Fell Beasts and Fair

by C. J. Brightley

  When I began to move the woodsmoke-scented power toward our joined hands, he stopped fighting me, but his hand trembled beneath mine. I pushed down any second thoughts about bringing his fears to life before tightening my grip and taking as much power as I dared.

  Opening my eyes, I patted Dagr’s hand and laid it gently by his side. Pain and panic warred in his voice as he rumbled haltingly, “You—ruined—it—all.” Tears leaked from the corners of his now-closed eyes and tracked down the side of his face to mingle with a flash of green lightning.

  I didn’t tell him I had no intention of letting his enemies track him. When I leeched power, I converted it into my own magic. I just needed a little time to make sure the power used to heal him wouldn’t register as his. But I didn’t tell him any of that because I didn’t think he would trust an answer coming from me.

  Instead, I stood and retrieved the basin of water we had set to melt that morning. Fetching a clean cloth, I washed Dagr’s wounds. I didn’t think that water would fight against the ooze, but it couldn’t hurt. His breath hissed out through his teeth when I touched the cool cloth to his skin, but I didn’t stop when he flinched or cried out. As I worked, the scent of woodsmoke diminished to be replaced by more familiar smells of hound and fresh hill country air.

  By the time I’d removed as much of the ooze as I could, Dagr had stopped reacting to the pressure of the cloth on his wounds. His breathing was shallower and I couldn’t see any sparks in his veins. I’d run out of time.

  Taking a deep breath, I couldn’t smell woodsmoke coming from anywhere besides Dagr. Tossing aside the cloth, I placed a hand over each set of claw marks on Dagr’s chest. I poured power scented with hound and the hills into his wounds. I hoped his body would know what to do with it and that daemae weren’t that different from humans. I hoped I hadn’t waited too long.

  I didn’t stick around to see if it worked—I didn’t want to put him in more danger if—when—the beastie returned. Before I left, I rolled a spare blanket into a cushion to put under his head and pulled another over him. “Please be okay,” I whispered to his unmoving form as I shifted to hound and slipped out.

  It would make the sense to put as much distance between myself and Dagr as quickly as possible. But I couldn’t smell the beastie yet, and I wanted to make sure Dagr survived his wounds. I resolved to watch the cave from an outcropping of rocks located slightly uphill. I would stay until I saw Dagr moving under his own power, and I would leave at the first sign of trouble.

  Finding a space between two boulders that offered some shelter from wind and snow, I lay down with my head on my paws to wait. It had been a long day, and with nothing to fight or save, I drifted off to sleep.

  “Sian?” It was impossible to tell how much time had passed, but it was still daylight when I awoke to Dagr calling my name. Had I been in human form, I might have answered before I remembered that we were no longer in the cave pretending to be safe from our nightmares. It was snowing again, and a thin layer covered my fur.

  Dagr leaned heavily against the cave entrance. Even at this distance, I could see the wounds on his chest—I couldn’t tell if they were healing, but at least they didn’t look to be covered in sludge. After waiting another moment, Dagr frowned and turned to shuffle back into the cave.

  I stood and shook the snow from my fur. That was it. I needed to put distance between me and the beastie. If Dagr collapsed after this, he was on his own. I glanced wistfully at the cave. It had been nice, but this was the last time I would put someone in danger. Even if I thought I’d outrun the beastie, even if they offered me sanctuary, even if I wanted to pretend that I could be safe, I wouldn’t let anyone else get hurt just because my nightmare had wings and haunted me like a whirlwind of destruction. No more.

  Before I could vanish into the snow, Dagr reappeared, and I froze. My mottled coat would probably blend in with the snow-covered rocks, but I thought any movement was likely to catch his attention. He held a dish in each hand, and he balanced them carefully as he sat down at the mouth of the cave. Placing one dish by his side, he took out a utensil and began to eat the other. He didn’t say anything, just stared out into the falling snow.

  When he finished, he returned to the cave, leaving the other dish where he had placed it. I didn’t know if it was a peace offering or bait, but I almost went back.

