Arawn eyed him with more affection. “Big, strong, and hard-working. Not one of those yappy, half-aware dead-things, either. You’re a dumb beast, but a faithful one.”

  Morcant didn’t even look up. He hadn’t been told to.

  “Morcant, there is going to be a slight change of plan. The first wave did well, parts of Riverton are already alight. But I want you to hold back the next wave. Don’t release the next herd until dawn. At that point, I want you to send them all at once. I’ll coordinate with the other shepherds. We’ll overrun the Living here, at their stronghold.”

  Morcant never looked up. He still hadn’t been told to.

  “Yes,” Arawn laughed. “That’s right, keep digging. There’s a good, stout soldier!”

  The King watched him, but after a short time he became displeased. “You can’t possibly open all these graves by sun-up. Hmm.”

  Morcant was aware, even though he did not turn his head, of a new sensation of power. This power drew his attention, however. With slow fascination he finally stopped digging and looked up.

  The King of the Dead stood with his silver rod in the midst of the graveyard. He held the Black Jewel overhead and from it darkness emanated. It was similar to light, in that it affected the vision of all who saw it, but it was an unlight. Rather than emitting radiance, it devoured it.

  The Dead that milled about on the graveyard grasses shuffled forward, hearing their King’s call. They stood raptly, and then moved off toward the caretaker’s shack. There, they grabbed up every tool old Daz had collected over his long years. Some were broken, some were rakes or scythes. Once they had an implement in hand, they shuffled to find an undisturbed grave and began to dig. There weren’t enough tools to go around, and those of the Dead who had nothing but empty hands formed claws with their finger bones and tore into the earth on their knees alongside the rest. A score of graves grew dark as soil flew.

  King Arawn turned back to Morcant. “There you are!” he said. “You’ll have your army soon enough now, my shepherd.”

  The Black Jewel was lowered and stopped influencing the Dead it mastered, like a full moon setting over the sea.

  Morcant took up his spade again and began to dig.

  * * *

  Brand was fuming in the cool night air. He couldn’t believe it. The Kindred workmen had abandoned their tasks days ago and taken their wagon-train homeward toward the Black Mountains.

  “Cowards!” he shouted.

  The surviving River Folk in the encampment cast fearful glances toward him and wore haunted faces. They’d already been under assault by the Dead. They yearned to do nothing other than leave themselves.

  Brand and the rest stood in his headquarters tent, the very spot he’d left just days ago to go on a fool’s errand. Right here, Grasty had pretended not to want to go. Brand had to wonder just how long the foreman had been in the employ of the enemy. He soon had another thought: what if all the Kindred were allies of the Dead? What if they’d bought their skins with promises of treachery? What if they planned foul deeds in the night against the River Folk whose gold they’d taken?

  He read Gudrin’s note aloud with gritted teeth:

  To Brand, Lord of Castle Rabing and Champion of the Haven:

  I write to you as the monarch of the Kindred. We are of a single mind, and all that is written here is thus written from the hearts of all the Kindred. Firstly, we apologize to the River Folk. We will not be there in the coming dark times to stand at your side. I have decreed that all Kindred withdraw, including those who serve you as workers, Brand. We regret this, but we must follow the wisdom of our ancestors and retreat into our mountains. When the Storm of Dead passes, we will return and help you rebuild.

  There is a sickness in my lands, which you may or may not encounter in yours. The Dead that rise not from clean corpses, but from things such as the abominations created by Oberon’s Blood Magic during the war, are foul indeed. Hopefully, you will not encounter such terrors.

  Know that the Storm will pass, as it always does. Some of the Living will survive to begin again. Our folk are not like yours, we procreate far more slowly. Take heart! Your losses will be great, but in a century or so the River Folk will be as numerous as you are now!

  Your friend and ally,

  -Gudrin

  P.S. Look for the Dead Shepherds. Without them, the Dead will not know their purpose.

