Dark Magic (21 page)

Chapter Three

The Gnome King

Oberon journeyed to call upon Groth, King of the Gnomes. Traveling down through the Everdark to the gnome city undetected, however, was not easy. Not even for a wily old elf. But he knew some tricks, forgotten paths from long ago.

The gnomes, he knew, carefully guarded their territories in the Everdark. Their gates were not guarded by physical guardians, but rather warded to snare incorporeal intruders, and similarly trapped with deadly constructions built to slay the living. Oberon was a being that qualified as both types of intruder. His best course lay in penetration from an unexpected angle, and so it was he had chosen an entry point that was located
within
the boundaries of the gnome lands.

There existed entry points from the Twilight Lands into the Everdark, forgotten burial spots located deep below the crust of the world. These mounds were far, far below the surface. So deep, so ancient, so forgotten were these places that most of the Fae knew nothing of them. Even the elder things that dwelt beneath the great shifting plates of stone upon which the surface peoples lived, even they barely remembered these places. They were the burial grounds of kings and peoples so far gone in the past as to have been lost to the living memory of almost all beings.

But Oberon was among the oldest, the most ancient of living things that did not grow from the earth or squat motionless in a dark hole. He had lived when the Great Erm itself had been planted in the Twilight Lands, and he had witnessed the rising of Snowdon and the Black Mountains from the land. They had been merely sharp, black spires, like serrated stone dragon’s teeth poking up from the gums of the Earth, when he was young.

Thus he knew of secret ways into the Everdark, secret spots of infamous death. All faerie mounds were exactly that, of course. The mounds were invariably ancient mass graves of powerful peoples. These locations had suffered greatly; they were scraps of land that had borne silent witness to the rending of forgotten spirits as they moved from the state known as
life
into that known as
death
. The energies released as these great spirits made their final journeys had torn gaps between two worlds.

Such spots didn’t always exist upon the open surfaces of the world, the forests, plains and rocky mountaintops. At times, they existed at the bottom of dark oceans or even in a dank cavern, sealed beneath the earth in a sunless vault. Such timeless places were few, but they did exist. Some of the most powerful of all beings had passed on in these dismal spots, having been bound by chains far below the world of sun and light for thousands of lost centuries.

It was at one of these lost locations, in a dank, dripping vault of stone, that Oberon stepped into existence. The vault was a cavern that existed beneath the seafloor an underground sea of inky-black brine. Filled with crystalline formations and puddles of water, the pocket-like cavern had never filled with seawater. The Everdark clung oppressively all around, and although his vision, like that of the Dead themselves, did not require light to see, he noticed shadows residing here that even his eyes could not penetrate. He felt a chill, as spirits so old they had forgotten their own names and purposes regarded him in dull surprise. Before they could gather their lost wits enough to take action, he trotted swiftly out of the vault, using the only exit available, and slid down a chute into a pool of liquid as still as glass.

Blind things with transparent membranes for skin took notice of him, and rotated sensory stalks in his direction. Disgusting and alien though they might be, Oberon felt relief at their scrutiny. As bizarre and otherworldly as these creatures were, they were at least alive and sensate. And so he trotted quickly, but without fear, amongst them. A few slashes from his impossibly sharp blade removed their reaching claws and snapping mandibles. They croaked in pain and disappointment and he left them behind in the dark.

Exiting into a passage of circular formation that wound upward, he knew now he traveled an ancient path burned by a finger of magma. Ash crunched beneath his rapid step, and dust puffed up to irritate his fine-featured, boyish face.

Through a labyrinth of such passages and vaults he traveled until reaching the home of the gnomes, an area of cold hard stone. The gnomes, he knew, preferred to dwell in areas of stable stone. They avoided lava areas, which like a home built upon any shoreline, must eventually be consumed by the natural forces that existed in close proximity to it. Their underground villages and shrines were always found among the most ancient and stable of geological structures. Their lives were long and slow and consisted often of centuries of immobile pondering. They had no patience with interruptions such as serious earthquakes, lava floods or inquisitive folk from other places.

He passed by many gnomes, frozen giants of black stone with obsidian eyes that were an even darker, purer black. Most of them were lost in thought, pondering something unknowable for races of flesh and bone. They seemed to take no note of his passage, but Oberon knew this was an illusion. All of them saw him, and all of them would eventually take action to pursue the intruder. How long it might take them to move was impossible to judge. It might be a minute, an hour or a decade. But they would all awaken, each and every one, and they would seek to slay him in their multitudes.

He made haste once he was within their sleeping city. He needed to travel to the king, to Groth’s chambers. He must awaken the gnome leader and parlay with him before he was overrun by angry gnomes.

Groth was different, Oberon knew. Being a King among the gnomes, he was not allowed to fall into thought and freeze, as so many of his people preferred to do. He was charged with the duty of maintaining vigilance throughout the ages of his reign. Like a man never allowed to sleep, however, it made him cranky and difficult to deal with—difficult, even for a gnome.

In the great spherical chamber of perfectly carven stone that served the gnomes as a royal suite, he found Groth. The other paced, as he had no doubt done for centuries, back and forth across the bottom of the sphere. The stone here was very ancient and very hard granite, but still a path had been worn, cut nearly a foot deep into the floor.

Oberon stood at the entrance, a circle of space opening into the sphere. He stood there, silently, until he was noticed. He had breached every imaginable protocol in coming here this way, so it could do no harm to become respectful at the very last.

After perhaps a minute more of pacing, Groth stopped. He did not turn his head. He did not utter a syllable. Oberon stood as stock-still and silent as the king. He knew he had been noticed, and that Oberon was deciding how to deal with him. It was best not to add further rudeness or insult at this critical moment.

