by B. V. Larson
Puck had pulled into view a young girl with hair of flaxen gold. It was Dee, one of Brand’s twin daughters. Her mouth was gagged and her eyes were wide in terror.
“I think not, Axeman,” Puck said.
Brand lowered his hand slowly. “If you are Puck, you will not do this thing. You know what is right and wrong. Let me break the spell which makes a mockery of your bones and dead flesh.”
Puck shook his head slowly. “I can’t do that. I am Puck, but I’m not the same as I once was. I’m gripped by the Black more firmly than the Axe has ever held your mind.”
“I see. Let us parlay further, then.”
Slet’s eyes followed Brand’s hands closely. He relaxed when they retreated from the Axe.
“Well done Puck,” Slet said. “I was afraid threats might be needed to make you listen to me, Brand. I didn’t want this. I was faced with wandering the wilderness with Dead companions—that, or trying to convince you I could become an ally. Maybe I went about this the wrong way.”
Brand nodded slowly. “You could say that. Since I laid eyes upon you, here invading my home, I’ve thought of little else other than hacking you down.”
“I understand. But try to understand me. I’m protecting my family, just as you are now. I’m trying to keep my child alive. I have him right here, and I’m willing to do just about anything to keep him alive.”
Brand frowned. “What? I thought you said the child was burned?”
“Yes, but fortunately, he is of a resistant breed. When he reawakened, he was fine.”
“Show me this child or stop your lies.”
Slet opened his tunic and revealed the furry bundle inside. At first, Brand thought he was seeing a fluffy housecat, clinging to Slet’s belly. But then it turned its head to regard him with intelligent eyes. The claws flexed, digging into Slet’s sides. The man grimaced, but tried to keep a smile on his face.
“You see? He is my son—born of my dead wife Annelida. He’s all I have left, Brand. I’d do anything to protect him. Can you understand that? I feel about him just the same way you feel about Dee, here. In fact, let me release her now to help aid your decision.”
He nodded to Puck, who propelled the girl gently toward her father. Brand accepted her with a hand on her shoulder.
“Were you harmed, girl?” he asked.
“No father, but I doubt I’ll ever sleep again for the nightmares. How can you stand to deal with such terrible magicks?
“It’s a trick of the mind,” he explained. “I guess I’ve gotten used to it.”
He turned back to Slet and Puck sternly. “It’s good for you that she’s unharmed. I warn you, whatever deals we make, they will be erased instantly if you’ve injured or dishonored any of my kin.”
“Of course,” Slet said. “I would expect that. They may have a few rope burns and Jak has a sore head, but they listened to reason once I showed them the Black. I’m not good at wielding it yet, but they knew that no family of normal folk could stand up to one of the Jewels.”
“Bring out my wife then, I would have words with her.”
Slet hesitated, then nodded. Puck disappeared, then returned with Telyn. She looked angry and her hands were tied.
She walked out to join Dee and Brand, and her husband cut away her bonds.
“What should I do with them, Telyn?” he asked her. “I leave it up to you. You suffered their intrusion, not I.”
Telyn looked at him in surprise. She’d been glaring at Puck and his master.
“You want me to decide? Why?”
“Because it is their only chance. I can’t see reason right now. It’s all I can do to keep from going mad with the Axe right now. I know, however, that we may lose a member of our family if I do that. And I’m uncertain if my rage is just. As I said, I leave it up to you, who knows more of the situation than I do.”
“We could use another Jewel in the hands of the Haven folk. But I wish it weren’t the Black.”
“So do I.”
“They did not harm us. They did use base trickery, coming to the door and claiming that they were cold and carrying a young infant. I reached out to touch Puck’s arm—not recognizing him due to his drawn hood. He was as cold as ice. When we let them in, they showed us the Black and we dared not fight because the house was full of children. I’m glad you came, my husband.”
“It sounds as if you want to deal with them.”
“I have mixed feelings. But there is someone else to talk to here. Mari is inside as well.”
