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  Slet nodded and did as he was ordered. Puck however, still standing at his side, did nothing.

  The three men dismounted and walked forward cautiously. As the officer, Corbin hung back and read aloud a writ he had ready for such circumstances. He explained matters to what he believed were two men about to be placed under arrest.

  The man who approached Slet did so circuitously, with clinking chains in his hands. The other man had his truncheon out and walked toward Puck with his hands upraised.

  “Kneel now!” he shouted, then rushed in, truncheon raised.

  The small metal ball at the end of the truncheon glinted in the sun as it rose and fell—but it never struck its target.

  Puck had stepped to one side and produced his blade, which he’d had ready under his cloak. He flicked it upward and the meaty guardsman made a choking sound.

  It was the guardsman that fell to his knees then. The blade protruded from his back, staining the blue cloak dark with fresh blood. Puck withdrew it and stepped around the fallen man.

  But there was some fight in him yet. Making ghastly sounds as he knelt in the grass, the man smashed the truncheon into Puck’s side. A rib or two crackled dryly.

  All this time, Slet had not moved from his spot on the grass where he knelt. The man who was supposed to arrest him thus forgot about him. The guardsman struggled with his blade, calling out hoarsely. When he had it out, he charged at Puck.

  A huge arm shot up from the open grave as he passed it. His ankle caught was in an iron grip and he went sprawling. Then Morcant’s other hand came up from the hole and grabbed him, hauling him down. He screamed and howled in the earth.

  Puck then slashed the first man’s head from his shoulders. He fell dead on the grass. Puck then moved wordlessly forward to block Corbin from his master.

  Corbin stood for a shocked moment. He’d dropped the scroll he’d been reading and now had his sword out. His sides heaved and eyes were wide. Slet stood up, seeing that matters had gone his way.

  “I’m sorry, Corbin,” he said. “I bear you no ill will. Take your horse and report back to Brand if you want to stay alive to see another day. I will go on my way, and I won’t bother the Haven again.”

  Horrible noises were now rising from the open grave. Unseen, a grisly death was obviously taking place. There were sounds of breaking bones, desperate grunts and then a high-pitched keening that cut short after several seconds.

  Corbin swallowed. He gestured at the figure who stood between Slet and he.

  “Who are you, man?” he demanded.

  The figured spoke, surprising everyone. “Do you not recognize my blade, River Boy?” asked Puck.

  Corbin looked at the sword, and his eyes froze there. “Puck? By the River, man…you now serve the Black?” he asked.

  “I must.”

  Nodding and backing away toward the horses, Corbin left Slet surrounded by the Dead.

  “Please man,” he called to Slet as he mounted. “For the sake of your clan and all your folk, leave the Haven forever!”

  “I will, if I am able!”

  * * *

  While Slet dealt with the Dead in his own way, Oberon was faced with his own freshly killed villagers.

  He, Lord of the Elves, was not happy this day. He’d been away when his half-breed son Myrrdin had broken free of his prison and ravaged the village where he’d been imprisoned. Three score souls had been lost, and others were scattered in the forest, still hiding in fear.

  What astounded Oberon most was the idea that his fool son had managed to get free, take control of a tree and become one with it after being planted in the ground for a decade. It didn’t seem like the same do-gooder he’d dealt with for centuries.

  The guardians he’d set near the place had, for the most part, been killed. But the sole survivor told him there had been a woman, a stranger he assumed was some type of Faerie. She’d spoken to them, brought them gifts, and expressed curiosity about the tree growing over Myrrdin’s prison. She was nowhere to be found now, but Oberon was anxious to talk to this mysterious woman of the woods.

  Viewing the destruction and carnage, he reflected upon the oddities of his own family relationships. Often, it seemed that when family bonds spanned extreme lengths of time, they became twisted in nature. At first, a parent was always inordinately fond of any offspring he sired. This was as true for an elf sire as it was for a doting human father.

