It was then that he turned away from her. He moved closer to the thing in the dark, as if concerned for its welfare. Momentarily, he turned his back to her and turned his eyes from her, too. He wanted to see how the creature had taken being hit with a stone. It was a natural enough reaction and she had hoped for such a moment of distraction.
Her hands flew around him and closed on his skinny wrist, the one that still had a hand attached to it. They clamped down upon the wrist and the hand that gripped the blade.
Piskin squeaked and struggled. She held fast, knowing he was stronger than he looked, but she had two hands on his one and she was desperate.
Mari grunted as he elbowed her swollen belly and breasts. He gave a great bounding leap and rammed the top of his skull into her jaw. She hadn’t been expecting that, and her vision blurred, but she held on and squeezed her hands all the tighter. She had to keep her grip, she knew, or she was lost.
She thought then of what she must do, she must roll her body atop him. She must crush him and grind his small struggling form into the black stones of this place. So she did it, having a care she didn’t plunge his blade into herself by accident. She let her weight force him down on his face.
He wriggled with mad vitality. It was like holding a serpent to her breast. A flipping, writhing length of muscle.
Mari was winning, she could feel it. She was crushing him down. She had to have five times his weight. She dared allow herself a sliver of hope.
All the while they struggled and rolled, breath hissing out of clenched teeth, the ruby eyes watched them, unblinking and curious.
Then a tremendous pain blossomed in her left wrist. Piskin had bitten her. She held on while she bled on the flat black stones. Her blood ran more freely as he bit further.
She tried to roll and dislodge him. Her arm ripped loose from his teeth and the pain was tremendous, but she still held on. She had churned a thousand tubs of butter and milked cows every morning before breakfast. Her hands had a grip to them. They were white and pink and now splashed with red.
Then, something strange happened. Both Piskin and Mari felt it. They both knew something crept closer.
It was the bloodhound. Smaller than any normal hound, the creature with the ruby eyes came slowly out of it hiding place beneath the stack of black stones. It crept forward and halted at the growing pool of Mari’s blood.
There, it began to lap the blood pooling in the carved runes. It began to feed.
“You have coaxed the hound,” hissed Piskin beneath her. He relaxed and stopped struggling. “It’s over, girl. Get off me.”
“I will not,” she said, meaning to suffocate him if at all possible.
“Listen, just for a moment,” he breathed. “I came here for this, to coax the hound. I see now, I never needed the blood of your half-fae babe. Your blood is enough. The babe shares its blood with yours. You have half-fae blood in you.”
“So what? I’m going to kill you.”
“Then you will surely die here in this place, and your babe as well.”
“Fine. At least you will do no more evil.”
“Listen. Listen!” he hissed, panting now. “We can work together. I will swear it.”
She paused. She knew that the Fae took great pride in their sworn vows and did not break them. In truth, she had no idea what she would do after having killed Piskin.
“I’m sorry,” he was saying in a very earnest voice. “I abjectly apologize. I miscalculated. I was only doing my lord’s bidding.”
“What lord?”
“Oberon, of course.”
At that name, both the girl and the hound shifted their vision from each other to the manling.
“You swear not to harm me? To lead me from this place and back to safety in the Haven? And finally, you must swear I shall have your blade.”
“I do so swear, if you will swear to help me coax the hound with your blood,” he responded, then grunted, “and to get your fat bulk off me!”
She thought about it, watching the hound lap for a moment. Somehow, the disgusting sight was mesmerizing. She wondered what kind of beast this could possibly be that it was worth such trouble to coax with her blood.
“I agree,” Mari said. “I do so swear.”
“I agree as well, and I do so swear.”
And so, distrustfully, they disengaged from one another. He dropped the blade and she snatched it up, wiping away a coating of her own sticky blood. There was an alarming amount of it spread over the stones now. She worked to wrap her wrist with what shreds of her dress she could find that were still relatively clean. She knew a bite from the likes of Piskin might well turn septic.
