by S A Archer
The goblins ignored his protests. They overwhelmed him with the strength of their numbers as they always did, clamping the shackles on him and returning him to his cell.
Rand crossed to the bars and stared down at Malcolm. “Getting cheeky. Better bring the vamps more often. Keep him drained. Take the fight out of him.”
Malcolm glared at Rand.
Apparently, Rand didn’t give a shite how much hate Malcolm leveled at him. He jerked Flora to her feet, then the two of them vanished. The goblins wondered off, since Malcolm just lay where they dumped him.
Even after he was alone for a while, he waited. Listening. Watching.
Malcolm flexed his fingers. Pain lanced through them. It murdered him, but he could still use his hands.
His future as a drummer in a rock band was not completely crushed just yet, he snorted to himself.
Then he crawled back over to the wall where he’d sat before.
To where the hair he’d ripped out of Flora’s head was discarded.
He fingered through it. A slow smile tugged at his lips as he raised what he’d hoped he’d find.
A bobby pin.
Chapter Fifty-Four
As Lugh watched the coming night shadows paint the landscape that streamed past, he only partially gathered what Willem was chattering about. The chill of the air whipped through the opened window of the auto, carrying with it the twilight scents of the countryside. These lengthy drives were cumbersome, especially for his long torso and legs folded into a compact vehicle. Willem, on the other hand, relished the dubious amusement of human magicraft. For Lugh, it was nothing but a temporary concession to conserve their depleted magic.
As they neared the temple of the All-Mother, Willem departed from the paved thoroughfare. The lanterns affixed to the front of the auto illuminated the pathless ground before them. At least it was normally undetectably marred by their occasional passages. This evening the underbrush appeared more damaged than usual. Lugh straightened in the seat to better spy what lay before them. In the lea of the temple hill, a pack of unattended autos crowded the clearing.
“Halt,” Lugh instructed, already jerking the handle to release the door. The auto bounced to a stop even as Lugh climbed out. From the aft seat, he flicked away the blanket that cloaked his short sword, bow and quiver of arrows. “Conceal the auto and yourself.”
The Scribe didn’t question his order. Lugh bypassed the clearing with the trespassing autos, making for the temple in a wide arc that avoided the path. On silent feet that crunched no leaf and snapped no twig, he slipped through the sentinel trees that guarded the hills beneath which the Mounds once thrived. Even in a crouch, he darted swiftly up the incline. The Glamour that once hid the white marble hung in tatters. Wisps of the illusion of ivy fluttered to the whims of the breeze. The flickering of firelight glowed inside the temple’s entrance.
A duo of Changelings loitered on the portico, fearless and laughing. Though they were in the guise of humans, Lugh recognized their manner of movement. The sway to their stance and the twist to their bearing would have unbalanced a true human.
Lugh nocked an arrow. The bowstring whispered a creak as he drew it back. He leveled his aim. The first arrow he loosed struck a Changeling in the eye, killing him before his head snapped back. Even as his companion reacted to the unexpected movement, Lugh’s second arrow impaled the soft hollow of his throat, muting his outcry before it found voice.
For the span of several breaths, Lugh observed the temple. No other creatures scurried in the shelter of the moon shade. With the cunning of a proficient huntsman, Lugh advanced at a silent sprint.
Even as he burst through the temple entrance Lugh fired an arrow at a Changeling dragging a human corpse toward the bonfire, knocking the fey into the pyre with the other bodies. Thickening blood glistened in smears and splatters that marred the stark white stones. Oily soot from the smoke blackened the ceiling before billowing out of the terrace entryway that overlooked the cratered remnants of the Mounds. Despite the height of the burning pile, more human and fey carcasses yet remained scattered about the Great Hall. The fallen fey, Lugh knew. The humans, though dead, were as much intruders as the Changelings looting the temple and its fallen guardians. Those Changelings swarmed toward Lugh with malice.