  But as the long years rolled on, that initial glow inevitably faded for an elf. Such was the way it had been with Myrrdin. He’d slowly become Oberon’s enemy, and such a devoted one that they’d been on the opposite sides of several armed conflicts. It still confounded Oberon that the fruits of his own seed could be so rebellious, even long after Myrrdin’s human mother had died and moldered away. Myrrdin wasn’t a true immortal, of course. But his life span was measured in centuries, rather than decades. He was old now, but apparently he still had life left in him.

  Oberon walked among the crushed mushroom hamlets and broken bodies of elves. He’d grieved briefly upon seeing the scene—something he rarely did. But at the same time he felt this sorrow, he felt exultation. If Myrrdin had truly done this all by himself, perhaps he had changed. Only a callous, angry being could perform deeds like these. Perhaps Myrrdin was now worthy of the mantle of being an elf lord’s eldest living son. One could only hope.

  While poking around in the wreckage, Oberon was surprised to meet a woman dressed in white. He eyed her with suspicion, while in turn she gave him a pleasant smile.

  “Who are you and what have you to do with this?” he demanded of her.

  “I’m Morgana,” she said, “and although I like to think I’m a strong woman, I certainly can’t steer a living tree through a village.”

  He turned to look at the destruction, and she came to stand quietly beside him.

  “My son did this,” he said with a sweep of his arm.

  “You must be angry.”

  “Yes.”

  “And yet proud.”

  He turned to look at her. “How well you understand me. Are you one of my kind?”

  Morgana smiled oddly. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  He was not sure what she meant by that, so he did not ask. Lords rarely liked to confess their ignorance, especially to relative strangers.

  “What will you do?” she asked him.

  “I will gather my hosts, and I will hunt him down, of course.”

  “Of course,” she murmured.

  He looked at her in sudden consternation. “You approve, don’t you? You want to see me do this thing?”

  She spread her fine white hands wide. “It is not for me to say. I only see the logic in your decision. There really is no other option—but for one.”

  “What are you saying, witch of the forests?”

  “Perhaps you could—ah, redirect his energies.”

  Oberon smiled crookedly. He launched himself into the air, landed on a ruptured mushroom and squatted there, staring down at her. He produced a set of small pipes, and he did play while she watched from below, smiling up at him.

  “You’re a strange one,” she said after he’d finished his lively tune. “Are you honestly trying to seduce me with your piping? Now, in the midst of carnage?”

  Oberon lowered his pipes in disappointment, for that was exactly what he’d been trying to do. But after a moment, he cocked his head and smiled anew.

  “Would you rather a funeral dirge?” he asked, waving with his hand at the destruction that surrounded them and the dead elves that lay here and there amongst the ruins. “It is not our way to moan and wail in the face of loss. It has never been our way to grieve for more than a few hours at the most.”

  He pointed to a fine white limb streaked with dried blood streaks running the length of it. The arm lay at Morgana’s feet.

  “Lift the leaf that has covered her face.”

  Morgana did as he bid. She uncovered the face of an elf-child, a small girl with azure hair and
staring, empty eyes. There were many such tragic poses amongst the crushed homes. Fortunately, when elves passed on in the Great Erm, they did not rot and stink as they might in another place. For there was no rot here that could chisel the flesh of an immortal. The perfect corpses simply waited until a predator came to scavenge upon their flesh.

  Morgana replaced the leaf gently, covering the girl’s face.

  “She was a lovely child,” she said. “I grieve for her, and for you, at her passing.”

  Oberon shifted on his perch. “That is exactly my point. You look, you grieve, you move on. None but the mad can grieve forever. We elves simply get over it faster.”

  “I see,” said Morgana, “but what is the purpose of attempting seduction now?”

  “Why, isn’t it obvious? What’s the point of prolonged grief? It does nothing to solve the problem. We’ve lost souls. We must be renewed. Mating, birth—these are the only things that makes sense at such a moment.”

