Dark Magic (62 page)

He left her then, and Gudrin drank ale and sobbed quietly while she did so. She would have to alert Brand. She would have to send him a note.

She soon put her quill to work on a pile of scrolls. She penned a writ which was to be copied and spread throughout Cymru, to wherever Kindred might be. The writ ordered her people to return to Snowdon or one of the other mountain fortresses. Very soon, she would have to close the doors and allow none to enter the safety of the deeps. It was time for all the Kindred to retreat within the safety of stone, as they always did when the greatest of storms threatened. Her people would survive, she knew. Others, such as her River Folk allies…it did not bear thinking about.

Chapter Fourteen

Grasty

Grasty was the only member of the Kindred whose heart flared with joy when the writ came from that crazy old witch Gudrin. She had called them all back to Snowdon, had she? Well, it could not have come at a more perfect time.

Grasty had planned well and deeply. He fully believed Brand and his crew to be floating in flooded chambers by now. He’d explained to the rest he’d been ordered back to the camp while the arrogant upstart river-boy investigated the ruins on his own. The Kindred and River Folk had turned him narrow-eyed glances, but they’d not said anything. He’d played the fool to the hilt of course, tottering around and muttering incoherently. They’d all figured Brand had gotten tired of the crusty old fool and sent him back to camp.

They would get suspicious as more time passed, however. He knew that very well. Now, he had come to the tricky part of his plans. He had a cart all packed with six barrels labeled as
rare earths
. One was marked with the Kindred symbol for cadium, another boron, a third cerium and so on. Every element listed was low in value, naturally. His subterfuge gave him the chuckles every time he looked upon the barrels, as they did indeed carry rare earths. But they were of a very different kind than were indicated by the false labels. Each of the six was filled with glinting gemstones. Topaz, emeralds, diamonds, rubies, opals and his personal favorite: sapphires.

The Shining Lady had been true to her word and he’d never been happier with a bit of graft than with this haul. After filling the barrels with rare gemstones, Grasty had packed the barrels carefully with fine soft grit so that they would not clatter and rattle when transported. This made them heavier, of course, and carrying them up from the mines at night on his back, one barrel at a time, had been quite a chore. His spine was permanently bent now, he could swear, and he knew he’d be sore for days. But now first half of his escape plan had been completed.

The second part of his exit, however, had always been less clear in his mind. He cursed himself for not thinking further when he’d made his bargain with the White Witch. She made it so damnably difficult to think. At least he’d been smart enough to keep away from her embraces. His kind weren’t as vulnerable to lusting for her as were humans, but even an old Kindred foreman had certain weaknesses in that regard. Fortunately, as she had wanted his services, not his soul, she had not enticed him in that manner. The entire deal had been strictly business. He was to lead Brand into a trap and he would find his shovel-loads of gems waiting. Enough for a long-overdue retirement in luxury.

But the part about his exit strategy had been fuzzy from the start. Now that he had the gems in their falsely labeled barrels…he had no idea how to spirit them out of the camp. Worse, by the second day after his treacherous deed had been done, he had to dodge more questions than he expected. That devilish cousin of Brand’s named Corbin, in particular, had been probing and was not easily put off. Suspicious, hulking piece of river-trash! Grasty already wished he had somehow gotten Corbin to crawl down that hole with the rest.

By the second night, when the writ came, Grasty was growing more and more nervous. He could tell that neither the River Folk nor his own Kindred were going to allow this to pass unquestioned. They kept talking about Lord Rabing. The arrogance! The cheek of it! He could scarcely imagine where that stripling boy with a fancy axe had come by the
gall
it took to call himself a lord.

When Gudrin’s order came, it was like a blessing from the Rainbow itself. He could barely breathe while it was read aloud. Most of the Kindred groaned in disappointment. These crazy River Folk paid well and Grasty had always been an easy-going, slipshod foreman. But, there was nothing for it. They were loyal folk, and when their Queen called, there was no question in their minds. They dropped their tools, packed up their belongings and formed a long train to retreat.

