Song of the Fairy Queen

by Valerie Douglas

  Oryan looked up to the black night sky to find it filled with gossamer wings…

  Chapter Two

  A slender figure dropped to the parapet, crystalline wings flaring, a cascade of golden curls shimmering down over her shoulders to nearly her waist. She wore only a simple shift that showed signs of battle. That shift clung to a slender body with ripe curves at breast and hip, to flutter about shapely thighs. Blood stained it, some of it her own to judge by the rent in it. A sword belt hung on those curved hips, a bow at her back between her wings.

  So they had been surprised, too.

  Torchlight illuminated the fine, amused features of her face, the large liquid eyes…

  Morgan’s breath caught.

  She was beautiful as only Fairy were or could be… mischievous, fierce when necessary and wild.

  Her bare feet touched stone with a soft patter barely heard above the wind.

  Morgan looked to his King.

  Looking up, Oryan was clearly astonished, no more than Morgan, he’d scarcely dared to hope for help, but not that Kyriay, the Fairy Queen herself, would come.

  “What would you, Oryan?” Kyriay cried over the sounds of battle still going on below, her voice soft, but clear and strong. “Haerold’s forces attacked mine too. I heard your call.

  So we came, thinking that you might need aid.”

  The attack on her embassy had come out of the night as if from nowhere. A flare of magic had alerted her and awakened both her and her Fairy sentries, if not, sadly, Oryan’s or Morgan’s… Even so, they had fought desperately for her.

  She winced at the memory, at the sharp sting of death so close. Still it had been a battle for her and her people just to find space to take flight. With a wrench of grief and anger she remembered Ariol’s fall. Then Glennis, her wings striving for height before she spiraled to the ground, a black arrow piercing her. That young life ending as she crashed to the ground.

  Kyri grieved for Glennis and her mate…

  Besides Oryan, Kyri saw young Gawain and Morgan – Oryan’s High Marshal, who she’d until now only seen in passing, a tall, handsome, powerful man with piercing eyes so clear and bright a blue as to rival a fairy’s wing.

  These others then must be his people.

  One face that she didn’t see that she should have, that she sought to see and ought to see.

  Gwenifer.

  Her breath caught…on bitter sorrow.

  Grief filled Oryan’s gaze and not only for his people dying below – as she sorrowed for those she’d lost – but a still greater grief for the one who had stood beside him, his partner, his wife and his Queen. Kyri’s heart ached. Kyri had very much liked the tall, calm Queen.

  “Kyriay! Thank the stars. Take Gawain, save my son,” Oryan said, as he reached for his son. “Get him away.”

  Her chin lifted, she shook her head and then Kyri smiled, albeit a little grimly.

  She tilted her head to them once, sharply, in salute.

  “You misunderstand me, Oryan. We came to take you all.”

  She gestured upwards, spreading her arms, a graceful gesture of her hands toward her people as they hovered above in the night sky above, their wings beating steadily…a dozen of them or more.

  All of them were beautiful – male or female, ethereal – yet all bore swords and bows.

  For a moment, Oryan couldn’t grasp it. He’d resigned himself to fighting and dying. His only hope had been to save Gawain. Not himself. Not even Morgan – his friend as well as his Marshal – although he might have wished otherwise.

  Below him in the darkness and flames were the sounds of battle, the screams and shouts, fire and smoke. People – his people – were dying. He’d expected to join them. A glance at Morgan and his people showed they’d expected the same, had girded themselves to a pitched but hopeless battle against an overwhelming force.

  Hope hadn’t even entered into it. He hadn’t even dared think it.

  “Come, Oryan,” Kyriay said, as she leaned forward a little, holding out her hands to him, wings stroking for balance. “Live to fight another day. The Fair would rather you on the throne than Haerold. He is a cold and cruel master.”

  Haerold hadn’t been kind to her folk in his own lands, what would he be like now that he had them all?

  “Gawain, first,” Oryan said and she nodded, calling her people down with a gesture.