Mari walked out next, and she told Brand of Puck’s visit to her home. She pleaded with him for leniency.
“You can’t hope, dear woman, to take your husband back in this state?”
“No,” she said. “But I have another hope. He will be reburied properly when this is over. Slet has promised me that. Also, Brand, what of Trev? Have you seen my boy?”
Brand heaved a sigh. “This is becoming complex. I say we all go inside under a word of truce. All will be freed of their bonds. All will be poured hot tea—or whatever they want,” he said, with a glance at Puck. “No one will slay anyone for now. Let’s have peace in my family’s house today.”
They all agreed, and the group went into the sitting area. It was finally decided, however, to place Puck outside on guard duty. His Dead form was offensive to most, especially the children.
Brand found that Slet was a likable enough fellow for a necromancer. With a hot brew in his hands, he found he could deal with the man. He could understand fighting for the life of a child. He could understand the real crime had been performed by the Shining Lady and the Witch of the Wood.
Part of his mind felt a shred of guilt as well. He’d buried the Black with improper guardians. He’d hoped it would stay buried—all the while knowing it would not stay quiet forever—for the Jewels never did.
He’d also left Puck, Morcant and other victims of the Storm of the Dead in the Drake Crypt. He’d known they would rot where they fell, but had deemed it too dangerous to retrieve their bodies. To ease the minds of their relatives, they’d buried empty coffins miles away in an elaborate ceremony. Taken all together, these mistakes had helped lead to the tragic death of Corbin’s constables and the grim state of Puck’s corpse.
Slet was not the only person to blame, but Brand still harbored doubts about accepting Slet as an ally. The Black was an evil Jewel, not to be trusted. It warped the wielder more than most, and the results of its use were horrible in the extreme.
If he’d had the option, he’d have destroyed it forever. Unfortunately, he had no idea how to unmake any of the artifacts that plagued his people, filling their lives with war and strife.
Chapter Fourteen
The Hunt
Myrrdin was warned of the coming danger not by Tomkin, nor by Brand. It was the animals and the plants of the Erm that told him.
At first, there was a tremor in the air. He ignored it studiously. His work had absorbed all his energies for many long days. His new body was growing nicely, and it was now taller than the greatest pine in the wood. Even more impressive was the profusion of green growths that wrapped around it. Vines grew like ivy over the trunk and fed the Great Tree with water brought from miles distant. A thousand leafy branches, fresh and brittle, hardened and darkened with each passing day.
Much of Myrrdin’s work had involved irrigation. The rivers in the Erm were fat, slow things full of oily water. They could be diverted by a determined soul. Wielding huge roots and branches, Myrrdin had managed to dig ditches and guide the water ever so gently downslope to ring his tree. He’d driven tunnels here and there under the old, dead roots and filled them with water. Leeching upon this bounty, the vines had carried the water up the tremendous trunk, the equivalent of drawing the liquid up a straw from the foot of a mountain to the snowy crown.
So engaged was he in his work that at first he ignored the signs indicating something was amiss. The woodland creatures had always trotted by him now and again—but today was differe
nt. Dozens animals had passed by with regularity all morning.
Elk the size of the tallest buildings in Riverton. Insects like hopping dogs. They were all passing by, and in the same direction.
He paid no heed to the passage of the beasts. There wasn’t enough water flowing up the northern face of the Great Tree, and he was busy digging a fresh trench to feed the dry spot. Already, the vines up high that fed the tree were wilting.
“This won’t do, it won’t do at all!” he muttered to himself. “Here, Ogre, attend me!”
Ivor hurried to his uncle. He had a sack in his hands and a hungry look in his eye.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to catch some dinner.”
“Is that all you think about? Your stomach?”
Ivor looked sheepish, but eyed a passing mole. They were usually hard to catch because they spent so much of their time deep underground, and Ivor was a little too big for their tunnels. He liked mole-meat. It had a particularly spicy flavor.
“You’re drooling,” Myrrdin said with a sigh. “Drop that sack and help me dig.”
