Rhea surprised Ash by answering in a calm, reasonable tone of voice. “We’re all tired, but we can’t stop to rest yet. The invasion has been stopped, but there are still things left to be done. The dead have to be collected and buried, or soon we’ll have epidemics sweeping through the town. Then the living have to be found food and drink and shelter. We’ll rest later, when there’s time. Richard’s in his office, I take it?”
The Deputies looked again at the closed door, and Collins nodded reluctantly. “He’s there, but you can’t see him. He isn’t seeing anyone at the moment.”
“He’ll see me,” said Rhea. “I pay his wages.” She marched over to the door and rattled the handle. It was locked. Rhea glared at the door and raised her voice carryingly. “Richard, this is Rhea. Open the door. We have to talk.”
There was no reply. Rhea rattled the door handle again, and then stepped back and gestured to Ash. He gave the lock a firm look and it clicked open. Rhea sailed into Erikson’s office with a scathing remark on her lips, and then swallowed it as she saw Richard Erikson sitting in his chair, sprawled across his desk, fast asleep. There were scorch marks on his clothes, as though he’d got too close to a fire at some stage. At first Ash thought the man was just exhausted, but then he saw the empty whisky bottle lying on its side on the floor by the desk, and the open bottle not far from Erikson’s outstretched hand. Rhea let out her breath in a long slow sigh.
“Oh Richard… not now. Not now.”
She moved over to him, and shook him by the shoulder. He stirred and muttered something, but that was all. Rhea gestured to Ash, and between them they got Erikson sitting more or less upright in his chair. Rhea checked his pulse against her watch, wrinkling her nose at the smell of stale booze on him.
“Is he… okay?” said Ash.
“Dead drunk, but still with us.” Rhea let the Sheriff’s hand fall limply back on to the desk. It landed with a solid-sounding thud, and Ash winced in sympathy. Rhea looked back at the door, and the two Deputies looking in. “Lewis, Collins; get in here. How long has he been like this?”
The two Deputies shrugged, almost in unison. “He was like that when we got here, an hour ago,” said Collins. “He must have been out when the staff were killed. We kept trying to raise him all during the invasion, but there was never any reply. Now we know why. I gather from your look, madam Mayor, that you’re not entirely surprised.”
“Not really, no,” said Rhea. “He was always fond of a drink, in a crisis. First thing is to wake him up, then sober him up. We need him up and about. The Sheriff’s a symbol; people will listen to him when they might not listen to me. I presume there are some showers in this place? Good. Take him there, strip him, put him under one and run it cold. I’ll make some coffee. One way or another I want him awake and able to function in under an hour. Why are you still standing there?”
Collins looked at Lewis. “And we always thought he was exaggerating about her. You take one arm, I’ll take the other. If he looks like puking, drop him. I’m not messing up my clothes any more.”
They got him to the door, and then Collins looked back. “You might want to take a look at the papers on his desk. We put them there for him to read, when he was feeling himself again.”
Rhea picked up the papers from the desk and studied them intently as the two Deputies hauled the Sheriff out of his office. Ash started to say something diplomatic about Erikson, and then stopped as he saw the expression on her face. She looked suddenly tired and beaten, as though what she’d found in the reports had been one last straw too many.
“What is it?” said Ash.
“It would seem our troubles aren’t over,” said Rhea. “According to these reports, there’s growing evidence of a series of killings unconnected to the Warriors that took place during the invasion. Some in areas the Warriors barely touched. From the MO, it’s clear our resident serial murderer used the invasion as a cover to go on a killing spree. As usual, there are no witnesses and no clues; just bodies.”
They stood for a while in silence. Rhea dropped the papers on the desk, and sat in the Sheriff’s chair.
“What are we going to do?” said Ash.
“First we sober up Richard,” said Rhea. “And then… we’re going to set a trap.”
—
Mad was dragging the last dead Warrior down a corridor in the Gallery of Bone when Time contacted her. The dead man was the heaviest of the lot, and she’d deliberately left him till last. Six foot six, and two hundred and fifty pounds if he was an ounce. She’d wistfully considered having him stuffed and mounted and placed somewhere prominent in the Gallery to discourage visitors, but she knew she’d never get Time to go along with it. The man had no sense of style. She stopped for another breather and stretched her aching back. It had been hard work disposing of the twelve Warriors she’d killed, but for the most part she hummed and whistled cheerfully as she worked. Twelve professional fighting men, armed to the teeth and dripping with testosterone, and not one of them had known what was coming till she’d rammed it between their ribs.
She’d dropped the previous eleven into a portrait that looked out over a bottomless pit. At least, she assumed it was bottomless. Certainly nothing she’d dropped into it had ever come back to complain. The twelfth body, as well as being the largest and heaviest, had also been the furthest from the portrait, but even so she’d made good time dragging it through the corridors. She’d go back and clean up the bloody trail later. Well, actually she’d probably get an automaton to do it, when they were working again. Mad wasn’t particularly domestic.
