Haven Magic

by B. V. Larson

  But then the sounds began behind them. Chittering noises at first, the sounds that falling pebbles might make. Everyone was filled with disquiet. On the third day after Githa’s death, the facts couldn’t be ignored by anyone. They were heading into a hot zone, quite possibly a lava chamber, and they were being followed by… Something. Most likely, from the growing volume, a lot of somethings.

  Whenever the tunnels forked, Modi took the cooler route, the direction that flowed less hot air into his face. But still, the heat grew with each passing hour. They began to sweat, and then as the heat grew greater still, the sweat was dried from their brows as quickly as it formed there.

  In a relatively cool twist of the tunnels, they found the plug. It was the end of the third day. And no one was happy to see the plug, save for Modi. It was a large black thing, as burnt, beaten and melted as an old iron kettle. They stood around it gazing upon the rough surface, and none spoke.

  Such plugs were not unknown. In fact, many were mapped by the Kindred, for they were the ones who created them. Always a plug of this type, formed of iron and melted slag, represented a sealed off region of the caverns. Below this plug in the floor, which was a good dozen feet in diameter, had once been discovered something that had given their ancestors great trouble. The fact that this plug was not on any known map, that they had no knowledge of what was beneath it, was the most disturbing thing about it.

  The Kindred are not a cowardly folk. Anything but, most will tell you. But when faced with lava ahead, the unknown below, and the creeping sounds of creatures following behind, even their brave hearts will fail them eventually. And so it was that upon the end of the fourth night after Githa’s fall, the crew approached Modi and made their plea. They wanted to turn back and head up the way they had come. They wished to make all haste, casting aside all unnecessary gear and carrying nothing but weapons, climbing necessities, Githa’s body—and of course, their rubies.

  Modi eyed each in turn with disgust curling his lip.

  “One more day,” he asked them. “Follow me one more day. I have a feeling about this shaft ahead. I know it looks worrisome, but I ask you for patience. I have led you this far into the Everdark and I ask that you don’t abandon me now.”

  They looked to one another, uncertain, but in the end none dared to face his will, nor his very possible wrath. They gave him one more day.

  Before their delicate mechanical contrivances told them that one more day had passed, they reached the lava chambers. The tunnel did not pass through cleanly as all had hoped. Instead, it ended here, in a fiery pit of molten rocks and unstable ground. Chimneys rose up from the chambers to fresh tunnels above, but none of them could be certain what lay in that direction.

  Modi faced defeat. He ordered that Githa’s body be cast into the fires they found there, which glowed a lurid red upon the walls. None of them argued. The heat had set the body to stinking and none of them wish to drag home her corpse to her family in such a state. When her body slipped into the liquid stone from whence it had originally come, there was a flash of yellow flame. He faced his crew again, and everyone was crestfallen.

  “At least it was a proper burial. I did not wish to turn from our path, but the Shaper of the Earth has sought to change my mind. We will return up the passage the way we came.”

  After this pronouncement, audible relief swept through his company. But it was to be short-lived.

  “You, Gamal,” he said, pointing out a relatively skinny miner who had long been the quickest to complain. “You are light of foot and quick of mind. You have a special mission. You will shed everything but the equipment required to climb. Follow these chimneys up to find tunnels with sweeter air above.”

  “Alone?” asked Gamal. Some thought to hear a tiny quaver in his voice, but they would not believe it afterward. None of the Kindred quailed from a dangerous task rightfully given.

  Modi’s smile was grim. “I can only spare one. You will carry a message to my father. We don’t know what is following behind. We can’t all go up the chimneys, as we don’t know what lies that way, and we would have to abandon all our riches to do it.”

  The others looked troubled, but had to agree with his logic. They liked the idea of aid coming down their way. Modi knew, of course, they would never agree to abandon all their rubies, not unless death faced them clearly. Even then, that was a command they might not have followed. Also, everyone but Gamal liked the idea that Gamal would be the one to undertake this very hazardous duty.

  Gamal drew in a breath and arranged his bristling beard. He nodded, and it was agreed. They used ropes and tackle to hoist him up the first chimney, and he called back he had indeed found a tunnel that was passable. A ragged cheer went up from the crew. He waved at them from the top of the shaft and they waved back. Then he was gone.

