Dreams and Shadows: A Novel

by C. Robert Cargill

  He looked at Knocks, shaking his head slowly. “There shouldn’t be fog in this weather,” he whispered, “not before the storm.”

  “Sorcery?” asked Knocks.

  Ruadhri nodded. “An ambush.” He motioned to his Sidhe, each dressed in dark, loose-fitting clothing, bearing bows and quivers full of cursed arrows. “Fan out,” he ordered quietly, “and keep your eyes sharp.”

  The Sidhe split up, several moving to the opposite side of the street. Two Sidhe moved to take point at the front of the group, walking slowly, soundlessly, straight up the middle along the dotted yellow median line. The fog had grown so thick that the air now buzzed with the humming of power lines overhead. There was no other sound.

  There came a light whistling—like air passing through something at high speed—then a heavy thump. A shadow descended through the fog, slamming into one of the front-most Sidhe, picking him up, carrying him away into the mist.

  The Sidhe let loose a volley of arrows into the sky.

  Quietly they waited, listening as their arrows skittered off buildings or clacked against concrete.

  Whistle; thump. The second of the front-most Sidhe vanished.

  “Volley and fall back!” ordered Ruadhri. The Sidhe let loose their bowstrings again, this time retreating back toward the lake under the cover of fire.

  Angels swooped in from behind, slamming into the Sidhe. Several Sidhe bounced off angelic shields, some knocked to the ground, others carried off, battered against buildings or dropped back onto the street from great heights.

  Knocks and Ruadhri exchanged troubled looks. Angels.

  Ruadhri swung his arm forward, pointing deeper into the city. “Draw your swords,” he ordered, “and press on. Charge!”

  The Sidhe surged forward, slinging bows over their shoulders, drawing longswords. The redcaps charged after them, vanishing into the morning.

  Thunder rumbled overhead, the subtle hiss of rain a few hundred yards off. The storm was almost here; they were losing whatever advantage they had. It was time to abandon the plan and simply go all-out. Knocks reached into his pocket, pulled out his stained, dried cap. It offered him no strength, but it made a point he wanted very much to make. Knocks belonged, and if he died this morning, he died a part of something.

  Knocks gritted his teeth—the pain in his stump far worse than he’d imagined it would be—letting his rage overtake him. He charged headlong into the city, screaming at the top of his lungs.

  COLBY LISTENED INTENTLY, scattered skirmishes erupting less than a block away. The fog was so thick, he couldn’t single them out, but he could hear swords unsheathed from their scabbards, the clanking of armor landing, the battle moving from the skies to the streets. He and Ewan held the line, waiting for any fairies who broke through.

  “YEEEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHH!” screamed a familiar voice, its sound growing ever closer by the second.

  Colby and Ewan both steadied themselves.

  Shapes swelled in the fog before Ewan, but the sound grew loudest near Colby. The two traded one last glance.

  Two redcaps emerged from the fog, swinging pikes at Ewan.

  Ewan raised his own pike, deflecting both blows, the sudden nature of the blitz forcing him to give ground, retreating back toward an alley, bracing himself for another charge.

  Colby raised an arm to react, but the screaming reached its apex. He turned in time to see Knocks tackle him, lunging headfirst out of the fog and into his chest.

  Colby fell to the ground, the strength of the charge sliding them both ten feet across the pavement, tearing his shirt, scraping several layers of skin off his back. He tried to cry out, but the blow had knocked the wind clean out of him. Knocks wasted no time, pounding Colby’s face with his one good fist. The blows felt like a hammer against his cheekbone, each hit simultaneously cracking the back of his skull against the ground.

  Colby rolled over, kicking Knocks off, throwing a punch of his own that glanced weakly off Knocks’s chin. Knocks swiftly rose to his feet, while Colby struggled to one knee, trying to regain both his footing and senses. He was stunned, wobbling on uneasy legs, unsure of what was going on. Once more, Knocks dove at him, swinging a haymaker across his jaw.

  Colby spun around, punch-drunk from the hit, collapsing.

  Knocks stood over Colby, fist clenched, ready to hit him again.

