by Phil Tucker
The phooka, one horned. Wielding a long handled axe, its single moon blade lead hued and vicious. Antonio, chained and terrified, pulled along behind. It felled a long limbed girl, and with methodical efficiency decapitated her, and then sliced off her limbs, one by one. Turning, it paused. Another had presented himself to battle him, a tall, vulpine man, broad shoulders, his hair thick and iron gray. A rakish smile across his lips, a slender blade in his hands. They exchanged words. Maribel couldn’t hear them from here. She floated closer, and watched as the fought.
Both were cautious, seeming to know each other. They circled, the rakish man smiling slightly, as if privately amused. The phooka spun the long handled axe in its hand, the sickle blade hissing through the air, and then whipped it out and around, both hands bringing all its weight to bear. The other man swayed back, almost parallel to the ground, and then, like rubber, returned to his position and sought to bury his blade in the phooka’s guts.
They fought, each showing such skill that no others sought to disturb their duel. Blades whispering off each other, both prone to separate and consider their opponent between each intense bout. An even battle, skill and dexterity to be had in both. Or might have been, had Maribel not wielded Caladcholg, had the Unseelie not had the upper hand in all matters that counted that night. With a slight push, she knew that she could pour her power into the phooka, and change the tide of battle.
But she refrained. A memory of the phooka’s knowing smile, how he had led her, stumbling and ignorant, through the depths of the city in search of Kubu. Gazing down at his hirsute form, a memory came to her. Isabel. She had not thought of the psychic since taking up the sword. For a moment, she shivered, felt the touch of her cool hand on her brow, those words murmured to comfort her as she lay, insensate, in her own apartment. Her face when the phooka had transfixed her with his horn, and then reached up to tear her off it.
No. Let the phooka battle alone. She narrowed her eyes, heart beating faster than it had yet, vibrating like a small bird in her chest. The memories of Isobel had discomforted her. Anger arose within her, at being made to feel these old emotions.
The gray haired stranger recovered from a near blow and swung a vicious riposte. Moved to the side, and caught sight of Maribel where she hung in the air. She saw his face pale, and then the phooka glanced up, and vicious pleasure suffused his goatish features. He raised his axe, seeking her blessing, and then, when it didn’t come, frowned and threw himself aside just in time to avoid the next blow.
Their battle grew furious, and Maribel circled around it, watching, frowning, her presence keeping all others away. The phooka fought with desperation now, knowing that he had been judged, that Caladcholg’s power and her ascendancy would aid him not. In this fight, and this fight alone, Seelie and Unseelie fought with their own native talents.
The phooka backed away, defending itself with panicked skill, and the stranger’s blade finally scored its hide once, twice, drawing black blood. With a bleat of terror, the phooka swung its axe almost too fast to see. Intuition, not skill, guided the stranger’s blade now. Blind luck as much as anything else. He gave back, throwing himself aside into rolls, dropping to the ground, leaping up. The phooka’s axe was everywhere, whistling and weaving a fatal tapestry.
They both froze. The stranger’s sword was buried deep between the phooka’s shoulder and neck. A good six inches down, having cracked through the clavicle, down through the upper ribs, into the lungs. The phooka fell to his knees. The phooka let out a soft bleat and looked up, searching for Maribel one last time. She met his gaze, remembered her terror when she first had seen him, approaching her, delicately, through the impossible woods, and then darkness rushed down and clouded his eyes, and he died.
The stranger stood panting, and, with a heave, drew his blade clear. Maribel lowered herself until she hovered but a few feet above the ground and turned to face him, Caladcholg held out to one side.
“Queen,” said the man, eyes glittering, tone courteous.
“Your name?” she asked. “I would know it before I kill you.”
“Guillaume,” he said, and sketched a mocking bow, a dangerous smile on his face. “That shall suffice.”
“You have pleased me, in your own way,” she said, and began to whip her sword before her as a cat might its tail, “And for that, I shall make your death a clean one.”
Guillaume raised his blade, touched the it to the point between his eyes, and then fell into a battle stance. “Come, then, Queen of the Unseelie. Let us see for how long I can dance.”
