by A. C. Salter
“But the body,” the other persisted, “It’s fae, or at least it used to be.”
Dilbus pinched the bridge of his nose. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. The feeling that things were about to get drastically worse the further the night progressed.
“One of ours?” he asked.
“No, definitely not one of ours.”
“Split wing? Hawker? Frogmesh?”
The pair of watchmen shook their heads.
“Then why do you think it’s fae? Unless you’ve discovered a totally new breed of fairy.”
“Its…Its much like us, although its wings are…they’re…” the watchman trailed off as he glanced at Dilbus’s stump, where his wing should have been. “Disgusting.”
“Disgusting how?”
“You’d best to see for yourself, Sir. I’ve already arranged for a beetle trap to come and collect you.”
Dilbus stared into the white gloom as it climbed passed his balcony, thickening so he struggled to see the neighbouring oak.
“Very well,” he said, resigned to the fact that he would be dragged out into the cold merciless night. “But I’ll fly down to the Twine, we don’t have time for a trap. Those beetles move no faster than mud slugs.” He watched the reaction from the pair and felt elation at their shocked expressions. “Now you,” he prodded a crooked finger into the joker’s chest, “Will get my bird saddled up and meet us at this body, you’ve found.”
“But, Sir,” the watchman argued, his gaze casting up into the forest canopy. “That huge black monster is circling above. It’s scared all the owls away and has put the jitters up the rest of the birds.”
The huge black monster chose that moment to scream into the sky, its cry piercing the city and causing the pair before him to shiver.
“I don’t give a squirrel’s nuts!” Dilbus spat at the frightened youth, fighting the grin that attempted to curl his lips. “You will saddle my bird and meet us at the desired location. Understand?”
The joker nodded, his head down cast and seeming less inclined to mock. “And fly her low, hug the trunks and stay clear of the canopy.”
“Yes, Sir,” he replied, then flew from the balcony, making his way towards the aviary.
“You,” Dilbus directed to the remaining watchmen, “Wait here.” Then shutting the youth outside, he hobbled to the cupboard and retrieved his prosthetic wing.
The device was made from springs, cogs and bat leather; the latter stretched over three fish bone rods, which formed the wing. Something he commissioned the crackpot inventor to create. It strapped over his ugly stump and buckled along his chest and waist.
Dilbus had yet to try it. The lack of time and courage had meant that the contraption had gathered dust in his chamber for the past month. Well now was as good a time as any. And after taking the earlier mocking, his pride pricked, he would see whether he could fly or not.
When he ventured back out onto the balcony, he witnessed the look of shock on the watchman for the second time that evening. The youth’s mouth dropping open as he glanced at the contraption.
“Well don’t stand there gawping, boy,” he barked, “Lead me to this mysterious body you’ve dragged from the Twine.”
Dilbus waited until the watchman opened his perfect wings and jumped from the balcony, before venturing to the edge. He shuffled to the sudden drop, the plummet which, if he fell, would see him hurtle to the forest floor, a long way down. He was thankful for the shroud of mist which hid the ground from him, although he was greatly aware it was there.
Adjusting the straps and belts a final time, he lifted his arm and released the locking mechanism - instantly springing the rods up and pulling the bat leather tort.
It was a wing. Albeit, several shades darker than his own, stiff as glass and a damn sight heavier. But a wing it was. He shifted the sword on his belt onto the opposite hip, to counter balance for the extra weight. Then sucked the damp air into his lungs, held his breath, said a silent prayer to the Blessed Mother and then toppled out into nothing.
His stomach lurched, blood rushing to his head as he plummeted down the oak. His face a whisker span from the rough bark that whooshed by, melding the cracks and fissures into a blur. If a subtle breeze was to lift him closer, his body would be ripped to shreds before hurtling into the solid roots at base level. That fact would have sent a shiver down his spine, if the thrill of the flight wasn’t pumping adrenalin through him.
Was he flying or merely falling?