  From the fog came the sound of scurrying. Old Scraps emerged astride his galloping golden retriever, swinging his makeshift pike, hollering an unintelligible battle cry. The blade slashed Knocks along the backside of his legs, dropping the changeling face-first to the ground. Then, as quickly as he’d appeared, Scraps disappeared, up the block.

  Colby pushed himself to his feet, reaching with an outstretched hand toward Knocks. He closed his eyes and tried to feel the dreamstuff swirling within the changeling—hoping to evaporate it—but there was none. Try though he might, he could feel nothing there.

  Knocks pushed himself up, rising to his feet, mindful not to exacerbate his new wounds. He smiled, proud of himself. “You can’t disbelieve me,” he said. “I am not held together by the stuff of dreams or the will of men. I am glued with their hate, conjured from their loss, fueled by their pain. And those are all things I know for a fact that you believe in.”

  The staticky hiss of rain rolled over the buildings, onto the street. Fat drops slapped the earth, the hiss becoming a roar, drowning out the distant sounds of fighting, scattering the fog, tearing it apart drop by drop. At once everyone was soaked, the streets slick. While the fog was all but chased away, the air was now bleary with rain.

  Two Sidhe pushed through the last shreds of fog, emerging on either side of Knocks.

  Each raised their bows, leveling their lethal arrows at Colby.

  Knocks smiled. “Kill him.”

  Both exploded into a shower of petals—the heavy POP of air rushing into the vacuum left behind, taking the place of any final scream they might have had. Colby pulsed with the dreamstuff he had pulled in.

  “You might be nothing but hatred, Knocks,” said Colby, “but they aren’t.” He swung both arms out to his sides, letting loose a barrage of eldritch shards—pink glowing dreamstuff hardened into serrated pieces of glass—arcing across the street, homing in on Knocks.

  Knocks leapt out of the way, two shards tearing through the flesh of his stomach, another half dozen grazing layers of skin off his arms and legs.

  Colby unleashed a bolt of pure kinetic force, striking Knocks square in the chest, blasting him back a full city block.

  DIETRICH AND AXEL circled Ewan in opposite directions, their pikes leveled at his heart, both intending to be the first to spear him. Ewan spun about, keeping each redcap in his line of sight.

  “Be mindful of his pike,” said Dietrich. “Its cut cannot be healed.”

  “Aye,” said Axel.

  Ewan swung his pike at each, keeping them at bay, but they circled still. He eyed the two up and down, searching for a weak spot. Both were dressed from head to toe in greasy rags, their stance leaving their squat torsos relatively unexposed. Only Dietrich had anything different about him—an ornate, carved bottle of ancient glass dangling from a leather strap attached to his belt.

  Ewan had a pretty good idea what it was.

  Ewan swung his pike wildly, giving himself a wide berth. The redcaps stepped back cautiously, keeping pace with Ewan, refusing to give him any ground. Then Ewan dropped low, swinging at Dietrich’s midsection. Dietrich arched his back, dodging the blow—missing entirely that the blade wasn’t aimed at his flesh, but rather his belt. The pike sliced off the leather strap.

  The bottle clinked to the ground, bouncing off the pavement, rolling noisily down the street.

  For a moment they gaped wide eyed up the street—each comically looking back and forth at the other like players in a Three Stooges sketch, waiting for the others to react.

  Ewan raced after the bottle.

  Dietrich lunged for it.

  The bottle stopped with a
clang against the curb.

  The redcap reached for it. Ewan’s pike swung down. Dietrich flinched, the blade passing inches from his fingers. The pike connected with the neck of the bottle, shattering it.

  Dietrich and Axel stared in stunned silence.

  Ewan stepped forward toward the redcaps, his pike at the ready. Behind him, Yashar smoked up from the broken bottleneck, taking form from the head down. He grew eight feet tall, with golden, hairless skin and muscles that looked as if they could bench-press small cars. His arms were folded, his brow furrowed.

  “Ewan,” Yashar’s voice boomed.

  “Yeah?” said Ewan over his shoulder, refusing to take his eyes off Dietrich.

  “I got this.”

  Ewan stepped away. “They’re all yours.” He vanished, running off into the fog.

  Yashar unfolded his arms, pointing a single finger at Axel.

  Axel shook his head nervously, backing away. “No!” he cried. “It wasn’t me. It was him!” He pointed at Dietrich. “It wasn’t me!”

