Faerie Apocalypse

by Franks, Jason;

  Presently, the river ran clear and gravity resumed its customary direction and intensity. Soon after, the mortal passed through the copse of trees in which he had once taken shelter.

  The mortal stood on the riverbank, where he had once knelt to fill his canteen. This time he had no canteen to fill, and he did not kneel. He looked across to the far bank, but there was nobody there. He looked upstream, and watched the water flow towards him. He looked downstream, and watched the water flow away.

  The mortal nosed around the copse until he found the tree in which he had slept. It had grown, he was certain. He ran his gaze from its boughs to the base of its trunk, where the roots squirmed their way down into the soil.

  The mortal kicked at the dirt until he found something pale buried there. He knelt down and, using his fingers, scraped more of the earth away until the shape of it was revealed. A skull looked up at him; eye-sockets caked with dirt and shadows.

  “Did I make your day?” he asked the skull.

  It did not reply.

  “Alas, poor magus?”

  The skull had nothing to say.

  The mortal stood up and dusted his hands off on his jeans. The skull continued to look up at him with dark, empty eyes. He put his boot-heel against its forehead; straightened his leg and leaned forwards upon it. The bone splintered quietly; the sod that filled it muting the sound of it cracking.

  The mortal spat upon the ground and went on his way. He had no more words for the magus.

  10. The Inn

  The mortal followed the river downstream, and the woods became denser around him as he went. Soon the sky darkened and it began to rain.

  This was not the drizzle he has felt the last time he had come through this territory. This was a great and melodramatic weeping, and the rain was hot and salty on his face.

  “Come, now,” said the mortal. “I was merciful when last I passed through this territory.”

  The rain abated to a sullen spitting and the mortal forged on. Soon he came to the wash where weasels’ inn had once stood. All that remained of the place was the fallen-in foundation pit and a few blackened timbers. Perhaps the weasel-folk had tried their game on someone rather less forgiving than he.

  On his way back to the river he came upon the stump of a hollow tree. When he peered down into it he found that it contained a den, lined with rotting skins. Curled up among them were the skeletons of an assortment of weasels, stoats and polecats

  There was no sign of the yellow fox.

  11. The Bloodied Warrior

  The City of the Ore-lands sprawled like a great iron beast, crouching to drink from the river. The beast’s breath whistled as it exhaled the steam and smoke generated by the many smiths and artificers that made their trade there. The mortal approached the gates with his head high and a smile upon his lips, savouring some past memory.

  “Surrender yourself, pig-fucker.”

  The mortal stumbled, but caught himself before he fell.

  A warrior in a jerkin that was red with blood stepped between him and the city gates. “Surrender,” it repeated. “You’re nicked.”

  The mortal held out his hands to show that they were empty, though the smile remained on his lips. “No.”

  The bloodied warrior came on with a sword in one hand an axe in the other. “Come quietly,” it said. “I have orders not to kill you, but I will hurt you if you resist.”

  “I’m sorry,” replied the mortal, “But I must refuse.”

  The bloodied warrior took another step forwards and raised its sword. “Do you truly believe that you, of all the swine-sucking mortals that ever crept across the Land, can defeat one of the warrior folk in single combat?”

  “No,” the mortal replied, “but this combat is the other kind.”

  The bloodied warrior glanced to either side without moving its head. A platoon of the Ore Queen’s soldiers clanked into a loose half-circle behind it. The warrior drew itself into a defensive posture.

  The platoon sergeant came forwards. Metallic scrollwork pressed through the skin of its face, and its grey hair was rainbowed with a sheen of oil. “Lay down your weapons,” said the sergeant. “This mortal is a friend to the Ore-lands, and our liege will permit no harm to him in her sovereign territory.”

  “This mortal is nobody’s friend,” the bloodied warrior told the sergeant. “He is a scourge and a pestilence; a coward and a murderer. The Warrior Queen would see him face justice for his crimes.”

  The sergeant drew a huge curved blade. “The Queen of the Ore-lands says otherwise,” it said. “Stand down.”

  “I will not,” said the bloodied warrior. “Let me have the mortal; it will cost the Ore-lands nothing. Stand against me, and it will cost you many lives.”

  “So be it,” said the sergeant.

  The bloodied warrior parried the sergeant’s scimitar blow with its axe and riposted with the sword, delivering an effortless cut that split the sergeant’s head in half. The sergeant fell in a spray of rainbowed hair and ferrous red blood.

  The warrior wiped its sword clean upon its own glistening red jerkin. “Come on, then,” it said, to the rest of the sergeant’s platoon.

  The platoon swiftly enclosed the warrior in a circle of ringing steel. The circle widened as the warrior whirled and spun, cutting down two or three of its foes with each stroke. Blood sprayed, coating its face and legs until they were as red and wet as its jerkin.

  Armour split, limbs fell, heads rolled—but the weight of numbers prevailed. The ring of Ore-lands steel contracted once more and the warrior finally fell. Only three Ore-land soldiers remained. Panting and groaning, crimsoned and hurt, they leaned upon each other for support.