Ivor pointed toward the mole in the brush. “Can’t I go catch him first? He’s easy above ground. They’re quite slow in the leaves.”
Frowning fiercely, Myrrdin eyed the mole and sputtered. “What’s that thing doing above ground? Is it addled?”
“Maybe,” said Ivor doubtfully, “the critters keep coming like that. I’ve been trying to catch one, but they aren’t stopping. Not even to drink.”
Myrrdin, for the first time, turned his full attention to Ivor. The idiot might be onto something.
“All day, you say?” he asked. “Which direction do they travel?”
“From the south, going north. All day.”
Myrrdin shook his leaves and thumped as he walked after the mole. The beast was about the size of a hog back in the Haven. He had to trot to catch up to it. At last, he had it in his claws. He lifted it into the air and watched it squirm and make barking noises.
“Odd,” Myrrdin said. “I don’t see any diseases or parasites.”
He held the mole up to the bole of the tree where his burning eyes stared outward. He examined the animal at length before dropping it. The thing squeaked and landed with a thud.
Ivor rushed forward, strings of saliva running from the corners of his mouth. He caught hold of the mole and worked to get it into his sack.
“Forget about that,” Myrrdin said.
“Why Master? I’m hungry.”
“Do as I say. There’s no time for eating now.”
With a sigh of defeat, Ivor let the squirming animal go. It hissed at him and humped away as fast as its feet would carry it.
“Why we not gonna eat?”
“Because,” Myrrdin said thoughtfully, “I think the elves are finally coming to kill us. They’re on a hunt and riding this way quickly, I should say.”
Ivor stared up, face slack. “To kill us?”
“Yes, my dull-witted relation. They’ll come here and burn us out—both of us.”
Myrrdin could feel the alarm of the Erm now. It wasn’t just the animals. It was the plants as well. They were tremoring ever so slightly. Each leaf shook like an individual pebble on a road with a thousand hooves pounding it into dust.
“The plants know,” Myrrdin said.
“They do?” asked Ivor, looking around in alarm as if the shadows beneath every tree might give birth to an elven warrior at any second. “What we gonna do?”
Myrrdin whirled, his branches clacking. He looked down at his hands, seeing they were masses of broken sticks. The bark had all been rubbed off and the wood beneath was bone-white. Branches were not well suited to digging.
“This body is worn and past its usefulness anyway,” he said. “I’d planned to wait until the new vessel was full-grown—but I’m afraid it won’t be possible now.”
Then Myrrdin began a painful process. He hadn’t been looking forward to this—he knew it would be a terrible experience.
First, he reached up with his clawed hands and took hold of the open bole through which his fleshy eyes had peered all this time. He heaved and his body shook. Wood splintered and cracked. He cried out in pain when a shard lanced his body or fused parts of him were separated.
“What’s happenin’?” Ivor asked in concern, circling around his roots like an excited dog.
“Shut up, fool,” Myrrdin hissed.
“You rippin’ your own face off?”
Myrrdin was beyond responding to Ivor’s inanities. He growled and struggled, tearing at himself. His left arm broke halfway through, and he almost sagged down, spent.
“Ivor,” he said, panting. “Climb up my good arm. Stand on my shoulder now—yes, that branch. Brace your feet, and spread open this gap in the wood.”
“Why you doing this to yerself?”
“Because I must. I shall be reborn. Life isn’t easy, nephew. Those that would outlive the rest must do things that they’d rather not.”
“Like me lettin’ that mole go?”
“Yes, if you like. Now, pull!”
Together, Myrrdin heaved at the right side of his face, while Ivor wrenched away chunks of wood from the left. At last, like an exposed, rotted tooth, Myrrdin’s upper body was revealed.
“What’s that thing?” Ivor asked, poking at the white, grub-like flesh of the being inside the broken tree.
“That’s me,” said Myrrdin crossly. “The heart of me—the flesh and mind. I’m not all tree, you know.”