A harsh screech shattered the very fabric of the air, and Maribel turned just as a massive beast collided with her, swooping down from the dark vaults of the heavens above, all feathers and broad shoulders, huge eagle beak puncturing down to bury itself in her side. Blood, her own, gouted out. Hurtling back, propelled by the griffin’s great wing beats, Maribel laughed again. Pain, incredible and bright and fascinating, blossomed through her body. Her face buried in the griffin’s shoulder, deep in its bronze plumage. A ragged cry crossed the battlefield as all eyes turned toward them. How little they knew.
The griffin’s great wings flared out, arresting its progress, but momentum carried her on, disengaged her from the griffin’s body. Just as quickly, the griffin launched itself forward again, lion claws raking out to rend and sever her, but this time she chose to defend herself. Caladcholg, still held lightly in her hand, wafted out, so slowly that it seemed to drift of its own volition. A great paw disconnected from the front leg, tumbled away into the darkness, trailing blood.
The feathers against which she had pressed her body were singed, falling out. The muscles there were cramping, petrifying. Screeching defiance and pain, the griffin surged forward, pecking and snapping at her with its beak. Maribel laughed and turned from side to side, allowing the beak to clack emptily where she had been moments before. Then she rolled past it, along its flank, and, with Caladcholg, cut its left wing clear from its body.
Down it fell to bounce and roll on the carpet of grass. Blood still flowed from her punctured side, and, for a long moment, she simply dwelt on the pain. Tried to understand it in a way she never had before. Less something to shy away from, to be avoided, and more an experience in itself, more visceral and immediate and demanding than any other sensation. Pain. From it all others fled. But not her. She wasn’t weakened by the wound, was now beyond such things, but rather, intrigued by it. Closing her eyes, shuddering in ecstasy, she floated, allowing her blood to rain down on those below.
Who changed. Who were altered by its touch. Wherever her blood fell, bodies and minds warped. Seelie suddenly were seized by a frenzy that dissolved the difference between friend and foe, such that all became targets. Unseelie were energized, felt invincible, and, for fleeting moments, actually were. Turning their open mouths to the sky, they sought to drink of her life source. No matter that her blood seared their throats, caused them to lose an arm, grow a claw from the center of the change. Caused their eyes to melt and run down their cheeks. It was an ecstasy of dissolution that none shied from.
Opening her eyes, she gazed upon the great tree. Old Man Oak, said a voice, a part of her from outside of time. It had Jack in Irons down on his knees, had enmeshed him with roots and branches, had bent him back like a huge and hoary bow, his spine creaking, about to snap. Like a thought she flew forward. Down from the sky, and, with Caladcholg, she carved a thin line across Jack in Iron’s body. A slender gleam of red, and then his upper half slid in a truly awful fountain of gore from his lower section. Like two slicked glass shards they came apart in the tree’s grip, and Jack in Irons died.
Laughing once more, delighted and surprised by her own action, Maribel turned her attention to Old Man Oak. Already it was pulling away from the slain giant, regrouping, seeking to turn and orient itself on this new threat. Maribel didn’t wait. Instead, she flew at the great face formed of bark and crevasses in its trunk. Amber eyes as large as bowling balls grew wide, and then she
dove, sword extending before her, into its cavernous mouth, and was inside.
Darkness. All sound muted, the battle barely audible. She was not truly inside the Oak, not physically, but rather, within its very essence. Hanging suspended in the warm, close darkness, she looked about herself, curious. She could possess him, she knew, reach out through his body, take claim of his roots and branches, his might and age, and walk the field of battle clothed in his leaves and bark. But why bother? Around her the darkness shuddered with a grim and reluctant terror. Maribel extended her hand, released a part of herself, and then burst free of the darkness and was once more flying in the air outside the tree.