  Almost, but I didn’t. I turned and worked my way through the rocks. The wind wasn’t blowing in my favor, so I heard the beastie before I smelled it. Something clicked and scrambled against the stone, and I looked back. The beastie clamored over the edge of the cliff like a monster from the abyss. Its wings appeared functional, but maybe the winds around the mountain were too strong for it to fly.

  Expecting it to charge in my direction, I gathered myself to run, regardless of the hazards of slippery rocks. But instead, it flicked its tail and lumbered toward the cave. I paused, confused. It had never not chased me.

  I took a deep breath as it approached the cave mouth, but the only magic I could smell was my own.

  It wanted my magic.

  The strongest source of my magic at the moment was the power I had drained from Dagr and converted to heal his wounds. Power he now carried. It was after him.

  This time, I didn’t hesitate. I ran.

  A wave of rotten hill air, hound, and woodsmoke hit me as I rounded the entrance to the cave. The beastie’s back was to me, but I saw it had already chomped down on Dagr’s shoulder. He struggled ineffectually to free himself. His movements were jerky and desperate. I couldn’t separate the scents of magic in the room. It had already started to feed on his power. Only, Dagr was all power. If it drained him, he would die.

  I growled and launched myself at the beastie’s back.

  It spun faster than I’d thought possible without releasing Dagr, and swatted with one claw. I dodged, but a faint throb from the wound in my side reminded me what would happen if I was too slow. I twisted in mid-air and narrowly avoided landing in the fire.

  I snarled at the beastie and inched closer to Dagr, who was no longer moving. I could smell a faint hint of woodsmoke intertwined with the more mundane smells of furs and man, so I knew he was alive, but I didn’t know for how much longer.

  Even with his eyes closed, I could see the terror etched on his face. I shifted my attention to the beastie. A growl started deep in my throat as I realized he’d probably looked like that when I leeched him too. No one deserved to have their nightmares come to life.

  The beastie flapped its wings to maneuver in the confined space. Power wafted on the air, making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Woodsmoke, hound, rot, hill, and mud. Maybe it was our initial conversation about the nature of magic and man, maybe it was the fact that I could still smell Dagr and his magic, but it hit me. With the beastie, there was nothing under that smell, and there never had been. I could smell Dagr’s power because I was a leech but I could also smell him because he was human, or close enough. Not so with the beastie.

  It shook its head, releasing Dagr and tossing him into the cave wall. It turned its attention toward me. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t scared of that leather-fur nightmare face or the rows of sharp teeth.

  Because I’d realized it was a spell.

  And for all that mattered, I was a leech.

  It launched itself in my direction, and I dove under its attack. In the past, I’d thought it a flesh-and-blood creature, and I’d run. This time, I hoped my nose hadn’t failed me as I jumped on its back. Not having hands in hound form and unable to get purchase with my paws, I bit down on a leathery patch just above the wing. The beastie squirmed to dislodge me, and it nearly succeeded when it knocked me in the wounded side with its tail.

  Pushing the throbbing pain from my mind, I took in a deep breath through my nose and traced the pattern in the layers of rot and mud. Closing my eyes, I directed my leeching magic to pull at the weak spots. I felt the spell give. As it began to unravel, rotten insubstantial slime buzze
d in my mouth. It made me want to vomit, but I held on until I tumbled through the beastie that faded beneath me to slam into the ground. I didn’t stop leeching until I could no longer smell the beastie’s magic.

  Afraid that if I spit it out, it would reform and hunt me again, I swallowed hard against the rotten taste and lay where I had fallen, concentrating on converting the spell into my own mixture of power.

  I heard a crash from across the cave and hoped it was Dagr. I waited until my stomach stopped churning before opening my eyes. Shifting back to human, I approached where Dagr had fallen amid a pile of smashed crates. I had led the thing here. I hadn’t run when I should have. And I had become his nightmare incarnate by leeching his power.

  Then, I’d let the beastie do the same.

