by S McPherson
Exhilarated, I cling to Milo and plant a kiss on his chin. He looks down at me, his eyes wide with childlike innocence and wonder.
‘The boy with wings who hates to fly,’ I call over the wind, and he chuckles.
‘I think I might get used to it,’ and picking up speed, we circle the moon, strewing stars in our wake and watching the night thrive around us.
WHEN LINES BLUR
Yvane wakes whilst everyone else in the Court still sleeps. The sounds of distant snores snake under her door and push through her walls but all else is still, save for her ragged breaths. She pushes her sweat-slicked hair from her forehead with a trembling hand as images from her nightmare—her premonition—crash across her mind like hulking beasts.
Still trembling, afraid of what may be lurking under her bed, Yvane waves a hand over the lantern on her nightstand.
‘Iginassa,’ she whispers and the wick ignites. The shadows cast do little to comfort her quaking heart but at least it’s light. She slips out of bed, tiptoes to the window and pulls aside the burgundy drapes, just wide enough for her to peer out. Dawn’s approaching, the sun already peeking around the edges of the night.
I have to go now, she realises with a jolt. Though her latest premonition didn’t reveal how much time she has, she intends to be prepared when what she envisioned comes to life.
The morning air is cold; dew glazes the ground and drips off the leaves of the garden plants. Yvane pulls her jacket tighter around her, checking over her shoulder to make sure no one has followed. The Court is ghostly quiet but she tries to take solace in the silence. If her premonition is anything to go by, the Court will be filled with screams soon enough.
Careful not to let the gate slam as she shuts it behind her, Yvane veers towards the border separating Melaxous and Taratesia. She knows when she has crossed, for the air turns wet and bitter cold. The trees arch overhead like long lost lovers straining to touch and the wildlife makes its presence known. Creatures scuttle through fallen leaves, sending flakes of cracked red and gold swirling after them, and Rubus birds click to one another like clattering pebbles.
Yvane inhales, savouring the scent of honeysuckle and wine that rides the Taratesia breeze. She clings to anything that might dampen the scorching terror now blazing inside her, anything that might dull the searing images branded into her mind.
Fog rises in the distance like vapour from a New York steam grate and the oppressive silence settles like an old friend. Yvane takes a calming breath and pats the satchel at her side holding a xyen and hedge clippers. She has only ever used the clippers once before in Thornton High during Humanitorium Landscape week but she recalls them being fairly straightforward. She slips in the soggy soil that clumps around her feet, making walking laborious, and feels the familiar thrum of the Elutheran plant pulse beneath the ground.
Her eyes stay trained on the cavity ahead, on the gaping crater that’s home to the darkest of powers. At its lip she kneels, drawing the cutters from her bag. The Elutheran plant shudders below, its energy rumbling through the earth.
Yvane bends into the hole and gingerly reaches for the alluring cyan and silver vines that seem to stretch up to meet her. She snakes her arm between them, careful not to snag her sleeve on their thorns. The plant heaves, seeming to huff and swell as she brings the cutters closer.
The honeysuckle and wine fragrance of Taratesia hits them as soon as they burst through the portal now separating them from Vedark. Vladimir grins and inhales the succulent air, savouring the cool breeze. Home. He quells the urge to get on his knees and kiss the sodden ground, perhaps curl up in it and take a nap, or better yet, race into Melaxous and draw Lexovia into his arms. There’ll be time for these things later. Meeting the stare of the others, he finds they’re all smiling, their grins as wild and feral as their hair, as their clothes and minds.
‘Let’s go.’ Dusting himself off, Vladimir picks his way through Taratesia forest. Amethyst flanks him on one side, Baxter on the other, the rest staying close behind. It’s early morning, the soft rays of sun gently parting the trees.
They walk soundlessly, ears pricked, listening out for the intoxicating siren song of the Dreldaras Fae; the Heart of Dreldaras, played only by them. Soon enough, the melody glides through the air, calling out to all who care to listen. The song lulls and swaddles them like sleeping babes as it draws them closer. They follow it, near blind, registering nothing but the blur of the forest as they pass through it.
Soon, shifting grains tinkle beneath their feet like wind chimes, swirling and twirling as if dancing to the tune. There is a brilliant glow, fit to rival the sun, and as it fades, a lustrous and proud tree with golden-tipped leaves comes into view. The Dreldaras Tree.
