by Phil Parker
‘Slow. Stiff. Predictable. Yet you were always Mab’s favourite. I was the superior swordsman but she preferred you.’
Over at the archway something was happening, there was noise, orders given. It was enough to distract him just long enough for me to get to my feet.
‘Perhaps. But that scar on your face was my work.’
The smile disappeared. I’d allowed him to dictate the action long enough.
‘That wasn’t you.’
He stood motionless. His denial confused me.
‘We fought in the Belthane Lists, I gave you that scar in the final tourney.’
He shook a head that was more like the skull of man who’d been dead for six months.
‘No. I got it from the crazed maniac you release when your limited swordplay proves insufficient.’
For as long as I could remember, men had insulted me because of what I was. As a boy, Commander Taranis’ sneering words would echo across the training ground as he ridiculed me. ‘You fight like a girl, no wonder you get fucked like one’. There’d be howls of laughter from the vicious bastards who provided the instruction and much of the fucking at night. He made me train longer, pit me against vicious men rather than kids my own age, so that later they could abuse me as my forfeit for failing to win. The first man I ever killed was one of them and I paid dearly for the privilege, suffered in ways that birthed the creature that would never leave me, no matter how hard I tried to exorcise it. Banishing it to the deep recesses of my brain was my only means of controlling the beast. The creature others had named Puck. Now, my adversary wanted to fight him, rather than me.
So be it.
I exploded into action. My sword arm took over, performed moves embedded in muscle memory and with such speed my weapon was a blur.
Ankou’s eyes glanced into mine as he fended off the attack, they reminded me of our fight on London bridge when he’d watched Puck rise to face him there. Those black irises flared with the challenge as he fought the creature he clearly believed he could beat.
I didn’t notice any of that, at the time, the monster looks for other things, seconds where decisions get taken, ones that lead to bloodshed and death.
We fought as the things we were; two ancient warriors who didn’t care if they died, so long as the other died too. The parlour tricks ended, so did the conversation, this was a silent battle to the death. I’ve always wondered if Puck feared death, I don’t think he does, I think he probably welcomes it. In that respect, we are alike.
Blades clashed, positions shifted to find advantages. I sliced his arm, it drew little blood. His swipe across my chest brought intense pain that blossomed, then vanished, Puck could shut it out with such ease. An arcing slice connected with my cheek, it served to intensify my attack.
I remembered little after that.
One image is branded on my memory, as all of Puck’s victories are.
The moment exhaustion stopped him from reacting fast enough, the look of acceptance in his eyes as I raised my sword arm and twisted my wrist to rotate the blade through ninety degrees. He froze and held my eyes, no doubt seeing Puck’s glassy stare as the blade severed his spine and his bony skull toppled to the ground.
I watched as the corpse collapsed into a heap at my feet, cold and dispassionate. Puck must have stood there, like a statue, his goal achieved.
Slowly, very slowly, a thaw allowed me back into my body. It always starts with my eyes, I’m made to witness the horror of my actions without the ability to move. To run away screaming. I do that inside my skull.
Feeling returned to my body and brought the full measure of pain with it. Injuries appeared like magic where they’d been ignored before, Puck wore my body like a warrior wears armour, when he left it, the excessive damage remained. Blood poured but my veins were filled with water, I was exhausted beyond belief. I stood atop the body of my victim, staring down at him, empty of emotion and filled with the pain he’d inflicted on me. Remaining upright was a challenge, I wobbled. It crossed my mind I might be mortally wounded, it felt like it, perhaps there was no victory after all. I didn’t care.
Darkness enveloped me, I fell into its heart which was as black as the one residing in my chest.
Chapter 23
Urgent hands shook me back to consciousness.
I gazed into the face of an angel, cornflower blue eyes looked down at me and blonde curls surrounded the face like a halo. Finally, I’d died. The relief I felt lasted only seconds, the time it took to remember heaven was a Christian creation and would never be my ultimate destination, according to their belief system I’d be welcomed in a very different place.
‘Robin?’
The voice was familiar and I smiled at the memory, though it faded quickly as pain wracked my whole body. That meant either the religious zealots had correctly predicted where I’d go after death or that I still clung on to life.
‘Robin? Can you speak?’
I tried and uttered series of garbled groans that made my angel smile. I reached up to touch its face, felt the brush of several days’ growth of beard. Angels didn’t have beards.
‘Oisin?’
I tried to sit up and agony flared in my chest. I looked down, my shirt was sticky with dried blood. I ignored it and preferred to scowl at the man knelt by my side.
I punched him hard and we both yelped.
‘What’s that for?’ he asked.
‘For deserting me.’
A voice, wheezing like a pair of punctured bellows, floated towards me.
‘He didn’t desert you. He came to fetch me.’
Over Oisin’s shoulder a stooped figure struggled to come into focus but the voice was enough.
‘Nimue?’
Something hard smacked my ankle, I cursed.
‘You forgot the honorific, Master Goodfellow.’
She paused sufficiently before using my title and extended the word so it was packed with derision. Perhaps it was the pain, perhaps her presence triggered my deep-seated resentment of aristocracy or it may have been her hitting me with her walking stick that allowed me to sound like my old self.
