Haven 5 Blood Magic BOOK (33 page)

The Figure among the Dead

Brand clapped Corbin on the back when he saw him, hale and pink-faced again. It was good to see his cousin whole, rather than ghastly, gray and drawn.

Corbin, although looking health enough, seemed troubled. He pointed down into the grassy rise of Snowdon’s flanks.

Brand’s eyes followed his cousin’s gesture.

He saw there, upon a field of fallen dead men, elves and merlings, what appeared to be a cowled old man moving among the corpses. He walked between them, wandering. At each body, he bent and touched the brow with thin fingers.

“Some relative, perhaps? Looking for a fallen child?”

Corbin shook his head. “I don’t know. He touches every brow. Every man, Kindred, Fae or even goblin. How can he be looking for a relative, if he is not looking for a particular folk?”

 “If he is robbing the dead, he must be stopped.”

Jak with his archers stood behind him. He gestured to his men, and bows were lifted and bent. Brand waved them down, and the bows were lowered.

“I will speak to him,” he said, and he marched alone downslope to speak with the stranger.

“Hail there! Old man! What are you doing here with our dead?”

The other stopped and turned to regard him. The cowl stayed in place, drooping over the figure’s face, but Brand thought to see ice cold eyes beneath it. But Brand did not hesitate. He did not break his stride. He walked up to the strange man. His axe was in his hand, but not held upraised.

“I ask you to leave the battlefield,” said Brand. “I ask you not to molest those who have bravely fallen here.”

“The Dead are not yours, axeman.”

“What? Who are you?”

“The Dead are mine.”

“No. Not those of the Haven. And not those of these other folk, either.”

“Why do you care so, axeman? A few hours ago, you were so kind as to slay them all for me. What a fine harvest it has been, too. I’ve not seen the like for a very long time. Do you now regret your actions?”

“No, I do not regret the battle. But I will not have you, whoever you are, molesting these corpses.”

“I seek only to bury them. Look! Gaze upon those I have touched.”

Brand did, and he saw that they indeed had been interred. Each body lie beneath a neat hummock of soil. But something was desperately wrong, because there should have been fresh black earth upturned over each shallow grave. Instead, each raised portion of ground had undisturbed grasses and flowers growing over it. The graves appeared as if they had been buried there for a season. Or as if someone had lifted the top layer of the earth and tucked them under it. The vanished corpses reminded him of how a shoe might look, hidden beneath a carpet.

As he watched, the cowled figured stepped to another, a fine young elf with eyes of magenta and hair the color of cobalt. He touched the pale brow, caressed it. The corpse immediately sank into the ground, as a drowned man might slowly drift to the bottom of a placid lake.

“Whatever you are doing, it is unnatural. We will bury our own dead. We do not need your help.”

“I’m reluctant to drink your soul, axeman,” said the other, taking a step toward him. Brand felt an undeniable urge to step back, but he held his ground. The stranger continued speaking. “I admire you and I’m in your debt. You have provided me a great bounty this day. Those lost souls at Gronig, they were sweet and countless. But these are better. These are the Dead of true warriors, not shepherds and miners. They will not simper and bemoan their fate. They will march as proudly in death as they did in life.”

“Who are you?” demanded Brand again.

“I am King Arawn,” said the other. “And I say again, I do not wish to strive with you. None in the recent memory of the world have been so kind to me as you have.”

Brand stared at the figure that faced him. “King Arawn? Lord of Castle Anwyn?”

“None other.”

“Then know, King of the Dead, that I am Lord Rabing, champion of the River Folk and Lord of Castle Rabing. Both of us are lords of fallen castles. Places remembered well only by those long gone from this world. I ask you, as an ally of those ancient times, to withdraw. And take no more of the honored dead from this place.”

King Arawn cocked his head. His cowled face and cold eyes, which Brand now suspected were empty sockets lit from within by an eldritch glow, regarded him curiously.

