Dream Magic

by B. V. Larson

“He was not there, milady,” Tomkin said.

  The other two exchanged worried glances.

  Tomkin, who was new to Morgana’s army, did not know what to expect. Oberon winced as a hard blow fell. Tomkin squeaked as a line of blood appeared on his cheek.

  Morgana withdrew her quirt. Her eyes were furious, and she circled her steed, ranting at them as if they were errant children.

  “What curse has fallen upon my brow? I’ve been saddled with three who can wield a Jewel but can’t face a single madman? Did he frighten you? Did you let him go so you could scratch one another’s arses?”

  “No milady,” mumbled Oberon.

  “Then, pray tell, what excuse do you offer?”

  Before any of them could answer her, the ground under their feet moved. It was an unsettling feeling, as if they stood upon a carpet and a giant had just laid hands upon the nap of it and jerked it from under them.

  Gudrin fell flat upon her face. Morgana’s horse staggered and went down on one knee, dumping her onto the forest floor. Oberon and Tomkin, being well-balanced sorts, bent their legs and swayed with their arms outstretched.

  Around them the forest fell quiet for a moment, then a litany of complaints arose from every elf rider in the area.

  Oberon offered a hand to Morgana, who took it and stood up. He expected a fresh rage—a rant with a humiliating beating at the end of it for each of them—but it did not come.

  Her eyes were instead wide with alarm. She looked around her, and as if for the first time. At last her eyes found the Great Tree and she stared at the seeming wall of wood that rose up nearby.

  “What’s this then?” she asked in a hushed voice. “What is that which towers over me? It has vines…as thick as trees themselves.”

  Gudrin grunted to her feet and advanced to the strange wooden wall. “It’s bark,” she said. “So old and dark, it seems impossibly thick. Thicker than the wall of stone that encloses the Earthlight. Thicker than the stone hide of Snowdon herself.”

  Both women were no longer approaching the wood wall and the vines. Instead, they were backing away, and looking upward.

  Tomkin and Oberon soon joined them, and all four craned their necks back to an impossible angle as they traced the Great Tree upward to observe the distant, nearly invisible crown. The highest leaves and branches seemed to touch the sky itself.

  * * *

  Myrrdin was having difficulty implanting himself in the tree. It was all so fresh, sappy and unorganized. The tree was a chaotic mess. Half its mass seemed to be vines while the rest made up of immature shoots that would one day grow into thick, bark-covered limbs. Now they were a shiny dark green speckled with brown.

  On the long way up to the crown, he’d seen many problems. There was already a colony of giant ants, each as big as a sheepdog, living in the hollow guts of the tree. There were splits and holes everywhere in the bark and the wood. The structure wasn’t thick enough yet to move, but he’d forced it to do so. When he’d caused tremors of motion to run down the trunk and rip up the fresh roots that surrounded the ancient stump, he’d caused a great deal of damage to the fledgling tree.

  He wept for the Great Tree. To him, it was a natural beauty unlike any other in the history of the world. But he’d had no choice. He’d been forced to make his love move now, before she was ready. If the tree could withstand movement without collapsing of its own colossal weight, he’d rejoice. He urged it to walk and wondered what it would look like from the ground, tottering over the forest floor. Truly, it would resemble a living god.

  Carefully, tentatively, he ripped loose one massive root after another. The worst part would be the dismount. The fresh-grown tree had intertwined itself with the stump of its sire, and disconnecting the two would have been a tricky business even if the tree had been mature, which it was not.

  “There’s something wrong,” he told Ivor, who had crept into the cool green gloom of the tree’s interior with him. “Go find out what’s stinging my bark and tender branches.”

  Ivor looked out of the cracks in the trunk with wide eyes. “Out there? Where do I look? What me looking for?”

  “For something hot, you idiot!” shouted Myrrdin. He rued the day he’d ever met up with this dolt. The ogre was useless.

  “We talking about the elves? Are the elves burning you?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Go out there and climb on the exterior bark. Look upward, I sense a stinging sensation of heat at the crown.”

