Haven 3 Shadow Magic (Haven Series 3) (19 page)

…and found himself floundering outside the keep again. The ants were back at it, chopping at him, hacking the stuff of his body loose in cotton-like chunks. Determined to stop switching bodies, he fought to hang onto being the Rainbow. He rose ponderously up into a sitting position and crushed a band of rhinogs in the process. He recalled the bad thing in the hall, stalking his prone form. He turned to look into the keep, and saw himself, lying prone on the flagstones. An antlered figure rode a tall dead horse forward. It carried a boarspear with a broad gleaming head. A small dog rode with it on its unbreathing steed.

Not knowing what else to do, Brand reached down with his shimmering hand and placed his palm gently over his prone body. He took care not to crush himself accidentally. Some dark part of his mind wondered what would happen to his soul if he did die while in the body of the Rainbow. Would he become one with the wind and rain forever? Or would it be much worse than that?

Herla thrust the boarspear into the gauzy flesh of the great hand, and Brand worried for a moment that he might drive it all the way through the hand and slay him. He swept the hand toward the horseman, who backed away and then leapt into the air itself.

He saw more coursers and rhinogs approaching the spot, from all over the keep. Clearly, they had taken the fortress by storm, despite all that the Haven troops had done. Not knowing what else to do, he decided to pick up his own body and bear it to safety. Perhaps then, as the Rainbow, he could yet turn the tide of the battle.

He gently picked himself up and lifted his body high into the air. It was an odd experience, and his greatest fear was of losing control while transporting himself. He didn’t relish awakening as himself in the midst of a hundred-foot fall. Not knowing where to head, he turned toward the Faerie mound. The sun was almost gone and the twilight after dusk was falling over the land. Soon, he would be able to walk the path around the mound. Perhaps he could find Myrrdin.

It was exhilarating to be the Rainbow. He was a giant, a vast shimmering creature that could march where he would and do as he willed. None could oppose him. He felt now and understood the intoxication that had gripped both Tomkin and Dando. How could they, as the smallest of Folk, resist the allure of being an all-powerful giant?

And still, the ants bit his ankles. He looked down and behind him, and knew fear again. Wee Folk bounded like fleas about his feet. Coursers raced after him by the dozens. Herla himself trailed him, boarspear leveled. He saw Herla lift Osang and wind it. More coursers appeared from hidden spots all around and converged upon him. The Wild Hunt was in full pursuit, and he was the prey.

He ran for the mound now, and the coursers trailed him. Osang sounded again and the Wee Folk bounded about at his feet like hopping fleas. He soon outdistanced them, but he knew that he couldn’t outrun them forever. They would trail him to the very foot of Snowdon and beyond, to the distant shores of the sea itself. When he reached the mound he placed his human body gently upon the grass and let the body of the Rainbow lean back, back—back further still…

…he awakened as a great crash resounded behind him. The Rainbow had toppled. Wee Folk and coursers raced up to it and hacked at it. He climbed to his feet and began to circle the mound, widdershins.

Before he was around twice, the coursers had noticed him and came up to where he walked the path around the mound. They hacked at him, but to no effect. They were like ghosts to him. Their blades flickered and flashed, but could only make him shy away. As he continued to circle the mound the coursers faded until he could no longer make them out at all. Only the twilight land of the Faerie seemed real. He was relieved to find that the Rainbow no longer pulled at his mind. Somehow, by circling the mound, he had left it behind in that other place, and had freed himself of it.

But there was someone trailing him. He never doubted who it was. He glimpsed the other now and then, each time he circled the mound. As he rounded the mound the fourth time, he glanced back to see the antlers of his enemy as the other walked his horse on the path behind him. Herla was gaining on him. Brand turned back to the crushed grass of the Faerie path and tried to walk faster. It was difficult, like wading in sucking mud.

Clopping hoofbeats echoed strangely in his ears. He sensed his enemy coming closer. It was all he could do to resist the urge to look back. He lowered his head and pressed forward, putting one foot before the other, plodding steadily. It seemed that the more he tried to hurry, the more resistance he felt. It was as if unseen veils pressed against him, as if he fought the current of an invisible river.