  So, he thought, she didn’t doubt either who was responsible for all of this. It said much of Haerold, none of it good.

  “Galan, take the Prince. Protect him with your life, if need be. He is our hope,” Kyri said, as the sure knowledge of it coursed through her and Galan came forward, smiling reassuringly at the boy. “Dorien, to the King.”

  Her wings stroked, lifted her from the parapet to make room for those above and behind her.

  From below came the sounds of men battering the door. It wouldn’t hold long, it had never been meant to.

  There was no time, soon enough the wizards would become aware of them up here.

  Kyri looked below to the sounds and cries of battle rising. The sense of dying battered at her. As a Healer, their pain and sorrow tore at her. Her heart ached as each life ended like a candle being blown out.

  Morgan followed her gaze.

  It was a grim scene. Parts of the castle were now ablaze. A small group of Oryan’s Guard held out in vain in one corner of the courtyard while random small battles continued elsewhere. It was a terrible sight…filled with death and dying, cruelty and slaughter…

  Morgan looked down at the dead and the dying there in the forecourt and at his people standing firm and sure at his back. They would fight and die if he asked it.

  The Fairy offered them a chance to fight and live. He wouldn’t ask his people to die if there was another choice if there was any chance at all.

  Fascinated by the Fairy Kyri had called Galan, by the idea of flight, Gawain lifted his arms and went willingly into the Fairy’s hands.

  His simple joy and pleasure briefly lightened the horror of the night for those watching those below.

  Those seemingly fragile crystalline wings flared, expanded and flexed, catching air, the next stroke lifting the boy and the Fairy off the parapet to make room for another.

  If Morgan was honest, a part of him doubted… Those wings, large as they appeared, hardly looked strong enough to hold the Fairy themselves, much less a man his size.

  Oryan looked up as Dorien settled to the parapet and reached for him. He knew this Fairy, as he knew Galan, they were Kyri’s own people, her trusted companions.

  “Hold on tight,” Dorien cautioned, “take my wrist.”

  Those great wings flared, stroked hard and then they rose. Another strong beat and they were clear of the tower. Dangling in mid-air, trusting to Dorien’s surprisingly strong grip, Oryan looked back.

  Morgan’s people were being cleared but even as he looked he saw Morgan and two of his people turn toward the doorway…backing up to give themselves room to draw their swords.

  A part of Oryan wanted to cry out in protest.

  Not Morgan. He couldn’t lose him, too. He had no other left that he trusted, he needed, no other to stand at his back…not with Gwenifer gone. Morgan had stood at his side since they’d been boys, been his most trusted lieutenant for his entire reign.

  Kyri turned too, at the motion. Her lovely face set as she reached for her bow. Her wings flared, then folded…and she dove, stooping like a hawk, those wings tight against her lithe body, golden hair streaming behind her.

  In truth, Oryan had never seen anything quite so beautiful, or so deadly.

  Below, Morgan clearly heard the sound of the door below crashing open. It had finally given way beneath the battering.

  They’d been so close… Morgan had almost begun to believe they might yet make it, they might survive this terrible night when Kyriay and her people had arrived.

  He turned to face the new danger, to give the King and his own people time to escape.
>
  “Go,” he said, to those remaining, backing away to draw his sword as he heard the thunder of booted feet on the stairs.

  They were coming, fast.

  Jacob was at his right shoulder, Liliane at his left – two of his most trusted aides – their swords drawn as the black-garbed soldiers appeared at the top of the stair. More pressed behind them, the narrow stairs limiting their numbers.

  The first soldier snarled a smile at the sight of Morgan and his people. Then a Fairy arrow with its unmistakable crystalline fletching took the man through the throat. His snarl turned to surprise as he staggered, fell back against those behind him and died. Another arrow took the man next to him.

  “Get them,” Morgan heard Kyriay shout. “I’ve got Morgan.”

  Jacob and Liliane were literally snatched off their feet, carried up into the air as the enemy soldiers thrust away their dead and pushed forward.

