Dark Magic (38 page)

Jak spoke next. “Brother, should you perhaps take only half our force? Something must be left to protect the Haven.”

Brand looked at him, then cast his eyes to the fire. “I don’t like the way it sounded. I think Gudrin is really in trouble. I will ask the council to give me three quarters of our army. All of our new troops. Everything except for the fat old constables themselves.”

“I want to march with you this time, Brand,” said Jak.

Brand looked at him, and saw his cheek muscles were jumping. He feared being brushed aside by his own younger brother. Brand smiled at him. “I will be glad to have you, brother.”

Jak beamed his thanks. Lanet, who appeared at his side, looked anything but pleased. Brand wondered if he were about to lead her second husband to his doom. He shook himself and took a deep breath. A commander could not allow himself such thoughts.

“I belong with you as well, Brand,” said Telyn. She already had her bow in her hands, as if they were leaving this very night. Brand frowned. He recalled his personal vow, the one he had made to himself the night he faced Piskin. He said nothing for a moment.

Everyone stood quietly, waiting for him to speak.

“Your place is indeed at my side, my love. But I’ve dragged you along on many missions, Telyn. It is only fair that Jak get his turn, for better or worse. And if it be for worse, I want a skilled hand here defending Lanet and the two babes.”

Telyn blinked at him in surprise. He could tell she had truly thought she would march with him. But she looked around at Lanet. It was true, anyone could see. They could not all leave her, with her own babe and the adopted one on the eve of an unknown war. Rabing Isle was isolated.

“Perhaps we should withdraw to Thilfox manor,” said Telyn uncertainly.

“That might be a good idea. But I still say Lanet needs looking after. She will be your sister-in-law soon.”

Telyn nodded. “But who will be your Second? Jak?”

“In a pinch, I’m sure he’ll do well. But I’ll ask Corbin to do it.”

Telyn’s face was tight, but Brand did not expect her to rage or fall to tears. She had been through worse.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll stay with the family. One quarter of us should stay, after all.”

Brand nodded, and beamed at her. He gave her a hug, and she melted against him. It was an emotional moment for all of them. A new war had sprung up, and all their plans had been dashed so quickly.

They talked and planned for the rest of the afternoon and on into the evening. In the morning Brand went to his Uncle Tylag and an emergency council meeting was held. Brand stood before the council, and eventually got what he wanted. A muster went out, and a hundred war beacons were lit all over the Haven.

The system of warning fires was new, but quick and effective. Each tower of oiled wood stood in highly visible spots, such as atop cliffs and along the wide banks of the Berrywine. Each beacon was within the sight of two others. When the blue-cloak whose job it was to tend each beacon saw either of the others lit, he quickly lit his own. Thus was the entire network of fires seen and relayed to every member of the militia within hours.

Each village gathered a company, each town a regiment. Together, they marched. Within a day, they were streaming into Riverton, their eyes serious and dark with worry. Many among them were veterans of the Dead Kingdoms. None who had been there had forgotten those grim days. They had buried many friends in that haunted swamp and fought foes that no man wanted to meet, not in battle nor nightmare. But there was more than worry in those faces. Brand saw pride and determination as well.

He was glad to see many new faces among the gathering folk. They could only be recruits from the wagon peoples who had gathered to the Haven over the last months. He felt honored that they would stand and fight beside him on such short acquaintance.

The Wee Folk, led by Tomkin, arrived at midnight the night before they were to march. Brand raised his eyebrows, then smiled broadly. There had to be a hundred of them. He had never seen so many of the tiny creatures bounding about in all his life. He was glad his Aunt Suzenna wasn’t there to witness the sight. She might have fainted dead away.

And so, upon the third morning after receiving Gudrin’s plea, Brand marched at the head of the largest army the River Folk had ever gathered. A great column of men, women and beasts wound its way into the Deepwood.

And not a man of them knew what they were about to face.

Chapter Seventeen

Gronig’s Fate

Two days march ahead of Brand and his army, Oberon met with King Groth of the gnomes. He stood once again in the gnome city in the Everdark. Their deal, once conditional, had now moved forward.

“Show me as you might, elf, your mastery of the Red.”

Oberon, smiled with confidence. His blade, ever bright and silvery, stroked his palm. Such was his nature that his smile did not flicker, but broadened slightly at the pain. The bloodhound lapped up the blood rapidly as it cooled upon the worn stone floor.

Oberon summoned up a star of blood, a floating mist with seven points. He lifted his palm to the thick red bubble of his own blood and plunged it in. When he withdrew it, he flexed his fingers and flashed the flat, unblemished palm toward the gnome king. There was no slash upon it. All sign of the hurt he had suffered from his own blade had vanished.

“Huh,” said the gnome king. The utterance resonated like two stones grinding one against the other. “You have not forgotten how to wield it then, not even after so many years.”

“Years mean little to either your kind or mine,” said Oberon, allowing the dripping bubble to pop. The hound quickly sought and lapped up the residue from the stones.

“So, we are allies. Who else stands upon each side?”

“The Merlings, kobolds and goblins stand with us.”