With the proximity of the ensuing combat, Lugh abandoned his bow for the short sword. Lacking armor or shield to provide defense, Lugh depended on elegant footwork and countercutting blows that both blocked and attacked with uniting movements that resembled a dance more than battle. With precision in distance and timing, each of his cutting blows and thrusts were delivered with full force.
Lugh spun, bringing the sword up in an artistic arc that severed the arm of a Changeling, sending it tumbling end over end away from him. He twisted aside as the fey crumpled. The elegance of Lugh’s wrath was pure Sidhe as his sword traced a figure eight in the air, which decapitated the body plummeting past him even as he parried the incoming blade of a second Changeling.
As his blow deflected the second attacker’s arm wide, Lugh wrapped his hand behind the fey’s neck. Lugh jerked him forward as he plunged his blade through the Changeling’s abdomen. The sword pierced through his back, pointing like a bloody finger at the three remaining foes. Lugh kicked the fatally wounded Changeling off of his sword, casting him unceremoniously to the marble floor.
With his stance angled, making himself a narrower target, Lugh flicked his sword to cast the blood from the blade. The remaining Changelings, more opportunistic scavengers than true warriors, abandoned their spoils and teleported away, leaving the temple eerily still in the wake of their violence.
Lugh knelt over the Changeling he’d impaled. He seized the fey by the neck. His thumb and forefinger angled into the soft underside of his jaw just beneath his ears. Lugh hauled the man’s face toward him, inflicting as much suffering as he could ensure with such a grasp. “You dared to desecrate the All-Mother’s sanctuary?”
The Changeling pried at Lugh’s grip, but the Sidhe refused to grant him escape from the torment. His voice hissed past the constriction on his trachea. “The reign… of the Sidhe… is over.”
Lugh bashed the Changeling’s head on the stone floor and then he jerked him back up by the neck. “Why have you come? To advance what scheme?”
The Changeling spat at him. “Die like the rest of the bloody Sidhe.”
Lugh heard his anger resonate through the temple, though he scarcely realized that he’d screamed his fury. He slammed the Changeling’s head down again with all the force he could muster. The skull didn’t rebound this time, but crushed instead. The fragile bone shielding the Changeling’s windpipe snapped within the curve of Lugh’s grip. Even in death, those wicked black eyes mocked him.
With revulsion, Lugh propelled himself to his feet. Fueled by his wrath, he stalked through the temple, surveying the totality of the slaughter and verifying that no foe yet lurked. What fey dwelled in the temple when Lugh departed that morning either perished in the assault or fled. The All-Mother’s temple, once a sanctuary to those devoted to her, was now nothing but a tomb for her fallen defenders.
He dashed down to the trail where he’d left Willem, locating the Scribe still flinging brush over the auto he meant to conceal. Even in the faint glow of twilight Willem spied the gore befouling Lugh’s clothing. He caught Willem’s arm before his healer’s instincts sent him rushing off in a vain search for survivors. “We require a vehicle sufficient to transport all that is essential. Quickly now!” Lugh urged the smaller man to his task and then returned to the necessary duties.
Lugh labored swiftly. The Changelings failed to discover the secret passage to the undercroft. Utilizing a handcart, Lugh loaded all the journals of magicraft written in the All-Mother’s own hand, what artifacts from the first realm of fey they’d recovered since th
e Collapse, and finally, the glass casket of the All-Mother, Danu, herself. By the time he emerged from the temple with his burden Willem had already positioned a delivery truck near the temple steps. They transferred their treasures to the vehicle with silent efficiency.
Shock-laden curiosity troubled Willem’s expression as he stole glances toward the temple and the smoke billowing from the back of it, nearly disguised by the pitch of night. He’d yet to witness for himself the carnage, and Lugh loathed to speak of it. The Scribe served in the All-Mother’s temple for centuries, to be certain. The torment of the grisly images grieved Lugh even after living with these fey for mere weeks, though he schooled his expression not to show it overly much. Willem tore his focus back to Lugh. “Nothing remains to be done?”