“You claim kinship with me?”

“I do,” said Brand, thinking of King Herla. Perhaps there was a spark of humanity in this creature yet. And if not that, then perhaps there was some desire for honor. Perhaps, it still craved respectful acknowledgement from the living, if nothing else.

“None but a true lord would know to make such a request so politely. Very well. As one King to another, I will withdraw from this place. I shall plant no more seeds here. But do not seek to cow me upon our next meeting, Lord Rabing.”

Brand bowed and walked back up the slope to Corbin and his waiting line of men. By the time he reached them and looked back, Arawn had vanished into the mists of the mountaintop.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Solstice Wedding

The trip home was wearisome and long, but when they reached the far edge of the Deepwood and stepped back into the Haven, everyone’s face broke into a troubled smile. It was good to be home again, but so many had been left behind.

The army disbanded officially in Hamlet, and there were many reunions, both tearful and joyful, in that town. They had chosen to bury the dead on the gentlest slopes of Snowdon, where enough soil and grass could be found to cover them. Bearing so many bodies back through the Deepwood for several days was deemed untenable.

Summer stretched out and Telyn grew more frantic with each passing day. Her wedding plans grew ever larger and more intense, until finally, the great day came.

Brand rode the family skiff, which sagged with a heavy cargo of broadleaf melons. Trailing behind it on a painter were a dozen floating berrywine casks. The casks bobbed in the rushing waters of mid-summer like a row of fat, dancing innkeepers.

“Here, Brand, keep that pole in your hands, boy!” complained Jak good-naturedly. “Are you asleep, man?”

Brand looked startled and grabbed for the pole that was slipping away from him. Corbin laughed and Brand gave him a sheepish smile.

“That’s right!” exclaimed Corbin. “Why, you’d think a man would have naught else but poling in mind on his wedding day!”

A thrill ran through Brand at the mention of the wedding. Somehow, he often managed to keep the frightening thought away for several minutes at a time, but always, all too soon, someone would bring it up. On other occasions, his treacherous mind would send unbidden thoughts of Telyn and the ceremony that stalked him this very evening.

“Everyone will be there today, Brand,” said Jak, sensing his mood and not wanting to leave him in peace. “The word is that the gnome king himself will put in an appearance.”

“Do you think Oberon might show up?” Corbin asked Jak loudly.

“I’m not sure, but if he does, wouldn’t it only be right that Brand return the favor?” asked Jak.

“Right, I say!” said Corbin. “It was good enough for King Herla, why not King Brand?”

“Brother, Cousin: it’s best that we not mention the Old One’s name aloud, even on such a fine day as this,” Brand admonished lightly.

Jak and Corbin looked at one another in mock astonishment. “Unless I’m mistaken,” said Corbin, “we’ve just been rebuffed.”

Jak nodded in agreement. The conversation continued in a light vein, but Brand noted that there was no more mention of Herla. Which was just as well, as he wanted to think of no such evils on his wedding day.

“As you wish, your majesty,” said Jak, bowing deeply and mockingly.

Brand gave them a wry look. “I’m no king, my noisy relations.”

“Ah, alas no,” said Jak with mock sadness. “Then we might have had someone to do all this poling for us.”

All too soon they reached the Riverton docks and found a crowd there waiting to meet them. Brand fully expected to help with the unloading of the cargo, but Gram Rabing, Uncle Tylag and the others would hear nothing of it. He was ushered up to the wedding cart, where his bride awaited him.

Gram Rabing kept running her fingers over the healed skin of his cheek, marveling at it. He let her, even though the new skin was still sensitive and her light touch was ticklish.

Brand laid eyes upon Telyn then, and his breath caught in his chest. Never before had he seen her wear a real, full length dress. Never had he seen her with finely groomed hair, clean face and unmarked hands. She smiled at him, and she was radiant.

