Dream Magic Page 32

  Brand’s mouth opened, then closed again. He himself had struck off the head of this creature’s mother. How could he expect anything but hostility from it now?

  “Well met,” Brand said loudly. “I’m surprised by your visit, but I hope you’ve come to lend aid.”

  “Aid?” the dragon said. It seemed puzzled by the concept of lending another a hand, as if it had never considered the possibility. “I’m here to defeat what is coming. I’m here because I fear not to be.”

  Brand nodded, understanding the statement. The dragon was not an ally—not exactly. But when a great enough threat was revealed, comrades were made out of those who would otherwise be mortal enemies.

  “Good enough,” he said. “Mind not to burn anything down except invaders, and we shall all get along.”

  “BRAND!” roared Ivor, spotting him at last. He’d been hugging his tiny aunt up until this point. He set Kaavi down and Brand watched her stagger and gasp. Then the ogre charged him, coming so close, so fast, that Brand’s horse shied and whinnied in fear.

  Brand dismounted and clapped the ogre. The stink of the creature overwhelmed him. He felt as if he’d walked into the barracks after a summer’s day of maneuvers on the fields around the castle.

  Coughing and withdrawing to a safe distance, Brand managed a smile. Ivor’s enthusiasm in all things was legendary. He was as friendly as a big dog with those he knew and loved, but in battle—there he was a thing apart. He went as mad when faced with enemies as Brand himself did in the grip of the Axe.

  “It’s good to have you back home, Ivor,” he said. “Where’ve you been these last years?”

  “In the elf village.”

  “In the Great Erm?”

  “Yeah. With the really big trees. Boring there. Lately, I’ve been living with my Uncle. He’s a big tree. Kinda funny.”

  “Your Uncle?” Brand said, staring at him with narrowed eyes. “What’s his name then?”

  “Myrr…um, Miry…”

  “Do you mean Myrrdin?”

  “Yeah, that’s him.”

  Brand nodded, thinking about it. Of course… Myrrdin was Oberon’s son, and Ivor was the child of Tegan, Myrrdin’s sister, which would make Ivor Myrrdin’s nephew. If ever he met the wizard again, he thought he’d bring it up. Having an ogre for a nephew must annoy the old buzzard.

  * * *

  The Castle and all its inhabitants worked hard and prepared for the worst. Nearly a week had passed since Ivor’s homecoming, and no one had seen any sign of Myrrdin or Morgana and her elves. Were they out there, gathering minds to their banner somewhere in Cymru? Or was the march already underway?

  Brand had little doubt they would come here to confront him. The only other realistic option was to attack Riverton, and he didn’t think they’d try it. Stone Island wasn’t going to be an easy target for a large force. Corbin was commanding the militia there, and they had the only mound carefully watched.

  The problem for the enemy would be their moment of arrival at the mound itself. If they did dare to begin marching out of the Twilight Lands onto the Riverton Commons, they’d have to come in a long line. They’d be vulnerable as they appeared, presenting only a few soldiers at a time who could be cut down with ease. It would be as if they walked through a narrow mountain pass into an ambush.

  No, they needed time to pass from their world into the Haven, then assemble their army in secret before striking out across land to their target. Again under that circumstance, Stone Island would be hard to take. Most of the shoreline was rocky cliffs. The Berrywine ran swiftly on both sides as well.

  He was almost certain they’d come to Castle Rabing instead. Here, there was plenty of open land in the region to get organized. More importantly, all the wielders of the Jewels were here. It was clear Morgana wanted to capture their minds above all else.

  It was a strange army he’d gathered to meet this new threat. His usual allies were absent, and were in fact on the opposite side. Gudrin and Tomkin, his most loyal friends, were both under the witch’s spell. He hoped he would not be forced to slay either of them before this war was done.

  Instead of the Kindred, his walls were lined with men in flapping blue cloaks, intermixed with a wide variety of the Fae. Brand had bolstered his thin castle garrison with a motley collection of the Faerie from his wooded corner. There were scattered Wee Folk, elves and ogres. Most startling was the dragon itself, who circled overhead casting a fleeting shadow upon anyone it passed over. Men ducked when the shadow flickered over them, as if expecting a great stone to fall down on their heads.

