire. “This event is three things at once,” he said, “amazing, good for the future, and terrible in the present.”

  “What do you mean, wizard?” asked Gudrin. Brand noticed for the first time that Gudrin had been scribbling notes of this entire conversation. He snorted softly, wondering if he would be the subject of a story in the Teret some centuries from now.

  “Amazing because the redcap is not easily overcome,” explained Myrrdin.
“It is the vengeful spirit of this place, made here long ago by great butchery and empowered by the rage of all the victims of that butchery. Good in the long run, because all this area shall return more quickly to purity and usefulness with the absence of such a creature. Terrible in the present, because I believe the redcap’s presence kept alive the charm of warding upon this place.”

  “So,” said Gudrin, “with the redcap dead, Herla should soon be able to cross the fallen walls. This siege may soon become a battle.”

  “Exactly,” said Myrrdin, “we have little time left now, I should think.”

  Brand thought about Myrrdin’s words, and soon came to better understand Oberon’s choice of contest. He had caused Brand to slay the redcap, which would allow Herla to pass the walls. There would be a battle now for certain. Perhaps Oberon thought he might do better than to gain just one of the Jewels. Now there were many in play and there would be many chances for a wise player to snatch them up.

  “I have some small good news,” Brand said. He told them briefly of the armory he had found guarded by the redcap. They quickly agreed they should set out at first light to investigate the find and arm themselves for the coming conflict.

  “Too bad we have no army to supply with these arms,” said Modi regretfully.

  Brand blinked as a pail of steaming water was placed before him. He looked up to see Telyn there, smiling at him worriedly. He nodded in gratitude and she touched his brow with her lips before going to gather more wood. Brand began to carefully wash his hands. The spot where she had kissed him still tingled and it warmed him somehow.

  “What about all these green shoots you’ve had us gather for days, Myrrdin?” asked Corbin. “What will you make with these?”

  Myrrdin smiled at that. “You’ll see!” he said. “In the first light of morning, you’ll see what!”

  They talked for a while longer, but soon decided it was best to bed down again for whatever remained of the night. Modi was already snoring by this time. Corbin’s watch continued on the walls, and even Brand lay down and closed his eyes. Sleep didn’t come easily however, as each time his eyes shut he saw the child-like face of Oberon’s daughter.

  His eyes snapped open when the axe tapped his back some time later. He found that Tomkin crouched before him, head cocked to one side. He sat up and the manling hopped backward reflexively, then crouched again.

  “What do you want?” hissed Brand. From the sounds the others were making, it was clear that they slept.

  “Thy tale was woefully incomplete,” said Tomkin.

  Brand was irritated at having been awakened. He rested his head on his hand and laid down on his side. “You should have tagged along if you wanted to know more,” he growled. “They are your people, after all. Why didn’t you just join the throng that circled me?”

  “And have it be my head that thee wrongfully severed?” chuckled the manling.

  His words caused Brand a pang of guilt that the creature couldn’t have understood.

  Tomkin continued talking unconcernedly. “I would be hard put at any rate to fit in with Oberon’s court. I’ve spent too much time with River Folk. Thy stink permeates my person. The others would have known.”

  Brand waved him away and tried to go back to sleep. This time, his axe gave him a sharp rap of warning. A sudden pressure on his ribs made his eyes snap open again. Tomkin now stood on his chest. The manling gazed down into his face like a presumptuous housecat.

  “What are you doing?” Brand asked in amazement. Brand shook him off and sat up. Tomkin hopped down and smirked at him.

  “Calm thy anger. We must speak plainly.”

  Brand was as surprised at the idea of one of the Wee Folk speaking plainly as he was to have been walked upon. He glared at the manling, but nodded for him to continue.

  “Dando had a dream, and I think it was a good one,” Tomkin said. “He wanted the Wee Folk to wield a Jewel and thus become more than sneer-worthy. I bear Lavatis, and thou art the wielder of Ambros. If we can strike a bargain of sorts, we shall be the ones to govern a new Pact and hold Herla at bay.”

  “But what of Oberon?”

  Tomkin sniffed. “The elf lord has no basis for power left. It is best to deal with those who wield power.”

  “But you don’t wield power,” pointed out Brand. “Dando tried and went feral. Oberon is already attuned to the Jewel and would do the best to balance things between the Haven and Herla.”

  “Ah, but he is also likely to give the worst terms for just those reasons, is he not?”

  Brand thought about it for a moment, recalling the Pact and the seemingly endless tribute of one seventh of their crops. At the time, such a bounty was unquestioned and reasonable, but now, with the expansion of possibilities, it did seem a lop-sided arrangement.

  “If a deal was struck between the River Folk the Wee Folk—given that we could properly wield Lavatis—our terms would be nowhere near so harsh,” said Tomkin.