  The axe quivered in Brand’s hand as he finished reading the letter. He raised it suddenly and brought it down with a resounding crack and flash. To the others, it was as if a lightning bolt had struck inside the tent. The heavy oak table split and the axehead stuck in the massive block of wood. Brand cursed and tugged at it.

  Telyn put a hand on his elbow. “Brand, perhaps you’d best leave it there for a moment. None can pull it from the table save for you. It is safe there.”

  Brand stopped and looked at her. His mouth hung open and his eyes were wide and blazing. Slowly, he nodded. He pried his fingers from the haft and staggered, free of its influence.

  Corbin pressed a chair at the back of his legs and Brand sank gratefully into it.

  “I need a drink,” Brand croaked. They brought him both ale and tea, not knowing which he wanted. But by the time they pressed the mugs into his fingers, he had already fallen into a deep slumber.

  * * *

  Brand awakened with a start. He thought he might have met the Dead again in his dreams…no, he could not remember. Like dewdrops under a blazing sun, the memory of his dreams faded away. He looked first for the axe and saw it, still thrusting up from the center of the table where he’d buried the head. Others lay about the place here and there, sleeping.

  He stood up and grabbed the mugs of tea and ale they’d brought him over an hour ago. He drained both, gulping, then went outside to relieve himself. He heard sweet music outside, and went to find the source. He found Puck, gently piping alongside the stream.

  “Don’t think you’ll pipe your way into my head, elf,” he said.

  “Where is your axe, axeman?”

  “Buried in the table. I will have to take it up and draw upon its power to free it. Once I do so, I’m liable to perform…rashly.”

  Puck chuckled. He nodded. “Best to make your plans before you grasp that haft again.”

  “Exactly. What are you doing out here if not coaxing maidens?”

  “I’m soothing another creature.”

  “What creature?” Brand asked curiously. He gazed this way and that, but saw nothing other than the stream, the thick reeds and a grove of willow trees.

  “Shhh!” whispered Puck. “Take care not to wake him. He is my nephew.”

  Brand still saw nothing. “Your nephew? Is Kaavi then….”

  “No,” Puck said, “it is not her child. Let me introduce you.”

  Puck made a flourish with his hands and long fingers. He pointed toward the willows, where a small glimmering figure now walked toward them. Brand turned his head to gaze at her. She was indeed an elf maid. A small one. He thought perhaps he had seen her before…then he knew.

  “Tegan?” he asked. “I’d thought you’d left the Haven.”

  “I was expelled, axeman,” she said.

  “By whom?”

  “Thilfox Drake.”

  “Thilfox? He is a just man. What was your crime?”

  “I had a child that was not to his liking.”

  “What kind of a crime is that—” Brand began, then he halted as understanding dawned. “Oh, you bore a—a monster?”

  “So rude,” Tegan said, looking annoyed. “I’d not thought you of all your folk would be—”

  “I’m sorry,” Brand said.

  Tegan flipped her head and her locks flew. “I’d thank you to keep a civil tongue.”

  “His bigotry is normal for his kind,” Puck said.

  Brand glanced at him in irritation. “I will do better,” he said.

  “My boy is—different,” Tegan said.

  “What can I do to help you?” Brand asked, hoping she would not request him to speak on her behalf. He trusted Thilfox Drake’s judgment more than most men. If he had cast out Tegan’s child, he’d done so with good reason.

  “I came to help you, not to ask for help,” Tegan said. She then told him of Grasty, and how he had come to her and told her the River Folk were to be attacked.

  “Thanks for the warning,” Brand said. “But I think we all know now the nature of the threat.”

  “But it is more than that,” she said. “Grasty said Riverton would fall.”

  Brand took three steps forward. He stared at her. “Riverton?”

  “Yes,” Puck said. “You didn’t think the Dead would walk only here, did you?”

  Brand’s eyes swept to the south. It would take days of marching and boating to get there. “We must leave at dawn,” he said. “I must get back to the Haven, to protect Riverton.”

  “We can go back directly at dawn,” Puck said, as if he had anticipated Brand’s thoughts. “I can guide you there if we walk the mound again.”