  Like an arrow out of the night in a whistling dive the Queen of the Fairy shot past the enemy. The invading soldiers ducked instinctively.

  Kyriay, her golden hair streaming in the breeze of her passage. Beautiful, seemingly delicate and insubstantial, her lovely face was intent, eyes narrowed and her wings tucked close…one hand outstretched for his…

  “Morgan,” she shouted.

  He leaped to the parapet, reaching in return, furious with her for the chance she took. His hand closed around her slender wrist, her long, strong fingers grasped his and she snatched him off his feet. It felt for a moment as if they were falling…down into the carnage below.

  With a sharp crack that reverberated through both of them, those great gossamer wings opened, caught air and they shot upward with a shock so hard Morgan thought he’d nearly dislocated his shoulder.

  And Kyriay?

  He looked up at her…

  In all his life he didn’t think he’d ever seen anything so stunning, so beautiful… Or so fierce and determined…

  Firelight danced over those brilliant wings, reflected the glow, sparkled in the shifting intangible light.

  She was glorious.

  It had to have hurt, but there was no sign of it in that fine-boned, resolute face.

  Muscles straining, that lovely face focused, determined, indomitable, she fought for height against the speed of the dive. Her wings cupped, then flattened, shifted. Smaller and lighter than he, even so she held on grimly, her rippling hair streaming in the breeze of their passage.

  Insane as it was at the moment, he suddenly realized how very beautiful she was. Different, but not…exotic, incredible…and beautiful.

  The hard stone of the curtain wall came at them fast, but they were rising, rising, to shoot over it so closely Morgan could see the surprise on the faces of those who fought below. So closely he heard an arrow whistle past while another barely missed a wing, as the fighters on the parapets instinctively fired at the perceived threat.

  Dizzyingly, to Morgan the ground seemed to come toward them in a rush and then her wings flared again, the shock more gentle this time.

  Muscles straining, Kyri fought for height.

  Darkness surrounded them. The wall fell behind them.

  They had made it.

  She banked, searching for the others, for the familiar sense of her people in her spirit and mind.

  There. Relief flooded her.

  His feet touched the earth and then hers.

  Kyri staggered a little but Morgan reached out a hand to steady her. She smiled at him quickly and gratefully.

  A different kind of shock went through her at the contact between their hands and then a quick rush of warmth that Kyri had no time to examine as she looked over the small party of survivors.

  They’d lost no one since the first moments of the attack.

  She closed her eyes for only a moment in relief and gratitude. Every life, Fairy or man, was precious.

  Her body ached, her wing muscles protesting the abuse as her wings fluttered a little, resettling the feathers automatically… A sword cut on her ribs stung, another on her arm. Until now she hadn’t even noticed they were there.

  They were free, though, for the moment.

  Oryan stepped through the small crowd, Gawain in his arms.

  Turning from him only a little, Kyri drew a silver whistle from beneath her shift where it hung on a silver chain around her throat and blew.

  For all that it made little sound, Oryan felt more than heard it, a sharp pressure in his ears.

  “Thank you, Kyri,” he said, for her assistance. “Where do you go now?”

  “South and west for a time, there is a place, not far, where we will be safe long enough to decide what we do next,” she said.

  We.

  “Kyri…” Oryan began.

  She stilled him with a simple gesture. “Like it or no, our fates are joined, Oryan. Haerold didn’t only attack you, he attacked my embassy here, with the intent to kill or capture me and mine. My people have long withdrawn from Haerold’s lands for the wizards he kept company with. It’s likely he will turn against us now whether we aid you or not.”

  It was no more than the simple truth and they both knew it.

  Oryan nodded.

  “Where would you go, now?” Kyri asked.

  “There is little time and Haerold will surely go there once he’s learned we’ve escaped, but to Gwenifer’s lands to the south – so that serves us both well – to gather what funds I may. They should be warned, too. Haerold will surely seize them… then...” He sighed. “Decisions will have to be made…”

  He looked back at the castle in the distance. Flames blossomed from some of the windows, little else could be seen there.

