by B. V. Larson
“Oh, I should hope not. That sounds vile.”
Piskin hopped two steps closer to her, and leered upward into her face. She recoiled from him slightly. She hoped her reaction was not obvious and rude. Piskin seemed to take no notice of her retreat.
“I will confide in you, and you alone, milady,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “He is a vile one, that Tomkin. Bumpkin, that should be his name, I say!”
Telyn blinked at him and laughed. “I have to admit, he is ill-mannered at times. But his heart is in the right place.”
Piskin harrumphed and tsked. “As to that, I cannot say. He is not here, however, and I would urge you to avoid him. But something else comes to mind: I had thought he would be hiding with soiled trousers behind your ramshackle walls. Your inquiry, however, indicates he has been absent for quite some time, am I correct?”
Telyn blinked in annoyance. Moment by moment, she continually found herself liking Piskin less. “Yes,” she said, wondering if she should offer this ill-mannered manling any information at all. “I don’t know where he is, but he’s not behind our walls.”
Nodding, Piskin tipped his hat to her. “Good luck with your hunt then, milady. I must be off. Remember what I said when this is all over: don’t let yourself become barren and old! It would be a grand injustice for all!”
“Um, right,” she said, and watched him bounce away. She frowned after him, marveling at his rudeness and single-mindedness. What business was it of his when she wedded and had children?
She returned to the stronghold certain of only one new thing: she did not like Piskin.
* * *
As Brand and Corbin rounded the mound for the last time and returned to their version of the world, they realized that much time had indeed passed. The sky was not yet pink, but neither was it black. The bluish twilight heralded the coming of dawn. They walked away from the mound and toward the camp, which was nothing but smoldering embers now.
“There!” hissed Brand, grabbing Corbin’s arm and pointing with the axe into a nearby thicket. “Rhinogs are inside the perimeter and inching closer to the camp.”
“I don’t see them, but I no longer doubt your night vision,” replied Corbin in his ear. “They must not be affected by the charmed walls.”
“Either that, or the charm has lost its potency. Myrrdin said it was only a matter of time.”
The two hurried toward the camp. Brand found there was no point in trying to be discreet while wearing metal armor. He strode proudly, almost wanting the rhinogs to attack. It would feel good to cut some of them down. Very good. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew that what he felt was the bloodlust of the axe, but that didn’t seem to matter. He saw no way to avoid killing this day.
As they neared the burnt camp, he saw that it had been all but abandoned. Burnt corpses marked where some of the Haven troops had met with grim ends, immolated by burning tar.
“Here, look!” said Brand. A sick feeling ran through him. “This is the body of Pompolo! The hetman of North End! There will be no more good ale left in his town after this.”
“Pompolo? No! Could it be someone else?” Corbin asked as he came to gaze upon the corpse for a moment. A dozen days ago they had supped at Pompolo’s table. His hook, which he had ever claimed helped him take up even more empty ale jacks, made his corpse unmistakable.
“It seems worse somehow,” said Brand, “to look upon the body of a friend. It makes me think that everyone of these dead men had loved ones, people who would be shattered and weeping to see this.”
“So many of us have been killed already,” agreed Corbin. “But I fear that many more will fall before the battle is done.”
“This body has been beheaded!” said Brand moving on across the battlefield. “Could we be too late? Has the battle already been waged and lost?”
“No, I don’t think so,” said Corbin, eyeing the corpse he indicated. “The head is nowhere near. The bodies are all soaked in the muck of the swamp as well, as if dragged through it.”
“But no fire has touched it,” protested Brand. “If the rhinogs haven’t yet attacked, how did it get hacked apart?”
“Over there is another, and it is more completely dismembered,” said Corbin. “I see no signs of rhinog dead, however. I must admit I’m at a loss.”
“Let’s move on to the dome,” said Brand. “I’m wondering how it has fared through this fiery night.”
As they approached the entrance, they were halted and challenged. Brand lifted the axe and let it wink its golden eye once, to identify himself. A ragged cheer went up from the men in the gatehouse when they entered.
