Dream Magic (40 page)

Slet did not move. Instead, the room around him seemed to shift instead. Slowly, a thousand bones coalesced into a dozen skeletons. They stood at odd angles, and their fleshless bodies crackled when they moved.

“Oh, you need me now, do you?” Slet asked. “I’m always at the beck and call of Lord Rabing, I’m sure.”

“Slet, it’s not like that,” Telyn said, “the castle is about to fall.”

“Hmm,” Slet said, putting a thin finger to his chin. “You know, living down here for a while has taught me much. I understand now how it must have gone for every necromancer in the past. First, they’re shocked by their predicament. They wish to rectify it, to satisfy the living that they are not one of the Dead, not a monster—but in time, they give up. They’re burned, beaten, imprisoned. Possibly, my kind are as much victims as they are villains.”

Brand was sneering, barely containing himself. He stepped in front of Telyn and lifted the Axe higher. “If you wish to stay here and play with your bones in the dark, I have no need of you. Follow me, the lord of this castle, and you will be rewarded. Defy me, and you will die where you stand.”

Slet laughed. “You are in my domain now. I rule beneath the earth, in the ground with the Dead. Not you.”

“You can’t be
serious?” Brand asked. “You must know you can’t defeat me. To even suggest the challenge is absurd. I’m the Axeman, and you are an untrained necromancer. You barely know which end of that Scepter is which.”

“You’re right, I probably can’t beat you. But I don’t
need to. You’ve brought your weakness along with you. I’ll simply order all my minions to tear your wife apart. You’ll destroy many of us, perhaps all, but Telyn will not be in one piece at the end, I assure you.”

Brand almost attacked him then. In his mind, he could see himself lifting the Axe and commanding it to burn this monster. His eyes would boil from the sockets, and he’d be as much a skeleton as the rest when Ambros was finished.

Telyn laid a hand on his arm. The touch was so delicate, so slight, he almost didn’t notice it at first. But then he realized she was speaking to him—to both of them. With an effort of will, he forced himself to listen.

“You don’t
have to do this,” Telyn told them. “The Jewels are close to one another, and driving you both mad. Let your anger fade. Of all the Jewel bearers, you’re the only two from the Haven. We can’t stand if brothers war upon each other. We’ll all die. We need you both, our champions.”

Slet and Brand regarded one another for a long moment. Brand spoke first.

“I apologize for our persecution of you from the start. You must understand—the Storm of the Dead did not leave the people of the Haven in a generous mood when it comes to necromancers, new or old.”

“Apology accepted,” Slet said seriously.

“I must now
ask
you for your aid,” Brand said, emphasizing the word
ask
where before he’d spoken only in the most commanding of tones. “It is as Telyn says. Our people will all die if we do not cooperate now. There are many Dead above us, I need you to make them rise and fight again.”

“I accept your invitation,” Slet said, “lead me to your Dead.”

Brand, Telyn and Slet raced up the steps. They left the catacombs and came out into the glaring daylight. Two dozen skeletons followed, each clad in scraps of armor and armed with discarded old weapons. Many of their swords were rusted or broken, but they held them as if they knew them well.

“Telyn, take him to the walls!” Brand shouted, pointing up the steps to the battlements. “I must mee
t the enemy at the gates. They’re almost through.”

While Slet hurried after Telyn, he bent as he reached each fallen man who’d tumbled back from the top of the wall to crash upon the cobbles. He touched their brows, and their eyes snapped open. Unblinking, these men heaved themselves up and staggered after him. They walked on broken limbs without feeling. Their staring eyes never blinked. Bones shot through their skin and crunched as they walked, but the Dead men never winced in pain.

Brand shuddered slightly, then turned away from the disgusting display. He had no time to mourn his men or what had been done to them.

It was as he reached the gates that a tremendous crashing sound rang out over the entire castle. Even those locked in mortal combat had to turn and crane their necks. They all cringed when the
y saw what they saw.

The Great Tree was moving. It had taken down the wall in front of it, walking right through as a man might press his way through a hedge. A great section of stone bricks had been kicked flat, making the tremendous sound they’d all heard.

Now, swaying slightly as it advanced, the monstrous tree shambled toward the keep where the battle raged.

* * *

Oberon was stunned. He’d seen victory within his grasp, but now, from several directions, his plans were under assault. The walls were slow to go down, both outer and inner, but they were finally being overcome. The human troops had been devastated by Old Hob’s timely attack, and as the Rainbow hammered blows upon the gates it appeared the end was near for the garrison inside.

But then a series of calamities had struck his side. First, the enemy had raised their Dead, manning their walls anew with men they’d already taken great pains to dispatch. Worse, these new troops felt no pain, no fear and could not be controlled by Morgana’s Sunstone.

Then the Great Tree had joined the battle. Had it all been a trick? A ruse to feign weakness, to force them to play every card they had, then reverse it all upon them? If so, the humans of the Haven had learned too well from the Faerie. In a way, even in his despair, Oberon felt impressed and amused by the antics of the enemy. It was a grand joke, even if the elves were to be the butt of it.

He had a card left yet to pla
y. Although he was with his men and not standing at the side of his mistress, he knew what she would want: to win at all costs. He summoned his elves together and ordered them to drop their idle pursuits. The ravaging of maidens would have to wait for a better day.

Glassy-
eyed and feral-minded, his troops were not their usual selves. They were all infected with bloodlust, something he owed to Morgana’s power. But they were obedient enough when their lord called, and they came to stand in clumps of five, nine, and thirteen.

The groups that stood in fives he approached first. He apologized in their tongue first, as was only polite, then he fused them.