  Distributing the weight of Gamal’s rubies evenly, and relieved of the burden of Githa’s body, their spirits rose. They turned to face whatever it was that had followed them for nearly a week now.

  Skittering sounds came from the dark tunnels ahead. Grimly determined, they followed Modi back into the tunnels from which they had come and left the lava chambers behind.

  Chapter Two

  Unrest in the Haven

  The River Haven, generally called the Haven by residents, consisted of the lands stretched along both shores of the Berrywine river. The river itself was the biggest in Cymru, about three hundred yards wide in most places, and ran south to north. The forests to the east of the river were called the Haven woods, and were generally considered more wholesome, while the forests to the west were called the Deepwood, a place full of thorny thickets and wild things. The Haven was bordered in the north by the great marshlands and the town of North End. In that direction, past the great swamps, lay the sea. To the south, Frogmorton was the farthest settlement to be found, surrounded on all sides by forests and mountains. And in the center of the Haven, in the midst of the very river itself, stood Stone Island. The island boasted cliffs of granite guarding three sides, all sides save for the east. Riverton, the largest town and the capital of the Haven sat on the shores of the east side of the island. There on the island, a patch of land less than ten miles long, the River Folk gathered for every festival and felt safest.

  Mari had grown up in the Haven, and lived on her family’s farm on the eastern shores of the Berrywine. The Haven woods had long been the border to her world, and she had spent her childhood playing in the shadows of the trees there. But now, she herself was with child.

  She had lain with an elf named Puck after All Hallows Eve, and he had left her with a new worry. She knew she was pregnant by the time the second snows came, in mid-November. She should not have known so soon, she thought. She was a farm girl, and she had witnessed the process of mating and birth. It should have taken longer for her to notice the swelling, but there it was, plain to see.

  She had met with Puck and lain with him on the final warm days of the year, after the first snows had melted. Barely two months had passed since then. The world had turned a wintery white and it would likely stay that way until spring.

  She was swelling very fast. It was not possible, not so quickly, but it was happening. By the time the family prepared for the winter festivals, she had taken to wearing baggy clothing. She had told her mother she was cold and feared falling ill. Fussing, mother had dug into the wardrobes and given her a heavy flowing cloak that she now wore night and day. The cloak worked well to hide a bump, but the bump continued swelling with alarming speed.

  Less than three months in, she could feel the child squirm and kick. Every time it did so, Mari’s heart pounded with fear. What had she done? What had she made?

  One afternoon when she thought she could get away without notice, she made her way out to the wheat fields. She took with her the ash leaf ward and her great cloak. Crunching through snow that would not soon melt, she stood at the edge of the forest. She cried for Puck. She cried out his true name. But he didn’t come. No one did
. When the land fell dark, she returned home with tears on her face.

  Somehow, when she got back that night to the house, her mother knew. She looked at her and saw that tears had drawn streaks on her face. Her hair had not been done up in a ribbon for weeks. Her heavy cloak could barely conceal her swollen belly and breasts.

  Mother, hands on her hips, stared at her. It was a hard, appraising stare. Mari met those accusing eyes briefly, but then cast hers downward. That was the moment. Mother knew now, and both of them understood this.

  The men of the house, of course, were oblivious. Father wanted supper, and nothing else. Mari was the oldest daughter, and her brothers only had eyes for other girls. To them, she was a moody, fattening sister, and almost invisible.

  After the plates had been cleared away and the dishes washed, her mother came to speak to her.

  “You didn’t eat much, Mari.”

  “I’m not very hungry tonight.”

  “Strange. A girl in your condition normally has quite an appetite.”

  Mari made no reply. Somehow, every moment of denial kept the truth away from her mind and kept her going. What had she been thinking? She had told Puck they would owe each other nothing after they had lain together. That was a fine arrangement for a male. But it had proven disastrous for her.

  Still, her mother’s hands were on her hips. She stood closer now, looming over Mari. Mari said nothing. She fidgeted with the ties to her cloak.

  Mother bade her to follow and led her outside into the cold, fresh night air. They went to get firewood together. It was there, in the woodshed, that Mari confessed she was indeed carrying a child. She did not say who the father was. Not yet.

