Fairy Metal Thunder (Songs of Magic, Book 1)

by JL Bryan

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  In the skullfruit tree in the ancient elvish graveyard, it was a stalemate. Aoide and Rhodia waited in the tree with Neus and Skezg. The silver-eyed white wolves waited on the ground, watching them. It felt like hours had passed, but without an hourglass, there was no way for Aoide to tell.

  “So this is what success feels like,” Rhodia said. “I can’t believe we hiked through the Hauntlands for this.”

  “Will they ever leave?” Skezg asked, looking down at the wolves. One caught him looking and snarled, so the ogre quickly looked away.

  Another wolf howled, somewhere out of sight but not very far away. The new banshee wolf joined the others, followed by a male fairy with huge gold and green wings, which matched his bright green eyes and long golden hair. He was dressed in rough peasant pants made of red wool, and he was barefoot and shirtless, his muscular body tanned by long hours in the sun. He wore a quiver of arrows strapped to his back, and he’d notched one arrow in his golden bow, ready to shoot.

  Aoide and Rhodia sighed in relief when he walked out of the woods.

  He looked up and gave both of them a dazzling smiling. Aoide and Rhodia sighed again.

  “Enough sighing,” Neus grumbled. “At least find out if he’s good news or not.”

  “He looks like good news to me,” Rhodia said.

  “What have the wolves caught for me today?” he asked. “I don’t think any one of you would taste good in my stew.”

  “Is he a cannibal?” Skezg whispered. “Are there cannibal fairies?”

  “Quiet,” Neus whispered. “Let the ladies talk to him.”

  “We are travelers,” Aoide said. “But we find ourselves up a tree.”

  “I know that much,” the country fairy said. “You’re clearly travelers, as you’re dressed like city fairies, wearing so much black. And I know you’re up a tree, as I have eyes. What have you planned next?”

  “We were hoping to get down from the tree,” Aoide said. “And hoping, also, that you have no intention of shooting us with your arrows.”

  “I suppose I should not,” he replied. “Then I’d be stuck caring for you until you healed, which would be quite boring.”

  “It could be pleasant,” Aoide said. “It depends upon your manner of care.”

  He smiled and returned the arrow to the quiver. “Well, come down,” he said.

  “We have an additional concern,” Aoide said. “These wolves seem intent on ripping us to pieces. We would like it if they did not do that.”

  “I hope they do not,” he replied.

  “Can you order them to not attack?” Aoide asked.

  “No one can command a banshee wolf,” he replied. “We can only beg their favor.” He turned to address the wolves. “Ladies, I would appreciate if you did not attack our guests, at least until I have cause to change my mind.”

  One of the wolves flicked a tail.

  “I suppose it’s safe enough, ladies,” the fairy called up to Aoide.

  “He is so weird,” Rhodia whispered near Aoide’s ear.

  Aoide fluttered down from the tree to stand in front of him, casting wary looks at the wolves all around her.

  “Why do you call them ‘ladies’?” Aoide asked.

  “I refer to all lovely city fairies I find caught in trees as ‘ladies,’” he said.

  “I meant the wolves.”

  “I am polite to them as well.”

  “How do you know they’re all female?” Aoide asked.

  “I have a sense about these things.” He touched a finger to the side of his head. “Do you have a name?”

  “I am Aoide the Lutist.”

  “Is that so? Then where is your lute?”

  “Stolen,” Aoide said. “We’re a band. All our instruments were stolen.”

  “That is a sad tale,” he said. “Will your friends be joining us?”

  Aoide looked up. Rhodia quickly landed beside her. Neus began climbing down out of the tree.

  “I am Rhodia the Harpist,” she told him.

  “Lucky and lovely to meet you,” he said, with a wide smile. “I am called Garalt, of Clan Caomhánach. You are our guests, if you mean to cross out of the Hauntlands into our territory.”

  “That is very nice of you,” Rhodia said.

  “Of course, there are three kinds of guests,” he said. “Those who are welcomed with hospitality, those who are chained in the dungeon, and those who are driven away at swordpoint.”

  “And which kind are we to be?” Aoide asked.

  “It depends slightly on who you are and why you are here,” Garalt said. “And mostly upon how entertaining we find you.”

  “Country fairies are no different from city fairies, then,” Aoide said, and he laughed.