‘Oisin, didn’t I tell you to stop grave-robbing?’
Another smack on my shins, harder this time.
The old woman stepped into my line of vision.
‘Fuck! And I thought Ankou looked old!’
Her clothes were stylish. Her trousers and smock, partly hidden under a cloak and hood shimmered from millions of shimmering silver crystals, etched in her apple emblem. But it was her grey rheumy eyes that fixed on me, possessed of the colour and strength of cold iron. They were the only part that retained the force of will which made this old harridan the power broker she’d always been. Secretly I’d admired her tenacity. Her children might be the official rulers of the Light Court but they did nothing without her permission, it was an influence which had once extended into this realm.
Despite the pain, I focused my brain on her arrival, Oisin must have listened to me after all and told her what was happening. As its architect, she must think she still had a stake in maintaining the peace between humanity and the Dark Court. I hoped she still had the power and influence to sustain the centuries-long tradition of the Knights’ Protocols. That confidence diminished as I looked more closely, at her stooped back, arthritic hands, a severe limp and her difficulty in breathing. I started to understand why Llyr felt confident enough to wage war again and flout the Protocols.
I shifted my attention rapidly as that thought process sank in.
‘Where’s Llyr?’
Despite the pain and Oisin’s protests I sat upright. A short distance away Keir knelt next to the wyvern, feeding it titbits and stroking its long neck as it curled around him affectionately. If Keir had returned that mean Nimue wasn’t the only new arrival.
She leaned against the wall of the Lady Chapel casually, one leg bent at the knee, her boot planted flat against the wall while she cleaned fingernails with a dagger. She wore beautifully crafte
d, finely cut leather armour across her chest, exposing bare arms with bulging biceps. Sensing my attention, Mab looked over at me but didn’t react or speak.
At the foot of the steps to the Lady Chapel stood Llyr, flanked by two of Mab’s personal guards, identified by the tightness of their uniforms, their impressive physiques and stern expressions. Llyr knew they wouldn’t dare kill him, not even Mab could permit that, but they’d incapacitate him in seconds.
As if she believed Mab’s goons weren’t enough of a threat, Brea stood a short distance in front of Llyr, hands splayed, ready to blast him if he stepped out of line. Finn stood by her side looking anxious as usual.
Struggling to my feet caught Brea’s attention.
‘At fucking last!’
‘I’m alive, thanks for caring!’ I called back. It was meant light-heartedly but it came out as resentment.
Her animosity didn’t change, not that I expected it would.
‘Well, while you were going sleepy-byes the rest of us subdued this sly bastard. His freaks ran back to fairyland but we didn’t give him chance to follow them.’
Mab stirred.
‘To be clear, girl,’ she spoke the final word with such contempt Brea physically bristled, ‘my arrival prevented him from leaving.’
Llyr raised a humbled head, perfect features formed into a portrait of defeat.
‘And you will regret that decision Mab. I am ruler of the Dark Court. You were once its Commander-in-Chief, now disgraced and isolated. When I return, your humiliation will drive you from Court, no one will dare speak to you when I’m finished.’
She turned her head towards Llyr with languid indifference, exhaling loudly.
‘You imagine yourself returning, do you?’
I caught the quick flick of Nimue’s eyes in Mab’s direction and her frown, until she noticed me watching her. I noticed Oisin’s eyes on mine as well, his way of telling me he’d told the truth about Mab’s intentions where I was concerned. Despite my best efforts, I was in the middle of a political battle, equally as brutal and merciless as the one on Magdalene Street. If I wasn’t careful I’d be the dragon, dumbly slaying all before me.
In my kitchen, so long ago, I’d vowed to kill Llyr. I hated the bastard. The image of him slicing open the throat of Mickey’s brother was burned into my memory. The trouble was finding vengeance for the kid, and the thousands like him, led me into dangerous territory. So they’d kill me for murdering the bugger. That didn’t bother me. I was ready for that fate.
But Nimue’s arrival proved this battle had more than one side.
By murdering Llyr, I was aiding Mab and her Machiavellian chums, I would help them prepare the ground for the Dark Court to attack humanity with even greater ruthlessness. Far from ending the war, Oisin may have been right when he’d persuaded me not to kill Llyr, I could be instigating something worse. I glanced at the twins who watched the whole thing in bewilderment, the other side of that debate said that until I did kill Llyr, they would never be safe.
Mab’s words had turned the Abbey grounds into the worst moments of Oberon’s rule, when everyone watched each other for the slightest sign of indecision and weakness. She’d lit a fuse and I was the dynamite.
Llyr glared at Mab, red-faced now, genuinely furious.
‘You wouldn’t dare harm me Mab. I’m aware of your ambitions but even you could not defend the killing of the Dark Court’s lord and master.’ He changed tack, his voice took on more of a wheedling tone as it was obvious his threats had no effect on the woman. ‘Kill me Mab and you’d leave the Dark Court without anyone to succeed me, there is no other rightful heir. The Dark Court would dissolve into in-fighting and chaos, the only ones to benefit would be our Light cousins.’