Turning, she gazed at her handiwork. Old Man Oak stopped, shivered. Groaned. A sound so resonant and deep that it rolled across the park like waves of liquid lead. He shivered once more, and seemed to sag inwards. As if his core was weakening. Which it was, she knew. She could sense it, the heartwood growing crumbly, gray, turning into mulch and dust. The cancer spread through the great tree’s interior. It was but a matter of moments. His branches sagged, and then snapped off. He fell down, roots scrabbling weakly at the grass as his trunk thudded into the dirt. Vast sections of bark fell into his now hollow center, and when his golden eyes grew dark, she knew that he was dead.
The battle was nearly over. At least half the combatants were simply staring at her. None were truly surprised, but it had been so very long since she had done battle in such form, with such raw, unbridled joy. Perhaps they had begun to forget. Perhaps they had begun to think of her as less than she truly was. No matter. They had been shown, had learned once more. For she was the Queen of Air and Darkness, and none could stand before her.
Chapter 20
Maya crouched, shivering, behind a screen of bushes and trees. The cover was thin, and at any moment she expected some nightmare to come crashing through to attack them. But the Unseelie Court seemed to ignore them, and so they crouched, still and silent, watching the battle that raged on beyond. Kevin had paced for the first ten minutes, and then exhaustion fell upon him like a cloak of lead and he lay down and simply fell asleep despite it all. The healing Old Man Oak had effected had drawn from his deepest reserves. Even when the screaming drew close, he didn’t stir.
Maya sat still, knees drawn up to her chest, listening in horror. Bestial noises, bloody sounds. The sounds of war. Through the line of trees she could hear things dying. It sounded like they were being tortured first. The sounds were brutal. She’d used her second acorn as they had fled back into the trees, throwing it behind her as she ran, into the giant’s path, only to see him step around it and keep after them. Heart in her throat, confused, she had hidden, her third and final acorn clutched desperately tight.
The sounds were getting closer. Maya shoved Kevin, who woke clumsily, reached for his blade. While he fumbled and grumbled, she rose to her feet and slunk forward to the line of trees. Reached the first, placed her hand on its skinny trunk, and looked through them at the field of battle beyond.
Shifting shapes. She ghosted forward, moving from tree to tree. Reached the other edge of the belt, and stopped. War. Kevin joined her, and both watched as foot by bloody foot the Unseelie Court drove the Seelie Host back. What was awful was how beautiful it was at times, thought Maya. How some of the combatants managed to make it look like a choreographed dance.
The fighters would come together like leaves swirled into a dust devil by a capricious wind, would tangle and clash and then fly apart, leaving bodies in their wake. There was no martial plan or symmetry. She was reminded of a playground, children screaming and coming together in knots, only to separate once more and race away, shouting.
A figure she recognized moved into view, stepping out from behind struggling forms, sword in hand. Guillaume. She was still having trouble understanding him in human form. She thought of calling out, but then realized that he was already coming toward her. He held a long length of chain attached to a stranger's neck. Had Guillaume taken a prisoner?
“Who is that?” she asked Kevin, who leaned forward and stared. “The man in the chain.”
“Don’t know,” said Kevin. “But it looks like we are going to find out.” And began to creep past her.
She snatched at him, but he was gone. Slinking out over the grass. Right up to Guillaume, who turned to look over his shoulder before looking past Kevin and to where she stood. Summoned by his gaze, she moved forward.
“Here,” said the fox-man, tossing the chain to Kevin. “This man was a prisoner of the Unseelie. I believe he is important to their Queen. As such, he is equally important to us.”
The man was stunned, kept turning his gaze to the night sky, searching for something. Kevin held the chain awkwardly, but before Maya could ask another question, Guillaume stepped forward, and brushed a finger across her cheek. He smiled at her, a smile that was at once pained and kind, and cocked his head to one side. “The battle may seem lost, but there is always hope. No matter how cold the Winter, Spring always returns.” Then he grinned and turned and loped back into battle, sword already held at the ready.
Maya wanted to cry out something, to have said a goodbye, but it was already too late. Kevin took her by the hand and pulled her and the chained older man back behind the cover of the trees.
“Who are you, hombre?” asked Kevin, giving the man a shake. He was older, in his fifties perhaps, face pale, haggard. The remains of a fine suit hung from his body, slashed and muddied and streaked with blood.
