The Road to Bedlam cotf-2

by Mike Shevdon

  The Road to Bedlam

  ( Courts of the Feyre - 2 )

  Mike Shevdon

  The Road to Bedlam

  Mike Shevdon

  ONE

  Kayleigh was running out of places to look. It wasn't like Alex to skip lessons like this. Well, OK, just that once, but they'd done it together, scaring each other with the prospect of getting caught in town when they should be at school. This was different. They had arranged to meet before Geography so that they could swap ideas on the homework, so where was she?

  She went through the outer doors, peeping around the wall in case a teacher lurked there. The playground was empty; no teachers and no Alex. She was about to go back into the building when she heard a noise from the gym block. It was more of a yell than a scream and it wasn't Alex's voice, but there shouldn't be anyone in the gym block at this time.

  She checked the playground again and ran across the tarmac, praying the teachers in the rooms facing the playground were now engaged with their mid-morning classes and too busy to be looking out of the windows. She reached the side door to the gym and slipped through, breathing hard. The echo from her school shoes on the wooden floor where outdoor footwear wasn't allowed made her walk around the edge rather than crossing the open space. She stopped and listened. There were voices in the girls' changing room.

  She tiptoed quickly down the passage and stopped. The voices were louder. She leaned on the door, pushing it open slightly, and recognised Tracy Welham's voice and the unmistakable smell of cigarettes. She was about to ease the door closed again and leave them to coat their lungs with tar when she heard Alex.

  "I won't tell anyone, honest, but you have to let me past."

  "Have to, do I?" challenged Tracy. She was in the year above them and had a bad reputation.

  "You'd better let me go now," Alex asserted, "or something bad is going to happen."

  "Yeah," Tracy said, "something bad is going to happen. Grab her."

  It was the sound of the scuffle that drove Kayleigh into the changing rooms. Two other girls, mates of Tracy's, were holding Alex, forcing her into one of the cubicles. At the sound of the door, Tracy turned to face Kayleigh.

  "You'd better let her go or I'm gonna get the teachers." Kayleigh raised her voice, keen to make sure the others heard her.

  "Get out of here now, horse-face," said Tracy, "or you're getting the same."

  They crowded Alex into the cubicle and she could hear the grunts and shoves as Alex struggled against the two older girls.

  Tracy tossed the cigarette into one of the sinks and made a grab for Kayleigh's long hair. Kayleigh evaded her, slipped back past the changing room door and pulled it behind her. Tracy's arm came through the gap and Kayleigh trapped it in the door.

  "You little sod!" Tracy's hand grasped for Kayleigh. "I'm gonna rip your hair out."

  "Kayleigh!" Alex's voice sounded hollow in the tiled room. "Tell them to stop, tell them I can't hold it. It's getting free. I can't hold it!"

  Kayleigh's mind raced. "You have to let her go," she shouted through the door at Tracy. "She's not herself. You don't understand. She's really going to lose it."

  "Yeah, we're really scared about that." Tracy shouted to her mates, "Drown the little bitch." She pulled her arm back and slammed the door closed on Kayleigh.

  Kayleigh shoved at the door, her shoes sliding on the smooth floor as she pushed against Tracy holding it shut from the other side.

  "You don't understand. You have to let her go!"

  From behind the door came the sound of burbling and then coughing and retching.

  "Drown the bitch!" Tracy urged them.

  The sound of burbling resumed, but underlined by another gurgling sound. Kayleigh hammered on the door, screaming for them to stop. The gurgling deepened to a low rumble, the sound vibrating in Kayleigh's bones, making her teeth ache. The temperature dropped suddenly. The chill sent goosebumps down Kayleigh's arms.

  There was a moment of silence.

  Then the rumbling returned, building to a crescendo until everything burst at once behind the door. Kayleigh hammered on the door, screaming to them to open it before it was too late, pleading with Tracy. Water started streaming out from under the door, pooling around Kayleigh's feet. Suddenly Tracy was trying to pull it open.