She watched the manling and the bloodhound with equal distrust. The hound was a small dog, no bigger than a housecat. It was short of hair and had a whip-like tail. Except for ruby eyes of unnatural intellect, it seemed like a normal dog. But it was clearly a dog that subsisted on a diet of blood.
“I now require a bit more of your blood, my dear.”
“What? It’s had quite enough.”
“Do you wish to break our pact? Do you wish to try wrestling with me again so soon? I’ll not trust your word a second time, I warn you.”
“Why more blood? I’ve—I’ve lost a good deal already.”
“It has lapped, but requires more to sate its great thirst. I only need enough to work with the hound, my dear Mari. Only enough to cool its burning thirst. I happen to have a cup here in my pack.”
And so he bled her further, and rubbed his stump of a wrist in her blood. She watched aghast. Somehow, the blood from her veins, still warm in his hands, thickened. It became paste-like in consistency, and Piskin worked at it as a sculptor might work with wet clay. He worked it and worked it, until the blood formed a black putty.
He was shaping himself a new hand from it, she saw with growing amazement and horror. A new hand that was fashioned with her blood. The hand was unlike his other, however. It was more twisty and consisted mostly of bone and leathery skin.
The lich’s hand tremored as she watched with her mouth hanging open. She felt an urge to retch.
“My first!” Piskin declared excitedly. His face and arms were slick with gore. “I’ve got a lot to learn. It’s like working pottery, in a way.”
He flexed the trembling hand. She could see bones and thin exposed muscle clench with quivering motion. She saw also that the hound had lapped up every dribble of her blood from the stones, working its tongue into the grooves of the runes for the last drops.
“This will serve, don’t you think? But isn’t quite finished—if you could but fill the cup again. Only a single time more, my dear. The hound thirsts.”
And so Mari thought of her babe. She thought of returning home to the Haven—and she fed the hound.
Chapter Twelve
Piskin’s Fancy
Brand walked through the woods and through the night, almost insensate. His love lived still in his arms, although her breath came raggedly and blew wet and hot on his cheek. He had staunched the leaking blood. Piskin had stabbed her just below the ribs in the region of her kidneys. The wound was not terribly deep, but it was deep enough. With proper care, she might live. Then again, she might not.
In either case, Brand would not have it said that he did not bear her to aid. He burned for revenge, but that would have to wait. Whatever the final result of this foul eve, he would find help for her, or die trying.
In his right hand, in addition to the weight of his love, he bore the axe. Its strength kept him marching quickly, resolutely, to the east. There lay the Berrywine River, and for any of the folk of the Haven, it was there they turned for solace when things went badly. Along the River were farms and people and hope. He wanted to leave the Deepwood behind forever.
His mind had difficulty forming reflective thought, given that his emotions were running high and his axe was driving them to even higher peaks. Mostly, he fantasized of slicing Piskin into thin servings. But he did wonder to himself th
at if he bore Telyn to safety, if she should somehow survive this night, if he would be able to adventure with her further. He could not bear the thought of leading her to her death in another infested hole or hazy dreamworld. She was the better companion for him, a better Second than Corbin. His cousin did well in a pinch, but only Telyn could truly stop his rages. That was the true purpose of the Second, he’d come to realize. With Ambros, one needed a Second who was close to the heart, one that the bearer could never slay. Only true love could be counted upon to shine through the red haze of bloodlust that gripped one’s mind at critical moments and thus prevent disaster.
Perhaps, however, it was he who had to adjust. He who had to learn better self-control. He had been in the grip of the axe’s fury many times. Why couldn’t he control his raging alone? He had done many things in his short span as the Champion of the Haven. Perhaps it was time to improve his skills at willpower and self-control.
Beneath him, his legs pumped relentlessly, carrying the weight of himself, Telyn and his armor. He walked on as if in a dream for a long time.