  Old Hob, for his part, had vanished. Although they’d supposedly had an alliance, he had not reappeared thus far with troops of his own. Brand figured he’d probably been abandoned by the ancient goblin, but it was hard to tell. He hoped that the Lavender Jewel hadn’t somehow fallen into the hands of his enemy.

  Likewise, Trev was missing and presumed dead. Myrrdin was nowhere to be seen, either. He’d sent Ivor and the dragon to warn him, but hadn’t appeared himself. Brand didn’t know what it meant, but it could not be good.

  The skies darkened on the eighth day after the dragon had brought Ivor home. Brand watched the clouds as he watched everything else. He was relieved when they began to rain. Usually, when the Rainbow was summoned, the storm that came with it was windy, but dry.

  What did come under those clouds was a shock. At first, it seemed that one of the mountains from around Snowdon was moving closer. But the shape of it was wrong. It was much too tall, too steep.

  “It’s not a mountain,” Slet said at his side on the walls. “It’s a tower!”

  Brand looked at the necromancer, then back at the distant shambling shape. He peered at it, putting his hand up to shield his eyes.

  All around the castle the alarm had gone up. Men beat on bells and drums. Pounding feet and jingling mail could be heard everywhere. At least his garrison was alert.

  Brand turned back to the approaching monster. He thought he knew what it was then.

  “It’s Myrrdin,” he said, “see the leafy crown at the top? Up at the base of that low cloud?”

  “A tree?” asked Slet in disbelief. “A single, gigantic tree? And it walks? I thought I was a devil.”

  “Don’t count yourself out on that score.”

  Puck, who stood near a table covered in maps, grinned at Brand’s comment. The grin was a ghastly parody of life, and the fact that he’d managed to amuse one of the Dead did nothing for the Axeman’s mood.

  “Do you think he’s really on our side, Brand?” Slet asked. “If he isn’t, I don’t think there’s much we can do to stop him. He’ll knock down these walls like a man kicking aside mounds of sand.”

  “I guess you’re right. We’ll have to prepare for the worst.”

  Brand marched out and called the captain of his guard. He gave orders to fill the catapults with burning shot and to prepare the ballistae to shoot fire as well.

  “What if it’s not enough?” Slet asked. He’d followed Brand and continued to do so, despite Brand’s pointed lack of interest.

  Brand finally turned to the man and frowned at him. “Then I’ll have to cut it down myself. I do wield an Axe, after all.”

  The guardsmen who were in range of hearing laughed roughly and beat their fists on their shields in appreciation of Brand’s bravado. They, too, had been nervous about what might befall them over the next hour.

  While his garrison readied for battle, Brand went to Fafna, who crouched on the roof of the keep, and talked to her.

  “Would you be so kind as to fly me out to that tree?”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I wish to entreat with its master—the wizard in its guts.”

  Fafna looked miserable in the rain. Steam rose off her furled wings, and each raindrop that landed upon her scales hissed and turned immediately into gray vapor.

  “You do realize that wizard kept me captive for weeks? I’d love to burn him—I’d love it almost more than life it
self.”

  “I feel similarly. But I need to know if he is hostile or friendly. How can I parlay with him otherwise?”

  With a grunt of displeasure, the dragon allowed him to mount and then she launched into the air.

  It was a shocking experience. Except for certain long, dangerous falls, Brand had never flown in the air before. He was alarmed and his guts thrilled within him. He wanted to shriek with terror, whoop with joy, and vomit, all at the same time.

  The ground moved away sickeningly below him, and he soon learned not to look down at the world which spread out below. It was better to stare ahead at the tottering tree. He had to reach it before it made it to his new stone walls. He was under the impression it would smash into the bricks and possibly through them without a care.

  The dragon seemed to know where she was going. Brand had never ridden a mount with a mind of its own before. He had no reins, no stirrups no riding whip. There was no way to control the beast, and even if he shouted at the top of his lungs she might not hear him. The wind was harsh and cold so high up and whistled like a gale into his face.