“Where is Tylag?” demanded Brand.
The men at the gate ushered him through and into the gatehouse. There he met Modi.
“Tylag has left me in command here. He has taken most of the militia to the keep. They have concealed themselves in the crumbling walls and the thick brush there. The rhinogs have been dropping flaming pitch on the camp all night, although we left it hours ago.”
“Is Telyn still here?”
“The girl? No.”
“Have the rhinogs attacked yet?” asked Corbin anxiously.
“No,” replied Modi. “Not in strength. Just fireballs and raven-fletched crossbow bolts. They will attack soon though, just as Myrrdin said. They have waited the night to harass us and keep us from sleeping. At our lowest ebb, they will attack. Their ways redefine cowardice.”
“But what of the bodies outside?” asked Brand. He explained about the dismembered corpses that littered the area.
“They are from the river, from the battle with the merlings. Every tenth volley or so from the catapults launch bodies, rather than fireballs,” said Modi. “The fighting has slowed of late. I think they prepare for a new stage of battle.”
Brand eyed the smoldering keep grimly. He felt the axe urging him to charge, to take matters to the enemy, but he fought to think clearly. Perhaps his companions were right. Brand looked down at the axe. The haft of it was still in his grasp, despite the fact that the last attack had long since been beaten off. With a concentrated effort he placed the axe back in his backpack. A wave of fatigue swept over him and threatened to turn the world black.
“I think I must take this pause in the fighting to rest,” he said. For a time, he knew no more.
* * *
Telyn sought Tomkin in the ruined castle. Moving about in the fortress was difficult. The stone was old and had been weakened in unknown battles centuries earlier. A granite bridge between battlements might be as solid as bedrock or as treacherous as a muddy cliff in a storm. Often, as she climbed between broken towers and crumbling parapets, she was forced to take leaps to cross yawning expanses and thus avoid a fall. All the while the slow, steady bombardment continued. Stone balls, the heads of slain River Folk and occasional clumps of burning pitch flew and crashed all around.
She found Tomkin at last in a dark chamber in the back of the castle. It was a protected area at least, and the bombarding stones had not yet managed to penetrate the old walls this deeply. Tomkin was alone in the chamber and stood at the rearmost window, gazing out toward the Black Mountains.
Sensing something odd about his manner, and the manner of those who stood guard outside, Telyn approached him quietly. Her padding feet made little sound on the rough flagstone floor. Each flagstone, mortared together in a perfect mosaic a thousand years earlier, was emblazoned with a painted symbol. Glancing down at the faded paint she thought she recognized the symbol. The writing was ancient in style, and the script was hard to read, but it had to be the cursive form of the letter “R”.
“Yes,” Tomkin said. “They painted each stone the same. Clan Rabing always was a prideful bunch.”
Telyn’s eyes flicked up toward Tomkin, but he still stood gazing out the window. How had he seen what she saw?
She knew the answer the moment he turned to face her. He was wearing the Blue Jewel. Lavatis glimmered on his chest, hung there by a light chai
n of silver. The Jewel brightened as she gazed at it, almost as if it greeted her. Could it be winking in acknowledgement of her gaze? How strange was the Blue! She knew only a little of its history. Long in the possession of the Faerie, tales of the Blue were wild and fanciful.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
Tomkin stared at her. His odd, black-glass eyes reflected the light of the Jewel on his breast. When he drew breath, she saw now, the Jewel brightened, ever so slightly, as if it drew breath with him.
“Indeed it ‘tis, girl. Its beauty corrupts my mind. I can feel it.”
Telyn stared at the Jewel. “It’s different than Ambros,” she said. “I know a little of the Jewel’s history. It is a long story of bizarre behavior—and frequent death. It is known to some as the Jewel of Madness. Only Oberon has been able to hold it at bay for long.”
Tomkin’s nose lifted. He stood proudly on the window sill. “Much of that history was due to the odd habits of those who possessed it, not due to the nature of the Jewel itself!”
