The afternoon passed swiftly. Twilight came all too soon for Brand's taste. Each day grew shorter with the approach of winter, he knew, but tonight darkness seemed to fall with great suddenness, as if a cloak had been cast over the eyes of the land. Tylag and Suzenna had long since gone to Drake Manor for the council meeting, taking Corbin's brother Barlo with them. Sam was out using his thick arms to split wood and dragging his lame foot about as the tended the livestock, while Corbin and Brand played Jiggers and Swap-Cards in the parlor. All three of them were content, however, as Sam liked nothing more than to work his body, while the younger boys liked nothing more than competing with their minds. Upstairs, Gudrin and Telyn tended Jak in the spare bedroom, while Modi haunted the upstairs hallway. By the groaning of the floorboards overhead, it was easy for Brand to track his pacing.
“Modi seems anxious to be away,” said Corbin in a low voice. “I wonder how much they know about what will happen here in the River Haven.”
“I don't know,” sighed Brand. He was in a reflective mood. All around him were sights and sounds that were among his favorite in the world. He had played in this parlor as a child. He and Corbin had often bounced themselves upon the couches until they were discovered by Aunt Suzenna and chased from the house. Along the walls was a shelf containing a row of perhaps thirty books, each of which that he had read at least twice. A painting of his mother and father, one of only three that still existed, hung from the wall behind Corbin's head. He felt his eye drawn to his mother's image. Tall and sleek she was, with flaxen hair and a mouth that ever curved into a smile. Jak more resembled her, while he more resembled his father. Holding to the tiller of their boat in the painting, his father was dark-haired with a heavy mustache. His eyes were stern and he smiled little.
“Do you really want to play?” asked Corbin softly.
Brand dealt the cards without interest. “Perhaps we should post a lookout,” he suggested. “The night is black and the moon has yet to rise.”
Corbin shrugged. “Tylag locked the door and Sam is out in the barn. Surely, he will serve as a good lookout until he gets back.”
Brand agreed, and played out his hand. When he had lost three hands in a row he conceded the night to Corbin. Thinking of Modi and his lessons today with the woodaxe, he went to the woodshed that adjoined the kitchen and fetched one. Returning to the parlor, he sat with a cloth and whetstone and worked the edge of the blade.
“Don't let my mother catch you with that in her parlor,” was all Corbin said as he packed away the cards, the betting beads and the jigger-sticks.
“I just wanted to work out the nicks that we put into the blade this morning-” Brand broke off when they heard a shout from outside.
“That's Sam,” said Corbin.
“Sounds like he's in trouble, let's go.”
The two of them ran outside, Brand still carrying the woodaxe. The big doors were hanging open, and the sheep were crying in their pens nearby. The barn was dark; there was no outward sign of Sam or his lantern. After the one, brief shout, they heard nothing more from Sam. Corbin stood in the entrance and called for his brother.
“I'll light a lantern,” said Brand. He handed the woodaxe to Corbin and took down a lantern from its peg.
Corbin walked away into the darkness, shouting for Sam. Brand burnt his fingers getting the lantern to sputter into life. Sucking on them, he stepped after Corbin in the lantern's flickering circle of yellow light.
“Get out of here!” shouted Corbin suddenly, swinging the axe with great force. An old wooden stool exploded beneath the blow. Brand saw something bound away and clamber up the haystack. He got a better look at the thing when it crested the mountain of hay and stood at its peak, looking down at them. Brand marveled at the lightness of the creature. It did not sink into the hay at all.
There could be no doubt that it was one of the Wee Folk. The manling was male and stood about two feet tall. He had a thin face with sharp features: the nose was like a blade and the chin tapered to a point. The overlarge mouth was stretched into a perpetual grin. Brand examined the tiny clothing in wonder. Tight-fitting hose covered thin legs and the feet wore pointed boots. The boots and his russet-brown waistcoat seemed to be made of doeskin. All the clothing seemed woven with impossibly fine workmanship, each stitch smaller than any human tailor could produce. The manling leered at them and rested his overlarge hands on his bent knees.
“Where's my brother!” shouted Corbin, threatening the creature with the axe.
“He's in several places!” said the manling in his piping voice. This reply seemed to greatly amuse him. He wrapped his thin long arms about himself and shook with laughter.
Corbin moved to swing at the manling, but Brand reached out to stop him.
“At least he's talking to us,” Brand told his cousin. He turned back to the manling. “I've spoken with your lord, Oberon. He has helped me, so you must do the same.”
At this the manling's eyes narrowed. His eyeballs were glass-like beads the color of flint. His grin took on the aspect of an evil leer. “Oberon has been deposed, so his words have no weight.”
“You serve a new lord then?”
The manling shook his head. “The new lord is even less to my liking.”
“Are you still loyal to Oberon then?”
The manling looked about the barn, as if seeing things invisible to the two men. Which perhaps he did, reflected Brand.
He appeared to come to a decision. He bent forward conspiratorially. “I speak for Oberon. He would bid thee to run from this place, man-child.”
“Why? Where should I go?” asked Brand, stepping forward and lifting his lantern higher.
The manling squinted into the yellow light. “Join the Kindred, help them find Myrrdin and learn what must be done. The Wanderer will explain matters.”
Brand nodded. “Thanks for the advice. Can I call the Wee Folk friends?”
The manling's face grew sorrowful then, he shook his tiny head and tsked at them. “Ever it is so with thy folk,” he sighed. His face grew long and mournful. A hint of his true age showed in his cheeks then, which grew new wrinkles, and his bright, black eyes, which dimmed. “Ever thou wouldst mistake the slightest aid for friendship. True friendship is something which must be earned and which is never given. So big thy kind growns, yet thou hast the minds of children.”
Still making tsking sounds, he bent down and began brushing away the straw at his feet. Brand watched in confusion as he cleared away the yellow straw from what appeared to be a patch of dark fur. The manling glanced at them, and tsked further at their incomprehension. With a sudden sweeping movement and a puff of breath blown through his thin fingers he revealed what was hidden in the haystack.
It was Sam's head.
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.