Dark Magic (33 page)

As he lifted her into his arms, flopping and moaning, he heard another sound behind him. It took him a moment to identify it, but then he had it. A clapping sound. Slow, deliberate claps, as if someone mocked a performance.

“That was magnificent!” said a voice. “Absolutely stunning.”

Brand turned, head low, eyes blazing. Telyn lay in his arms, cradled to his body. His chest rose and fell rapidly. Each breath, he knew, he drove the dagger points deeper into his flesh.

The one who clapped was small. Ridiculously small. He stood upon the goblin captain’s head, which had come to rest at the edge of the clearing. Brand knew the figure and the voice. It was Piskin of the Wee Folk.

And the manling now had two hands with which to clap.

“Are you hurt, great knight? Oh dear, if I’m not mistaken, so is your lovely lady fair!”

Brand grinned at him. It was as if death itself split apart his face. “I’m glad you’ve come to gloat, Piskin. I shall enjoy this immensely.”

Piskin sniffed unconcernedly. “No children for you two, I’m afraid. It does an old changeling’s heart a twist, it does. I so hate to see a maiden die before she even produces a litter. Such a waste.”

“You will cease your mocking, manling, or I will slay you now with my last breath. Do not believe that I can’t do it.”

“Then why do stand there jawing, oaf?” asked the other, smiling.

Brand raised the axe, shifting Telyn’s weight. He would burn the little monster, he would burn him through with a tightly focused beam of Ambros’ light. Death had come tonight to him and his, but he could still do the world this final service.

“Hold!” said Piskin, eyes glittering in sudden alarm.

Brand knew the other was only mocking him now, enjoying his death throes the more. Maybe he simply wanted to watch two River Folk die close-up. The axe continued to rise, and the Jewel lit the glade with building light. He would make this beam of light his brightest. The sun itself could not flare so brightly.

Piskin lofted his own two arms and did something Brand did not comprehend. Somehow, a black mist formed in front of him, as if the air itself thickened. Indeed, in less than a second, a dark, liquid-seeming wall formed between them.

But then the power of Ambros was strong in him and he no longer cared. He loosed a beam of light toward his tormenter. He grunted with the passing power of it.

The beam struck the thickened air, which had now become opaque and taken on a reddish flavor. The beam burnt into this circular shield that had formed before Piskin. The beam caused a great hissing. A gout of what could only be steam plumed up. Brand could hear the manling shrieking something, but he didn’t know what the words might be, and he was beyond caring.

But Piskin lived. Frowning, Brand let the beam die down. He was more tired than ever. He was gladdened to see that the manling had slumped down upon the ground and looked worn and terrified.

Piskin raised a hand toward Brand, and even the hand looked strange—twisted.

“I can save her!” said Piskin, as Brand took a step toward him.

“Speak, manling.”

“I can save her. I can save you both. I wield the Red!”

Then Brand saw then the thing that followed Piskin. The thing that stayed close to the manling’s legs like a pet rodent. It was the bloodhound. It returned Brand’s gaze curiously, much as it had the very first time he’d seen it, when it had ridden upon Herla’s steed with that ancient, deathly king.

And Brand, gazing upon it, was just as certain of the hound’s evil intent as he had ever been.

“You have the hound,” said Brand, regarding Piskin with eyes that were half-shut. He knew he did not have long for chatting and fighting. Within an hour or two, he would be slumped upon the ground, axe or no. “You claim yourself to be attuned to it?”

“Did you not see?” exclaimed Piskin, daring to approach one step, then two. “I wielded it just now, in my own defense.”

“Blood magic,” said Brand, trying to think. What had Myrrdin said of it? So long ago, it seemed now. Power over flesh and blood. Healing, wounding, cure and pestilence. All these things were within the power of the Red, and the manner in which it was used depended upon the nature of the wielder. He reckoned that Piskin was more likely to bleed him than to heal him. Perhaps, his own dribbling blood had been part of that used to form the shield that had stopped the burning Eye of Ambros from scorching the little monster.