Another grinding sound. Oberon thought it to be laughter. “Scum. Bags of liquid waste, the lot of them. What of our enemy? Do the Kindred stand alone?”

“The Kindred are alone in their mountain.”

“Then we have naught to fear.”

Oberon lifted a single long finger. “But the River folk march to aid them. And the Wee Folk march with them.”

“Both are bad jokes as military forces go. But they each wield a Jewel. With the Orange in the hands of the Kindred, that makes three of theirs against two of ours.”

“Not if we move quickly enough,” said Oberon. “We must strike now, immediately. Then it will be two against one and many more numbers on our side.”

The gnome king began pacing again, his stone feet grinding away fresh dust from his deep rut. “The Kindred will prove a tough nut to crack in their stronghold. Gudrin’s fire will burn even flesh of granite.”

“We will strike from below and above,” said Oberon. He made a swooping move with one hand from beneath. “The kobolds and gnomes will come up from the Everdark.” He made another sweeping gesture, his other hand coming down from above. “My elves, goblins and Merlings will take the Black Mountains and drive into Snowdon itself from the surface. Gudrin will be strong, but she can’t be everywhere at once. Where she is not, we will advance and crush them.”

The gnome king froze in thought. It was perhaps the longest frozen time Oberon had ever observed in the other. He began to think, as the second minute stretched into the third, that the old gnome had returned to the lifeless stone from whence it had come so very long ago. But then Groth slowly turned his great, smooth head.

“We may succeed. I have promised, and so I must march. I will tell you, the decision was a narrow one.”

“And what, pray tell, would you have done if you decided not to march with me? How might an honorable being such as yourself live onward after having so wantonly broken your word?”

Groth gestured with a great stone fist. Standing outside the chamber’s only exit were a dozen restive gnomes. Dust dribbled from every thick finger as their fists clenched.

“In that case, both our lives would have been forfeit. Mine for dishonor, and yours for trespassing.”

Oberon nodded in complete understanding. He raised his chin and smiled. “Under these circumstances, I’m glad I made a convincing case.”

* * *

The Kindred tower full of red-cloaked warriors was Oberon’s first obstacle. Once past the tower, nothing more than a few stone shepherd’s stood between them and the bustling mining town of Gronig.

Oberon marshaled his archers in the gloom of the Deepwood. It was early evening, and they had just arrived. The enemy were at high alert, but their few crossbow-armed scouts that roamed the wood had been disposed of. The alarm had not yet gone out.

The first shower of arrows broke against the tower, and a warbling horn sounded. Less than a minute later, an answering horn sounded in Gronig.

With lips pulled back from his teeth in worry, Oberon sent in a wave of
Merlings bearing hooked ladders and stone-headed rams. More elf bows snapped and twanged. Arrows with deadly burrowing tips sought any tiny gap in the armored enemy. A few bit into flesh. Victims screamed and ripped at themselves. Those struck in a limb, like as not cut off their own arms and legs to stop the vicious, digging tips.

Crossbows snapped back, finding easy targets among the humping forms of hundreds of
Merlings. Once they reached the tower itself, the grim work of digging the Kindred out of their tower began. Behind the Merling light infantry, dozens of cloaked killers came with winking ensorcelled blades.

The Kindred fought bravely, and in fact took longer to die than even Oberon had anticipated. They fought on despite being outnumbered twenty to one. Not a single red cloak surrendered. In none of their eyes did the elf lord see anything but fury and perhaps even a gleeful madness to meet their ends in defense of their lands and their damnable queen.

He could have wielded the Red to speed up the fight, but did not want to chance it. The longer the enemy stayed ignorant of his true strength, the greater the surprise would be when he finally displayed it.

And so, without the use of anything other than sweat and blood, Oberon drove his troops into the tower in a final assault. Minutes later, he stood breathing hard over the Kindred captain’s body.

He took stock of the fight. He had to change his strategy somewhat. He could not bypass Gronig and climb the Black Mountains, as he had originally planned. It was clear to him now, after seeing the yellow glint of blood-madness in their eyes, the Kindred would form up, every last miner and barmaid, and they would march up the rocky cliffs behind him.

“We attack Gronig next,” he told his captains. They nodded grimly and leaned upon their bows and shimmering blades.

Oberon used the hound then, sucking blood from the Kindred corpses and healing those of the bodies of the Merlings and elves who were not beyond repair. Sweating, he summoned his runners. “What of the goblins?” he demanded.

“No sign, milord,” said an elf runner.

Both of them turned their eyes toward the dark forest, then up to the starry skies. If that bastard Hob didn’t show up, Oberon swore to himself, he would hunt the goblin down in Eire or whatever stinking swamp he lay in. He would have his vengeance, if it took his dying breath from him.

Gronig had only a single regiment of heavy troopers and a company of lighter crossbowmen as a garrison. Oberon had long ago scouted the town, of course, and clearly recognized Gudrin’s wisdom. She had lightly garrisoned the town, just enough to give an enemy pause, but not enough to split her forces. The vast majority still guarded Snowdon.

