Haven 5 Blood Magic BOOK (21 page)

“What does it say?”

“It is my signet. Show it to any of the Shining Folk and they will know you are my consort.”

Puck kissed the babe’s silver locks then, and opened her window. Outside, it was a black night. The winds were fresh and cool.

“Where are you going?” she asked him in sudden concern. She had hoped that he might stay. She had hoped he might, somehow—impossibly—try to become a proper father.

“Why, to find Piskin, of course.”

“What for?”

Puck shook his head slightly, as if her questions were silly, the answers being so obvious that only a child would ask them. He tilted his head and gazed at her warmly. He smiled at her, and his pleasant expression filled her heart with new hopes.

“I will first slice out his heart, his eyes and his lungs. I will set aside each part, each limb, and each finger. I will bury these slices in different eldritch places, so that forever they will haunt the land, every ghostly piece searching the long nights for its brothers.”

He vaulted out the window then, and Mari looked after him into the quiet dark.

She shuddered, closed the window, and suckled her babe. After a moment’s thought, she slipped the silver ring onto her finger. In the darkness, it shone with a blue radiance.

* * *

It was Lanet who found the babe. Dripping wet, half-frozen and squalling, it lay upon the porch of Rabing house. They didn’t recognize the newborn, and there was nothing left with the child to identify it. She took it in, calling for Jak. They looked at one another, and Jak nodded. They would care for the babe until such a time as they heard of a mother who had lost a child. Brand had warned them such a thing might happen, but hadn’t explained why.

Piskin left Jak and Lanet behind. The babe was no longer his concern, and he was glad to be rid of the beastly thing. He trotted briskly to the river and dove in. He swam to a series of handy rocks that poked above the surface. He left Rabing Isle behind and hopped from stone to stone, grumbling all the while with intense dissatisfaction. He should never have made such an absurd deal with that lumbering farm-boy, axe or no. Many a moment he had been sorely tempted to simply drop the babe in the forest or into the deeps of the Berrywine. But he had not done so. He had kept his word, as his kind, even the lowest of them, were ever compelled to do.

He cared not a wit for the babe, of course. He cared only that it had been a screamer and a fatter load than most. He had been forced to carry it an absurd distance, not just to a scouted disposal point, but all the way to Rabing Isle. He lamented the fact that his folk had such a sense of honor and kept their word so tightly. To be completely duplicitous would be so much easier and more true to his nature. He did suppose that if his folk never kept their word, however, bargains would be few and far between.

He tried to stop thinking and to focus on covering ground as quickly as possible. He had been forced to carry the babe far too long. The mother, off to milk the cows as they lowed for relief at dawn, would not be absent forever. Already, she might have come back to check on her sleeping infant. If that were the case, he would return to the outlying farm and be treated to her screaming and histrionics, something he’d heard quite enough of lately. Shifting into the form of her babe then would arouse strong suspicions. Not even the River Folk were that gullible. She would have a ward on his neck before the day was out, and then all would be lost.

He tried to keep his mind on the positive as he ran. She was a lovely, lonely maid. Perfect for Piskin’s purposes. He’d taken his time with his choice, hunting amongst a dozen young wives for one who truly piqued his interest. He had to account his luck as good in this one regard: many new folk had come into the Haven from wilder lands of late. They were often wide-eyed, simple people who’d never seen anything outside of their home villages. The Riverton council handed out title to parcels of scrub land all along the Havenwood, and let them scratch out a living there as they might. They built their tiny cabins and dugouts, and soon enough began raising fine litters.

Piskin had held out for the
best
this time. He’d found plenty of sagging matrons with a half-dozen brats crawling around their skirts, but they did nothing for him. A thorough search had paid off in time, at last bringing into his sights a charming female with apple cheeks and a tiny, upturned nose. She was full of life and song, humming as she worked the day alone in her tiny cabin long the Berrywine. Her husband left early, as soon as the sun rose, to work at a sawmill downriver. The situation was perfect, except for one thing: a damnably long run from Rabing Isle, not even mentioning the cold swim.

