Chasing the Bard

by Philippa Ballantine

  Dropping his exhausted white head back onto the stone, Puck considered the options. This form had saved his life, but now he needed the strength of the Fey, to heal and think. He needed to risk Will seeing him in true form.

  Art had always been there like a well-trained muscle, like a blink and it happened, with barely a thought required. So when it failed to obey him, it left Puck stunned. His true shape remained hidden; he was frozen in feline form. The pain could have affected his control, but there was the possibility that Mordant had somehow reached out, ripping his birth right away.

  Brigit offered no reassurance, silent, nursing her own wounds perhaps.

  Above him William stirred, and a stab of guilt went through Puck. The boy had become a man, built a life for himself, and didn’t need to have that threatened.

  Right now, even the unconscious Will had more power than Puck. The Fey flexed his muscles a little, each spike of pain reminding him how near he’d been to dying in that monster’s jaws.

  We have company, Brigit whispered.

  A little girl stood in the doorway, the dying embers of the hearth fire shining in her wide eyes. What could have woken the child and bought her downstairs? She looked a bright wee thing, an echo of her father. However she also had some of his Art, so curiosity alone had not bought her downstairs.

  Puck let out a faint feline hiss of fear. Something was drawing closer, the prickle of fear up his back and the shudder in his flesh told him that. It was terrible and familiar. The tangy taste of it, the dark horror he had faced between the realms, was something that Puck knew he couldn’t survive again—neither could the Shakespeares.

  Go now, Brigit ordered, flushing his body with a strength not his own.

  Whimpering with pain, Puck dragged his shattered feline shape up from the hearth. Bone and muscle protested, but broken and torn he staggered for the rear door.

  She’ll be somewhere nearby, Brigit whispered, she would not abandon her mortal man. You must find Sive. Hurry lad, she is the only chance now.

  The sound of mortal bone grinding on mortal bone was the only noise as Puck dragged himself away.

  The door was shut. The cat leaned against the table, uncertain how to manage this, being out of both Art and strength. And then the girl was at his side. She’d experienced the same horror he had, and yet still managed to help him. Without a word, she pulled open the door.

  Clever child, Brigit whispered in Puck’s head, sounding almost admiring.

  Neither of them had time or ways of thanking Will’s girl, for already the Veil was parting allowing the nightmares through. It would not be long before preternatural senses found Puck.

  With grim determination, the Fey escaped the Shakespeare house, motivated by a desire to protect those who he loved. He managed a brief prayer to the Mother for their protection—that was all he could offer.

  Brigit had retreated, her presence now only a dull muttering in the rear of his brain. She whispered of darkness, and a Shattered world reopening, with all the horror that would come with that. Puck couldn’t afford to take notice all that would come later—for now he needed to find his cousin. Once he saw her face, everything would be better.

  * * *

  Sive seldom slept—she had not quite slipped into all the habits of mortals. So instead she sat by the dying light of the fire, a forgotten book lying on her lap. In the quiet moments such as these, she could almost imagine being once more at her aunt’s hearth, or sitting on her mother’s knee.

  It was the books; they were changing her—she could feel it. It had been a mistake to read them. Will’s bardic heritage were in everyone, and every little she touched made her less Fey and more of them.

  She cried at the smallest things. Laughter could knock her down like a gale. Depressions seemed to come and go like the wind. Sometimes she would find herself staring at the stars, lost in the depths, considering her own demise.

  Violet eyes were almost blurred, almost ready to express a moistness and weakness that they’d never done in the Fey. It was to be an ignominious end for her then—and how Mordant would enjoy it when word reached him.

  Things could be different, which made it even more frustrating for Sive. If she could only force Will to see that his destiny lay with her. Why could he not?

  Sive’s knuckles clenched in her lap, and tears spilled over her cheeks, ready to rail against the world when something shifted outside.

