by Nina Smith
Flower turned so swiftly the Lord of the Gourd hit her head on a stem and yelled something very nasty.
Flower yelled too, because there was a bright red fetch almost under her feet. She booted it so hard it sailed into the air above the crops before exploding into a cloud of foul gas. Then she turned back and started to run.
“Giant dead freakin muse got the stinky!” Pumpkinhead kicked his feet in delight.
“Stop that you fool!” the Lord of the Gourd yelled. “Dead freakin muse, what you trying to do, poison our crops?”
“I’m trying to save your lives you stupid little fairies, would you just shut up!”
Both fairies were abruptly silent. Flower ducked lower and followed Fitz’s trail deep, deep into the crops.
“Stupid little fairies is it?” the Lord of the Gourd grumbled. “There’s gratitude for you. After I let her carry me and everything.”
Flower ignored her. One last sharp bend brought her right up behind Fitz, who put a finger to his mouth and then gestured at a haphazard pile of branches and greenery.
Pumpkinhead and the Lord of the Gourd wriggled out from under her arms, dropped to the ground and burrowed into the greenery. Only then did Flower realise it was a big, carefully woven lean to in which the entire population of the village had taken shelter. She crouched down to catch her breath.
“Stay here and make the sure the fairies stay put,” Fitz said. “I’ll go back for Nikifor.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Somewhere between hurling challenges at the sky and turning the first vile creature into a cloud of stinking methane, Nikifor suspended conscious thought and moved through pure instinct. Battle was a smooth, fluid dance, and he knew every bloody, violent step of it: where to move, when to move, every angle, every parry, every kill, all in perfect rhythm with the screaming of the five thousand angry fetches circling the sky, plunging, diving, dancing their own deadly, relentless routine.
And it was a routine. Nothing more. He knew it like he knew how to breathe. Not one got near him. Every dead fetch made the gas cloud fouler and thicker, but he barely noticed. For the first time in as long as he could remember, his mind was unfettered and free to roam.
The Tormentor was not there. He didn’t understand why, because he knew at some deep, cellular level that the monster was angry with him.
Nikifor was angry too. He’d seen the Tormentor’s face. He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was no phantasm of his own mind. His campaign of relentless, terrifying pursuit had gone on far too long, and now Nikifor would fight with every last breath until he found this man and put an end to him.
Razor-sharp claws raked the air like scythes. The axe blade shattered a scaly hide and sliced through a strand of his own flying hair at the same time. His skin crawled with the proximity of the creature. If just one drew blood from him, he was done for. Three more fetches exploded under the kiss of the axe.
The village fell away.
He struggled in a black night lit by ghostly torches, where distant roars shook the earth, turned his heart turn to stone, battered at his memory. The long, thin sword in his hand was embedded in the ribs of a man so pale his veins stood out blue across his face. Blood spurted from his chest. His lip drew back in a snarl to reveal two wickedly curved fangs, but Nikifor stabbed again and he fell away, drowned in a fountain of his own blood.
Hands coated in blood. Spatters on his face and clothes. The metallic tang in his mouth. A vast field of the dead bled around him. Far off the battle continued, but he was alone, alone in a field of dead vampires because he had killed every one. He opened his mouth and uttered a sound, a wail that echoed the far off resounding roar of the vampire king, because he did not want to be the Muse Champion. He did not want to be the bringer of death.
Nikifor’s wail brought him back to the village. He took his hands away from his face. The axe was on the ground, the air was thick with methane, but not one single fetch remained. He was alone.
He dropped to his knees, staring at the axe. Again he lost the village. This time he stood in a cold, ornate garden where the trees took on the shapes of grim mythical creatures and a castle brooded against a leaden sky. A fairy with long, long hair walked straight up the castle wall as though her feet could somehow glue themselves to the surface. She balanced on an impossibly high narrow ledge, where carvings of stone fetches marched from end to end.