  Licking his thick lips, the ogre did as his uncle had instructed. He crawled on all fours to the nearest opening and peered outward.

  “Don’t see nothing.”

  “Get out there and circle the trunk! Check in every direction—it’s getting worse!”

  Myrrdin was only just beginning to drive his nerves through the Great Tree, interconnecting its flesh with his. Even as he did this, the tree in turn drove sensory probes of wood into his body. The pain was excruciating.

  “Uncle?”

  Myrrdin forced his eyelids to flutter open. Sweat ran down into his eyes, stinging them.

  “Why are you here?” Myrrdin croaked. “Why aren’t you finding the problem? I’ve had enough, I will pluck you free of my body as an ape would a tick. You will be pulped by my branches, and good riddance!”

  “Uncle? I think I know what’s hurtin’.”

  “Then speak!”

  “That dragon-guy. The one in the cage. He’s spitting fire out again into your branches. He seems angry.”

  Myrrdin sighed and closed his eyes again. The dragon, of course. He’d been worried it was Gudrin casting bolts of fire with her Jewel. But he hadn’t thought she could reach so high, and he’d been right. It was the dragon, forgotten in its cage, causing mischief.

  At last, he nodded and gasped for air. “Very well, I will bargain with him. I can’t afford any more distractions. I need him to stop, and I don’t care to keep him any longer.”

  “Can I open the cage then?”

  “Yes, but first tell him he must carry a message. He must swear upon his father Fafnir’s bones to fly to Riverton and tell Brand that several of those wielding Jewels have united forces. I don’t think I can do battle with them yet. My new body is too fragile, and I’m too weak. I must flee. But whether I escape or not, the alliance will turn on him next. They will destroy those they can’t conquer.”

  Ivor nodded his head, bobbing it up and down rapidly. “Dragon free, go to Brand, destroy everything. Yeah, got it.”

  Myrrdin shook his head, glancing at the idiot. He doubted he could manage the task. But no matter what happened, he would be free of the dragon’s hissing breath and this odorous ogre.

  “Come back to tell me if the dragon agrees to the deal.”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  He was gone. Myrrdin continued to rip loose one root at a time, freeing each of the seventeen deep taproots that surrounded the ancient stump and buried themselves in the soft deep loam of the Erm. Each root he tore loose caused him great discomfort. It was like giving birth to dozens of young at once. The pain was terrible.

  A few minutes later, the searing jolts of pain in his upper body subsided. A minute after that, a crashing sound filled the bole of the tree. Myrrdin looked around himself in alarm.

  “What’s this?” he demanded.

  Ivor was astride the Black dragon’s back. It made for an unlikely scene: a slack-jawed ogre riding a young, angry dragon.

  Myrrdin had grown his tree with cunning and foresight. He had shaped the central region with a system of cracks and slits all around the trunk through which he could see, although it was far from perfect. Like loopholes in a stone tower, he was able to crawl about in his central stronghold and gaze out at the world. There were even cracks big enough to allow entry by creatures he wanted to hold counsel with, and it was through one of these gaps that the dragon and Ivor crept now.

  “I see you,” said the dragon, taking in the internal bole of the tree at a glance. “You are weak, wizard. It will
be a joy to burn you away, like cooking a grub inside a hollow log.”

  “Hold on,” complained Ivor. “You said you would fly for us if I let you out!”

  “Indeed I did,” said the dragon thoughtfully. “What a conundrum! If I kill you both right now, I will have dishonored myself—but it would be so pleasurable. Is the joy of a single moment, an orgy of hot destruction, worth the stain of being labeled vile and vicious for a thousand generations?”

  “There is more at stake than your honor,” Myrrdin said.

  “There certainly is. There is my pleasure to think about as well.”

  “Short-sighted, hot-blooded fool,” Myrrdin sputtered.

  “Have a care, oldster.”

  “I’m talking about the growth of a power that even the Wurms of the earth can’t ignore. You must understand that one of our number has the Sunstone. In its way, it is the most powerful of the Jewels. It, like no other, can command minds. Even if the owners of those minds possess great power in their own right.”