Telyn nodded in understanding. “You love it dearly now, don’t you? You can’t bear to hear even a bad word spoken of the Blue.”
Tomkin nodded, and his prideful gaze dimmed somewhat. “There is a grain of truth in thy words.”
“Are you going to wield it, Tomkin?”
“I have donned it, and I have attuned myself to it. The Blue stands ready should the need come.”
Telyn licked her lips. She moved to stand next to him in the arched window. There was no glass there, if there ever had been. Winds puffed in through the window into her face, lifting her hair up so it flew about her in a wild pattern. “I fear for thee, Wee One, should you need to wield this glowing thing on your breast. Some say you will fail.”
“Who speaks so?” Tomkin growled. His teeth bared themselves, and if anything, she thought they were a shade brighter than before.
Telyn slowly turned her head, eyes wide, to gaze down at Tomkin. There was an odd look on his face. “Piskin showed great concern,” she said, “he told me—”
“That vicious little fop!” Tomkin shouted with sudden feeling. Then he laughed wildly. His head opened wide so his teeth, gums, flaring lips and flapping tongue were all revealed at once. “He plays every game at once, and invents two more besides!”
She knew a sudden rush of fear as she gazed into his face. She saw a fresh, frightening madness there. Was it the Jewel’s influence, or was it Tomkin’s natural personality coming to the fore? She could not be sure. Brand changed when he took hold of the axe. She had expected some variety of change in Tomkin, but she had not expected this. She did not see bloodlust in the manling’s eyes, but rather a new light that did not come from a sane, healthy mind. She was not sure which was worse. She thought about her task as Brand’s Second. Could she perform such a service for Tomkin? She doubted it. Things could not be the same, as Tomkin had no love for her, and she would not even be able to catch him, should he spring out this window and race away.
Tomkin stopped laughing, and Telyn realized it was raining outside now. A gentle sprinkle at first, which quickened into a steady tapping.
Telyn stared outside, not daring to look at the madness in Tomkin’s face. “Tomkin,” she said in a whisper, “did you call this rain?”
“It will come from there, when it is born upon this land,” said Tomkin, as if he had not heard her. He pointed out the window into the hazy distance past the limits of the silvery rain drops.
“What will come, Tomkin?” she asked in a whisper. “Do you call the Rainbow?”
Tomkin did not answer. It was as if he dreamed, or hallucinated with a fever. She was sure he was seeing and hearing things her mind had no hint of. The rains paused outside, but these skies did not clear. Clouds shifted and roiled up there, hanging over the castle walls.
“Will thy hand reach to mine, should I fall?” asked Tomkin suddenly.
Telyn looked at him in surprise. There was a new expression there upon his waxy skin, one she had never seen before upon the face of a Wee One. It took her a moment to recognize it as a look of fear.
“Yes,” she told him gently. It seemed to her as if her voice came down from miles above them both. She almost could not credit herself with saying the words. “I will stand with you—whatever comes to greet us.”
The two gazed out the window together, side by side, tiny manling and human maiden. Neither knew what was coming, but both understood they would at least not face it alone.
Chapter Fifteen
Brand’s Gamble
Brand awakened in confusion. He had just put the axe down, hadn’t he? Wielding the weapon was exhausting. Had he truly slept long? He checked the sun in the sky, noting it had moved further to the west, but he could not have slept for more than an hour. His mind dulled again and his chin sagged down again to touch his breastplate. He forced his eyes to open fully and snapped his head back up. He blinked at Corbin in confusion. “I must have nodded off for a moment.”
“Indeed you did,” said Corbin.
“You should not have let me sleep.”
“You needed it.”
“I must admit I’m unsure what to do,” said Brand, climbing wearily to his feet. “If we hold, can we truly kill all the rhinogs ever spawned that are sent against us? And then the Wild Hunt after that?”
“I can’t answer such a question, I’m sorry, cousin,” said Corbin.
