Have 2 Sky Magic (Haven Series 2) (6 page)

“Is he injured?” asked Brand.

Tylag shook his head. “We don’t know.”

“We must go and consult with him,” said Gudrin. “We must leave before dark tonight.”

“I give my blessing to your journey. The River Haven would be better served by learning all there is to be learned from Myrrdin than by a few extra bowmen in the militia,” said Tylag. “May the River guide your boat.”

Brand had one more person to consult: Jak. He went to the wagon, where Jak had been stretched out in the shade. He was still far too injured to help them.

“Hello, Jak,” said Brand, feeling like a runaway, a deserter. Jak needed him to keep up Rabing Isle, now more than ever.

Jak’s eyes opened. “Hello, brother. I feel useless today, of all days.”

Brand knew no easy way, so he simply blurted out his words. “I’m leaving with the Battleaxe Folk to find Myrrdin.”

Jak nodded. “Go then. I only wish I were well enough to go with you.”

“But the Isle, Jak—what will you do?”  Brand asked.

“It doesn’t matter. You must try to heal the rift, to mend the Pact. There is no more worthy quest.”

Thus it was decided, and they worked the rest of the day to make their preparations. It seemed to Brand that all the world was soot and ashes and twists of blue smoke. He felt sad and guilty to be leaving his clansmen in such a time of dire need, but in his heart he knew he could better serve them on this mission. In the afternoon they set out on the road to Riverton. There were many hugs, handshakes and tears. Not an eye was dry, with the exception of Modi’s, who only appeared anxious to get moving.

Chapter Seven

Twrog’s Tree

After losing his club, Twrog was despondent. At the moment, it had seemed like a fine idea to throw it. He did not regret killing the farmer, nor the stinging arrows the River Folk had left in his hide—but he came to regret the loss of his lucky club.

As always when he felt poorly, his thoughts turned to a special, secret spot in the Deepwood only he knew about. This spot was open to the sky, yet surrounded by overgrown thickets of thorny plants. Not even deer liked to enter the region for fear of being pierced by the stabbing needles that every twisted vine seemed to produce. It was a private place for Twrog, a spot where he could gather his thoughts and think at his own pace. Barely thinking about it, he set out for the secret glade. He had not been there in many seasons.

As Twrog strode through the woods, he thought to hear the subtle sounds of pursuit. He glanced back over his shoulder. Something or someone followed him. Probably, the smell of pig’s blood had attracted a scavenger. He still carried three of the pigs he had stolen from the farmer’s pens. He increased his pace through the trees, no longer ambling, but now striding with purpose. His pursuer kept up with him.

Twrog was not frightened. Rather, he was cunning. He wanted to know the nature of the thing that dared shadow him. By speeding up and discovering the pursuit continued, he knew the other was at the very least persistent.

After night had fallen, Twrog found a spot strewn with stones and a fallen tree. He halted his march and decided to cook one of the pigs. The odor of seared pig often drove animals mad. With luck, if it was a bear or a dire wolf, the creature would attack and that would be the end of it.

He labored for minutes with flint and tinder, finally managing to spark a cookfire. This being a large pig, he required a spit of hardwood. He chopped loose a branch of beech with a knife the size of a short sword and whittled the point until it was as sharp as a lance. Poking the pig through end-to-end, he hung it over the fire and turned it now and then. He built the fire up higher, then went to gather wood from the region. Frequently, he flicked his eyes back to the sizzling pig. The smoke and fine smells filled the forest with aromatic clouds. The unguarded pig still remained upon its spit however, unmolested.

Twrog returned to his camp with an armload of wood and stoked the fire into a fine blaze. He nodded and muttered to himself. Whatever his stalker was—it was a patient creature. Most likely, it was not a beast. Few could have suffered this long in the presence of fresh meat without having revealed themselves.

After an hour or so of cooking, Twrog ripped loose a meaty haunch. Juices flowed from the rest of the beast into the fire. The fat made the flames sizzle, flare and pop. He opened his mouth, but paused, not placing the meat within. Instead, he turned his head this way and that, and held the haunch high overhead.

