Haven Magic (22 page)

So it was, in broad daylight, that he stepped out from the rowan tree. A single sweeping stride took him over the border he had never dared pass before. Shouldering a stout oak club, the thickness and weight of which was greater than the fattest man in the Haven, he walked onto the pig farm.

He reached a fence of split rails, about five feet in height, and stepped over it rather than just kicking his way through. It was best to make less noise to summon the farmer, who might have a bow handy. Twrog didn’t really fear a few arrows. He didn’t look forward to their bite, but like a bear raiding a beehive, he accepted that a few stings were to be expected and were simply part of the business. Reasoning that the best course was a direct one, and hardly being capable of reasoning anything more complex, Twrog marched up to the pigpen, which was crowded with very surprised pigs.

They snorted at him and turned up their tiny eyes in a frozen moment of disbelief. Never in their short lives had any of them even scented one of his kind, much less been approached by a giant. He seemed to them to be similar to a man, but muskier, with the odor of blood and the wilds on him. Like the occasional huntsmen that came to visit, they classified him as human, but distrusted him immediately. They trotted away to the far end of their pens and stood there, watching his approach.

It was not until he swung his club and bashed one of them to the ground that they set up a horrible din of squealing.

Chasing them around in the pens, club upraised, Twrog managed to dash three more of them in rapid succession. His last swing, unfortunately, had caught the corner of the roof of their shelter and brought it crashing down. He paused to blink down at the squealing, circling pigs and the smashed roof. Someone would come to investigate this, he was certain.

Compared to catching wild game, this was easy. He could have killed them all. But there was hardly any point to that. Four pigs were already as much as he could easily carry. He stuffed two in his game sack, gripped the third and tucked the fourth under his arm. His free hand still held the oaken club. It was a good club, and had always brought him luck. Today’s kills were further evidence of just how lucky that club was for him.

Twrog marched back toward the Deepwood with a feeling of triumph. His mouth could still recall the flavor of ham hocks, and tonight he promised himself he would cook these pigs properly and enjoy them to the fullest.

He heard shouts behind him and hunched his shoulders, expecting the sting of an arrow. He tried to move faster, but he couldn’t run while carrying so much meat.

The first arrow didn’t hit him, it sailed safely by. The second sunk into the rump of the dead pig tucked under his arm. The third, however, struck home. He knew it was a crossbow bolt, those often sunk more deeply into the thick flesh of his back than an arrow could have when propelled by a huntsman’s bow. He winced and dropped the game sack. He briefly considered abandoning it, he could move much faster to the tree line, but the very thought made him angry.

These River Folk had eaten like kings for as long as he could remember, refusing to share with the likes of poor Twrog. Now, even as he was setting things right, they had the gall to shoot at him!

He turned around with a low roar. Three shocked River Folk faced him, all armed with bows. They were in the very act of working their weapons, reloading them to cause him further undeserved harm.

“Shoot Twrog NO MORE!” he roared at them. They all froze, their faces showing slack-jawed surprise. None of them had ever met a giant, much less heard one speak.

Then Twrog threw his lucky club. He launched it high, so that it flew end-over-end. The humans, who consisted of the farmer, his eldest son and his eldest daughter, paused for a moment in astonishment. When that moment had passed, they dropped their bows and scattered, but it was too late. The huge rotating club was already falling toward them. The club blocked out the sun that rode directly above in flashes of black shadow and brilliant sunlight.

It struck the ground with tremendous force, throwing up a geyser of black earth mixed with clumps of grass. The three humans were sprayed with dirt, but none were yet crushed.

But the club was not done. It bounced, still flying end-over-end. When it came down a second time, it caught the farmer himself and crushed him down.

Twrog made a great honking sound, a heavy laugh that would forever after haunt the grieving dreams of the farmer’s children. As the giant carried his four pigs into the Deepwood and vanished in the gloom under the trees, he hoped that losing his lucky club had been worth it.

Chapter Two

The Changeling

Among all the Faerie, the Wee Folk were perhaps the most curious and impetuous. Despite the Pact, they had never stopped playing occasional tricks upon humanity. Because of this, they were well-remembered by the River Folk. Many of the other less common, less adventurous creatures had been all but forgotten. Banshees, for example, had become mythical in the minds of the people of the Haven. But the Wee Folk were very real. No one had forgotten them.

That same curiosity, that same willingness to take a risk, drove many Wee Folk to cross the river to Stone Island and search for victims the moment the Pact was reportedly at an end. Such was their eagerness that some of them had already arrived on the island and had been skulking about, marking likely targets for days before the ceremony itself.

This was nothing new. Each year, there were always rumors among their kind that this would be the last time the humans would escape their tricks. The winged wisps told tinkling tales of the humans’ lack of faithfulness. Each year it was said that surely, the River Folk would not put up another feast. This year, the Faerie would be released from nonsensical Pacts and times would be good again. This year, every porch would have a welcoming clay pot of ale set out, and every infant would be placed in a crib near an open window, easy for the plucking. But alas, despite the rumors, these happy times had never materialized.

This harvest, however, was different.

Piskin was one of the braver, more dedicated of the Wee Folk. He had made the early trip to Stone Island, hoping. The year itself
felt
different to Piskin. The air was colder and tinged with the spice of magic. And he had seen so very many years. In fact, he was old enough to well-remember the days before the Pact had been forged. He had enjoyed life much more fully then. All of the humans had been at his disposal. Every night, their farms had been like picnic tables and their young like slow, fat fish in a quiet stream.

