The Cursed Blood

by Jeremy Craig

  Surprisingly, he had teleported himself and his ever-present guard (that Gramps had banished from the lodge and onto the porch when he caught them suspiciously inspecting his fridge) to the Lodge the moment he’d received the message, though he also had had ulterior motives of his own regarding the promise I’d made to him.

  “He’s awake,” High King Efferieal Rain announced as he straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. Gramps dumped his coffee onto his lap in his hurry to stand and rush to the bedside. Fazool and Aunt Milly, however, beat him to it. Briefly I wondered where White Owl was.

  “Do not try to move. Yes, what you suffered in the bonded vision, alas, indeed your own body suffered here,” the King advised as I tried and failed to struggle up to my elbows. Gasping in agony I fell back and breathed laboriously as my shaking hands tracked my bare chest beneath the flannel sheets to find it tightly wrapped with gauze.

  “I’m deeply sorry, young Benjamin Bright; no magic can heal wounds such as those on your back. You need to give them time to heal. But I’m afraid you shall bear their marks forever.” This seemed to trouble him, and he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  “Oh dear, sweet boy,” Aunt Milly who looked to have been crying if the state of her mascara and red eyes were any testament exclaimed as she wrung her hands. “I haven’t the words…”

  Her eyes, sad as they were, held a volcanic fury. Fazool, at her side seemed unable to speak. Pale, grim, and anger written all over his face, the Halfling was clutching at his walking stick as though he would have liked nothing more than to have bashed someone over the head with it until his arms gave out.

  “You saw it all, then?” I asked in a harsh rasp of a voice I barely recognized as I felt my face redden. Gramps took a long breath and nodded. Fazool stared at his feet and Aunt Millie’s jaw clenched until I feared she would shatter her teeth.

  “All of it,” King Efferieal Rain answered grimly as he paced from my bedside to lean on the wall by the window. “It seems my brother Wizard has fallen to a darkness I can’t begin to fathom. It is as I feared. The Balance, it would seem, has righted itself. Even with Eric entombed alive in the catacombs, evil has infected our ranks.” He shook his head as he stared out the glass to the lodge grounds and fell silent.

  “Morgan?” I asked. You could hear a pin drop in the room at my question and for a moment I feared the worst. I imagined the horrors my uncle or the Wizard would inflict on her and my heart went cold as my belly did a lurching flip flop.

  “The Warlock,” King Efferieal Rain answered softly, “did much damage before she escaped Camelot. Many have died. Quite horribly.”

  “They deserved it,” I hissed before I was taken with a fit of coughing. Fresh memories like open wounds being salted flared raw in me welling up a bitterness and anger the likes of which I’d never felt before as each racking cough sent what felt like seeping lava through my back, leaving me breathless.

  “Some did, yes… Others, did not,” King Efferieal Rain answered, a troubled and sad expression on his face as he studied me from over his shoulder. “The damage to your flesh, it is nothing to the damage done your soul should you think that all deserved the girl’s wrath. Now there is no excuse. She was untethered and still did great evil. It is why her kind are hunted as babes. Well before they have the power to unleash hellish denizens onto the mortal plains.”

  “You’re no better than the worst of Darklings and Vraad and every other detestable cretin of the Races, Darkborn or not if you truly think that. Besides, I’d say a lifetime of torture, magical slavery, and imprisonment by one of your own kind has lent the girl some leeway, would you not agree?” Fazool retorted icily, his words causing a great warm spring of affection and appreciation to well up in my heart as the Wizard gave the Halfling Witch a cold, scathing look.

  Surprisingly, after a moment of consideration, a thoughtful, pensive expression slipped over him and he nodded. “Perhaps,” he tentatively agreed, his silver eyes flashed, and he smiled gloomily. “That will not, however, protect her from the Darklings, Fey, or my brother Wizards who will now hunt her to the ends of Feydom.”

  “Let them come,” I growled, and again I felt a cold settle over me as anger swelled and added its heat to the hurt, humiliation, and terror I’d suffered in Camelot’s dungeons. “I will hunt them. I will hunt them all if they lay a finger on her.”