“One last service. I shan’t tarry but a few moments. Be ready to depart.” Lugh returned to the undercroft and resealed the passage. Within Danu’s magicraft workshop he located all that he required. He tied a strip of fabric about his head to cover his nose and mouth. To shield his flesh up to his elbows, he donned heavy leather gauntlets with cuffs that ensconced his forearms. Finally, he slipped a robe over himself and drew the hood down as far as he could and still see where he was going. From under the workbench he removed a ceramic jar of silver powder. Lugh used the scoop to scatter a liberal layer of silver over each fey body. Had there been time and resources, he’d have summoned the tribes of each type of fey to retrieve their dead and minister unto them according to their traditions. In dire circumstances such as what besought them, he could do no more than ensure that no predator desecrated the dead for whatever foul purpose might suit them. He scattered silver even over the Changelings. Only the humans, whose bodies would not rapidly disintegrate beneath the silver, did he leave to char in the pyre or to be dispatched by the woodland scavengers.
Lugh discarded the jar of silver by the last corpse. His eyes burned from the dust that floated like motes upon the whims of the air when he left. Once outside, he shrugged off the protective gear, abandoning it with all that remained in the temple. He climbed into the passenger side of the truck that already idled, lingering only for him. “Make for the Ring of Kerry.”
Though the concern was evident in Willem’s demeanor, he spoke not. Keeping his thoughts private, he began to drive.
Chapter Fifty-Five
You know you’ve lived a sheltered life when you have a bobby pin and you still can’t pick your way out of a pair of shackles.
He managed to get the left shackle off. Malcolm went almost a whole day with that wrist breathing the semi-free air. Using his left hand on the right shackle was trickier. When the goblins brought the daily slop he had to shackle himself before they found out.
The lock on the cage posed a greater obstacle. A heavy metal key opened it. His little bobby pin didn’t have the length or the weight to manipulate the tumblers.
Malcolm did his best to probe the lock, since the keyhole was big enough that he could jam a finger into it. He could feel the shape of the gizmos inside, but not move them.
He wanted to toss the bobby pin down in frustration, but it was a hard-won prize. The first glimmer of the possibility of hope.
That was until sounds of laughter dragged like icy fingers over his soul. Alerted by the approaching sounds, Malcolm backed away from the lock. He secreted the bobby pin under its rock hiding place before the goblins brought their latest clients to feast on Malcolm.
And feast these guys planned to do. Five of them. Three male. Two female. All vamps.
Their unholy eyes glowed in the low light. Skin a corpse pale. They did nothing to disguise their fangs, baring them hungrily as they leered at Malcolm. Rand was nowhere around. He usually brought them. Made sure the vamps didn’t kill him in their blood craze.
And then it dawned on him. Rand had said to have vamps drain him frequently. And the goblins usually did whatever Rand said. Only the goblins weren’t too bright. They figured they were supposed to find more vampires, only they wouldn’t know when to stop the vamps before they killed him.
The goblins dragged Malcolm forward by the shackles. He dug in his heels. But his bare feet couldn’t keep a grip. The other goblins pushed him from behind like a reluctant mule, forcing him out into the chamber.
“Where’s Rand?” Malcolm demanded of the goblins. “Rand has to be here. That’s how this works.” The goblins ignored him, like always.
“So beautiful,” The smaller female toyed with the fur stole slung around her shoulders.
“Sidhe blood,” the young-looking, blond male breathed with awe. “Is it all they say it is?”
“And more,” the Dracula-wanna-be in the center lunged at Malcolm, shoving the goblins out of his way.
Malcolm ducked beneath the first attempt to snag him. When he scrambled backward he stumbled over the goblins behind him. The blond vamp made a rugby tackle, driving Malcolm to the floor.
The vampires surrounded him like a pack of wolves. These vamps showed no fear of the goblins, shoving them aside. “Change him! Make the Sidhe a vampire, so he must serve you and we can keep his blood all to ourselves!” The small female squealed with wicked glee.