  When they had recovered themselves sufficiently, the surviving corporal wiped the gore from its face with the fingers of its gauntlet and turned to face the mortal.

  “Come,” said the corporal. It spat a mouthful of blood. “The Queen awaits you.”

  12. The Queen of the Ore-lands

  The Queen of the Ore-lands was immediately struck by how much he had changed.

  The mortal hadn’t aged, and he wore the same clothes, but he seemed bigger than before. There was now a certainty about him, a conviction of purpose that was both new and attractive.

  The Queen rose from her throne, metal garments clattering, lips parting to show her silvered teeth. She raised her armoured hands and said, in her crushed-steel voice, “It’s good to see you again, mortal man.”

  “And you, Majesty,” he replied, taking a knee and lowering his gaze. “Though I fear your hospitality has cost you dearly.”

  “It has indeed,” said the Queen of the Ore-lands. “But the price needed to be paid. The Warrior Queen oversteps herself in these strange new times, and I will no longer tolerate it.”

  “Aye.”

  “I have heard tell of your exploits,” she said, “but I would listen to them from your own lips.”

  “I completed my quest as I had intended,” said the mortal, in the careful way that she remembered. “Then I went home.”

  “You murdered the Warrior Queen Zelioliah with a cheap razor.”

  He looked up at her and said: “I did.”

  The Queen of the Ore-lands threw back her head and laughed. Her mirth boomed like the pounding of a kettle drum. When her laughter was spent she flipped her iron-grey hair from her eyes and looked upon him once more. The mortal smiled.

  The Queen of the Ore-lands had to look away. She sighed and sat down on the steps before her throne; leaned forwards and put her hands upon her knees. “What service can I offer you, mortal?”

  “My niece passed through the Realms of the Land since I was first here,” he said. “Did she visit with you?”

  “She did,” said the Queen of the Ore-lands. “But I fear that my hospitality was lacking. I was girding myself for
battle with the Tree Queen at the time.”

  “Did you win the conflict, Majesty?”

  “Yes,” said the Queen of the Ore-lands. “I won the battle, but the conflict is not over. The Tree Queen will build a new army and we will surely fight again.”

  “The Tree Queen lives?”

  “Ah, yes,” said the Queen of the Ore-Lands. “It is said that you slew the Tree Queen as well.”

  “I did.”

  “You slew every Queen that you came upon,” said the Queen of the Ore-Lands.

  “They all died,” he admitted, “whether it was my intention or not.”

  “Every one of them but me.”

  “Aye, Majesty.”

  “Because they were beautiful, and I am not.”

  “Yes.”

  “Now I remember why I liked you so well,” she said.

  The mortal folded his hands together, embarrassed. “Majesty was telling me of the Tree Queen?”

  “The current Tree Queen is of a newer lineage than the one you slew,” said the Queen of the Ore-lands. “The Tree Folk are as they have ever been: numerous and proud, and known to bear grudges.”

  “I know there is no new Queen of the Sea City. Do you know the fates of the other queens I slew?”

  “I do,” she replied. “The Black and Crimson Queen—who had no territories of her own—is likewise ended; her Nation scattered and dispersed; her titles unclaimed.”

  “Do you know the state of the court of Titania?”

  “I know little of Titania’s court,” said the Queen of the Ore-lands. “She and her nation spent more time abroad—in your world and in others—than they did in the Realms of the Land.”

  “And the Warrior Queen?” the mortal asked. “What of her people? You mentioned they have been…aggressive.”

  “Ah,” said the Queen of the Ore-lands, grinning. “The Warrior Queen.”

  “Tell me.”

  “There is, of course, a new Warrior Queen; more powerful than even her mother before her. She is not to be trifled with.”

  “I see,” said the mortal. He sighed. “You killed one of her warriors to protect me. Will there be repercussions?”

  “There are always repercussions. In this Land, for every action there is usually a disproportionately violent reaction—it’s good storytelling,” said the Queen of the Ore-lands. “But I do not think this will provoke the Warrior Queen into a formal offensive. Her agent was slain on my sovereign territory, in defence of one I had named my guest. There will be no war unless I myself seek it.”

  “Good.”

  “You were asking after your kinswoman.”

  “Do you know where she went?”

  “I know that she tarried to observe my battle with the Tree Queen’s forces. I also know that the Council of the Magi sent an emissary to treat with her while she stood upon my territory. Then she left. That’s all that I know.”

  “The Council of the Magi?”

  “There is a Nation among the Faerie who govern the use of sorcery throughout the Land. They are gathered from all across the Land, from every Realm or Nation or Tribe, but they have no children of their own. Thus, they are ruled by a Council, not a Queen…nor even a King.”

  “I see.”

  “No, you don’t,” said the Queen of the Ore-lands. “You will not see them unless they choose to reveal themselves to you.”

  “Then I shall remain vigilant for such an occurrence as I go on my way.”

  “You are searching for your kinswoman, then? I do not know what has become of her.”

  “I know that she is dead,” he replied. “Though not how or why.”

  “You seek revenge?”

