by Jim Butcher
“Just when it couldn’t get any weirder,” she said, and he chuckled. Then his smile faded.
“I think we should drive toward those lights. Now,” he said.
~
As soon as they got in car, it began to rain. Wind blew. Alex turned on the windshield wipers as he drove back through the town, to the castle, then past it too, as the lights intensified.
Nothing whispered to her.
“Did I mention that you’re very pretty?” he said. “I like your dark skin.”
The raindrops painted shadowy tattoos on his face, and she wondered if he had them in other places, too.
“I like your tats.”
“Danke,” he said.
The rain came down, and she thought about her mom, and as she often did, the faceless man who had been her father.
The lights filled the sky; it seemed that if they drove forward any farther, they would drive into them. Alex stopped the car and she opened her door.
He came around to her side of the car and laced his fingers through his. As if on cue, it stopped raining. The earth rumbled beneath her feet. Shadows billowed against the colors, gauzy and diffuse. They started to coalesce and thicken, taking on the shapes she had seen in the castle, by the cages.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, and he took her hand. Squeezed it. She couldn’t squeeze back. She was too terrified.
The flares of color vanished, and a figure on a massive horse faced them. It was dressed in ebony chain mail covered with a black chest plate. Its black helmet was smooth, with no eyeholes and topped with curved antlers that flared with smoky flames; fastened at the shoulders, a cloak furled behind like the wake of an obsidian river. In its right chain-mail gauntlet, it held the reins of the horse. Its left arm was raised, and another hand in a gauntlet rested on its fist.
The rider beside it was smaller, dressed much like the other, except that red hair hung over its shoulders. Then it reached up its free hand and pushed back a face plate. It was the woman in the picture. Meg Zecherle.
Her aunt.
She stared at Dana, sweeping her gaze up and down. “Delaney?” she said softly. “Dana? Is that you?”
Alex stepped in front of Dana, placing himself between her and Meg.
“Honey, I have so much to tell you,” Meg said, ignoring him. “I was so glad when your mom found me. I was going to come for you. But then…” She exhaled. “Then it all happened.”
Tears welled in Dana’s eyes and she opened her mouth, but Meg held up her hand and turned to the black figure. It inclined its head. Meg seemed to be listening to it. Then she turned her attention back to Dana.
“I’m sorry, but we’ll have to save that for later. But we will talk. I promise.”
“Just tell me who my father is,” Dana said.
“He was a good man,” Meg replied. “But, honey, he passed away before you were born.”
“Oh.” Her voice was tiny. Tears welled, and she knew right then that that was what she had wanted her life to be like, before. She’d wanted to have a dad. That would have been her magic.
“I’m sorry,” Alex murmured. She nodded, a tear spilling down her cheek.
“You’re going to have to believe a lot of things that will sound pretty crazy,” Meg said.
Dana wiped her cheek. “I think you can skip ahead.”
“Okay, but if you need me to slow down, just tell me.”
“We will,” Alex said.
Meg leaned forward in her saddle. “There was a war. A terrible war, between two magical races. What we might call fairies are known as the fair folk. And the other side are the goblins.”
Dana pressed her fingertips over her eyes. She could feel herself tensing, as if bracing herself to hear things she was incapable of handling. She began to shake. Alex put his arm around her waist and pulled her protectively against his side. She did the same. She needed someone to hang onto.
“Hostages were taken on both sides. Infant children, since their code of war demanded that children could never be harmed.
“Finally, it was over. A truce was declared. They agreed to exchange hostages. One baby of the fair folk for one goblin, every Midsummer’s Eve, until there were no more. That way, peace would be kept until both sides were made whole.
“For years, my lord faithfully brought a captive goblin baby and laid it in the cradle in the forest,” she said, inclining her head in the direction of the tall, black figure. “From the other cradle beside it, he would take the fair child left by his goblin counterpart, and bring it home.”
Her lord? Dana thought, with a sudden rush of panic. The stranger who was her aunt called the thing beside her such an archaic name.