  Water crashed into the gap, the weight of it against the door pressing it shut. Tracy was screaming to her to push, her hands white against the edge of the door as water and sewage from the drains put pressure on the gap. Kayleigh tried to wedge her foot in it but the flow was too strong, it was thrusting her aside. The door slammed shut on Tracy's fingers. Kayleigh heard her yank them free with a bone-popping wrench.

  The screams turned to hammering as the changing room rapidly filled with foul-smelling water. Kayleigh could hear them shouting and yelling as the water swirled around them. Water was pouring under the door, spraying round the edges as the pressure built. She could see the door handle rattle and then jerk as hands were dragged away, screams gulped off as they lost their footing and were swept under. Their cries echoed, rising and fading as the water began to turn, the screams turning to gasps as they tried to swim against the swirling current. Her imagination conjured the vortex, tugging at their clothes, pulling them into the centre, dragging them under.

  Kayleigh turned and ran down the passage and out through the gym screaming for someone, anyone, to come and help. She ran across the playground, tears streaming down her face, shouting until her voice cracked, knowing it was already too late.

  The pool of light was no more than twelve feet across and, for this critical moment, defined my world. Beyond its boundary circled my attackers. They would not kill me, at least not on purpose, but they would hurt me if they could.

  The blade in my hand was heavy, a training blade made of dark wood, the handle worn smooth by calloused hands and burnished with sweat. I held it level, two-handed, keeping my grip light but firm, giving it the potential for movement in any direction and leaving my assailants no clue as to how I would react.

  It had been a long day, both physically and mentally. I was already aching and sore from earlier sessions and I was unlikely to leave this circle without further bruises to add to my collection.

  I took a slow breath, rejecting the distraction of consequences. I had to stay in the moment and not let my mind wander. I had to deny them an opening, an opportunity to step into my circle and attack.

  This was my circle. It had been made for me to define the space I must defend. Every day the circle got smaller, sometimes by a little, sometimes a lot – giving me less time to manoeuvre. I'd given up trying to predict how it would change, only acknowledging that it would not grow in size, only shrink.

  A shift in the air brought me round as a dark figure danced into the light, blade arcing down at my head. I stepped forward and around, sliding my own blade upwards so that his cut glanced off my blade with a clack and swished down over my shoulder. I spun and sliced my blade where the shadow had been but it just whistled through empty air, the figure once again merging with the shadows.

  'Too slow," chuckled Tate, his deep voice rumbling from the darkness.

  I stepped back into the centre only to have a figure leap in front of me launching a series of short diagonal strikes. I used my own blade to deflect each one, slowly giving ground, only to realise that her intent was not to hit me, but to drive me backwards out of the circle. Once outside the pool of light I would be at the mercy of anyone already accustomed to the shadow. I deflected the next cut and shoved the attacking sword away, using its momentum to break my attacker's balance and letting my own point drop. I reversed my grip and punched the pommel hard into the attacker's midriff.

  Ther
e was an answering grunt as my blow sank home and the figure folded over, at the same time trying to tangle my wrist in her grip. I wrenched the sword away, lowering my stance to give me posture and drawing the blade up in a long slice. It found only shadows.

  "Good. You remembered." This was the voice of my tutor and I smiled at the rare praise. It was he who had taught me that both ends of a sword were a weapon.

  I circled slowly, regaining my position at the centre. This would not end until someone went down. The fight wasn't over until it was won or lost, another maxim from my lessons.

  I barely saw the next attack. The figure emerged at my left flank, almost casually. He cut downwards in one clean strike, my ears registering the whistle of the blade even as I stepped sideways to avoid it, no time for a deflecting blow. It glanced painfully off my shoulder, but I used the angular momentum to launch a horizontal cut that would part his head from his shoulders.