  “Good,” Kyri said, “then we will stand guard for you until you can gain some of that time to make them.”

  A thunder of hooves had almost all of them turning in near panic as they reached for their swords.

  Oryan wanted to shout in frustration and helpless fury.

  “It’s all right,” Kyri said, as the horses galloped over the rise, their manes and tails blowing in the breeze of their passage. “I called them.”

  The horses of the Fair raced out of the darkness, gold, silver, bronze and copper, their long manes and tails flagging in the breeze of their passage, beautiful to watch as they ran, the muscles moving beneath their skin fluidly.

  Morgan watched them come with the admiration of a true horseman, their gait so smooth and liquid they seemed to float over the ground.

  At least they wouldn’t have to walk the miles from here to there.

  With practiced ease Kyri caught a handful of mane and vaulted onto a horse’s bare back as it came to a halt, her wings tucked neatly and nearly invisibly against her back, her shapely legs bared high on the thigh as her shift gathered.

  Morgan gave his orders, assigning Liliane to guard the boy once more, sending Alain north to call back the Marshals there.

  As much as he hated it, he must leave the North undefended against the raiders so they could fight for the King and what little they could salvage here until Oryan was back on the throne. Faithful Caleb he sent west and then south to carry the news and call up any of those he could. They would need every man and woman he could find.

  Morgan was under no illusions. Their situation was desperate. His job was to find a way to make it less so and then to put Oryan back on the throne.

  It wouldn’t be an easy task.

  Chapter Three

  With the onset of sunrise, the fog rolled in from the sea to spill over the hills to the west. Mist rose, too, from the ground to swirl around the horses’ feet, making it difficult if not impossible for the riders to see, if not, seemingly, for the horses themselves.

  Softly, Morgan swore.

  “If you swear at the fog, My Lord High Marshal Morgan,” Kyri said, with a small ironic laugh, “don’t. It might be the saving of us yet. Difficult as it is to see, it’s also difficult for magic to pierce. Haerold surely has wizards capable of scrying – seeing from a distan
ce – and they will no doubt be looking for us now.”

  Enough time had passed for word to have reached Haerold that Oryan and Gawain had escaped.

  Morgan nodded.

  He hadn’t had that much experience with magic. His own wizard had likely died in the first assault – she’d been a prime target for Haerold’s people. If Danise had made it, she would have joined them. She hadn’t. He’d relied on her for knowledge of all things magical, of which he knew only a little. He hadn’t realized however, how much he might need to know.

  “Morgan will do,” he said absently, as he considered it.

  He glanced at Oryan.

  “We have a lot to learn,” Oryan said.

  Like Morgan he’d relied on his Court Wizard, a wizened little man named Henry, who was very likely dead now also. Oryan had only a little magic himself, enough to light a fire or a candle without aid.

  “And little time to learn it,” Morgan replied.

  Scrying. Morgan knew of it, had even seen it used once, when Danise had helped them find one of their missing people.

  “It’s a simple magic,” Kyri said from the hazy darkness at his left, “if you know how to use it. It’s easier still for Haerold to find you, Oryan, as you share a blood tie with him. He or one of his wizards can use that to target you, although it won’t be very clear since you only share half your blood. It would be more difficult still for him to find Gawain with whom he shares even less. However, with enough effort and enough will, it allows a greater chance to seek you out. For now, darkness hides us, and the fog. With luck, we’ll reach the Great Central Forest before the sun burns the mists away. Then the trees around us will only tell them that we’re in a forest. Not which one. We’ll be safe enough for a time.”

  It was a race, then and still, first through the darkness and then through the thick cold fog.

  To Morgan the blindness of it was maddening. Even the dark had been penetrable as their eyes had adjusted and starlight had given them something to see by, but this fog was thick, dense, and it muffled sound. Oryan was a dim figure on his right, Kyri a fainter shadow on his left. Only Kyri’s people diving through the fog kept them on course.