“You are right, and I apologize profusely for my rudeness,” continued Oberon. “I performed this unpardonable act in the interest of expediting our conversation. To follow proper procedure might have delayed our discussion by a year, perhaps longer.”

  Groth was pacing again. He strode more quickly than before, and a tiny cloud of dust followed his heavy, crunching tread. Oberon sensed behind him, more angry gnomes gathered. The corridors and hallways were filling with them. But still they made no move upon him, and he made no motion indicating he recognized their presence.

  “I will allow you your life in this instance,” said Groth, speaking with slow reluctance. “But you must exit my city and kneel at the entrance properly until I have finished my long-thought and come to you.”

  “Great king, why might I have come here like this today?”

  “You question me? You seek to pose Fae riddles in my royal chamber? You refuse to obey my commands in the very seat of gnome power? Have you so little regard for us?” The huge gnome, as he spoke his list of angry questions, stepped for the first time out of his worn rut in the granite floor. He took several heavy steps toward Oberon as he spoke. Each step accentuated one of his questions with the resounding clunk of stone striking stone.

  “I meant no insult.”

  “We have taken insult, regardless. The Shining Folk are no longer a great people. You are the same as the rest of the lesser races. You have no Jewel. You have no magic. You should not take liberties with us.”

  “Exactly. That is why I’m here. Both a great danger, a threat to the existence of your people and mine, has arisen. Simultaneously, an opportunity has arisen with this threat.”

  “Speak plainly, elf!”

  “Do you know that Pyros, the Orange Jewel of flame, has been gained by the Kindred who reside only a league or two above you?”

  Groth froze. Oberon knew he was thinking, and waited politely.

  “We know of the Amber Jewel in the insane hands of the River Folk, strange though it might be that such a people could wield one of the Nine. We know of a slain dragon, but did not realize...”

  “The dragon had a mate. That mate was the green wurm known as Fafnir. Brand of the River Folk slew the beast in the Earthlight, and the Kindred did regain the Orange Jewel from its belly.”

  “Fell news indeed. I understand your words of a great danger, and can understand a wish to warn us. But what of this opportunity?”

  Oberon shook his head. “I have not yet finished with the bad news. The truly grim news, the fact that I came to relay your people upon peril of my life is this: The Kindred have chosen a Queen. That queen is none other than Gudrin of the Talespinners, the same person who has taken up Pyros and even now attunes herself to its power.”

  Groth halted again. This time, the moment stretched longer than before.

  “They will march. They have met us in battle before, and neither has bested the other. But now they wield a Jewel and are led by a monarch. The Kindred will go mad.”

  “Perhaps they will boil upon the surface, as might ants when a spade is thrust into their nest and that nest is overturned.”

  Groth shook his head slowly. “No. They will turn their greedy hearts and picks deepward. This is their chance to annex the Everdark, to drive all contenders out of the region. The Orange Jewel. Flame magic. It is perfectly suited for warfare beneath the surface. They will melt my people to slag and drive us from our city. Their memories are nearly as long as ours. They have not forgotten who their true enemies are.”

  “Just so,” said Oberon. His eyes were alight now. He had placed the gnome king, as he had planned, at the point of shock and despair. “But I believe I have the spade which I spoke of. I believe I can aid you in your plight, and help my own people in the bargain.”

  And so he spoke of length of the rediscovery of the Red Jewel. He did not explain that his plans were balanced upon the miniscule skull of one Piskin of the Wee Folk. In his tale, the Red was well in hand and nearly attuned. Victory could be achieved, if only the proper allies could be mustered and called upon in need.

  “The River Folk and the Wee Folk will march with the Kindred,” said Groth.

  “As we must stand together against them,” came Oberon’s smooth response.

  For several long seconds, Groth’s obsidian eyes stared unblinking, expressionless. “The gnomes will muster. A thousand stone fists will rise as one. We will march when you demonstrate you have power over the Red.”

  “The Fae will muster,” responded Oberon with equal gravity. “A thousand bows will bend, each arrow tipped with squirming death. We will not wait for the Kindred to strike us. We will prepare now. What’s more, I offer to come to your aid, through our secret ways into your domain, should such a thing be needed.”

  Groth nodded. “We will do the same, coming to your aid in the Twilight Lands, should you but open the way for us.”

  Groth lifted his huge black fist. Around the wrist was a grayish line. Brand had severed that fist from his arm and Groth had reforged it in magma, but the king would carry the mark of Brand’s axe until the day he was ground down to bubbling dust.

  Oberon’s tiny fist lifted to meet Groth’s. The two touched.

  And so an alliance was formed in the dark, nameless city of the gnomes. An alliance of living stone and shining flesh. It would be the first such alliance among many.

  END Excerpt

  Be sure to read the rest of the Haven Series by B. V. Larson!

  HAVEN SERIES

  Amber Magic

  Sky Magic

  Shadow Magic

  Dragon Magic

  Blood Magic

  Visit BVLarson.com for more information.

 

 

  B. V. Larson, Dragon Magic (Haven Series #4)

 

 

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