Haven 5 Blood Magic BOOK (2 page)

“Milord,” said Myrrdin, looking troubled, “have you heard of the recovery of Pyros?”

Oberon’s head rose slowly. His silver eyes sought Myrrdin’s face. This was news indeed.

“Tell me of the Orange Jewel’s fate.”

Myrrdin fidgeted. Clearly, it was bad news, as he would not have been reluctant if the tidings were good. “Brand slew Fafnir in the Earthlight, Fafnir being the Dragon who had consumed Pyros centuries earlier. The Orange has now been recovered from his scaled belly. The Kindred have it.”

“Who bears the Jewel for the Kindred?”

“Gudrin of the Talespinners.”

Oberon made an irritated gesture. Generally, the Kindred had always been foolish when they laid their dirty hands upon an object of real power. They had always given the power to some brute amongst their kind, who soon lost it or went berserk and had to be put down. To hear they had given it to a scholar was bad news indeed.

“They gift Pyros to one of their wise?” Oberon asked. “Surely, such an oafish folk would prefer a warrior as their bearer.”

“Perhaps, but Modi and his sire Hallr both perished in dragonfire.”

Oberon nodded. This at least was good news. He had counted the Kindred as enemies ever since they had stood in battle with the humans at the Dead Kingdoms.

“There is something else, milord.”

Again, Myrrdin hesitated. And again this hesitation spoke for him. The news was bad. Oberon gestured impatiently.

“The Kindred,” began Myrrdin, “they have selected a new Queen. She is Gudrin, the same who wields the Orange Jewel.”

Oberon was horrified at this. The Kindred had lain dormant without a monarch for more than five centuries. He leapt to his feet and paced. “You saved the worst news of all for last,” he said. “The Kindred might do anything now. They have a Jewel and they have a Queen? They might march upon us, even to the Great Erm itself. They may go mad.”

Myrrdin nodded in grim agreement. When the Kindred did choose a monarch, they became a people apart from their normal selves. They built, they caroused and they warred freely.

“It’s time then that I stopped sulking atop this tree. In truth, I’ve grown tired of it. We must move before matters grow worse. What further tidings have you?”

“There is one other thing,” said Myrrdin thoughtfully.

Oberon thought he was perhaps reluctant to pass on this last tidbit. Again, he checked his son’s loyalty and found it wanting.

Myrrdin finally told him of Brand’s destruction of a tribe of young gnomes. And of Brand’s later encounter and duel with the Gnome King. From this information, Oberon surmised that the gnomes might be less than delighted with the River Folk and the Kindred who helped them.

Oberon stretched his lithe body fully and did a summersault in the air. He landed with perfect grace. It was time for him to pay visits. It was time for him to stop sulking.

He could not rely on Piskin to aid him. Perhaps the little traitor would succeed, but the odds were long. Oberon knew he had to muster his folk and do what he could without powerful magic. As the Wee Folk themselves had done, he would use trickery and subterfuge to gain advantage.

Oberon meant to get
at least
one Jewel back into his possession, which one mattered little. The elves could not thrive without magic. Perhaps he could do it with skullduggery, which is why he employed Piskin. But if not, then he would raise an army and take one of the Nine Eyes of the Sun Dragon—the hard way.

Chapter Two

The Great Fire

The fire grew so quickly that even Piskin was surprised. There had been no spring rains yet, and the roofs and thatch were very dry. He waited until the stable was well and truly ablaze before bounding back up to the room. The stable boy and the horses were making such a racket, he feared the Mari and the troll might awaken. He closed the window by hopping desperately up and down atop the sliding pane. Only good fortune saved him and it closed without a squeak or sticking. Even as he managed to close it, a large puff of smoke gushed up against the glass.

He hopped to the dresser and peered at the bed. The troll twitched and kicked in its sleep, but stayed insensate. He seemed not to notice Piskin’s movements, unless Piskin crept near the girl he guarded. The girl’s breast rose and fell with a soft rhythm. She had not yet been disturbed.