“One Midsummer’s Night, the local nobleman was riding through the forest. From a hiding place, he saw the exchange. Months later, his wife gave birth to a tiny, sickly girl. The nobleman remembered the swap, and the next Midsummer Night’s Eve, he replaced the fair child with his own. What he didn’t know was that his baby carried a plague.”
“Your… lord… took the plague back with him to the faeries,” Dana ventured, and Meg nodded.
“The humanness of the child went undetected because it was so sick. Nearly all the fair folk died, but the goblin babies in their care seemed to be immune. War threatened to break out again, but the goblins were able to prove that they had had nothing to do with what had happened. But they used the plague as leverage. They demanded the immediate release of all their children. The fair folk couldn’t care for them anyway, and asked the goblins to keep their own children safe as well, until the plague was gone.”
Dana pictured the cages. “But the humans took the goblin babies instead.”
“The noble and his lackeys trapped some of them before the goblins arrived to collect them,” Meg said. “In all the confusion, the count was off, and neither side realized it.”
“But that happened, when?” Alex said.
“Eight hundred years ago,” Meg replied.
Alex’s arm tightened around Dana.
“But if they were in those cages all that time,” Dana said, “wouldn’t they grow up?”
“They only age in their own realm. On this plane, they stayed babies. Miserable. Lonely. Unloved. For centuries.”
“Scheiss,” Alex murmured.
“Alex didn’t know,” Dana said quickly, and she knew that to be true. She knew he was good. And that she was safe with him. “About any of it.”
Meg nodded. “I believe you. I was recruited by the Ritters to guard the place where we’re standing. The Pale. The border between magic and non-magic worlds. They said it was flimsy. Things were getting across that shouldn’t.”
She looked over at the figure beside her. “What they were worried about was the Erl King. They were afraid that he’d find out about the goblins in the castle dungeon.”
“The Erl King? Holy shit, Alex,” Dana blurted.
“Ja,” he said, and uttered a string of German.
Meg looked a little confused, but she continued. “The Ritter elders never told anyone the truth. But I found out. I saw the cages. And I busted their lie wide open.”
“It was revenge?” Alex’s voice shook. “The goblins destroyed the whole world because of something my family did hundreds of years ago?”
“It was a rescue mission. Fair folk and goblin. Your people fought back,” she said to Alex. “During the battle, some of them found out and joined our side. But by then, the Pale had fallen. Magic poured into this world and overwhelmed it.”
For a moment no one spoke. Dana found Alex’s hand and held it.
Meg’s features softened. “Magic made our world sick. The fair folk baby that was stolen was the first domino. The goblins toppled next. What happened would have happened eventually. But not for a long time.”
“And the fair folk baby survived,” Alex said.
“And had children. And they had children. And that means…” Meg’s voice trailed off.
“There is still magic in the
world.” Dana looked at her trembling hands. “As long as we’re here.”
Alex twined his fingers with hers. “But even if we leave, how many will be left?”
Meg sighed. “We don’t know. We don’t even know how to find them.”
Dana raised her head. The flames on the Erl King’s helmet flickered in the night wind. A flake of ash fluttered away, and as she thought about all that he must have lost, too, it began to glow.
She whispered so quietly it seemed as if the wind took her words away,
“I find lost things.”
FROST CHILD
~
by Gillian Philip
Editor’s Note: Sithe captain Griogair MacLorcan is his queen’s fighter of choice, skilled and ruthless at clearing her glens of the vile Lammyr. When the Lammyr defiantly return, holding a young Sithe girl captive, Griogair routs them and frees the child. But the girl Lilith has been a long time with Lammyr, and keeps secrets of her own. The most vulnerable of creatures can be the most deadly.
This prequel to Gillian Philip’s acclaimed novel Firebrand tells how Seth’s parents Griogair and Lilith met - and the first deadly consequences.