  My slice whirred through empty space as I felt something hook behind my ankle. It was whipped upwards and I sailed over backwards landing with a crunch on my shoulders. The air was driven from my lungs in a great whoosh, my blade bouncing out of my hand across the floor.

  A point pressed against my throat, just hard enough to make breathing difficult.

  "How many times have I told you not to let go of your weapon?" Garvin paused, literally pressing home his point, and then withdrawing it, allowing me to respond.

  "I couldn't hold it."

  "No wonder. You went down like a sack of gravel."

  His form blended and shifted from the indistinct shadowy figure that had decked me into a lean wiry man in a charcoal jacket and turtleneck shirt. The style was austere and it suited him.

  The fluorescent lights flickered on and the circle vanished in their glare.

  I lay on my back, trying to catch my breath. Amber was by the door, switching the lights back on. She showed no indication of being winded after the punch in the midriff, her quiet eyes observing me as she observed everything.

  Tate, the other assailant, grinned at me in the harsh light. Garvin collected my sword from the floor and then walked across the tiles to the wall-mounted rack where the weapons were stored. He checked down the length of each blade carefully before stowing his sword and mine in their appointed places.

  Then he took another practice blade from the rack and paced back towards me. I recognised it immediately and sagged at what the heavier, longer blade meant.

  "Two hundred," he instructed me.

  Sitting up, I took the heavier blade from him. It meant two hundred practice cuts against the car tyre that hung at chest height from a chain in the corner before I could leave for the evening. I sighed deeply, knowing that I could tell him no, but that if I did, he would instruct me no further.

  I nodded and he turned and walked away towards the door. Tate stood, leaning on the end of his sword, his grin widening at my misfortune.

  "It's a sword, not a walking stick, Tate," Garvin reminded him as he came to the door. "Clean and check the weapons."

  The smile vanished from Tate's lips and he lifted the end of the sword from the floor, saluting in acceptance of the rebuke and of the chore that went with it. Though I rated Tate as a fighter, I also knew that he would do whatever Garvin told him, almost without question. It was a matter of leadership. Garvin led and Tate followed.

  I pulled myself to my feet, careful not to use the practice sword for support in case that earned me a further two hundred cuts. A glance towards the door showed that Garvin had left, Amber in tow.

  "He had you clean there, Niall." Tate's rumbling chuckle made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  "That's true, but a few weeks ago he would never have had the opportunity because either you or Amber would have been there first."

  His smile widened. "You're coming along, sure enough," he said, nodding, acknowledging the progress I had made, "but I could still take you in an even fight."

  I let the wooden sword swing gently back and forth in my hand and looked him over. He was taller than me and heavier. His dark brown hair fell in long waves to his shoulders, adding to the impression of bulk. He was certainly stronger than me and I knew that for all his muscled bulk he could move like quicksilver when he wanted to.

  "With one of these, maybe," I indicated the heavier practice sword, "but with something lighter? I'm not sure that's true any more, Tate."

  It wasn't a challenge. A challenge implied ego and that had been knocked out of me in the months since I'd started my training as a Warder, at least as far as swords were concerned. But part of mastering a weapon was knowing how good you were, who you could take and who you couldn't. A few weeks ago, I wouldn't have speculated, but now? I really didn't know who would win.

  "Some other time, huh? I've the weapons to check over."

  It was my turn to grin.

  He nodded and turned to the weapons racks to carry out his chore. I knew that he would inspect every blade carefully, rather than have Garvin find one later with a chip out of it or a crack along the grain. Garvin had told him to check them and he would, because that was what Garvin expected.

  I went over to where the tyre hung from its chain. I knew that cutting at the heavy reinforced rubber built strength and stamina, but that didn't make it any easier. In a real fight it wouldn't matter if I was tired, bruised and sore, but this wasn't a real fight.

  My first two cuts set the pace and after that I let my body take over, varying the cuts each time as I'd been taught. Overhead down, left side, inside left, slide and cut, turn and slice. My body followed the rhythm of it, the heavy thwack of the sword against the rubber punctuating the turns and twists, my brain counting down the cuts to zero.