Dilbus eased his arms out, aiding his prosthetic wing as it vibrated with the turbulence. He angled the fish bone rods to allow the wind to flow in a different direction, matching his real wing, and drifted away from the oak.
The exhilaration of steering his own path, brought a wave of giddiness – fixing the wide smile on his face. It worked.
With the mist still hiding the lower portion of Farro from view, Dilbus weaved through the hidden branches and bridges using memory alone. He’d grown up in the city. Known every root, nook and knot, every stump, bridge and platform and even the names of every wood knoll and the tree they were pledged too. Farro was in his blood. Generations of Fenwicks dating back to the burning of the old city, some thousand years ago. For all he knew, it was his forbearers that had planted the seeds that grew into the very oak he lived in. It was a warming thought; however, the Fenwick line would end with him. Nobody would marry a cripple.
Dilbus swept out over the widening trunk, gliding above the acorn stump which was used for market day and caught the watchman up. The youth had been hovering beside the quiet stalls which were empty of stocks until the morning.
Unable to halt, Dilbus carried on gliding beyond the stunned fae, hoping he was heading in the right direction. Finding the Twine was as easy as locating your feet, but as the vast river flowed along one side of the city, disappearing in both directions as far as an eagle could see, it was hard to determine which part of the Twine the body was found. Luckily, he had guessed right, and the watchman flew beside him, guiding him lower until they approached an amber glow in the mist.
Realising that they were fast approaching the night watch, Dilbus gripped the edge of his mechanical wing, hoping he wasn’t going to make a tardy landing in front of the group.
Snapping the material back, the wing opened to gather more air, slowing his descent and allowing his feet to touch the ground delicately. It was a perfect landing, although his clean mouse leather boots sunk into the damp soil.
“Commander Fenwick, Sir,” began Limble, his second in command. The portly watchmen holding the gem lamp higher and almost blinding him with the light.
Dilbus approached the group, striding purposefully and ignoring the pain jolting through his damaged leg. He had flown, or glided at least, and he wasn’t going to let his other injuries cheat him of this grand entrance. That was, until he realised that his prosthetic wing hadn’t folded neatly away like his other. And instead of it being tucked in tight to his back, it was stuck out at a right angle.
Cursing himself for not drawing the spring back in, he yanked on the cord. Yet the moment he applied the pressure, a fish bone snapped and tore the wing.
He tried desperately to hide the spectacle behind his arm, but it was too late. The night watch had seen it. Had witnessed him make a fool of himself - further proof that the cripple couldn’t fly.
Sighing deeply, Dilbus undid the buckles and let the broken wing fall into the mud. He was used to the mockery, the careless whispers, the giggling behind his back. He had it for years, ever since returning from the wars. But what he hated above all else, was petty. And that was what he was being treated to now.
“Sir,” Limble continued, clearing his voice. “We’ve found a body…”
“So, you have,” Dilbus hissed, striding through the men to the shapeless bundle wrapped in a maple leaf; bare feet sticking out beneath, streaked with silt.
The sooner the conclusion to this dilemma was reached, the sooner he could return to h
is peaceful chamber and his stale berry juice.
Water lapped at the mossy verge, somewhere out of sight through the mist. As if the mysterious Twine goaded him on, willing him to see what it had spewed from its dark depths, like it had so many times before. A lot of creatures fell into the cursed river and more often than not, they didn’t survive long enough to crawl back out. Birds, frogs, rodents and other small mammals had succumbed to the two-tone waters, floating in different states of decay. Dilbus had even seen a half-devoured goblin arm float by. It’s bloated hand large enough to accommodate several fae, if they desired to have a pleasure cruise on the grisly raft.
He grasped the side of the damp maple leaf, ready to tear it away when a hand settled on his forearm.
“Beware, Sir,” Limble warned. “It’s not a pleasant sight.”
“Thank you, Limble,” Dilbus said, snatching his arm away. He had plenty of experience with the dead and the gruesome unpleasantness that came with it. But he strengthened his will all the same.
The damp leaf slipped silently off the lump, revealing a pale fae. Its body smeared with mud where it had been dragged from the Twine.