  The worst moment came when the dragon puffed with exertion. Twin plumes of flame swept back from her mouth and nearly seared Brand in his saddle. He was forced to duck and throw his arm up over his face.

  “Have a care, Fafna, your breath will singe me!” Brand cried aloud.

  Apparently, the dragon could hear him because she turned back and bared her teeth in a lipless grin. “Your meat would no doubt taste fine when seared to ash and falling from the bone!”

  Brand grimaced, uncertain if the beast were joking with him or not. The Axe on his back writhed, begging to be drawn out. He had to consider it. At least he could sweep the monster’s head from its long neck if he wished and both could fall in death together. As a final act, it might possibly go down in his personal tale as one of his best moves.

  He shook his head to clear it of such thoughts. He had more than his own personal glory to consider. There were thousands of lives at stake in Castle Rabing and many more in the Haven in general. Now was not the time to seek a glorious ending, no matter how sweet.

  With alarming speed, the Great Tree swelled to fill their vision. Brand threw up his arms and shouted aloud. He could not help it. They were clearly going to crash right into the vast trunk.

  But instead of slamming into a moving tower of leafy wood, they burst through the vines and branches that covered the thing and settled alight inside a heartwood cavern of some kind. Brand corrected this first impression as he looked around. He was not in a cavern, but rather a knothole which served as an entrance to the tree’s hollow interior.

  Fafna crawled forward, and Brand leapt from her back as soon as he was able. The ceiling was low and there was no room for him to ride in any case.

  “Myrrdin? Are you in here, man? I’ve come to parlay with you.”

  There was no answer but for the whistle of powerful winds outside. In addition to this, the tree groaned as it lurched from side to side. Brand had been on many boats, but this was worse. He was thrown one way, then the other and the Great Tree lifted its roots and set each of them down again with a fresh, shuddering thud.

  “Brand? Is that you?”

  Brand peered into the green gloomy interior. “Trev?”

  “Yes, it’s Trev. Come help me.”

  Brand and the dragon moved forward cautiously. Brand’s fingers ached to draw the Axe, for he did not know what was amiss. He did not know if he should be ready to fight or flee.

  “What’s happening, boy?” he hissed out. “Where’s Myrrdin?”

  “He’s here. But he’s not right—he’s sleeping or unconscious. I’m not sure which.”

  Brand found them at last. In a central bole of sappy wood, they could be seen in the gloom when his eyes adjusted. Myrrdin was half-buried in the wood of the tree, and Trev knelt beside him.

  “What’s wrong?” Brand asked.

  “He’s out. He healed me—brought me back with Vine Magic. But after I broke away all the sticks and leaves that had sprouted from my body, he began to mumble and passed out.”

  “Sticks and leaves?”

  “Yes. They itched abominably. The nodules where the twigs came out of me are still brown and sore.”

  Brand crept closer and examined Myrrdin.

  “I’m no doctor,” he said, “but he seems to have a fever. Maybe he’s been driving the tree for too long. Like a horse running itself until its heart explodes.”

  “Yes, maybe that’s it,” said Trev. “We had to run from the elves. A large hunting party of them chased us out of the Great Erm. Circling the mound was almost impossible. The tree is so big, you see.”

  “Of course,” Brand said, pulling a flagon of wine from around his back. He upended it and squirted it into the old wizard’s face.

  “That’s rude,” Trev complained.

  The dragon laughed.

  “I’ve got no choice. The tree will slam into my walls soon if we can’t get him to stop.”

  “What if we can’t wake him?”

  “Then we’ll have to figure out some other way to stop his mind from driving this monstrous tree.”

  The dragon laughed again. Trev frowned at her.

  Brand fired a fresh squirt into Myrrdin’s face. The purple liquid made his lips and eyelids flutter.

  “That won’t be necessary,” he wheezed. Then he awakened, coughing and sputtering.

  “Myrrdin,” Brand said urgently. “Stop marching.”

  “I must reach Castle Rabing.”