“I didn’t.”
Myrrdin rolled his eyes before making a final heave and ripping himself loose of the tree’s heart. Tubers came out of him in a dozen places, leaving bloody holes behind in his skin. He howled and raved, but at last he was free.
When he stood shaking and sick on the forest floor, Ivor came to have a look at him. He sniffed at him curiously.
“You’re as skinny as a woodworm,” he said.
“Your comments are unhelpful. Quick now, take me to the vines. They will know what to do.”
With a shrug of his bulky shoulders, Ivor did as he was told. He carried Myrrdin’s weak body to the tree and set him upon a fat leaf at the base of a very thick vine.
Shivering at their master’s touch, the vine coiled around him. Myrrdin instantly felt better. He was so used to the caress of plants that he could scarcely tolerate the rough stinking paws of a creature like Ivor.
Myrrdin closed his eyes and sought the vine that cradled him upon its thickest leaf. He urged it to move, to grow itself into a new shape. The new shape was thicker at the base—and most importantly, the new leaf he laid upon was higher up.
When he dared to open his eyes and look down, he regretted it. Ivor stood with his mouth gaping up at him.
“You’re thirty feet up!”
“Fifty, I’d say,” Myrrdin said with smug weariness. “I may have need of you. Climb onto a leaf and ride up with me.”
With obvious trepidation, Ivor climbed onto a leaf and weighed it down with his bulk. Myrrdin thought the leaf might collapse and spill the ogre out, but it didn’t. A minute later found them both scooting up the tree as if being hauled by ropes.
The wind whistled with increasing force as they went higher and higher. Ivor howled in alarm. He clung to his leaf, having little choice in the matter. Myrrdin didn’t speak to calm him. He saved his energy for commanding the Green Jewel in his hand. Vaul was ruling this vine, causing it to grow a thousand days growth in a minute. It required all the wizard’s concentration to keep the process going.
He could smell smoke now. The elves were near. Were they going to try to burn him out? He smiled at the idea. They were in for a shock if they tried.
* * *
Oberon was in the vanguard when his knights broke through onto the field of battle. But when he caught sight of his foe, he was shocked.
Myrrdin’s tree body lay in shambles. It was shorn apart, as if the trunk had been struck by lightning or a powerful blow of a giant’
s axe.
So grim was the state of the oak that Oberon was alarmed. He glanced this way and that and guided his elves on their coursers to circle around at a distance. They all gazed at the fallen tree and wondered what could have happened.
“That’s him,” Tomkin said, bounding near. As was the way of his kind, he’d chosen to run rather than to ride into battle.
“It would seem so.”
“But the fleshy part is missing,” Tomkin said, bounding up onto the shattered trunk of the tree, closer than any of the elves had dared to go.
He stood upon the shoulder of the tree, its highest remaining branch, and stared into the open bole.
“Looks like a wound—but he’s not here. Just a desperate stink and a dark stain.”
“Could he have been burned out?”
“I don’t think so.”
A third member joined them. It was Gudrin, and she was panting from her ride. Her face was flushed, making the scars on her bald scalp stand out like furious red stripes.
“I’ll make sure,” she said, and she began to scale the tree.
Shamed by the woman’s comparative bravery, Oberon launched himself from the saddle. He helped the Queen mount the arm of the dead monster, and soon they stood together looking into the depths of the tree.
Both wrinkled their noses in disgust.
Oberon opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say a word a gush of flame erupted from Gudrin’s outstretched hand. The flame flared bright and cleansed the foulness from the heart of the dead oak.
“You might warn a fellow,” complained Tomkin as he hopped quickly away.
Gudrin said nothing. Her face was grim, but also lit with dark pleasure as she shot flame into the hole which had been Myrrdin’s home for months.
When they returned to the ground, the fourth and most important member of their company arrived. They lowered their eyes in respect.
“I smell burnt wood and filth,” Morgana said, eying them each in turn. She turned her eyes up to the tree last. “Did you have to kill him?”