Corbin entreated with Grasty on the subject. This tickled Grasty, as the fat lout had no clue how pleased the Kindred foreman was to quit the work.

“Surely, there’s something that can be done!” Corbin said, hands on his hips. “No one knows where Brand is, and we need your help digging him out.”

“Eh?” Grasty asked. “Digging who out?”

“Brand, you clout-eared oldster,” Corbin shouted.

“Brand?” Grasty asked, waving his leathery hands in the air. “Never mind him, he’ll be fine. If I were you, I’d pack up as well. This place is likely to be teeming with Dead soon.”

“How can you say Brand is fine?” Corbin growled. “You are the one who left him down there. It is your responsibility to get him back out. I’ve already sent a Wee Folk messenger to Snowdon asking Gudrin to give special orders to that effect.”

Suddenly, Corbin had Grasty’s attention. “What’s this then?” Grasty snarled. “You dare meddle in the affairs of another folk? Who made you royalty?”

The other Kindred present shuffled and eyed one another uncomfortably. Corbin seemed taken aback.

“We are your allies,” Corbin said. “At least, I thought we were.”

“Of course,” Grasty said, throwing up his hands again. He realized he’d gone a too far snapping at the suspicious lout. “My apologies. We’re all just edgy, you see. Many of us have relatives in Gronig and things have reportedly gone bad there.”

Corbin seemed mollified and stopped arguing at that point. Grasty went back to his preparations thankfully. All the while Grasty prepared the wagon train to exit this forsaken swamp, he felt Corbin’s eyes on his back, however.

His six, precious barrels were carefully loaded upon a two-goat cart which Grasty cunningly located at the rear of the procession. When the first night fell, he wandered off into the swamp on a side path and purposefully let the column to Snowdon proceed ahead without him. He knew they would not come looking for him as they were under direct orders from the crown to return to the Black Mountains.

Let them wonder what had happened to old Grasty! Let them wonder forever while he spent his gems, certain he was immune to the hunger of the Dead everyone else feared. He laughed long and loud upon the driver’s board of his cart. He doused his lamp and rolled on through the night at a leisurely pace, consuming ale and singing so loudly the bog-yelpers fell quiet around him.

After a time, however, he came to notice a light off to the north. He knew it could not be a human habitation, as he was far past the Haven borders. He was even beyond the points where the most intrepid of marshmen dared to venture.

The single cold light in the distance beckoned to him, although he tried to ignore it. What kind of creature might be out in this forsaken mire? He thought of goblins and wisps and the like. Each theory proved false however, as he studied it further. It was a clear, cold light. A goblin lamp would never have been so clean and stationary. The wisps were always colored—and this light was not. It seemed to him as he passed westward, that the light to his north was gently moving south as he passed it. This meant it could not be too far off.

Grasty tried his best to put it out of his mind, naturally enough. To be comfortable, he dug out an old crossbow from the back of the cart and examined it. The string was still fresh enough, so he loaded a bolt and laid the weapon across his knees. No band of villains would have his gems without a fight!

No threats materialized, however, and he had almost slid past the light so he had to crane his neck around to see it when he came to a fork in the path. One route led straight on, while a second led off to the north…toward the light in the trees.

Grasty fretted. It could very well be either a place of safety or danger. The trouble was he could not know which from the board of his wagon. He sat grumbling for a time, but at last turned north and found a goodly spot to hide his cart. Once done, he stumped along the path on foot, his crossbow cradled in his arms.

No more than a hundred paces into the twisted trees that grew on this blighted land he saw the source of the light. It was a lamp, sitting in the single window of a low hut. Grasty eyed the thing suspiciously. At least, he thought, whoever they were they didn’t
look
too dangerous.

With a loud sniff of disinterest, he turned and headed back toward his cart.

“Kind sir?” called a soft voice behind him.

Grasty whirled with a snarl. His crossbow was up in his hands and he almost loosed the bolt on the spot.

“So sorry to have startled you,” said the voice.