If I’d had my way, I wouldn’t have been up to my knees in pond-muck with my eyes full of sweat and my nostrils full of gods-knew-what stench from below, but if I’d had my way, there wouldn’t have been any need.
I’d told my queen ten years back that Lammyr were nesting in this glen. It wasn’t like her to be complacent but the dark hollow in the hills was many miles from her caverns, and besides, she knew they were afraid of me. And her indifference had infected me, and I’d put off the work, unwilling to argue my case when there were other tasks to be handled, more congenial quarrels to settle. She’d left it too long, and so had I, and now the creatures would be all the harder to prise from their hole.
It was a good day for it: by which I mean it was silent and still and as grey as death. I should say, it was an appropriate day. As far as approaching the Lammyr unheard and unseen, it was the worst we could have picked.
~Griogair, said Niall Mor MacIain.
I glanced across to where he crouched, silent, at one of the cavern entrances. It was no more than a slit in the rock, black and dank, the cold breath of underground seeping from it like marsh gas. The gods knew how deep it was, or where it led, but Niall’s sword blade was bare and he couldn’t repress half a smile; he’d been longing for this. He was rash, was Niall, and he loved a fight, and though I often disapproved, I’d liked him enough to make him my lieutenant.
And after all, I could understand his attitude. Peace and quiet were all very well, but we were getting bored, and fat, and lazy, and so were our fighters. And nobody ever pitied a Lammyr.
~Quietly, then, I told him. ~On three.
~Onetwothree, said Niall, and jumped.
~
There was one advantage to leaving it this long: the Lammyr were every bit as sluggish as we’d been. The first of them turned on me in the gloom with a grinning snarl, but I had the advantage of it, and it went down fast. But they were all over the tunnels, quiet and fast and deadly, slinking into their holes like angry snakes. And it was hard to know where those tunnels ended, so we had to dive after them and engage them in the darkness.
I caught the glinting light of yellow eyes to my right; lunged for it. My blow was glancing and I ended up on the rocky floor, grunting as the air was knocked out of my lungs. The Lammyr pattered out of reach and I breathed hard in the silence, listening for its next move.
“They’ll try to run,” murmured Donal behind me, his sword raised. “They always do.”
“They should have tried already.” I frowned. The Lammyr always had an escape route; much as they loved death and a battle, they didn’t see the point of losing fighters unnecessarily. I fully expected them to turn tail, to try and squirm out of some back entrance when they realised we meant business.
Usually I didn’t care where they went; the idea was to kill enough of them to encourage the rest to relocate their foul nest. But these had been here too long, and worse, they’d slunk back after the first time I routed them. Who knew why? I wasn’t asking; I was here to wipe them out. I didn’t give Lammyr a second chance. I valued my throat.
I hated this work. I hated being separated from most of my fighters, with just one man at my back to guard it.
And I hated that my backup wasn’t Leonora.
It wasn’t as if she was handy with a blade; it was only that with Lammyr, there was no more useful fighting partner than a witch. And while I’d never intended to fall for anyone as dangerous and capricious as a witch, I had, and I’d never regretted it.
Ahead of me, wounded, the Lammyr hissed. “Missing your bondmate, Griogair?”
“No,” I said, annoyed at myself for leaving my block down. Quickly I shuttered my mind.
It giggled. “Shouldn’t think so loud.”
“Shouldn’t goad me.” I went still, aware that the pinprick light of its eyes had vanished again. To my left there was a faint rustle, a skittering slither, and the man behind me gave a yelp of shock and rage. I felt his blood spatter my arm, and then he was cursing to beat the pain.
“Donal?” I said.
“Fine,” he snarled.
He wasn’t, but he’d have to wait. And I wasn’t about to drop my block again to ask him properly.
The Lammyr giggled again, but I ducked as a thrown blade sliced the air above my head, then rolled back. I caught its bony ankle more by chance than skill, yanked it down hard as it leaped for the unseen ceiling, and snatched for its wrist before it could reach for another blade.