Dilbus clicked his fingers for the gem lamp and Limble obediently handed it to him, treading carefully so as not to touch the dead fairy.
Holding the lamp closer, the amber light picked out more details. The emaciated body, ribs pressing against the sallow skin, chest unmoving, never to take a breath again. The face that seemed so young and at peace, full lips and high cheek bones. The fairy was male and had been at the age that was breaking from childhood, the first showings of strong hands and a dappling of hair on his chin, yet too young to be called a man.
“I was led to believe that this poor creature was hideous. He’s much like us, is he not?” Dilbus questioned. “He is or was, fae.”
“Oh no, Sir,” Limble protested, pointing a fat index finger at the body’s back. “His wings, what are left of them, are…is…an abomination.”
Shaking his head, Dilbus handed his second the lamp while he hunkered down for a closer inspection. Yet the wings seemed fine, drenched with mud and river water, but in a damn sight better condition than his own.
He lowered his knee into the cold earth, feeling the icy slop seep through his trousers and dowse his shins. Why hadn’t they simply thrown the body back into the Twine? The fools would have saved him the pain, the humiliation and the cleaning bill for his clothes which would be stinking of the brackish water for weeks to come.
Clenching his teeth, he placed his hands beneath the body’s neck and lifted the head. His own body sinking further into the mire as he lifted the other into a sitting position.
Gasps escaped the men of the night watch, and more than one mumbled a prayer.
Dilbus was about to snap at them for being superstitious cowards when his gaze fell on the fae’s wings – or lack of them.
Long fine spines spread from the creature’s back. Like the fish bones that were in his mechanical wing.
“See, Sir. An abomination,” Limble offered.
“No,” Dilbus disagreed. “Just different. “Now hold him up while I take a closer look.”
Maybe it was the fact that the boy would have been of an age with his own child, if he and Bellimba had ever married, or that he seemed to have dysfunctional wings, like his own – but Dilbus felt empathy for the life that had once ruled this broken body.
The burden of the weight taken by his second, Dilbus began to inspect the spines more closely. Tenderly taking one of the spines between his thumb and finger, he raised it out of silt.
He was shocked to find that it was extremely light and flexible. More like the individual strands from a squirrel’s tale. When he pulled it out straight it stretched to the full span of a fairy wing and when he let it go it floated back to the ground. There were perhaps twenty or more spines on each side of the body. Varying in length so that if one was to lay them all flat, they would resemble the shape of a fae wing, albeit without the skin stretched between.
“Incredible,” Dilbus whispered.
“Do you think the Twine did that to him, Sir?” One of the junior ranks asked, cautiously stepping closer.
“No,” Dilbus replied, sure of himself as he reached for another spine. “The wings are perfectly symmetrical. This fairy is a new breed of fae, or an old one that we have yet to discover. It’s a shame he’s dead.”
“A new breed of fairy?” Limble asked. “So, do we get to name it?”
Dilbus shrugged. “I suppose. Although, it’s going back into the Twine. You know the rules.”
“What about, Twine rat? Or Sludge skipper…or,” Limble suggested, rubbing at a boil on his face.
“Dylap,” piped in a junior watchman. “On account of the sound it made when we dragged him from the river. His feet were stuck in the silt and when we yanked him free, it made an odd Dylap sound.”
“Yeah,” Limble agreed as the others nodded encouragingly. “It’s a Dylap.”
“That’s grand,” Dilbus remarked sarcastically. “Now if you’re all happy with the name you’ve come up with. You can throw the Dylap, back into the Twine and leave me alone to fill in the report.”
A dark shadow descended through the mist, growing to twice his height before rushing out from the ghostly vapour.
“What did I miss?” asked the joker who flew out of the landed beside the group. Dilbus’s bird chirped in complaint as the youth clambered from the saddle. It pecked him roughly with the tip of its beak and sent him reeling into Limble.
“Nothing, but the naming of a dead creature.” Dilbus smirked, winking at his bird. “But you’ve arrived in time to pitch the Dylap into the river.”
