Dark Magic (64 page)

* * *

Brand sat, thinking hard. The others chewed upon dry rations and drank their final drops from their canteens.

“Glad to see you’ve rested, axeman,” Puck said, coming near.

Brand barely acknowledged his existence.

“We’re running out of water, you know,” Puck said, trying to speak to him again.

Brand glanced up, and saw in the other’s eyes a certain wariness, as if he doubted Brand had yet come to his senses. Brand snatched up his axe and jumped to his feet. Everyone else startled and stared at him quietly.

He waved the axe at them all as he spoke. “I’ve had enough of this nonsense. We’ve been led from the start on a pointless quest down here. I suspect a grand trick—and we are the fools at the butt of it.”

“What evidence do you have?” asked Puck.

Brand turned toward the crack nearby. He strode inside. “Be wary for further traps, if you would. I tend to walk directly into them.”

“In that case, let me go first, and let me take my time,” said Puck.

Brand assented and they all crept into the crack. Soon, once they had ducked under the blades in the walls, they found the tunnel led to nothing but a blank wall.

“You see?” asked Brand. “A trap within a trap. There is nothing here, nothing at all.”

“But my father has been in these chambers. There is a hall of bones somewhere.”

“Well, it’s not here. I’m beginning to think we’ve been shunted aside, led here and left to flounder about. Someone planned this.”

“For what purpose?”

“To take us from the real threats back home. And with luck, we might have died.”

Puck and the others pondered his words.

“Grasty was the start of it,” Telyn said. “He brought us here under false premises.”

“Yes,” said Brand. “He was the start and the Shining Lady was the end.”

“You’ve met her again?”

“As I slept just now.”

“You do not seem perturbed,” Kaavi said. “She seems to have no hold over you.”

“Well, she’s gotten me to wander around down here for days.”

“What shall we do?” asked Telyn.

Brand looked at her and thought of that witch changing herself to resemble his love. It made him angry.  He sucked in a great lungful of air, closed his eyes tightly and roared at the walls, which rang with his berserk cry. “Shining Lady! Come to me! I demand it!”

There was no response. Everyone fell silent. The others exchanged glances. Telyn dug into her tunic, seeking her ward. She pulled it out and wore it openly upon her chest.

“I would have words with whoever is mistress or master of this place!” shouted Brand. “Have you no interest?”

“Brand?” said Telyn behind him.

Brand turned, and he saw where his wife pointed. A glimmering figure had appeared at the back of the crack they had so recently explored and found empty.

“Come out, ghost,” he said. “It is time we talked plainly.”

“You called to me. What is your wish?”

Brand forced himself to gaze upon her openly, even though her aura was even more powerful and causing of lust when she walked in the real world. In his dreams, he had been able to scoff and strive with her. He doubted he could do so while awake. But he knew he must keep up a strong front.

At his side Puck stepped forward and stared. Even the elf was affected, Brand could see it plainly. The charms of this Dead woman could not be underestimated.

“You want me to become your champion. You want me to wield the Black. Before I agree, I must know why.”

“Because it is time,” she said. “King Arawn plants seedlings in every graveyard. The Dead are ripe for harvest. It has been too long.”

Brand nodded, thinking this thing might be avoidable. “If I slay the King and take his Jewel for my own, will the Dead return to their graves?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “Should you command it.”

Brand drew himself up. “Very well, witch. I know what you are and you know me as well. We can thus strike a bargain. I will not become your consort. I will, however, slay King Arawn and take the Black from his dry fingers. I will swear this, if you will in turn swear to help me.”

The Shining Lady hung back in her tunnel. Brand could not recall ever having seen her appear indecisive before.

“What is it you wish me to do?” she asked at last.

“Careful Brand,” Telyn said to him. “Everything this creature says or does is a trick of some kind.”

“I’m aware of her nature,” Brand said. He turned back to the lovely form that shimmered in the darkness. He wondered briefly if he went in there to slay her, if she would vanish. And if she did not,
could
she be slain? She was not like any of the Dead he’d ever encountered.