The Red was in his arms, a bloodhound of fur and flesh—but nothing else about it was normal. It had evil eyes and never barked. Instead, it only lapped at spilled blood and stared at its victims without remorse or compunction.

The elves
Oberon urged into tight huddles felt themselves thick about the middle at first. Stepping closer and closer to one another, they cried out in alarm, but could not stop the transformation once it had begun. They linked arms, and their distending bellies touched. Once their guts broke free of their tunics and pressed flesh to flesh, the fusing began in earnest and the process sped up.

Screaming, the elves wriggled and their tangled legs staggered in a dozen directions at once. But although they tottered, they could not escape, they could not be free of the others. For they were in the grips of Blood Magic at its most powerful and they could not resist it.

Soon, they formed abominations with numerous heads, limbs, weapons and a dozen or two legs each. Oberon walked from one group to the next, touching spots here and there that had not quite subsumed with the rest. Occasionally, he spied a gap in his monstrosities, so he grabbed up a human body, living or dead, and tossed it into the mix. Like throwing a new stick on a raging fire, the new fuel was soon consumed and became part of the swelling whole.

The smallest abominations he armed with fallen weapons. They were plentiful, having dropped from the men who’d been individuals moments earlier. He armed each grasping hand with a sword, each pair with a bow.

Then he turned to the larger groupings. The nine-elf monsters formed larger abominations. These stood with a second layer above the first. Like a snowman with two spheres of frozen matter, the bottom layer served only to support the upper. These took more work to perfect. Into the hands at the top, he fitted lances, as swords would not be long enough to reach the enemy. He also paired and fused together the dangling legs at the bottom, so they would not buckle under the terrific weight.

The greatest of his creations he approached last. These were barely functional masses of tangled flesh and limbs. Thirteen or more elves formed each, and he added more flesh liberally, even throwing in oxen for strength in the lower regions.

The fusion of limbs was required in this case. Every three normal legs or arms formed a single, massive, knobby limb. Even with only four arms at the top and ten or so feet churning below, the monster was impressive. Heads were plentiful, and squinting eyes looked everywhere at once.

Normal weapons could not be used to arm these goliaths. Instead, he had them rip
trees from the ground, or beams from farmhouses to use as mauls. Swung with terrific force, these weapons could kill a man with a single stroke—or destroy a Dead thing.

The hound lapped furiously, and Oberon worked his magic until sweat ran from his body and formed a slick gel mixed with stray blood. He was soon coated in it, like a man lathered in soap.

When he was finished, he took his position at the head of his new army. His groaning, wheezing abominations shuffled and dragged their misshapen forms after him. Oberon turned them to face battle. He did not like what he saw ahead, but he was compelled to join in the melee.

The Great Tree had reached them at last.

* * *

Myrrdin
loomed over the village outside the castle proper like a mad god. He shambled forward, making his final charge. Massive roots erased cottages as they went, crushing them down and obliterating all sign of human habitation. There was no heed taken of livestock, fences, fleeing citizens or enemies. In the tree’s wake, it left behind only scraped black earth, dust and rubble.

Myrrdin had a fever that consumed his mind and body alike. He was mad, but that was not all of it. He’d pushed himself too far. For years, he’d lain dormant beneath the earth, kept alive only by his plots for revenge. Now, at last, he was free to do his worst.

He cared not one wit for Brand, humanity, nor even the elves. He only wanted to hurt his sire anyway he could. As he could not see the scampering elf, nor make him out apart from the others, he was determined to stamp out every last one of the little blighters before he was done.

His
fleshly body was hot in its encasement of tubers and greenwoods. He knew he had only a short while to live. If he’d decided to go off somewhere and hide—perhaps for a week or more, he might have recovered.  But he never even considered the idea. He was consumed with the need to lash out at his father, the elf that had made him, raised him, and then mocked him for a thousand years as an inferior creation. His mother had died so long ago he could no longer recall her sweet face. But his father remained exactly the same as the first day he’d laid eyes upon him as a child.

Myrrdin understood that
Oberon had been old when Myrrdin was born, and he was much older now. An elf so weary of life could no more care for a half-human child than a snake could kiss its young goodnight. For a time, Myrrdin been able to accept this, but his sire’s base treachery of late had been too much. His mind had snapped and had only righted itself partially when he created the Great Tree.

There
had been a project worthy for a man’s lifetime! He’d been happy for a brief spell, nurturing the tree, bringing it back to life again. But then Trev and Brand had seen fit to make him remember Oberon and he’d fallen back into his madness—and become again an elemental force bent upon destruction.

Now he drove the tree like a drunken rider
that flails his horse until its heart fails and it falls into the cold mud. Part of him knew the tree wasn’t ready for battle, but that was a thought that required judgment and reason to act upon, and he was beyond that now.

He caught those he could and crushed them down.
Seeing the elves and humans alike escaping his wrath, he turned toward the castle proper. There stood the Rainbow, beating on the gates.

A broad grin overcame him. He saw the Rainbow
as a terror from his past. His father had commanded it for long centuries, and in Myrrdin’s mind he commanded it still.

He turned and extended a dozen claw-like branches, each as big as a tree in its own right. The Rainbow was a gigantic creature, but it looked like
a child when confronting the Great Tree.

Myrrdin’s branches raked the Rainbow, and it reeled back and fell to the ground. Chunks of gauzy multi-hued material glistened from Myrrdin’s
claws. The Rainbow flailed, stunned, then it loosed a strange, deafening howl.

The sound was of such volume and weirdness it rang in
every mind that heard it and set every man’s teeth on edge. Kicking and churning its limbs, the Rainbow regained its feet and charged the tree.