She heaved the chest of the body over the edge of the portrait, and then set about persuading the rest of the body to follow it. She heaved and strained till her eyes bulged and sweat ran down her face, and the damn thing didn’t budge an inch. She stood back and kicked it a few times, just on general principles, and then grabbed a leg and tried levering the body over the edge. She put her back into it, and finally got the body balanced just right. One last heave, and over it would go. And that, of course, was the exact moment when Old Father Time’s voice sounded loudly in her mind.
Madeleine. Come to me. I need you.
“Can this wait a while?” said Mad, just a little breathlessly. “I’ve got my hands full at the moment.”
Come. Come now.
“It’s at times like this,” said Mad, “That I feel our relationship would profit greatly from some professional counselling. Or, to put it another way, if you don’t say please, and sound like you mean it, not only am I not going to come and join you till Hell installs sunbeds, but I might actually decide to stand here and hold my breath till I turn blue.”
Please come. I need your help.
“That’s better,” said Mad grudgingly. “I’ll be with you in a minute, if I don’t throw my back out first. Break out the liniment bottles and plump up some cushions till I get there.”
She took a firm hold on the dead Warrior’s leg, and threw herself into the task with renewed vigour. The body teetered on the edge, there was a brief argument as to which one of them was in charge, and then the body gave up, slipped gracefully over the edge and disappeared into the darkness. Mad spat after it, wiped the sweat from her face with her sleeve, and set off through the Gallery of Bone. Time had sounded urgent, and had given in far too easily, which wasn’t like him. If there was one thing Old Father Time had plenty of, it was time. Being immortal tended to give you a leisurely view of things. But Time had said he needed her. Mad walked a little faster. Whatever was wrong, he wasn’t far. He never was, no matter where she started from. It was that sort of place.
She rounded a corner, and without warning found herself in his inner sanctum. As always, she saw the great Hall of a Medieval Castle, complete with blazing torches and hanging tapestries. To one side stood a great sword, thrust through an anvil on a stone. She didn’t need to read the name on the crosspiece. She knew the sword was Excalibur, and this was Camelot. Or at least, one of them. There had been a grea
t many versions down the years, and only a few of them were still believed in with any real conviction. Mad strode confidently forward, and tried hard to keep the frown from her face as she took in the state of the Hall. There were cobwebs everywhere, and the tapestries were stained and faded. The torches had burned down to nubs, and dust hung thickly on the golden air.
Old Father Time was sitting slumped on a great iron throne, on a raised dais of blue-veined marble. He wore a magician’s dark gown, covered with obscure mystical symbols. Sometimes an owl sat on his shoulder, but there was no sign of it now. Mad stopped before the throne, saluted briskly, and then fought off a sense of shock as she got her first look at Time’s face. He looked incredibly old and frail, far too old for this stage of his life cycle. His skin was so pale as to be almost translucent, and above his jutting cheekbones his eyes had sunk deep into his face. His gaze was firm, but his mouth trembled. He’d aged a hundred years since she last saw him, less than an hour ago. Mad did her best not to react. Presumably dealing with the Warrior invasion had taken a lot out of him.
“All right, I’m here,” she said briskly. “What do you want?”
“We have to talk,” said Time, and his voice shocked her again. It was low and quiet, little more than a murmur.
“It’s all right,” Mad said quickly. “No need to thank me. Just doing my job.”
“What?” Time looked at her blankly. “What are you talking about, child?”
“Taking care of the Warriors. No problem. There were only twelve of them.”
Time shook his head slowly. “That’s not why you’re here, Madeleine. Now pay attention, please. I only have the time and the energy to go through this once.”
He stopped to get his breath, and Mad pouted. She was proud of taking out twelve Warrior soldiers without even a scratch to show for it, but she should have known Time wouldn’t approve. For a man of his position and authority, he could be surprisingly squeamish on occasion. And he never did appreciate the things she did for him. Time began to speak again, slowly and with effort, and she paid attention.
“I closed the Forever Door to protect it from the Warriors. But when the Imperial Leader appeared on his own, I opened it again, just for him. It seemed the simplest solution. But once he’d gone through, everything changed. The call of the Door was suddenly stronger, much stronger. The silent voice that summons all who have not yet passed through the Door was suddenly overpowering.
“It grew increasingly powerful, despite everything I could do to temper it. I tried closing the Door again, and I couldn’t. The power has been taken away from me. The Forever Door stands open, calling in a voice that will not be denied. The psychic pressure on those in the town must be unbearable. I think we must expect a stream of visitors. Most will find their own way to the Door, and pass through unattended, but some will need personal attention. You’re going to have to deal with them, Madeleine. Do whatever you have to, to keep order. I intend to invest some of my power in you; I trust you to use it responsibly. Jack Fetch will obey your orders, within certain limits. I know you two don’t get along, but you’ll have to learn to work together.”
“Why?” said Mad. “What’s happened? Are you going somewhere?”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Time. “Now pay attention. Something bad is coming. Something terrible.”
“Worse than the Warriors?”
“Oh yes. Much worse. The time of the Wild Childe is upon us. Soon it will sweep through the town, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Something has triggered my death and reincarnation early. Some outside force is tampering with the flow of events, and I appear to be helpless to stand against it.”
