by L. L. Bower
And that’s what trumps my fears—divine power. If this ordinary clock repairman were all on his own, he’d run and hide. But I’m not alone. Before I decided to embark on this quest, I asked the Creator for advice. He replied, “I’m with you.” That was all I needed to hear because he has more power than Crisa, Natas and all the good and evil magicians who have ever lived, put together.
Now the sun warms my back, and with my fairy-enhanced nose, I breathe in the clean mountain air with its hint of wild mint. I’m grateful the new morning hasn’t yet awakened the sleeping wind and that the rope and I aren’t buffeted by gusts.
After what seems like hours but is probably much less, the rock in front of me becomes more jagged. I scramble down and over a scree pile, still holding the rope. I’m thankful when my right foot touches something solid and stable. I look down to see that I’m standing on a wide layer of shale. I’ve reached the bottom.
I sigh with relief. At least I don’t have to hang from a rope for a while.
I release the rope and stretch my cramping hands. I’ll leave the rope in place, in case I return this way. With the doors to Craghollow closed and fairy patrols scouring the area, it’s okay to leave it in plain sight.
I look around and am pleased that I’m alone and have made it to the canyon floor without being attacked by a gryphon or dragon. Maybe the dark side doesn’t yet know I’ve left the mountain.
I know, I know, wishful thinking. But a guy can dream, can’t he?
I turn to view the moraine, a mass of earth and rock formed by a retreating glacier eons ago. It stretches for miles, a fact I noted when the doors to Craghollow were still open and before I began my downward climb. Looking across the valley from up high didn’t bother me like peering over the cliff’s edge. Weird, huh? Cremnophobia, a fear of precipices, is what my physician, Doc Smithson, calls it.
While I was still perched on the ledge at the entrance to Craghollow, I viewed Fairyland’s northernmost edge. A serrated mountain range called “Dragon’s Teeth” lies there. That’s where the king instructed me to go. From twenty miles away, I saw its tallest peak, “The Fang.” This mountain juts up through the clouds and is high enough to generate its own weather. That doesn’t concern me. I can change its weather to suit me.
The Dragon’s Teeth Mountains span many miles, and the king doesn’t know exactly where the stones are hidden. All he’s given me to go on is a centuries-old riddle passed from generation to generation of fairy royalty. “When the dragon’s mouth opens, its dagger is sharp.” “Sharp” pretty much describes every peak in that range. I have to trust my swords and the Creator’s guidance that I’ll not wander around up there for months, searching every crack and cranny for four, tiny pebbles.
Now, however, I can’t see the end of the moraine because slinky tendrils of fog swirl and creep in my direction. I decide not to invoke my weather powers to clear the air because, on this wide plateau, I’m already too vulnerable to aerial attack.
The misty shroud envelops me, and I’m grateful for its safety, coolness and musky smell.
I remove my climbing gloves and lift the huge backpack off my shoulders to root around in it, shifting items until I can pull out my helmet and hiking boots. In this pervasive fog, the helmet will signal any threat. It’s my third helmet—Galdo stole the first, and the second is back at Crisa’s compound.
This helmet, ordered together with a new suit of armor after I agreed to this quest, was also constructed by ground gnomes during my two weeks of R & R and then “magicked” by Crisa. That means she’s given me a panoramic view. Without turning my head, I can view red flashing outlines around potential attackers, front, rear, sideways and overhead. I’ll be aware of an enemy before he sees me in the fog. My headgear, like my suit of armor, fits like a second skin and is as light and airy as gauze but with the strength of steel. Thank you, gnomes!
I change to hiking boots, stow my climbing shoes and gloves, don my helmet and close the pack. Hoisting it over one shoulder, I’m relieved it’s much lighter now, without the boots and helmet.
In the two weeks I lived at Craghollow, Crisa helped me decide what to take on this journey. I packed a change of clothes, sleeping and climbing gear, all-purpose rope and enough food for at least a week. She also gave me a crash course, hopefully no pun intended, in rock climbing. I’m not close to her level of expertise, but, as evidenced by my still being alive, I can get up or down a mountain if I have to.
Why, you ask, would a sorceress climb like a regular human when she has magic at her disposal? Using strong magic weakens Crisa, and teleportation takes a great deal of her magical reserves. To preserve her strength for fighting evil, she prefers to travel conventionally whenever possible.
I thread my way over the shale, my armor rustling, my swords in their sheaths gently slapping against my sides. I’ve crisscrossed their straps over my shoulders to keep them out of my way. The pommels rest within easy reach, slightly above my hips. Two pouches of dust—one fairy, one pixie—lie secure against my chest beneath the chainmail. Both are recent gifts from the king.
As I walk forward, my super hearing detects the flutter of many wings, but they’re not the distinctive swoosh of dragons’ wings.
What’s following me, I wonder. Gryphon, raven, or something else?
I look up, but the fog encases me. My helmet doesn’t flash red, so what’s up there either isn’t a threat, or else the creatures are so high up I needn’t worry about them right now.
Alert to any further sounds overhead, I whisper the words “ready to fight,” which releases Noblesse’s grip on her sheath, and pull her out. The flapping noises continue as I move along the shale ledge. I have to peer downward to watch my footing, but I also have to raise my eyes from time to time to see if my helmet signals a threat above. It’s slow going.
I trudge on like this for some time, the crunch of shale below, the flap of wings above. Finally, I can stand it no longer. I point my sword skyward, and, using my supernatural weather ability, will the fog to clear over my head. Like always, I end my request with “by the power of the Creator.”
I grasp Noblesse with both hands and prepare for an attack. When the fog parts, I see blue sky, but I also see a mass of gray shadows between the heavens and me.
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About the Author
After two careers, one in business and one in academia, Laurel retired from teaching college literature, humanities and writing in 2015 to pursue her lifelong passion for writing.
While she's been published in other genres, fantasy has always been her favorite. She wanted to write the kind of fantasy she likes to read, with twists and turns and lots of quirky, mythological characters and amazing magic.
Fairy Wars: Spies Among Us is the second book in the Fairy Wars trilogy (Fairy Wars: The Dark Ones is her first book.). Look for the final installment in the trilogy – Fairy Wars: The Final Battles in 2018.
L.L. Bower has two grown children and four grandchildren. She and her husband Steve live in Meridian, Idaho with a cinnamon miniature named Winnie the “poo”dle.
Read more at L.L. Bower’s site.