He heard a sound when he reached a particularly dark part of the forest. Under different circumstances, the sound would have made him halt, turn and investigate. What was it that rustled about nearby in the gloom beneath the trees? But he kept walking. Reaching the Berrywine was all that mattered.
The forest was so dark, it created purple splotches of color in his vision. There was nothing to see, or so little that each tree came up toward him into his face before he knew it was there. Only his axe-sped reflexes had thus far kept him from slamming into a black trunk or a vine-laden boulder.
Brand heard the thing in the trees behind him again, but he still ignored it, because it did not matter. The axe in his hand twitched excitedly, but he ignored that as well. If his shadow engaged him in speech, possibly he would answer, but he would not stop striding for the shores of the Berrywine. Perhaps it was an enemy who was about to attack. He would let them come, and he would slay them. In truth, he hardly cared what followed. All that mattered was getting Telyn under a roof and into a warm circle of yellow light where her wound might be properly tended.
The rustlings increased. They began to pace him, on both sides and to the rear as well. They carried no lights, whoever they were. He was quite sure now that it was a group of someones or somethings. But still, their origins and their designs mattered little to him. He tracked them, sensing them, but took no other action. His plan was simplicity itself: If they got to close, he would put Telyn over his shoulder or set her upon the ground and he would slay them all. Then he would continue his march.
Then an arrow struck him in the back. He still wore his breastplate, and the arrow spanged off the polished surface. He doubted it had even left a dent.
He could not take the chance they would sink an arrow into Telyn’s unconscious form however, or find a gap in his armor and injure him. He sighed in annoyance. They were not content with just following him. They were not content with their lives.
He stopped marching a few score paces later in an open area between seven trees. To call it a glade or a clearing would be to overstate the case. It was only a gap in the endless sea of growths, nothing more. But it did allow moonlight to shine down and touch him and reflect from the bone-white blades of his weapon. Here, he might be able to see the lie of the ground and the shape of his enemies.
He placed Telyn upon the ground and secured his helmet on his head, adjusting the faceguard. He slid around his shield as well, which had ridden unused for a long time upon his back.
Two more arrows rocked him. One stuck in a wooden corner of his shield. He brushed it off with his axe. Ambros’ yellow eye flared, gleaming as it sheared off the shaft of the arrow. The axe was excited, knowing that bloodshed was near at hand.
“I would know those whom I am about to slay,” said Brand loudly to the seven trees.
No answer came immediately, but the arrows did stop.
More sounds came from the left. He turned that way, his shield raised. Another arrow hit him in the back, but he had his feet set now and ignored it. He suspected whoever they were, they were a small folk. Their arrows weren’t much cause for concern. They were not long enough or fired with enough force to bite through his breastplate and mail.
Still, he didn’t want them to continue to pepper him with arrows from the darkness. He could not charge them without leaving Telyn on the ground, defenseless. Possibly, that was exactly what they wanted and they were simply trying to goad him into a blind attack. Eventually, they may decide to simply shoot Telyn, whose leathers could not stop a shower of arrows and darts.
“Abject cowards, is it? Must I root you out of your holes myself?” he taunted.
Silence reigned for a span of seconds. Then he spotted, by peering into the gloom, a glimmering shape. It hid its body well, so that only a foot or hand came from around the black trunk it hugged.
“Ah, goblins,” said Brand, nodding to himself. He lowered the head of his axe and let it touch the ground. “None are so great a tribe of cowards. Old Hob himself laughs at his minions in private, did you know that? Elves do it openly, scorning your ilk as bald, two-legged rodents.”
A small shower of arrows erupted, which Brand weathered stoically. He counted bows. He suspected there were twenty of them at least.
He laughed. He did it with all the derision he could muster.
A shrill order rang out and the arrows stopped coming. Another goblin showed himself. He had a melon-shaped face that shone with a blue-white glimmer in the moonlight. Fangs like a housecat bracketed his mouth. He appeared to be their captain. A cap of silver sat on his head, no doubt marking his rank.