Gods, it was a strong one. We rolled and struggled in a silent death-grip, and I couldn’t swing my sword arm, and Donal was evidently out of action. Dropping my sword, I found the Lammyr’s skinny neck with my hands.
There was mucal blood on its dry papery skin, and I wanted to recoil, but I only shuddered and crushed its throat. I was used to the touch of Lammyr blood after all this time, and it wouldn’t burn me, but it wasn’t pleasant. One of its flailing hands grabbed my own neck, but it was wounded and I wasn’t, and I had the better angle and the better grip. It died with an exasperated rattling sigh.
They lived to kill, but when it came to the end, they didn’t mind dying. That was always the trouble with Lammyr.
I stumbled back off it, wiping my hands, then turned to seek out the light of Donal’s eyes. They still glinted in the darkness, though dully.
~So how fine are you really?
~I’d like to see Grian fairly fast. His teeth showed in whatever light seeped from the cavern walls.
I gripped his arm and hauled him to his feet. Yes, he needed the healer; I could tell from the quantity of blood. I didn’t want to follow this tunnel further anyway. Distant sounds and energetic shouts told me my men were having better luck than Donal and me, and I wanted to rendezvous with them in the deeper heart of this nest. The plan had been to drive the Lammyr from the narrow passageways and into their central quarters. Lammyr, armed and forewarned and lurking in tunnels, were at their most lethal. Herd them to a hall for a fair fight, and you always had a chance of fewer casualties.
I was eager to get Donal out of the way. I didn’t think he was mortally wounded – not that I’m an expert – but the sooner he got to the healer the happier I’d be, and besides, I wanted to keep an eye on Niall Mor’s back. If he was overenthusiastic he could easily get himself killed.
I found three of my fighters guarding the entrance I’d used, so I left Donal with them; then I was running down the cleared passageways in the direction of the battle-howls.
The remaining Lammyr were backed together in a cavern lower down the tunnel system where the air was cold and dank, unwarmed by the feeble light of flames in wall recesses. Each had a blade in its hand but while Niall Mor and his men circled them warily, the leader watched me enter, licking its dry lips and half-smiling.
“Crickspleen,” I said. “Been a while.”
“Oh come on, Crickspleen. We had that deal forty years ago, and here you are again.”
It shrugged, amused. “You were softer forty years ago. Over the Veil, then. We’ll go to the otherworld.”
I rolled my eyes. “You know that isn’t allowed.”
“Oh, of course. That’s why you’ll never find a Lammyr in the otherworld.” It smirked.
I bit my lip, eyeing it, while Niall Mor fidgeted beside me.
~Come on, Griogair. Let’s get it done.
~Don’t be in such a rush. “What are you defending?” I asked it abruptly.
It was a wild shot in the dark, but I saw wariness flicker in its eyes. My hunch was right, then. They hadn’t run because they owned something worth keeping.
“Nothing,” said Crickspleen at last.
Despite my mind-shield, it knew that I knew it was lying. Its mouth quirked.
“You’d have my word,” it crooned. “You know my word is binding.”
“I don’t want it. If I let you go again, Kate would have my guts for a hat.”
“It was worth a try.” It gave a bleakly contented sigh. ‘No deal then.”
It flew at me; an arc of blade-light cut the air, but I hit the cavern floor, feeling the breath of the blade-edge on my scalp. The speed of the damn things could still catch me by surprise, but I wasn’t much slower.
I swore as I rolled, dodged, sprang back up. It was nothing but a moving shadow but I’d fought them before. Anticipating its moves was the trick. I bent backwards to avoid the next blow, then came at it low and brought my sword blade with me as I spun.
They look so fragile, so ephemeral. It feels almost wrong as the blade strikes. You’d think the impact in its flesh would be barely discernible, but you have to keep control to finish the blow. Like slicing metal wire.
But I had a good blade. Crickspleen toppled in two halves, the rattle of satisfaction escaping its yellow lips and leaving it lifeless.