  Neus and Skezg joined them, the ogre staying close to the faun, as if he planned to duck behind Neus if a wolf attacked. Aoide introduced them.

  “This way,” Garalt said, and he led them along a trail that wound up and out of the graveyard. The wolf that had accompanied him trotted along at his heel, and Aoide and Rhodia followed. Skezg and Neus stayed several paces behind them, keeping their eyes on the wolf.

  A rich golden light appeared through the trees ahead, as if they were walking directly into the sunrise. That was impossible, though, because they were traveling west.

  The trail widened and ended at an open space planted with a thick hedge of sunflowers. The flowers glowed brilliantly, gold and white and orange, and even the occasional rare red sunflower. It created a wall of lights outside the dark forest.

  “That’s so pretty,” Rhodia breathed. “I’ve never seen so many in bloom like that.”

  “They help block the spooky things that want to crawl out of the Hauntlands at night,” Garalt said. “Those creatures usually hate the light. Naturally, some things still make it through, and it’s quite a bit of trouble when that happens.”

  The wolf turned back and ran towards Aoide. She gasped and jumped out of the way, as did her three bandmates behind her. The wolf wove between, then dashed off into the dark forest behind them.

  “That’s as far as she cares to go today, I suppose,” Garalt said.

  “You live near here?” Aoide asked. “That must be scary.”

  “Very near,” he said, “We walk my family’s land right now.” He led them through a narrow break in the glowing hedge. “Living on the border of the Hauntlands has its obvious disadvantages, but it has advantages, too. Not many try to conquer this land. Even the Queensguard leaves us mostly to ourselves out here.”

  “That must be pleasant,” Neus said.

  “The soil is very good, too. Look how big our muffin-traps grow.” He led them down a trail through a field. On both sides of the trail were huge muffin-trap plants, their giant clam-shell traps wide open to the sun above, big enough to swallow the largest elephant in Faerie. At the center of each massive open plant-jaw was a heap of muffins, the bait that wild muffin-trap plants used to attract the animals, and Folk, that it ate.

  “We’ve bred some very delicious strains,” Garalt told them. “Look there.” He pointed to strangely colored muffin-trap plants, which offered heaps of cakes or other pastries oozing chocolate and pink icing at the centers of their open jaws.

  “They certainly look dangerous,” Aoide said. “How do you harvest them?”

  “Carefully, and with big sticks,” Garalt said. “You may sample the latest harvest this evening. It is a shame about your instruments. You might have entertained us at supper.”

  “We can sing for you,” Rhodia said, elbowing him playfully in the side. She’d walked briskly to catch up with him.

  “There’s always a welcome spot at the table for those willing to sing for their supper,” Garalt said, grinning at Rhodia again.

  “We’ll sing your hearts out.” Rhodia winked.

  Aoide felt a pang of jealousy, and then a pang of stupidity for feeling jealous. What did she care if Rhodia flirted wit
h this country bumpkin? Even if he was a rugged, handsome sort of bumpkin...who was probably a fantastic dancer, as country fairies were known to be...

  Aoide shook her head. Let Rhodia make friends, especially with this young fellow of the local Caomhánach clan, who seemed to have a friendship with the banshee wolves. She thought of the old legend they’d read at the library about the ancient fairy king Giollanaebhin Caomhánach, who protected the banshee wolves from human hunters.

  It felt like they were finally getting somewhere.

  “There’s our little place up ahead,” Garalt said. “I’m sure it’s humble compared to what you city ladies are accustomed, but it’s cozy.”

  They reached the bank of a wide, sparkling blue river, where papyrus scrolls grew in neat rows in the shallows, each one coiled tight around a central reed. A bevy of swans, more than two dozen of them, floated nearby. Swan feathers made the best writing quills.

  “And right through here...” Garalt said. He led them towards a bend in the river, where a stand of gigantic willow trees towered high above them, their long and shaggy leaves reaching all the way down to the ground and the surface of the river.

  They passed through the thick curtain of willow leaves. Inside, hidden from the view of the world, the massive trunks of the behemoth willow trees soared out of sight overhead. Their massive gnarled limbs curled through each other. Treehouses were tucked into nooks and knotholes, connected by a network of ladders and bridges woven from willow branches and vines. An entire town was hidden inside the stand of giant willows.

  “Here we are,” Garalt said with a smile. “The village of Caomhánach. Let’s find out what the elders want to do with you.”