“My name is Antonio,” he said, English accented with a strange inflection she couldn’t place. “Maribel’s husband.”
“Yeah?” asked Kevin, examining the ring about Antonio’s neck. “Lucky you. Why’ve they got you chained up?”
“Because I’m Maribel’s husband,” said Antonio, turning his eyes back to the battlefield. Searching still.
“Who is Maribel?” asked Maya, but part of her had already begun to figure it out. Knew.
Antonio shuddered, took a step back. “She is.” He raised his hand to point at the night sky. Kevin and Maya followed the direction of his finger and saw the woman from the House of Asterion descend through the air to dive into combat with a knot of centaurs. Maya felt her mouth open. How were they supposed to fight her, she wondered? Maribel looked glorious. Alive with some terrible energy, her face even more beautiful than before, her hair dancing in the wind, streaming and lashing. She looked inhuman, clothed in beauty like the night.
“Maribel,” said Antonio, and Maya heard true pain in his voice, slow and wounded. “What is going on? Have I gone mad?”
“Yep,” said Kevin, putting a hand on Antonio’s shoulder. “That’s as good an explanation as any. For real. Because the alternative…?” Kevin indicated the battlefield. “Know what I mean?”
They watched the battle rage on, and anger and horror arose within her once more. “So stupid,” said Maya, voice leaden. “I was so stupid. This is horrible. All of them dying. For what? A gesture?” Her tears were hot now, burning tracks down her cheeks.
Kevin opened his mouth, glum, and then closed it. He shrugged, and turned away.
“What are your names?” asked Antonio. “Why are you here?”
“I’m Maya, and that’s Kevin,” she said. Trying to struggle above the void of depression that was swelling within her. “We were… were pulled into this. Asked to help. Though I don’t think we’ve done anything worth mentioning.”
“Maya,” said Antonio, looking her in the eyes. He was handsome, she realized, in an old man way. Even after all he had been through, he still managed to exude a sense of confidence, shot through with sadness. “I have seen wars before, in many countries. Do not try to make sense of them. They make no sense, especially the actual violence. It is a horrible thing. There is nothing you can do.”
“But I started all this,” she said. “I was the one that told them to come fight.”
“Maya,” said Antonio again, using her name as if trying to ground her. “I do not understa
nd what is going on, but this seems bigger than us. I doubt this is happening simply because of you, yes?”
Kevin turned around. “He’s right, you know.” He studied his sword, and then looked up at her. “The way these guys talk, it sounds like they’ve been doing this since forever. In different places, different times, but always fighting. This ain’t nothing new.”
Maya sighed. They were offering her a way out. It even made sense. But she couldn’t take it. Not with the screams still resounding through the air. She hugged herself tightly to stop her hands from creeping up to her ears. “Maribel,” she said, trying to keep her mind focused, distracted. “You’re her husband?”
Antonio nodded, sighed. His shoulders slumped. “It is… very complicated. She was pregnant. I was gone, much of the time. Working. I work as… it doesn’t matter. I thought my work was important, but… I lost sight of things.” Antonio was no longer looking at her, Maya realized, but rather through. Not even talking to her. “She came to New York a few weeks ago. It was a dangerous time to fly, she was very advanced in the pregnancy. But she did it I think to be independent. Of me, of our life. It was dangerous, and she lost the baby in the hospital. Premature delivery.”
“I’m sorry,” said Maya, the words wooden in her mouth. Horribly, it seemed just another item to tag on to the bottom of a list of such tragedies. Antonio nodded. “She went mad. Refused to come back home to Spain. Denied that our child was dead. I tried to speak to her, but… well. She didn’t want to listen.”
Silence. The three of them stood, facing each other, opposite corners of a triangle. The common sounds of battle were suddenly overwhelmed by a vast groan, cracking and straining like a massive beam of wood being twisted out of shape. It rolled over them, and Maya felt tears come to her eyes anew. “Old Man Oak,” she whispered, and buried her face in her hands. “Make them stop,” she whispered fiercely to nobody in particular. “Make them stop.”