  “Revenge, I am sure, will come to me in its way. But it is a niggardly ambition. I seek something more.”

  “What, then, do you require, and how may I provide for your quest?”

  “I would see the folk free to live without the strictures that bind them now,” said the mortal. “But I must have allies who believe in my vision, if I am to succeed. Will you declare for me?”

  “I am a Queen,” she replied. “These strictures are the source of my power.”

  “You may keep your lands and titles,” said the mortal. “I have no interest in politics.”

  “Even so. There are none in this land of higher station than me. I cannot give you my allegiance.” She regarded him for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was tinny and quiet. “Even you.”

  “I beg you to reconsider.”

  The Queen of the Ore-lands looked away from him and put her hands in her lap. “I would have taken you for husband,” she said. “I would have made of you a Faerie King. I would have taken you to my bed, if I had thought you would survive my caress. I will take you as an equal, but I will not set you above me.”

  “I do not desire kingship,” the mortal replied. “I must be something greater than that, if I am to prevail.”

  “Then I am sorry,” said the Queen of the Ore-lands. “I refuse.”

  The mortal looked away. He drew in a long breath, then expelled it raggedly. “The times to follow will not be kind.” He raised his eyes and said: “If you survive them, you will serve me yet.”

  The mortal turned on his heel and walked unescorted from the mirrored throne room.

  The Queen of the Ore-lands sat, motionless on the steps before her throne, and watched him go. Tears like quicksilver fell from her ball-bearing eyes.

  13. The Scarred Warrior

  Through the darkening days and the darker-yet nights the scarred warrior followed the mortal, never pausing to sleep or take sustenance, nor even to rest. The warrior used every hunter’s trick it knew, every bit of trail-craft and endurance and lore. Its march through the forests and the plains and the mountains and the badlands was fleeter than any beast upon the ground. Mile by mile, inch by inch, the scarred warrior drew nearer and nearer to its oblivious prey…but it could never quite close the distance.

  Always, the scarred warrior remained in his shadow, and the longer it remained there, the blacker it became. Soon there was evil in its every breath, wickedness in every stride. The scarred warrior welcomed the darkness, and was driven on by it. It would find the mortal.

  The scarred warrior would find the mortal when it was fated to, though it no longer knew which agency decreed that fate.

  14. The Farm

  The eldest of the farm folk was the first to see the mortal approaching, for its eyes were yet the keenest. It leaned on its hoe and watched impassively as he climbed over the outer fence. The mortal crossed the crop fields, keeping well away from the cattle pastures. The sun was high, and his shadow walked long behind him, as it had the last time he had come. The elder put down its hoe and went to greet him.

  The mortal had changed, although the signs of it were subtle. He bore no possessions with him, no supplies for his journey. There was something else, too: the elder wondered if perhaps if it was ‘beauty’, but he soon decided that it was not. The mortal came with a truer purpose than that.

  The elder fetched the mortal into the low stone farmhouse and called his family to hospitality. They took him to their hearth and fed him the choicest cuts from the most freshly slaughtered of their cattle; the best-ripened produce from their harvests. They gave him the purest well water they had drawn and the smoothest liquor they had fermented (which he refused). For dessert, they fed him sweets made from the rarest-blooming fruits and flowers they had cultivated.

  When the mortal had eaten his fill and the table had been cleared, the elder said:

  “I remember you. You are the mortal.”

  “I am a mortal, but I cannot be said to speak for all of my kind.”

  “Yet speak for them you must,” said the elder, “For no other of your fellows is here.”

  “I doubt that they wo
uld approve me as their ambassador,” said the mortal. “Best I represent myself, and no other.”

  “Have you completed the venture you were about when last we met?” asked elder.

  “Yes. I have a new enterprise now.”

  “I can see that something about your person has changed, but I cannot fathom what.”

  “I have become immortal.”

  “How is this possible?” said the elder.

  “I stole the years and days from one of your kind,” the mortal replied. “Though it took me a long time to realize what I had done, for I have retained my essential nature.”

  “An undying mortal is a paradox,” said the elder.

  “My nature is split between dreaming and waking,” said the mortal. “I am ageless asleep, so now I must dream awake.”

  “We Faerie folk do not dream,” said the elder. It knew about dreams, just as it knew about death, though it was subject to neither.

  “You are dreams,” the mortal replied. “But I am not. Soon, you will be my dreams.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “I do not require your understanding—just your allegiance. Will declare for me?”

  “Why?” asked the elder. “Are you raising an army?”

  “I am not.”

  “Then what do you need of us?”

  “I require neither service nor obeisance from you,” the mortal said. “Just your acceptance or refusal.”

  “Then I and mine are for you,” said the elder. “Since we are not presently beholden to any who might contest your sovereignty.”

  “I am no sovereign.”

  “Yet you have made me your subject.”

  “Subject or object, the distinction yet grows weak,” the mortal replied.

  The elder showed the mortal to the gate, to keep him from walking through the fields. He had already damaged them by his passage. The crops were blighted where he had trodden on them, and the soil was black and dead wherever he had cast his shadow.