“Lady,” he said. “You must provide us transport out of this place to our own lands. You must devise no further plans against us. Lastly, you must stay out of my dreams for the rest of my days.” As Brand spoke this last requirement, Telyn looked at him in surprise.

“Done, done and done!” said the Shining Lady. “The way out is less than a mile southward. There is a Fae mound there, which your own father, elf-child, used recently to exit this place.”

“For this I will bring down the Dead King before his armies can march upon the world,” Brand said.

“Too late for that, fool!” shouted the Shining Lady. Her voice broke into a cackle that was almost hysterical with glee. “
You
have released him!”

“What do you mean?” Brand demanded. His brow was stormy and he strode into the tunnel. His axe ran with yellow light and the Jewel winked. Nothing angered it more than duplicity.

“He has planted seedlings for decades. His army can only rise and march in its entirety when he has a challenger. Why do you think I’ve stalked the biggest imbecile among those who wield power? Not even Tomkin was fool enough to take up my challenge!”

Brand strode toward her, recalling that he had not promised to leave her alone in the bargain. He commanded the axe to burn her, and it did shoot forth a ray which caused rock and cold flesh to turn to vapor. Still laughing, however, the ghostly creature faded from view and was gone before he could reach her.

When at last he had finished tearing at the walls of the tunnel, he left with the rest and headed southward. If the armies of the Dead had been unleashed, there was no time to lose.

Chapter Sixteen

Morcant’s Army

Mari’s mother had often said she didn’t like fools and she didn’t plan to raise any of them. She’d often said this directly before she drew her belt from her dress or took up a wooden spoon to give the children one of their regular thrashings.

Mari herself had never beaten Trev, although he occasionally gave her good cause. She thought about her mother’s words as she spoke with the boy. She wondered who her mother would have called the fool: six-year-old Trev, or Mari herself for listening to him.

“You’ve been going out at night again, Trev,” she said.

“Not always.”

“Once is too many times. You’ve been forbidden.”

“Dad’s out there somewhere. And there are other things, too.”

Mari licked her lips. It was true, Puck was overdue. But she didn’t think Trev had much of a chance of finding him by lurking in the Riverton streets at night. Her real worry she didn’t want to tell him openly: she feared he would be kidnapped or beaten by strangers who didn’t like his silver hair, big eyes and quiet, quick ways. Too many children had been disappearing lately. It was all in the gossip. Some said it was Wee Folk, but most said it was the half-breeds that had been springing up around town lately.
Mongrels
, that’s what people called children like Trev. The mongrels had been shameful family secrets at first, but such secrets can’t be kept forever.

The lovely elf brides the river-boys had brought home with them from the Twilight Lands had often birthed lovely children—like Trev. But almost as often, things went badly. When the elf mother and the child survived a bad birth, they were shunned. They were kept in basements and barns. Some were sent packing back home to the Twilight Lands with their freak offspring humping alongside. Others went to live in the Deepwood or even the marshes. Sometimes their men went with them, sometimes not. But no one was in a trusting mood toward a half-breed like Trev, who could never seem to keep his silver hair stuffed up into his cap no matter how hard Mari tried to hide it there.

“Trev, honey,” she said, kneeling in front of her son. “I want you to promise me you won’t go outside at night.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“What if there is a fire?” he asked. “This place burnt down before, you know.”

Mari winced. She knew all too well. The fire had started when her Wee roommate had lit it.

“Okay, unless there is a serious danger, I want you to promise me you’ll stay in this room after dark.”

Trev looked at her and sighed. She felt something relax inside her. Here it was, he was about to promise. She knew he would twist facts, but he had enough of his father in him to stick to a bargain—to honor a promise made.

“I’m sorry mother,” he said.

“Sorry?” she asked, blinking at him.

“I can’t tell you that. I don’t want to break a promise.”

Mari’s lips compressed into a line. Her mother would have backhanded the boy. She knew that, and honestly, she felt the urge upon her. She had to protect him. Puck was gone, and Kaavi had left as well. She had no idea what they were doing, but she had felt
wrong
about events lately. She had learned since Piskin to trust her instincts in these situations.

“Trev,” she said, “listen to me. It’s getting dangerous out there. I can feel it. Can’t you?”

“Oh yes,” he said.

