by R Mountebank
Chapter 13
After the storm
Pennysworth had been hit hard by the devilish storm conjured by Remy. Damaged trees lay scattered across fields and blocked roads. Leaf litter and debris covered the earth and lay collected in heaped piles by drains and culverts. Livestock, freed from their penned farmsteads, roamed the county bleating and crying, the weaker and older beasts now bloated corpses in muddy fields. The grain crops, vegetable plots and orchards the people of Pennysworth relied on for their food supply had washed away or been torn to shreds in the wind.
From his window, Remy could see farmers and villagers in the distant pastures, heads shaking or hands pressed to their mouths in shock. Remy thought he would be sick, his guilt torturing his gut. He had ruined their livelihoods in one action. One spell cast in desperation.
I hope it was it worth it…
He looked over his shoulder at his wife, smiling and doting on their son. He tried to smile himself but the emotion would not come. He turned away again.
Remy grimaced as his thoughts turned to recent memory: The monstrous beasts which had flooded his ancestral home and the bloody fight in the hallway, his grandfather almost losing his life twice in one night, his sister sacrificing her own freedom for his, his mother lost forever inside the realm of the Sidhe.
The Horns had a lot of drama on their plate.
Remy cleared the dismal reflections from his mind. He was tired of thinking about his family’s failures. He had to do something constructive.
“I’m going to see Stephen, dear,” he said to Laedwynn.
His wife gave him a curt nod. She was quite upset with him. They had barely stopped arguing since Mary was taken.
“What kind of man sacrifices his younger sister?”
“We were meant to be safe here!”
“We should have stayed at Dókkalheim!”
Laedwynn was furious, and rightly so. Nothing had gone right since their flight from her subterranean home. In her opinion, Remy had put all of them in danger by returning to Pennysworth.
Remy, on the other hand, was mad at his grandfather. His scheming and plotting had created this mess. Nothing good ever came from dealing with the treacherous Old Man of Olde London. And how could he trade away his own flesh and blood, like a farmer at the winter market selling weaned calves? It made Remy doubly angry that so many factions saw him as a commodity to be bought or threatened for political reasons. Was he that important?
Remy left the room without another word. They had taken Mary’s bedroom as it was the only one that had not been damaged during the attack. Remy felt another stab of guilt for taking over his sister’s private sanctuary. Outside, the hallway was a mess of rubble, timber, ceiling tiles, discarded armour and weaponry. Remy picked his way over the detritus in his bare feet carefully. His boots had been torn to pieces after his berserk transformation and he was yet to find a spare set in the house.
Remy went downstairs to the sunroom. His grandfather was where had seen him last, slouched in a chair with a bottle of liquor in one hand and staring blankly into space. Stephen hadn’t cleaned himself since the attack. Blood was caked along his hairline, down his chest and up both arms from a dozen minor wounds. The dark rings beneath his eyes and three day beard complimented his dishevelled look.
“Have you moved from here?” asked Remy as he entered the room.
Stephen’s eyes followed his grandson as he took a seat opposite him. The older man pressed the bottle to his lips and drank heavily of the potent alcohol, his dark gaze stuck on Remy all the while. Finally, Stephen lowered the bottle to rest it in the crook of his elbow, and wiped the spilt liquor from his chin with the other hand.
“I thought we should talk,” said Remy, not flinching under his grandfather’s silent regard. “It would be beneficial if we cleared things up between the two of us, don’t you think?”
Stephen’s hands flexed into claws, and Remy thought the old man might lunge for him. Instead, he slumped further into his seat and took another drink.
“It’s no use. Everything is ruined beyond repair,” said Stephen between mouthfuls. “You have yourself to blame for that.”
“All of this,” said Remy, indicating the house, himself and Stephen, “is my fault? Why? Because I had the audacity to start a family? Are you deranged?!”
“None of this would have happened if you had stayed like I told you!” snapped Stephen.
“Please… Is it my fault you made a deal with The Old Man?” replied Remy. “Do you really think you could delay the inevitable? This third generation or whatever? It was going to happen at some point – if not me, then Mary. Get over yourself, Stephen. You started this mess. You’re just too proud to admit it!”
Stephen glared at Remy. With a strangled cry he threw the bottle of liquor at the wall behind Remy. The bottle smashed to pieces, its contents splashing across wall and floor.
“Damn it!” howled Stephen, his body shaking and a finger pointed a Remy.
“Damn you!” he said, his face turning red. He stared at the other man for a long time. Remy crossed his arms and shook his head sadly. Slowly the heat went out of Stephen’s anger. Wilting, he covered his face in his hands and sobbed.
Remy shifted in his seat uncomfortably. He didn’t like watching grown men cry, especially this man. For much of his time raised in Pennysworth, he and his grandfather had been at odds. Despite the animosity, the man was like a rock for Remy: unchanging, unmovable and hard as stone. To see him moved to tears was deeply unsettling.
“Listen, Stephen,” started Remy, unsure of just what to say. “I know things look bleak, but maybe if we talked things through, the two of us can come up with a plan.”
Stephen slowly stopped crying. He lifted his shirt to his face and wiped away the tears along with a measure of blood and grime. “A plan for what?” he asked, his voice tight.
“Saving Mary, Mum and Grandma Muadhnait,” said Remy. “What else?”
“There is no point!” shouted Stephen. “Ragnarök is coming! It will be the end of days unless your father is stopped!”
“Then how can we stop him?” replied Remy, calmly. “There must be something he wants more than death?”
“Ha! We come back full circle to the original problem: your mother,” said Stephen. “He would do anything to be reunited with her. But that horse has bolted, so to speak.”