  Mother’s lips were compressed into two firm lines. The lecture was long and stern and Mari fully expected it would come to blows, but it didn’t.

  Mother told her that they would not tell father, not yet. Maybe not ever. They would go visit an old woman in the forest. A woman who sold potions and poultices. She was a Fob woman, and she was wise in these matters. Mother said that they would talk to this old Fob woman in the forest, and they would see what could be done.

  Mari blinked back her tears, wondering what she meant. What could be done, after all?

  Mother left her there in the woodshed alone, before any more questions could be asked in private. Mari loaded up her arms with firewood and staggered back to the farmhouse.

  She wondered where Puck was and what he was doing.

  * * *

  Piskin had been bitter and vengeful before. He had been robbed of his lady fair, the maid Lanet Drake, after only a few happy hours. He had been abused by Dando, and although Dando was dead, that abuse he still listed in Piskin’s private column of debts unpaid.

  The abuses had not stopped there, however. Oh no, fate and every other actor on the stage had a ready foot to kick poor Piskin. After Dando’s friends had chased him from his fairly acquired crib, he had tried to seek reasonable compensation. When another of his kind named Tomkin had stolen the Blue Jewel, Piskin had sought to seize it. After all, it was only right that the property of the dead Dando become his. Dando had greatly wronged him and therefore first claim went to the wronged party. Any court would have stood with him, he felt sure. It was irrelevant that none of the Wee Folk had ever respected the rulings of any court in history. Fair was fair.

  But, had Tomkin handed over the Jewel, that which was clearly Piskin’s due? Far from it, instead the vicious bastard had done him a grave injury. His hand was off, and wouldn’t likely regrow for decades, perhaps a century.

  If one of his glass-like eyes could have cried, Piskin would have shed a tear for his severed hand. What good was a changeling with a missing hand? How would one carry off a babe with but a single hand? Worse, far, far, worse, was the second question: what mother would accept a semblance of her child when that child was suddenly missing a hand? She would at the very least consult a physician and demand an explanation. Piskin knew that physicians were charlatans, the same as he, but if there was one thing a sham-artist did well, it was spotting others of his own kind.

  And so it was that Piskin had no chance of seeking solace in the arms of a fresh maid. That avenue of joy, which he had waited out the centuries of the Pact to experience again, was cut off from him, just as surely as his hand had been removed.

  What he dwelt upon now, as he sat upon a tree stump in the gloom of the Deepwood, brooding, was something else entirely. He wanted revenge. He wanted blood and pain and most of all, he wanted his enemies to regret greatly what they had done to him. They would be sorrowful they had ever heard the name of Piskin.

  Accordingly, he had investigated the players involved in his mistreatment. He had asked among the growing throng of fools and run-abouts that Tomkin had gathered to him. These dupes believed the black-hearted knave Tomkin to be some kind of lord, some kind of hero. They didn’t tell him much and he knew he was unwelcome, but he learned of Brand and the axe and the disposition of the other Jewels.

  Each of the powers involved seemed well accounted for. Brand had the axe, Tomkin had Lavatis, Hob had the horn Osang. The possession of each item of power was known, save for one. That one was the bloodhound. What had happened to that creature? What was that creature?

  Piskin intended to find out. He sought out the one person who possibly hated Dando, Tomkin and Brand as much as he did. The one person who had been wronged by these foul tricksters. Oberon.

  Oberon, Lord of the Shining Folk and sire of many of them, had not been seen much of late. He no longer danced upon the mounds. At twilight, he did not accost maidens and play his pipes as had ever been his favorite pastime. Piskin imagined that somewhere, in the Twilight Lands, Oberon was sulking. Perhaps he was bitter, even as Piskin was. Perhaps his hate ran as deep, and the wrongs heaped upon him were as poison in his mind.

  Piskin smiled at the thought. It would be good to have a fellow vengeful comrade. He set off around the nearest mound, starting at midnight. Nine times widdershins did he circle the mound, and with each circling he became less distinct to those in the mortal world.

  After the ninth circuit, he vanished completely.

  END Excerpt

  Be sure to read the rest of the Haven Series by B. V. Larson!

  Table of Contents

  Book I: AMBER MAGIC

  Book II: SKY MAGIC

  Book III: SHADOW MAGIC

  Beginning of: DARK MAGIC