Dark Magic (68 page)

Chapter Twenty

A Curse Lifted

The next day, Brand called for the crypt to be sealed. A large structure of cut blocks were piled high over the area, forming a pyramid of mortar and stone. If the Black Jewel were left to sleep within, the Dead could not march again. No one argued with his logic. Even though the townsfolk had mourning families of their own to care for, they came with shovels and picks to aid in the construction.

This
, he thought as he stood upon the rising pile of stone,
could also be called Brand’s Folly someday
. But he did not know what else to do. To whom could he safely give the Black Jewel? He dared not wield it himself. He dared not give it to another who might become like Arawn in the end. He did not know what to do with it, and he did not know whose counsel to seek, so he buried it where it lay. He hoped it would lie dormant, and would not fester.

Brand
sealed the crypt the morning after they finished the great stack of blocks. He collapsed the stairs, removed the entrance, and set guards upon the hill. No one, Dead or Living, was to be allowed entry.

Riverton was in shambles. A quarter of the population had perished, fighting in the streets against their own rambling Dead. Burying them all became a great hardship, but Brand knew it must be done before they rotted in the sun. They thought of burning the bodies, but such treatment was considered disgraceful to River Folk. Brand dared suggest it anyway, for safety’s sake. The Riverton Council however, ruled that the townsfolk had suffered too greatly in recent months. To disgrace the corpses further would not serve to regain their honorable status as fondly remembered relations.

Puck was buried by Mari and Trev, along with many others of the River Folk. It was a mass funeral, and a very sad affair. They were laid to rest in a new place, out upon the most distant region of the Riverton Common. This place was quietly ringed with a stout fence. The fence was fashioned with iron bars and stone pillars. At the tip of every iron bar was a spear point. No one discussed the matter, but everyone knew the bars, the stones and the spear points around this graveyard were meant to keep the Dead
inside
.

Two notable persons attended Puck’s funeral: Oberon and Gudrin. Brand winced to see them, and did not hasten to greet either. Oberon, as far as Brand was concerned, might well have had something to do with the devastation. Gudrin had inarguably abandoned the River Folk in their hour of need.

Oberon approached him first, with a jaunty smile on his lips. Brand scowled at the elf. He understood by now that elves didn’t grieve as humans did, but the elf lord’s flippant attitude still rankled.

“I’ve come for the festivities!” Oberon said, beaming. “I’ve brought my pipes and my lute in Puck’s honor.”

Brand snorted and looked at him with hooded eyes. “You’ll find no celebration here tonight,” he said. “The River Folk are not happy when our kinsmen die horribly at our feet.”

Oberon cocked his head. He had been about to put a set of newly carven pipes made of hickory branches to his lips. “I did not say I was happy they’ve died. Quite the opposite. My son’s loss is painful to me. But when one is feeling pain, isn’t it best to relieve it with wine and song? At what point in life is it better to uplift a clear voice in song?”

Brand shook his head. “It is not our way. You are welcome here to mourn your son, but do not dance and cavort in the presence of my people. And do not attempt to spirit away the Black, either.”

Oberon, scandalized at being treated with such disrespect, marched haughtily away. A smile still played over his thin lips, however.
Brand looked after the elf, unable to marshal his own thoughts. Who was the fool? Oberon? Or the recalcitrant River Boy who sought to thwart him?

Gudrin approached him later in an entirely different manner. Where Oberon had been light-footed and wreathed in smiles, Gudrin resembled a guilty hound who’d been caught with a chicken in her mouth. Such was her abject expression of sorrow Brand took some measure of pity on her. He spoke first as the grand old lady came near.

“Good of you to come for the ceremony, Queen Gudrin,” he said, trying not to sound too stiff. He wanted to mention something about rodents daring to come out of their holes into the sunlight after a storm, but wisely held his tongue. The axe, as always, affected his mind and made it hard to see people in a diplomatic light. He did his best in these matters by speaking a minimum of polite words. Then people would often pronounce him gruff, but not discourteous.

“Such a sorry state of affairs, Brand,” she said. “The Kindred heart dreams of stone—but is not made of stone, as the saying goes.”

Brand had heard it differently, but he again curbed his desire to make a comment. He thought of mentioning their alliance and pointing out she had abandoned it…but again, he held his tongue.