The leader gripped Malcolm by the hair, twisting him around so the fey’s back was to him, with his neck arched.
The other four each claimed a limb, raising Malcolm into the air. Fangs sank into his biceps, just below the armpit. Others bit into the insides of his thighs. Struggling got him nowhere.
No escape.
With a snarl the leader sank his fangs into Malcolm’s neck.
Each bite tore fresh pain into Malcolm, followed immediately by a throbbing pleasure. Not as intoxicating as the brew, but it left him dizzy. Malcolm’s eyes rolled back. Blackness crept into the corners of his vision, threatening to swallow him whole.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Donovan crouched on a ridge in the foothills in southwestern Ireland, studying the cave tucked into the other side of the valley. Or rather, he watched the creatures milling about in front of the cave. Goblins. One of the nastier tribes from the looks of them.
The goblins wandered a short distance before turning back, patrolling in haphazard goblin fashion. Hunched low, they dragged their claw-tipped fingers on the ground. Each time they screeched their jaws full of needle-sharp teeth gleamed.
With a tremor, Donovan’s magic expanded from him and into the earth, his element. The familiar warmth and depth of potential power washed over him. Tiernan hadn’t exaggerated. Donovan could easily bring the mountain down, disintegrating the network of caves within, as effortlessly as he could crush an anthill. Ready to do just that, his magic flexed with anticipation.
Donovan trusted Tiernan in as far as he trusted that Tiernan would do what best served his own interests first, and the Unseelie second. Whatever questionable informant passed this intelligence to Tiernan, Donovan trusted not at all. The war between the Sidhe and the goblins flared and faded, but never truly ended. Donovan never bothered to track the number of casualties caused by his hand or magic, but of the goblins he could easily imagine he’d exterminated thousands. When the goblins invaded in stampedes one could slice through them with a sword endlessly and the flood never seem to cease. What they lacked in strength and wit, they compensated with massive numbers and a tenacious streak of cruelty.
From his crouched position, Donovan rested a palm on the ground before him, deepening his communion with the earth. His awareness spread through the silent ground until vibrations fluttered against the rocks. Within his mind’s eyes, the labyrinth of caves formed. Not terribly vast, but a complex design meant to confuse intruders and prevent them from finding the heart of the nest.
Goblins in general tended to scuttle. Their breathing came in raspy hisses when not screeching or laughing. Even their heartbeats, the vibrations of which he could discern through
the rock, fluttered like the rapid beating of a pixie’s wings. As Donovan’s awareness surveyed the nest he noted the concentration of the goblins in various caverns, searching for the creatures out of place among the vermin fey.
Not until the deepest chamber did he find an aberration. Or rather several aberrations. Movement and breathing from beings with no heartbeats. Vampires. Hardly the usual visitors to a goblins’ nest. Not much of the conversation bouncing off the walls gave an explanation for their presence there, just the murmur of excitement.
And nearby, one other. One with a heartbeat unlike the goblin’s flutter or the silence of the vampire. This could be the rumored Sidhe. Enough of a confirmation to warrant further investigation. Not something the goblins would readily permit.
With a stroke of power, Donovan brought a landslide of loose rocks tumbling down the hillside above the cavern. The landslide swept over the entrance and washed away the guards, burying them further down in the valley below. The fall of debris didn’t obscure the cave. Donovan teleported across the expanse to the cave entrance, prepared to slaughter all who challenged him. The goblins he would not spare. As for the Sidhe who employed the filthiest excuses for fey, Donovan would educate him with a merciless ass kicking.
Striding with the power and pride of the Sidhe, Donovan delved into the nest. Surrounded by his element, it only strengthened him. Anger for the Sidhe he stalked boiled like magma, ready to explode. Sensing all movement scraping the stone floor he felt an approaching goblin before he saw him. Sweeping his hand sideways in front of his body a rock beside the goblin’s head thrust out with the speed of a bullet. It slammed the goblin’s head against the opposing wall and crushed its skull before it even had a chance to scream.