  Her dark head came up like a cat sensing another, her eyes narrowed, her senses tightened. Something stirred out in the street, not just another drunken farmer unable to find his way home, but something more—something Fey. With stern discipline, she managed not to flex her Art—Mordant could be coming on wings of rage. She could not let Stratford get destroyed. Subtly she thrust her Fey sensitivity out. That thin finger of awareness met something joyously familiar. Sive bolted for the door, wrenching it open and tearing her nails against the rough wood. Puck’s smashed feline body had not borne him further than the alleyway, and for a moment she thought she was too late. But dimly she could feel his thoughts. Tearing off her shawl, Sive wrapped it around the bloody white form, and with an almost-sob carried him into the house.

  Gently laying him on the table, she winced on seeing the wreckage. Fresh blood seeped from wounds someone else had recently dressed.

  “Mother of All! Puck, cousin.” she whispered, afraid that that even words might inflict more on him, “What has happened to you?”

  With Fey eyes she could see that the wounds were not only physical; Puck's Art bore terrible damage. What could have be done this Sive couldn’t imagine—nothing Fey or human. What could have been going on in her own realm while she was trapped here? What fell things now stalked the path between human and Fey, a doorway that had always been safest for the youngest and most inexperienced of her people?

  Puck raised his head, a miracle in itself, and his thoughts pushed into her. “They’re coming after me, Sive. Will is in danger...” all strength drained away, and he fell back on the table, blood flowing from nose and mouth.

  Sive’s jaw clenched; the time had come. No more cowering, no more hiding. Though concern for Will froze her heart, a slight smile flickered, her teeth baring a little. At least now the goddess breathed again. Better to be a burning pyre than a guttering candle flame.

  * * *

  Sleep had never been Will’s friend; dark demons and sinister shapes had always followed him there. But now they were ever so much closer. He could feel their fingers reaching for him; his skin trembled and twitched at the thought of their foul touch. They knew his name, knew his home—there could be no escape. In an instant they would be on him.

  Will lurched awake with an animalistic cry. For a dreadful moment he thought that they were in the room; his hand twitched, feeling icy fingers on it.

  But then looking down, Will had to smile; no demon had him, only Susanna’s cold little paw in his. She was certainly looking at him oddly, her dark eyes curious beneath an infant frown, almost as though she’d never seen him before. A cool shudder ran up Will’s spine at such an expression on his daughter’s face, and he scooped her up on his knee, inhaling the sweet scent of her baby hair. She said nothing, leaning her sleepy head against his chest, and let a big sigh escape.

  Will peered over her shoulder, wondering how White Cat was faring. But there was nothing by the fireside but his brother’s stained shirt. The door from the kitchen was open a little.

  How could a cat have done that? “Susanna,” he whispered, “Did you open the door and let the cat out?”

  His daughter’s head buried deeper into his shirt as she wiggled it from side to side, though it was hard to say if this was a denial or embarrassment. And then surprisingly she began to whimper, a low sob very different from a normal cry—as though afraid of being heard.

  He could try to deny he felt it too, but he couldn't ignore the hard goose pimples on his skin and the knife of cold in his bowels.

  Bending down, he tucked
Susanna into the warm chair. Though her bottom lip trembled, she was quiet and serious. Will couldn’t let White Cat die, and so despite his fear he went after the cat into the night.

  The night watchman was doing his job well tonight. Though the players were in town, always an excuse for merriment, the silver white moon and cool stars were undisturbed by mere mortals. No arguments came from any house. No animal stirred on the streets.

  Will’s breath grew terribly noisy in his own ears, and his heart tripped faster in his chest, but still something drew him on. Down Henley Street he walked as quietly as he could, out to the edges of the town. He could hear nothing; only follow the feeling of dread in his chest. It was not a sane thing to do, but tonight, in the eerie still darkness, it was right.

  Will reached the midden heaps where Stratford piled all its refuse. The smell was beyond unpleasant, but it was something else entirely that made his world change.