  Something very close to fear slipped over the Wizard’s demeanor as he wearily studied me, but the ghost of emotion slipped away and left him merely haunted and for a moment, silent. “There is another way. One that will not cause more blood to be spilled.” He eyed me a second more, then his expression softened, and he smiled almost warmly.

  “You need time to heal. We will discuss it later. However, in the meantime I promise you this. She will not be harmed and shall enjoy my protection until we next speak. Then all will come down to you, young Benjamin Von Bright.” That said he turned and with swishing swirls of billowing silken robes, slipped from the room.

  “I truly detest that Elf. He could make drinking poison sound delightful and harmless. Like adding honey to a nice cup of tea.” Aunt Milly glared after him and Fazool nodded in agreement.

  Gramps just stood there, arms folded over his red and black flannelled chest and looked at me as though he had thought he had lost me forever before adding his own input. “I fear the highfalutin High King of Elves has plans for you, Ben. Plans you won’t easily escape with that promise you made him when you first met.”

  I snorted, and sighed. What else was knew? Not only had I attached myself to a wizardly High King, but everyone else seemed to think that just me breathing gave them some right to dictate and demand things of my future that I had no interest in doing.

  “What promise?” Aunt Milly asked uneasily. Gramps’ answer as I lay there silently with a sick feeling seeping over me left the Witch both pale and trembling. She stared at me when he was done, sobbed, and stalked out of the room most unsteadily.

  “Where’s White Owl?” I finally asked in a croak. Gramps’ face screwed up, and Fazool wondered over to the woven wicker chair by my dresser and hopped on, his shiny black shoes with large polished silver buckles dangling a good four inches off the floor.

  “He’s scouting after my son and his entourage that fled Camelot when Morgan escaped and loosed her powers on the city keep.” He shook his head angrily, a deeply troubled and disgusted look lining his face that looked like the last few days had aged him. “It was an ugly business. Evidently, there was a significant cache of Fiendfire hidden away and stored beneath the keep, likely somewhere in the dungeons. When Morgan attacked, the unstable stuff ignited. From what I’m told the damage is horrific. And my sons’ cowardice in running has left him disgraced and likely, dethroned. The whole mess is an international Feydom legal nightmare.”

  “He escaped?” I asked, fear and anger bunching into my heart at the notion that the dangerous, unhinged man was alive and free.

  “Oh yes,” Gramps spat bitterly. “The worm ran before she could get to him. Though there’s a strong possibility she still could catch up to him before we do. That is unless he hides behind his Wizard’s skirts in his tower in Chicago.” He seemed disappointed by both these possibilities, and I couldn’t begrudge him that in the least.

  “How bad was it?” I asked apprehensively.

  “Your Warlock girlfriend burned the keep to cinders and ash,” Gramps stated derisively, then looked thoughtful before adding, “Though I suppose given the circumstances we’re lucky she didn’t level the whole damned city while she was at it.” I had mixed emotions about this. I thought of the squires and servants, then I thought of our torture and my heart hardened.

  “I’m just happy she’s alive,” I admitted.

  “For now, you are perhaps,” Gramps advised sadly. “When she reaches her full powers, you may yet learn to regret feeling that way. When Merlin died, Morgana—the greatest of the Warlocks and who I admit was much like you—went mad and her power did
great damage and evil in her quest for revenge.”

  “Morgana was married to Merlin?” I asked in surprise, and Gramps nodded grimly, his eyes distant.

  “She was beautiful and kind and rarely used her powers. It was her that summoned Manx as a wedding present on the eve of my marriage to sweet Guinevere. All that changed when her husband died. Her wrath, much like her great, great, great granddaughter’s was something terrible to behold.” He eyed me meaningfully, and I paled. “Yes, Ben. Morgan Le Fay, your pretty little Warlock.”

  It’s not every day you find out the girl that likes you is related to Merlin and Morgana of legend. I think I took it pretty well as my grandfather was pretty legendary himself.

  I was kept on bedrest for a week, eating soup, reading Gramps’ books, and petting Manx who seemed to have taken it upon himself on returning from his hunting to take up duties as my bodyguard—switching from snuggling up to me and snoring on the bed and sitting like a shaggy, tail wagging gargoyle just outside my open door with the frame’s runes singed off.