He scowled at Nimue whose face was an expressionless mask. As was Mab’s.
I stood up. It hurt like hell but I wasn’t going to stir up a hornet’s nest of trouble grovelling on the ground. It was time to introduce a third option to this discussion, one that could upset other people’s well-made plans. Ever since Llyr had arrived in my kitchen I’d been buffeted around like a leaf in a gale. It was time to change the direction of the wind.
I called Keir to me.
The lad got up, instantly self-conscious and awkward, glancing nervously at everyone that looked at him now. He stood at my side and swallowed hard. I gave him my best winning smile.
‘You’re wrong Llyr. The Dark Court does have an heir. He’s here.’
I waited for the gasps and Llyr’s contempt to cease and looked at the shock on each face. Poor Keir looked frightened beyond belief. Nimue, so good at hiding her feelings, couldn’t disguise her astonishment. Mab wasn’t attempting to hide her fury.
Good.
I directed my next words to her, to twist the knife.
‘You didn’t know, did you? You thought that by getting me to kill pretty boy over there, you could step in to the vacuum I’d created.’
That got the kind of reaction I wanted from Llyr. He screamed and cursed Mab, straining to get to her while her two minions restrained him.
Mab was the epitome of calm. She didn’t pay any attention to Llyr’s tantrum but looked at me with cold eyes.
‘You can prove his lineage, I assume?’
For the next section of this little drama, I relied on my performance experience. That bastard Shakespeare would have been proud, after all, it was this secret he’d shared with humanity, hundreds of years before when he’d used my name in one of his plays. Apparently my indiscretion hadn’t reached the Fae after all.
‘Of course. Oberon left papers with Master Sidwell. I don’t think even he knows what’s in them, though I’m sure he suspects.’
I turned to Keir who looked stupefied.
‘Has Master Sidwell watched over you?’
The boy nodded dumbly. I took hold of his right hand, held it up for Mab to see.
‘Who gave you this coral ring?’ I said as the boy looked at it as though he’d never seen it before.
‘Master Sidwell, when I was young. He told me I was never to take it off, no matter what.’
I smiled at the lad. His brown skin had turned significantly paler.
‘In your mother’s culture, coral was given to children as a form of protection. She’d insisted your father gave it to you. He did so, through Master Sidwell.’
‘My mother?’
The lad gasped the words. Now it was time to include Llyr in my performance.
‘Describe your father’s bedroom for me.’
He scowled at me, without any idea how I intended using his answer to reinforce my story, he couldn’t invent any lies.
‘A long time ago he decorated it with brightly coloured silks, like he was in a tent.’
I nodded. ‘He copied the design of Keir’s mother’s home.’
They all watched me, an avid audience, one Oisin might appreciate.
‘Before the signing of the Knights’ Protocols, Oberon’s travels took him to many places on Earth after his wife died, giving birth to that bastard.’ I nodded at Llyr. ‘It was in a land the humans call India, where he met a princess and fathered a child with her. He begged her to return to Tir na nÓg with him but her loyalty was to her own people and she remained behind. When Keir was born, Oberon insisted he return with him.’
Mab stepped closer to Keir to stare at him as though he was a laboratory specimen.
‘Then why did he make him a slave? And how do you know all this?’
I gave her my most engaging smile.
‘You know as well as I do that before illness ruined his mind, I was Oberon’s friend and confidant. One drunken night we shared stories of past loves and conquests. As for why he made the boy a slave, I think there were two reasons: to keep the boy safe, to hide him in plain sight, for one. I think he already suspected what Llyr was turning into, Oberon knew he wouldn’t hesitate in killing a rival.’
Mab and I looked over at Llyr who shrugged shoulders nonchalantly.
‘
Secondly, I assume the old man’s paranoia had started to infect his mind. I think he worried the boy might be a threat in the future, keeping him as a slave was insurance. When Oberon drove me out of the Dark Court, I expect he’d decided his second son was best left where he was.’
My story must have convinced everyone because they all stared at the boy, it made him squirm under their scrutiny.
I turned to Mab. I was guessing on this next part and wondered how she’d react.
‘You’ve seen his affinity with the wyvern. Can you imagine how powerful a figurehead he’d be if he could demonstrate that skill to the Dark Court?’
Bullseye!
There was a slight flicker of an eyelid and flushing of her skin but it was the boy’s reaction that gave it all away. She glared at him but it was too late.
Llyr noticed it too. His expression changed as he acknowledged the young man’s hybrid background and his right to the throne no longer mattered particularly, Mab had a replacement. One she could control.
If I could manipulate Llyr into directing his anger at Mab, they might direct their violence at each other, in front of Nimue as the ultimate witness. I smiled at the legitimacy of it all.
My satisfaction was, inevitably, short-lived.
If I’d thought of myself as a leaf buffeted in a gale then Llyr turned things into a hurricane.
His hunched shoulders spoke of defeat until he suddenly stood upright, pulled his hands from his coat pockets to reveal a device strapped to his knuckles. The instant he formed a fist, a bolt of energy, just like Brea’s, arced across the wet grass like an acrobat. We all reacted too slowly, except one person, Llyr’s intended victim.