Suddenly, a white-hot pain erupted in Dilbus’s hand. A stabbing shock that travelled up his arm from the fingers which were still holding the dead spines.
Yelping, he snapped his hand away. Angry red welts had risen upon the fleshy pads of the tips.
Instinctively he placed them in his mouth, but the pain had already begun to ebb away to a dull ache.
Had the Dylap stung him somehow? It was the only plausible explanation. Or had the corrosive properties of the Twine lingered on the surface of his spines long enough to soak into his fingers?
“Sir?” Limble blurted, his voice coming out panicked.
“Not now,” Dilbus replied, still coming to terms with the throbbing in his hand. “Throw the damn thing in the river,” he ordered, wanting to be rid of the strange dead being.
“But, Sir, the Dylap…It’s breathing.”
“What!” Dilbus growled, ready to rebuke his second for being a fool. But when he gazed at the mud-spattered body, he witnessed the skeletal ribcage rising and falling.
Dilbus inhaled sharply as he cautiously stepped back. The sight was most unnerving. As was the creature’s eyes that snapped open. The palest of blues; almost silver as they regarded him with curiosity.
“What do we do, Sir?” Limble shuddered. His hand pulling his sword from his belt. “Do we still throw it back into the Twine?”
Dilbus pinched the bridge of his nose, the beginnings of a headache creeping into his tired mind. Throwing the thing back would be the best course of action. The right choice and the option the General would expect. Always safety first. Put Farro and the kingdom above all else. So, he was as surprised as the rest of the watch, when he answered, “Put him in the cart and take him along the berry trail to the healers.”
The watch looked on in stunned silence, none wanting to be the first to move until Limble shook himself out of his stupor and began barking orders at his subordinates.
Dilbus left the men to the task while he mounted his bird. His painful mind already picking fault with his foolish decision. He had chosen wrongly, on all levels and could expect a devilish rebuke from the General when he received his report in the morning. Yet he felt, somewhere in the recess of his wits, that the strange fairy deserved a chance.
The cry of the black monster pierced the night. S
ending a shiver through both himself and his bird. Dilbus raised his head to the heavens, even though his gaze couldn’t penetrate the mist. That dark circling bird was a bad omen.
2
The Dylap
The steel manacles were cold and heavy. The thick chain links that joined them jingled as he rubbed the chafed skin beneath, rupturing a blister that began to weep a clear liquid. It hurt. Feeling similar to the experience from the healer’s needles as they pricked his legs and arms. Or the rough way they handled him as they scrubbed his body with lotions and creams, prodded or poked him; regarding him with a mixture of curiosity and fear.
These were his first memories. His only memories, other than the endless questions that he had been attacked with, over and over again since he awoke in the cot, some three weeks past. Before that there was nothing.
Sunlight poured through the small round window above him, casting golden rays onto polished ground at the feet of his guards. Other amber light descended from gems that were hanging from the ceiling. They were spaced a fae’s width apart and ran down the corridor in both directions, until they curved out of sight. Beyond the guards were two more soldiers, standing to attention to either side of a heavy door. Its surface richly carved with a crown that was etched over crossed swords. It was the Royal seal. The same sigil hung around the city on flags and bunting, and was emblazoned upon the uniforms of the men whose eyes kept wandering to him. Regarding him with unsympathetic stares.
The two large guards before him said nothing, although their hostile glances spoke what their voices did not. They had roughly manhandled him from the healing wing of the ash tree. Yanking him along with the chain that bound his wrists. Shoved him precariously close to the vast drop that ran either side of the branches and connecting bridges. Prodded him with spears when he refused to step onto a swaying platform, suspended high up the trunk, and screamed into his face when one of them accidentally touched his wings. That particular guard fell into the void, falling from view before his wings caught the wind and he flew back, ready to skewer him with his sharp blade. Luckily his partner intervened and all he received was a punch to the gut. It had doubled him over before he was dragged onto the swinging contraption that ascended into the large oak he was in now.