  I do have to admit though, that more than once as I lay there staring up at my room ceiling, I wished my mother would slip in smiling and tell me it was all just a terrible dream. Assure me that they weren’t dead, there was no such thing as Wizards and Elves and Darklings, that all seemed to have more say in my future than I did, and most of all my parents were alive and well and ready to go out for pizza.

  But I knew beyond any doubt, even as I wished ever so dearly for it that it most definitely wasn’t a dream. I had made promises, lost loved ones, people wanted me dead, and worse still, that there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

  Fazool, ever the optimist, decided it was time for me to go for a walk after bringing me my lunch tray. Lunch was sea bass and asparagus that Aunt Milly had whipped up then went back to switching off between sulking, crying, and chaotically pacing as she stared out the windows.

  Personally, I’d have preferred a bowl of chili, a nice stew, maybe some of the Wayfarers’ chocolate chip pancakes—in fact, just the thought of those fluffy chocolaty flapjacks had my mouth watering at just the right moment as Aunt Milly walked in. And for the first time in what felt like ages, she gave me one of her most brilliant, genuine smiles as she stood in the doorway scratching at Manx’s floppy ears. She stood there watching me eat with a chocolate chip pancake daydream painting a goofy blissful smile on my still battered face.

  It took me goodness knows how long to even notice she was there as I forked lemony fish and buttered greens into my mouth, blissfully pretending to wash my imaginary buttery pancakes down with an ice-cold Coke, just the way I like it, from a straw in one of the glass bottles.

  I’ve never had the heart to tell her that I hate sea bass and hate asparagus even more—it’s safer that way. The only downside is now she insists on making it for me on special occasions. Which is incredibly thoughtful, sweet, and disgusting.

  Fazool, bless him, has deliberately ruined the fish more than once to mercy us into burgers and pizza, weathering Aunt Millie’s rage while quite happily sipping at his wine and nibbling on a pepperoni slice.

  When I finally noticed her, I mercifully spilled my tray. She felt terrible and I, being a dutiful nephew, told her I was absolutely stuffed and had delighted in every perfectly flakey bite. She happily ate this fib up. I’d dearly wanted to down a nice tall stack of pancakes the entire time. Fazool thankfully restrained his smile as best as he could from his favorite chair in my room, kicking his legs and sipping at some wine.

  “Goodness! I’ve finally got some true culture into you. Artur wouldn’t know fine dining anymore if stuffed kidneys dropped on his fool head.” She fussed over the state of my pajamas, fumbled through the drawers of my dresser, and plopped some laundered, folded clothes on the bed. “Alright then. Up and at-em.”

  She smiled tearily and helped me out of the bed and to the washroom, insisting I get a nice shower, tooth brushing, hair combing, and such before my walk.

  Though thankfully the sight of my heavily scarred back sent her bawling from the bathroom before I was fully disrobed or she may have insisted on standing watchfully in case I fell. I remember everyone treated me like I was made of porcelain, then I saw my reflection and nearly did fall over.

  My hair, now long and almost to my shoulders, was silver. Not like old man silver, but fully silver. My ears, poking from beneath my hair even had a graceful Elvish point to them. Even my eyes, normally blackened on the Ascension Day on a Darkling’s eighteenth birthday were as dark as the abyss.

  I just stood there staring, Manx whining at my side with his tail wagging for a long moment before turning on the shower and stepping in. Gramps’ books had said the use of my gift would have effects, but I’d never thought it would be this sudden.

  All of a sudden, I felt a bit nauseous as the realness of it all hammered home like a blade gutting away any childish notions or hopes I had of normalcy. I was still clinging desperately to the last rungs of childhood as death and fear were slowly and mercilessly being chipping away at. I knew as I stared at myself that no one would ever see me for me ever again.

  It wasn’t a pleasant thought, and as I pondered my mandatory training I had to look forward to far away from Gramps (the last of my family that I really wanted any part of), and likely even farther from Morgan (who I was sick with worry about), the dread and anxiety that had been building made me want to sit down, or preferably find a nice place to hide where not a Feyish soul could try to murder or control me.

