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.”

  “The shade is usually called magenta here. In the Twilight Lands, the elves refer to it as flame-headed.”

  “Ah,” Grasty said, feeling an odd sensation sweep over him. He found it bothersome. He’d rarely had much interaction with females for the last century or so. A man forgot how to go about these things. He did remember one critical element, however. Women liked pretty gifts. He fished an emerald out of his belt-pouch and flipped it onto the table between them. It was rough-cut of course, but still caught the light and Tegan’s eye nicely enough.

  “What’s this?” Tegan asked, acting surprised for the first time since he’d met her.

  “Payment, for your fine company.”

  “Oh, I can’t—” she began.

  “No, never you mind now! You said you were having a tough time of it.”

  “Well,” she said, and she took the gemstone from the table. “This would go far in feeding my Ivor.”

  “Feeding who?”

  “My son.”

  “Oh yes,” Grasty said. “Where is the lad?”

  “He’s sleeping—downstairs.”

  Grasty’s single eye rolled around the one room hut. He didn’t see any stairs. Could she mean she kept the child in a root cellar below this hovel? What kind of a place would a cellar be in a marshland like this? The floor must be soup. But he didn’t say anything about that, as he knew well enough not to spoil a good thing. He tried to come up with something pleasant to say.

  “So, does your boy like it here?”

  “Definitely,” she said. “He loves the trees and the wild lands. You know how young boys like to roam. And the climate here—I think it’s good for his skin.”

  Grasty tried not to stare. He cleared his throat. “I see,” he said. He sat with her in an uncomfortable silence for a moment or two. He did not quite know how to proceed. Finally, he lost patience with himself and decided just to bull his way through.

  “See here, now,” he began, coughing and clearing his throat again. “I can see you are having a hard time out here, and I’m a man of some means. Perhaps we can come to some kind of—arrangement.”

  Tegan looked at him and tilted her head to one side again. By the gods, he liked when she did that! For a moment however, he thought she was going to burst out laughing at him. Imagine, a lout like him having the gall to suggest she would subject herself to his leather-handed gropings. His brow knit together and his lips quivered, wanting to show his teeth. He hated being spurned by women. He’d given them up for decades because of moments like this. They’d always gone badly for him.

  But Tegan didn’t laugh. “Grasty, I think that’s a wonderful idea,” she said. “We can come to an arrangement. I could use a man like you. So thick of arm and barrel-chested. You’ll do perfectly.”

  Grasty grinned so widely the snaggled teeth he rarely revealed were displayed prominently. He figured he would bed her, here and now. Afterward, if she pleased him enough, he’d leave her an extra emerald. Otherwise, if she curled her lips in disgust at his ministrations, he would slap her mouth bloody and take back the gem he’d given her.

  He stood up and reached for her without further preamble. She hopped to her feet and danced away.

  “One thing,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I really think you should meet my son first.”

  “Well, call him up here then!”

  “Maybe we could go down and see if he’s asleep still. We’ve made quite a bit of noise. If you could at least see him as he sleeps, I’d be satisfied.”

  Grasty narrowed his good eye and rubbed his nose. “All right, all right. Let’s be about it, then.”

  The two of them walked out of the cottage and around to the back of it, where a hole opened in the ground. It indeed appeared to lead under the hut. Grasty leaned forward, sniffing. It smelled a bit foul down there, but it was probably just the swampy earth.

  Sighing heavily, he lifted a lantern high as he walked down steps cut into the dirt. They weren’t even stone, just rough planks laid upon bare earth. Once down the steps, he looked around and saw nothing. The floor, as he had suspicioned, was packed with squelching mud. He decided the boy had run off or something. He figured he would tell her he was the best-looking child in Cymru and sound asleep. He’d bed her before she was the wiser.

  He turned to mount the steps again, when he sensed movement. He turned back, frowning.

  “I’ve got a special visitor for you, Ivor!” Tegan called down from above. “Be careful with him, the Kindred have a lot of meat, but it sticks to the bone.”

  Grasty whirled, his one eye wide. An ogre loomed over him, dripping with mud and foulness. It was a baby, just as Tegan had said, but still must have weighed a ton or more. The monster was man-shaped, but broader than any man ever born. The skin was green and lightly stippled with carbuncles. A dozen gray teeth showed in its circular maw.

  Grasty realized in shock he’d played the fool. Every Kindred child was told that elves and humans, when mixed willingly, produced offspring that were sometimes unsavory. The elf girl’s beauty and the child’s young age had caused him to overlook the possibility. Her lovely elfin form seemed incapable of producing anything unpleasant. He’d forgotten the teachings of his distant youth. And he’d forgotten how quickly ogres grew to a dangerous size.

  Deciding he could never outrun the beast to the stairs, Grasty faced matters squarely. “I’m your new step-daddy, Ivor,” he shouted, “and it’s high time for your first thrashing!”

  The fight went on for several minutes, and Grasty left scars upon the ogre’s young hide that would never fully heal. Eventually, however, he could no longer continue the struggle. Coughing and heaving, he was still conscious as the ogre began to chew. He raved at the bitch of an elf who stood at the top of the stairs. He felt every tooth as the beast devoured him, one limb at a time.

  “You’ll all join me soon enough!” he raved as he died. “You, elf-bitch, and your monster! The Dead will walk everywhere, and they’ll find you, even out in this mud pit!”

  Blood-laced slime flew all around the root cellar, splashing the walls with foulness. None of the Kindred die easily, and old Grasty was tougher than most, but soon he had no more blood in his veins to give.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A Challenge to the Dead

  For two days they’d traveled upon the stair. Now, instead of growing cooler with every step they took downward, the air grew warmer. The water that had been dripping from them dried, then was replaced by sweat. Soon, the sweat evaporated and their faces became a feverish red. At last, they reached the final landing.

  “I could have run down here in a few hours, if I hadn’t been burdened by your lumbering feet,” Puck complained.

  Brand shot him a look of irritation. “Nothing was stopping you, elf. You could have trotted ahead with your skinny blade and skinny shanks at any time.”

  “We’re finally here,” Telyn said. “Let’s save whatever fight we have left for the enemy.”

  Brand grunted and turned his gaze upward. The abyss above was at least as daunting as it had been when he’d look down into it. He no longer had to fear falling, but now he realized with fresh unease that it would take an inhuman toll to climb those endless steps back to the surface.

  He took a deep breath, turned and faced the rocky floor of the great trench. Open veins of wealth lay here, gold dust littered the floor and gems encrusted nodules thrust up from the substratum. He didn’t give any of it a second glance. Material wealth this far down was hardly worth the trouble of hauling back to the surface.

  His eyes soon picked out the darkest spot along the rocky walls. An area of stygian darkness that stood out even here. He pointed toward it with the head of his axe. “That must be it.”

  The others looked on without enthusiasm. “Perhaps we should rest before—” began Puck.

  “Ha!” shouted Brand. “After all that about my delays and slow-moving legs? Now you wish to dither in the very face of our goal?”

  Brand sneered at Puck. He knew, in some small part of his brain, that using the axe for so long without blooding it was affecting his mind. But he just couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d had enough of Puck and his foppish ways. Worse, when he looked at the elf, he had a hard time not seeing him as he must have been when he danced and cavorted in his failed attempts to seduce Telyn.

  Puck shrugged. He drew his light length of fine steel. He flexed it in the air, cutting experimentally. “I’m ready,” he said.

  Brand turned and stalked toward the blackest spot along the walls. It was a crack, really. An opening that must lead somewhere. Brand entered without a care and his brashness nearly cost him his life.