“How long have we got?” said Mad. “Before you die again?”
“Maybe an hour. I’m holding it off as best I can, but the pressure is becoming unbearable. I’ll be dead soon, and then Time will be a baby again, for a while. Shadows Fall will have to get along without me for a few days, until I’m able to take charge of matters again. Normally that isn’t a problem, but right now there are all kinds of forces poised to take advantage of the situation. Madeleine; you see the sword over there? Of course you do; do you know what it is?”
“Yes,” said Mad. “It’s Excalibur. King Arthur’s sword.”
“And now it’s yours. Pull the sword from the stone, Madeleine.”
She looked at him for a long moment, and then looked at the sword. What she could see of the blade seemed to glow a little brighter under her gaze. She walked slowly over to stand before the anvil on its stone. The crosspiece was burnished silver, but the hilt was wrapped in ancient leather, darkened here and there by age and old sweat. Excalibur. She took hold of the hilt, and it fitted into her hand as though it belonged there. She drew the sword from the anvil and the stone with one easy pull, and held it up before her. Light radiated from the blade, filling the Hall like the dawn of a new sun. It weighed hardly anything despite its size, but Mad had no doubt of its strength and power. She could feel it deep within her, like a song wrapped around her soul. She turned and walked back to Time on his throne as though she was leading a parade. He had a scabbard and belt in his hands, and she took them from him, sheathed the sword and buckled it about her waist. She felt like she could do anything; anything at all.
“So,” she said lightly. “Does this mean I’m Queen of England now?”
Time smiled slightly. “I’m afraid not. That offer was only good once. But you could say you’re Queen of Shadows Fall, if you like. My power is in the sword; draw on it as you need it. Perhaps I’m just being paranoid, and you’ll never have to draw it in anger; but if you have to draw Excalibur, do what’s necessary. Whatever that might be.”
He paused for a moment, his eyes almost shut, and Mad wondered if he’d fallen asleep, but he stirred himself suddenly, as though fighting against the tides of sleep, and smiled at Mad again.
“Madeleine; this may be the last chance we’ll have to talk. There are so many things I wish I’d said to you, and never did. No doubt the Time who replaces me will have access to all my memories, but I wanted to say this to you now, while I’m still me. I have always cared for you, Madeleine. I couldn’t have loved you more if you’d been my own daughter. I wish… we’d had more time together.”
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Mad sniffed a couple of times, to keep the threatening tears from her eyes. She waited, but he said nothing more. She climbed up on the dais beside the throne and leaned over him. His face was deeply wrinkled, like a mummy’s, and his hands were little more than bones wrapped in shrivelled skin. She said his name, but there was no response. His breathing was slow, and disturbingly shallow. Mad sat down beside his throne, to wait.
“I never wanted to be your daughter,” she said quietly. “Not your daughter.”
—
Sean Morrison returned to the land beneath the hill with a song on his lips and a great weight lifted from his heart. The town had survived the Warrior invasion, more or less, and he’d seen the Faerie go to war again in all their glory. And on top of all that, the music had moved within him the way it used to, before he died and came to Shadows Fall. He’d sung with his friends, wild and raw and overpowering, and for a while his legend had lived again. He strode through the earth tunnels, grinning broadly and singing an old song, and it was a great day to be alive.
The tunnels were all empty, and after a while he realized his voice was the only sound on the still air. He broke off from his song, and stopped to listen. Nothing moved in the tunnels, and for the first time he became aware he was moving in a pale circle of light like a spotlight in the darkness. He frowned, and looked about him. Even the will-o’-the-wisps that should have lighted his way were missing. He started off again, and the light moved with him. His frown deepened. He should have encountered some kind of life by now, even if it was just a kobold passing through, or worms curling in the earth walls, but there was nothing, nothing at all. He began to walk a little faster.
; He came to the Watcher, the great snarling head that blocked the tunnel, filling it from floor to ceiling. The pale grey stone was cracked and faded, as though all its long years had finally caught up with it. The jaws were open, its eyes staring sightlessly over Morrison’s head, and he knew on some deep, primal level that it was only stone, and nothing more. The Watcher was gone. He walked through the gaping jaws, and suddenly he was running, arms pumping at his sides, not from anything in the tunnel but towards a possibility that filled his heart with fear. He ran faster and faster, as though he could outrun the doubts and fears that milled within him, and finally he burst out of the tunnels and into the great earth cavern that held the Court of Faerie.
The courtyard stretched away before him, still and silent. He took a deep breath, and the smell of decay filled his head. He walked slowly forward through the tall gates of rusting black iron, and shivered suddenly. The air should have been uncomfortably warm and humid, but it was cold, cold as a grave. The jungle of vegetation before him was dead and rotting, as though the processes of decay had been running wild for weeks. The scattered sculptures of weird creatures and heroic elves lay toppled on their sides, brought down by the weight of rotten ivy engulfing them. The remains of small bodies lay everywhere, all that was left of the little creatures that had lived in the jungle. Morrison examined a few gingerly, but there was nothing to show what they’d died from.
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