He made another circuit, the fifth? Or was it the sixth? He could no longer recall. He sweated and strained with the effort. Slow hoofbeats sounded in his skull like the clanging of church bells. Unable to resist the urge any further, he looked back over his shoulder. His heart jumped in his chest. Herla was only a dozen paces behind him. He saw the Jewel Osang embedded in the great horn. Its deep, violet hue glowed in the Faerie half-light. The red staring eyes of the bloodhound matched it.

He halted and twisted his body to half-face his enemy. He dared not take his feet from the path. His sides heaved and sweat ran from his neck and burned his eyes.

The other halted his horse, and they regarded one another. A long moment passed, during which neither spoke.

“I require the Jewel, Lavatis,” said Herla. His voice was odd. It made Brand think of gravel rasping down a mountain face.

“It is not mine to give.”

“Do you serve the elfkin, then?”

“I am the Axeman of the River Haven,” said Brand. “I serve the River Folk.”

“Then Axeman, as your King, I command it,” said the other.

“You are not my King.”

“I am the last Human King. None other lives.”

“You are not my King,” repeated Brand stubbornly. He felt a pang as he said it, however. Did this thing really believe itself to still be the King of humanity? Was it possibly correct? He felt lost for a moment. He realized that he faced a being that had once been human, and who had once ruled among the Dead Kingdoms…when they had still thrived. He wondered what lost histories could be learned from its eldritch mind.

“I see that you do not understand,” rasped the strange voice. “You and I are not truly enemies. We have the same goals. I am still human, despite my great age.”

Brand felt an odd twinge of disbelief come over him that threatened to cloud his mind. Could he truly be having this conversation with King Herla himself?

“I ask a final time, Axeman of the House of Rabing. Yield to me, and join me to rule and empower all humanity. All the wrongs done to our people shall then be avenged.”

Brand took a moment to marshal his thoughts. It was difficult. “We aren’t the same. There is a great gulf between us.”

“What gulf? We stand in limbo, half-way between worlds, but only a few paces apart.”

 “I speak of the gulf that stretches between the living and the dead. Whatever you were in life, I can’t accept the rule of the dead.”

“You sadden me, Axeman. Nothing has saddened me for centuries. Know that you cannot oppose me here.”

“If you close with me, I will chop the legs from your horse. You will fall to dust as you should have nine centuries ago.”

The other laughed. It was an odd, lonely sound with no joy in it. “If my end would come so easily, Axeman, why has it not happened for fifty generations? With my long weapon, all I need to do is knock you from the path, and you will be lost forever in the twilight lands of the Faerie.”

“Then the Jewels you crave will be lost with me.”

“Well said, but a small matter of sorcery will recover them.”

While speaking with Herla, Brand had been edging away down the path. Now, he willed the axe to flash and he turned to continue his march around the mound. He only had a few more circuits to make and he would have reached his goal. Perhaps he could somehow win this race.

Behind him, the odd laugh sounded again. “My eyes are old leather! My skin has long since been leeched from my skull! A bolt of lightning could not blind your King now, Axeman!”

Brand made no reply. Instead he saved his strength for wading ahead around the mound. He heard the slow clopping of the dead horse begin anew behind him. Dread ran cold fingers down his back. He wondered which would be worse, to die with a boarspear in his guts or to step off the path into the nothingness between worlds.

He made the seventh circuit, and began the eighth. But Herla was closer than ever now, and Brand knew he could never finish the ninth. His mind raced, trying to come up with a plan.

Halfway through the eighth, he stopped and turned. Herla was only a few paces behind him.

“You must decide what you value more, my death or the Jewel! I’ll not give you both!” Brand said. As he spoke he pulled Lavatis from around his neck and flung it by the chain into the air.

Before it could vanish into the netherworld of the Faerie twilight, however, Herla leaned forward with great speed and thrust his spear into the glittering chain. It snagged on the broad point and rang there with the sound of metal clattering upon metal. Herla pulled it back, making his odd sounds of laughter.