Hippy Ishtar. The sight of her frightened him more than ten thousand fetches. She held his silver axe as though it were a toy. She looked like a delicate, pretty doll until she raised the axe and smashed the first fetch into rubble. Then she looked like what she really was, a Bloody Fairy, a vengeful fury, a creature of pure, unadulterated violence.
The scene darkened. His whole body shook with desperate need for vibe. Thirst like fire. Wild urges pounded at the confines of his skull, run, flee, fight, kill, but he couldn’t move. A tall, pale figure he hated with every fibre of his being bent over him.
Rustam Badora. He remembered. He remembered. The vampire king removed the axe from his cold, trembling fingers.
“I remember,” Nikifor whispered. His hands came into focus. They were warm and steady. The village around him stank in the rising heat.
He raised his head. Everything around him shifted into sharp, clear focus. Colours, so intense they hurt his eyes, jumped at him. Orange pumpkin houses. Black mud. Blue sky. The stink of methane made him gag, but he didn’t care. “I remember,” he said aloud.
But he knew he didn’t. Not everything. There was still that one blank space he couldn’t approach.
Foul, bitter, smoke filtered through the hanging cloud of methane, worming its way into his reflections, and then his nose. One wild look around the empty village was all he had time for before black smog imploded in front of him.
Nikifor picked up the axe and rose slowly to his feet.
When the smoke cleared, the same false muse Flower had been pursuing put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes at him. “Where’s your key then?”
“Gone.” Nikifor waited, tense, for her to make a move. There was no point in trying to fight a girl made of smoke.
She looked up at him, just a little too short to manage eye level. “Where are my fetches?”
“Gone.”
“You killed my fetches?” Her whole face screwed up in an angry, ugly scowl. “You?”
Nikifor didn’t reply. Clouds of black smoke exploded all throughout the village. He counted ten, fifteen false muses gathering in behind the blonde. One had his hair glued into spikes on top of his head, and wore chains across the long grey coat that appeared to be their uniform. Another was so heavily made up he could barely see her face for paint. Jewellery clattered on her arms and neck. Yet another sported a big bushy beard and shaven head.
“What are you?” Nikifor said.
“We’re muses.” The blonde stuck a finger in his face. “What are you?”
Nikifor hefted the axe and rested it on his shoulder. For the first time he felt the curse working on him and he welcomed it. “I am the Muse Champion!” he boomed. “I protect this village. Get out!”
The blonde sneered. “We’re not scared of you. Tell me where the fairies are.”
“Never.”
“Tell me where the fairies are.” She raised a hand, one finger pointed upward. “Or you’ll have no village to protect.”
Nikifor swung the axe at her.
She yelped, puffed out in a cloud of smoke, reappeared three feet away and let out a screech. “Burn!”
The false muses drew together in a tight circle. Nikifor backed up a step, sure this wasn’t good.
The blonde gave him a sly, narrow smile. “Where there’s smoke,” she said, “there’s fire.”
The false muses threw up hands encased in balls of bright, crackling fire. They turned outward and hurled their balls of flame at every pumpkin in the village.
The giant central pumpkin exploded under the onslaught. The smaller houses
one by one burst into furious flames.
Nikifor let out a roar of disbelief and charged, but was forced to dive to the ground when a fireball sailed over his head and landed at the blonde’s feet. She turned to smoke and reappeared nearer the other false muses.
“Hey!” she yelled. “Watch it!”
A low, deep voice that vibrated with power joined the hubbub.
Nikifor raised himself from the ground and saw Fitz, but not as he’d ever known him.
Fitz stood amongst the burning pumpkins with his hands raised, palms toward the false muses. His eyes burned with raw power. His clothes whipped about his body even though there was no wind. His words crunched like gravel in a language Nikifor did not know.
The false muse with the big bushy beard began to shake. He clutched his body, ashen-faced, and uttered a cry of terror. Smoke curled from his skin, then burst into leaping flames. The fire flared into a huge ball, then contracted and disappeared as though it had never been.