  “Yes, I can see the problem. But I’m not sure how it will impinge upon my life. I’ll fly away and hunt for fresh game in a different corner of the world until this new cancer burns itself out.”

  “It may not do so. It may gather in power until all the Jewels—or at least the majority of them—are under the control of a single witch. If she manages this, you’ll be hunted down, just as I’m being persecuted now. No powerful being will escape. You might be able to fight with the Axeman when you are full grown, but no one and nothing can defeat all the Jewels together!”

  Fafna looked thoughtful. “You pose an interesting point. You’re saying this witch is a threat even to me. That if her lust for total power continues, she’ll have to come after my kind eventually.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But what if you win, old woodworm? Who will take up the White Jewel in her stead?”

  “Hopefully no one. But does it matter? It is in your best interest to help the wielders of the Jewels to destroy one another. If nothing else, it should warm your ashen heart.”

  The dragon was not yet unconvinced. “What is your interest in alerting the Haven? The humans are no more your kin than are the elves. Why take sides?”

  “You’re correct, I do not love either side. But I hate my father Oberon far more than I hate Brand. He put me under the earth for long years. I would not see him on the winning side in a grand conflict. In fact, if the rest gather together to oppose Morgana and her lackeys, we might yet bring them down. Perhaps my roots will crush him into the mud during his final moments.”

  The dragon nodded. “Hatred,” he said, “A pure and reasonable emotion. Very well, I’ll do it. Climb down, stinking ogre. I have a lot of flying to do.”

  Myrrdin raised one thin, pale finger. “Take the ogre with you. Brand knows him, and he knows the Haven.”

  The dragon swiveled its head on its serpentine neck to observe the ogre for a moment, who waggled his fingers in greeting. Fafna wrinkled her nostrils, but she finally agreed. With a thunderous clapping of leathery wings, she flew out of the hollow in the tree and flapped away into the sky.

  At that point, Myrrdin was feeling a new discomfort. Someone or something was singeing his distant feet now. The sensation grew and grew until he found himself howling in searing pain.

  He gathered his strength and began the final movement. It was time to dismount from the ancient stump. The Great Tree about to be reborn.

  * * *

  Oberon, Tomkin and Gudrin stood in confusion at the foot of the tree. They saw the roots writhe and wondered how such a monstrosity could be defeated.

  “It is too late,” said Tomkin. “We should flee now and look for a weakness from a distance.”

  “Ever it is with Wee Folk,” Oberon said. “Their first thought is of running to save their tiny hides.”

  “What would you suggest then?”

  “An orderly withdrawal. My elves will pull back and fire arrows at those gaps high above. Perhaps Myrrdin is inside one of them. We can end this now with a lucky shot.”

  Tomkin made a rude noise. “That sounds like running off to me. I’ll bet—”

  “What utter nonsense,” said Gudrin, interrupting the others. She stared at them with baleful eyes. “I’ll show you what needs doing. There’s never been a tree that I couldn’t scorch.”

  So saying, she extended her finger and fired a lance of rippling heat. The roots trembled, then began to squirm.

  “Everyone back!” she cried. “Out of the way!”

  The flames that had begun as a bright shimmer along her sleeve turned into a gush which covered her entire body. The finger-like lance of fire that was tickling the roots of the Great Tree transformed into a flood of brilliant heat. Like a gout of dragonfire, the lance had thickened into a conical plume and splashed over the roots.

  The vines engulfing the tree swiftly turned into hissing clumps of crisped black matter and fell away. The roots themselves, exposed to the intense heat, cracked and split, making a singing noise as they released smoke and blackened.

  Again, the ground shook under all of them. But this time, the earthquake was a dozen times as powerful as before.

  The Great Tree tottered, as if it were about to fall. Everyone scrambled back, screeching in fear. Even Gudrin withdrew her fiery hand and scuttled away, her body still covered in chasing flames.

  The tree righted itself with a groaning sound. A tremendous series of pops went off like explosions. The mass that had grown upon its ancestor now shifted on its own, breaking connections with the old wood. No longer was the Great Tree fused to its parent stump. It was able to move on its own churning roots.