  Brand reached down and grabbed his arms, but the flesh felt so odd—so lumpy and cool to the touch, that he released him after only the briefest of shakings. He wiped his hands on his coat afterward, feeling his lip curl up to expose his teeth in disgust. The man was foul.

  At last, Myrrdin’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Are we in the Haven?”

  “Yes! Stop the tree!”

  The dragon had crawled away to the entrance again and gazed outside. “We’ve less than mile to go. I wonder if the tree will smash through, or simply topple over. Either way, the event will be spectacular.”

  “You seem cold-blooded about your own demise, Fafna!” Brand shouted angrily. “Why don’t you help remedy the situation?”

  “Good idea, Axeman.”

  With that, the dragon crawled out of the tree’s interior and launched into flight, flapping away.

  Brand turned back to Myrrdin and shook him again, despite the man’s loathsome texture.

  Finally, Myrrdin’s eyes fluttered open again. “The wine stings my eyes.”

  “I’ll take your head from your shoulders if you don’t stop this shambling tree!”

  Myrrdin stared at him in confusion. Brand wondered how he could get through to him. Then he had it.

  “No, not your head. I’ll take your Jewel. Myrrdin, I’m going to take Vaul away from you if you don’t stop this infernal tree!”

  That did it. Myrrdin’s brow grew stormy. He drew on whatever internal strength his body had left and struggled to straighten his spine.

  “Get off me!”

  “Stop the tree!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Stop walking, Uncle,” Trev said urgently. “We’re there. You must stop moving your many, many legs.”

  Myrrdin looked at his nephew and recognition flickered in his eyes. “Yes. I must rest now. I’m tired.”

  At last, the tree stopped lurching from side to side. There was a sinking feeling, and they felt themselves shift as the roots far below were lowered down to lie flat upon the ground.

  Myrrdin slumped back as the tree stopped and fell back into a deep, exhausted sleep.

  * * *

  Brand went in search of Slet when he managed to get the dragon to fly him back to his castle, leaving the Great Tree standing like a lonely tower near the walls.

  Of all his allies, Brand’s troops were least pleased with the necromancer. They liked the Dead even
less than they liked ogres and dragons. The men grumbled and muttered they’d rather slay the wielder of the Black than march with his abominations.

  “Slet,” he said, finding the other where he knew he would: in a quiet, forgotten courtyard. It was the same place where Brand had once begun an ill-fated expedition into the underworld.

  “Lord Rabing,” Slet answered with a nod.

  Brand noticed that Puck moved forward a step, automatically placing himself between Brand and the necromancer. Even in death, the elf was canny.

  “I’ve come to show you this very place, but I’m not surprised to find you’re already here.”

  Slet looked around.

  The courtyard was a dim-lit sunken area of worn stone, twisting vines and dead leaves. It had the look of late autumn, despite the fact it was summer everywhere else in the Haven.

  “What is this place?” Slet asked. “I feel at peace here.”

  “And well you should. This is the entrance to the catacombs.”

  “Where you keep your Dead?”

  “No, not exactly. It is the place where the previous occupants kept their Dead. Over nine centuries ago.”

  “Odd,” Slet said, walking slowly around the place. He reached a set of iron gates and touched the bars. Behind them was a dark, sloping stairway that went down into a black pit.

  Brand noted that the necromancer had the Scepter in his hand. Just seeing it held so casually gave him a chill. The Black seemed to change Slet’s behavior slightly when he grasped it. He did not become feral, but rather more philosophical and contemplative.

  “I feel something here,” Slet said, gazing down into the impenetrable gloom. “There’s a faint breeze coming up from the depths. It probably looks uninviting to you, but to me it’s like a warm cabin with a cheery fire dancing on the hearth.”

  Again, Brand suppressed a shudder. He wondered why he’d ever agreed to take up arms with Slet. Fear of Morgana had caused his judgment to lapse.

  He cleared his throat. “I can open those gates. There are things down there that could use your attention.”

  Slet turned and looked at him. Brand was startled to see that the necromancer’s eyes had changed. They now had no white, no colored iris and no pupil. Instead they were a uniform black. Wet-looking and shiny, they were like twin pearls of jet.