by James Somers
I turned to find Oliver already well ahead of me heading through the trees. I jogged a moment to catch up then kept pace.
“Don’t announce it, but I would like to see how many of our friends you can spot,” Oliver said.
I scanned the forest as we walked. Admittedly, at first, I saw nothing but trees, leaves in the wind and butterflies playing upon the breeze. But then, as I concentrated, my perception began to change. Human forms were outlined against the bark of tree trunks, leaves and butterflies became tiny people with wings—sprites if I knew my mythology.
Squirrels and rabbits scampering at a distance were actually spies with glamours wrapped about them to hide their true nature. The world around me became utterly different—magical—but far more dangerous than at first glance. I looked sidelong at Oliver. He was wearing a smirk.
“See anything interesting?” he asked.
I simply nodded.
“Good,” he added.
We continued walking until we arrived at a village hanging among the treetops. I made the effort to reduce my sight and was rewarded with a view that no longer revealed the little town in the trees. A little more concentration, and it appeared to me once more.
“How do we get up there?” I asked.
“The same way any good magician does,” Oliver said, snapping his fingers.
We disappeared from the forest floor and reappeared on one of the boardwalks twisting its way through several massive tree trunks. Before I could even speak, I noticed half a dozen bows aimed at us. At least three elves held swords to my throat. Another three had Oliver in the same way. We couldn’t move without impaling ourselves.
“It would be unwise for either of you to move, or speak unless I give you permission,” one of the sword elves said.
We took his advice and waited.
“What is your business here, outlanders?” the elf asked.
I looked at Oliver. This was his show. I was only along for the ride.
“We have traveled far in order to seek council of the Mystic,” Oliver reported.
“No one sees him,” the elf replied, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword.
Just then, a runner appeared, carrying a message. He observed the situation and hurried to the lead elf who was presently interrogating us. The runner handed the elf the message which he read. He then glared at us.
“Looks like he’s been expecting you,” the lead elf said.
He turned and started walking away from us. The others prodded us, motioning for us to follow him.
A winding path of interwoven branches led us away from the town in the treetops. This tunnel of sorts appeared to have grown this way, interlocking vine-like branches so that we felt secure as we walked along. The elf warriors escorting us kept their weapons ready to strike us down should we decide to make a run for it.
We were finally deposited within a temple that resided inside a great hollow tree. At first, I thought lamps illuminated the temple’s inner sanctum. However, upon closer inspection, I realized that this light was given off by peculiar clusters of bioluminescent mushrooms growing along the walls.
I didn’t see anyone present for several moments. Then someone moved through the room. A spectral man walked toward us, giving off a radiant glow. This elf had white hair that flowed behind him, as though he was walking through water, and piercing green eyes. Only when he stood still did his form appear to solidify.
“You seek knowledge,” the Mystic said.
This wasn’t a question. I was sure that he already knew exactly why we were here. How could you have a name like the Mystic and not know?
Oliver glanced at the warriors flanking him with bows and decided not to step closer to the Mystic.
“We were sent by an angel,” Oliver said. “However, we are not sure what knowledge we are meant to receive of you.”
“It is the key to the lock that you seek,” the Mystic said.
“The key to what lock?” I asked.
Oliver considered the Mystic’s words for a moment.
“Do you mean a spell lock?” he asked. “Is that why our previous efforts to stop the dolls have failed?”
The Mystic simply smiled, giving a slight tilt of his head. “The lock requires the key in order to overthrow the spell.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“The spell that Black has cast in order to control the dolls and imprison their human hosts is bound to something or someone powerful enough to sustain it. We’ll have to destroy the key in order to break the spell.”
“So the angel sent us here to find out what the key is. Then we can destroy the dolls and free everyone!”
“Exactly,” Oliver said. “All we need to know is what Black used as a spell key.”
We turned our attention back to the Mystic expectantly.
“Where do we find the key?” Oliver asked.
“The key is always with you, Oliver James,” the Mystic said.
Oliver stared at the luminescent elf standing there in his sand-colored robes.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
Oliver seemed to be in a trance. “He’s trying to tell us that I am the key,” Oliver replied.
The Mystic nodded his head once then waved his luminescent hand before us. One moment we were standing within the Mystic’s tree temple surrounded by elf warriors with itchy hands ready to end our lives. The next moment we were standing in London with the Tower of London rising before us against the backdrop of an overcast sky.
Black stood smiling at Stonehenge. He had watched, invisible, as Tom killed Letan the vampire and assumed his identity before using the portal to enter Greystone. The entire Stonehenge structure emitted powerful waves of spiritual turbulence. This ancient portal hub had long ago been mostly destroyed. Only the vampires maintained any use of it now. But not anymore.
Black concentrated upon the stones still standing. He felt his power well up within. Then he released his pent up energies in a burst that surged outward from him as a shockwave. The first wave fractured the remaining stones. The portals contained within the arches coalesced as a shimmer then dissipated, becoming invisible again.