  The elven coursers had fled to a safe distance of several hundred yards or more. They fired arrows at the tree, watching them thud into the thick bark with no noticeable effect.

  “Fall back!” shouted Oberon, waving his arms wildly. “Do not engage the monster yet!”

  “What about us?” demanded Tomkin, clearly wishing to fall back farther.

  “Here,” said Oberon, handing him a long rope.

  “What’s this? It looks heavy. You don’t expect me to hold onto that, do you?”

  “Just carry it. Wrap it around the base of the tree. With enough men, we can pull it off balance and capture it.”

  Tomkin looked at the rope incredulously. “You’re mad!” he said. “I’m not going to circle that monster with a rope—you do it!”

  Oberon turned to the manling with a scowl. He made ready to shout at him, but a soft voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “Oberon?” said Morgana gently. “Tomkin’s right. I want you to carry the rope around the tree. He will run upon the safer path.”

  “But…milady…”

  “Get going!”

  Oberon sprang forward and threw one end of the rope to Tomkin, who caught it with a sneer. The old elf began to run carrying the coil of rope. He didn’t bother with taking a mount. They were all nearly panicked anyway by the tree. A horse would have slowed him down, requiring more time to make the circuit.

  As he ran, paying out the fine elf-rope behind him, he had a chance to wonder what it was that had truly caused him to find himself in this situation. He could not remember why he was taking orders from the witch—he just was. This bothered him as he leapt over one heaving root after another, dodging tubers and rattling leaves.

  Why was he doing this? It seemed insane. Any credible elf would have laughed off Morgana’s wishes and vanished into the forest long ago. Morgana…her kind was good only for a quick bedding, then it was out the window and through the wood. Why did he continue to pine away for her, to dote on her every desire, to…

  He rounded the tree again, dodging a particularly violent nest of thrashing roots. He was almost all the way around and back to the others. As he came near them, his head began to clear. Thoughts of abandoning his promises to the witch died in his mind. They seemed silly, in fact.

  Deny Morgana her due? Take a blade to her
throat? Such ideas! Where had they come from? Was it this accursed tree? If so, Myrrdin was more powerful than he thought and he must be cut out from this horror of wood and burned in the fire like a lump of pulsating cancer.

  “You’ve circled it?” asked Tomkin with obvious incredulity.

  “I have.”

  “Well, tie it off, man! Nothing can break elf-rope!”

  And so Oberon made it fast. He tied it to the largest thing he could find, a log a hundred yards long. He managed to crawl beneath the tree and encircle it near the base where the roots widened it. There could be no escape for Myrrdin now. They’d given him a ball and chain.

  It was not a moment too soon. The Great Tree was in full motion now. It had broken free of its roots, tubers, smoking vines and wooden fusions. Now, tottering on the forest floor, it gouged the earth with black stripes where the dozens of its root-feet churned and heaved.

  The rope paid out and out—then snapped taut. The tree lurched and the log on the ground moved—then stopped.

  The elves, Tomkin and even Gudrin cheered. Morgana stepped out from safety and smiled at them appreciatively. It did Oberon’s heart good to see that his mistress was pleased! There was no finer reward than that.

  But then the rope slackened, coiling on the ground. An elf warrior raced forward, seeing that it might fall from its anchor.

  “Hold, Viran!” Oberon said, but the other had already laid hands upon the thin gray rope, which was slick to the touch but stronger than a spider’s silk.

  Suddenly, the Great Tree heaved with renewed vigor. It was as if the malevolent creature that drove the tree had waited for this precise instant—perhaps, thought Oberon, he had.

  The rope snapped taut again, and sliced both the elf Viran and his mount in twain. The two bodies flapped before falling still on the forest floor. Growls of rage came up from the elves and from Oberon’s throat as well. They drew blades and advanced toward the tree, which seemed weaker now it was tethered.

  “Hold!” shouted Morgana.

  As one, the elves wheeled their mounts to her call.

  “It could be another trick. He’s up there, and he wants us to come near.”