“I thank you for coming. We are all honored.”

“There’s one thing more,” she said. “I’ve sent back all the workmen. They will work for a month with their wages paid from my coffers. Castle Rabing shall stand tall again.”

Brand, despite the objections of the axe, smiled and nodded. He thanked her, then went to join the throng around the countless black graves. They looked like innumerable wounds to Brand.

The ceremony was quite long, since so many had to be laid to rest. Everyone wept, save for Brand and Oberon. Brand found the axe did not let him weep, for Ambros channeled all emotions into suspicion and rage. Being an elf lord, Oberon rarely wept under circumstances that were comprehensible to humans. He was as likely to shed a tear over a fallen leaf as an army lost.

The Kindred were quite apart from elves in their mourning behavior. Gudrin grieved with more vigor than even the River Folk themselves, despite the fact not a single one of the Battleaxe Folk were being planted in a fresh-dug hole today. Brand thought her tears were like those of a wolf with gore-stained teeth.

He shook himself, trying to dislodge such grim thoughts. He knew the Kindred had suffered from a strange plague in Gronig, and even if she’d marched all her people here, they might not have saved many human lives.

The day waxed then waned, and still the burials and benedictions went on. Several had to be interred in shared graves, often without families to mourn them or even proper identification. Finally came the moment Brand had not been looking forward to, the moment when he was called upon by the rest to speak. As the sole lord of the River Folk and their Champion, it was expected.

He stepped to a high patch of grass that was not blackened by overturned soil and raised his arms to the heavens.

“People of Riverton,” he called loudly.

They fell silent and listened intently.

“I grieve as all of you do. Countless friends have fallen, including Puck, who we’ve come to think of as a great a son of the River Haven as he was of the Twilight Lands. My only words of comfort might sound hollow at this time, but at least we’ve brought down an ancient scourge and entombed the Jewel that empowered the lich.”

“But for how long?” called Oberon from the back of the crowd.

Everyone turned with startled expressions. It was not customary to interrupt graveyard services among the River Folk. Oberon stood with a smirk, as if he mocked them all.

Brand glowered. He wanted nothing more to do with elves. In fact, he would have enjoyed taking an axe to this fop who dared to…he shook his head, gathering his wits. He applied self-control, something he’d done so many times over the years. He could not listen to the axe, even if provoked. Perhaps the old elf didn’t know how insulting he was.

“For as long as I wield this axe,” Brand said, reaching back—but halting his hand in time. It was not time to draw a weapon! How had that idea gotten into his mind? Looking now, he saw the townsfolk nearby had widened their eyes and taken a cautionary step back.

He lowered his hand again and cleared his throat. He had to wrap this up quickly. “I would urge you all to look to the future. Take an orphaned child into your home. Every family should consider having another child of their own, as well. We will recover. We will rebuild. Our people have always done so.”

Brand no sooner stepped from the mound that had been his stage than a fair, light-fingered hand fell upon his wrist. It was Oberon again. At least this time he wasn’t interrupting.

“About these children…” Oberon began.

There was a light in the elf’s eye. To Brand, it was a yellow light, a light of greed and scheming.

“What?” Brand snapped, unable to help himself. “What of our children?”

“I’d like to offer our aid. Many children of my daughters live among you now, and I thought I might return the favor. I will take as many as you have no homes for—”

Brand could tolerate no more. He snatched his hand from the elf’s grip, and showed his teeth. “And what?” he demanded. “Would you spirit them away from their homes for a century or two? Would you raise them to lie with your people and produce a fresh crop of abominations?”

Oberon was surprised at his sharp words. The people around Brand, Gudrin included, looked shocked. Everyone stopped moving and talking. They all knew by now of the axeman’s famous temper. They knew too that they stood in the presence of three of the Jewels of Power, while a fourth lie less than three miles off under a mound of freshly mortared bricks. Should these powers move to open conflict, all of their frail lives might well be forfeit.

Another light hand touched Brand’s elbow.

“My Champion?” asked a soft voice.

Brand knew it was Telyn, but he tried not to look at her, to be weakened by her. Finally, however, his head was forced to rotate and his eyes focused on his wife. He breathed more easily.

“Sorry,” he muttered. He turned and walked down the hill rapidly.

“But what of the children?” Oberon called after him.