  Morgana nodded thoughtfully, turning her head this way and that.

  “Very well,” she said.

  Oberon, who had been just about to lift his pipes to his lips again, paused. “What’s that? You’re interested in my entreaty?”

  “Yes. But I warn you, my womb will not bear your young.”

  Oberon smiled. It was a slightly predatory thing, a smile born of ages full of both joy and malice in equal measures.

  “Be not so sure, milady,” he said, waving a thin finger at her. “For none have ravaged you like the eldest of all elves can, of that I’m certain.”

  She laughed then, and he joined in her laughter. He soon came down from his perch and began piping again, this time creating a sprightly dancing tune. She stood stalk-still for a time before finally allowing herself to be moved. Oberon was amazed at her self-control. He’d courted thousands of females, and never had one been so aloof in the face of his charms.

  But when she finally did let herself move, swaying her hips, kicking high and stepping around him even as he did her, he found she was quite graceful for a woman of her grandeur. He’d worried that she would perhaps be a stiff, boring companion—but he could see now his fears were unfounded.

  He did wonder, as he danced with her, how she had been able to shrug off his earlier advances so easily. It intrigued him. She was a mystery, and had been so since the moment he’d met her wandering his forest. Even at this moment, which he believed to be of his own making, he had to wonder who had seduced whom in the end?

  Together, they drank nectar and laughed with muted voices. After an hour of gentle touches, they did embrace and dance closely for a time before making love. When at last they did the deed, lying atop the broken crown of a mushroom hamlet, there were no living witnesses to the act.

  The only beings surrounding them were cold, dead elves.

  Chapter Seven

  The Dead in the Water

  While watching Corbin gallop away back to Riverton, Slet had no doubt he would return with reinforcements. He’d sound the alarm, telling everyone a second Storm of the Dead had quite possibly begun. At that point, things would move beyond the control of two men and their honor. The council and the populace in general would insist that Slet be driven away and preferably slain.

  He could not blame them for this. Too many families had lost loved ones the last time necromancy had been practiced on this very hilltop. They could not bear to see it begin again and would react with swift, terrible attacks.

  Uncertain as to what to do—other than to flee—Slet paused to look at the two open graves. One had once held his troll-child, the other still held the lifeless body of his wife.

  As if driven there, he woodenly walked to the rim of the second grave. He could still see her flaxen hair, as bright a yellow as it had been in life. It seemed that the old tales were true: dirt would not cling to the hair of a true elf. Even in death, her locks were like spun gold.

  Slet stared down into that grave as if fascinated.

  “We must go, Master,” Puck said at his side.

  Slet could not tear his eyes from the wisps of his wife’s hair. Just seeing them brought back a thousand joyous memories. His every day and night with her had been a pleasure.

  “Puck,” he said thickly, “you wield a blade today as well as you did in life. Do you also have the same wisdom you possessed when you still drew breath?”

  “I doubt it, lord. I’m but a shadow of my former life. A wavering reflection seen in a muddy pond.”

  “Well, I will ask your advice anyway, as I know not who else to turn to. Should I raise my lady-love? Shall I make my elf-wife walk again? I think you should have a say, as she is also your sister.”

  Puck turned his hollow eyes toward him, and Slet glanced at the Dead-thing. Those eyes…they were not normal. They seemed not to focus on Slet directly but rather upon something within Slet. It was a disconcerting thing to see, as if this dead version of Puck could gaze right through his flesh and into the bones inside.

  “That depends upon what you seek, Master.”

  “I—I yearn for her companionship,” Slet said. “The touch of her hand in mine. The sweet sound of her voice and her laugh.”

  “Her mind would not be as strong as mine, for she was much, much younger than I when she died. You could clothe her fully in flesh again—but it would be the cold flesh of the Dead.”

  “Could she speak at all?”

  “Perhaps. But her mind would be that of an animal at best.”

  Slet thought about that, and his shoulders sagged in disappointment. She would not be his wife returned to him. She would be a ghoul, a thing of nightmares: a cold-skinned creature he could not bear to touch.