“Hold, manling. Creep no closer, or you life is forfeit, be you in truthful earnest or filled with deceit.”

Piskin, who had been about to take his fourth step, froze. He returned his foot to the ground beside its brother, thus retreating a fraction.

“Very well. Let us parlay. But, as a token of good faith, I would ask that you set aside the axe.”

Brand laughed. It was an unpleasant sound, and ended with a bout of wet coughing. “You are the one who talks like a youngling fool. You know nothing of the power of the Jewels. The bloodhound already grips your mind, whether you know it or not. If you can spurn the Red, then I will put down the Amber.”

Piskin frowned. He made no attempt to shoo away the bloodhound that crouched at his feet. “Very well. We’ll proceed. Firstly, to demonstrate my good intentions, I will remove that ugly splash that emblazons your face. I will trowel new flesh over your scarred cheek. Poor boy, simply shaving every morning must be an ordeal of self-mutilation.
Wouldn’t it be better, on your wedding night, not to make such a pretty maiden look up into a hideous twisted mask?”

Brand grunted. He cared little for his scar. He wanted Telyn to live, and himself second.

Piskin lifted his arms and produced a flashing, tiny blade. He stabbed himself, one hand slashing the other. The blood ran, and the hound at his feet gave excited hops, licking the drops from the air as they fell.

Around him then, the blood of a dozen corpses rose up in tiny dark droplets. Like a cloud of mist that gathered together rather than spread apart, it formed into a ball in Piskin’s upraised hands. He threw the ball toward Brand.

Brand stirred, lifting the axe and suspecting treachery. The ball floated in his direction very slowly, like a giant soap-bubble.

“Touch your cheek to it, Lord Rabing,” said Piskin gently.

With infinite suspicion, Brand approached the undulating globule of blood. Faintly sickened, but allowing hope for Telyn and himself to blossom in his heart, he slid toward the bubble. He first poked his finger into the bubble, one that had sustained a crushing blow from one of the rhinogs. The nail was black and swollen.

There was a strange sensation in his finger. It seemed to him that hot ants crawled over his fingertip. He snatched it back. Piskin made an exasperated sound and gestured for him to continue.

“The sphere won’t last forever. Do you care nothing for your lady? Set aside your superstitions and embrace the finest gift this old changeling has ever bestowed!”

Brand examined his finger, thinking it looked the same to him. But wait... was that a new growth of nail? He pushed his finger back into the purplish mass and left it there for several seconds.

“That’s long enough,” snapped Piskin.

Brand pulled his finger out, and indeed, it appeared to be fully whole again. Pink skin covered the tip. On the back rode a fresh, unblemished nail.

Experimentally, he next touched his cheek to the sphere, the results were the same. He sighed and smiled despite himself when he pulled away from the gelatinous touch of the bubble.  His face was smooth and fresh again. His beard was still gone there, but he suspected it would now grow in to match the rest.

Excitedly, he reached down to take hold of Telyn. He would grab her up, as gently as he could, and lift her into the bubble of mixed bloods. His heart leaped, he would save her after all. He would save them both!

Before he could move further, the bubble popped. A splash of dead blood splattered his boots and wetted the dark glade, which was already sticky with a dozen such fluids.

Piskin chuckled at his dismay. “First, there shall be a bargaining.”

Brand looked up slowly. His eyes were hooded, but he knew he was at the other’s mercy. Such a strange twist of fate, he thought. Here he was, quite probably the most dangerous fighter in Cymru, and he had been bested by a knee-high manling and his tiny hound.

He took a deep breath then, damning the immediate pain created by the wriggling points within his chest and fighting not to cough. He would bargain, if that was how it was to be. He would bargain, but he would not grovel. He would not become Piskin’s creature. He would not abase himself, nor turn traitor and let his axe fall upon the River Folk. He would listen, and decide if death were preferable.