“Then why won’t you obey me?”

Trev shuffled and fidgeted. “Because, the Dead won’t hurt me, mother. They can’t. Not for about a year. I made a bargain with their King. Everyone in this town is in danger
except
for me. Can’t you see?”

Mari stared at her son and in that moment she
did
see. She saw her future. He was not like the other children. His mind didn’t work like theirs. He was just like Puck, his father. He was a wanderer, and as he grew older, things would only worsen. She knew right then with heartsick certainty that he would forever be taking off for days, weeks or even years at a time, only to reappear later with a cheery wave. She was to spend countless days and nights worrying about him and wondering if he was alive or dead—exactly as she did now for his father.

The elves were so odd. They grew up faster than humans, but part of them was still child-like ten centuries later. It was as if they matured faster, but never quite matured all the way. Now, she was faced with a son whose mind worked like a child twice his age. But he was still so young and inexperienced. She didn’t know what to do and desperately wished Puck would come home to her. She began to weep.

“Don’t do that, mother,” Trev said.

“I think I’m going to call your father again,” she said.

“But he’s on an important mission. I’m not lost or anything. Shouldn’t you wait until there is a real problem?”

There it was again, judgment beyond his years. It made her both sick and delighted to hear it.

“Where is it you want to go so badly, Trev?” she asked him. “When you sneak out, where do you go?”

Trev worked his lips. “I—I go up the hill.”

Mari walked to the window. The nearest hill was at the far end of town, the furthest spot in Riverton from the docks. Drake Manor stood there. She could see it through trees when she leaned her head out the window.

“You go up to the Manor?” she asked hopefully. “Do you meet friends of yours up there?”

“No mother. The other hill.”

Mari’s eyes roved the landscape. Her face and mind froze. He had to be talking about the cemetery.

“Why
there
Trev?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“That’s where the dead-things are,” he said brightly. “But don’t worry. Like I said, they can’t hurt me. Not for another year.”

Mari stared at him, and she made herself a promise. If the boy slipped away again, she would follow.

* * *

Among all the countless Dead of the River Haven, Morcant Drake had been one of the first to rise. Today as evening came, he heard the call he’d been waiting for and became active again. He sat up in the wooded area at the bottom of the hilltop cemetery. This was the very spot he’d taken Tegan for their numerous trysts years ago. He did not remember the spot fondly, the way he had when he was alive, but he did tend to drift here when he wished to stop moving for long periods of time. To say he
liked
the spot would have added concepts that were beyond one of the Dead that functioned at his level. He simply tended to come here often, as he had in the past.

His kind were known as
shepherds
. He was the only one of the Dead left here in Riverton as a shepherd, charged with aiding the rest and guiding them toward their goals when the time came. Today, as twilight fell over the land, the call had finally come. Morcant knew what to do: he was to gather the Dead in his vicinity and herd them toward the Living. He had no further function, unless given a direct order by their King—which was unlikely.

Next to the spot where he became aware was a shovel. He’d placed it here when he’d last ceased functioning, but he had no memory of that. For his kind, memories were limited to the here and now. He picked up the shovel with stiff limbs and headed toward the open field of green grass and tombstones that made up the cemetery proper. He stopped at the first grave he came to and began to dig. At the bottom of each grave was a corpse that had heard the same call he had and now scratched to be let out. It was his job to free them all.

The first body he exhumed came out flipping dirt everywhere with long, yellow-gray hair. It was Gram Rabing, although it would have been hard for any of her Clan to recognize her now. Her face was a greenish-brown, having lain in the earth for nearly a year. Her hair was longer than it had been when she had been laid down, having continued to leech upon her flesh and grow. Her skeleton showed through in places.

Gram Rabing grabbed for Morcant’s huge black boots when she came out of the dirt. She snarled and clacked the few ancient teeth she had left. He ignored her, ripping his boot from her grasp and stepping to the next grave where he began digging anew. Soon Gram Rabing understood he was a dead-thing as well, and she wandered aimlessly over the hillside, looking for Life.