Vladimir doesn’t wait for the song to finish, but instead, marches forward and loudly claps his hands just the once. The assault echoes through the clearing and shatters the melody’s hold. Three dots of light burst through the leaves, one bronze, one rose and one an icy blue: the Fae-Queen and her ladies-in-waiting.
They’ve come in their smaller and therefore faster form to see who’s so rudely intruded. Then, slowly, the light grows around them as their bodies swell. The faeries remain airborne, no bigger than Vladimir’s forearm, but he can now make out the three pairs of eyes; one red, one blue and one as black as shadows, that glare in his direction. Their skin is as pale as winter. Their wings flutter in a glittering blur. Only the Fae-Queen’s wings beat slowly and menacingly as her sneer promises pain.
‘So proud you folk become to interrupt the Heart of the Dreldaras song,’ she hisses. ‘Speak.’
Vladimir steps closer, his shoulders pushed back. ‘‘A leaf, your leaf, was gifted to a Corporeal man many collectives ago,’ and he uses the Coldivian term for ‘Years’, knowing the Dreldaras will appreciate the use of the original dialect as opposed to the one introduced by the Corporeal. ‘His name was Daniel Schawsmith. What is your connection with him?’
The Fae-Queen stiffens. ‘So this is the name of the man who took Fae-Emyegt’s soul.’ She saunters forward, her bronze glow trailing behind her like robes in the wind. ‘We searched and searched but could not sense her in this realm.’
‘Fae-Emyegt?’
‘Yes,’ the Fae-Queen barks, her body growing with each passing second. ‘She was one of our own, young and easily manipulated by the flights and fancies of man. The Dreldaras live to weave threads in dreams, to bring joy and light to darkness, yet she was never satisfied to only serve.’
Vladimir regards the queen, his voice now a low rumble. ‘What happened?’
‘We would hear her some nights, talking and laughing with a man. We thought him harmless, bored, a mere outcast, but then one day we awoke and she was gone.’ The Fae-Queen now stands a head taller than Vladimir, knotting her fingers. ‘It was late, perhaps dusk, and one of our sisters, Fae-Belya, overheard them discussing unlawful plans. Fae-Emyegt was foolish, eager to make this man’s dream a reality, but that is not what the Dreldaras do.’
‘What was this man’s dream?’
The Fae-Queen sighs deeply, as if the memory inflicts physical pain. ‘I don’t know, but it involved a girl. A girl who he could one day make powerful enough to achieve them. Fae-Belya reported to us immediately and that very evening we ran interference, forbidding Fae-Emyegt from speaking her knowledge of dreams and truth. It is against our code. She listened well and we thought she understood, that she would honour our ways. Yet, the next day, she was gone.’
‘How? How does one of you leave the tree?’
‘Not that we would ever want to,’ and the Fae-Queen holds her head high, ‘but to leave we would have to desecrate our tree, taking from it a leaf that we might gift to another who willingly accepts it. Then we no longer serve the tree and the rules of our world, but serve the one who holds our leaf.’
Vladimir opens his mouth to speak but his words are struck out by piercing screams echoing in the distance. He swivels towards them.
‘Hurry home
,’ the Fae-Queen scoffs, and black mist coils from her eyes. ‘Melaxous is burning.’
MELAXOUS IS BURNING
Exlathars descend on Melaxous with beating wings, like a thick blanket of smoke. The Coltis barely have time to register what’s happening before talons carve them open. Ibrahim freezes as the lustrous garden of the Courts turns into a field of discord and death around him. The sight of the beasts renders him useless. He watches numbly as a flock of creatures attack those beside him, those he had only moments ago been laughing and sparring with. They each fight wildly against the onslaught, their faces creased in fury or anguish. Their weapons blaze as they strike out, the blinding light of the xyens like lightning.
But Ibrahim simply stands, his mouth open, a xyen held limply in his grasp. He wills himself to charge bravely into battle like the others but his feet refuse to move. Something black catches the corner of his eye and he turns to see an Exlathar diving at him, it’s green eyes alight. It screeches so fiercely, Ibrahim is finally stunned into action. He brandishes his weapon, his grip firm and his feet steadfast. The beast doesn’t slow, its wings carrying it faster and closer. Ibrahim rocks on the balls of his feet, and at the last possible moment, dives out of the way. The Exlathar swoops past, knocking the xyen easily from his hand and sending it skidding across the ground.