“I call to thee,” he said carefully, “I give thee leave to share my fire, whatever yea may be.”

Nothing happened. He set about eating the haunch noisily. He did not know if his invitation had been heard and understood, but he listened closely while not seeming to. At last, as he finished the first haunch and reached for the second, a stealthy rustling met his ears.

Twrog shifted his flapping ears toward the trees behind him. He glanced back to see what it was that approached. There was a faint glimmer. Could it be then one of the Fae? He knew a short moment of concern. If he had invited and elf or one of the shining Dead….

But no. The shine of it, reflecting the unseen moonlight that shone down upon the leaves overhead, proved it was one of the Fae. Seeing the rest of the creature made Twrog snort in amusement. It was no great lord that had stalked him. There was nothing to fear from this one. The creature that emerged was small, with cat-like features and smooth, green skin. It was a lone goblin.

Twrog shook his head bemusedly. He had never sat at camp with a goblin. Had he known…but he had not, and the invitation had been issued and accepted. There was nothing for it. By the rules of honor which almost all creatures in Cymru adhered to, he was bound to tolerate its presence.

The goblin slunk forward, ears twitching. It nosed the air and flicked its eyes everywhere, suspecting duplicity. Twrog continued eating and chuckled to himself. He could not believe his foolishness at having invited a goblin to dine with him.

“Name?” asked Twrog.

The goblin hesitated. No doubt, it considered a dozen lies. “Frakir,” it said at last. The eyes flickered uncomfortably.

“Twrog,” Twrog said.

When the other came at last to rest on the opposite side of the fire, the giant handed a foreleg to his guest.

“Here,” Twrog said. When Frakir did not reach for it quickly enough, Twrog grunted and shook it at him. Hot grease splattered his hand and the goblin’s face. Finally, the frightened, scowling goblin took the meat and sniffed it suspiciously as if he believed it might be laden with poison.

Twrog snorted again. “Meat good! Not even have salt on it, fool goblin!”

“I have your word it is good?” asked Frakir in a sibilant voice.

“You speak to Twrog? Good. Boring guest is one that can’t make speech with me.”

The goblin’s eyes narrowed. “The meat is good?” he asked again.

“Yeah, yeah!” roared Twrog in sudden irritation. “No more ask that! I will eat it myself, if you don’t do!”

Frakir’s ears folded down, but he took the offered foreleg in both hands and ripped into it with the sharp, rippled teeth of his kind. They were teeth clearly made to eat meat and nothing else.

For a time, the two beings ate hot pig meat. Finally, however, after the second haunch, Twrog threw the bone down into the fire. Sparks loomed, coals and ash blew up as if thrown. The goblin hopped to its feet and crouched warily.

“Not the same!” shouted the giant.

Frakir cocked his head wonderingly.

Twrog pointed to the half-eaten carcass that was now white with showers of ash. “Taste! Not the same taste! Is not fair. The River Folk tricked Twrog.”

The goblin’s tongue snaked out and whipped back into his mouth. He eyed the rest of the pig.

Twrog made a wild, sweeping gesture with both hands. “Eat more! Is garbage!” he roared. Then he stood up and walked away. Internally, he raged. The taste was good, but it was
not
the taste of a ham hock. Somehow, the humans had misled him. They were tricky, and they hid their best meats. They kept them from Twrog. He would make them pay for their cruel deceptions.

The giant left the goblin, the pig and the fire behind and made his way into the forest. He was tired, it was late, and he really should find a spot to sleep. But he did not. He wanted to see the tree in the glade more than ever. He had gotten his lucky club there. It had grown upon the hugest oak he’d ever found. There, in the center of that strange glade, the lone tree was a huge oak and the club had been ripped free by Twrog after an hour’s work, sweating and heaving to pry it loose.

The journey took nearly until dawn. He was tired and grumpy by the time he reached the spot, but also exultant. He knew the spot well, and always when he came here it filled him with memories of his youth. He’d played here by himself among these same silent trees two centuries ago. In particular, he’d played upon the great oak.

At last he found it. The thicket surrounding it was, if anything, more profuse and tangled than he remembered. He circled around twice before finding the secret entrance: a tunnel in the greenery which allowed entry without a thousand spiny stings. He slipped through and after suffering no more than a dozen pokes and scratches, he reached the center of the glade.

Inside the ring of thickets was an open area where a great tree grew. A massive oak tree loomed high overhead, the dark, dead branches clawing at the sky. So large was the oak that it dwarfed even Twrog. The tree itself had been broken, the top half having long ago been torn away. Like a broken black tower, the trunk stood alone in the glade. The giant rested his back comfortably against the trunk and settled amongst the black, snake-like roots.

His earliest memories were of this place. He had been born here, as far as he could determine. For the giant, this secret retreat was home.

He dozed until dawn, when one eye snapped awake. His ears twitched. Could it be? Did he hear a rustling nearby? He turned his head a fraction and stared into the thickets. A stealthy shape moved there. It was hard to tell one goblin from the next, but Twrog felt sure it was Frakir. Each step he took was performed with exaggerated care. Like a tiny, stalking predator, the goblin circled the glade at the edge of the thicket.

Twrog let his head roll back. He appeared to be dozing, or uncaring. Every minute or so, he let an eye open to a slit to check on the goblin’s progress.

When the goblin had made a half-circuit around the glade, and was thus was as far from the entrance as it was possible to be, Twrog jumped up and trotted to block the only exit. He looked back around, eyes wide, lips flaring.

But the glade was empty. Could the creature have escaped him? He peered in the growing sunlight.

“Come forth, Frakir,” he boomed.

Nothing occurred for a full minute. A second minute passed, and then Twrog thought to see movement. There, behind the trunk of the huge oak. A single ear and a single matching slitted eye peeped around to look at him.

“Come out,” the giant said.

“I call upon your honor,” said the goblin. “I am your guest.”

Twrog snorted. “You a spy!”

“You have offered me sanctuary.”

“Fire and pig. Nothing more.”

“Do not dishonor yourself in this fashion, Twrog,” the goblin said. It tsked and tutted. “I grieve for your kind. I hope none of them ever learn of this travesty.”

Twrog’s eyes drew to slits. He did not know what a travesty was, but he was sure he didn’t like the goblin’s tone. “No my dishonor. You dishonor.”

Frakir revealed his full head now, but kept his body behind the tree trunk. “How so? You offered me friendship, Twrog. You brought me here to this strange spot. How can I be blamed for—”

“QUIET!” roared Twrog. Such was the power and volume of his shout that a nearby flock of ravens took flight, squawking their way up into the sky. “Twrog called to fire. Not here. This my place.”

Frakir had retreated fully behind the oak when the giant boomed. His voice came from the other side of the tree as he spoke now: “I apologize, dear Twrog. I was wrong to come here. I misunderstood the nature of your invitation. I hope you will accept my apologies.”

Twrog nodded slowly after thinking it over. “Yes,” he said. He stepped away from the exit.

Frakir peeped out again. Seeing Twrog no longer blocked his way, he came out from behind the tree and stepped forward. He walked confidently toward the hole in the vines where the thorns were thinnest. Twrog watched him and waited.

When the goblin came near and tried to pass by, putting up his hand in an easy salute, Twrog’s big hand flashed out with surprising speed. Frakir was caught and squawked in surprise.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

“It means you die,” said Twrog calmly.

“Old Hob will hear of this! You will be named a goblin enemy for all time!”

“No,” said Twrog, shaking his great head. “You came to spy on Twrog. Old Hob must never hear of this place. That is why you die.”

Twrog felt Frakir’s stringy body struggle and writhe in his hand. The creature bit him. Bright blood flowed as those triangular sharks’ teeth made a rippled pattern in the giant’s leathery palm.