  “But you don’t speak for your people,” object Brand. “You are only a spy from the marshes.”

  At this, Tomkin grinned. “Thou art mistaken,” he said. He turned, placed his fingers over his mouth in an odd configuration and performed a perfect imitation of the call of a night insect that infested this region of the swamp. An odd buzzing sound filled the gatehouse, but no one else took notice.

  “I’ve brought a companion.”

  There was a blur of movement and a creature very much like Dando sprang over the gatehouse wall and scuttled forward to join Tomkin. The creature tipped his hat to Brand and bowed low so that his coattails flipped up.

  “Piskin, at your service, sirrah,” said Piskin. He flashed a winning smile. His accent and speech were quite different than Tomkin’s, being both more modern and more eloquent.

  “Huh! Another spy!” whispered Brand. It came to him Modi would have said exactly the same thing. Perhaps he was beginning to think like a warrior. The idea made him smile grimly.

  Tomkin looked angry and opened his wide mouth to retort, but Piskin laid a hand on his shoulder and shook his head.

  “Not at all, sirrah, not at all,” said Piskin, taking Brand’s comment in stride. He paused his strutting in front of Brand, and gazed up at him steadily. Brand thought that perhaps the creature recognized him, but he could not recall having met him.

  “I’m an envoy in fact, for my people,” continued Piskin. “The Wee Folk have lords of our own, you see.”

  “Are you a lord of the Wee Folk, then?” asked Brand, putting his head on his elbow. He recalled once having been greatly interested in the Wee Folk, but now he just wished he could get some sleep.

  Piskin cleared his throat, touching a lacy handkerchief to his lips as he did so. “I am of noble birth, yes,” he said, “but let us speak of more worthy things—”

  “Are you from Herla’s pack? Do you run before the coursers?”

  “No! No! A thousand times no, sirrah!” said Piskin, horrified at the suggestion. “I’ve nothing to do with those hotheaded turncoats and runabouts. Not a brain between the lot of them, I’ve always said.”

  Brand smiled despite himself. He nodded to indicate that Piskin should continue.

  “I represent the high-born and—” here he glanced sidelong at Tomkin, “—and the low-born amongst the Wee Folk. We feel that we’ve never been given a fair shake. We’ve never been taken seriously as a political force. This has changed, now that first Dando and now Tomkin have gained and maintained possession of the Blue Jewel. Clearly, although Dando wielded it prematurely in his own defense, the Wee Folk can and will defend their right to this source of power.”

  Brand yawned. Piskin reminded him of the lawyers that old man Silure had sent to try to argue them out of Rabing Isle. He was only two feet high, but he was clearly a stuffed shirt.

  “So, I’m here to bargain on behalf of my Folk,” Piskin continued. “We will soon be in the position to summon the Rainbow in our defense—and control it.”

  “But Lavat
is is staying here for now,” said Brand. “We made a deal to that effect with Tomkin, who possesses the Jewel.”

  Piskin cleared his throat again. He paced back and forth before Brand, twirling his walking stick with easy grace each time he turned around. “This is an unfortunate detail,” he admitted. “Let me come to the crux of our offer. We wish to form a new Pact with the River Folk. The new Pact shall be one of mutual defense. You shall retain the axe and wield it in our joint effort at the head of a respectably-sized army. We shall provide information about the enemy and wield Lavatis as our part of the defensive effort.”

  Brand frowned in concentration. This was serious business, he realized. It sounded attractive, but he didn’t like the idea of enraging Oberon, nor the idea of depending on the Wee Folk for the Haven’s defense. Still, he was in need of whatever allies he could garner.

  “In principle, we’re in agreement,” said Brand. “I would propose something perhaps less grand and more immediate.”

  Piskin leaned forward intently.

  “We both need to survive this siege by the Wild Hunt. If we work together, I think the Wee Folk are more likely to retain control of Lavatis and we the axe.”

  Piskin paced a bit more. When he stopped, his eyes narrowed, and he took on the more cunning look that Brand had so often seen on the faces of his kind. “What is to keep us from taking the Jewel away to safety right now?”

  Brand shrugged. “Tomkin has given his word. And as I understand it, any of the Fae would sooner die than break their word.”

  Piskin pretended to cough into his hanky. “Indeed,” he said, “well, what if others, shall we say, decided that Tomkin wasn’t the best guardian of Lavatis?”

  “What are you getting at?” asked Brand. Tomkin too, seemed suddenly more interested.

  “What if Tomkin were to ah—lose the Jewel?” asked Piskin. He gave a suggestive twirl of his cane, ending in a light rap upon his skull that dented his top hat.

  “Thy hands would be severed first,” growled Tomkin.

  “I’m but one agent of the Wee Folk,” admitted Piskin. “But as the River Folk say, where there is one Wee Folk in sight, in the brush there are another dozen.”