  “We must go, milord,” said Puck, gazing fixedly downslope. “The townspeople gather. When next they come, we cannot hope to defeat them all.”

  “I don’t want to defeat them. I want to escape them—to be left alone. Let’s flee and hope for the best.”

  A pale, cold hand touched his elbow. Puck gestured for him to wait.

  “We’d best create a distraction, and do it quickly,” the dead elf said.

  Slet frowned in incomprehension. “A distraction? How?”

  Puck nodded to the yawning iron gates that led down into the Drake Crypt.

  Suddenly, Slet understood what the other was suggesting. He recoiled in horror and curled his upper lip.

  “You want me to create an army of the Dead? I told Corbin I would do no such thing. Besides, it will pain me greatly.”

  Puck extended a long finger in the direction of the troll infant, which still clung to Slet’s side beneath his cloak.

  “Would it not pain you more, Master, to see him die again?”

  Slet set his lips in a firm line and nodded. Without another word, he turned and reentered Drake Crypt. His cries of agony and anguish escaped his clamped shut mouth from time to time as he caused the Dead to rise one by one. He ordered them all to protect the Crypt from intruders, and then hurried off into the trees with Puck at his side. He left Morcant in charge of one last platoon of Dead things. He hoped the giant of a man still had some fight left in him.

  * * *

  When Brand at last reached the shoulders of Snowdon, he was worn and tired. He’d slept in the saddle and ridden hard for three long days. His horse was spent, and he was down to walking now. He could not understand how the boy Trev had outrun him so far for so long. Half-elf or not, he should not have been able to keep up such a killing pace.

  Brand didn’t give up despite the grueling slog into the mountains. When he reached the walls, he’d left his roan behind. The horse was an excellent animal, but it had lost a shoe a dozen leagues back, and the unevenness of its footing had made it lame long before Brand reached the great stone gates. When he stood on the doorstop of Snowdon and entered the red furnace known as the Earthlight, Brand was almost limping himself.

  The Kindred at the entrance gathered around to hail him and clap him on the back. They promised to follow the road back a
nd find his horse for him and they clucked over his description of its sad state, then cast worried glances at Brand himself.

  “Milord,” asked the Captain of the Guard, “your arrival is no indication of impending doom, is it? I mean—were you chased here by something—unpleasant?”

  Brand shook his head wearily. “No, Captain. It is I who am doing the chasing this time. And I’m in an unpleasant mood to be sure.”

  The Kindred gave him quiet looks of concern and muttered among themselves, but asked no more questions. Brand insisted on seeing Gudrin straight-away, so they provided him with a goat cart and a driver for the long, winding path down to the floor of the cavern.

  It was dark by the time he reached the dry, rocky plain that surrounded the Citadel. In the West, the three louvers of the Great Vent stood nearly shut. They still allowed in three red gleaming lines of light between them—the equivalent to starlight here beneath the surface.

  Brand marched onward resolutely. He found the Citadel and talked his way past the guards posted there. This was easily done, as they’d been forewarned of his after-hours visit and were prepared for his arrival.

  He was ushered to the same chamber in which Gudrin had talked with Trev the day before. Brand frowned upon seeing the elderly Queen. It seemed to him that she was even more ancient than usual today. Perhaps, after half a millennium, her time was drawing near at long last.

  “Gudrin? Do I find you in good health?”

  “As good as can be expected, Lord Rabing. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

  “I follow another. A youngster from the River Haven.”

  “Trev?”

  “He’s been here then?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a pause in the conversation as Brand was shown a stone chair to sit in and given a granite mug of piping hot tea. He sipped the brew carefully, winced in pain, then forced a smile.

  “Excellent, just as I remember it.”

  Gudrin chuckled. “For an Axeman, you’re a polite fellow. Brand, before I tell you about Trev, I must ask: why are you so interested in the lad?”