He could place it now, a hooded figure—quite small—stood in the lane. It was female. She appeared harmless and shapely. He took aim, thinking to put her down in the dirt now so he would have no trouble. He didn’t want anyone so much as
thinking
about his gemstones.

“Perhaps you could help me, kind sir?” she asked. “I’m all alone in these woods and I don’t get many visitors.”

Grasty still had not said a word. His lone, squinting eye remained fixed upon her, and his bolt was ready to fly and plant itself in her fair breast. She pushed down her cowl as he watched. Her face shone in the starlight, and her features were exquisite—not like the Shining Lady, mind you, but lovely all the same. She was as full of life as the Shining Lady was of death. Her beauty was as warm as the other’s was cold. Her face caused Grasty’s wind to catch in his throat. He thought of shooting her anyway, but he could not quite bring himself to do it.

“What do you want from the likes of me?” he grunted out at last.

“It is you who have come down my lane, good sir,” she said.

“You’re an elf, is that it?”

“You’ve guessed it plainly.”

“Humph,” Grasty said, lowering his crossbow slowly and reluctantly. “Have you got any food? I’ll trade with you. No tricks, mind! Grasty is not the old fool he appears to be.”

“My name is Tegan,” said the elf. “I have some food. No payment is necessary for a guest. I meet so few travelers out here. I’m sure you can pay with tales of the road and cheerful talk.”

Grasty snorted at that. But when the lovely elf-girl beckoned, he followed her crooked finger like a fish on a hook.

Tegan led him into her hut, and he saw that it was a pitiful affair indeed. He swept his single eye over the place speculatively. It was little more than mud and sticks. There were twisty roots poking up in the middle of the floor. Times were indeed hard for this lovely female if she had ended up here.

Grasty began to entertain certain ideas. Perhaps, with his new-found wealth, he could afford to lavish a bit of it upon a woman such as this. Kindred and elves very rarely mixed—due to the snootiness of the elves in practically every case—but these were special circumstances. This lady was in a dire way and had been rejected by both humans and elves, it was plain to see. With six barrels of gemstones outside, he could buy her a castle of her own, if that was her wont. Maybe, under such special circumstances, she could be made to overlook his uncomely face. So far, she had been quite friendly….

“Who lives here?” he asked. “Aside from yourself.”

“Only my son.”

“Son? How old would he be then?”

“He’s just turned four now. How the years fly!”

“Well, if your son is only four years old…” Grasty said, trailing off thoughtfully. A child so young could hardly get in his way. He might well bed a woman nightly if her brat were quiet enough. A few good beatings early on would teach the lad what was what from the start.

“He is big for his age though,” Tegan continued with a hint of pride in her voice. “His father was such a grand size of a man.”

“His father? Who would that be?”

“His father has passed on, I’m afraid. His name in life was Morcant Drake.”

“Drake?” Grasty asked, standing up suddenly. “Are you telling me your son’s father was one of the River Folk?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. And I’m no happier about that than you seem to be. They didn’t treat me well there after my child was born. They cast me out of the manor. That’s why I ended up settling here.”

“Bastards!” Grasty fumed. “I’ve always said the River Folk are nothing but a pack of ingrates and ruffians.”

Tegan shrugged. “They aren’t
all
bad, but I’ve had a hard time of it out here by myself.”

“I can imagine. But you needn’t worry about the River Folk girly. They’ll be getting their come-uppance very soon now, I should think!”

Tegan tilted her head, and Grasty thought she looked lovelier than ever that way.

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked.

“Upstarts! All stealing Jewels from the elder, better races. They have not the wisdom, nor the right! Brand’s the worst, that popinjay with a bit of an axe. He never passed by an opportunity to remind me that
I
served
him
. Imagine! One of the Kindred forced to kowtow to a wet-pants river-boy!”

“No,” Tegan said, “I meant to ask about this—come-uppance? What would that entail?”

Grasty squinted at her. He fell silent for a moment. He considered telling her of the Dead and their plans, but then thought the better of it. “Nothing you need concern your pretty little head with, missy,” he said at last. “What color is your hair, exactly? It’s all sort of—purply like.”