  For a brief moment Will was out in the open, looking at nightmares. Three creatures such as hell itself might spew up rummaged in the remains of Stratford, at home among the refuse and stench. They howled and hissed to each other as they circled the pile, now and then delving into it with taloned alien limbs.

  Deliberately, Will stepped back a little, pressing against the reassuring wooden wall, removing the abominations from his sight. But doing so did not stop their hideous calls that made his ears ache, and it certainly didn’t make them go away. They were here to kill; every movement told him that, and the look of the hunt lurked in their lit eyes. Who that poor creature might be he could not know.

  Before Will could decide quite what to do, a howl like a scream of the damned echoed down the street. The air was full of menace, a thousand pins piercing his skin. Every sense was alive and taut—he had not experienced such a feeling since his last confrontation with Sive.

  Could this be her doing, come with war in her heart and with terrible demons to claim what was hers?

  The creatures were moving, not even bothering to keep their silence; they ran right past him up the street. The thoughts of his children, sleeping an undoubtedly spelled sleep not very far away, forced Will to follow after.

  They moved as quickly as loping hounds, but he ran after them, his breath filling the back of his throat and fear constricting his chest. Will wished he had brought one his father’s knives with him; at least his hand would have been full.

  The creatures had reached the Three Crowns and pulled to a stop so suddenly that Will had to dive for cover. The monsters stood on all fours outside the tavern, scaly terrible heads tilted to the window where a single candle was burning. Why were they so interested in this house? Will couldn’t guess, but he did think of the traveling players within. Could they be the source of so much hellfire and brimstone?

  And then the door opened. The stooped figure of Goodwife Hardy appeared at the door, like she might be greeting another guest with a candle in hand. The light moved with her as she bent and placed it on the doorstep. The four figures, in all their strangeness, looked at one another, the monsters seeming more surprised than the woman.

  And then quite suddenly, the candle was not the only light in the street. The tavern owner’s wife began to glow. She was filling up with a pale silver light, pouring out of her, and spilling onto the street, getting brighter all the time. Will almost forgot to breathe.

  “You have chosen the wrong prey this time,” the woman said, and as she did the words changed, until the Fey spoke. The shabby glamour fell away from Sive in rotten shreds as her true shape erupted from it in a burst of the Art. She stood like a stroke of brilliance in the dullness of the mortal realm, a bold statement in all the darkness. Silver Armor surrounded her, and in her hand was a bright sword, as a saint might carry.

  For all that her appearance stunned Will, it had the opposite effect on the monsters; evil faces hardened, and sharp tails lashed. They screamed and charged.

  Will witnessed what few ever had, a Fey fighting for her life. Women were not warriors in his mind, they were mothers and lovers, not destroyers, but he found something beautiful in the weaves and thrusts Sive made in her defence.

  The light streaming from her bathed the monsters, outlining even their terrible forms in a weird beauty. Sive moved like a thing of water rather than a creature of this realm, darting and striking, laughing in the face of pain and death. For there was no doubting it, there could be only one conclusion. Fast as Sive was, as skilful as her blows were, they were just as fast, and pressed her hard. Something in their snapping jaws and sly looks said they were in fact merely playing.

  Sive’s sword skidded off their metallic hide, until the street ran with its screeches and the blows she took from their tails, and flat claws wore heavy dents into the once flawless Armor. More than curved teeth and claws and bunched muscle, was winning the day for the nightmares. Power was flowing from Sive in a deep steady stream, but the creatures were unimpressed. The silver light seemed to flicker and dim a little.

  She has never known defeat, Will realized. She does not know it is coming. His heart clenched, and tears sprang to his eyes.

  Sive roared at them, lashing out with her bright sword, calling more Art to aid her. The mighty commands made the houses keen and shake but rattled off the metallic hides as smoothly as the sword did. He saw it then, the realization, and a pause in her attack—a stumble back in shock.