  “I know,” said Yashar. “You get off easy.” With a thought, he turned Axel inside out, the redcap’s innards splattering on the pavement with a wet slap. Yashar cocked his head at Dietrich.

  Dietrich eyed the pile of bone, muscle, and skin that was once his friend and then looked up at the djinn. Sneering, he spat angrily on the ground, cursing him. “Don’t keep me waiting,” he said. “Just do it.”

  Yashar flung himself at the redcap, grabbing him by his shirt with one hand, pummeling him mercilessly with the other. His huge fist pounded relentlessly into Dietrich, flesh and bone not slowing the beating for a moment. He picked him up off the ground, throwing him into a nearby brick wall, the redcap’s body flopping limp as a rag doll onto the ground below.

  Yashar was undeterred. He picked Dietrich up again, heaving him across the street, slamming him into another wall.

  Once more Dietrich hit the ground. What few remaining bones of his that weren’t completely shattered were merely broken. He tried to push himself up, but the bone in his forearm splintered, puncturing the skin. He cried out.

  Yashar slowly marched across the street, picking Dietrich up, throwing him one last time, putting him through a cinder-block wall. Blocks showered inward. Dietrich writhed on the floor, trapped beneath half a dozen blocks. With a single hand, Yashar palmed a cinder block, straddling the redcap.

  “You deserve far worse,” said Yashar, “but I don’t have the time.”

  The cinder block came down, bursting his head like a melon.

  Yashar took a deep breath. His flesh lost its golden sheen, returning to its native olive, terrible scars marring his once smooth skin. He shrank, tufts of thick black hair growing out of his head. Within seconds he was a somewhat disfigured mockery of his old self, brutalized and scarred, but whole.

  Colby stood behind him, eyeing the carnage. Yashar could feel him there but didn’t turn around.

  “Do you still hate me?”

  Colby shook his head. “Hate that strong is only worth carrying around with you if you aim to use it to kill a man. Otherwise, what are you keeping it for?”

  “And?” asked Yashar.

  “I don’t intend to kill you.”

  “I sold you out. I told them where Ewan was.”

  Colby nodded. “You can’t hold your breath underwater forever.”

  “No, you can’t.” Yashar stood up and turned around.

  Colby scrutinized him; Yashar was intact, but just barely. “Let’s go find Ewan.”

  SEVERAL REDCAPS HUDDLED together behind an imposing stone troll, cautiously moving up the street through an ever-thickening fog, their pikes extended, their faces full of fear. The troll was massive, carved from granite, with eyes of onyx, teeth made of jagged quartz, dragging an uprooted tree for a club, the sound of grinding stone echoing off the buildings around him as he moved. The fog grew thicker still. And it began to whisper awful things.

  The redcaps huddled closer, gripped their pikes tighter.

  The air grew colder. The world dimmed darker.

  “Just do it already,” one of the redcaps growled.

  The shadow materialized in the darkness. Snatched a redcap by its pike. Vanished into the murk.

  The redcap screamed as if his very flesh was being torn from his body.

  The troll swung its tree through the blackening mist, striking nothing. It bellowed a shrill, bitter boom that rattled windows, setting off car alarms blocks away.

  The screaming stopped. The bellow echoed into the distance, the patter of rain the only nearby sound. White knuckles clasped the two remaining pikes.

  A balled-up red knit cap and a pile of rent skin slopped on the pavement before them.

  The shadow emerged again, dragging another of the redcaps, hollering, off into the darkness.

  The last redcap flailed his pike, slashing repeatedly at the nothing surrounding him on all sides. The troll looked down at him, rockbound jaw dangling, onyx eyes wide with horror.

  The redcap grew uneasy, trying to puzzle out what the troll’s expression meant. Then he too was tugged away into the brume.

  The troll thrashed its tree, smacking the ground around it, its trunk audibly splintering, cracking. It cried out, confused, upset. He was alone and afraid in a dark morass, both hands tightly around his maul.

  Then the tree came alive, writhing, gnashing, clawing at the troll. He was wrestling a snake by its tail, fangs sinking into his stony flesh, breaking off chunks, spraying gravel.