Piskin allowed himself to relax a fraction. He gazed outside, smiling at his handiwork. The stable was burning briskly now, and the stable boy, being a slow-witted lad, imagined he could stop it. He had managed to usher out the horses. But rather than running off to alert the townsfolk of the danger, he drew buckets from the well and tossed them upon the roof, which had just started to catch. Piskin thought he saw a sliver of guilt there in his actions, rather than sheer stupidity. The boy clearly believed he would be blamed. Perhaps he had fallen asleep with a pipe in his hand, or had used a badly placed lamp to read by.

It hardly mattered which. The boy thought he had caused the fire and thought he might avert complete disaster by putting it out quickly. This would never happen, of course. Piskin had set alight spots with oily rags and handy bundles of the driest feed. Any fool should be able to see the fire was too far gone for a single man to conquer, but still this particular fool tried to do just that. Piskin found his frantic efforts amusing. He had to clamp his hand over his mouth to contain his mirth. His belly shook with stifled laughter.

The stable roof was soon blazing, and that was enough to convince even the amazingly thick stable boy. He ran for help, awakening the innkeep and running off down the street to the Constabulary building, which in times of crisis doubled as the town’s fire-fighting force.

Long before any organized effort formed, the roof of the stables collapsed and a great gush of heat flared up. The flames licked at the Inn now, and people were shouting in the streets. Bits of flaming straw shot up and floated everywhere. Piskin thought the roof of the inn must be lit by now. At least, he hoped so.

“What’s going on?” said a voice beside him, making him startle. It was the accursed troll.

“Ah, good thing you are finally awake!” said Piskin sternly, “you, of all creatures should be familiar with flame. The building is afire! We’d best vault from the window.”

Real fear flared in the troll’s yellow eyes. This was what Piskin had hoped for. The troll might be a resistant creature, but he knew the sensation of being burnt alive all too well. With any luck, the troll would bolt immediately.

It almost worked. The troll levered up the window and put one furry leg out into the sunlight. A gush of heat and smoke swept in, but no open flame yet.

“What of the maid?” asked the troll. “She can’t jump in her state.”

Piskin shook his head with certainty. “Do not be concerned. Her kinsfolk will usher her out of the building. I’ll guide them to the door directly.”

The troll looked back at the maid, who had gotten out of bed by now, propelled fearfully by the flames. In a panic, she threw her belongings into her bag and made ready to flee.

“Hurry,” said Piskin, “Don’t let the humans see you hanging about the window like that! They are sure to think you fired the place yourself.”

The troll’s eyes slid to Piskin and then back to the maid. They narrowed suspiciously. “I’ll not leave her to the very fate from which she saved me. I’ll not leave her to feel the caress of flame.”

“A fine sentiment,” said Piskin between clenched teeth. He headed for the door then, and was followed by the maid out into the hall. He only hoped some guardsman would spot the black-furred bastard and skewer him with an appropriate length of steel. As one of the Wee Folk, he had free passage among the townspeople. They did not trust him completely, but allowed him as an allied folk to move amongst them. The troll, on the other hand, would be slain on sight.

The hallway was full of smoke and coughing humans. Seeing Piskin and the troll, some screeched while others cared little, being more interested in escaping the fire.

The trio was given a wide berth by everyone. Piskin managed to direct them through the kitchens to a side exit. The cook, who worked the ovens to make fresh bread for the Inn’s guests, shouted at them. Her shouts were followed by a thrown pot, which the troll dodged easily.

Mari worked her slippered feet as fast as she was able. They made their way out of the building and into the alleyway.

Piskin noted with some surprise and no small delight that a large number of buildings blazed merrily now. A goodly breeze had gusted up. The winds had carried burning bits of straw from the stables into the air and landed these flying motes of flame upon every roof in the region. The roof of the inn itself was engulfed. Clearly the structure would be lost within the hour.