Ibrahim scrambles after it but the Exlathar lands in front of him with an echoing thud, blocking his way. The rising sun, glints off its wings as they stir the air around them. Ibrahim offers up a silent prayer to whatever God will it as the creature shrieks. And then Jeff is there, his shimmering outline, barrelling towards them at a dizzying speed, having thoroughly mastered control of his Spee’ad ability. He screeches to a halt beside Ibrahim and hurls a vial of Nepatin at the Exlathar. It explodes in a cloud of red and the creature howls as it falls back, blisters bubbling on its burnt flesh as it writhes on the ground.
Jeff hauls Ibrahim to his feet, another Exlathar already upon them, and they run as the creature releases bursts of yellow spray and a keening sound like nails being scraped across a blackboard.
‘Come on,’ Jeff urges, extending a hand to pull Ibrahim along, ‘I can carry us faster. Take my hand.’
But Ibrahim’s feet stumble as his thoughts trip over themselves. ‘Just go,’ he calls. He’d never forgive himself if anything happened to Jeff because of him.
Jeff stops. ‘Not without you,’ and then his eyes widen. ‘DUCK,’ he bawls, and on instinct, Ibrahim throws himself to the ground as the Exlathar dives over him and rams into Jeff. Jeff cries out before he hits the ground with a sickening thump.
The Exlathar hisses, its mouth stretching open, yellow mist swirling within like beckoning claws. Before he’s time to think, Ibrahim’s behind the beast, Jeff’s xyen clenched in both hands. He runs it straight through the Exlathar’s back and the creature howls as Ibrahim draws it out. He yanks Jeff to his feet and together they fight their way towards their battling companions.
Tanks and Mutt cackle as they fight a horde of four or five shrieking and wailing creatures. They twirl and jab, swiping and lunging with their array of weapons; spears, xyens, flails. Tanks grins, feeding off Mutt’s energy as much as he feeds off hers, their full Fuerté forms moving like grappling giants.
The Exlathars shriek in fury as their mist sails past their targets and disperses. The beasts lash out but Tanks and Mutt know when to dart back, when to leap forward, as though they’ve played out this scene before. They study the curves and twists of the creatures, anticipating their next attack, and avoid the slapping wings and poisoned flesh.
‘May I do the honours?’ Mutt calls as they round on their last attacker.
‘Please.’
Eager, Mutt slides across the ground, cutting under the Exlathar’s legs, and jabs his xyen up through the beast. The leaves fork out, gouging a deep hole and jutting out from the beast’s gut, black blood dripping from it. Tanks woops and plants a kiss on Mutt’s lips as he staggers to his feet.
But their victory is short-lived.
‘Look out,’ Ibrahim calls, only now joining them, but he’s too late and an Exlathar drops from above and throws Tanks to the ground It snarls and dives for her again, but Mutt snatches up a blooded flail from the ground and swings it savagely into the creature’s skull, partly smashing it. Now lopsided, the Exlathar swipes out, hooking Mutt on its talons.
It leers, a sinister gleam in its remaining eye, but Tanks gives out a bloodcurdling cry and moves in fast and fierce, ripping at the monster with her bare hands as Mutt dangles from its talon. Her flesh turns red and raw as she continues to tear at the thrashing and screeching creature. She grips its neck in her burly arms, sinking her teeth into it, her face twisted with fury and pain. She roars as its black blood dribbles down her chin then tears a vial of Nepatin from her weapons belt, and shoves it down the creature’s throat, pushing the poison deep into its guts, before kicking it so hard it hurtles backwards, dropping Mutt from its talon. The creature shrieks and thrashes, wailing in blind agony.
Tanks collapses to her knees and crouches over Mutt, as though they’re within a bubble of silence amidst the battle raging on around them. He’s barely breathing, his eyes half closed.
‘Don’t cry, Tanks,’ he sputters, blood gurgling from the hole scorched into his chest. ‘Five years ago you saved me, and now I got to save you.’ She shakes her head as she rests her brow against his and he lifts a hand to stroke her cheek. ‘We’re even.’ He grins, a painful, pitiful grin, and then he’s gone.