Oberon ordered the Merlings forward under the cover of darkness, which had fallen hard and heavy this moonless night. His people did not shine and give themselves away when the moon was absent from the heavens, making this the optimum time of the month for such an attack.

The enemy was ready, naturally. War beacons burned on every stone roof, providing light and signaling allies. All the way up to Snowdon, the roaring fires would be visible. His greatest desire was that Gudrin would march down into the open to meet him. He didn’t expect her to, but he could hope.

Just before he ordered his elves to commit to the assault, he paused. This step, attacking enemy families, would not soon be forgotten. The Kindred, should there be any of them left breathing when this was over, would sing of this day and curse by it. If the Kindred were to prevail, there would be a terrible price for the Shining Folk to pay in the Twilight Lands.

He nodded to himself. His path was clear. He must not fail.

* * *

Gudrin paced, her face storming. Few dared speak to her when she was in such a state, but the chamberlain, a sallow fellow who valued duty over his own skin, cleared his throat and approached her. She ignored him, and continued to pace.

The chamberlain cleared his throat a second time, but she still ignored him. He spoke anyway, impressing Gudrin, because as he spoke she truly did consider burning him down where he stood. His words were most unwelcome.

“The reports are in from the spyglasses buried within Snowdon’s crown, milady. It appears the elves are attacking Gronig.”

She stopped pacing, but her eyes stayed upon the flagstones at her feet. She did not look at the chamberlain, because she would have to burn him then, she knew. She had already burned off beards and slagged a few chins as well from messengers this dark day. She felt bad about it, but the Jewel, Pyros had a temper of its own. She wondered now that Brand had ever been able to control Ambros, which was reputed to be worse than Pyros. The Orange was positively evil when her mind was under real stress. Rather than just making one argumentative, it made one half-mad with fury at the slightest annoyance.

“What report is there of the River Folk?” she demanded, keeping her eyes focused on the cut granite at her feet. Each tile was carven with an intricate bas relief of crossed hammers. A thousand such fine, ancient tiles covered the floor for a hundred paces in every direction.

The queen of the Kindred and her counselors stood atop the Great Gate itself, on the inside of Snowdon. A large area of crenulated battlements thronged the inside of the mountain here. Few travelers ever looked up enough to examine the shadowy areas over the Great Gate once they passed inside, but it was in fact a strong point of the mountain’s defense. Should an enemy break the gates and press inside, they would be struck from behind and above by the warriors and weaponeers who waited here. The fortifications also made an excellent headquarters for the management of any fighting in the Black Mountains.

“My queen,” said the chamberlain, hesitating. For the first time, she heard a quaver enter his voice and knew that whatever he had to say, the news would be bad. She steeled herself, promising herself not to lose her temper—and thus her mind.

“Wee Folk runners have come from the River Folk,” he said at last. “The good news is that they march.”

“And the bad?” she snapped, pacing again.

“They have just entered the Deepwood—on their side, of course. They will not arrive for two days, possibly three.”

Gudrin halted. Everyone fell silent. The torches around them fluttered and roared with the whipping winds that came up from the open gates below them. There was always a strong breeze here when the Great Gates were open. Heated air was endlessly exchanged for cold through this portal to the surface world.

Gudrin’s eyes rotated up to gaze upon the chamberlain. Everyone tensed, especially the chamberlain. He did not cower or seek to cover his face, however. Instead, he stood taller. He even had the temerity to stare back at her.

“You’re telling me that Gronig is lost.”

“Yes, my queen. Unless—”

“Unless we do something.”

The chamberlain nodded. In her mind’s eye, Gudrin saw herself raising a single finger. No more would be needed. She would burn him down with a single blue-white beam of heat. She would burn him down to his boot stumps, and it would make her smile. Nothing else could please her right now.

As she thought about it more seriously, the idea growing in her mind, she considered he wouldn’t feel much from the kiss of her blazing fire. It would be very quick, and the shock would be such that it would be practically painless. As a bonus, some part of her mind argued, she would probably find discipline improved among all her commanders, who stood around watching.

She did begin to slowly raise her hand, and everyone in the room sucked in their collective breath. She caught the hand, however, with her mind. She caught her own hand the way a person might collect a butterfly that flutters near. She stopped the hand and forced it to obey her. She moved the hand to her own cheek, where she rubbed her scarred flesh as if thinking.

All around her, a collective breath was released.

She nodded and began pacing again. “The elf lord seeks to force me to take the field. He knows we are strong here. He wants us out in the open. He wants us to leave Snowdon undefended from beneath as well, so his minions might bubble up from the Everdark.”

“Milady, we don’t know that—” began one of her captains, but the rest of the words were swallowed. His name was Thorkil, and he was known for his outspoken nature, even among the Kindred. She had raised a palm to him, and Thorkil had frozen. She did not look at the captain, but everyone there knew she did not need to. From her palm she could release a gush of heat like dragonfire, a broad cone of flame that could consume many irritants at once.

“Yes,” she said, lowering her palm slowly. “Yes, we
do
know. We know they are down there, awaiting the signal. If you don’t know it, you are a fool.”