“Mum? I thought he wanted to kill her!” Remy felt his pulse rising, so angered and confused by his complicated family history. He had memories of fleeing The Western Reaches with his mother and newborn Mary under the cover of darkness. Whatever the reason, his mother, Maighdlin, was scared stiff.
“No, not at all,” replied Stephen, as his vigour returned. “She was tricked into leaving.”
Remy shook his head and pressed his hands to his head. He didn’t understand. “Start from the beginning, please. Tell me what you know.”
The older man sighed. “The beginning… is hazy. I was a Sidhe plaything for seven years, caught up in a conflict between your great-grandfather, Bodb Derg, and a rival. I was trapped in the fairy realm when I met Maudhnait. We fell in love. She came with me, here to Pennysworth, once I was free.”
Remy was stunned.
“We aren’t so dissimilar, are we?” said Stephen, almost smiling. “As I was saying, Bodb was furious and searched the country high and low for us. We were scot-free for several happy years before somebody tipped him off. One night, just before the start of the Great War, Maudhnait was stolen from me. From the bed we shared no less…”
Stephen stopped speaking to wipe his eyes with his sleeve.
“In desperation, I struck a bargain for an artefact that would give me unfettered access to the Sidhe realms. It was after I had sold my soul to The Old Man that I realised, that in all likelihood, he had told Bodb where to find me, forcing me to come to him for aid.”
“Why, though?” said Remy. “What did he have to gain?”
“You,” replie
d Stephen. “And a marriage between the godless Western Hordes and the New Order’s bootlicking lapdogs, the Sidhe.”
“But… Why?” asked Remy.
“I don’t know. It only clicked when that thing tried to take you. I think the Old Man was trying to stop Ragnarök, in his own messed up way. How, I don’t know. Our family were just pawns to play with. The thing is, it almost worked. It was years later that it came undone. Anyway, time flows differently in Sidhe. Maudhnait had given birth to a girl in the fairy lands, and she had grown into a young woman by the time I rescued them both. Together, we sought to stop the impending war, offering an alliance of the Sidhe, with Bodb’s reluctant blessing, to your father. He agreed, and your mother was wed.”
“Bodb agreed? But…”
“He hated me? Yes. But even he could see that an alliance with the Western Hordes worked in his favour, especially if it bought him credit with his insufferable New Order gods. So he signed the agreement, and everyone was happy. For a time, at least,” said Stephen, shaking his head at the memory.
“What went wrong?” asked Remy.
Stephen shrugged. “I wish I knew. Your mother turned up one day with you and Mary in tow. She had been told to leave by one of your father’s closest advisors. He had warned her that the alliance was over and that the wolves would march for Rome. Bodb himself came soon after, snatching Maudhnait and Maighdlin in the night. The rest you know. I raised you while I tried to find another way into Sidhe. And look how well that turned out.”
Remy didn’t know what to say. He slumped back into his chair and stared at the ceiling. The older man sighed and stood up. “I regret losing my temper beforehand. That was the last of the single-malt. Will you drink a blend?” he asked as he left the room.
Remy nodded distractedly. The circumstances of his birth and his parents’ marriage were operatic, every player being pulled to-and-fro by unseen forces lurking in the wings. A bitter anger rose in his breast, firing his blood and threatening a rage-induced transformation into a berserk beast.
It took every ounce of will to stay seated and sane. Breathing deeply, Remy fought down his raging thoughts.
His family’s affairs had been meddled with enough!
Now the Horns would fight back!
Stephen returned with a bottle and two glasses. Balancing the items in his hands he poured a drink for Remy, who took the offered glass without a word and knocked it back.
Stephen sat down with his drink, opposite his grandson. A silence ensued as Remy wrestled his emotions back under control. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Could I bother you for another?”
Stephen leaned over and filled his glass. Remy cradled the drink in both hands.
“There is one thing I’ve never understood,” he said, looking at Stephen.
“What is it?” replied the older man.
“Why Rome? What good does it do to destroy the Porta Caeli?”
“It is more than simple revenge for old daddy Remus,” said Stephen. “The wolves are afraid of the long night. When magic dies, will they die with it? Will their souls pass beyond? Or will they perish? They, as well as every other magical race, fear death now the New Order are in power, perhaps more so because of their feud with Quirinus. They believe their only hope lies in destroying the gate and leaving this world through the rift.”
“That’s nonsense. Nobody could be that dense!” shouted Remy. “He wouldn’t put all mortal life at peril! Dad… I mean… Themus couldn’t. Would he?” he finished uncertainly.
“Not if poisoned words have been whispered in thy ear,” said Stephen. “I think someone has been working very hard to kick-start this Armageddon. Who? I don’t know.”
Remy scratched at the stubble on his chin. “The Old Man, perhaps?”
“No. He is a devious bastard, but the eradication of all life is not his style. It’s a bit hard to make money with no-one to buy the merchandise, and that cock-a-roach would survive a nuclear holocaust, I’m sure… ” chuckled Stephen.
Remy nodded his head. “Who else?”
“I’ve been wondering.... Do you remember seeing anyone strange in Themus’s court when you were growing up?” asked Stephen.
“They were all strange,” replied Remy. “But one stuck out in particular. He had two horns on his forehead, and a wide mouth with a broad smile filled with too many teeth. Sound familiar?”
Stephen blinked slowly. “Maybe,” he offered.
The two men looked at each other over their drinks.
“Is there anyone willing to fight for Rome and Life?” asked Remy finally.
“Yes,” replied Stephen. “In that regard I have not been lazy. Come, I’ll show you.”
The older man stood and walked over to his shelves crammed full of letters, beckoning his grandson to follow.