“No!” shouted Brand, aghast at the speed and accuracy of the creature. Why had it not slain him with a cast, if its skill were so great? He could only think that it had not dared to disarm itself. The spear would surely have vanished into twilight if the cast had missed. Not knowing what else to do, Brand swung Ambros at the spearhead. The axe flashed as it clove the head from the shaft of the spear. The broad killing point fell with Lavatis. It lay at the edge of the path, and Brand knelt to reach for it.

He was buffeted by the shaft and nearly knocked from the path. Herla swung it like a club and beat at him. Only one of Brand’s knees remained on the path, and he knew terror as he had never known it before. The numbing cold of the void ate into that part of his flesh that had strayed from the circle of beaten grass. Not even the depths of the Berrywine, running silently beneath a surface of ice, could have been so cold.

He struck with the axe again, but at the horse’s legs this time, as it had stepped closer. Ambros sheared off the right foreleg at the ankle, and the dead horse stumbled, but did not go down. It tossed its head and made an odd, rattling sound. Brand was sickened to think that it could still somehow feel pain.

Scrambling to regain the path and his feet, Brand dragged the chain behind him with Lavatis still dangling from it. Fighting to manage his crippled steed, Herla followed him. His progress had been greatly slowed, however, and now Brand was leaving the horseman behind. As he began the ninth circuit, he looked back to see that the horseman carried the shorn-off horse hoof in one black-gloved hand. He was still coming, although slowly.

Brand thought to hear the last human king say something as he left him behind on the path. “Axeman, you sadden me….”

Shivering, Brand pressed ahead into the unnatural land he sought. He yearned to see the sweet golden sun overhead again.

He finished the ninth circuit and stepped upon the mound in the silvery light of the full moon that always seemed to shine here. He walked slowly up the mound, tired from his struggles and bothered somewhat by his leg, which hadn’t fully regained feeling after touching the void. He could see a circle of figures that stood at the crest of the mound. They worked together to play a quiet doleful tune.

“Oberon!” called Brand to the tallest of them.

The figure rose up and lifted its lantern. Inside the iron cage, a lone Wisp shone her wan light. Brand’s heart fell as he saw he had been tricked. It wasn’t Oberon, but Old Hob who sat atop the mound. Around him capered a dozen or so goblins. They chortled obscenely among themselves as they came to encircle him.

“Ah, the river-boy returns!” said Hob. “I’ve been waiting for thee, there is a debt yet to be paid!”

“Hob, I’ve had a very long day,” said Brand, feeling his exhaustion and rising anger. “You’d best leave me, lest your spratlings be left without a sire.”

“Ho! The river-boy has teeth and dares to shake its axe at the great Hob!” rumbled Hob. Brand noticed that Hob’s advance did stop, despite his words. Around them the furtive pack of goblins shifted their feet.

“Six wisps, doest thou owe me, mortal child,” hissed Old Hob as he shuffled a step or two closer. His long knobby hand snaked out from his stinking robes and moved toward Brand. “For payment, I’ll relieve thee of Ambros the Golden.”

Brand ducked, for even as he watched Hob’s long, snake-like arm reaching forward, the other swept the lantern around in a low arc, aiming for his head. Brand stumbled and rolled once downhill. All around him the goblins rushed in, like jackals closing on a faltering beast. Brand caught himself and rose, however, Ambros still in hand.

The goblins leapt back, chittering in disappointment. Brand caused the axe to flash and cut at them. They fell back in alarm. Then he faced Old Hob, who now towered above him.

“I’ll have your head!” he cried, attacking Hob. Hob parried the slashing axe with his lantern and a great clang rang out across the silvery landscape. The last yellow wisp, released, flittered away into the darkness.

The goblins had scattered. Taking long strides, Hob retreated down the slope. He paused before vanishing into the void. “That’s seven! Seven Wisps doest thou owe me! I have a long memory when it comes to debts, Axeman!” hissed Hob.