Black drew deeper from the well of his power. The second and third waves of his rage unleashed against the portal stones pounded them hard enough to cause several to collapse. However, the Greystone portal remained. The angel focused upon these stones, finally shattering them with his next two attempts. The arch crumbled like a clod of dry dirt crushed between his fingers. The portal would give off residual ghost-like traces of its existence for hundreds of years to come. But the only practical way in and out of Greystone would never function as a gateway again.
Tom might have gone through in order to inform Tiberius of his daughter’s capture, but it would take much longer to establish a new portal that could allow the vampire to unleash his army upon London. In fact, Black had every intention of allowing them to come and take the city by storm. He had even established a secret portal years ago. But the memory of it, which he had placed within Tom’s mind, would only be recalled if Black no longer had access to the mortal plane.
London’s destruction, one way or another, would be assured. He would accomplish it personally, or Tiberius would become his backup executioner, unleashing all of Greystone’s bloodlust upon a mortal world unable to stop them.
Perception had always been the key, and Black had planted his seeds of hatred long ago. Spells and suggestion were powerful tools in the hands of a true craftsman. He did not expect to lose his opportunity among the mortals, but one could never tell. He still had powerful enemies, even among the Fallen, who sought to undo his machinations, though he knew of only one who might actually manage it.
With the portal undone, Black surveyed the scene, taking pleasure in his own cleverness. If all went well, Tiberius would also discover Tom’s true identity and drain him dry for Letan’s murder. It wasn’t too much to hope for. Black smiled and v
anished, leaving Stonehenge as smoldering heaps of fresh rubble amid debris that had long ago begun to sink beneath the soil.
Relentless
When Oliver and I arrived unexpectedly back in London, the last people we expected to find were there amassed before the Tower of London. Hundreds of Lycans had assembled in the streets. A broad gateway portal, at the base of the tower itself, allowed for hundreds more to pass into the mortal world.
King Lycean stood at the head of his gathering army with his daughter and General Kron. A battle was clearly in planning. And our sudden appearance in the street had surprised them.
“What’s happening?” Oliver asked as we came near.
The fact that Sophia wore a broad smile at seeing me still alive did not escape me. To my surprise, she hugged me tightly before either of us could utter a word. I didn’t know what to do, so I just hugged her back.
“I’m so glad you did not die,” Sophia whispered into my left ear. “I was very worried that I wouldn’t see you again, when my father revealed where you were going.”
I was frankly at a loss. Hearing Sophia’s concern for my well being was like dumping a bucket of candy into the lap of a small child. I wanted to run through the assembled soldiers shouting with glee.
Instead, I simply replied, “It wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. After all, I had Oliver to protect me.”
“I can’t imagine entering a place as terrible as Tartarus,” she said. “You must tell me what happened—that is if we manage to survive this day.”
Our attention now turned back to the conversation between Oliver and Sophia’s father.
“Matters have gotten far worse over the past week since you left us,” Lycean said.
“But we only left yesterday,” Oliver replied.
“A week has passed for us, though it appeared as only a day for you,” Lycean said. “The city has been overrun by Black’s dolls. If something is not done to stop them, they will spread to other cities from here. After that, what’s to stop them from reaching the realms of the Descendant clans? The angel’s power is growing too strong.”
“Those clans he has recruited will join him soon enough to see that it happens,” Oliver added. “It’s in their best interest to add their power to his while they can.”
“The king has chosen to fight this while we still can,” Kron said. To Lycean he added, “Our warriors will soon be ready to strike down these abominations, my king.”
“See to our final preparations,” Lycean commanded. “I’ll soon give the word to spread out through the city and attack.”
I turned my attention to London itself. The city was smoldering in places already. Trash and debris were scattered throughout the streets, blowing about on an unseasonably harsh breeze. Building doors hung open, and windows had been shattered in many places. The dolls had replaced their human counterparts and brought chaos to the crown jewel of the British Empire.
“Exactly what will you do?” Oliver asked Lycean.
“We will take down these dolls of Black’s one by one,” he said. “There is no other way.”
Oliver did not contradict the Lycan king. He glanced at me, knowing that I understood what the Mystic had said. But he did not tell Lycean. I stared back, but said nothing.
“This is no time for the faint of heart,” Lycean shouted to us and to his werewolves. “We attack!”
The Lycan army tore through the square, transforming on the go, from human to semi-human to fully werewolf, sprinting lightning fast out into the city. Thousands upon thousands, including those still coming through the portal had answered the call of their king to invade London and sweep it clean of the magical scourge that now plagued its populace. But in the back of my mind, I felt sure they would fail.
It wasn’t the lack of power or cunning of the Lycans themselves. No, they were fierce and strong—probably able to rip these dolls limb from burlap limb without a second thought. Even the vast numbers present within the city would make little difference to the Lycans. But how could they succeed if the key to this spell was still present? What would happen after this attack?