‘NO,’ she hears Trig roar from some way off, but then he’s suddenly beside them, faster than any Spee’ad. He gasps, clearly stunned by his own speed, but Tanks is now howling, cradling Mutt’s head in her lap as she rocks back and forth.
Lexovia tries not to think about her friends, to be distracted by worry. At the first sign of trouble, she took up her xyen and a bronze shield—not that either would do her any good against the Exlathars—and charged out of the grounds of the Courts. She’s now barrelling towards the Sleeping Areas, where the young and old remain unarmed and untrained, but has barely got beyond the gate before she finds herself surrounded. She twirls the xyen in her unfailing grip and glowers at the hulking silhouettes of the beasts, their green eyes glowing like pellets of poison.
She waits for them to lunge but the creatures do not budge.
‘What are you waiting for?’ she hollers, her chest heaving.
Then a low chuckle sends shivers through her, like the touch of a slug, and a man—a half-man—steps out as the creatures part to make way for him.
‘All this trouble for you,’ he muses, as casually as if discussing what he’s going to have for dinner. He drags his gaze over her. ‘I’m somewhat disappointed.’
Lexovia sneers, not needing to guess who this man is, with his sallow and flaking flesh, his eyes of cyan. ‘And yet it’s taken you near nineteen collectives to find me.’
Diez’s jaw twitches and his eyes momentarily darken, but then he shrugs. ‘I see you’re attempting to build an army against me?’
Lexovia cocks her head, her voice taunting as she challenges, ‘Scared?’ She shows more bravado than she feels, though, and for the first time she’s grateful for the time her trainer once spent teaching her the art of mastering her emotions.
Diez’s voice comes out like a slither of wind that coils around her and squeezes. ‘It is you who should be scared.’
Lexovia tenses as the beasts snake closer, although Diez stays where he is, a cunning smirk slitting his face. He salutes and Lexovia braces herself, her shield and xyen poised. There’s no way out of this but it won’t stop her from trying. Until her last breath, she’ll fight, and she’ll die in the same manner as her mother.
‘Ilek,’ Diez hisses, and the beasts launch themselves at her.
Lexovia screams. Her high-power vocals send a few of the monsters hurtling backwards, but many remain, leaping aside as she swipes with her xyen, then they lunge again, coming from all sides. A
lthough she desperately avoids their slashing claws, a warm sting soon slices her back and she feels blood trickle down her spine. Then her eyes blaze amber and she thrusts a force field around herself, keeping her shield above her head as the beasts drive their mist at her barrier.
One Exlathar she could hope to withstand, perhaps one or two more, but not the mass now before her. She trembles and her head aches, as if her brain were being crushed against her skull, and her eyes burn. She feels her force field weaken, the stench of sulphur wriggling its way in, and she grits her teeth and prepares for its toxic burn.
Then a roar like rolling thunder sounds out and something smashes into the Exlathars like an avalanche, crushing them beneath the brawny weight of a snarling man with golden hair—Howard. He’s in full Fuerté form, growling, panting, his muscles shaking beneath his armour. Avoiding the demon’s talons, he dodges the sting of their spray, and he’s not alone. Victoria fights alongside him, her hair blazing like wild flames as she swipes and lances. She moves as though performing an intricate dance only she has mastered.
Lexovia lets her force field drop, collapsing to her knees, her silver hair drenched with sweat that drips from her eyelids. Gulping in as much air as she can, Lexovia staggers to her feet and charges at those crowding around Howard. He fights furiously: hurling Nepatin, striking with his xyen, bludgeoning with his fists, but he’s outnumbered. Lexovia doubles into her own Fuerté form and rams her shield at one of the beasts as it dives at her. The metal sizzles but the Exlathar falls, dazed, twitching like an oversized but overturned cockroach.
Soon Victoria’s beside them and they fight as one, as if her soul’s teaching them the steps to her war dance. As they circle each other, Lexovia howls and hurls bolts of flame and fury. Victoria ducks and crouches, then swipes like a viper, her xyen cutting the Exlathars down like stalks of wheat, its golden leaves dripping crimson and black.