  And then came their magical counterattack, slicing at the threads of her Art, already weakened by years in the mortal realm. Sive threw up a barrage of defensive moves, physically and ethereally, shocked by the strength of the counterstrike. While two of her attackers pressed her toward the middle of the street, the other, with a look of intense cunning, began to circle around the back. A hint of fatigue tugged at the edges of Sive’s attack. This could not last much longer.

  Once more the monster’s howl echoed down the street. It said ‘we have won, and the end is here’. And that was when the power surged up in Will’s chest like a hot flower, pushing against his throat and setting his muscles alight with sudden strength.

  Will’s head was spinning like a fever had him, and he was having terrible difficulty even standing. The world reduced to the heat inside him, the battle before him, and the bile rising in the back of his throat. No matter how she had lied to him, he was not about to see Sive slain before his very eyes. When his groping hand found a nearby hoe leaning against the house wall, it was what was needed.

  With a cry, the fever in Will’s head drove him out from safety. Felling the circling creatures with a sweeping blow, he darted in close to Sive, and pressed his back to hers. This close, he could see mortal sweat beading on her forehead, and even a faint trembling in her sword arm, but there was certainly no time for discussion. Her attackers had now become his as well. They lunged at this new threat undeterred.

  It was right to be there, but still it was with a sense of unreality that Will fought next to the woman he had so wanted. Each stroke of his makeshift weapon was already struck, and he knew where it would land. The hotness in his head built to a blinding pressure. He was no longer William, meek son of a tradesman; he was Sive’s creature.

  However, even the two of them could not hope to prevail. He would die here tonight, Will was sure, beside the woman he still loved and hated. It could have been funny.

  But Sive had other plans. Perhaps acceptance wasn’t her forte, or perhaps she was furious at losing—she didn’t say. Instead she simply did the unthinkable, the unholy. Not pausing for permission, not saying a word, she violated him. Grabbing hold of Will’s free arm and wrenching him about, Sive pulled him against her. His world reduced to eyes of the brightest violet burning with power.

  Only a heartbeat remained before both of them were torn to pieces by the triumphant monsters, so only one gasping breath escaped Will’s lips before he was thrown into chaos. Savage and without care for the pain or shock she was causing, Sive thrust her Art within him.

  Blinded and screaming, Will's sense
of self washed away in a flash of white agony. The ancient Fey delved his inner recesses, commanding everything hidden to come forth. It would have taken a stronger man than he to ignore such a call.

  Like quiet embers long denied air, the full force of Will’s Art leapt upward. Lightning struck behind his eyes as it roared to life as uncontrollable and as unpredictable as any other force of nature. Will’s head snapped back, pure white streams of power erupting from his body from every pore, every nerve ending.

  Humanity blasted aside. He was so alive it hurt. He could feel the very pulse of the earth herself moving in him. Her creativity bloomed through his tight hot skin, breaking him until the William he had been was swept away. He was a conduit to the very fabric of the earth mother herself. All sound and sight wiped out in one bright moment. Incandescent, Will dissolved into the power and exploded with fury. The world rang like a struck bell, dissolving into light.

  * * *

  Pain was a reward for foolishness. Sive’s whole body ached with mortal bruises and cuts, and she sampled each agony a little curiously. When she managed to pry eyes open, it was to find someone’s legs in an ungracious tangle above her. It took a little while to realize they were her own. Her back was against the cool night-time earth while her lower half rested against the wall of the Three Crowns. Now she knew how a discarded child’s toy might feel.

  How Brigit would have chided her for doing such a foolish thing. To wake a bard’s power was a task approached with the greatest caution, not something forced, and not something to try without warning. Well, she thought, I’ve done it now.

  Feeling along her ribs, Sive took in the unusual sensation of injury and bruising. Then rolling to her knees, she took in the rest of the street. The road looked as though swept clean by a giant hand, but quiet had been restored among the buildings. Of her assailants there was no sign but three scorched patches near the steps, and not far from where a battered silver haired man-child was sitting on the doorstep of the tavern. His face was resting on his folded arms, and he could have almost been asleep.