Brand stopped and whirled. “Haven’t I made it clear?” he roared. “You can’t have them! We need them all!”

Brand turned back and marched away. Telyn hurried after him. The townsfolk dispersed, melting into the landscape. The funeral was over.

Chapter Twenty-One

To Rise from the Earth

When Myrrdin’s mind operated as it should, he worked for weeks—possibly months—to become one with the roots that grew down into his prison.

In the end, it was worthwhile. He had new purpose. He was reborn. The tiny root that had threaded its way down into his prison had been only a bud a first, but it grew rapidly. Hair-like roots swelled to the thickness of fingers. The central core of the root had reached down like an elephant’s truck and encircled his body. He could no longer move his body, but he no longer needed to. With careful coaxing, he’d gotten the root to grow extensions to his feeding and waste tubes. With only a twist of his hoary head, he could reach sustenance. He could suckle from his position, hanging from the roof of his dank cell wound up in a mass of growths. He survived and
grew
, supping as did any plant upon the nourishment provided by the dark earth around him.

His nakedness and emaciation had turned out to be a benefit. Probing growths could find their destinations with ease. He let the roots entangle him, and nuzzle him. They wound up his body like a kitten caught in a ball of yarn. In the blackness, as his hold grew over the living thing that was now connected to him via long strands of plant-flesh, he called to the unseen tree above.

The tree, with Vaul pulsing Green in its heart, answered his calls—his prayers. He worshiped it, and gave it grim promises of bounties it hadn’t experienced in countless years. Vaul beat with excitement to hear its master’s thoughts. Times would be different indeed! No longer would the plant-flesh be carven away from the surface of the Green. The master would now revel in the power of the Green, rather than resist it. He would bring life and motion to the forest as well. All the creatures that had forever gnawed thoughtlessly upon wood and leaf would have their turns at being tasted.

Myrrdin dreamed in his prison. Often, he would believe he had awakened elsewhere. At these times he felt truly awake, and believed that his reality in the dark pit was the falsehood, the recurrent nightmare which haunted him. Myrrdin himself had changed after years in the dark, after experiencing the grimmest of treacheries from his own sire. He’d awakened from his raving state, but some would still think him insane if they were to look upon his squirming mind.

To himself, it was as if he could finally see the world clearly for what it was. He had been made to understand what it meant to be one of the Faerie. He had rejected his human side utterly. He was no longer a creature of pacifist love and stale dealings, he had transformed into a creature of blood, growth, chaos of
life
!

Eventually Myrrdin became strong enough and in tune enough with the living embodiment of Vaul to call up through the roots to the great oak tree in which Vaul had encased itself. Communing with the Green Jewel brought both their spirits no end of hope and joy.

Vaul’s grown form finally became large enough to answer Myrrdin’s deepest prayers, and the tree ripped up its roots. Myrrdin was dragged through a hundred yards of dripping black earth. Much of his skin was abraded away, but he knew his flesh would be replaced by fresh-grown bark in time. When he finally broke free to be blinded by the faint light of the stars overhead, he knew joy in his heart and forgot his hundred small hurts.

What he didn’t forget were his enemies. The elves lived in a thousand mushrooms all around the tree. They were trod upon as they slept and driven face-down into the earth. Their writhing bodies were stamped out like insects. Crushed so thoroughly by the great weight of the massive walking oak, each victim was unrecognizable when the thirteen-legged monster tottered after the next fleeing form.

Inside the bole of the monster, Myrrdin crouched. Blood and sweat ran into his eyes. They stung, but he did not close them. His staring orbs bulged from his face and leered with wild joy. His skinny fingers squeezed in excitement until they bled, leaving stains upon the rough bark of his perch.

He laughed and howled as he ran down his seventieth elf. He had been counting the kills carefully, with new joy blossoming in his heart as he crushed each one down. Alas, he soon could not find any more, the rest having fled into the glooming Great Erm and hidden themselves.

Myrrdin turned Vaul away from the elf town and tottered into the trees that stood as big as mountains all around. He had plans. He had a very long list of people that needed visiting. But first, he would have to consolidate his power. The forest itself would serve as his army, with trees following him in their thousands. He would make them all walk, and he would give them the vengeance they’d waited an eternity to experience.

End of Death Magic

BONUS Excerpt: