Amber Magic

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Sam's head had been severed at the neck. The eyes were open and staring, the mouth sagged. The manling was standing atop the head, the dark fur that flipped and curled over his pointed shoes was Sam's hair.

Shock froze the two men. The manling watched them with keen interest. Brand felt disconnected from the real world at that moment. It couldn't be that Sam was dead, but his cousin's severed head was undeniable proof. He looked at the manling, and wondered what alien thoughts were in that tiny creature's mind. He seemed very curious at their response, as if he were studying them. Perhaps, for the manling, human grief was a mystery.

Corbin was the first to come to life. Without a word, he stepped forward and made a sweeping cut with his woodaxe at the manling. The manling, ready for such a response, bounded straight up into the air and did a complete spin as he came down, landing again on his gruesome perch. Corbin swung again, and this time the manling performed another impossible leap, bounding up into the hayloft overhead. Brand came to life as the manling flew over their heads and he snatched up a pitchfork. Grimly, not speaking, the two of them clambered up the shaky, steep steps to the loft. Corbin reached the top first and he made a soft sighing sound and fell to his knees. Brand rushed to him, wondering if he had been stricken. He followed his cousin's gaze and found himself staring at the rest of Sam. The headless body, looking oddly incomplete, lay at the edge of the loft. Clearly, the head had been lopped off and had tumbled out of the loft to fall on the haystack.

“Look, he took one with him!” said Brand grimly. He pointed to Sam's thick-fingered hands. In the grip of his dead hands was the dark, furred neck of what could only have been a rhinog. The rhinog was dead, its neck broken.

“Sam must have surprised it in the barn,” said Brand aloud.

They became aware of a scrabbling sound. The manling was trying to pry back a loose board and escape the barn. Corbin rose swiftly and advanced in a crouch. He held his axe at the ready. There was a low growling sound emanating from his throat.

The manling looked up in alarm. “I didn't do it!” he squeaked. “It was the goblins and their rhinog offspring! They follow the Dark Bard! He is in the bogs even now! We must flee him!”

Corbin continued his advance and the creature fled with great flying bounds, like those of a hare when a fox's teeth are right behind it. He darted beneath a pile of wooden crates. Corbin demolished them with heavy blows of the axe.

Shrieking, the Wee One bounded about, circling the loft. Corbin layed about with the axe in wild abandon. Brand made a calculated thrust with his pitchfork and managed to catch the creature's deerskin boot, pinning it to the rough wood of the loft.

Corbin roared in triumph. The manling shrieked in terror and struggled to free himself.

“Wait, Corbin!” shouted Brand. “Don't kill him! We need answers!”

For a moment Brand feared he had not gotten through to his cousin, who was now not like the boy he had grown up with. His wrath was something terrible to behold. Brand felt that he understood that uncontrollable fury. It was the same feeling that had gotten him through the previous night and allowed him to save Jak. He understood that Corbin was beyond reason, and may well kill the manling in his grief, even though he had not committed the crime.

The axe descended, and the manling cried in fear. The blade thunked into the old planks of the loft, making the timbers shudder. Corbin had spared the creature.

“Do not play with our grief, manling,” Corbin told the quivering creature. He jabbed a finger into the manling's side.

A dark look crossed the manling's sharp features, and Brand thought that he hungered to play a trick on them, perhaps thinking to singe Corbin's finger or turn the offending nail black and rotten. But he didn't dare.

“Now we shall have some quick answers,” said Brand, squatting and setting down the lantern.

“Ever it is with River Folk,” said the manling. “Always blaming the messenger for bad tidings.”

“Tell us your name,” demanded Brand.

The creature paused and looked as if he were about to fabricate a name. Brand moved the lantern very close to him, so that the heat of the fire inside could easily be felt. The manling shrank away in discomfort.

“I am Dando.”

“Where are the rhinogs that did this?” demanded Corbin.

“Outside, in the forest, in the bog, wherever their masters lead them.”

“They are led by goblins?”

“Of course. Rhinogs will only follow their sires.”

“How many of them are there?”

Dando shrugged his small shoulders. “Three goblins have brought their broods. They each have ten or so offspring with them.”

Brand frowned. “The goblins have so many human women to breed such numbers of rhinogs? Don't the rhinogs have families of their own?”

Dando looked at him as if he were a fool. “Rhinogs are mules, boy. As to the prolific qualities of goblins, they are legendary. It is not uncommon for a birthmother to gestate six spratling rhinogs at a time.”

“What a hellish life those poor wretches must lead,” said Brand.

“We must do something for Sam,” said Corbin.

Brand turned to him. “We will, cousin, but first we need to know what we face.” To Dando he said, “Since the people of the River Haven have long been off limits I suppose that most of the women have been taken from the wagons of the Wandering Folk.”

Dando nodded. Brand noted that now that the manling was forced to answer, he was speaking quite openly. He seemed to be enjoying the interrogation, as would the town gossip. What strange creatures were the Faerie.

“Why do they plague us, manling?” asked Brand.

“Ah, good question!” said Dando. His eyes shone with the reflected glow of the moon. His broad smile revealed many white teeth. “Why indeed? I'll tell thee this: they hunt for something lost, and care not one whit for thee nor any others of the River Folk.”

“Enough of this!” growled Corbin. “We must get back to the house.”

“Hold, cousin,” urged Brand. “So, what is their next move? If there are thirty or forty of them, why doesn't Voynod just lead them against us and burn us out now?”

Dando laughed, some of the swagger returning to his manner now that it was clear that they were not going to kill him out of hand. “That is not the way of the goblins. They are raiders by nature. They value their offspring and would rather isolate and kill thee one at a time without endangering themselves.”

“So we would be the next easy prey, as we are out here on our own,” said Brand. He glanced at Corbin, but his cousin was no longer listening. The shock of his brother's death had glazed over his eyes.

There came a sound from outside then. It was a splashing, slapping sound, such as large, flat feet would make in the bog. Then came a human cry, a high-pitched one, like that of a child or a young woman in trouble.

Corbin and Brand rose, taking up the lantern and the woodaxe again. Brand looked down at the manling, who was furiously tugging at his pinned foot.

“Before you go, Dando, tell us what we hear outside.”

“It's a goblin trick, fool man-child! Hast thou not heard their mocking voices before?” he hissed. “Now free me!”

Brand eased up the pitchfork, and Dando sprang free. He bounded to the edge of the loft, and then glanced back over his shoulder. “Remember, if thy fate is to survive the night, find Myrrdin!” he cried, then sprang out into space. Brand watched him sprint down the far side of the haystack and out the door.

He paused at the doorway and there was a blinding flash of blue light. Where the manling had stood a large barn owl now hopped into the air and took flight. On silent wings it vanished into the night.