Free Dark Magic by B. V. Larson Page A

of the Kindred. But this thing, whatever it was, had spoken at the wrong moment. He meant to confront it.
    Brand stepped around the ring at a confident, determined pace. The other didn’t retreat at his approach. He narrowed his eyes and peered down at it. In return, the thing regarded him.
    The creature was vaguely man-shaped, but seemed to be constructed not of flesh, but rather of earth and stone. Brand knew what it was, or what its ilk were called. It was a coblynau , sometimes called a gnome. A creature that normally haunted mines and quarries and knocked upon the stone walls until it drove miners mad. There must be a source of stone nearby for such a creature to roam the surface, he thought.
    “They make very large fools wherever you come from,” chuckled the gnome.
    “I am Brand from the Haven, thing in my path. Did you slay this boy?”
    “Never!” said the gnome, sounding amused. “The mushrooms did that. The ones you were about to step into. You owe me your life, foolish Brand of the Haven.”
    Without his urging, Brand’s hand reached slowly up toward the haft of his axe. He noticed in time, and stopped his hand with an effort of will. If the creature spoke truly, whatever it was, he could not slay it for helping.
    “Your tongue is sharp. Have a care.”
    The creature cocked its stone-like head. “Here, in the dark, buried in the Deepwood, and you have no whisper of fear when you face me?”
    “No.”
    “Interesting!” said the other, sounding truly glad, “what kind of heart do you have? I’m very curious now. I must know. Would you take a mug of ale with me? My people are known for the best ale in the world.”
    “I thought the Kindred made the best ale.”
    “Bah! Swill made by hairy braggarts! I’ll show you, if you will but follow me a pace.”
    Strangely, Brand felt like following him. Perhaps his ale was as good as he said. They had neglected to bring anything but water on this journey, being worried about weight, and a single flagon of brandy for cleansing wounds. This fellow looked like one of the Kindred, like a strange relative of theirs. His kind couldn’t be that much trouble.
    A hand touched his elbow, and he shook himself awake. Something was touching, him, annoying him. His hand reflexively went up to touch the axe. He touched the haft of it, and a jolt of pain went through him, like a beam of blazing sunlight shot into a drunkard’s eye.
    The glade lit up as he lifted his axe from his pack and held it aloft like a torch. He could see them now, dozens of them. They were creeping up from beneath the trees. They were the things he had scented and sensed moving in the earth. They were what lived beneath the trees, beneath the thorny thicket and beneath the layer of forest loam. They were a part of the forest floor itself and dwelt there in the rocks and filth.
    He glanced to his side and saw it was Telyn behind him. She had touched him. She had awakened him. How long she had been there, tugging at his arm, he had no idea. He saw the terror in her eyes and a hot rage took him. He would not have his love frightened by a pack of dirt-men.
    “Cover your eyes,” he told her, and she did as he bid.
    In her hand she had up her fine dagger. Its blade glinted, reflecting the yellow light of Ambros’ eye as he held the axe even higher aloft.
    “Know, foul creatures, that you have all been judged, and you have all been found wanting,” he said in a booming voice that was not entirely his own. The gnomes came forward now, heedless of his words. They held up their blunt rocky fists to shield their obsidian eyes from the Amber Jewel’s light. They made grinding sounds as they came, like boulders shifting about on a hillside. He wondered if they were even capable of speech or if somehow they had bewitched him into hearing their noises as words.
    He did not care enough to learn the answer.
    Judging the mushrooms to be the source of the greatest evil, he burned them first. Ambros shone like the