“This way!” said Piskin, leading them into the heart of the burning neighborhood. “There is a safe place here, I know it well.”

The other two followed, neither knowing what else to do. Piskin had to control his huge smile as they approached the tanners.

“Inside here. It’s full of water tanks. We’ll never burn in here.”

The troll hesitated at the entrance. “What’s that smell?” he said, sniffing at the acrid scent of the vats.

Some warning sense had penetrated his thick skull, lamented Piskin. “I’ve got no time to waste on your fantasies,” he told the troll. “I must save the maid. Her blood is no good to me boiled away to dust. Do as you will.”

The troll looked after him, distrustfully. After another moment’s hesitation, he followed Piskin into the tanners.

“Right here, up on the walkways between the vats, my dear,” urged Piskin.

Mari followed him, eyes wide. The troll did as well, sniffing and eyeing everything suspiciously.

The place was deserted. The Fob workers had left to gather buckets and water. They were wetting down every roof in town to save what they could from the hungry flames.

“What is this place?” the troll asked finally, looking at the stinking vats in growing alarm.

“It’s the tanners,” Mari told him.

A look of horror sprouted upon the troll’s face. He looked around for Piskin, but that one was nowhere to be seen.

A set of tackle on ropes, normally used to lift curing leather into and out of the vats, swung out of a dark corner. The metal pulleys and hooks struck the troll squarely in the back. He pin-wheeled his furry arms, but it was too late. He pitched forward into the acid baths.

“Watch your step!” shouted Piskin from behind him. He put his hands on his knees and watched as the troll struggled, dissolving rapidly in the bubbling solutions.

“Oh, how horrible!” cried Mari. “We must save him, Piskin!”

“Quite right,” said Piskin, gathering up the tackle in his arms. It was such a heavy load he staggered to carry it to the edge of the vat. The troll himself was beyond speech, the agony of dissolution being too great to allow it. Reaching the edge, Piskin dropped his load into the troll’s face, who had just managed to get his white claws sunk into the wooden sides of the vat. He sank back down.

“You dropped it right on him!” shouted Mari in horror.

“What a tragedy! I could not see what I was doing! Don’t look, my dear,” Piskin said, waving her back from the edge. “It is too horrible of a sight.”

Mari turned away from the edge, her eyes wet with tears.

“Come, we must leave this accursed place,” said Piskin.

“But I thought you said we would be safe here.”

“I did not realize these vats were so dangerous. They’ve already taken one of us. The fire is still coming as well. We must escape it.”

“I don’t want to leave the troll. He was so faithful, to leave him in pain—”

“You
are
a sentimental one! Don’t worry, these creatures don’t feel pain as a human might. Remember, it spent years in a stovepipe and seemed none the worse for it.”

“He might survive then—”

“Pish-posh, girl! Trust your guide. Don’t you wish to save your child? Don’t you wish to see Puck again? Come with me!”

And so Piskin managed to talk her out of the tanners and back out into the streets. He led her to the docks, where they found an untended boat. Piskin explained to her that he knew the owner well and after all, this was an emergency. She climbed in and allowed him to cast off and set sail.

Piskin worked hard to guide the boat onto a southerly course. The girl helped, but she didn’t have the proper sense of urgency. He cast many frequent glances over his shoulder and fought with the luffing sails. He worried that the true owner might catch them if the man were a strong enough rower.

Fortunately, all the townsfolk were preoccupied with the quenching the raging fire that still ravaged Riverton. The boat’s true owner never put in an appearance.

* * *

Many hours later, Telyn finally made it to the Fob tannery. She had been planning a visit to surprise her clan, but had been caught up in the events of the day. Everyone in town had fought the flames, forming bucket-brigades to every well and all the way down to the Berrywine itself. She had joined in, throwing water with the rest, but it had seemed hopeless.

In the end, Tomkin had saved the town from further devastation. He had wielded the Blue Jewel Lavatis, not going so far as to call the marching Rainbow, but instead squeezing fat drops of rain from the clouds.