  The troll tossed away the tree, cracking it in half against the corner of a nearby building.

  Bill the Shadow stepped from the fog, staring silently at the troll.

  The troll took one step back, rearing up, his arms stretched wide, ready to swat Bill between his hands.

  Bill slowly, politely, removed his hat, the shadows receding from his face. The troll stood in place, terrified by what he saw, eyes unable to break from Bill’s gaze.

  Breathing deep, Bill sucked the soul right out of his body, out through the troll’s mouth, into his own. The spirit held fast, howling, phantasmal hands clinging tight. But the pull was too great, Bill swallowing the troll whole, leaving its lifeless stone husk to shatter, instantly breaking apart into ten thousand tiny pieces.

  Bill looked at the carnage around him—blood and skin and stone—smiled wryly, and slowly returned his hat to his head before vanishing once more into the mists.

  OLD SCRAPS TORE wildly through the streets atop Gossamer. Though the golden retriever was clearly spooked by the chaos surrounding him, he obeyed unwaveringly. Gossamer was a family dog—a good dog, Gossamer had assured Scraps—that had gotten out through a hole in the fence chasing something he’d never smelled before. He lost his way and couldn’t remember his route home, so he walked the streets, hungry, for days until Old Scraps had found him. Old Scraps offered him a deal: if Gossamer would let Scraps ride him, he would show him the way home.

  So the two worked in tandem, riding up and down the sidewalks, slicing the hamstrings of any Sidhe they neared. Gossamer was fast, but tired, and it would be hours before Old Scraps sobered up. Both hoped that everything would be over soon.

  From the looks of it, it was.

  The Sidhe had fallen back, rallying together, unleashing flight after flight of arrows into the sky. The angels had taken to the ground, but weren’t as quick or lithe as the Sidhe who attacked them from afar, slicing chunks out of the weak spots in their armor. Though determined, the angels were being battered into weariness, a few dropping from too many cursed arrows, a few more dropping from too much whiskey.

  Bertrand still stood, his sword dripping, his armor sprayed with a light coating of fairy blood. A redcap charged him from behind the Sidhe ranks, his pike low, his speed incredible. The angel sidestepped, putting his sword through the chest of the creature, severing its upper body from its lower. One half of the redcap hit the ground a second after the other.

  Before he could celebrate, Bertr
and caught an arrow in the eye, falling to the ground, desperately trying to pull it out. The Sidhe raced to put their swords into him.

  Old Scraps spurred Gossamer on, the two charging as fast as they could toward the gathering remains of the Sidhe, hoping to buy Bertrand time to get to his feet.

  “One more pass, Goss,” said Old Scraps, “and then we’re going home to sleep this off.”

  The arrows missed Gossamer entirely, several catching Scraps directly in the chest. His rosy cheeks and nose went white. Gossamer sprinted around the corner of a building, finally coming to a stop. The wily old cluricaun looked down at the three arrows sticking out of him, swearing. He couldn’t feel them, but he knew it was bad. His head felt fuzzy, the world tipping slightly on its side. Slowly he slid off Gossamer, slamming into the pavement. Everything grew blurry.

  If I survive this, he thought, I am going to wake up with the worst hangover of all time. And then he died.

  Gossamer sniffed him, nuzzling him with his nose, trying to rouse him. He barked sharply. Then he barked again, nuzzling him once more. Old Scraps wouldn’t wake up. Bark! Bark bark! No response.

  Gossamer licked the cluricaun’s face, but still he would not wake. The dog lay down in the rain-soaked street beside him, letting out a deep sigh. Now he would never find his way home.

  KNOCKS STAGGERED TO his feet, massaging his chest, wheezing for breath. Colby hadn’t just knocked the wind out of him, he’d bruised his lungs, broken a rib. There was very little time left. The second wave of fairies would swarm over the town shortly, making easy work of the remaining angels. He needed to find Ewan before then, before someone else robbed him of the pleasure.

  And then he appeared.

  Ewan walked slowly, determined, toward the changeling, his pike held firmly in his hand.

  Knocks smiled. This is happening. It’s really happening.

  Ewan stopped ten steps short of Knocks, propping the pike up heroically next to him. The two locked gazes. Neither man blinked.