  “We’ll have a lot of Dead to remove from the landscape first. We’d best be about it. Do you think your father will lend us a hand, Puck?”

  “There is not much time to go ask him,” Puck said doubtfully. “I’ve got family in Riverton too, remember. I will go back for them even if you don’t.”

  “I see.”

  “I can offer some small help,” Tegan said.

  Brand turned back to Tegan. He looked at her, and did not consider her much of a fighter. Telyn must have outweighed her by half. “I am grateful for the warning you gave us, Tegan,” he said. “Especially in light of how you’ve been treated. What became of Grasty, by the way? I would like to have words with him.”

  Tegan laughed. “You are too late for that, I’m afraid. My Ivor has already had words with him.”

  Brand blinked. “How old is your son?”

  “Four years now. My, how time flies!”

  “And he bested Grasty?”

  “Maybe it’s time you met my son, Brand,” Tegan said. “He might be of use to you in the coming dark days.”

  “He’s as dangerous as that?”

  “Only when he’s hungry. He’s been well-fed lately, and shouldn’t be a problem. I must caution you, however: Don’t raise your voice to me or move suddenly in my direction!”

  Brand hesitated, staring at her, but he finally followed her toward the willows. Puck walked behind them, playing lightly on his pipes.

  Beneath the gently swaying willows Brand met his first ogre. He tried not to gag at the stench when he came near it. He was particularly glad he did not have his axe upon his back in that first moment of disgust. He might not have been able to control himself.

  “Ivor,” Tegan said, reaching high to rub the monster beneath his chin. “This is Brand. He’s a lord here. He is our friend. He and his men are not food.”

  Ivor stared at Brand with black, triangular eyes. Brand thought he detected an expression of vague disappointment in the slack face. Perhaps the young ogre was becoming hungry again.

  “Now,” Tegan said gently. “I want you to wave to Brand.”

  Ivor lifted both hands and worked his fingers in the air. Brand felt himself soften, the gesture reminded him of a normal toddler.

  “Can you speak, Ivor?” Brand asked.

  The mouth worked. The lips fluttered and spittle ran down in strings. “E-vor,” the ogre said at last.

  Brand nodded and managed a smile. “That’s very good,” he said.

  “He’s very young,” Tegan said. “You see, ogres mature physically much more quickly than they do mentally.”

  “I see,” Brand said, and he thought about the ogre’s size. He realized that a creature such as this, with some weaponry, could be a formidable ally indeed. “Do you mind if I arm him? Or is he too young to fight?”

  Tegan looked worried. She shook her head. “I hate the idea of putting my baby into battle, but it is his calling. Will good service buy good will?”

  Brand thought about it. “Anyone who marches with me will be taken into these walls and have a home. As long as you are civil enough to live with, you can both stay here. We have a wooded corner…and a large wetland to the west.”

  “Put the freak off in a corner, is that it?” Tegan snapped.

  “I’m sorry—” Brand said.

  “Never mind,” Tegan interrupted, putting up a hand to stop his apologies. “It is I who have to accept certain realities. He’d probably like it better in an isolated area anyway, and it would be safer for everyone.”

  Brand walked back to camp with Puck. They awakened the men of the camp, and told them they were marching back to Riverton at dawn.

  Brand found Corbin in the underground armory once cared for by the redcap of the castle. Corbin watched as Brand picked out a heavy maul with a ten-pound head and a massive shield of oak and iron.

  “Have you grown an extra arm, cousin?” Corbin asked.

  Brand frowned. “What?”

  “The axe…plus a maul and shield?”

  “Oh no, that’s not it. This is for a new—recruit,” Brand said, grinning at him.

  “I don’t like the expression you’re wearing.”

  “Just wait until you meet the recruit! Get all the men out of bed, Corbin. We’re marching to Cairn Browyyd now.”

  Corbin looked startled. “The Faerie mound? But…that’s where all the Dead are.”

  “Exactly. It’s also the fastest way to get to Riverton, with Puck’s guidance.”

  “You trust him?”

  “Well enough. His wife and child are in Riverton, remember.”