He’d watched the maid and her habits for days before making his move and stealing the babe. First thing every fair day, she saw off her husband, fed the babe, and then went to milk the cows and perform countless other chores around the tiny farm.

Piskin, peeping in through chinks in the hastily constructed cabin, had bounded in the window and stole the babe in a thrice. Taking great leaps as he ran, he’d made off into the woods with the child immediately. He’d wanted to put as much distance between himself and the mother as possible before the babe fully awoke and began bawling. After depositing it upon Rabing Isle as he’d promised, he now traveled with even greater speed back toward the farm.

The bloodhound had been able to keep up when Piskin had been weighed down with the babe, but was now left behind. It set up a most pitiful baying, and Piskin was forced to gather it up and carry it, even as he had the babe. He cursed and muttered, but bore the hound as fast as he could. There was no time to lose.

As it was, he barely made it. She was stepping in the doorway, even as he popped in the window and dove into the cradle. He changed into a fair semblance of her brat in a moment, and hoped she wouldn’t be wise to him.

She came forward hesitantly. She frowned at him, and he tried to act like a baby, but it was difficult. He was out of practice and annoyed.

“What are you frowning about, sweets?” she asked. “My you must be kicking hard, the entire cradle is rocking.”

Believing he might have pulled it off, Piskin kicked and cooed. It was all coming back to him now.

She stood over him, and her face softened. That worried look, the suspecting one he hated so much, faded from her brow.

Piskin knew he shouldn’t, but he had waited so long he couldn’t help himself. He gave his hunger cry. He squeezed his eyes tightly and worked tiny fists in the air.

“Are you hungry
again?
” she asked, coming near. “You are a greedy little fellow today.”

She picked him up and took him to the rocker. Piskin allowed himself a smirk. He had found a new home.

Chapter Fifteen

The Kindred Boil

Atop Snowdon there sat a cap of ice that had yet to melt in the spring sunshine. Up there, all was peaceful, with cold breezes and bright skies.

Hidden beneath the hollowed mountaintop lay the Kindred city. There, Gudrin and her folk were hard at work. It had been a busy month indeed beneath Snowdon. Instead of a single prototype of the walking, crab-like machines known to their ancestors as
crawlers
, they now had more than thirty. There were different constructs too. Golems, a full squad of them, stood with infinite, motionless patience. Each more than a dozen feet tall and nearly as wide, they were armed and armored with heavy axes in each seven-fingered fist. When the time came, these beings of cold stone, animated by the spirits of captured earth elementals, would unleash all their pent up fury, taking out their rage at being captives upon whatever flesh dared draw near. Until activated, the granite golems stood stock still, only their eyes hinting at the seething hate that lived inside.

Gudrin had personally worked the forges to help construct the steam-driven bombards. Looking like gigantic tilted urns, they rode on four wheels and required twenty goats or Kindred to drag them. They had precious few bombards as yet, only a handful. She had personally cut their trigger mechanisms and bloomed out their pot-bellied boilers from single blocks of glinting brass. She, with a single finger of white-hot flame, could cut and mold metal as others would shape clay or candle wax, but she could not be everywhere at once.

The first of the great bombards had exploded upon use. This wasn’t entirely unexpected, but three mechnicians had suffered ghastly wounds and lost limbs in the process. Perhaps, Gudrin thought regretfully, after the wars that were coming she would sculpt them clockwork limbs so they might do useful work again.

The second bombard had operated properly. Using the south wall of Snowdon as a target, the machine had hurled a series of bouncing stone balls more than two thousand paces. Fortunately, no one died in the mushroom fields when the shots fell short. After a hundred or so firings, she declared the bombard functional, and ordered that six more be built.