“I will listen to your terms,” he said.

Piskin strode about the place confidently. Now and then, he dipped a finger into a bloody wound or a puddle of gore, and as often or not he tasted the finger. He resembled a smug farmer, judging a ripe field of grain which was more than ready for the harvest.

“What varied and sweet flavors your folk have. I found a bit of yours here, I believe, on this goblin’s blade. These others,” Piskin gave a little shudder, as if revolted. “Not only are they unpleasant flavors to begin with, but the Merlings in particular taste like mud. I suppose the bloods of various creatures are not all the same to the distinguishing palate, just as wines from different grapes don’t taste alike. The goblins are bitter, it seems to me. While the rhinogs are simply foul.”

“Are you going to describe your bargain?”

Piskin continued talking as if he had not heard. “But it is all
stale
, all befouled by death. Like beer left to sit overnight. I need
fresh
blood, you see, to start any spell. The hound can be fed any blood, but to start things, it needs to be fresh.”

“I don’t have all night, Piskin.”

Piskin halted and faced him. He grinned widely. “No. No indeed, you do not. I’m quite sure of that.”

“So,” said Brand, trying to contain his growing anger. “What would you want in return?”

“A trifling affair.”

“Explain, I grow weary of treating with you.”

“Tired already? Have you lost so much blood as that? A pity. I hear her shallow breathing as well. Your love no longer mewls in your arms. She dreams the final dreams in gray lands beyond our reckoning now.”

“Get on with it then,” Brand snapped. He wished he had thought to thrust his entire body into the bubble now. Perhaps he could have gotten enough healing from it, before Piskin let it pop, to allow him to bargain from greater strength. Mentally, he shrugged. The spell had ended, the opportunity was gone.

“I do believe we can come to an easy arrangement. Firstly, you must agree never to attack me. The axe must never so much as twitch in my direction. There shall be none of your blinding beams of light or slashing about.”

Brand tried hard to think. When bargaining with the Fae, one had to be careful and non-committal. A thoughtful turn of phrase might prevent disaster later.

“I find that agreeable, but reserve the right to defend myself if you or yours attack me or any of the River Folk.”

Piskin tilted his head. His tiny, thin lips pursed themselves. “Fine. Let us move on to the second point, concerning a traitor to my people known as Tomkin.”

Brand snorted. “Tomkin is the traitor?”

Piskin shrugged. “In my way of thinking, yes. There is a debt yet to be repaid with him. I require the Blue Jewel to be transferred into my possession.”

“You think you could wield the Red and the Blue?” asked Brand, taken aback by the other’s audacity.

“My purposes are my own. I ask only your aid. A quick flick of the wrist, I would imagine, would suffice. The bounder would be cut in twain and the Jewel could be easily delivered to me.”

Brand shook his head. “I can’t do as you ask.”

“Not even for your life?” asked Piskin, grinning again.

“No.”

“Not for the life of your lady?”

Brand shook his head. “You ask too much. I will not dishonor myself or my folk in such a manner.”

“Bah! Tomkin would do it in a moment if the roles were reversed.”

“I do not think so,” said Brand. “He is my friend.”

Piskin blew out his cheeks in disbelief.

“It is true. We have a strong friendship, Tomkin and I. That friendship has been earned, not given. As all true friendships must be.”

Piskin peered at him in wonder. “You speak wisely. Ever, it must be so.” He sighed and strutted. “This stubbornness on your part is unforeseen. However, the Blue is not really critical to my personal plans... I suppose I could let it go, and other, sponsoring parties can take up the matter on their own. My circumstances have changed. I no longer need to serve others. In short, I think we can still work a deal, if you will agree to one more trifling detail.”

At this point, a third person entered the conversation. A figure came out of the dark trees behind Piskin, where she had been hiding all along. She wore a white gown, which was torn and dirty. By her swollen belly and haunted face, Brand knew in an instant she must be Mari.