“Sorcerer!” the blonde vanished in a puff of smoke. The others winked out like fireflies before they met the fate of their companion.
The bittersweet smell of burning pumpkin shells drove the stink of the vanished enemy from the empty village. Fitz dropped his hands, his face pale and drawn. “Are you hurt, Nikifor?”
“No.” Nikifor got up and went to him.
“We must go. Now. The fairies must be moved.” Fitz stumbled.
Nikifor secured the axe to his back, then supporting Fitz with one arm, took them both into the safety of the crops.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Flower concealed herself under the canopy of nodding leaves near the entrance to the fairy’s shelter. She had no desire to go inside with all that yelling and arguing going on, so she set herself to sit, to guard them and to think about things that made her uneasy, like false muses and spectres who could yank on her hair.
After a while Mudface crawled out, still clutching her book, and sat next to her. She settled the book on her lap, wrapped her arms around her legs and stared glumly into the greenery.
The silence felt awkward, but the fairy was obviously not going to break it. “Everything okay?” Flowe8r asked.
Mudface heaved a big, disconsolate sigh. “Did you ever feel like you didn’t belong?”
Flower thought about it. She’d always known exactly where she belonged and what she was there to do. She lived to serve the king and to be a good muse. Simple enough. “No.”
“Well I do.” Mudface ran a hand over the book cover as though it were the most precious thing in the world. “Ever since I was dead.”
“Do you think being bitten by the fetch changed you?” Flower frowned at the thought. She didn’t want to change. She definitely didn’t want to feel any sudden desire to wear all black and be morbid all over the place. She might as well go live with the Pixies if that happened.
“I had a dream about the whole world.” Mudface aimed the words at her book. They tumbled out as though she was ashamed of them, but couldn’t hold them in any longer. “I saw all of Shadow. I think I saw some of Dream too. There were so many sad things in both worlds I felt my soul weep. I feel like my soul has been in mourning for the injustice in the two worlds ever since.”
Flower stared at the fairy in utter astonishment. She really was the most unfairylike creature she’d ever met, but she didn’t want to offend her by mentioning that. “Is that why you always wear black?”
Mudface nodded. Her voice dropped still lower. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to leave the village.”
“Everybody’s going to leave the village dear,” Flower said. “You can’t possibly stay now the fetches have found you.”
Mudface shook her head. “You don’t understand. I’m going to leave. I know the Lord of the Gourd will be upset, but she can’t stop me.”
Flower closed her mouth, which had dropped open. “But Mudface, whoever heard of a Bloomin Fairy leaving her clan?”
Mudface gave her a defiant look. “Fifty years ago nobody ever heard of a girl being Lord of the Gourd, but that’s just how it is now.”
Flower couldn’t argue with that. “What will you do?”
“I want to work for newspapers in Shadow City. And I want to get my book published.” She hugged the book to her chest, and for the first time a spark of animation entered her voice. “I want to expose injustice and make Shadow a better place to live. How could I live with myself, knowing what the worlds are like, if I settled for a life with them?” She gestured toward the shelter.
Flower made her voice as gentle as possible. “But sweetheart how will you do all this? The Guild has a stranglehold on the newspapers, they won’t print anything truthful.”
“Then I’ll find a way to make everyone read my book.” Mudface’s mouth set in an obstinate line. “It’s important.”
“But they’ll kill you!”
“Not before I make a difference.” Mudface looked up at Flower, her eyes wide in her dirt-streaked face. “You’re going to help me.”
“I’ll do what I can, honey, but-”
Mudface cut her off with three words. “You’re my muse.”
“No I’m not.”
“Are too.”
Flower played with the key around her neck and tried to make her words as gentle as possible. “I’m sorry Mudface, but only humans have muses. It’s unheard of for a fairy to need one.”
“Then you tell me why I’ve done nothing but write since you arrived? My book is nearly finished, and it’s because of you.”
Flower shook her head. She needed to squash this notion right away, before Mudface got carried away with it. “Impossible. It’s just a coincidence.”