The majority of the smiths worked on arms and armor, naturally. Although not as impressive or terrifying as their war machines, the backbone of any Kindred army had always been their heavy infantry. Thousands of scaled suits and heavy, beaked helms were manufactured in an organized fashion. To supplement the work, she threw open the doors of her armory, which fortunately had escaped the wrath of Fafnir in the basements of the crumbled citadel. There, shining as they had in the darkness for a thousand years, lay an axe for every Kindred beneath Snowdon.

The expedition she had ordered into the Everdark after the kobold raiders had failed to find the enemy in the upper galleries. They had returned, as ordered, after searching a mile deepward into the depths.

Gudrin gritted her teeth as she listened to the shamed captain’s report. They had not moved fast enough. They had even lost a dozen or so troops to the endless traps of the enemy. A complete win for the kobolds, well-executed. She thanked the commander for following her orders, for having not led his troops to their final destruction.

“They planned the entire thing. They worked hard to frustrate you, to bring you so deep you could not retreat. You did well to return.”

“I failed,” said the captain, abjectly. “The least I could do was follow your orders, my queen.”

Gudrin nodded. She pursed her lips. She fought down her anger. She felt the need to strike the captain, but that was just Pyros flaring up. She wondered, not for the first time, how things might have gone if Modi or Hallr had gained possession of the Orange. They would have gone feral the moment they tasted warm ale and slain the innkeep. She almost smiled at the thought, but did not want to confuse her captain, who expected at the very least harsh words.

“It’s my judgment that you did well, considering the circumstances. It was my failure to order the reprisal be so quick and undermanned. There will be no such mistake again. We will take two squadrons of the crawlers down this time, each with a full regiment of warriors in new armor will follow behind each squadron of machines.”

“‘We’, my queen?”

She nodded. “I will command the second regiment and the expedition. We must test these machines anyway. The kobolds are to be plucked squalling from their holes.”

“Yes—yes, my queen,” said the captain, eyes wide.

And so the following morning they marched. They encountered many traps, as she expected. Kobold sappers had been as hard at work as her own people. But the wisdom of the new crawler design soon showed itself effective. When great blocks fell upon them, they did not crack open, and the killing tines were able to lift away the blocks and shunt them aside.

Always, the expedition continued, making rapid, deepward progress. When they passed the upper galleries and were more than a mile deep, the magnesium bowels began. That region was fraught with its own unique dangers, but at least the troops could spread out and breathe something besides the choking fumes of the crawlers.

It was among the dusty hillocks of the bowels that the first enemy attacks came. Showers of a black-headed darts fell among them. Most clanked upon scales, helms or upraised shields. Rarely, however, they sunk into a crescent of exposed flesh. Grunting in pain, troopers snapped the darts off and tossed them away, or sagged down, depending on the location of the strike. When the Kindred charged their tormentors, the enemy melted away into bolt holes and behind crags. Fully armed and armored, the heavier troops could not catch them.

Gudrin ordered her crawlers to spread out on a wider front, flanking the troopers. Each tunnel they came upon was shot full with gouts of dribbling wet flame. The Kindred smiled grimly when bubbling screams erupted.

Onward they marched, snapping crossbows at the elusive kobolds that continued to harry their flanks. She kept up a killing pace, letting the wounded drop where they may. Exposed in the relatively open area of the bowels, she could not afford to wait. They must reach the enemy villages and force them to engage in defense of their territory.

After two days in the bowels, scouts returned with news of a broad shaft that led to signs of heavy habitation. They followed the trail, and met up with their first true resistance.

A surprising number of kobolds made their stand at the mouth of their cave. They snapped darts, sprang up from beneath hidden dusty holes in the midst of the Kindred ranks and stabbed any back they could reach. A few Kindred fell, and Gudrin had to admire the kobold spirit. They were all quickly overwhelmed by the heavy armament of her troopers, however. The crawlers jerked forward with their killing tines and ran the enemies through. Showers of crossbows snapped in answer to the darts. The unarmored ranks of the kobolds trading fire with them, but soon grew ragged and broke.