Piskin was a changeling. He had only a few magical tricks up his sleeve, but the best one, the only one that really mattered, was the power to shift into the shape of a human infant. Back in the olden times, this single power had made life very sweet indeed. He had never missed a full meal, never gone a week without a delicate, soft-fingered bath, nor had a night ever passed without snuggling against the cushion of a young mother’s breast.

He longed to return to those happy times. For many, many harvest nights he had watched with teeth-grinding fury as that fool incarnate Oberon had allowed the humans to buy him off with a pathetic pile of earthly goods. What benefit was a single fat feast each year, whilst all the food and comfort of a lifetime lay right there for the taking in any rich woman’s crib? Each year he came to the Haven, and he hoped, and after the Pact was renewed he snarled in disappointment.

But not this year. This year, the vile Pact had been broken, and peace was at an end.

He wasted no time. He did not even wait until the cover of darkness to move. All he could think was that the fool Oberon would relent. That somehow Myrridin, that cursed wizard, would manage to trick their fool of a lord yet again. Piskin planned to be in a cradle long before nightfall. Even if the Pact lay broken for only a single day, he planned to be back in the arms of a pretty maid.

He had his new young mother all picked out. Lanet Drake was her name. She dwelt in Riverton, the only true town the River Folk had on their island stronghold. Her house was the biggest and finest structure in town, Drake Manor. Freshly married, Piskin’s maid-to-be had long red hair, a perfectly upturned mouth, and a new baby that was barely a season old. Her voice was melodic, her breasts were ample and her squalling brat got the best of everything. Equally important, the father was often away up the river working as a foreman of herdsmen. It was always best, Piskin knew, that the husband was away at first. Sometimes, the fathers became wise to him, but rarely the mothers. And, even if she did begin to suspect the truth, a maid who’s first born was a changeling would protect him instinctively.

He bounded over the absurdly low wall that surrounded Drake Manor and bounced from tree to tree in excitement. It had been so long! He tried to stay low, but so great was his joy that he almost sprang out in front of a guardsman. This last surprised him. He had been all over the manor during the preceding weeks and had never seen an attentive guard on duty. The walls themselves were a joke, of course. They had no wards on them and he doubted they would have kept a three-limbed rhinog out.

But there he was, a guardsman, eyeing the trees with suspicion. He had a bow in his hands and although he probably couldn’t have hit a cow with it, Piskin eyed the thing with worry. A single arrow could take the life of a Wee One, like a man pole-axed. The humans seemed to have an idea of what was in store for them. Luckily, they were clearly ill-prepared for the likes of him.

Circling the guardsman and staying under cover, Piskin made his stealthy way to a certain third floor window. There, from inside, he could hear the sweet humming of his new maid. He dared not peek inside and gaze at her. There would be plenty of time for that sort of thing later. She would feed the brat by four, he knew, and with any luck he would have completed the switch by then.

There were only two tricky parts to the work of a changeling. The first, of course, was getting the mother to leave the child alone long enough to steal it. Some mothers seemed to hover over their children night and day, it could be quite frustrating. The second part was even harder. He would have to make off with the infant, dispose of it somewhere where it would never be found, and then return to the crib to take its place. His plan in this regard was simple. He would spirit away the child to the nearest cliff overlooking the Berrywine River. A loop of leather around one chubby foot and a hefty stone attached to the leather cord would do the deed. That was all that he needed. They would never find the child.

Naturally, all of these steps had to be completed quickly and quietly before the mother grew wise. Some changelings worked with an accomplice for this very reason. One would carry off the child, while the second would spring into its bed and shift into the guise of the infant on the instant.

Piskin preferred to work alone. Others of his kind would at best get in the way, or at worst, disrupt the operation. He thought about waiting for nightfall, but his greatest fear was that another of his kind would come along with exactly his plans in mind and beat him to this fresh-faced maid. He had to move fast, before every Wee One in the Haven came for what he already thought of as
his
infant.

And so it was that when another tiny throat cleared itself nearby, Piskin bared his teeth in way of greeting.

The intruder stood only a few paces away, at the corner of the very ledge Piskin stood on. The other had come around the corner of the building, just as calmly and nonchalantly as you please.

The invader wore a derby hat. He tipped it to Piskin in the manner of one greeting a fellow.

“Sirrah, this window is taken,” hissed Piskin, his lips curling away and his nose crinkling.

The other walked a few steps closer, seemingly unsurprised by Piskin’s mood.

“Dando’s the name,” he said, offering up a long-fingered hand.

Piskin stared at the hand and fumed. “You’ll not have her,” he growled. “I’ve marked her, she will be mine. No one touches that brat but me.”

Dando eyed him with upraised eyebrows. “No need to be rude about it.”

“Piss….
off
,” Piskin told him, pronouncing each word with exaggerated slowness and clarity.

“You are a thick one, aren’t you?” Dando said, tapping his candlestick nose.

Piskin stepped forward menacingly. If his rival wanted a fight, he would have one.

Dando put up a stopping hand in his face and tsked at him. “Foolishness. One sound from me, one bound in that window, and she’ll be wise to us. You’ll never get past her after that.”

Piskin breathed hard and fumed. “What will make you go away?”

“I want to help,” said Dando. “We will do this together. But after, I must have the child.”

Piskin blinked at him. “You want the child? To what purpose, Sirrah?”

Dando shrugged. “What does it matter to you? I have my own reasons.”

Piskin considered, but at length he gave in. There was no easy way for him to remove Dando from the equation. Worse, if he waited around any longer, more of his kind might show up. He would have to trust that Dando wasn’t a fool, and would escape cleanly with the infant.

And so it was done as Dando had suggested. When the maid went for a moment to brush her long red locks, the switch was made. Dando carried the infant off and away into the forest, under the very nose of the pathetic guardsman.