Brand looked at the men around him. They seemed a frightened lot of farmers, which was exactly what they were. They were tired and scared and dirty and cold. Soot-streaks, burns and bandaged limbs were everywhere. He felt all the worse for having abandoned them, but at least he had stopped Myrrdin from reforging a Pact that would put them under the yoke again for another century. He wondered how the day would end.
Inside, he knew what he must do. He needed the axe to uplift him, and he called upon it to do so.
“Take heart, River Folk!” he shouted and grinned at them, and let the axe surge heat down his arm and into his body. He held it aloft and the Golden Eye winked brightly, blinding everyone present. “The Axeman is among you! The rhinogs are cunning and vicious, but they are cowardly by nature. They are no more than merlings bearing fur and you all saw how the merlings fared against the axe! The rhinogs will do no better!”
The men cheered and wiped at their tearing, dazzled eyes. Their cheers turned to cries of fear as a fireball whooshed down and landed upon the dome. A smattering of liquid flame dripped down into the enclosure, but somehow it held up. Brand could see now that many burnt spots decorated the once leafy dome. It was still solid however, and nowhere had it been burnt completely through.
There came a keening sound from outside, and a dozen low horns blared at once. The men inside the dome scrambled back to their positions without having to be told. The attack was on.
Brand and Corbin rushed after Modi to the entrance where they looked out into the dimly lit landscape. Dark figures ran forward in crouched positions, hurrying from one scrap of cover to the next. Suddenly, a great flight of black-fletched arrows and bolts clattered against the walls. One bowman of the Haven fell back, clutching at his chest. They returned fire and Brand saw several rhinogs fall.
“There!” he told Modi. “Tell them to concentrate their fire to the west. That brush is hiding a dense pack of the enemy, massing up for a charge. I think the goblins themselves may be in there.”
Modi gave him a quizzical look, but relayed his orders to the crossbowmen, who fired with good results. A number of rhinogs and several goblins fled the thicket. Those that ran in the wrong direction were shot down as they came out into the open.
In the meantime, a large number of enemy had reached the walls. Even as the Haven archers trained their weapons down upon them, several new companies of enemy bowmen appeared as if melting into being from the landscape itself and pelted the Haven troops with arrows to keep them ducking. Thusly covered by their archers, the assaulting rhinogs threw up grapples and clambered up t
he crumbling walls. Wielding a knife in each hand, they fought viciously with the men on the walls. But the thorn-laden vines and the longer weapons of the River Folk tore them apart. Brand and Corbin moved from spot to spot and hacked down any of the enemy that managed to wriggle their way into the gatehouse before they could stab men in the back.
Suddenly, the rhinogs fell back and retreated. The River Folk cheered and drilled arrows into the humping furred backs. The assault only lasted minutes, but they all felt exhausted. A few rhinog injured still wriggled amongst the vines, skewered by thorns and arrows.
“We showed them something of the Haven!” shouted Brand, elated to see their enemy fleeing.
“Your cheek is torn,” said Corbin.
“It’s nothing. I would love to pursue them and cut them down, but even the axe couldn’t protect me from so many arrows,” said Brand. “Here, man! What are you doing?”
“I’m bandaging your cheek. It’s bleeding.”
“Nonsense! It’s nothing but a scratch! Leave it, man!”
Corbin gave up, throwing his hands up. “Okay. You’re the Axeman. I’m sure you can’t be bled to death.”
Brand sighed and closed his eyes to think. “Yes, all right cousin. Fix my wound.”
Even as Corbin finished his work, not ten minutes later, the goblins managed to whip their offspring enough to launch another assault. This time, they focused on the entrance, sending dozens of fresh troops against the makeshift barrier that the old, twisted portcullis provided. Again, the enemy archers pelted the walls heavily with black-fletched bolts. Modi, Brand and Corbin ran to the entrance. A desperate struggle commenced. The sheer force of their stinking, struggling bodies forced open the portcullis. Modi threw his weight and strength against it, along with the two strong river-boys. For a moment, they held. Grunting and sweating, the struggling knot of soldiers on both sides filled the air with foul stenches. Finally, their sheer numbers overwhelmed the defenders and the rhinogs forced their way inside.