No sooner had the Lycan’s gone on the hunt, than we heard the commotion of fighting; the howling of the werewolves as they shredded the magical burlap dolls. To the mortal observer, they would have seen actual people under attack by the werewolves. But this was only the façade of the dolls. They had the appearance of those they had captured.
I watched Lycean as he proudly observed his army on the move. Sophia stood nearby watching me, a look of uncertainty on her face that matched my own. I looked at Oliver then, hoping to ask him about the Mystic’s words to us, but something was happening.
Oliver had grown pale and he was sweating profusely. Every few seconds the muscles of his face twitched. Clearly, he was trying to maintain his composure against some discomfort he was experiencing. He suddenly doubled over in pain, dropping to one knee. Lycean was at his side faster than I could move.
“Oliver, what’s wrong, my friend?” Lycean asked.
Oliver couldn’t manage to speak. Pangs of discomfort and outright pain came and went every second, draining him of what little strength he had left. He stumbled forward as we tried to stabilize him. He suddenly spasmed, falling to his hands and knees, vomiting onto the pavement. In the distance, I heard the war cries of werewolves and the horrible screeching wails of the dolls as they were cut down.
“I don’t understand what’s happening,” Lycean said.
“It’s the attack,” I answered. “Oliver is the key!”
“The key to what?” Lycean asked as we attempted to get Oliver back to a sitting position.
“The spell that gives life unto Black’s dolls,” Oliver said, trying to catch his breath.
“This attack against the dolls is killing him,” I added. “You must recall your army, or he’ll die.”
Lycean stood, looking down at Oliver. His pain continued. He vomited again, dry heaves this time. Lycean looked to Kron who had been watching from a distance.
“Call off our attack, Kron!”
“My lord?”
“Immediately, Kron!”
Kron cried out to those within hearing, howling a different call. This cry was soon passed throughout the city. Gradually, the attack began to cease and the noise of battle with it. But Oliver did not appear to recover so easily.
Even as the Lycan army reorganized over the next half hour near their portal at the Tower of London, Oliver’s pain increased. Convulsions came and went.
“Why isn’t he getting better?” Sophia asked, attempting to apply cold compresses to Oliver’s forehead while several Lycans held him down in an attempt to keep him from thrashing and hurting himself more.
I watched Oliver’s fevered fits at a loss.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “I don’t know what’s happening.”
High up the Tower bridge construction, Black stood upon an unfinished parapet, watching the Lycan attacks taking place below throughout the city. He smiled as he heard the werewolves now passing along a cry of retreat. Below in the streets, thousands of his magical dolls had been literally torn to pieces. Their hay and sawdust stuffing lay scattered in the streets along with the personal artifacts of their host humans that bound them together.
Sinister landed beside his master in his raven form, changing quickly in order to deliver his report.
“My Breed warriors are ready to respond to this Lycan attack, my lord,” he said. His hatred for the werewolves was clear in his voice. “Shall I give the word?”
Black smiled. “No.”
“My lord?”
“Patience can be its own reward,” Black said. “And a well laid plan cannot be so easily undone.”
Sinister followed his master’s line of sight to the streets below where many dolls had been ripped apart. They had been no match for the werewolves. What he saw surprised him. But he now understood his master’s confidence.
Throughout London, where th
e Lycan’s swift charge had destroyed thousands of dolls and scattered their remains, something was happening. The shredded burlap sacks were resealing, their rips and tears closing as hay and sawdust stuffing flew back into them, filling the dolls again. Within minutes, the dolls that had seemingly been destroyed were reanimated, walking throughout the city, continuing their chaos and destruction, and seeing to the capture of the real humans that still remained.
Preparation
A day later we were back in Tidus, the grand capital city of the werewolves. Lycean and Sophia had watched Oliver through the night, allowing me to get some much needed rest. Since yesterday, his condition had gotten worse until he became unconscious—totally unresponsive.
I sat in a chair beside Oliver’s bed, resting my head upon my fist. I had been daydreaming when Oliver finally roused.
“Where am I?” he asked.
I watched him, looking for any signs of the symptoms that had plagued him during and after the Lycan attack yesterday. He appeared to be fine now.
He looked over at me after a cursory examination of the bedchamber. “Are we in Tidus?” he asked.
I nodded.
“How long have I—?”
“Nearly twelve hours,” I reported. “We thought you were going to die, Oliver.”
He sat up in the bed. “Highly unlikely,” he said. “After all, that is the purpose of the spell key. If I died then the dolls would be lose their hold on the mortal world and their captives. The humans would be returned and the dolls would perish. At least I think that’s what would happen.”
We stared at each other for a moment.
“You know what must be done,” he said.
“We could find the humans and set them free,” I offered.
“We do not know where they are being held.”
“I believe I may have seen a human trying to escape,” I said. “It was when Tom first brought me into the Fae realm. The man was covered in gray mud.”
“And you can bring us to this place?” Oliver asked.
I didn’t say anything. I had no idea how to find that place again, no idea at all.
“There are so many different places within the Fae realm that have been created by Descendants and the Fallen. We would easier find a needle in a haystack.”