  I sighed.

  There really was nothing left for me to do but keep moving forward. A part of me hoped beyond hope that if I moved forward fast enough, I might even find a way to outrun all the mess that was tugging me in every direction at once. And maybe, just maybe one day I could find a bit of peace.

  May as well get on with it then, I thought to myself as I turned on the shower to let the water get nice and piping hot. When it was good and steamy, I stepped in and let the hot water bake away the aching kinks in my muscles and help wash away a bit of the worries. I always had found the shower a good place to think, and as the water dribbled in rivets down my face, I felt some of the headache booming at the inside of my skull start to slip away.

  The smell of sandalwood and lavender soap, another of Aunt Millie’s artisanal lodge improvements left me feeling as human as I could be and a bit more relaxed. I donned my jeans, a nice black collared button down (one of the many non-flannel bits of apparel that Fazool had added to my wardrobe) and pulled on a pair of boots with big silver buckles.

  I walked out in time to catch the Halfling Witch patting Aunt Millie’s back as she sobbed into a wine glass where they sat on the sofa. Fazool mumbled comforting things to her until the both at once noticed me and tried and failed to appear happy.

  I had a feeling today was the day I’d hear from the Wizard, and they had an idea what the Elf King had in mind for me. But I couldn’t bring myself to ask as they nodded at me with wistful smiles of approval at my upgrade from flannels, work boots, and jeans.

  Aunt Milly nodded to an expensive ‘department store from New York City’ looking cream colored gold edged box on Gramps’ chair. “Go on. It’s cold out, you know. You’ll need it, and better yet I just know you’ll like it.” Fazool hurried me over with a spiny wave of his hand and smile.

  I hobbled over, joints still stiff and back still feeling like a large housecat with unusually long sharp nails was using my back for a scratching post. I undid the curly ribbon, unfolded about a ton of red tissue paper and found a wonderful fleece lined black leather jacket that came down to just above my knees. It fit perfect like a glove. Conveniently, the box also contained a matching pair of those that I pulled on and held my arms wide for them to admire.

  Fazool clapped in almost giddy approval, a broad smile on his face, and Aunt Milly downed her wine and sighed, struggled to her feet, and scooped me into a hug before walking me to the door. “They are waiting for you outside,” she advi
sed in a strangely hollow voice as she opened the door and scooped me into another even more crushing hug.

  “Mildred, you’ll strangle him,” Fazool chided earning himself a smothering glare that he only giggled more at, albeit with a bit of trepidation. Nervously, he tapped his little gentlemanly ivory grasshopper topped walking stick on the floor as I was ushered out the door.

  The Elves stood in two rows with bows and quivers over armored shoulders. Their crystal tipped spears were in one hand, resting butt end on the porch floorboards, and their jaggedly bronze oval leaf shaped shields that went from shoulder to toes in the other, each grimly faced Elf staring ahead beneath white plumed helmets.

  I sighed and peered over at Aunt Milly, who was dabbing at her eye with a hanky and then at Fazool, who was forcing himself to smile as he nodded in what he tried to make look like reassuringly confidence but failed at completely.

  My belly doing flip flops, I walked forward, each row of Elvish warriors falling silently into step behind me in pairs as I passed like mechanically precise toy soldiers forest green cloaks fastened with silver oakleaf broaches swooshing out behind them as they marched in lockstep.

  There was no going back.

  Gramps, White Owl, and King Efferieal Rain seemed to have been having an intense conversation by the ruins of the barn workshop that the Clampetts had burned down, standing beside Gramps’ beat up old truck. Gramps looked bitter as he leaned on his truck’s fender, fists absently balled as he glared at the grass. Nodding as the King spoke and the Master meditatively listened, a resigned expression on his lined inscrutable face.

  Gramps was the first to notice my approach. He eyed me, a distant, defeated gleam in his shiny black eyes as he offered up a poor excuse for a smile. He bemusedly eyed my attire with raised eyebrows as he tugged at his flannel and shook his head.