“Lord Oberon,” said Groth at last. He sounded like a being roused from sleep.

Perhaps, thought Oberon, that was exactly what he was.

“King Groth.”

“You surprise me. You insult me.”

“I meant no insult.”

“You embarrass me, then.”

Oberon said nothing to that.

“How came you here to my inner court? You must have come through my guards and my wards and my deadliest traps as though they meant nothing to you. Why do you slip here, to my royal chambers like an assassin? If you are here to slay me, know that you have also ended your own very-long life.”

“I have not come here to slay you. I am here to parlay.”

“We have established protocols for such things. An emissary should have come to my gates. He should have waited there, upon bent knee and with bent neck, until such a moment as my guardsmen awoke to his presence. Then matters would proceed with proper decorum.”

“You are right, great king,” said Oberon, performing a flawless sweeping bow. Behind him, he was aware the first of the gnomes had appeared. Anger showed in the manner they ground together their huge stone fingers. They had been most rudely awakened from their thoughts, like ruminating old men dashed with cold water. They raged at his scoffing of their rules and customs. They wished nothing more than to grab him and tear his flesh apart into wet strips. They held back, waiting only out of politeness to their king, who was conversing with this tricksy intruder.

“You are right, and I apologize profusely for my rudeness,” continued Oberon. “I performed this unpardonable act in the interest of expediting our conversation. To follow proper procedure might have delayed our discussion by a year, perhaps longer.”

Groth was pacing again. He strode more quickly than before, and a tiny cloud of dust followed his heavy, crunching tread. Oberon sensed more angry gnomes gathering behind him. The corridors and hallways were filling with them. But still they made no move upon him, and he made no motion indicating he recognized their presence.

“I will allow you your life in this instance,” said Groth, speaking with slow reluctance. “But you must exit my city and kneel at the entrance properly until I have finished my long-thought and come to you.”

“Great king, why might I have come here like this today?”

“You question me? You seek to pose Fae riddles in my royal chamber? You refuse to obey my commands in the very seat of gnome power? Have you so little regard for us?”
The huge gnome, as he spoke his list of angry questions, stepped for the first time out of his worn rut in the granite floor. He took several heavy steps toward Oberon as he spoke. Each step accentuated one of his questions with the resounding clunk of stone striking stone.

“I meant no insult.”

“We have taken insult, regardless. The Shining Folk are no longer a great people. You are the same as the rest of the lesser races. You have no Jewel. You have no magic. You should not take liberties with us.”

“Exactly. That is why I’m here. Both a great danger, a threat to the existence of your people and mine, has arisen. Simultaneously, an opportunity has arisen with this threat.”

“Speak plainly, elf!”

“Do you know that Pyros, the Orange Jewel of Flame, has been gained by the Kindred who reside only a league or two above you?”

Groth froze. Oberon knew he was thinking, and waited politely.

“We know of the Amber Jewel in the insane hands of the River Folk, strange though it might be that such a people could wield one of the Nine. We know of a slain dragon, but did not realize...”

“The dragon had a mate. That mate was the green wurm known as Fafnir. Brand of the River Folk slew the beast in the Earthlight, and the Kindred did regain the Orange Jewel from its belly.”

“Fell news indeed. I understand your words of a great danger, and can understand a wish to warn us. But what of this opportunity?”

Oberon shook his head. “I have not yet finished with the bad news. The truly grim news, the fact that I came to relay your people upon peril of my life is this: The Kindred have chosen a queen. That queen is none other than Gudrin of the Talespinners, the same person who has taken up Pyros and even now attunes herself to its power.”

Groth halted again. This time, the moment stretched longer than before. “They will march. They have met us in battle before, and neither has bested the other. But now they wield a Jewel and are led by a monarch. The Kindred will go mad.”

“Perhaps they will boil upon the surface,” said Oberon, “as might ants when a spade is thrust into their nest and that nest is overturned.”

Groth shook his head slowly. “No. They will turn their greedy hearts and picks
deepward
. This is their chance to annex the Everdark, to drive all contenders out of the region. The Orange Jewel... Flame magic. It is perfectly suited for warfare beneath the surface. They will melt my people to slag and drive us from our city. Their memories are nearly as long as ours. They have not forgotten who their true enemies are.”

“Just so,” said Oberon. His eyes were alight with cunning. He had placed the gnome king, as he had planned, at the point of shock and despair. “But I believe I believe I can aid you in your plight, and help my own people in the bargain.”

And so he spoke of length of the rediscovery of the Red Jewel. The Red like the Green Jewel Vaul, was a
living
object. The others had all become inanimate things, such as the Axe and the Horn. The Green Jewel, embedded within a staff, grew forever a living covering of wood around it. The Red Jewel was similar, but its camouflage was a small bloodhound. The eye of the bloodhound was the Red Jewel. In a manner similar to the Green, the flesh that surrounded the Red always grew back. If you whittled the Green down to a toothpick, it would eventually grow back. The bloodhound had similarly been slain many times, but always the Red grew its mobile covering again and became the hound.

What Oberon did not discuss was how weak his hold was over the Red. He did not explain that his plans were balanced upon the miniscule skull of one Piskin of the Wee Folk. In his tale, the Red was well in hand and nearly attuned. Victory could be achieved, he told Groth, if only the proper allies could be mustered and called upon in need.

“The River Folk and the Wee Folk who follow Tomkin will march with the Kindred,” said Groth.

“And we must stand together against them,” came Oberon’s smooth response.

For several long seconds, Groth’s obsidian eyes stared unblinking, expressionless. “The gnomes will muster. A thousand stone fists will rise as one. We will march when you demonstrate you have power over the Red.”