  The emerald dress, already ripped and stained, caught on one of the half-broken crates, and I heard the hem of the skirt tear as I dropped to my knees beside Dagr. The fine garment was beyond repair anyway. I couldn’t look at Dagr. I didn’t want to see the expression on his face or the fear in his eyes.

  I reached out to touch the hand curled by his side, to see if his heart beat, but I pulled it back before my fingertips brushed his skin.

  “Sian?” his voice shook, and I cringed, not knowing what was worse—him hating me now or him hating me more when I used magic again to heal these new wounds. He coughed. It sounded painful, but I couldn’t bring myself to move. I didn’t want to be more of a monster to him. “You could have told me you were the one who was likely to eat someone,” he chided.

  I glanced up sharply, searching his pain-lined face, because it almost sounded like…yes, there was laughter dancing in those bottomless eyes and a smile ghosted across his pale lips.

  For once, I couldn’t match his humor. “Now you know why people fear the Cursed Witch,” my voice came out hoarse with the smell of rot simmering in my throat, “Oh, Dagr, I’m so sorry.”

  “What for?” he asked nonchalantly, but he tensed as my magic brimming hands rested on his wounded shoulder.

  “This.” Once again, I poured converted power from my fingers. A small gasp escaped Dagr when the magic hit him and his face scrunched in remembered pain before he turned away from me. I felt hot tears track down my own face, but I didn’t stop.

  When most of the spell that used to be the beastie but now smelled of hound was gone, Dagr captured both of my hands in his larger ones and said, “Enough,” without opening his eyes. I stopped feeding him power, and looked down at the torn fabric of the emerald dress. He struggled to sit up and lean against the wall of the cave while I waited for him to run—or tell me to get out of his home. Instead, he reached up to brush a tear from my face. “You’ve no cause to be sorry, Sian. I’m a mite jumpy around magic, but you’re not them. You faced your nightmare to save me from mine.”

  I frowned. I’d brought the nightmare to his home in the first place. It was because of me that he’d been forced to relive his worst fears time and again today. “I can’t guarantee they won’t hunt you for what I did,” I pointed out softly, even though I could still smell a hint of hound and hills choking out the mud that connected him to his nightmares.

  “I know.” He tilted my chin so I would look at him. I could see power once again sparking through his veins, and I didn’t think he was lying to himself when he said, “but I can’t run forever.”

  Finally, it sunk in that I couldn’t see fear lurking in his too dark eyes. A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth as I cleared a space to sit beside him and said, “Well, if you decide you’d rather have someone eat your nightmares for you, let me know.”

  About the Author

  Beth Powers writes science fiction and fantasy stories, researches old pirate tales, and lives in Indiana with her cats. Her work has appeared in Daily Science Fiction, Deep Magic, Aurealis, and other magazines. Visit her on the web at bethpowers.com.

  Angus McCarn and the Tale of Two Tales

  Rollin Jewett

  Angus McCarn woke up early that Sunday morn. He knew that the fish in the stream outside Ballybunion where he lived would not wait for him should he sleep late. He had fished the stream every Sunday for fifty-two years and wasn’t about to let the fish think that he was getting too old to catch them.

  Yes, he was getting on in years, but that didn’t keep him from doing the things he truly enjoyed. Like fishing, singing the old songs, smoking his clay pipe, and telling stories. He was the best storyteller in all of southern Ireland. At least, that’s what the townsfolk said of him. He walked into town every Saturday night and sat in the Redwolf Tavern at his usual table, and as soon as someone bought him an ale, he’d begin to tell a story. Oh, he would sometimes be challenged by a stranger from another county who thought he could tell a better story, but usually everyone just wanted to listen to Angus and went home after that. They knew he was the best.

  It wasn’t just the stories he told, it was the way he told them—his eyes ignited by the fire of his imagination, he would gesture broadly and his voice would whisper or shout with dramatic intensity. And no one dared question the authenticity of his tales, for he told them with such spirit that they all had to be true.

  He told tales about when he was a young man growing up, and of his adventures with the fairies, spirits, and leprechauns that inhabited the grassy knolls surrounding Ballybunion.