Morcant dug up more bodies. Each time they came crawling up out of the earth, he moved on to the next. Morcant didn’t have ambition. He had not achieved the rank of shepherd through special effort, nor did he dislike the appointment. It simply was. His only thought—if it could be called that—was to obey his master as best he could. His only desire was to perform his appointed task as a shepherd of the Dead. When he dug each man, woman, child and beast from their tombs and sent them tottering on their way down the hill, he did not find it ironic that he had spent his last days burying these same individuals. The entire concept of irony was truly lost upon him now.

The day died and became night. The moon rose and stars swam overhead. Dozens of the Dead now shuffled and roamed about the hillside. They bumped into trees and tripped over headstones.

At the appointed hour, when the night was half gone, Morcant walked to the shack where he’d kept a group of living children captive for days. He opened the door, which creaked loudly. He pulled the first child out by the hair. It was a dirty-faced, wide-eyed Timmy Hoot. The boy had been locked up inside the root cellar—which had no roots in it at all.  Instead, it harbored a hundred strange, stinking liquids in glass jars which Daz the caretaker had used to anoint the bodies he prepared.
Morcant slammed the door closed behind him and locked it again.

Morcant then shuffled past the terrified child and lifted the bar on the outside door. He stood aside to give the boy room. Timid at first, the Living boy soon took his opportunity and bolted. This was exactly as was planned, and Morcant made no attempt to stop him.

Timmy Hoot ran screaming down the hill, following the lane toward Riverton. No other course of action was expected. His noisy passage alerted the throng of Dead stumbling about on the cemetery hillside. Every one of them froze and fixated upon the boy, as might a hundred hounds when seeing a fox run near. Then, as one, they hobbled forward excitedly, giving chase. The pack moved together in a mass downhill toward Riverton where they would find lights, movement—Life.

After the throng had passed down the lane, Morcant went back to digging up fresh graves. There were hundreds more still to be opened. When he had opened enough, he would release another child. The throng would chase after the child, sending a new wave of death scuttling down the hillside into Riverton.

* * *

Trev had agreed in the end not to go up to the graveyard. He had also agreed not to leave the room at all
today
. But as midnight passed, Trev knew it was now a
different
day. One of the first things they’d taught him in his brief stay at school was about clocks and hours. He knew exactly when one day ended and another began. Many people thought a day lasted until the sun came up to light the sky the next morning, but that wasn’t true. Days started and ended at midnight.

When midnight came and passed, Trev climbed out of bed and slipped away. He was
as quiet as a cat wearing slippers
, at least, that’s what his grandfather often said about him.

Minutes later, Trev stood upon the High Street cobbles in a shadowy spot. He gazed uphill toward the woods at the bottom of the cemetery. He wanted to walk up there and investigate, but he held back. The trouble was, he had promised not to go up to the graveyard alone. Not just today, not
ever
. That was a problem for him. He tried to make the best of the situation, telling himself that officially he was able to travel anywhere else he felt like—just
not
the cemetery.

He left the High Street and walked down quieter lanes. His path took him closer to the cemetery, but not actually onto the grounds. At the bottom of the hill a circle of houses ringed the wooded land. There were a few tinkering shops here, all dark and quiet. Most of the houses were small and tired-looking. They were the homes of laborers: bricklayers, carpenters, seamstresses and the like. They were not so poor as the people who lived on stilted shacks along the docks, but neither were they rich enough to live on the good side of town.

Trev moved like a shadow among a thousand other shadows. He felt at home in the dark, but he soon realized he was not alone here in this neighborhood. Something was moving in the alleyway nearby. He heard a trash-barrel creak and rattle. Probably a stray cat looking for a meal, he thought. Just to be sure, he hunkered down in a deep pool of shadow beside a smith’s anvil and watched the alleyway. The sounds continued. If it was a cat, the animal was having a hard time of it. Had it somehow fallen inside a barrel and gotten trapped in there?

He became aware of another, softer sound nearby. After a moment, frowning and listening, he became certain of it: someone was coming down the street behind him. This someone was trying to be quiet, but wasn’t quite managing it. Their shoes slapped the cobbles now and then. Trev shook his head. He never wore shoes when he wanted to be quiet. His bare feet were much softer and almost never made a sound when he walked.