  Corbin nodded. “I understand your thinking. I’ll have fifty men ready to march in half an hour.”

  “Fifty? I left at least a hundred blue cloaks here.”

  “There were losses when the Dead surprised us. And others deserted into the marshes in terror. They’ve been trickling back.”

  Brand looked stern. “Deserters? How many did you hang?”

  “None sir,” Corbin said. “I found it hard to fault a man chased by snapping skulls. They hit us in the night and it was a grim scene before we managed to get that portcullis down.”

  Brand nodded, thinking Corbin had perhaps been too lenient. Men would always run when facing a foe so horrific as the Dead. He hoped privately that these men would stand when the time came. Perhaps their experiences had hardened their wills.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Cellar

  Puck, Kaavi, Tegan and Corbin walked behind Brand. The axeman himself walked behind another: an ogre named Ivor. The beast had taken up the heavy shield and maul as if they were toys. Truly, they were not big enough for him, but these weapons would have to do. Brand had given the drooling monster a brief lesson in arms, showing him how to block with a shield and strike overhead with the maul. For groups of smaller foes, Brand suggested sweeping blows done with a side-to-side motion to strike many at once. These three moves, blocking, striking and sweeping were all he dared to teach the ogre. It had the mind of a slow child and nothing more could be expected of it.

  Behind Brand and his group came Corbin’s militia. There were less than fifty of them, but many were veterans of the war with the elves and had fought on the shoulders of Snowdon. They were grim-faced, but stolid. They marched with their blue cloaks fluttering behind them. Each man carried a round shield, a spear and a short sword on his belt. They wore fine chainmail shirts from the armory beneath Castle Rabing. The moonlight played over the heads of their weapons and reflected from their chain shirts. Brand felt proud to lead them.

  They soon reached the walls around the Fae gate. If they had had more time, Brand would have ordered the men to arm themselves with bows and man the walls. They could have peppered the raging Dead outside with flaming arrows and stones, thus breaking their bodies safely. But he did not have time for such niceties.

  Outside the walls, the Dead sensed the growing presence of massed Life. They moved with frustrated hunger, clawing futilely at the stone bricks and searching some way past the wall. A dozen shook the portcullis, but they had no guidance and did not seek to lift it up. Brand reflected, looking upon their vast numbers, that he was fortunate they did not have a greater intellect to guide them.

  He ordered six men to each side of the portcullis. They would haul upon the ropes, which had been cut free of the counterweights by panicked guards when the Dead had first attacked. The iron cage-like bars of the portcullis were very heavy, but he felt certain two squads of men could lift it.

  “Now, when we raise the bars, they will rush in. I want you to count fifty of the Dead, Corbin, then have your men drop the portcullis again. We will overwhelm them and cut them all down.

  Corbin nodded. “I would rather bring up oil and fire to spill over the ramparts.”

  “Of course, Captain,” Brand said, “but we simply don’t have the time to drag them out here and set them up.”

  “Agreed,” said Corbin. He signaled to his men, who grunted and roared as they drew back upon the ropes.

  Brand lifted the axe high and caused it to ripple with light. The men around him were cheered. Ivor turned slowly to gaze into the shining Eye of Ambros the Golden. Brand watched, curious to see how he would react. The response was quick and encouraging. Ivor lit up with a child-like grin. He lifted his maul and shield, and gave a strange, croaking cry.

  As soon as the portcullis was a foot from the ground the Dead got to their bellies and crawled under.

  “Ivor!” Brand cried, pointing toward the scrambling Dead. “Break them!”

  Ivor rushed forward excitedly and dropped his hammer and shield. He began stomping on heads. Brand cursed and stepped up behind the monster. He wanted to get his attention, but he wasn’t certain it was a wise thing to do.

  “Let him go, Brand!” cried Tegan behind him.

  Brand felt the urging of the axe. The ogre has gone mad, it must be put down! Strike from behind, and quickly, it said, speaking into his mind.

  Brand struggled, but contained himself. “Corbin, lower the portcullis!”