“You will yield, River Folk,” said this captain.
“Why?” asked Brand reasonably. Inside, he raged. But he wished to contain himself. He needed to save that rage for a more opportune time. That time, he suspected, was soon at hand.
The question seemed to surprise the goblin captain. “Because you are surrounded.”
More faces showed themselves now. To Brand’s surprise, they were not all goblins. There were others present, the dark snouts of rhinogs were not a surprise, but the merlings were. Since when did merlings and goblins march together?
“Your master has given me his word,” shouted Brand into the night. “He withdrew your folk from Cymru. Why have you returned from Eire to break your master’s promise?”
“You speak of Hob,” said the captain. He grinned and his white cat’s fangs gleamed wetly.
“Yes, I speak of Old Hob.”
“It is he that would speak with you. Drop your weapon and crawl here. We have binding fiber ready.”
Then, Brand really did laugh. These folk did not know him. They could not have seen the axe in action at Castle Rabing. It occurred to him that if they did not know him, he could use that to his advantage.
“Very well, you have me surrounded. Simply come forth and grab me, little ones. What do you have to fear? Don’t shame yourselves. I’m alone out here in the woods. If you can’t overpower a single man under the light of the moon, how can you hope to stop our armies?”
“River Folk have no armies,” spat the captain.
But Brand’s words were beginning to work, he could tell. The fact that none of them had yet died emboldened them. They crept forward, two score of them he saw. Half were merlings, accompanied by a dozen goblins and as many rhinogs.
When the pack of them reached the edge of the gap in the trees, Brand gave them all a strange smile. He could not help it. He almost laughed maniacally as well, but that he managed to contain.
There were a lot of them, and they might well pull him off his feet. The rhinogs carried clubs to beat him down. The merlings bore nets. The goblins were in the rearmost rank, naturally. They crept forward with two daggers shaped like rippled icicles, one in each hand.
He realized they were under orders to capture him. All the better, he thought. To capture a man, you must surely come wit
hin range of his axe.
A moment later they made their final rush. Rhinogs snarled with clubs upraised. Merlings lifted their nets, swung them overhead and made ready to cast the moment he went down under the thumping storm of clubs. The goblins excitedly lifted their twin daggers and opened their shining maws, mirroring their daggers with their fangs.
It was that moment when Ambros flashed, and yellow lightning fell across forty sneering faces. They barely had time to recoil, to lift their hands to their burnt eyes before Brand’s first cut traveled low and sweeping, horizontally over the ground. He took their legs out from under them, and six blind rhinogs toppled dying to the ground.
Most of the rest clawed at their eyes and dropped their clubs, but a few managed to swing their clubs from behind him. His shoulder caught one blow, his helmet the next. Inside his mind a great sound rang, but he paid it no heed.
The scene took on a dream-like quality for Brand, as blood ran down into his eyes, nose, ears and mouth. The blood was his and others both mixed in many salty flavors. He hewed wildly with the axe now.
Merlings threw their nets, but most tangled themselves or their fellows, their aim spoilt by steaming eyes and sudden terror for this demon who’d stepped from nowhere among them. The nets that reached him he swept from his shoulders and legs with strokes of the axe and then he was enclosed in a struggling knot of them.
To their credit, the rhinogs who he had crippled still strove with him, grabbing blindly with their clawed hands at his feet and pulling away his shield. They had no legs nor working eyes, but they still chewed at his boots and clutched at his greaves.
He hacked them until they stopped moving and then went for the goblins. The merlings had fled, croaking in horror, the moment things had gone wrong. But the goblins had waited to see how their rhinogs fared. The delay soon turned out to be a costly mistake.
Brand ran them down and chopped their heads from their hunched shoulders. Some fought and slashed at him, others fell while running in terror. It mattered little, as either way, if Brand got within range they died.
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