  After fifty strokes I broke the rhythm, preventing my imaginary opponent from guessing the timing. The whistle and thwack of the blade accelerated and slowed, doubled and paused. I tailored my movements, becoming sharp then smooth, elaborate then direct, spurring myself to find new ways of hammering the swinging rubber.

  I missed the time on one, sending shock waves vibrating up my wrist, and reacted by turning and sliding the blade through the centre in a long thrust designed to impale before spinning around, letting the blade whistle out in a flat blur that whacked the tyre into a spin. I spun back to intercept and then let it spin.

  I had reached two hundred.

  The tyre wound down, turning one way then the other, as I went through a series of stretches and stances, letting my muscles recover slowly, using the effort to ease the tension between my shoulders and the tingling in my wrist.

  Tate had waited for me and took the practice sword with a grin. He wiped it over with a cloth and then inspected it for damage before returning it to its place on the rack. We walked in companionable silence through to the changing rooms. I stripped off gingerly and inspected the livid bruises I had accumulated through the day. My fey genes meant that they would be gone by tomorrow, only to be replaced by a fresh set.

  Tate shed his clothes and was already in the shower by the time I had my towel ready, his gravelly voice singing a song I didn't recognise about a fair maid whom he was trying to tempt with a variety of unlikely and sometimes grisly gifts.

  "Did you make that up?" I asked him, stepping under the cascade of hot water.

  He stopped singing. "Mostly not, though some of the verses are mine."

  "It's an unlikely courtship," I suggested. "What kind of girl wants a severed head as a betrothal gift?"

  "It's the head of her enemy, so I suppose it has its attractions." He shrugged.

  "It doesn't seem much like a love token."

  "She's a fey lass, so who knows what she wants?" Tate stepped past me, grinning, grabbed his towel and wrapped it around his waist.

  I had to admit, he had a point.

  I stayed under the hot water, letting the percussion and warmth ease my muscles while Tate went back into the changing room to get dry. After a few moments, his deeply resonant tone resumed the song.


  I thought of my own fey lass, waiting for me. I didn't think that she would welcome a severed head as a gift, but then she wasn't truly fey any more than I was. The true fey were altogether more strange.

  Not for the first time I shook my head at the turn my life had taken in the last nine months. My first encounter with the Feyre had been only the previous September when, having had a heart attack on the underground, I had been rescued by an old lady who had woken the fey magic within me to heal my failing heart.

  I shook my head and smiled. The old lady had turned out to be a lot older than she looked, though she had changed now so that she appeared to be in her midtwenties. She had become my guide, my mentor and eventually my lover and I had gambled my life in a trial by ordeal for her safety and that of my daughter.

  My daughter, Alex, had taken to Blackbird. I had hoped that they would get on well enough to bear each other's company, but I had found myself prodded into jealousy by the way they bonded. They would sit on the sofa, heads together, whispering to each other, and when challenged would tell me that it was nothing to concern me.

  When I'd asked Blackbird what they were talking about, I'd been told to mind my own business.

  "She's my daughter," I had protested.

  "All the more reason that you shouldn't ask."

  "Have you told her about me being fey?" I asked her.

  "No. You're her father. When the time is right, you should tell her."

  Blackbird left me with that thought. I'd held off telling Alex about the gifts I'd inherited from our unknown fey ancestor and the possibility that she would also inherit them. I reasoned that it was partly because I didn't really know whether it would happen or not, and partly because I dreaded what it might mean if it did.

  My own gifts came from my affinity with the void, an element that the Feyre believed separated one thing from another, preventing matter from collapsing in on itself. If Alex had inherited that from me then she would inherit the female form of the gift, an ability to become incorporeal, a ghostly shadow of herself, invulnerable to physical harm. She would also inherit darkspore, a corruption that she would be able to spread at will on any surface, allowing her to consume other beings and feed on their flesh.