As he climbed into the cart and his relatives began to walk the horses to the common, a cheer went up from the crowd at the docks. The axe on his back must have caught some hint of the excitement, for it shifted then of its own accord. Brand reflexively rolled his shoulders to quiet it.

Telyn noticed the movement and knew its significance. A shadow crossed her face, but she said nothing. He knew she would rather he had left it back at Rabing Isle, or at least not brought it to their very altar, but she said nothing. For they both knew that she married the Axeman this day.

They were to have a traditional wedding, done at sunset on the very eve of the summer solstice. The mari lwyd was hung over the archway of wicker, and both the horse skull and the wicker itself were heavily woven with daffodils.

Brand and his new bride had spared no expense. They had invited anyone in the Haven who wanted to come, and most of those from outside it, by the looks of things. The Riverton common was fuller of folks than Brand could remember ever having seen it. Not even during the old ceremonies of harvest and the renewal of the broken Pact had brought more people.

Loosening the strings of his normally tight purse, he had provided all the guests who came food and ale. At the height of the feast, he announced he would donate three of his finest rubies to the rebuilding of Riverton, which had been ravaged by Piskin’s dastardly fire. No other words amongst the many toasts was received with greater fanfare and cheering than this announcement, as many still struggled with homes burnt to ash.

It was after his announcement, and as the ceremony was about to begin, that a strange occurrence captured the attention of everyone present. A swirling mist full of colored lights appeared upon the Riverton faerie mound, near the spot the wedding stage had been built.

Brand gazed that way, as did a thousand other eyes. He licked his lips. Telyn, who had taken his hand, squeezed it so that her nails dug into his palm. He squeezed hers back, lightly, reassuringly. Together they stared at the mound.

People drew back as if realizing for the first time that the sun had faded overhead and Twilight fell. There was no panic, but many citizens grabbed up their picnic blankets and hustled their children away from the foot of the mound. Brand could not blame them.

He took a single half-step toward the commotion. Telyn held tightly to him. He glanced down to her, and she shook her head slightly.

“Let’s see what comes,” she said soothingly, with a voice that belied the tightness of her grip and her face. He had to wonder what she was thinking. Did she worry that somehow, at the very moment of their wedding, fate would steal him away from her side?

Brand nodded, agreeing with her. He stood his ground. Many of the Haven folk, confused, looked to him to take their cue. Since he stood and stared, seemingly unalarmed, they followed suit. Tense whispering broke out and swept the common with a surreptitious fervor.

Within a minute, figures could be seen. They were the Shining Folk; there could be no doubt of it. Within three more minutes, as the first stars popped out in the east, these hazy figures began to move down from the mound toward Brand, where he stood with his bride to be.

He waited, but gestured for those who crowded around to make way for the coming procession. He was obeyed with alacrity. None wanted to be in the path of the strange beings who passed this way.

At the head of the procession was Oberon himself, who rode a white goat. His hound rode with him, and he stroked it idly as he approached. Concerned, Brand eyed the rest of the line of Fae, hoping not to see King Arawn. Perhaps it was small-minded of him, but he simply didn’t want an undead lich walking into his wedding ceremony uninvited. He was relieved to see that Arawn was not part of the procession.

He estimated a hundred elves followed their lord. Most were his daughters, with hair of spun gold, silver, cobalt or sparkling magenta. Each fair lady had an attending wisp to orbit her form, tending to her hair and fine clothing.

At Oberon’s side rode an elf Brand recognized. He was a tall fellow who kept his back straight and whose eyes shone even more than most. It was Puck, the very son of Oberon who had slain Piskin.

Oberon rode up and halted, he bowed deeply, and awaited Brand’s greeting before speaking. Brand, impressed by this polite gesture, urged him to state his business.

“I’ve come to you this fine eve to celebrate your wedding with you—if you will have me, Lord Rabing.”

Brand didn’t hesitate. It would hardly do good for lasting peace to deny such a diplomatic and reasonable request. “I grant your wish, Lord Oberon!”