Mudface shrugged. “I don’t care what you say. You’ll see it’s true.”
Heavy footsteps crunched in the dry leaf litter under the beanstalks. Flower and Mudface fell silent until Fitz and Nikifor appeared.
Flower darted forward, more than a little relieved to be rescued from the rather intense conversation. Nikifor had not a scratch on him, although his hair was knotted and tangled and his tunic torn. He had a curious, sharp look in his eyes, quite suddenly all there in a way she’d never seen in him before. Fitz, on the other hand, looked terrible. His skin had gone pasty white under his beard. The wrinkles on his face were deeper than ever and he leaned heavily on Nikifor.
Flower put her arm around his shoulders to support him from the other side. “What happened? Are the fetches gone?”
“Everything’s gone.” Nikifor’s voice was grim.
“Fitz are you hurt?”
He shook his head. “It’s the backlash. I’m too old for this kind of thing now.”
“Backlash?”
“He used sorcery on the false muses,” Nikifor said. “It was magnificent!” He stopped and clapped a hand over his mouth when the boom of his words made the leaves tremble.
“It’s the only way,” Fitz said. “They are creatures born of sorcery and who knows what unholy science.”
Flower said nothing because she was frankly uncomfortable with the whole concept of sorcery and what little science she’d ever witnessed hadn’t been much better. Instead she helped Fitz to sit down in her place next to Mudface.
A few Bloomin Fairy faces had appeared out of the shelter at the sound of Nikifor’s exclamation, and now they came streaming out, pale and hopeful, to gather around Fitz. For once they were silent. Several fairies carried the Lord of the Gourd on a little wooden platform and set her down in front of Fitz.
“Speak, Great Clip Clop,” the Lord of the Gourd commanded. “What has the stinkies done to our village?”
Fitz slowly shook his head. “It is my grave duty to report to you a disaster Madam,” he said. “Your village has been destroyed.”
“By the stinkies?”
“No. Nikifor killed all the fetches. Your village was set upon by false muses and burned to the ground.”
“What’s a false muse? Are they false muses?” The Lord of the Gourd gestured at Nikifor and Flower.
“Smoke people,” Mudface said.
“Smoke people!” The Lord of the Gourd scowled so hard her wrinkled face folded in on itself. “We hate smoke people!”
The fairies burst out talking and shouting in dismay. Several of the men and two women broke into noisy tears. The noise continued until the Lord of the Gourd held up her hand for silence.
“Everything burned?” she sounded plaintive.
Fitz nodded. “Everything.”
“What are we going to do?” yelled Pumpkinhead.
“Lower your voices for a start,” Fitz replied. “They may still be searching for you. Lord of the Gourd, I beseech you to reconsider my offer. Let me guide you to a safe place in Dream, where you can rebuild your village and replant your crops. Just until the danger passes, and then we’ll bring you back here.”
The noise swelled until the Lord of the Gourd thrust up her hand for silence again. “I will consult the Gourd.”
The fairies crowded around. The Lord of the Gourd produced the Gourd from her blankets.
Flower could have cheerfully strangled the old woman for wasting time with the shrivelled old thing, but she held herself in check when she saw the patient way Fitz observed the ceremony. She would not have it said that an enemy of the king was a better diplomat than she was when it came to fairy welfare.
The Lord of the Gourd laid the Gourd on the ground, pushed aside a pile of leaf litter and dug up a handful of dirt. This she sprinkled over the Gourd, all the while muttering under her breath. Then she looked at Fitz. “I needs blood.”
Flower grimaced in revulsion, but Fitz simply held out his hand.
“No.” The Lord of the Gourd pointed at Nikifor. “Crazy blood is best.”
Nikifor crouched by the Lord of the Gourd and gave her his hand, palm up.
She grinned, revealing a mouth of broken teeth. Then she produced a tiny dagger from inside her blankets and made a small, swift cut on Nikifor’s hand. Nikifor flinched, but let her hold the wound over the Gourd.