  He had told a particularly good tale the night before, and though he had stayed out to the wee hours to tell it, he was ready this morning to cast his hook into the stream near his cottage and wrestle with a big trout if luck should have it.

  He donned his leather coat and placed his pipe and tobacco in the left pocket. Then he placed a potato, a hard roll, and some cheese in his pouch, took up his pole and was off. It was a beautiful spring morning into which he walked, and he delighted in it and began to hum a tune that his mother had sung to him as a child.

  “Oh, yes, the man is lucky who can call the world his home. And yes, the man is lucky if his house is all his own. And if the man is lucky, then the fairies shine their light, and love the man who’s lucky every day and every night.”

  Yes, Angus was a lucky man. He had all the friends he needed and all the time in the world. True, his cottage was about to fall in on him and he had no one around to keep up the grounds. But what was a small thing like that compared to all that he did have? He was in good health for a man past his prime, and he certainly had enough to eat and enough to keep him busy.

  As he walked along the path that led to the stream, he was filled with happiness and love for the life that he led. He was not rich in money and land, but he was rich in heart.

  As he neared the stream where he fished, he heard a small voice crying as though in trouble. Angus hurried toward the spot from where the voice seemed to come, and to his astonishment he saw a tiny, red-bearded man standing on a rock in the middle of the fast-flowing stream. Wonder of wonder, it wasn’t a rock—it was a turtle! And it was swimming against the current, unaware of the tiny figure on its back. The little man was cursing at the turtle and jumping up and down on its back, waving his tiny arms.

  Angus, though he had told many stories about them, had never seen an actual leprechaun before. And though he was very surprised, he could not help laughing loud and hearty at the sight of the wee bearded man surfing on the back of the turtle. The little man spotted Angus and yelled, “Don’t just stand there laughing like a fool! Help me before he goes underwater! I can’t swim!” Angus winked at the leprechaun and said, “I’m wise to your ways, little man. My grandfather once helped one of your kin and before he could get so much as a ‘thank you, sir,’ the little devil had vanished.”

  “I’ll thank you right now if that’s your only concern. Just get me out of here. I see he’s taking a deep breath!” cried the little man. Angus was neither foolish nor heartless enough to watch the little man drown. He said, “Hold onto your beard, I’ll get you out of this mess.” He unwrapped a little of the string he had on his pole and cast his hook
and line out to where the little man and the turtle were.

  “Grab onto the line and I’ll pull you in,” Angus told him, “only don’t try anything funny, or I’ll let loose the line.” The leprechaun was in no position to try anything funny even if he wanted to.

  Just as the turtle dove beneath the water, Angus hauled the leprechaun in. He caught the little man in his hand and held him tight, but not too tight—for he was only as large as a finger.

  “Well, I went fishin’ for a trout and caught myself a wish instead, eh?” said Angus to the leprechaun.

  “Not so fast,” said the leprechaun, “I’m not that kind of leprechaun. I can’t just fulfill a wish just like that. I have to see proof that you are worthy of a wish before I can grant you one.”

  “None of your double-talk! I saved your little life, didn’t I?” said Angus, “Doesn’t that make me worthy of a wish?” And he drew back his arm as though to throw the little man back into the water.

  “Alright, alright,” said the leprechaun, “don’t get hasty. First, set me down and tell me your name.”

  But Angus knew better than to turn a leprechaun loose once you had him in your hand. He would be gone like a flash and laughing all the way. Angus took his hook off his line, put the little man in the crook of it, and stuck the barbed end into a tree so that the leprechaun could not escape. Then he bowed and said, “Angus McCarn’s my name, and who might you be?”

  “I be Chris Tinker,” said the little man, “of the Shannon Leprechaun Order. I’ve heard of you and your storytellin’. Your grandfather and his grandfather had the same gift. I also know that you’ve never seen a fairy or sprite in your life, yet you persist in telling the townfolk stories about us and our ways. I’ll admit, you do seem to know a lot about us.” He gave Angus a sly look. Angus laughed. All the stories he had told had been passed on to him by his forefathers. He was happy to know that they had mostly been true.